Élan

by byeol_latte

Summary:

Leave the sleep and let the spring time talk, in tongues from the time before men…🍃🎶

 

Inspired by the song Élan by Nightwish

Notes:

Hello everyone, Byeol here! I hope you will love this universe as much as I loved writing it!

Just to be safe:

Trigger Warning: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non Con , it has nothing to do with Yoonmin or any of the members, it's briefly mentioned as a consecuence of war, invasion and such themes, it's not descriptive nor graphic but please proceed with caution anyway.

Chapter 1: The Two Continents

Before the Great Divide, there was neither night nor day. An endless twilight reigned over the world —a hush of muted hues painted across the boundless sky. In this realm without time, the Dynamics lived in tranquil stillness. Birth and death drifted like whispers on the wind —life simply was, timeless and unhurried.

Then came the change. None could say how —only that it happened, as all things must. Darkness fell for the first time, sudden and absolute. Some of the Dynamics, bewildered by the pitch that swallowed their sight, clawed their own eyes in despair, desperate to reclaim the dim light they once knew. The weakest withered in madness; the strongest staggered blind into the blaze that followed.

For after the dark came brilliance —raw, searing, unforgiving. Colors, once soft and neutral, now blazed vivid and harsh. Where shadows had choked out life, now relentless heat scorched the earth. Springs boiled dry in seconds, rivers turned to steam, forests crackled to ash. Flora and fauna perished in droves, leaving the Dynamics hungry, restless, driven to the brink of ruin.

Yet two survived. One was an Alpha —a hunter who craved the cloak of night to stalk prey unseen. The other, an Omega —a gatherer who longed for the glow of dawn to pick ripe fruit and tend the tender herbs. In time, the twilight returned, but the Dynamics had learned its secret —neither dark nor light alone could sustain them.

United by need and love, the Alpha and Omega lifted their prayers to the silent heavens:

Grant us darkness to shelter, light to nurture.

And so the heavens whispered back: One cannot be without the other.

For the Omega, the sky spilled gold: yellow deepened to orange and bled into crimson upon a canvas of endless blue, puffs of white drifting gentle as dreams. A great ball of fire rose to reign the sky —warmth spread through soil and seed, springs bubbled to life once more, fruit swelled fat and sweet on reborn branches. Thus, the day was born.

For the Alpha, the fire dipped beyond the rim of the world. Shadows crept forth to cradle the wild. A pale orb rose in its place —a circle of silver, birthing deep indigo skies dusted with countless cold sparks. Animals curled into dens, waters hushed their steam to mist, winds turned crisp and clean. Thus, the night was made.

One completed the other.

Under this new rhythm, the Dynamics flourished. Day shaped their waking hours —the foragers toiled among the forests, tending herbs and nurturing new life. Night belonged to the hunters, who prowled the dark for pelts and meat to keep the caves warm. By this balance, time itself took root in their bones.

Yet the heavens, jealous of what the Alpha and Omega had wrought, grew restless. They had created more than they were ever meant to —more life, more magic, more dreams. The hunters called it witchcraft. The foragers called it wisdom. The omegas called it kinship, the alphas called it strategy.

So the gods conspired. Moon Goddess, coveting the Alpha’s silent strength, and her brother, the Sun God, greedy for the Omega’s tender light —they cracked the ground beneath their children’s feet. Thunder rolled through root and stone. Chasms split the fertile plains and swallowed rivers whole. Whenever Alpha and Omega dared touch, the land itself trembled, tearing apart to drift into the endless deep.

Yet even punishment could not drown devotion. Separated by treacherous waters, they came together in secret, trading pelts for herbs, fruits for meat. And still they loved. On the seventh moon, sickness came —fever gnawed at the apex hunter’s bones, while across the waters, the Omega’s strength waned in equal measure. In delirium, they called for each other.

They ran —across land and tide, forsaking divine wrath for the warmth of each other’s arms. Days and nights melted into each other as they lay entwined, whispering dreams of a world unbroken. They vowed to protect what they had made —even if the heavens demanded distance.

When the Omega returned, robes strained with the swell of new life. In secret, they birthed twin pups beneath the hush of winter trees —one Alpha, one Omega, a living promise to both their peoples. When the gods learned of this final defiance, the Moon turned her face away in grief and rage. Her silver light vanished from the sky, leaving only slivers of sorrow until her brother coaxed her back. And always, he promised, they would tear the world apart again if the lovers dared unite once more.

But deep in hidden caves where no sky could spy, Alpha and Omega raised their children side by side.

Learning of their secret, the Moon and Sun united once more. They cast shadows over the earth, a black circle raging in the sky. The ground shook, trees tumbled into the abyss stretching between them, and the waters poured in to fill the void. The continent was cleft in two. Some hunters remained in forager land, and some foragers in hunter territory —yet none of it mattered, for Alpha and Omega were finally parted, though their hearts remained entangled.

Rage settled deep in the hunter’s bones, cracking them wide, stretching skin into something monstrous enough to claw the heavens themselves. The hunter crossed the skies and reached forager soil, only to find the Omega transformed into a beautiful beast, coiled tail cradling their newborns in a nest.

And when at last they shed their mortal skins, their children inherited their gift —feathers like wild birds, fur like mountain beasts, scales gleaming like river fish. A lineage born to bind what the heavens could never truly keep apart.

The Dynamics endured side by side —alphas and omegas of both fae and human blood weaving their lives together in quiet accord. For countless ages they flourished, bending to the wild trials of an untamed realm and the mysteries of creatures older than time. Yet not all that roamed could be tamed. Monsters stalked the hidden vales and black forests —creatures driven by purest instinct, deaf to reason, too ancient for pity, too stubborn for any steel or fae-forged silver to quell.

One realm, the Continent of the Sun, made peace with this truth. Beneath the hush of their groves, they found harmony between blooming and withering, between breath and decay. In time, their trials grew gentle —and from their toil rose an Empire radiant and whole. One realm, one sun —all living things enfolded in the same eternal wheel, where to live was to die and to die was to feed life again.

They understood the principle: To live, one must yield when the realm calls. The land demands tribute and the cycle never breaks its promise.

Yet across the deep waters, the Continent of the Moon fared otherwise. As the Moon Goddess once coveted the Alpha Hunter’s shadowed strength, so too did her hunger find a home in the hearts of lesser men. 

Greed took root, curling around their souls like a strangling vine. They hoarded grain and fur, spun gold into coins, abandoned barter for wealth that could be weighed and buried. They turned their gaze on the fae not as kin but quarry —tearing down sacred groves, hunting fae for sport, bleeding their kin for delight. They coveted the beauty of fae omegas, binding them in chains as concubines and prizes, mocking the sacred vows of bond and matehood. Unwanted halflings, born of fae and human seed, were left to wither —unclaimed, uncherished, reminders of the purity they had defiled.

Yet the elves did not lift bow or sword in wrath. They sought not conquest but sanctuary —a wall between the old ways and the hunger of men. And so they turned to the dragons —eldest of the strong breeds, half human, half beast, whose veins held iron and fire alike. In return for their protection, the elves opened their hidden realms: the dragons would wear crowns of gold and iron, free to roam where wild magics tangled thickest, keepers of secret wisdom older than the first dawn.

So was forged a fellowship of claw and crown. The dragons cornered humankind, staking their dominion over the frozen ridges and deep caverns. The elves raised the Barrier —a living shield no mortal hand could breach, locking monsters and fae behind a veil of mist and rune, cleaving the Continent of the Moon into halves that would never truly mend. 

Yet men did not yield quietly. Year by patient year they hunted the dragons, driving line after royal line to dust and bone. But the strongest endured —towering, relentless, scaled hide no mortal blade could break.

In the end, one line rose above all —the Dragon Line of House Min. 

Tall as oaks, fierce as winter storms, they endured, generation after generation. Each Alpha-born heir rose as King —sworn Protector of the Sacred Realms, iron-crowned guardian between the mortal world and the wild beyond.

 

 

Weariness seeped deep into the bones of the men as they anchored their battered ship to the familiar creaking dock. Seasons had passed like a blur of storms and salt. Their skin sagged heavy on their muscles, raw with sleeplessness and the constant rasp of brine on their lips, in their clothes, clinging even to the breath in their lungs.

Winter lay thick and unforgiving over the continent now —the Empire of the Sun lay endless moons behind them, half a world away. To some, it seemed only yesterday that they had hunted jaguar-spotted prey with Ocelotl warriors under a canopy of singing birds, or drunk bitter xocolatl from a gilded Tlaxcaltecan skull, the taste dark and electric on their tongues.

Those days had hardened the crown prince’s resolve and tightened the threads between two ancient realms —the Sun’s children, keepers of flame and lore, and the Moon’s folk, guardians of shadows and iron-boned secrets. The bearer of the feathered serpent’s bloodline had welcomed Yoongi with open palms and measured words —soft wisdom balanced by steel. In return, Yoongi, the dragon-born heir, had offered the quiet ferocity of the Moon. Between them lay centuries of unbroken kinship —a rare thing in a world split by jealous gods.

A pity he would not reign. Or so he believed.

Far behind him now lay the wildflower meadows and endless wheatfields where he’d once run as a tousle-haired cub, clinging to his omega father’s skirts when the storms of the northern coast howled at the door. All lay buried now beneath drifts of snow and black soil veined with frost.

His men needed warmth —real warmth, not the thin illusion of a campfire on salted decks. At the village inn, the keeper nearly wept at the sight of gold, falling over himself to stoke the hearth and heap venison and barley stew into earthen bowls. The warriors broke bread for the first time in moons that didn’t reek of sea mold. Bellies heavy, eyes half-lidded with the comfort of simple warmth, they murmured half-drunk prayers to the hearth gods before sleep claimed them.

The crown prince sat apart by the window, tracing frost with his thumb. He was no king. A prince, perhaps —but more a warrior than a ruler. His realm lay not in cold stone halls but in wild roads and untamed secrets, where he could roam until the hunger for knowing was sated —though it never truly was. Even so, tonight, for the first time in countless nights, he allowed himself to rest as a man, not a myth.

Tomorrow, they would turn east —toward the forests that still whispered of elves and the old magic no sun or moon could quite erase.

At dawn, the warriors roused themselves from dreams that clung to their eyelids like cobwebs. They spoke little, for the prince’s mood cast long shadows when disturbed too soon. He was already mounted when they stepped into the snow-crushed courtyard —tall in his saddle, furs draped over mail, eyes bright and unsparing as cold iron.

Shadow perched on his forearm —the raven sleek and greedy for the morsels the prince fed him. He was clingy and affectionate, unlike his sister Nightshade —all bone-black feathers and blade-sharp talons. If Nightshade were a woman, Yoongi sometimes thought, she would be a goddess of war —cunning, remorseless, crowned in stormlight.

He lifted his arm, and with a flick of wrist and forearm, Shadow rose into the frozen sky —a living compass cutting through dawn’s pale belly. The warriors knew better than to speak. A guide raven was sacred —no man dared profane its flight with idle chatter.

They rode in the hush of the waking woods. When Shadow rested, they turned. When he wheeled overhead, they circled back. The path was never straight —this was elven magic, older than the kingdoms and jealous of its secrets. It twisted time and distance into knots. To step wrong was to vanish into roots and moss forever.

When the last turn was made, the path opened —a breath of green beneath the snowdrifts, where moss glowed softly beneath frost-limned trees. Here, the ache in their bones loosened, their chests opened to easier air. The elven glade gave what it always had —small mercies in a hard world. Roots cradled sleeping men like a mother’s hand. Leaves fell soft as dreams over helmed brows. Even Yoongi found a hollow tree stump, half-throne, half-bed, and forced his restless mind to quiet.

Yet sleep did not come easy. Something tugged at him —a voice, a whisper beneath the hush of wind. Shadow’s feathers fluffed, wings half-open as if to shield him from what prowled unseen. Snow spiraled suddenly, tiny white ghosts kissing his skin before racing ahead, beckoning him from warmth and safety.

Against sense and caution, he rose. Shadow hopped to his shoulder, claws sinking into fur and leather. Ahead, the forest seemed to breathe —a clearing unraveling where none had been moments before. And from the hollow of an ancient birch, a shape emerged. Pale as frost, fluid as drifting fog —a snow nymph, wild beauty clinging to near-naked skin as if the cold adored her too much to bite her.

He almost turned back —a lifetime of lessons telling him what nymphs could do with an unguarded soul. But her voice curled through the clearing, gentle yet ancient as falling snow.

“You are in my grove, warrior.”

He did not flinch. “I mean you no harm. My men and I will be gone come dawn.”

She laughed —a sound like icicles shattering. “I do not fear you, princeling. We all know you. The Protector of the Realms —even the smallest fae must know his face, lest we kill him by mistake.”

She stepped closer. He could see her better now —skin like polished amethyst under a dusting of snow, eyes deep pools where winter storms brewed. Locks of white-blue hair drifted over her breasts, more veil than garment.

He dipped his head, the old ways heavy on his tongue. “Then forgive the trespass, my lady. We will not trouble your grove again.”

“I do not wish you gone.” Her voice curled sly around the cold. “I shall not trouble your men —for a price.” Her smile turned sin-wicked. “A rut under the moon’s gaze. A prince’s seed to warm the roots.”

“Your reputation is known between my sisters of the persimmons in the eastern woods. So tell me, are you afraid of the cold, dragon? —Or is it the eyes? I can look like your greatest desires.” Just then, the eyes turn human, still an ethereal blue, snow-white skin flushed at her knees, shoulders and cheeks, hair gold like rays of sun. 

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. Once, perhaps, he’d have fallen for her —when rut had ruled him and any soft mouth would do. But he knew better now —nymphs never took without taking more.

“I am sorry, lady of frost. My heart is claimed. I will not dishonor it.” A lie, but one he wore well.

Her smile cracked, then widened with sharp delight. She liked the lie —liked him better for wearing it. “Then give me a scale instead, dragon prince. A token, that I may hold high should hunters come for my sisters and me.”

Understanding settled cold in his gut. She had not truly wanted his body —only the power that clung to him like a second skin. He shrugged off his glove, reached beneath fur and tunic until golden scales pushed through skin —cold, ancient, older than any crown. He chose one and twisted it free.

“If any threaten you, hold this high,” he told her, pressing the scale into her tiny, frostbitten hands. “My claw will find them.”

She accepted it with a reverence she had not shown before, bowing low until her hair brushed the snow. Then she vanished —folded back into bark and hollow and drifting snow, as if she had never been at all.

Yoongi returned to the clearing. The trees sealed behind him, as if guarding his secret in roots and frost. He settled once more on his stump —Shadow croaking softly, a watchman of black feathers and bone.

Dawn came in silence. The raven croaked from his perch, rousing the warriors like a priest’s bell. They broke their bread —coarse loaves torn between calloused hands, hard cheese and salted meat passed round in wordless thanks. They mounted, slipping back into the hush of the path’s final stretch.

At the edge of the woods, Shadow’s cry split the dawn —sharp, annoyed, unmistakable. Nightshade dropped from the sky like a falling blade —wings vast and sleek carrying the scent of daffodils, eyes bright with secrets. She landed on Yoongi’s arm with imperious grace, tearing at his hair until he plucked the scroll from her leg. The parchment was heavy, lined in gold —too fine for a casual message. He knew the seal before he cracked it open.

 

To His Royal Highness, 

Min Yoongi Crown Prince of Frostpire Kingdom of the North and Protector of the Sacred Realms

May this letter find you in good health and sound spirit, wherever your path has taken you beyond the borders of the continent.

It is with both sorrow and urgency that I pen these words. Your uncle, His Majesty King Hanseo, who so dutifully held the throne in your stead, has breathed his last. He departed this life with honor, and his final thoughts were of you —the rightful heir to the Crown of the North and Protector of the Realms.

Our kingdom now stands at a precipice. The throne lies empty, the banners hang in solemn stillness, and the people look to the horizon, awaiting the return of their true sovereign. The time has come, Your Highness. The Moon calls for its king.

As your most loyal advisor, I beseech you: return at once to the kingdom. Ride with haste and with purpose. The Captain of the Royal Army, Sir Jung Hoseok, shall await you at the Eastern Borders with an escort befitting your station. He will ensure your safe and swift passage through the lands that are, by right and by blood, yours to rule.

All of the North and the Sacred Realms awaits your return —not merely with hope, but with need.

May the stars guide your journey home.

In loyal service and solemn duty,

Lord Seokjin of House Kim

High Advisor to the Crown

 

The words blurred. The seal —Seokjin’s mark, a red rose in wax. His uncle, the king, gone —the throne waiting, the realm calling him home whether he willed it or not. He could almost hear the cold, empty halls echoing his footsteps, the weight of the crown pressing against the beast that slept beneath his ribs.

A warrior pulled his steed alongside his own, the question hesitant:

“Is something amiss General?” 

Yoongi folded the letter, tucked it into the warm hollow beneath his furs. He did not look at the man —only at the snowfields beyond, at the horizon that now chained him tighter than any crown.

“We ride for the North.” His voice was iron, final.

“Your Highness?”

“The King is dead.”

 

Chapter 2: The Snow Flower

Summary:

The men ride ahead, oblivious. Yoongi stays, spellbound by the sight of this soft soul alone with his quiet world of snow and fur and song. Then the rabbit flinches, burrowing deeper into its keeper’s warmth.

A predator is here, it seems to squeak. The flower lifts his head —and their eyes meet.

It is a dreadful journey for the crown prince, though not for the warriors at his back. For them, each mile closer to the northern gates feels like breathing air after years underwater. Some offer silent prayers of gratitude that the rightful heir will soon reclaim the throne. If Advisor Kim were riding among them, he would scold them for their thinly veiled joy —but the truth is, no one mourns the late king, not truly.

When they leave behind the southern borders and the burnt gold of withering plains for the frostbitten stretch of eastern land, Yoongi’s eyes catch glimmers of familiar cloth: the imperial uniform, finer than the battered leather and muted greys his company now wears. Soldiers stand at rigid attention, bearing banners stitched with his family’s crest, black ribbons knotted solemnly at each tip —a mourning standard for a king no one mourns.

At the first flash of his face, they dismount in perfect unison, snow crunching as they kneel low. Captain Jung stands at the front, his silhouette cutting a loyal figure against the dusk. Yoongi feels a splinter of warmth pierce through his restless heart.

“Captain Jung, at your service, my General.”

“At ease.”

Hoseok rises, bows low, and the rigid decorum breaks when they clasp forearms and lock each other in a warrior’s embrace.

“Will you tell me,” Yoongi mutters against the collar of Jung’s cloak, “what in the nine hells has happened?”

“Not here,” Hoseok says, his voice tight but loyal. “Some still mourn the stand-in more honestly than he deserved.”

“We’ll reach the amaranth fields by nightfall.”

Hoseok only nods and barks the order. Soldiers straighten, boots crunching as they mount once more.

“All flank the General. We ride for Anthos!”

Most of the day folds itself into the steady rhythm of hooves and horses’ breath. Conversation between captain and prince is scarce —a few sparse words, the ghosts of jokes meant to hold back heavier truths. The dusk bleeds into frostbitten fields that should be crimson with amaranths but stand empty this cruel winter. It is a lean land now —half-starved under a stand-in king’s neglect.

When they reach a modest village at the edge of the fields, they slow to a tired trot, all eyes on the warmth ahead. A wide inn swallows them up, banners hidden, weapons tucked discreetly beneath cloaks and furs. Stew and ale appear like magic in their cold-cracked hands, and Hoseok and Yoongi take the darkest corner by the hearth.

“Speak,” Yoongi says. His voice is steel now, his patience thin. “How did my uncle die? And why so quietly?”

Hoseok sighs, tips his mug back until the ale cuts the bitterness in his mouth.

“Seokjin lied. You and I both know the stand-in never lived as a king should —it’s no surprise he didn’t die like one either.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“Found pants down, drowned in his own bile. Seokjin’s handmaid discovered him at dawn —she made no noise, just told her master.”

“Autopsy?”

“He reeked of wine, vomit, piss. No wounds, no bruising. Looks like a drunk’s pitiful death.”

“Poison?”

“Tests for hemlock and nightshade came back clean. They were testing for arsenic when I left. It’s possible.”

Yoongi drains his mug in a single, silent gulp. The Captain watches the shadows dance in the firelight.

“It could also be magic,” Hoseok murmurs, the word tasting dangerous on his tongue.

“The Barrier?” Yoongi’s voice is low, taut as a bowstring.

“You know it can’t open from our side. Unless…” Hoseok hesitates. “Unless the Protector themselves meant to cross. And we’ve had no word from them since you left last spring. The elves trust no one these days.”

“A warlock, then. Or a witch.”

Hoseok pokes at his stew, not eating. The truth sits heavy between them, heavier than the steel at their belts.

“Magical folk are gone, Yoongi. Nymphs hide in their elements, witches in the deepest bogs. The trolls and wraiths scratch at the Barrier like dogs at a locked door. And the stand-in… turned his back. Trials went undone, crimes unpunished. He made it easy for ghosts to slip through.”

“So he didn’t rule at all.” Yoongi’s voice is cold iron now.

“You never wanted to rule.” Hoseok’s eyes flick up. “The wind and sea always called you elsewhere. But you are your father’s son —and I beg you, brother —not as a captain but as a man of the North— take your place. Right his wrongs before they devour us whole.”

The fire flickers. The room is loud with laughter and the clatter of mugs, but Yoongi only hears the pounding of his own pulse. Guilt coils like a serpent in his gut —every mile he wandered, every season he chose freedom over duty. He grips his cup until his knuckles pale.

When sleep refuses him, he lights his pipe and drifts into the silent dark. The cold bites through leather boots but he does not feel it —he wanders past shuttered doors and frost-laden trees, the moonlight glazing the earth in silver.

Then it comes —faint but unforgettable: a scent so impossibly rich it halts him mid-step. Sweet berries —strawberries, cherries, every red fruit that has ever kissed sunlight —tangled with wild honey and the bloom of flowers he knows exist only in the gardens beyond the Barrier. It ghosts through the night air like a promise.

He thinks it must be a trick of his restless mind —grief and anger weaving false wonders— yet the sweetness lingers even after he turns back toward the inn.

Morning comes cold and pale. They ride again —past thatched roofs, empty fields, frost-bitten orchards clinging to their last brittle fruit. He yearns for spring to wake these lands again —and for once, he yearns to stand among his people when it does.

Then he sees it —like a vision whispered from some old childhood tale. A delicate figure in a garden of snow. Pale blue robes melt into the drift, chocolate-brown hair spills over gentle shoulders, hands like white petals cradle a shivering rabbit at his chest. The omega hums —an old lullaby that cracks something in Yoongi’s battle-hardened heart. A melody for children, offered freely to a trembling creature in the hush of winter.

The men ride ahead, oblivious. Yoongi stays, spellbound by the sight of this soft soul alone with his quiet world of snow and fur and song. Then the rabbit flinches, burrowing deeper into its keeper’s warmth.

A predator is here, it seems to squeak. The flower lifts his head —and their eyes meet.

Chestnut eyes —vast, unguarded— clash with his black stare and all the iron in Yoongi’s veins turns to water. He’d thought him a woman for a heartbeat —deceived by the softness— but the scent is unmistakable now, rolling through him like thunder. No female omega could ever smell of the old magics and the forbidden sweetness of lands long sealed behind the Barrier.

For a heartbeat he swears the world halts —snow frozen in its fall, wind hushed to hold the moment still. The flower does not bow. Does not flee. Just watches him, calm and unafraid —a ghost who does not yet know he’s seen by a prince returned.

When a rider doubles back to find him, Yoongi kicks his steed forward. He does not dare let another soul glimpse this vision of Heaven. He carries the scent with him like a hidden wound —sweet, aching, impossible to ignore.

Smeraldo flowers multiply like a plague in his thoughts all the way to the North, high cheekbones and full lips, droopy russet eyes —the face of a nymph, or an elven Prince.

The Northern meadows greet him cold and raw, a blizzard snarling at their backs. But as he rides through the gates, people drop to their knees. Old men and women who remember his father lift trembling hands in silent benediction. The castle looms —dark stone crowned in snow— but tonight it feels less like a fortress and more like a tomb waiting for life to stir again.

Nestled at the foot of a jagged, snow-capped mountain —as formidable and ancient as the elven forest— rises the Castle of the Moon, the heart of Frostpire, the Kingdom of the North. Hewn from dark granite and black marble quarried from the mountain itself, the castle’s towering spires pierce the mist-laden sky like obsidian thorns. Its high, vaulted battlements and arrow-slit towers stand resolute against the bitter winds and the monstrous horrors that stalk the frozen forests beyond —creatures as terrible and cunning as any that roam beyond the borders of the mainlands.

Yet for all its grim defiance, Mooncastle is hauntingly beautiful. Stained-glass windows glimmer like frozen jewels, casting shards of colored light onto the courtyard’s frost-crusted stones. Gargoyles carved in the likeness of ancient beasts perch along parapets, their wings half-furled in silent vigil. Ivy and ghostly silver moss cling to the castle’s walls, softening its stark lines with a touch of timeless, enchanted elegance.

The training grounds swarm with stable boys who take their horses with wide-eyed bows. Yoongi thanks them —a simple courtesy, but in their eyes it shines brighter than any crown.

Inside, Seokjin greets him with a bow and a weary smile.

“Welcome home, your highness. Baths have been drawn, supper is waiting.”

“I shall send you a valet, to tend you properly.”

“Jin, I’m not a child. I can dress myself.”

Seokjin only chuckles, bowing again. “Yoongi, let your people serve you. They have waited long enough to remember what it means to serve a king worth serving.”

Yoongi hugs him then —brief but fierce— and Seokjin claps his back before pushing him away with a huff.

“By the gods, take that bath. You stink like a wet hound.”

Inside, his chambers are untouched —dark wood and cold stone, fur throws and a hearth that’s too large for one man alone. His armor comes off piece by piece, metal and leather laid with the same care he’d give his sword. Beneath the screen, hot water steams from a tub big enough to drown in. He sinks in with a hiss, muscles uncoiling at last —yet his mind drifts far from the warmth.

He wonders —foolishly— how that snowflower would like to bathe. Wrapped in mint oil, perfumed with sweet citrus, or left bare in the softness of clean water and silk. Would he sing that lullaby for Yoongi too, if asked? Would he share a tub in the hush of night, delicate hands tracing the lines of an alpha’s scars without fear? Foolish dreams —but tonight he lets them bloom.

When a soft knock stirs him, it’s young Taehyun who peeks in —grown now, no longer the swaddled babe he once peeked at from his father’s skirts.

“Your highness,” Taehyun says, all smiles and nerves. “I have brought supper. Shall I assist you?”

Yoongi shakes his head, drying himself with a linen cloth. “No, lad. Sit. Tell me what’s happened in this house while I was gone.”

Taehyun beams, settling into a chair as Yoongi dresses himself in simple linen.

“Much and little, my lord. The crown prince was missed every day. My father always said you’d come home when the winds were ready to carry you back.”

Yoongi smiles faintly, tugging on his sleeves. “Then I must visit old Kang soon, before his bones forget me.”

Taehyun gathers up the discarded clothes, bowing low. “It is an honor, your highness, to serve you now. I shall try not to disappoint.”

“You won’t, Taehyun. Keep my boots polished and my armor sharp —I need no other hand dressing me like a doll.”

The boy bows again, relief and pride mingled in his young face. “Sleep well, your highness.”

Yoongi waits until the door clicks shut. Then he sits alone in the quiet, supper untouched. The snowflower’s scent haunts him more than the wine, more than the ghost of his uncle’s crown.

Outside, the blizzard howls. Somewhere beyond the Barrier, magic still breathes. And Yoongi knows —deep in the iron of his bones— he will find it. He will find him.

When the heavy wooden door clicks shut behind Taehyun, silence folds itself around Yoongi like a familiar cloak. The warmth of the bath lingers faintly on his skin, but already the chill of the northern stone seeps through the seams of his linen shirt. He stands in the center of his vast chamber for a moment, staring at the darkened windows that look out over his snow-blanketed lands —his lands now, once more.

He should feel triumphant, but the triumph tastes of guilt and regret. He crosses to the fireplace, stirring the embers with a poker until the flames lick back to life. Shadows dance up the carved mantle —scenes of dragons and ravens and thorny roses in bloom, a heritage he once embraced like a sword and then abandoned like a dull blade when the world beyond his borders called louder than duty.

He pours himself a cup of mulled wine from the decanter left by the hearth. It’s too sweet, too fragrant —a softness that clashes with the raw edges of his thoughts. He leans against the mantle, sipping and letting the fire crackle fill the hush. Outside, the wind claws at the shutters. He can almost hear the voices of his ancestors in the howl —a language older than words, older than the walls around him.

His mind drifts, unbidden, back to the garden on the outskirts of Anthos. The snow still glittered then, unspoiled by hoofprints and wagon ruts, catching the last golden slant of afternoon sun. And in the midst of it —that vision. A figure so slight he might have overlooked him entirely if not for that scent. A scent no other had ever worn: lush berries, sweet honey, blossoms from some secret orchard only the fae might tend.

The memory presses against his senses now, stronger than the mulled spice or the dry oak smoke. He had thought it a dream —but his mind keeps turning it over like a worry stone. The way the Snow Flower had not cowered, not run, but simply watched him with eyes wide as moons. The way that fragile body shielded the trembling rabbit in a hush of blue fabric and dark hair that caught the pale light like spun silk.

Yoongi lets out a long breath and runs a hand over his face. He should not be thinking of an omega boy he doesn’t even know. He should be thinking of tomorrow —of the council he must summon, the edicts to write, the nobles to rein in. There are treaties waiting, the villages starving for fair rule, and monsters pressing claws against the Barrier that once held so firm.

Yet all he can think about is whether that soft, shy creature is still wandering those frostbitten orchards —and whether he knew, in that instant, who Yoongi was. Did he know a Prince had seen him? Or was he merely humming his lullaby for a rabbit, blissfully unaware that his existence had already rooted itself in the heart of the North’s iron dragon?

The fire pops. The warmth does nothing for the restless chill coiled in his bones. Yoongi sets the cup down and crosses to the tall windows, drawing back the heavy drapes. Snow drifts down, catching the moonlight in bright motes. For a heartbeat he almost imagines he sees him again —a ghostly figure among the drifts, a splash of soft blue and the gleam of chestnut hair against the white.

But when he blinks, there’s nothing but night and swirling flakes.

He draws the curtains shut and turns back to his bed —the bed that feels too wide, too cold, despite the piled furs and down-stuffed pillows. He strips off his shirt and climbs beneath the covers, yet sleep refuses him. His mind loops like a hawk in winter sky —circling the scent, the soft eyes, the hush of that garden where the world had stopped just long enough to remind him what wonder felt like.

In the hush of the chamber, the wind hums against the stone, carrying a lullaby he pretends he can hear: a child’s song for a rabbit in the snow, drifting across leagues of frost and memory to the heart of a Prince who never meant to be King —but now cannot be anything else.

When sleep finally comes for Yoongi, it brings dreams like drifting petals: blue robes against snow, warm hands cupping a wild thing’s trembling body, a voice humming something ancient and sweet. He does not know the words —only that he wakes before dawn with the taste of berries and honey on his tongue and an ache in his chest that no crown or blade will ever soothe.

 

🌸

Jimin had been told countless times —by Nurse Hara, by the steward, by the handmaids who fussed at the sight of his flushed cheeks —“Master Jimin, you’ll catch your death out there!” But what did they know of life, really, if they never stepped beyond warm hearths and polished floors?

The manor was beautiful, sprawling, all carved stone and old tapestries, but it pressed at his ribs like a cage sometimes. His alpha mother, Duchess Jieun of Anthos, was rarely home. When she was, her mind lingered on letters and maps and the fine quill strokes that kept their lands safe and prosperous. His omega mother, Lady Ary, used to be his gentle refuge —warm laps and garden walks and long afternoons sewing birds and blossoms onto linen. But these days, Ary was more often bent over Soomin’s belly, cooing at the child yet to be born, fussing over blankets and bassinets. Jimin loved them both dearly —and loved his sister most of all— but his own quiet heart felt squeezed out like a pressed flower between pages that no one turned.

So Jimin wandered. He found his freedom tucked in the orchard’s frost-bitten rows, beneath the pale arms of ancient trees that still smelled faintly of blossom under the snow. He learned where the red squirrels darted from branch to branch, where the birds liked to nest under the eaves, how the snow rabbit —small and soft, with its ink-drop eyes— would appear at his heels if he rustled the leaves just so.

Sometimes he’d slip into the kitchens when his feet and fingers went numb. Mr. and Mrs. Bates never shooed him away, not like the strict maids did when he tracked mud into the front hall. They’d pour him tea in an old floral cup and slip him butter biscuits while they gossiped about the stable boys or muttered about the Duchess’s late nights at her writing desk. Mrs. Foster, grim as she was, always cracked in the end —Jimin only needed to smile, wide and pleading, and she’d roll her eyes and sigh, “Oh, all right then, but keep your hair tied back this time, young master.”

He’d flour his sleeves up to the elbow, dust the counters white, and sneak mouthfuls of raw dough when she wasn’t looking. Those stolen moments felt more real than all the stiff dinners with visiting nobles who pinched his chin and called him sweet little sprig of Anthos as though he were a hothouse rose they’d never let touch dirt.

And when the bustle and warmth of the kitchen grew too loud, he’d curl himself into the far corner of the library —his grandfather’s library, heavy with books that smelled of dry parchment and secrets. He knew the spines by heart: histories of trade and ledgers of crops, biographies of dusty old dukes whose portraits still glared down from the corridor walls. He ignored those.

Instead, he reached for the cracked leather cover that nearly fell apart when he lifted it from the shelf. The book with the story of Liven —that hidden, sacred kingdom somewhere beyond the Barrier. A realm where winter never truly came, where blossoms never slept beneath the frost, where magic still ran in veins and roots and rivers. Jimin would press his fingers to the painted illuminations —ethereal elves with moonlit hair, gardens blooming with impossible flowers, a priestess with a crown of wisteria bowing to a human warrior clad in battered iron. A love so old the ink faded at its edges.

Sometimes, as the pages blurred beneath his touch, he wondered if a piece of that story still lived in him. In the way his scent drew small creatures near, in the hum that slipped from his throat when he stroked the snow rabbit’s ears —old songs with no words that made the world hush and listen.

“You’ll be betrothed soon,” his mother Ary sometimes reminded him gently, smoothing his hair behind his ear. “A fine match, a good home, plenty of children to fill your days.”

He always smiled and nodded, but in his chest he heard a different promise: something older, wilder, calling him away from hearth and duty. He longed for a love like the priestess’s —a bond forged by fate and magic and reckless devotion. Something that would split the dull gray sky wide open and pour starlight down his spine.

So he braved the chill each day, slipping barefoot into boots, wrapping himself in the pale blue winter cloak his mother’s hands had sewn for him last spring. He liked to think he looked like a flower still in bloom while the world slept under ice —a stubborn sprig of life, refusing to die back.

It was on one such morning, when the hush of snow made his humming echo too loudly against the garden walls, that he felt it: a shift in the wind. The rabbit twitched and fled to his arms, burrowing into the warmth of his chest. He felt a presence —heavy, vast, like the deep press of a storm against the orchard’s fragile branches. He turned, the old lullaby still on his lips, and met a gaze that rooted him to the spot.

An Alpha —tall, draped in the dark furs and iron weight of a life lived far from gentle gardens. Eyes black as a winter night yet burning with something he’d read about only in yellowed pages. For a heartbeat, Jimin thought he saw the warrior of his old book —snow-dusted, cold-boned, but alive in the flesh.

He held the rabbit tighter. He did not bow. He did not run. He only stared, and wondered if the ancient story had found its way to him at last —wearing dark furs and eyes that promised a storm to break him open like spring earth beneath new roots.

The moment passed as quickly as the wind through the orchard. The alpha rode on. The hush returned. The snow fell. But Jimin’s heart —that foolish, restless heart— bloomed wildly in his chest, a garden awakened in winter.

 

 

Notes:

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Chapter 3: The Mad King of The North

Summary:

“Your Highness is still a sneaky whelp, I see,” Seokjin snaps, voice brimming with exasperation but soft around the edges, the way it’s always been when only the two of them remain.

He yanks Yoongi’s sleeve like a mother hen and marches him back inside, ignoring the sweat, the stink, the way the prince’s hair clings damp to his brow.

“If you think you can frighten your council into obedience by smelling like a wolf’s den, you’re sorely mistaken.”

 

Whispers crowd his nightmares. The darkness presses close —thick, cloying, the way it always did when he was small enough to vanish in his omega father’s arms. Even now, grown and hardened by distance and steel in his hand, his mind drags him backward: to that lonely bed where his father’s heartbeat and quiet lullabies were the only proof the world still turned. 

He’d fallen asleep there again tonight, in a dream, small and unguarded, breath warmed by the scent of moonflowers and citrus.

But the hush is broken by voices —soft, conspiratorial, the way servants speak when they think the young master’s ears are tucked safely in dreams.

“I’m afraid the Consort’s health is not improving at all.”

“It’s a pity really, King Yoonseo is gone and now his majesty is ill? What will be of the young master?”

“His Highness might be a little thing now but don’t forget he bears the mark. He will be alright, the gods watch those born under that sign.”

“Sad to see, truly. His Majesty was always kind. So gentle with the boy… with everybody. A heart so soft —I wonder how it lasted this long.”

“His heart was broken the day the King’s ship went under. If he clings to life, it is only for the boy’s sake —if he goes, it will be because the boy is strong enough to stand alone.”

“We should offer prayers tonight. It might not turn the tides, but it’s all we have left.”

In the dream, Yoongi tries to burrow deeper, to drown their pity in the familiar warmth. But it turns to frost beneath his hands —his father’s scent fades, the lullabies twist into the roar of black water swallowing iron hulls and scale-bright banners.

He wakes with a sharp gasp, the taste of salt and iron thick on his tongue. His chest heaves like a bellows. He’s tangled in sweat-damp sheets that do nothing to ward off the ghosts pressing at his ribs.

The stories had always been too neat —the Dragon King, fierce as wildfire, drowned on a calm night returning from treaty talks in the West. His omega father, the Consort of Mooncastle, wasted away by grief and no other name for the rot in his veins. It was all too neat. Too pretty for the truth Yoongi could still smell in the cold hush of his family’s tomb.

He drags himself from the bed before the dawn bells can catch him. The palace is a gilded cage tonight, no warmth in its marble veins, only memories. He pulls on leather trousers, worn boots, a simple shirt that smells of oiled steel and the pine soap he uses to scrub the stink of court from his skin. He ignores the golden cord that should summon young Taehyun to dress him, slipping through the heavy doors like a ghost no one dares stop.

Outside, the halls slumber under flickering oil lamps. In the courtyard, frost crunches under his boots like bone. The stable boy on night watch stirs when he sees him —all wide eyes and chattering teeth. Yoongi hushes him with a single look, presses a gloved hand to his shoulder and murmurs, “Go home, boy. Rest. Speak nothing of this.”

The square welcomes him like a mother’s slap —bitter, cold, sharp enough to make his breath steam white. He draws his sword from its worn leather scabbard, feels the hum of the steel in his palm, a familiar truth far cleaner than crown or court. He trains until dawn, muscles burning, breath ragged, the stone beneath his boots slick with frost and sweat. Every swing is a snarl at fate. At the ghosts who think they can still dictate his steps.

But the sun cannot stay hidden forever. Just as it breaks the spine of the night, Seokjin appears —silks and fox furs and a scowl deep enough to crack marble. He picks his way across the dirt as if the earth might bite his slippers, arms folded tight around himself.

“Your Highness is still a sneaky whelp, I see,” Seokjin snaps, voice brimming with exasperation but soft around the edges, the way it’s always been when only the two of them remain. 

He yanks Yoongi’s sleeve like a mother hen and marches him back inside, ignoring the sweat, the stink, the way the prince’s hair clings damp to his brow.

“If you think you can frighten your council into obedience by smelling like a wolf’s den, you’re sorely mistaken.”

So Yoongi endures the fussing —the hot bath, the layers of brocade and leather, the gold and iron rings that mark him as both heir and threat. He lets Seokjin tug his hair into a warrior’s knot and pin the crest of the North to his breast. The steel crown waits for him still —but not today. Today he walks into the court as a promise, not yet the law.

The chamber fills with smiles as brittle as ice. Old men draped in velvet bow low, press false sweetness between their teeth. They toast to his ascension with words slick as oil, pretending not to weigh him like a lamb for slaughter. He sees the glances they trade when he stands his ground —when he rejects their half-formed decrees, refuses to nod along like a frightened child.

They think him wild. Untamed. A beast too close to his father’s line, the Dragon’s blood too strong to leash. They are right. And he lets them see it in the tilt of his head, the silence that grows heavier each time they mistake him for pliable. He knows they’ll move against him soon —they always do when an heir stops bowing and starts sharpening knives.

When the session adjourns, they mutter behind silk fans and sign papers with stiff hands. A date is set for the coronation —too soon for their liking, but not soon enough for him. He leaves them in the cold echo of the chamber, every step a vow: I will gut you with the same sword you gifted me, if I must.

That night, Hoseok and Seokjin join him for supper. They bring wine to swallow the bitter truth: the stand-in met his end in a drunken haze —tangled in sheets and spilled goblets, No poison. No magic.

When the table is cleared and only the candles remain, he sits alone by the hearth in his chambers, staring at the flames as if they might whisper the truth. How does a Dragon drown? How does an elf’s heart fail when their kind outlive dynasties? Who benefits from crowns that slip so easily from head to head?

Outside, the wind howls against the stone walls. Inside, Yoongi closes his hand around the hilt of his sword and swears he will never die so simply —not while the taste of blood and salt still lives on his tongue.

Though the Crown Prince of the North bears the ancient mantle of his line —dragonfire forged into human flesh, sworn protector of Frostpire and all the magical realms beyond— there is a fracture in his resolve, a delicate splinter of longing buried deep beneath his iron scales and duty-bound heart.

He knows well that his life belongs to his people. That every beat of his heart must echo with the promise of flame and shield, that his gaze must never stray from the Barrier where monsters prowl like living nightmares. He should think only of the throne he is destined to inherit, the crown wrought from silver and frost that waits atop the obsidian seat in the highest hall.

Yet his mind drifts —back to the moment when, riding the borderlands of the Eastern Kingdom of Moongate, he glimpsed something so achingly alive amid the winter’s white desolation that it seared itself into his memory like fire on snow.

A young man beneath a frost-kissed tree, alone yet unbowed by the bitter wind. He was delicate yet defiant, a miracle blooming where none should —like a smeraldo flower, pale and impossible, blossoming in the dead of winter. His beauty was otherworldly: fine-boned features, soft yet proud; eyes bright and deep as chestnut velvet; lips curved with loud innocence, as if he carried a song too fragile to be sung aloud. Long brown hair, tousled by the icy gusts, framed his face like silk spun by an elven hand —and indeed he seemed almost kin to the old forest folk, too fair to belong wholly to this harsh mortal realm.

In that fleeting instant, the Crown Prince’s ancient instincts —the roaring dragon, the vigilant beast— were drowned out by something far more human. A pull he could not name. A hunger that no hoard of gold nor mountain of power could sate. He ought to have turned away.

Yet ever since, beneath the mountain’s weight and the iron crown’s promise, the prince finds his thoughts wandering eastward. Toward the boy who looked like spring daring to stand against the snow. The boy who, in a single heartbeat, reminded the beast within that for all his fire and fury, he still possesses a heart —and that even dragons can dream of something tender, fragile, and long forgotten.

 

Mooncastle’s throne hall was colder than usual tonight. The icy braziers flickered in their iron sconces, throwing shifting shadows across the high vaults and the dragon-emblazoned banners that lined the stone walls. The Crown Prince of the North sat slouched upon the obsidian throne, his sprouting golden and coal-black scales hidden beneath a cloak of black fur. His mood was sour already after a long day of catching up with duty and his alpha threatened to surface.

Before him stood Seokjin, whose parchment-thin hands clutched a scroll sealed in crimson wax.

“My prince,” he began, his voice echoing softly against the frost-veined pillars. “I have received confirmation from the Elder Court. There is no avoiding it now.”

Yoongi’s eyes, molten obsidian in the firelight, narrowed. “Speak plainly, Seokjin. You know I have no patience for riddles tonight.”

Seokjin sighs deeply, his breath misting in the cold air. 

“By ancient decree —sealed when the First Dragon laid claim to Frostpire— you must wed within a year of your coronation. Should you fail, the court will strip you of your right to rule. The throne must be secured by blood and bond, not by fear alone.”

The Prince’s voice was a low growl, more beast than man for a heartbeat. 

“This is ridiculous. My uncle ruled the North for twenty years without an omega at his side.”

“Your uncle was never king,” Seokjin reminded him, with a hint of steel beneath his measured tone. 

“He was a steward. A stand-in to keep the realm from fracturing after your father’s untimely death. The Elder Court allowed it because the realm was desperate, you barely five springs and your wings yet unformed. But now?” 

He glanced about the empty hall, as if to ensure no spies lurked in the shadows. “Now the realm is yours to bind or break —and your uncle’s ghosts linger longer than you think.”

Yoongi’s fists clenched around the arms of his throne. “Ghosts?”

Seokjin stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Word reaches me —whispers only, but troubling ones— that some among your late uncle’s most loyal peers are conspiring with the West. They test your resolve. They believe you young, soft… worse yet, that you can be bent to their will. They plot a coup d’état should you prove… inconvenient.”

“Then let them try.” His eyes flashed like molten amber. “I am no stand-in dragon. If they wish to taste fire, I shall oblige them.”

“Yoongi…” Seokjin bowed his head, his voice gentle now. “You must understand. It is not enough to bare your fangs. The court must see you rule as the law demands —that you restore what your uncle spoiled. His affairs with merchants and smugglers, his bribes from the West, his concubines and spies… all of it festers still. Marry well, rule harshly, show the North that the bloodline is whole —or you invite rebellion through your own door.”

A bitter laugh, rough and hollow, escaped the Prince’s throat. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the boy with the blue robes —the impossible flower blooming where no bloom should be. 

“Your father’s sudden death forced desperate measures. The stand-in ruled without bond or brood because he was never more than a placeholder for you. But you are to be crowned, an alpha of true blood —and the North’s laws demand an heir, not only to secure your line but to silence dissent.”

The alpha’s lip curled in a silent snarl. “The court can silence itself. I have no use for their chatter.”

Seokjin stepped even closer, lowering his voice to barely a whisper even though the hall was empty. 

“You will have to choose wisely. Rumors already coil around your throne like serpents. The Elder Court whispers that you will be forced to bond with a pliant noble omega of their choosing if you delay too long. They have a favorite in mind.”

The Prince’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Your cousin. The young omega prince —barely fourteen winters yet, a boy still at his lessons. His mother, Jeon Minjae, is convinced her wretched line will rule beside yours. She still peddles the lie that your uncle would have made her a queen —though she was never more than a courtesan smuggled in under silken sheets.”

A low, dangerous laugh rumbled from the alpha’s throat. “I would sooner set Mooncastle to flame than take that viper’s whelp as mate.”

Seokjin’s thin brows furrowed. “Then you must declare your bond swiftly. Present your chosen omega to the court. Prove they are fit —of noble blood, however slim— and able to bear your line. The court will bray, but if they swell with your heir, they will be forced to kneel.”

His gaze drifted away, the molten edge softening as a memory flickered behind his eyes: a lonely figure in the vastness of winter’s breath. A smeraldo bloom in a barren waste —delicate features like carved moonlight, long brown hair tangled in the wind like an elf-child from the old songs. A beauty that made his dragon’s heart ache with a hunger no crown could satisfy.

He rose from the throne, the great fur cloak billowing around him like shadowed wings. 

“There is only one I will take. One who stands against the snow as if daring winter itself to wither him. An omega from Moongate, I saw him tame snow in the outskirts of Anthos. He will be my mate —or I will have none.”

Seokjin’s breath caught. “If he is suitable —if he carries noble blood, if his body proves fertile— then the law is satisfied. But you will invite a storm, your highness. Lady Jeon and the elders will not yield easily. They will poison every ear, whispering that your chosen mate is a foreign puppet or a witch’s child—”

“Let them whisper.” His voice cracked like frost beneath iron claws. 

“Let them come. I will silence them with flame and blade if I must. I am no steward’s puppet. This realm will remember who wears this crown —and who dares question the dragon’s claim.”

Seokjin bowed, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Very well, my lord. Then I shall begin the inquiries discreetly. If this omega is to stand by your side, we must find him and ensure he is protected. The court will tear him apart if they catch his scent before you claim him as your own.”

The Prince’s eyes gleamed with a dragon’s promise, softening only at the thought of slender fingers tangled in his hair, a delicate throat bared in trust alone. 

“He will be mine, Seokjin. The Court will kneel. And if they call me mad for it—” He bared his teeth, more beast than king. “—then let them tremble before the madness they have birthed.”

“So be it,” he rasped, walking to Seokjin. 

“They will see me marry —and they will see me rule. With iron in my fist and fire at my back.” His eyes, cold and merciless now, locked with Seokjin’s. 

“Call for Hoseok and bring me the names of those who would betray the North. I shall cleanse their rot from these halls.”

And so it was that when the crown settled upon his brow, the Kingdom of the North shuddered under a new reign. Each dawn rose on a fresh line of traitors who met the headsman’s blade —ten a day, sometimes more, until the courtyard stones were slick with the past’s filth. Whispers called him the Mad King of the North, a tyrant drunk on blood. But behind closed doors, the few who knew the truth saw only a young dragon, half-consumed by longing for a bloom in winter —forced to bury his gentler heart beneath scales and ash to keep his realm from crumbling beneath his feet.

 

The throne hall of Mooncastle was thrumming with murmurs and stale incense by the time the King entered, his black cloak trailing behind him like a stormcloud. The Elder Court —a half-circle of old men and women swaddled in furs and self-importance— rose at his approach, bowing just low enough to keep their pride intact.

They had gathered tonight under the pretense of counsel, but their true purpose reeked of thinly veiled demands. They wanted a wedding date. They wanted to chain their Mad King to a leash of silk and scented bedding before his iron fist cracked down any harder on their secret dealings.

An elder, Lord Kaar —oldest and least discreet— cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, the matter of your betrothal cannot be delayed any longer. The realm grows restless. The old laws grow impatient.”

Yoongi lowered himself onto the obsidian throne, dark eyes cutting through the haze of torchlight. He draped one arm across the dragon-carved armrest, the other curled around the hilt of the ceremonial blade resting by his side.

“I will not marry my cousin,” he said, voice calm but sharp enough to slice flesh from bone. “Not only is your proposal an abomination —but it would mean presenting me with a child bride, which I will not stand for.”

An offended murmur rattled through the chamber. Jeon Minjae, seated near the front with her painted lips pursed, leaned forward with a smile like curdled milk. 

“Prince Jeon is the best option! He is royal blood, your own kin, a healthy young man who can provide Your Majesty with an heir in no time!”

The king’s lip curled into something half-snarl, half-smile. His gaze flickered to where his cousin, a delicate shadow behind his mother’s silks, kept his head bowed and eyes hidden beneath a fall of raven hair. A child, he thought bitterly. A boy forced to bear a mother’s poison in his veins and her schemes at his back. He could only hope the boy’s mind remained unspoiled behind the eastern wing’s heavy doors.

“He is a child!” the king thundered, his voice echoing off stone and ice. The chamber fell to frozen silence. Fourteen winters was not unheard of for bonding in these lands, but he was twenty-five —older in the eyes, older in the bones, far older in the weight of command than the debauched stand-in had ever been.

He rose, cloak cascading around him like dragon wings unfurling. His stare pinned each elder to their seat. “I have chosen my betrothed. He will appear before this court by the end of this moon. The matter is settled. This session is over.”

He turned on his heel before the first protests could find breath, the great doors booming shut behind him like the final slam of a coffin lid.

Later that night, in the shadowed warmth of the strategy chamber, the dragon king stood by the fire, his hands braced on the carved table where maps and troop reports lay scattered like fallen leaves. Seokjin hovered nearby, exhausted ink stains on his fingertips, eyes hollow from sleepless nights spent untangling the North’s bleeding edges.

“Have you found him?” the king asked, voice lower now, the beast’s edge hidden beneath the man’s weariness. “The young man from the East. The one from Anthos.”

Seokjin sighed, rolling the map of the Eastern Kingdom tighter between his palms.

“Yoongi… without a name, without a house seal or family mark —it is like chasing mist on a winter wind. Captain Jung’s riders search the border villages, but there is little to go on. Worse, there are raids now. Westfield sends armored bands into the East and South, pillaging stores, burning outposts —scraping what they can to survive the coming snows.”

The king’s jaw tightened, the firelight catching on his bared teeth. “They grow bolder while we sit here squabbling over silk sheets and bridal garlands.”

Seokjin nodded grimly. “If they sense weakness in your claim —if you fail to produce your chosen mate in time— they will stir more chaos. They have allies yet among your uncle’s rotten ilk. Every day we delay, you give them another inch of your realm to poison.”

Yoongi closed his eyes. Behind the lids, that impossible vision bloomed again: delicate features sharp as silver, long brown hair whipping in the cold, defying winter and daring to bloom in frost. He opened his eyes, the silver of his gaze turned molten with quiet threat.

“Find him, Seokjin. Scour every village. Tear down every lie. Bring him to me —whole, unharmed. The court wants a mate? I will give them the only one I will ever take.”

Seokjin bowed low. “As you command, Majesty.”

Outside, the wind howled down the mountain’s spine —but inside Mooncastle, the beast beneath the crown waited, eyes fixed eastward, hunger caged behind iron will and ancient fire.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading☕️✨

Chapter 4: The Pluck

Summary:

The scent that wrapped around him was steel, frost, something ancient and crackling beneath the skin. But beneath it all, something steady —something that made his trembling hands curl into the fur lining of that terrible uniform and cling, desperate for an ounce of kindness.

Cedarwood. Warmth. Safe.

When the alpha’s deep voice shaped his name in the old tongue, Jimin almost sobbed. He pressed his face to the man’s chest, silent but pleading: I never wanted this adventure. Please, take me home.

 

It was less than ideal —painfully so— the way they met again.

Dawn had only just broken over Frostpire when Hoseok burst into the council antechamber with blood on his boots and grim news staining the cold air. Yoongi listened, jaw tight, knuckles white against the carved armrest.

“The village was burnt to ashes, all the alphas slaughtered, mated omegas raped and butchered. Some left for dead… The children and unmated omegas were tossed into carts and sold on the mainlands; we were offered the leftovers for concubines this morning.”

A headache bloomed behind his eyes, sharp and cold as the mountain wind. He’d known, of course —the Captain had warned him moons ago, on the bitter ride back from the southern plains. The West was starving, clawing at the North’s borders like feral dogs. Now they’d come for the East too —for its villages, its fields of amaranth, its sons and daughters.

“Take me to them.”

There was no crown on his head now —only a dark uniform, the high collar brushing the scales hidden at his throat, the black insignia marking him not as a king, but as the North’s cold hand of judgment, the General of The Royal Army. The merchants who’d come to sell flesh had smiled wide at the sight of royal seal-bearers —fools who thought they’d leave richer than they arrived.

They hadn’t seen the blades until they felt them at their throats. He’d kept one alive —smashed his ankles himself, had him dragged down to the frozen dungeons to squeal names and routes later. Let the rats gnaw at his shame while the King tended to what truly mattered.

In the stone courtyard the wind bit bitter through his cloak as he crossed to the muddy square. There, huddled beneath rough blankets and fear, were ten omega men and women —thin shoulders curled around frightened children.

His breath stilled in his chest when he saw him.

The snow flower. Wilted now, bruised by frost and filthy roads. Jade-green robes dulled by mud and old stains —not blood, he prayed— hair once soft as spun dusk now a rough, dry braid down his back. The bright roundness of his face was sunken, shadows bruising the skin beneath wide, red-rimmed eyes. He looked so small. So fragile.

“Captain Jung,” the King rasped. “Have the maids take the children. Give everyone of them a bath and a warm bed. Make certain they eat.”

“Yes, My General.”

The Captain barked the orders, but the King’s fury cracked when the soldiers dared yank the prisoners upright like sacks of grain. His growl split the air —low, inhuman— silencing every heartbeat in the square.

“You buffoons. Untie them, or answer to me.” Hoseok growled.

The soldiers scrambled back, unbinding trembling wrists and ankles.

“Captain.” His voice was softer now, but no less commanding. “The one in green. Take him to Lord Kim.”

“Yes, My General.”

Hoseok approaches the flower with the caution of a seasoned hunter avoiding a mother bear guarding her den. He looked to his liege instead, silent question in his eyes.

The King stepped forward. The omega flinched —then blinked up at him, dazed and blinking tears through the matted fringe of his braid. Wordlessly, he gripped the King’s forearm, trying to stand, fingers trembling. He didn’t weigh enough —the King could feel it already, bones like birdwings beneath the ragged silk.

Hoseok untied the last knots with careful hands, but the omega’s knees buckled as soon as the ropes fell away. Yoongi caught him before he crumpled fully, steadying him with an arm beneath narrow shoulders.

He tried the common tongue first, though he knew the answer already. “What’s your name, Omega?”

A blank stare. Wide eyes, lips parted but no answer. Eastern dialect —that old song the mountain folk spoke like wind and birdsong. The King swallowed his frustration and tried again, his tongue clumsy with the old sounds.

“Name? Y—your name?”

Something sparked behind those eyes —something terrified, but flickering with recognition. The omega tapped a shaky hand to his own chest, voice so soft it almost vanished in the wind.

“Jimin. I am Jimin.”

Jimin. A name at last. A thread he could tie to this fleeting, precious thing fate had flung back into his claws.

“All is fine now, Jimin,” the King murmured, voice thick as he slipped an arm beneath the omega’s knees and lifted him. He weighed less than a chest of rice —less than a set of steel pauldrons. Jimin only clung to him, burying his face in the fur lining of his uniform, scent trembling but no longer reeking of raw terror.

Inside Lord Kim’s chambers, the castle still slept. Yoongi thanked the gods for that mercy. The fewer tongues wagged, the better.

“Your Majesty,” Seokjin greeted him stiffly, eyes darting from the bundle in his arms to the exhaustion painted on his face. “What… have you brought me?”

“The one I swore to bring before the court.” His voice cracked on it. He laid Jimin carefully on the plush sofa by the hearth. “He doesn’t speak the common tongue. I need your help.”

“What is the meaning of this? Yoongi what have you done?”

Seokjin blinked —then his sharp eyes softened with something like pity. He dropped to one knee beside the trembling omega and spoke in the lilting dialect of the East.

“Little one —I am Lord Seokjin of House Kim. You are safe here. Can you tell me your name?”

Jimin’s eyes flooded over again, tears carving clean streaks through dirt on his cheeks. He grasped Seokjin’s hands with desperate relief. 

“Thank you —thank you. My name is Jimin. My village —Western thieves —they came from the hills, burned everything. I was just… I was on my way home with my maid. My sister just had her baby —I was collecting herbs for her tea  —Please, my mothers —they’ll be searching for me—”

“Hush, sweetling,” Seokjin soothed, brushing a strand of hair from Jimin’s forehead. “You must rest now. May I examine you? We’ll find your family, I promise.”

Jimin nodded, small and pliant in his exhaustion, pressing his cheek into Seokjin’s palm like a kitten starved for warmth, recognizing the other omega as safety.

“He’s scared and tired, he just wants to see his family.”

Yoongi sighs because he doesn’t want to break Jimin’s heart, not now or ever, but he must know the truth.

“The village was burnt to ashes, we have no word of survivors other than the omegas and children he was brought with.”

🌸

Jimin had dreamed of adventure once. A foolish dream —bright as the sun on his village’s orchard walls, sweet as the first bite of honeyed peach in summer. He used to press his palms to the old stone gates and wonder what lay beyond the hills. He’d begged the wind to carry him to the Sacred Realms his grandfather’s books spoke of, where flowers never died and lovers never parted.

But when adventure came, it did not come wrapped in golden banners or stories of elves and gentle forests. It came in the crack of doors splintering under boots. In the sour stench of unwashed men, rough ropes binding his wrists while his mother’s orchard burned behind him.

He remembered how they dragged him through the ashes, how the acrid smoke filled his mouth when he tried to scream. How the air went dark with soot and the rough dialect of the men who snarled orders he couldn’t understand. Their words scraped his ears like stones —he only caught scraps of meaning in the cruel smirks they threw him: pretty, omega, pay well.

He’d been stuffed into a wagon with other frightened children, faces he almost knew —his neighbor’s son, the baker’s girl with a ribbon still tangled in her hair. Most of them older than him. Some too young to understand why their parents didn’t come running when they cried.

At first he’d tried not to cry. The elder omegas wouldn’t let him. One, a broad-shouldered boy with tear-swollen eyes and a broken lip, pulled him close under his cloak and forced stale bread into his hands. Eat, he’d urged him in hushed Eastern tongue, the only words that felt safe. Eat, little master. You must stay strong.

They called him little master. Even filthy, barefoot, half-starved, they still recognized the scent of the duchess’s line clinging to his skin like a final shield. They shielded him fiercely —covering him when the guards came to drag omegas out in the night, pressing his face to their shoulders so he would not see the bruises or hear the weeping when they returned.

He’d clutched the edge of the wagon and watched the forests give way to plains, the plains to the endless, brutal white of the North. With every mile, regret twisted tighter around his chest until he thought he’d choke on it. He’d wanted so badly to see beyond his orchard’s walls —but now all he wanted was his mother’s voice calling him inside for tea, the warmth of Mr. Bates’s fresh scones, the snow rabbit brushing his ankles for crumbs.

When they finally came to Frostpire, the wind was colder than death. He huddled beneath the blanket someone had thrown over his shoulders, eyes wide at the jagged spires of ice and stone. The village elders back home whispered that Northerners were half beast, half snow, hearts frozen solid. They said they drank blood and howled at the moon. He half believed it, shivering so hard his teeth clicked together.

Then he saw him.

A slash of black against the snow —clothes dark as a crow’s wing, two swords glinting at his back like claws. The hair drawn up in a half-knot, the strong line of his throat above the stiff collar, eyes like stormlight striking ice. A face he’d glimpsed once —so briefly— when he’d been stood in the snow comforting the rabbit in his arms. 

Jimin’s throat bobbed, dry as old parchment. He’d prayed then —not to his ancestors, not even to the old forest spirits he’d whispered to when he was small. He prayed to any god that would listen: Please. Please let there be warmth in him. Please let him not be like the men who took us. Please let him be better.

And when the man —who had barked and the soldiers frozen at his growl— stepped closer, Jimin’s legs had given out. He’d felt the ground vanish, strong arms lifting him from the filth and cold. The scent that wrapped around him was steel, frost, something ancient and crackling beneath the skin. But beneath it all, something steady —something that made his trembling hands curl into the fur lining of that terrible uniform and cling, desperate for an ounce of kindness. 

Cedarwood. Warmth. Safe.

When the alpha’s deep voice shaped his name in the old tongue, Jimin almost sobbed. He pressed his face to the man’s chest, silent but pleading: I never wanted this adventure. Please, take me home.

He didn’t know the man’s name —the one who had lifted him from the ground and carried him through the biting wind like he weighed nothing at all. He’d seen men in uniforms before, at his mother’s side during harvest inspections or when foreign dignitaries came to dine in the orchard’s grand hall —but none like him. None who smelled of cedarwood and flames that didn’t scorch, whose eyes burned brighter than the hearths back home.

He’d thought, for a moment, that he might be a knight —or a general, perhaps. Some high-ranking alpha sent to inspect the spoils. He didn’t dare think beyond that. Didn’t dare think what a man like that might want with him.

His head lolled against something soft and fur-lined as they passed through frost-crusted halls —he only caught flashes: stone archways, flickering torches, a hush so deep it felt wrong after nights of creaking carts and barked orders in that guttural tongue he couldn’t untangle.

When they stopped, he felt warm hands shift him, heard the voice —gentler now, lower, rumbling at the edge of words he could almost understand. Then another voice —sharper, higher, and when Jimin forced his bleary eyes open, there was an omega bending close.

Intimidatingly beautiful, long black hair, full lips, narrow clever eyes. A softer face than the terrifying knight’s —he didn’t shrink away when this one touched his cheek, brushing dirt aside with soft fingers.

“Little one—” the omega said, and Jimin startled —because the words fell into his ears like water finding dry soil: his own tongue, clear and lilting. Home.

“Little one —I am Lord Seokjin of House Kim. You are safe here. Can you tell me your name?”

Jimin’s throat cracked. Tears blurred his sight, he grabbed for the man’s hand, too desperate to be ashamed of his trembling.

“Jimin —my name is Jimin.” He stumbled over the words, fear and relief tangling in his tongue. “My village —thieves —Western men, they burned everything. My sister —she just had her baby —I was only picking herbs for her tea. I— Please, please, my mothers —they’ll be looking for me. My handmaid —she’ll come, I know she will—”

He couldn’t stop. The words fell out of him like water from a cracked pot. He didn’t see the way Seokjin’s eyes pinched at mothers —the way the knight in the corner turned away slightly, shoulders stiff.

“Hush, sweetling,” Lord Kim murmured, warm thumb brushing away one of Jimin’s tears. “You must rest now. May I examine you? You’re hurt.”

Jimin nodded, too small to refuse, too tired to flinch when more hands came. They stripped away his filthy robes by the hearth’s glow —the warmth stung his skin after so many nights in freezing carts. He tried not to shiver when the soft-voiced woman came —a medic, Lord Kim said— her tongue familiar again but her questions strange.

She pressed her fingers gently over bruises he hadn’t known he had —the bite of rope at his wrists, the purple blotches across his ribs. She asked about the journey —how many nights, how many times they stopped, whether he’d been taken.

Taken? He didn’t understand. He told her about the stale bread, the older omegas tucking him close in the straw. About how they pushed him behind them when the guards yelled, how they forced him to eat first when the scraps came.

When she pressed warm hands lower, asking something about where it hurt most, he only blinked at her, cheeks flushing pink. He hadn’t been hurt there —not the way she seemed to mean. He was sore, yes, but he thought maybe from too many nights on hard wagon boards, nothing more.

She asked if he had ever lain with someone —her voice so kind, so careful— but Jimin only stared, uncomprehending.

He’d been shielded all his life —by his mothers, by the handmaids, by the orchard walls. Such things had never even brushed the flower’s mind. The young omega only shook his head, too shy to meet her eyes, stammering apologies for not understanding.

She clicked her tongue —not unkindly— and patted his cheek like his grandmother used to do. She told him to rest, that Lord Kim would see him safely bathed and fed. He tried to eat —they gave him broth so rich it made his head spin— but his stomach twisted painfully after only a few sips, and he pressed his palm to his mouth in shame when he couldn’t keep more down.

The bath that followed was too warm, too bright —he nearly wept when they lowered him into the steaming water, his skin prickling as layers of filth floated away. He fell asleep right there, head lolled against the tub’s marble edge, barely feeling Lord Kim’s gentle hands guiding him out, wrapping him in furs too fine for someone like him.

He never saw the stern alpha again that night —the one with the swords and the eyes like frozen stars. In his half-dreams, he wondered where he’d gone. Wondered if he’d ever see him again —this knight, this fierce stranger who hadn’t let the guards touch him rough, who’d carried him through the snow as if he were a feather.

Seokjin stands near the hearth, the smell of soap and herbs still clinging to the air. The medic wipes her hands on a linen cloth, eyes bright with quiet curiosity.

“You did well bringing him here, my lord,” she says softly, voice slipping back to the northern dialect. 

“The village’s noble crest was sewn into his sleeve, half-burnt but clear enough. The duchess’s boy —a true-blooded Anthos flower. Untouched. Gentle as a lamb.”

She lowers her voice, glancing at the small form curled in the heavy fur blanket by the fire.

“He’s weak now —starved near to bone— but give him time, real food, a safe roof. He’ll bloom again.” She smiles faintly, almost motherly. “Your King will have a bride fit for any crown. Pure, soft —as innocent as a newborn fawn. Handle him gently, my lord, or you’ll crush him without even knowing.”

Seokjin’s eyes flicker to the shadows where the King waits —half-hidden beyond the door. The Advisor bows his head.

“I’ll remind His Majesty, madam. Gently. Or not at all.”

 

It’s been only two days, but Yoongi is desperate. 

Jimin has slept most of the time since his arrival, still in Seokjin’s chambers, he has started to stomach more than broth and tea. He sneaks for a moment every few hours to see him, even if he can’t talk to him. His peaceful features slowly returning to color soothe him immensely.

“Your Majesty. He’s malnourished, exhausted —but an omega medic examined him that day. He is… untouched. Still pure. And his bloodline checks out: he is of House Park. His alpha mother was Duchess of Anthos —a noble line that produces the best amaranth in the Eastern counties. He is suitable for marriage by every law we have.”

Yoongi closed his eyes. One obstacle cleared —but at what cost?

Seokjin lowered his voice. “He will need time. To recover. To learn the tongue, at least enough to stand before the court and silence the elders. If you rush him now, they’ll tear him to pieces just for sport.”

The King nodded once, heavy as stone. “Then they won’t have him yet. He stays here —guarded, fed, protected. Teach him. Whatever he needs.”

Seokjin looked down at Jimin —the small, battered bloom curled like a sparrow in his lap. “And when he’s strong enough?”

The dragon’s dark eyes gleamed with something raw, possessive and aching. A promise, a threat.

“Then he will stand beside me —and they will kneel before us.”

 

Notes:

Thanks for reading☕️✨

Chapter 5: The Stubborn Bloom

Summary:

When Yoon Gi took his hands, Jimin let him —his chubby fingers looked absurdly small swallowed by those large, rough palms. The alpha turned them over, thumbs brushing the faint rope burns at his wrists, tracing the softness of his palms as if he couldn’t believe how tender they were.

Then —so gently Jimin’s breath caught— Yoon Gi lifted both his hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, one then the other, his mouth warm and dry against chilled skin.

“Tiny,” the alpha murmured in Jimin’s mother tongue —clumsy but tender, the word cradled like a secret.

Notes:

Yoongi’s whipped.

 

He didn’t know how much time had passed since he’d woken up warm, wrapped in soft furs and smelling faintly of something sweet —rose oil, maybe, like the baths back home. He drifted in and out of sleep so easily now, the cold days on the wagon blurring like a bad dream whenever he opened his eyes to flickering firelight and the soft murmur of Lord Kim’s voice.

The other omega fussed over him like an old nursemaid, making sure he drank broth, combing the worst tangles from his hair, speaking softly in his mother’s tongue so he didn’t feel so alone. The big, stern knight —the High Alpha, the others whispered when they thought he couldn’t hear—  had not come near him since that first terrible morning. Jimin half-thought he’d imagined the whole thing.

But then, one evening —when the sky outside had just begun to drip pale lavender behind the frost-blurred windows —the heavy door opened again. Jimin sat up too fast, clutching the fur tighter around his shoulders as Lord Kim turned stiffly from the table where he’d been arranging the next meal.

The knight stood there —not in armor this time but in a heavy black coat lined with silvery wolf fur, dark hair loose but half-gathered at the back of his head with a strip of leather. He looked like he’d just stepped from a legend —carved from snow and stone and midnight.

“My King,” Lord Kim murmured, bowing low but blocking Jimin’s view a little, as if shielding him. “Your Majesty —might I remind you, the boy is still—”

“I know.” The knight —Yoon Gi, they sometimes said, but Jimin didn’t know if that was true— didn’t sound angry, only tired. His voice was low, a rough rumble that made the hearth fire crackle louder somehow. “Leave us, Seokjin.”

“My King—” The advisor started again, voice sharp with worry this time. “Be gentle. He is under your protection. By law—”

“Seokjin.” The single word left no room for argument.

A beat. Then Lord Kim turned to Jimin —his sharp face softening. “Little one. If you grow frightened, call for me. I’ll be just beyond the door.”

Jimin nodded, eyes wide as Seokjin’s hand brushed his hair in passing. He felt more than heard the man’s soft sigh before the door shut behind him. Then there was only the crackle of the fire —and the knight.

They stared at each other in silence for what felt like forever. Jimin clutched the fur tighter around himself, half-hiding his mouth when he found he couldn’t look directly into those dark, cat-like eyes for more than a heartbeat.

The knight —Yoon Gi?— stepped closer, slow so as not to startle him. He crouched down by the hearth, big frame folding easy onto the thick rugs until he was eye level with Jimin, who perched small and tense on the couch.

He said something —slow, careful. The words were northern but simple. He tapped the tray on the low table, the same broth and soft bread Lord Kim had coaxed him to nibble at earlier.

“Eat,” the knight tried again, this time stumbling through the old dialect —Jimin’s own tongue, thick on his rough voice. “Eat… warm.”

He lifted a heavy fur from the back of a chair and draped it over Jimin’s shoulders —double layers now, so soft they almost swallowed him whole. His hands lingered, brushing Jimin’s thin arms through the fur, warm and gentle.

Jimin’s lips trembled into a shy smile. He cleared his throat —it still hurt, all the new sounds. “Yoon… Gi?” he whispered, trying the name on his tongue. He pointed to the alpha’s chest, question clear in his big eyes. “Yoon Gi?”

The knight’s eyes widened a little, then softened —something warm and raw flickered there before he ducked his head with a small huff of laughter. He said something —yes, maybe— or maybe just liked the way Jimin said it.

When he looked up again, Jimin found himself staring. This close, the man wasn’t only fearsome —he was beautiful in a way Jimin didn’t have words for. Sharp eyes but gentle cheekbones, a mouth too soft for a warrior, dark hair curling a little damp below his jawline. He looked tired too —but there was something kind there, hidden behind all the iron.

When Yoon Gi took his hands, Jimin let him —his chubby fingers looked absurdly small swallowed by those large, rough palms. The alpha turned them over, thumbs brushing the faint rope burns at his wrists, tracing the softness of his palms as if he couldn’t believe how tender they were.

Then —so gently Jimin’s breath caught— Yoon Gi lifted both his hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, one then the other, his mouth warm and dry against chilled skin.

“Tiny,” the alpha murmured in Jimin’s mother tongue —clumsy but tender, the word cradled like a secret.

Jimin’s cheeks flamed hot. He ducked his head but couldn’t help the shy smile that broke through, wide and grateful. He squeezed back, his little fingers curling around the alpha’s calloused ones, holding tight —not out of fear now, but something soft and grateful blooming in his chest.

“Thank… you… Yoon Gi,” Jimin whispered, voice trembling but clear as the snow falling beyond the frosted window.

And for the first time since the cold wagons, the scorched village, the dark nights of being nothing more than a prize in a cage —he felt the smallest flicker of safety again.

Jimin’s fingers stayed curled around Yoongi’s rough hands, too warm to let go even when his blush refused to fade. The alpha stayed kneeling in front of him, so close Jimin could feel the faint heat of him —could see the tiny lines at the corners of his dark eyes, the way they softened each time Jimin tried to speak.

“Yoon Gi…” Jimin whispered again, testing the words like a charm. He lifted their joined hands, squeezing the man’s bigger fingers in his own. “Yoon Gi… kind.”

The knight’s throat bobbed. For a moment he looked almost pained —as if the word kind cut deeper than any blade might. He lifted one of Jimin’s small hands again and turned it so he could press his mouth to the inside of his wrist —where his pulse fluttered like a startled bird.

“Safe,” Yoongi rasped, careful in Jimin’s dialect. The word came out heavy and clumsy, but the warmth in it wrapped around Jimin like the furs he wore. “Safe. Here.”

Jimin’s breath hitched. He didn’t understand much of the northern tongue —barely any at all— but he understood that. Understood the promise in the way the alpha cradled his hands, the way his voice gentled around each word like it might break him if he wasn’t careful.

He nodded, shy but certain. “Safe…Yoon Gi,” he echoed, softer now.

His answering smile was small, fleeting —but so bright it made the omega’s chest ache. He shifted closer, so close he could see the dark lashes framing those feline eyes. Then —careful, so careful— he lifted a hand and brushed a lock of Jimin’s hair back from his cheek. His touch was warm despite the chill that clung to the stone walls, fingers trailing over his ear, his jaw, until Jimin’s lashes fluttered low.

“Sleep?” Yoongi murmured, coaxing the word out carefully in the old dialect. He tapped the tray again, then Jimin’s hand, then mimed laying his cheek on his own palm. “Eat… sleep… strong.”

Jimin giggled —a tiny, breathless sound that startled even him. The warrior’s brows lifted, as if surprised he could make such a noise after so many tears. Jimin nodded obediently and reached for the soft bread on the tray. He took a small bite —tiny, cautious, but Yoongi’s quiet praise in that rough accent made him brave enough for another.

The alpha stayed kneeling there the whole time, watching him eat with an almost hungry focus, like he was committing every movement to memory. When Jimin’s eyelids began to droop, warm broth lulling him into a drowsy calm, Yoongi gently pulled the tray away and tugged the furs tighter around his shoulders.

A yawn snuck out —Jimin tried to hide it behind his small hand, but Yoongi only huffed a soft laugh. He leaned forward, testing, one big arm sliding around Jimin’s shoulders to ease him down onto the couch cushions again. Jimin didn’t resist —he felt too warm, too safe, too heavy-limbed to do anything but nestle closer when the knight gathered him gently against his chest.

His lashes fluttered open one last time, heart fluttering as he found Yoon Gi’s face just above his —those dark eyes watching him like a shield.

“Yoon Gi… stay?” Jimin asked in a whisper, clumsy in the northern words but trusting they’d reach the right place in the alpha’s chest.

A sharp exhale —then a soft rumble. A nod. And a promise, this time in the old tongue so Jimin would understand every word.

“Always. I stay. With you.”

Tiny, trembling, Jimin tucked his face under Yoongi’s chin. He could smell leather and frost and cold steel —but beneath it, something warmer, the hidden scent that made him feel like no harm would ever touch him again. Cedar and warm fire.

Yoongi’s hands stayed firm around him —one braced protectively at his lower back, the other cradling his small head as if he might vanish if not held just so. The last thing Jimin felt before sleep pulled him under was the brush of the alpha’s lips at his hairline —a promise, a vow, a quiet prayer to gods he did not yet know how to name.

The corridor outside Lord Kim’s chambers was dead silent when he returned, soft leather shoes crunching on a stray patch of frost tracked in from the courtyard. He paused at the heavy door, balancing a tray in one hand —simple broth, fruit slices, and a fresh pot of tea mixed with calming herbs the court medic had pressed into his palm.

He’d meant to wake Jimin gently, coax him through another few bites, then settle him under the thickest furs. He’d meant to remind Yoongi —Your Majesty, he corrected himself sharply, always Your Majesty in this place —that fragile blossoms do not flourish under storms.

He pushed the door open without knocking, half-expecting to find the young omega still curled alone on the divan, dozing.

But the sight that greeted him rooted him to the threshold instead.

The King —Yoongi, wild, half-feral Min Yoongi of Frostpire— was not seated stiffly at the hearth or standing guard at the window like some brooding statue. No, he was there on the wide couch, boots kicked aside, cloak slipping from one shoulder. Jimin lay curled up against his chest like a bundled fledgling beneath his wing.

One of the King’s big hands rested at the small of Jimin’s back —the other tangled carefully in the braid that fell over his shoulder, thumb brushing the fine hair again and again as if to reassure himself it was real.

The omega’s breath was soft and steady, cheeks finally carrying a healthy flush instead of that ghastly pallor of starvation and fear. His small hands were lost in the King’s tunic, curled into the thick fabric like a child clinging to a promise.

Seokjin’s first impulse was to scoff —to hiss improper and foolish and what will the court say if they hear —but the words withered in his throat at the sight of the King’s face.

Yoongi, whose name alone made grown men quake, looked… young. Younger than he had in years. No armor, no crown, no dragon’s rage seething behind his dark eyes —only an exhausted, open rawness that Jin remembered from long ago, when they were both young boys scared by the serious hum of court sessions.

He cleared his throat softly, the only mercy he could offer for the scene. “Your Majesty. I brought—”

Yoongi’s eyes cracked open at once, narrowed like a hunting cat’s, but the hand on Jimin’s back only tightened protectively.

“Leave it,” he rasped, voice rough from sleep but iron underneath. “He sleeps. Let him sleep.”

Seokjin stepped closer, careful not to break the quiet warmth of the firelight pooling around them. He set the tray down on a low table, ignoring the way the King’s eyes tracked him like a hawk.

“You are the King of the North,” he murmured, voice pitched low so as not to stir the sleeping bloom between them. “You could command ten battalions before dawn if you wished. But you cannot command his innocence to bloom overnight. He needs time, Yoongi.”

A muscle ticked in Yoongi’s jaw —defiance, worry, love all tangled together. “I know.”

Seokjin studied him a moment longer, then sighed and moved closer still, brushing a careful hand over Jimin’s soft braid. The boy barely stirred, breathing steady and warm against the King’s throat.

Seokjin sighed, and despite himself a tiny smile tugged at his severe mouth. “Tiny wonder. He tames frost and dragons in a single breath. I suppose we’ll all have to get used to it.”

Yoongi huffed —a breath of reluctant amusement, as if he didn’t dare smile too widely in case it startled the sleeping thing in his arms. His thumb stroked Jimin’s braid once more. “He can do what he wants,” he said, voice softer than Jin had heard in a decade. “So long as he stays.”

A moment of quiet passed between them, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Seokjin felt the weight of all the years, all the blood and frost and iron that had brought them to this fragile seed of warmth in the coldest stronghold in the realm.

He inclined his head at last, bowing with a grace that was half courtier, half weary friend who knew the shape of a miracle when he saw it.

“Then let him stay, Your Majesty. Let him sleep. And when he wakes —mind your claws, brute dragon. Handle your flower gently, or you’ll lose him before you ever truly hold him.”

Yoongi’s only answer was to gather Jimin closer, as if his thin warmth might ward off every storm the North could muster. Seokjin slipped out again, the door closing behind him with a hush that felt like a vow.

Morning found Mooncastle sheathed in pale dawn light, drifting through the frost-webbed windows of Seokjin’s chambers. The hearth had been stoked back to life before the sun had even cleared the peaks —at the King’s order, naturally. He’d barely slept, content to doze upright with Jimin pressed to his side, one hand still tangled in the young omega’s braid like a charm against waking nightmares.

Jimin stirred first, shifting groggily under the heavy fur draped around his shoulders. His lashes fluttered, eyes struggling to adjust to the pale, unfamiliar ceiling above him. Then he felt it again —the warmth at his side, the steady weight of a broad chest beneath his cheek, the quiet thunder of a heartbeat far stronger than his own.

He blinked up, dazed, into the sharp slope of Yoongi’s jaw. In sleep —if it could be called sleep— the alpha’s face was oddly soft, free of the lines frost and battle usually etched around his eyes. His dark hair spilled loose around his shoulders where the leather tie had slipped free sometime in the night.

Jimin’s shy fingers drifted to tuck a strand back behind his ear, breath catching when the man stirred awake at once —sharp eyes snapping open, pupils narrowing like a cat roused from a nap. But when they focused on him, the coldness melted instantly.

“…Jimin,” Yoongi murmured, and Jimin ducked his head, cheeks warm despite the lingering chill. He tried the new word he’d learned —halting, clumsy Northern syllables thick on his tongue.

“Yoon Gi… good… morning?”

It was barely a phrase, but it made Yoongi’s mouth curve —that same soft smile he’d thought a man like this should be incapable of. He brushed his thumb over Jimin’s knuckles, careful with the delicate bones.

“Good morning, little bloom.”

A soft knock interrupted the hush —Seokjin, of course. He swept in before Yoongi could snarl about privacy, two young maids trailing in his wake with a tray piled high with hot broth, buttered bread, sliced fruit, and a pot of mint tea steaming like a tiny cauldron.

“Up,” Seokjin announced, ignoring the King’s scowl. “You have a guest, Your Majesty, not a prisoner. He’ll eat at a table like a proper soul, not curled up like a fox kit in your furs.”

Jimin shrank a little, but Yoongi only snorted and rose, guiding him up with careful hands. He helped drape an extra fur over Jimin’s shoulders before settling him in the cushioned chair by the hearth. One of the maids, cheeks pink at being so close to the fearsome King, poured the tea while Seokjin tutted under his breath about clingy alphas and starved flowers.

Yoongi perched himself beside Jimin’s chair, far too large for the delicate breakfast table, yet making no move to shift away. He coaxed Jimin to take a sip of tea, then broke the bread for him —feeding him small bites when Jimin’s shy hands hesitated.

“Eat,” Yoongi urged gently, the word in Eastern tongue this time. “Tiny. Eat.”

Jimin’s cheeks glowed pink again at the nickname. He obeyed, nibbling on the soft bread, then glancing up shyly to see if Yoongi was pleased. When he caught the tiny spark of warmth in those cat-like eyes, a shy smile curved his lips in return —small, soft, but there all the same.

Seokjin watched the exchange with a resigned sigh, pouring himself a cup of tea he very much needed to tolerate such tender nonsense so early in the day.

After a while, when Jimin’s small appetite waned and he began blinking sleepily again, Seokjin cleared his throat. Loudly.

“Your Majesty. The council convenes in an hour. You are expected. You must be seen.”

Yoongi didn’t even look at him, still brushing crumbs from Jimin’s  sleeve. “Later.”

“Now,” Seokjin pressed, tone deceptively mild but his eyes sharp as an eagle’s. “You have a realm to run, frost and trade routes to negotiate, three minor lords already scheming to test your will, and an entire court ready to gut you if you give them any hint of weakness. You cannot play nursemaid all day, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s jaw ticked, clearly torn between biting back and simply ignoring him. But Jimin, catching the tone if not the words, shifted uneasily —small fingers brushing the knight’s rough knuckles.

“Yoon Gi… go?” Jimin whispered, eyes wide, half-question half-permission. 

Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. He gathered Jimin’s tiny hands in his, pressing them to his lips with a low, possessive murmur in the Eastern dialect:

“Rest, little bloom. Wait for me.”

Jimin nodded, shy but brave, squeezing his fingers. “Wait…Yoon Gi.”

When Seokjin ushered the King away moments later, grumbling about decorum and dignity, the look Yoongi cast over his shoulder was almost enough to melt the frost on the windows.

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading☕️✨

Chapter 6: The Ghost Flower & The Tiger Lily

Summary:

“Are you a ghost?”

Jimin startled, dropping the book with a soft thump. Before him stood a boy —no more than fourteen winters, delicate-featured, with big bright doe eyes and a face that would be the envy of any dollmaker. He wore deep sapphire silks and a faint pout, soft dark curls spilling onto his collar.

“I’m sorry?” Jimin asked, careful to shape the words slowly —Lord Kim’s lessons echoing in his mind.

“They say there’s a ghost flower in the castle,” the boy said, utterly unafraid. “A pretty spirit who eats soup and hides in the East Wing. Are you it?”

 

Jimin drifts awake to a hush of soft light slipping through heavy velvet drapes. This room feels warmer than the rest of the stone halls —or at least warmer than the fleeting glimpses he remembers from those first blurred moments when he was carried here. It must have been two weeks now, perhaps more —but time has softened, slipping by in gentle ripples he no longer bothers to count. He is simply grateful for warmth, for real food on his tongue, and for the quiet kindness of the hands that tend him.

He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this careful care carries an unspoken promise. A bond. A marriage. Jimin holds no bitterness for it —Lord Kim had said more than once that he could refuse, that he would still have a place, a bed, a roof overhead. But Jimin has always known his path would bend toward vows and rings. And now, with his childhood home nothing but charred ruin and his family lost to smoke and silence, he finds he has no heart left for teetering on fraying rope. He craves something solid beneath his feet. A promise that won’t drift away on the wind.

And his betrothed… he is not unkind. Rough-edged, yes, and stiff with unfamiliar words and customs, but never cruel. They stumble through their silences, both grasping for pieces of each other’s tongue. Jimin repeats the common tongue until it tangles on his lips, while each dusk his betrothed appears, voice low and careful, carrying fresh words learned in Jimin’s native dialect. They fumble through phrases, trade shy smiles over mispronounced sounds, until meaning finds them both like a small, patient bloom.

He is a beautiful man, in that quiet, striking way that lingers in a half-dream. A few springs older, but broader, steadier —shoulders like a fortress, presence like a hearth. His hair, dark as midnight, spills just past his jaw and is usually tied in a half-bun that lets a few rebel strands brush against his sharp cheekbones. His eyes, shadow-dark and feline, hold a glimmer of something softer when they rest on Jimin. A gentle slope of nose, lips tinted pink by nature, features almost too tender for the rough gravity of his voice —that deep, lilting drawl that settles in Jimin’s bones like warmth, steady and grounding. He walks with the authority of a nobleman bred for command, —though even that sure stride falters, endearingly, when an unfamiliar word slips through his teeth.

He’d understood his name was Yoon… something. Lord Kim’s eastern tongue was rusty and sometimes even they would have trouble speaking between themselves. At least he had learned the word to properly address him. Yoon Gi. 

He hadn’t been told but he had figured it out. There were times where Lord Min was pushed out the door by Seokjin, arguing that Jimin had no time to spare and should only be focused on his studies.

“Yoon Gi! Leave this instant or I shall throw you in the dungeons!” 

It was an empty threat, why would Lord Kim throw his good friend in the dungeons? They seemed quite close, —even if Lord Kim seemed older, like a brother, at times more like a mother—  they were familiar between themselves and Captain Jung as well, he wouldn’t visit as much —only to bring gifts from Jimin’s betrothed— but nice nevertheless. He had figured all three probably grew up together.

Jimin knew he was a decent prospect, he had gathered so by the clothes he wore. Sometimes expensive silk and leather, others the black uniform of the royal army —slightly more decorated than Jung’s— if Jung was a Captain then his betrothed was a General. Not a bad prospect at all. It was more than what he had dreamt of having back at Anthos, he had always thought he would be betrothed to some Earl or Countess from the neighboring counties.

Jimin is finished with his bath when his new handmaid gently knocks on the door and lets herself in, carrying a tray of breakfast. She dries and combs his hair while he eats —a gentle hum in her voice. When he’s finished he’s led to the vanity to braid his hair and then properly dress for the day. He’s been provided by chests and chests of silks and furs —all beautiful and expensive to the touch— Jimin should find a way to thank the General —who has probably been procuring such commodities for him. 

In the evening, Jimin is told that his fiancé wishes to dine with him, Lord Kim and the Captain shall join them too. Dinner was held in one of the smaller private halls, where the cold of the ancient stone walls was chased away by a roaring hearth and the warm smell of honeyed meat and spices drifting through the air.

Jimin felt shy when he was led in —all robed in violet silk with a fur-lined collar, his hair braided with a thin silver ribbon. He saw Lord Kim first, then Captain Jung who winked and bowed dramatically, and finally him —his betrothed, standing tall at the head of the table, dressed in deep black silk with his hair half tied. He looked impossibly grand to Jimin’s eyes.

When Jimin stepped closer, the General —Yoon Gi, as he knew him— smiled that rare, soft smile that made him feel safer than warm blankets ever could.

“Sit by me,” Yoongi murmured in his accented Eastern dialect, pulling out the cushioned chair himself. Seokjin pretended to scold him for behaving like a servant, but there was no real venom in his voice.

Servants poured wine and laid steaming plates between them. Jimin clasped his hands neatly in his lap, trying not to gawk at so much abundance. Hoseok caught his eye and lifted his glass in a silent cheer, while Seokjin clicked his tongue and flicked the Captain’s forehead with a motherly sigh.

A comfortable laughter circled the table.

Jimin, eager to show off the new words Lord Kim had drilled into him, leaned closer to the man at his side, fingers brushing the heavy fur cloak draped over broad shoulders.

“Yoon Gi,” he said softly, with a little bow of his head. “Good… food. Thank.”

There was silence —then a strangled noise from Hoseok, who pressed his napkin over his mouth to hide his grin. Lord Kim’s quill snapped in half over his ledger.

But the alpha just let out a quiet chuckle, so low only Jimin heard it fully. He leaned closer, his breath warm against the younger’s ear.

“You’re welcome, flower.” His voice curled around the word like velvet.

And so the evening carried on: Jimin softly repeating Yoon Gi whenever he wanted something —Yoon Gi, please? Yoon Gi, this one? Yoon Gi, sweet? —and every time, Hoseok nearly choked on his wine and Seokjin cleared his throat so forcefully his tea nearly splashed over his notes.

The servants ducked their heads, giggling behind their sleeves. And the King —Yoon Gi— looked pleased, almost boyish, content to let his tiny flower call him like that, as if the kingdom’s crown weighed nothing when that soft voice shaped his name so trustingly.

When dessert arrived, Jimin leaned close again, lips brushing the King’s ear by accident when he whispered, “Yoon Gi, best. Yoon Gi, good.”

The King nearly spilled his wine.

By dawn, Seokjin sat Jimin down in the study, the air heavy with the scent of parchment and the soft click of beads as Lord Kim turned his worry beads between his fingers. Jimin sat primly, a fresh cup of chocolate before him —but the sweetness couldn’t help the knot of nerves when Seokjin cleared his throat a final time.

“Jimin,” he said gently, too gently. “Darling. We must speak of last night.”

Jimin blinked, puzzled. “Did… I wrong?”

Seokjin sighed, rubbing his temples. “No. Not wrong. Just… oh stars above, child. Listen —you keep calling him Yoongi.”

Jimin tilted his head, hair slipping from his braid. “Is name. Yoon Gi. General Yoon Gi.”

Seokjin coughed. “His name is Min Yoongi. But he is not Lord Yoon Gi or General Yoon Gi. He is the King. The King, Jimin. Our sovereign. Your future husband is the King of the North.”

The cup slipped a little between Jimin’s trembling fingers. His heartbeat thumped so loudly in his ears he nearly didn’t catch the rest.

“He is the General of the Royal Army, he earned that title when he was still the Crown Prince,” Seokjin explained carefully, reaching out to squeeze his knee. “The man you keep calling Yoon Gi —that is His Majesty. He let you call him so because… well. Because he’s foolish for you... But it must be corrected. The elders—”

But Seokjin’s voice faded when he saw Jimin’s wide brown eyes flood with tears —tears he tried to hold back with trembling lashes.

“I… I called him…” Jimin’s voice cracked like porcelain. “I called the King… I thought—!” He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders quivered, mortified. “He is King. I— I rude—! No respect—!”

“No, no, darling, hush.” Seokjin pulled him into a gentle side embrace, mindful of how fragile he still felt. “You weren’t disrespectful. He was delighted, trust me —only the court must not hear you do it again, you understand?”

Jimin sniffled, nodding miserably into Seokjin’s shoulder. His mind reeled —every Yoon Gi, every soft word whispered over steaming cups of decadent beverages, every giggle from the servants.

The King.

Yet deep down, under the mortification, a warmth bloomed too: the thought that Yoongi —his Yoongi— hadn’t laughed at him, hadn’t corrected him. He’d worn the name like a hidden crown only Jimin could touch.

He didn’t know if he should feel more frightened, or more cherished.

He settled for both —cheeks flushed, heart hammering, as he whispered into Seokjin’s shoulder:

“I call him right next time. I promise.”

But some tiny, defiant part of him tucked the name Yoongi away —a soft secret between a flower and the dragon who’d carried him through snow and ruin.

 

In the throne hall of Mooncastle, the braziers burn low as if the walls themselves disapproved of warmth. Twenty elder lords and ladies sat arrayed like frostbitten crows upon the stone tiers, each draped in heavy pelts and drab velvets. At the head of it all sat the King —the Mad Dragon of the North, his crown like jagged onyx above eyes colder than the glacier rivers.

They had come under the guise of protocol —to demand proof, to force his hand. He knew better. They wanted to test if he was weak enough to bend.

“Your Majesty,” drawled Lord Han, ancient and eel-thin. “It has been a full moon since you declared your intention to marry —yet the court has not seen so much as a glimpse of your chosen mate. We have only… rumors.”

“Rumors?” the King echoed, his voice velvet-wrapped steel.

“A ghost flower,” another elder hissed, tapping bony fingers on the marble table. “A phantom omega from the East, unseen, unheard. A tale to distract us while you consolidate power alone.”

“Your people whisper, Sire,” added an elder dowager, her rings glinting with old blood rubies. “They wonder if the ‘flower’ even exists —or if your mind rots from dragon’s blood and grief for your fathers.”

Silence settled like a fresh grave. Then, the scrape of the King’s ring against the armrest —a small sound that made even the boldest among them shift in their furs.

“My betrothed exists.” He let the words drip, slow as melting ice. “He will stand before you when he is ready —not when your forked tongues demand it. You forget your place if you think you’ll set my wedding bed.”

Murmurs broke like ripples on a frozen pond —some cowed, some only more riled. The King leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo in every corner.

“Keep whispering about my ghost flower. But remember this —ghosts are loyal. And they haunt.”

His darkened eyes swept the elders one by one, the dragon’s power coiled in his gaze. “Session dismissed. Speak of coups and false brides again —and I will send you to meet your ancestors myself.”

The doors slammed shut behind him as he left them to squabble like crows over carrion. Outside the hall, Seokjin fell into step beside him, brow furrowed.

“They’ll push harder now. You’ll need to show them something soon.”

The King didn’t answer —but his mind was already drifting to the eastern wing, where his ghost flower slept behind guarded doors, recovering, learning, waiting.

Soon, he thought. Soon.

🌸

Jimin had only just begun to find his feet again —strength returning slowly under warm baths, clean linen, bowls of hearty stews, and endless lessons in the clipped, brisk Common tongue of the North.

It was one of those rare afternoons where Lord Kim had left him alone in the royal library to practice reading simple children’s books. The hush of old parchment was comforting, the stone floors warm beneath his slippers.

Lost in tracing his finger along foreign letters, he didn’t notice the soft shuffle of feet until a small, clear voice cut through the silence:

“Are you a ghost?”

Jimin startled, dropping the book with a soft thump. Before him stood a boy —no more than fourteen winters, delicate-featured, with big bright doe eyes and a face that would be the envy of any dollmaker. He wore deep sapphire silks and a faint pout, soft dark curls spilling onto his collar.

“I’m sorry?” Jimin asked, careful to shape the words slowly —Lord Kim’s lessons echoing in his mind.

“They say there’s a ghost flower in the castle,” the boy said, utterly unafraid. “A pretty spirit who eats soup and hides in the East Wing. Are you it?”

Jimin blinked, then let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “I’m no ghost —only Jimin.” He stood and bowed low as Lord Kim had taught him. “My name is Jimin.”

The boy brightened at once, crossing the distance with the confidence only royalty could carry. “I’m Prince Jeon Jungkook. But you can call me Jungkook.”

Recognition flickered in Jimin’s mind —the cousin, the child they wanted the King to marry. His stomach tightened —but Jungkook was already plopping down beside him on the library bench, peering at the fallen book.

“Can you read that?” He asked, voice curious.

“Trying,” Jimin confessed, cheeks warming. “Hard. But Lord Kim says good to try.”

“You’re better than me,” The young prince sighed dramatically, flipping through the pages. “I hate books. Too many letters. But you speak nicely. Where are you from?”

Jimin hesitated —then pointed East. “Anthos. By the mountains.”

The prince’s eyes went wide. “Where the flowers come from? My mother says Anthos silk is softer than clouds. Did you have flowers at your house?”

Jimin couldn’t help a small, sad smile. “Many. Amaranth. Pink, red. Even winter —flowers.”

Jungkook reached out and tugged lightly at Jimin’s sleeve, earnest as a kitten. “I like you. I hope you stay here. Everyone is so boring. They only care about thrones and babies and gold. But you —you look like a story.”

Jimin didn’t know how to reply —so he only laughed, soft and genuine, for the first time since his world had burned.

They stayed there a while longer —a ghost flower and a would-be child prince— bent together over picture books, trading shy words and quiet giggles that would have scandalized the court if any had dared peek behind the tall library doors.

🐉

The King had spent the last hour pacing the length of the war chamber, every map spread like a battlefield of frayed nerves and fresh reports. The western raids were worsening —whispers of a new alliance forming under the chaos of his so-called “madness.” He’d ordered three traitors beheaded by dusk —yet his mind kept drifting not to the town square , but to the East Wing.

To him.

Seokjin had said Jimin needed rest —but rest for a ghost flower was fragile. His thoughts turned over and over: Does he eat enough? Did he sleep last night? Is he lonely? Does he still look at me with fear when he thinks I won’t see?

When no one answered his second knock on the East Wing’s study doors, dread sank in his gut. He barked for the guards, who scrambled uselessly —then a maid stammered that Lord Kim had taken Jimin to the library for his lessons.

The library. Of course. He strode through the stone corridors so quickly his cloak snapped behind him like a banner at war. He found them there —sunlight slanting through the tall arched windows, dust motes drifting like ghosts in the golden beams.

And there, on the library bench, was Jimin —hair still too thin but brushed and braided neatly, face a touch fuller than the day he’d carried him in. His soft mouth curved into a shy smile as he traced a finger under painted letters.

And beside him —his cousin. Young Prince Jeon, curled up like a cat, chin resting on Jimin’s arm as if they’d known each other for years. A stack of picture books and folktales lay scattered at their feet.

Yoongi froze. Rage pricked up first —who brought the boy here? Who dared—

But then Jimin looked up. His eyes, wide and warm, met the King’s —and they didn’t flinch.

Not this time.

Jungkook was the first to notice him fully, a grin breaking over his doll-like face.

“Cousin!” he chirped, without a trace of fear for the dragon king everyone called terrifying. “Look! I found the ghost flower!”

Yoongi huffed out something that might have been a laugh —or the smallest exhale of relief. He stepped closer, boots silent on the ancient rugs.

“I see that,” he murmured, voice softer than the court would ever believe. His eyes never left Jimin’s. “Did he haunt you, little cub?”

Jungkook stuck out his tongue. “No! He reads better than me. He’s teaching me new words.”

The King raised a brow, tilting his head at Jimin. “You’re the student —yet you teach?”

Jimin looked away shyly, cheeks dusted pink. “I… try,” he said in his careful northern tongue. “He… kind.” He nudged Jungkook lightly. “Good friend.”

A warmth Yoongi hadn’t let himself feel in months bloomed low in his chest. A good friend. The boy who should have been his forced bride —now curled up like a kitten at the knee of the only one he would ever take.

Jungkook scrambled off the bench, tugging at the King’s sleeve. “Can Jimin stay with me sometimes? Mama never lets me have anyone. She says everyone wants to steal me.” He wrinkled his nose. “But Jimin doesn’t want anything.”

The King’s jaw ticked at the mention of Jungkook’s mother —that snake still coiled in the shadows, whispering poison to the elders. He crouched and cupped his cousin’s soft cheek.

“You can visit him when you like,” he said. Then, pointedly: “But only when Seokjin or I say so. Do you understand, little cub?”

Jungkook nodded solemnly —then bounced back to Jimin’s side, grasping his hand like an anchor.

Jimin met the King’s gaze over the boy’s shoulder —tired eyes, but calmer now. Less ghost, more bloom. A silent promise flickered there: I will protect him.

And the King realized, for the first time, that his ghost flower was not only his to guard —but a shield for the child he’d once thought doomed to be a pawn.

He straightened, voice firm now. “Jungkook. Back to your tutors soon —or Seokjin will chase you back himself.”

Jungkook pouted but obeyed, hugging Jimin once before scampering off, a bright laugh echoing through the stacks.

Left in the hush of old books, the King sat beside Jimin, careful not to touch him without permission. After a moment, he spoke, so quiet it was almost prayer:

“Thank you. For being kind to him.”

Jimin tilted his head, confused. “Why thank?”

The King’s voice turned raw, rough around the edges. “Because kindness here is rare. And you… You are the rarest thing I have ever held.”

Jimin’s lips parted, the ghost of a smile blooming —and this time, when the King brushed a strand of hair behind his ear, Jimin didn’t flinch.

Not a ghost anymore. Not quite yet a crown. But a flower, stubborn enough to bloom even in the frost.

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading☕️✨

Chapter 7: The Court of Snakes

Summary:

“This is your future King Consort. Kneel and pay respects!” His voice booms like thunder.

A heartbeat of hesitation. The King does not allow it.

“Captain.”

Captain Jung, lurking in the shadows by the columns, steps forward with a grin sharp as a blade.

“At your service, your Majesty.”

“If anyone remains standing, off with the heads.”

 

The morning sun did nothing to warm the stone halls of Mooncastle’s southern wing. Jimin sat perched on the cushioned seat by the tall windows, the soft cerulean robes he’d been dressed in almost slipping from his shoulders. Prince Jeon sat cross-legged on the rug by his feet, fussing with the ends of Jimin’s braid while Seokjin flipped through the final pages of his speech.

“Do I… speak?” Jimin’s voice cracked like a thin reed. He twisted the heavy sleeve between dainty fingers. “Seokjin, I —I forget the words sometimes. If they speak fast, I—”

Seokjin looked up, the golden morning light catching in the pretty gleam of his eyes. The advisor was truly a royal beauty, and Jimin often wondered why the King had not chosen someone like him for a mate when he was already acquainted with their politics and traditions. 

“Darling, you needn’t say a single word today if you don’t wish to. The court needs to see you —not hear you stumble for their amusement.”

Jungkook nodded fiercely, his little princely crown slipping over his brow. “You look like a ghost flower today —they will hate that they can’t pluck you.”

Jimin cracked a tiny smile at that, though his fingers still trembled. He looked down at his reflection in the polished basin —pale silk, silvery ribbons, hair like spun sugar flowing in curls down his back, the faint flush of worry on his cheeks. He looked soft. He looked foreign. He looked… alone.

Seokjin sensed it, patting his shoulder. “You won’t be alone in there. The King will be with you. I will be with you. And Prince Jeon here shall glare at any snake who dares breathe wrong.”

Jungkook puffed up his tiny chest. “I will bite their ankles!”

Jimin laughed at last, burying his face in his hands for a heartbeat to catch his breath. Yoongi would be there. That thought was the only thing that gave him strength as Seokjin finally stood, smoothed Jimin’s collar, and offered his hand.

The throne hall was not its usual grim self today. Fresh white drapes hung like drifting mist from the vaulted beams, strung by strings of tiny winter blossoms —snowdrops and waxy ghost orchids, like the first breath of spring after years of hard frost. Silver lanterns glowed warm instead of the usual iron braziers, casting a gentler glow on the granite walls.

It was delicate —too delicate, like a flower forced to bloom in a wolf’s den —but that was the King’s command. Let them see what he’d chosen. Let them kneel for it.

At the head of it all, on the stone dais beneath the great carved dragon crest, sat the King —Min Yoongi, the Mad King, the Dragon, the Scourge of the West— all titles rendered hollow by the soft curve of his palm resting on the small of Jimin’s back as they stepped before the court.

Seokjin cleared his throat, his clear voice echoing among the velvet hush of rustling silks and held breaths.

“Behold your future King Consort —Jimin of House Park, rightful heir of the Amaranth Fields of Anthos, noble son of Duchess Jieun from Moongate, Kingdom of the East.

A hiss, a murmur —it spread like poison in water. Some clutched their pearls; others bared teeth behind polite fans.

All hell breaks loose the instant the court lays eyes on him —foreign, untouched beauty draped in sky-colored silk that shames their own finery, soft and proud at the same time. The elder courtiers see ruin of tradition, the younger ones see ruin of their ambitions.

A small man with sweat gleaming at his brow steps forward, voice sharp as he cuts through the hush.

“Your Majesty, an eastern omega? Does he even speak the common tongue?”

It’s enough to stir the pit vipers. Whispers swirl —the late king’s old concubines fanning the gossip, elder officers nodding in poisonous agreement.

The King’s jaw twitches. He doesn’t shout —he doesn’t need to. His voice cuts through like a blade drawn in silence.

“Talking to my betrothed is a privilege you do not possess. That does not mean he does not know how to speak. And I don’t think —what was your name again?— Officer Choi, that his noble cradle and golden spoon are something a simple silk merchant could ever possibly pinpoint.”

The sneer that curls the corner of his mouth is pure venom. Officer Choi shrinks, sweat dripping into the collar of his stiff uniform.

Then Lady Jeon, gaunt as bone and twice as bitter, steps forward like a vulture.

“But your Majesty… He’s not more than a runt! All skin and bones!” 

A growl rumbles low, deep enough to make Jimin —sight focused forward, avoiding all eye contact— tremble, uneasy, not used to so much attention being cast on him. The King’s fingers press lightly at the small of Jimin’s back, steadying him as he whispers under his breath: Head high. Breathe. I am here.

“You’re no more than a stain, yet you’re still breathing in my presence. Leave while I still allow it.”

The hall holds its breath.

Jeon Minjae dares one last spit of poison:

“Your Majesty can’t possibly regard him any higher than a prince! The King is entitled to take concubines, but he can’t become the omega Consort!”

The Mad King’s smile is thin enough to cut flesh.

“You dare disrespect my intended one more time and your clients at the bathhouse will keep finding pieces of you for at least three moons  —and I can guarantee you, Lady Jeon, that you’ll remain alive for at least two of them.”

Silence. Absolute, crystalline, echoing off the vaulted ceiling like a church bell tolling doom.

Jimin, trembling, feels Jungkook slip his small hand into his own, hidden in the folds of silk. Seokjin stands just behind, proud and unflinching, his voice ready if the King needed him.

The King moves at last —every inch the beast they whispered of, draped in black and crowned with a wreath of winter roses that look like pale ghosts against his raven hair. The late stand-in’s nephew just as ruthless and cruel as a ruler as he was rumored to be in the battlefield.

“This is your future King Consort. Kneel and pay respects!” His voice booms like thunder.

A heartbeat of hesitation. The King does not allow it.

“Captain.”

Captain Jung, lurking in the shadows by the columns, steps forward with a grin sharp as a blade.

“At your service, your Majesty.”

“If anyone remains standing, off with the heads.”

The hall becomes a sea of rustling silk and clumsy bows, foreheads pressed to cold stone. And in the hush that follows, Jimin stands still as a ghost flower —fragile, foreign, and yet untouchable.

The dragon at his side curls a protective arm around his waist, the silent promise clear: Watch them kneel. Let them hate. But none shall ever touch you.

The hush that followed the King’s command clung to the throne hall like a ghost’s breath —heavy, chilling, a silent reminder that no one, not even the oldest bloodlines nor the sharpest tongues, could stand against him.

Jimin’s knees felt unsteady beneath layers of silk. His pulse pounded in his ears, so loud he nearly missed it when Seokjin leaned in, whispering just loud enough for only him to hear:

“Breathe, darling. Look at them —all on their knees for a ghost flower.”

The King’s hand left Jimin’s back, only to rest on the soft inside of his wrist instead. He guided him with deliberate calm, walking slowly through the parted sea of silks and velvet. Seokjin fell in step behind, Captain Jung prowling after like a loyal hound watching for anyone foolish enough to rise too soon.

As they passed, Jimin could feel the venom in the air —the silent curses, the thin smiles barely held in check. He felt small, foreign, exposed. But each time his steps faltered, the King’s thumb brushed lightly over the inside of his wrist —a wordless anchor that said: With me, you are safe.

When they reached the private wing again, the doors swung shut behind them, cutting off the last of the cold murmurs like a blade through cloth. Jimin could barely hold his composure then —he sagged against the nearest carved pillar, breath shivering out of him.

Prince Jeon scrambled up beside him, tiny boots clacking on polished marble. He grabbed Jimin’s hand, pressing it to his own flushed cheek.

“You were perfect!” Jungkook crowed. “Did you see Mama’s face? Like a rotting pumpkin!”

Jimin laughed —a thin, watery sound that cracked under the relief of it all. Seokjin pressed a warm cup of sweet tea into his hand, the fragrant steam curling around his face like a comforter.

“You did wonderfully,” Seokjin said softly. “And you didn’t have to say a word.”

Jungkook leaned close, stage-whispering, “You know when the King said ‘Off with the heads,’ old Officer Choi squeaked like a mouse!”

A sound rose behind them —the deep, velvet-soft chuckle that Yoongi only had when the world’s teeth were no longer tearing at him. Jimin turned, wide eyes finding the King leaning against the door, flower crown tilted in his ink-dark hair, his hard mouth curved in a smile that was only ever for him.

“You were very brave,” Yoongi murmured. He didn’t reach for him immediately, just stood there —studying him like the rare bloom he was. “They’ll hate you for it. But they’ll never touch you.”

Jimin’s lips parted, words in the common tongue caught and clumsy on his tongue. Instead, he said the one thing that made Seokjin press his palm to his brow in exasperation —and Captain Jung, lurking by the wall, muffle another laugh.

“Thank you…Yoongi.”

The King’s smile deepened —a soft, dangerous thing. He stepped close, close enough for Jimin to feel the warmth radiating from him like a hearth in the dead of winter. His voice lowered, enough for only Jimin to hear.

“You can keep calling me that.”

Jimin blinked, confusion flickering across his face —but the soft warmth in the King’s eyes soothed the prickle of embarrassment that wanted to rise again. For now, it didn’t matter that he didn’t understand the weight of titles. For now, there was only the hush of the hall, the warmth of tea in his hands, and the steady, sure presence of the dragon at his side.

Prince Jeon threw himself dramatically over Jimin’s lap, nearly toppling the tea. “Now you have to stay forever. We’ll never let you go. We’ll have court every day just to watch them kneel for you.”

Jimin laughed again —for the first time, freely— and the ghost flower bloomed in the iron fortress, soft and radiant in defiance of frost and venom alike. 

🌷

As winter comes to an end and the harshness of frozen roots and frosted trees fades away in droplets every morning, preparations for the Dragon King’s wedding bloomed in cautious splendor. Word had spread far beyond the North, slipping like silver gossip through mountain passes and across the Barrier. They spoke of a ghost flower in a cage of iron and frost —the Mad King’s chosen mate, too lovely to be real.

It raised suspicion, the King seemed too rough, too stern and serious to have chosen such a delicate mate, who looked more like a garden nymph than a future King Consort. Some claimed Jimin was touched by fae blood —a slip of elven grace spirited over the Barrier, for no young lord or lady  —however noble— possessed such fairness on the human side of the continent.

Others, more venomous, whispered of witchcraft: that the foreign boy was no more than a curse, a delicate poison that turned the King’s sword against his own. They blamed him for rivers of blood that had run long before he arrived, but in him they found an easy effigy to burn.

Yet among the oldest families —those who still remembered King Consort Gieon of Liven, the soft-spoken elven omega who once tamed the Iron Dragon —the sight of Park Jimin of Anthos —now crowned Prince of the North— felt less like an omen and more like spring remembered after too many winters. The people who still believed in royalty watched the fragile bond unfold like a crocus through snow: a fair boy’s shy smile melting scales that had long turned to stone.

Jimin’s lessons carried him far. What had begun with clumsy sounds and stiff phrases now unfurled into polished words of history and law. Prince Jeon —his fierce little shadow— demanded to study beside him every afternoon. They could often be found curled like sleepy foxes between old tomes in the library’s warm hush, a sunbeam catching in Jimin’s chocolate hair while Jungkook plotted dramatic vengeance on anyone who dared whisper behind their backs.

But for all the King’s devotion and the people’s cautious hope, poison still lurked in the halls —not hidden behind heavy oak doors but draped in silk and sweet perfume. Prince Jeon’s mother, Jeon Minjae, moved like a coiling snake between the gaps in courtly protocol. She smiled as she slipped nettles into Jimin’s linen and poison into the ears of any elder who would listen.

Jimin knew. He felt every barbed word, every petty snare. But he held his tongue, unwilling to trouble Yoongi with more burdens, unwilling to stain Jungkook’s bright loyalty with the shadows of his own mother’s treachery.

So the castle itself conspired to protect him.

A morning at the eastern gardens

One crisp morning, Jimin wandered the frost-gilded courtyard to gather fresh rosemary for Seokjin’s tonic. Lady Jeon’s handmaid approached, all honeyed voice and folded sympathy:

“His Majesty requests Your Highness joins him by the frozen pond —a surprise for you, my lord.”

It was Seokjin who caught him just as he reached the thin ice’s edge. The sharp advisor stepped from the snowdrifts in silk slippers and a fox-fur stole, planting himself firmly between Jimin and the brittle, deceptive sheen.

“Does the King seem like a man to arrange childish pond tricks? Come now —your tea grows cold.”

Behind them, the maid fled, her footprints dissolving in Seokjin’s withering glare.

An afternoon by the stables

Another time, Jimin found himself summoned to the stables by a forged note promising to teach him to ride the royal hounds —docile creatures bred for sport, the letter claimed.

Captain Jung intercepted him just as the stablehands tried to strap him onto a half-wild northern charger, barely broken, its eyes rolling white at the scent of an unfamiliar omega.

The Captain’s blade rang so sharply from its sheath that the stableboys nearly dropped their saddles in terror.

“No one touches the King’s intended without my order. If I ever see this beast unsaddled in the prince’s yard again, I’ll see its hide tanned for the King’s boots.”

He walked Jimin back himself, muttering apologies for the heavy grip on his arm —a lion’s paw shielding a lamb from a pack of jackals.

A winter night in the kitchens

The kitchens, too, watched over him. More than once, when Lady Jeon tried to corner Jimin with half-truths whispered in the dark —suggesting he taste test dishes “for safety,” or clean fish with knives too sharp for untrained hands —the elder scullery maid, Old Sunmi, would appear at his elbow.

“Out, my prince. Begging your pardon —the bread won’t rise with you fussing about. Go back to the hearth. Let us old birds tend the knives.”

She’d slip him sweet buns wrapped in cloth, usher him back to Jungkook’s waiting lap in the library before any blade found its mark.

The final insult, though, was the kitchen charade —the day Jimin’s soft hands were forced to wash cutlery with freezing water in full view of mocking eyes. The King’s wrath that day was only a spark of what simmered beneath the crown —but it sent a clear message: any who plotted against the ghost flower would find themselves torn root and stem from the earth.

“Your Majesty!”

Hoseok approaches with hurried, firm strides through the training grounds. It looks like trouble. Yoongi sighs —heaving and dripping sweat from training— as he sheathes his sword back into his scabbard and makes way for his robes, he barely has time to cover his back when he’s already being pulled away.

“What?”

“Yoongi, it’s your omega —someone ordered for him to be taken to the kitchens. To wash…” He hisses, —ignoring honorifics in favor of urgency— pulling him to the direction where he came from.

He doesn’t reply, barely stifling his angry growl he follows. Seokjin would berate him if he could see him —walking through the palace in just his pants and boots, his royal robe sash undone, hanging off his shoulders and hair out of its clasp in complete disarray. He must stink too —sweaty with adrenaline still flowing through his veins and acrid from the anger bubbling to his head.

Outside of the kitchens there’s a small crowd of omegas trying to sneak a peek —whatever is going on inside interesting enough to neglect their chores so blatantly.

“Move.”

“Your Majesty!” They bow low and scramble away before reprimand or punishment befalls their heads, allowing him to walk through the doors.

Expecting his darling flower to be distressed by forced labor he can’t help the menacing growl that escapes him, —booming loudly like thunder inside the crowded space, commanding all to kneel. The Captain stands behind him, his sword unsheathed halfway.

“Where is the future Consort?”

Yoongi hears a meek sound coming from the end of the room —the only one that still stands firm on his feet is none other but his future mate. Surrounded by a bunch of omegas kneeling on the ground, he stands still with his head bowed to the King —a white apron over his pretty mint-green robes, stained, wet and wrinkled. 

“What is the meaning of this?”

Jimin tries to make himself smaller, cowering before the alpha’s sharp gaze, “My King, I was only helping—” 

“Who sent you here? —How long have you been here? —Has anything happened to you?”

“I can assure my King that this omega is in prime condition. We were only—”

“Who?”

“My King, this isn’t—”

“Out.”

Jimin’s shoulders draw up to his ears as cooks and maids scramble out of the kitchens. Only when they’re alone with Hoseok guarding the door does he break the distance between them.

“My darling flower, who brought you here?”

The King takes a dirty spoon away from Jimin’s hands —silk-like skin frostbitten and trembling. He holds them tightly, the flame in his veins pulsing warmth to pale, flushed skin.

“My King, I— I only wished to be of help.”

“Someone sent you here with ill intentions, —unheeding of your humbleness— they meant for you to endure whatever torment they had planned —or try to find fault in your character should you complain. I must know who deserves to be punished.”

“I wish no harm on anyone, my King.”

“Your blessed heart is kind my darling, but I will not allow anyone to bully you, —no matter how gracefully you handle each challenge. I know you are capable and smart, —but every soul in the continent must know that you are to be respected —even if that entails they shall fear me.”

Rough fingertips find their way to Jimin’s chin, gently tilting his face up.

“My King, I appreciate all your efforts and your care, —I understand,— however I wish the punishment would be forgiving, for I fear the distress it may cause my dear friend, Prince Jeon.“

Yoongi gives a respectful kiss to one of his intended’s hands. Too soft for frost, too small for steel.

“Captain, fetch me Jeon Minjae.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” Hoseok bows before making way for the western wing. 

 

In the throne hall the King waits, sword ready at his side. Seokjin enters like a blur of scrolls and silk, muttering low under his breath about making haste with wedding preparations —all too annoyed about impromptu audiences.

“Yoongi, what in the nine frozen hells is going on!” Seokjin hisses behind him, fanning himself and adjusting the sash of his robe.

“I want Jeon Minjae’s head on a stick, I want you to find out about the exact circumstances of my uncle’s death and any possible link to her and her servants.” Yoongi snarls from his seat, fist landing a single hit over the carved armrest.

“Do you suspect her? You think her capable of something so heinous?” Seokjin frowns, disbelief slipping in his voice.

“She started to push Prince Jeon and I into a merger ever since I came back, and even now that the future King Consort is here and training for his post, she tries to discredit him —to undermine his efforts. I will not tolerate such disrespect for my chosen mate —or disregard for my cousin’s wishes, he’s but a child and he shall not be forced into his mother’s schemes.”

Seokjin sighs, his temple already throbbing. As well as he might understand the King’s intentions, he should not abuse his power. Not when he’s been crowned so soon and still not married, —maybe it isn’t but a slap on the wrist for Yoongi, but as an omega, Seokjin knows what hurts the most.

“If I may, I should advise Your Majesty to give a punishment around her jewels and pearls, —ones that do not belong to her but to the late Consort.”

Yoongi barely has time to process the thougt before the page at the door announces for audience.

“Sir Jung Hoseok, Captain of The Royal Army, and Lady Jeon Minjae.”

The doors open and in walks the Captain with Jeon Minjae and one of her servants in tow. They kneel before the King and wait for permission to speak.

“Dismiss the omega.” he tells Seokjin.

“You shall wait for your mistress outside of the throne hall.”

The woman curls into herself at being acknowledged and briefly turns to her lady for confirmation but with a pointed look from Hoseok she leaves after bowing to the King.

“Stand.”

The first one to rise is the Captain, saluting at once and remaining in his formal military stance, while the omega remains waiting, hands gripping her skirts.

“Your Majesty called for me?”

“Yes. I wanted to extend my gratitude towards you, concubine Jeon.” The woman’s mouth twitches, clearly displeased to be acknowledged not as a courtier but a mere mistress. 

“Pardon me?”

“It has come to my attention that you have been safe keeping the late Consort's jewels in your chambers. I wanted to thank you for guarding them all these years. However, the time has come that I release you from your duty, since the rightful owner is now between us.”

“But your Majesty—“

“Speak only when asked, courtesan.” Hoseok barks.

But the old viper leans forward, “Your Majesty, the jewels had been a gift from the late King!”

He smirks, —dangerous, predatory— before standing from his seat and walking towards the woman, closely followed by Seokjin.

“I’m afraid you might’ve misunderstood his Majesty King Hanseo, for those jewels were never his to gift. Lord Kim shall see to it. Lord Kim?”

When Jeon Minjae knelt beneath the weight of her stolen pearls being stripped away —Seokjin’s fingers cold and precise on her wrists and throat— every whispering tongue in the castle remembered that the Mad King’s mate was not a bauble to be trifled with.

Outside the great hall, Jungkook waited by the pillars, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He peered at the crown jewels bundled in silk in Seokjin’s arms, then skipped to Jimin’s side, pulling him away from the lingering echo of Jeon Minjae’s sour scent.

“Promise me you’ll wear them for the wedding,” Jungkook insisted, tugging Jimin’s sleeve. “And that you’ll let me pick which ones. You’ll look like a little god and she’ll shrivel like old fruit.”

Jimin only laughed —soft, uncertain, but braver now. Because for all the venom Lady Jeon poured at his feet, he was no longer alone to catch it. The Mad King’s halls were grim and cold, but within them bloomed a small, unyielding spring —a flower protected by a dragon, a captain, a sly prince, and the watchful hush of loyal hands.

 

Notes:

Thanks for reading and the kudos everyone, I have a new prompt coming soon! ☕️✨

Chapter 8: The Dragon King & His Holy Flower

Summary:

Hoseok laughs between parries, easy grin flashing white under his helm. “Didn’t you swear no bloom would ever tame the Great Dragon?” He ducks, spins, steel scraping sparks.

Yoongi snarls low, more beast than King. “Hold your tongue—”

Hoseok blocks, twisting their blades until they lock, faces inches apart. “Admit it, Highness —the holy flower has you leashed. You’d burn kingdoms for one more night tangled in his curls.”

Yoongi shoves him back, blade falling with a final clang. His chest heaves. Then, against his better nature, he lets out a rough, breathless huff.

“Gladly,” he says. “I’d wear his leash forever.”

Notes:

Pls forgive the lousy attempts at humor.

 

By the time the first true spring came, winter had fled the North in startled haste, leaving behind gardens so swollen with bloom that even the iron gates of the old fortress seemed softer. Where once the castle walls wept icicles and the trees stood bristling and bare, now riotous blossoms spilled from stone planters and tangled along parapets like silk ribbons.

Petals rained with every breath of wind —drifting through open windows, slipping onto velvet carpets, gathering in the folds of Jimin’s pale ceremonial robes as if spring itself conspired to anoint him.

No rumor, no lingering poison of gossip, could drown the hush that settled over the North when the day came. The people had gathered in thousands beyond the gates, pressed close together with offerings of herbs and new-budded branches —blessings for fertility, for luck, for peace, for an heir who might mend the old wounds of ice and blood.

Inside, the throne hall —so long clad in iron and shadows— bloomed like a wild orchard. It was Seokjin’s doing, of course: the delicate petals, the trailing vines, the flower garlands draped over the old carved dragons that snarled down from pillars of black stone. No grim hall today —today it was a garden in bloom, a temple of warmth and rebirth.

Jimin waited in chambers that smelled of crushed mint and honeysuckle. Prince Jeon fussed at his sleeves like a tiny hawk plucking threads from a nest, pinning the late Consort’s pearls into the fine braids coiled in his long hair, shining caramel under the glow of spring sun coming through the windows.

“You mustn’t look afraid,” Jungkook  lectured, though his own little hands trembled as they fastened the final clasp at Jimin’s throat. “You’re a king now. Or you will be. Hold your chin up —like cousin taught you. Like Uncle Yoonseo taught him.”

Jimin smiled, soft and steady, though inside his ribs fluttered like startled wings. “I’ll remember,” he promised, taking Jungkook’s hand in his own and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

Seokjin appeared next, all grace in his high-collared ceremonial silks, fanning himself dramatically even as his eyes shone with pride. “It is time,” he said. “And the Captain is waiting to escort you. Not even Minjae dares breathe trouble today —though you may thank Captain Jung’s blade for that.”

When the doors swung wide, Jimin stepped forward —no longer the lost foreign boy stammering over consonants. His steps were sure, his spine straight beneath the weight of pearls and woven silk, his eyes clear as pure honey.

At the far end of the hall, the Dragon King waited beneath an arch of hawthorn blossoms, sword belted low at his hip —not for threat, but for tradition, the dragon’s blade to guard his chosen heart.

The hush that fell when Jimin reached him was total —even the petals seemed to hold their breath.

Yoongi reached for him first —rough hands that had once shattered shields now brushing a single stray petal from Jimin’s cheek with aching care. No vow was spoken yet, but the promise in the King’s eyes needed no translation.

Seokjin’s voice rose, clear and bright, echoing through the floral hush as he bound their wrists with a silk ribbon dyed the color of first spring shoots.

“Before sun and soil, blood and bone —let the North bear witness. Two threads, wound together. Two hearts, pledged by tooth and claw and tender word alike. Speak your vows, and bind this realm anew.”

Jimin’s voice trembled only once. Then steadied —soft, accented still, but strong:

“I came to you with nothing but my name —and you gave me yours. I stand before you with no sword but my voice —and you gave me your shield. I have no crown but this promise —and you gave me your heart.”

Yoongi’s reply was rougher —rumbling low like distant thunder, softened only for him.

“May the world break before I do —before I let it touch you. May every fang and claw turn on my command —to guard you as I would guard my own soul. May my flame keep you warm until your last breath, and mine after.”

As Seokjin’s voice rose in final blessing, Captain Jung stepped forward, sword drawn in salute. The elders, the nobles, the suspicious western lords forced to witness this impossible match —all bowed low, compelled by oath, by threat, by wonder.

Outside, the people kneeled in the fields of new grass and scattered petals. The bells rang over the northern peaks, carrying word of a foreign ghost flower crowned not in spite of his softness but because of it —a match to the dragon’s iron.

Later, when the hall was empty and dusk gathered in rose-gold pools, Jimin sat in the King’s lap by the open window, petals still caught in his hair. Yoongi’s crown rested lopsided on the table beside them, forgotten.

“Do you regret it?” Jimin whispered, words drifting out over the orchard courtyard below.

The King huffed a quiet laugh against his throat. “I regret not doing it sooner.”

Outside, the branches bent under their blooms. Somewhere below, Jungkook and Seokjin plotted new lessons in the garden shadows. Captain Jung watched from the gate, hand on hilt, daring any threat to breach the newly bloomed peace.

Spring had come to the North at last. And its heart, soft and stubborn, beat steady at the dragon’s side.

The night carried on long after the vows were spoken. Mooncastle —so long a fortress of frostbitten walls and bitter whispers— bloomed with laughter and warm candlelight. Music from the southern courts mingled with wild northern drums; strings and flutes tangled with low throaty singing that made the stone floors tremble.

The great hall, once echoing with steel and sorrow, pulsed with life. Servants who once cowered under Lady Jeon’s pinched glare now toasted each other with stolen wine, giggling like children set free from winter’s iron grasp. Even the old courtiers, stiff as frozen oaks, dared not speak ill now —not when the Dragon King’s arm lay draped protectively over his soft, smiling flower for all to see.

Behind every new toast, every swirl of dancers’ skirts, was the same whisper: the King has chosen his heart over the court, the dragon’s iron bound to a bloom of spring.

Come midnight, when the last fiddler laid down his bow and the candles guttered low, Yoongi led his new husband through winding candlelit halls. The King’s chambers, once cold and cavernous, had been transformed by Seokjin’s clever touch —now perfumed with warm resin and soft with piles of silken throws, a hearth blazing high to keep away the lingering bite of spring nights.

They sat on the edge of the great bed first —two boys dressed as kings, crowns laid aside like burdens they’d both rather carry together. The Dragon King pressed a kiss to his omega’s hairline, breathing in that innocent scent —fresh berries and sweet honey, untouched by any other.

Jimin giggled when Yoongi tried to explain gently that there was no rush, no demand he could not refuse. He buried his blushing face in his palms when Yoongi caught his chin, kissed him again —slower, deeper— then simply held him close under the covers instead of asking for more.

The Dragon King lay awake, awed by his husband’s quiet holiness. Young Jimin, soft as a petal, seemed not to grasp what a wedding night could demand —and Yoongi would not steal that innocence. Not yet. Not when there was so much time left to learn each other by heart.

And so they whispered into the dark: secret wishes for their garden, for the bridge they would build between frost and blossom, magic and steel. Jimin spoke shyly of planting roses along the ramparts. Yoongi promised him a grove of white hawthorn for every winter survived. They drifted off entangled, legs a lazy knot of warmth, the holy flower sighing against the dragon’s chest as dawn crept shyly into the room.

When morning found them, Jimin woke up tucked under Yoongi’s chin —breath sweet with sleep and dreams unspoiled. Over breakfast, he tried to hand-feed the King too much honey-butter bread, fussing over him like a new bride in a fairytale. Then Seokjin arrived to shepherd him away for lessons in royal penmanship and courtly address, whisking the sleepy flower back to the consort’s chambers with gentle scolding.

Yoongi lingered behind, staring at the empty side of the bed —then reached for the small hidden knife beneath his writing desk. He pressed it to his palm, gritting his teeth as crimson welled up. He let it drip, bright as spring poppies, onto the white sheets —a crude but necessary shield to keep his darling flower safe from the hungry eyes of the elder court. Let them gossip about blood and virtue; he’d buy his omega’s peace with a single lie if he must.

All in good time. The Dragon King thought.

In the weeks that followed their wedding, Jimin bloomed like a flower starved of sun —and Yoongi, to his own torment, was both the light and the warmth he couldn’t bear to draw too close.

It began with small things. Jimin would seek him out at dawn, slipping from his own chambers when the guards were still drowsing at their posts. He’d crawl into Yoongi’s bed without a word, burying his cold nose against his alpha’s throat, his fingers drifting lazily over the scales hidden beneath Yoongi’s skin. Sometimes he’d sigh Yoongi’s name against his collarbone, half asleep, half purring. And always, Yoongi would hold him —still and steady, heart hammering with the ache to take more than these soft, drifting touches.

In the daylight, Jimin became bolder. He clung to Yoongi’s arm in the corridors, greeting passing nobles with a shy nod but never loosening his hold. He pressed fleeting kisses to Yoongi’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw —and each time the little peck left Yoongi frozen, fighting the beast clawing at the bars of his ribs. Jimin never seemed to notice how his alpha would stand a moment too long, fists clenched at his sides, forcing his breath calm.

Afternoons were the sweetest torment of all. Jimin loved to plop himself into Yoongi’s lap with a book clutched to his chest. He’d chatter about court gossip or read aloud in a soft, lilting voice —all while his thighs pressed warm around Yoongi’s. Sometimes he’d squirm without thinking, adjusting himself to find a comfortable nook. Every innocent wiggle made Yoongi’s vision spark white with want. He’d bury his nose in Jimin’s hair, scenting the sun-warmed sweetness at the crown of his head, clinging to that shred of calm.

The afternoon light slants warm across the solar where Yoongi sits reading reports he’s barely seen for the last hour. Jimin is curled sideways in his lap, legs draped over the carved armrest, head pillowed against Yoongi’s chest. An open book rests on Jimin’s knees —unread, pages fluttering when he shifts.

Jimin twists a little, eyes bright. “Dear?”

Yoongi hums low in his throat. “Hm?” His hand drifts to Jimin’s hip without thought —a steadying weight, gentle but firm.

“If I fell asleep here, would you mind?”

Yoongi smiles against Jimin’s temple. “You already have, three times this week.”

Jimin giggles, pink mouth curling. “Mmm. You’re warm. I like it when you hold me like this.”

Yoongi presses his lips to Jimin’s hair, breathing him in —that maddening sweetness, a poison and antidote all at once. “Stay as long as you wish.”

Jimin’s fingers toy with the collar of Yoongi’s tunic. “I will. You’re mine now, remember?”

Yoongi’s hand tightens just enough to draw a soft, startled breath from Jimin’s lips —a breath that sends a thrill of heat low in his belly.

“Yes,” Yoongi murmurs, fighting the beast pacing behind his ribs. “Yours.”

Nothing soothed Jimin like this closeness. After moons of careful distance —gloved hands and sidelong looks of disapproval— he could hardly believe he was allowed this warmth. His. This man was his husband. His alpha. He could kiss Yoongi’s brow before dinner, tug him down for a peck on the lips before bed, bury his face in that broad chest and feel Yoongi’s arm curl around him like a fortress. Each touch made his heart flutter in wonder —the constant reassurance that he belonged somewhere at last.

Yet when Yoongi kissed him back —really kissed him— Jimin would go soft and shy in a heartbeat. Sometimes in the gardens, Yoongi would catch him beneath the heavy droop of wisteria blooms, back pressed to a trunk, arms caged around him. He’d tilt Jimin’s chin and kiss him deep, tongues brushing in a heat that made Jimin’s toes curl in his shoes. When they parted, Jimin’s lashes would flutter and his cheeks would burn rose-petal pink. 

Late afternoon, the castle gardens hum with the sleepy buzz of bees. The King corners Jimin beneath a drooping curtain of pale blossoms. Jimin startles, laughter spilling from him when his back meets rough bark.

“My King— someone will see—”

“Let them,” Yoongi growls, voice thick as he tilts Jimin’s chin up.

The kiss is slow at first, then deepens —Jimin’s fingers clutch at Yoongi’s shoulders, nails pressing through linen. When Yoongi parts his lips, coaxing Jimin’s shy tongue to meet his own, he feels the sweet tremor that runs through his mate.

When they break, Jimin’s eyes are dazed, lips red and wet. He hides his face in his husband’s chest, giggling and breathless.

“You always do that…” Jimin mumbles into the fabric. “Makes me feel so…”

Yoongi brushes his thumb over Jimin’s flushed cheek. “Tell me.”

“…fluttery.” Jimin peeks up at him through his lashes. “I like it, but— but you make my knees weak.”

Yoongi’s chest tightens. Mine, the beast inside snarls. Now. Bite him. Claim him.

Instead, he presses a chaste kiss to Jimin’s brow, breath trembling. “Come. I’ll walk you in before supper.”

Every time Yoongi’s chest would tighten painfully with want and guilt, he’d press his nose to Jimin’s neck, breathing in that sweet, unmarked scent that drove him half-mad —then pull away before his hands betrayed him. Always stopping before his mouth found the soft skin where his mark belonged. Always leaving himself raw with longing.

One night, with Jimin asleep tangled in Yoongi’s blankets, Seokjin corners the King by the map table. Candles flickering shadows across his friend’s pretty face.

“Your Majesty,” Seokjin begins softly, voice coiled tight. “The Council murmurs. The bedding blood has bought us time —but not forever.”

Yoongi stiffens. “I know.”

“Do you?” Seokjin’s eyes gleam sharp beneath his brows. “He clings to you like a lovesick cub —if you do not mark him soon, the rumors will grow teeth.”

Yoongi’s jaw ticks. He stares at the sleeping chamber door. “He’s not ready.”

Seokjin sighs, weary but relentless. “And when will he be, if you keep pulling away? He trusts you. Teach him.”

Yoongi’s throat works around a growl he dares not loose. “I won’t force myself on him, I can’t. He’ll bloom in his own time.”

Seokjin steps closer, voice gentling. “I know you love him, Yoongi. But you are King first. An unclaimed omega invites challenge. His innocence is precious —but your bloodline is sacred.”

Yoongi’s fingers curl against the edge of the table, knuckles white. “I’ll find the moment. When he wants it, truly wants it.”

Seokjin watches him a long moment, then only nods. “See that you do. Or someone else will find a way to test your claim.”

Seokjin’s warnings weighed heavy on his shoulders —the court, the lie, the duty that was his alone to finish. But Yoongi could only shake his head. How could he touch what Jimin hadn’t yet learned to give? When his flower still flinched shyly beneath deeper kisses and clung to innocence like a sanctuary?

So the nights stretched on in gentle agony. Jimin would drift to sleep tangled around him, his trust so complete it carved Yoongi hollow with dread and devotion. He’d stay awake listening to the soft hum of Jimin’s dreams, trying to breathe past the painful throb between his thighs —the knot his body begged to offer, the bite his instincts demanded to lay at Jimin’s throat.

But each time the dragon beneath his skin stirred —heat licking at his veins, claws scratching to the surface— Yoongi would slip from bed and cool his forehead against the cold stone of the hearth. He’d pray for the dawn, pray for patience, pray for a world kind enough to let his flower bloom slow and safe in the cradle of his arms.

He presses a cold palm to the knot swelling under his waistband, breath ragged.

“Soon,” he whispers to the silent coals, to the walls that keep his secret shame. “Soon, flower. I’ll make you mine.”

Behind him, in the bed they share, Jimin stirs —searching for the warmth that left him. And every time, Yoongi crawls back, gathers him close, and lets his flower dream unspoiled for one more night. Jimin would giggle and tug him closer still, wrapping soft limbs around him without fear —because this was his alpha, his home, his sunlit shield against all the dark. And Yoongi would hold him tight, swallowing the beast whole once more.

Some nights, the ache is too sharp —the soft sigh of Jimin’s breath against his throat, the way those delicate fingers tangle in his hair even in sleep. The innocent trust of it unravels Yoongi thread by thread.

On such nights, he untangles himself carefully, sets a trembling kiss on Jimin’s forehead, and slips from their bed. He crosses the moonlit halls in silence, boots barely whispering on ancient stone.

By the rookery tower, Shadow waits —black feathers gleaming like spilt ink under torchlight. Yoongi ties a small slip of parchment to its leg and whisper: Wake Jung.

He knows the Captain will come. Hoseok has never once failed him —not when they were boys wrestling in the frostbitten training yards, not now that they are men who carry kingdoms on their spines.

The steel rings with song beneath the dawn’s first pale blaze. Yoongi lunges again —breath misting in the cold air, blade striking Hoseok’s with punishing force.

Hoseok laughs between parries, easy grin flashing white under his helm. “Didn’t you swear no bloom would ever tame the Great Dragon?” He ducks, spins, steel scraping sparks.

Yoongi snarls low, more beast than King. “Hold your tongue—”

Hoseok blocks, twisting their blades until they lock, faces inches apart. “Admit it, Highness —the holy flower has you leashed. You’d burn kingdoms for one more night tangled in his curls.”

Yoongi shoves him back, blade falling with a final clang. His chest heaves. Then, against his better nature, he lets out a rough, breathless huff.

“Gladly,” he says. “I’d wear his leash forever.”

He returns at dawn, muscles sore, sweat cold under his tunic. He thinks he’s in time to slip back before Jimin wakes. But when he pushes open the chamber door, he finds his flower sitting up among the rumpled sheets —hair a tousled halo, eyes half-lidded with sleep and reproach.

Jimin pouts, soft and dangerous. “You left again.”

Yoongi stiffens, caught like a boy sneaking sweets. “I didn’t want to wake you—”

Jimin only lifts his arms, wordlessly demanding. Yoongi tries to stand firm —tries to explain about the court, the bath, the ravens that need tending. But Jimin is a patient hunter in his own way. He makes a small wounded sound, lower lip trembling just so, and Yoongi is undone.

“Come back here,” Jimin whispers. “Stay with me. Just today. Just us.”

So the Dragon King crawls back under the furs —the warmth of his holy flower instantly devours every scrap of resolve. Jimin wriggles close, burrowing beneath Yoongi’s jaw, gossamer robe slipping off one shoulder, so soft Yoongi thinks he might die from it.

Yoongi tries once, twice, to free himself. “I should order breakfast—”

Jimin silences him with a tiny kiss at the corner of his mouth. “No.”

Yoongi swallows hard. “We should bathe—”

Another kiss, slower now, clumsy lips brushing his. “Later.”

“There’s work to do—”

Jimin threads his fingers through Yoongi’s hair, tugs until they’re nose to nose. “No court today. You’re mine. All mine.”

Yoongi feels the beast wake, growl, claw —the leash inside him straining so tight he trembles. He chokes on the taste of Jimin’s trust, that honeyed innocence pressed flush against him. He thinks of Seokjin’s threats. The gossip. The danger. He thinks if he stays here, he will break his flower too soon. So he lies.

“We’ll go outside,” he rasps. “The gardens —tea among the roses. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Jimin’s sleepy smile is victory and doom all at once. “Will there be scones?”

Yoongi forces a laugh, pressing a kiss to his mate’s knuckles. “As many as you want.”

Even there, no escape.

The garden should help. The open air, the fresh wind to cool the flame under his skin.

But Jimin is radiant in the morning sun —curls kissed by light, silk robes dancing around his ankles. He clings to Yoongi’s arm while the servants pour tea, giggling when he sneaks crumbs to the crows that hop about the hedgerow.

When Yoongi tries to shift away —just a breath of space— Jimin presses closer, warm palm over his chest, face lifted for a quick peck that leaves him dizzy.

“You’re so warm today,” Jimin murmurs, nuzzling his neck. “You smell nice, too. Like cedar and smoke and warmth.”

Yoongi can only exhale, rigid as stone, every nerve screaming. He knows Hoseok is laughing behind his shield somewhere, knows Seokjin will hiss about duty when the sun sets. But here, tangled in petals and whispers, the dragon submits to the only leash he ever wanted —the holy flower’s arms wrapped tight around him under the bright, uncaring sun.

Later, under a tangled canopy of wisteria, Jimin plucks a blossom and tucks it behind Yoongi’s ear, giggling at his own boldness. The king sits stiff-backed on the marble bench, broad hands clenched on his knees, trying not to breathe too deep lest the sweetness tip him over the edge.

Jimin leans in —the very picture of innocence— and presses a soft peck to the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. Then another, closer to the center. And when Yoongi turns his head, seeking more, Jimin goes shy all at once —but doesn’t pull back. He just hovers there, lips parted, eyelashes trembling.

Yoongi’s control unravels like silk. He catches Jimin’s face in both hands and claims his mouth properly —deeper than he meant, desperate and scorching, tongue sliding past Jimin’s tiny gasp of surprise.

Jimin’s fingers dig into his chest, soft whimper swallowed up by the heat. Yoongi can taste berries and honey, a trace of the morning’s tea, something impossibly pure that makes the beast inside him snarl for more.

When he feels Jimin’s little frame shiver —when the omega whimpers and melts into him so pliantly— he forces himself to tear away. He buries his face against Jimin’s shoulder, breath ragged.

“Enough—” Yoongi growls, voice raw. “We should stop, flower. I’ll ruin you if I don’t.”

Jimin just giggles, presses a dainty kiss to his temple. “You’d never.” But his blush betrays him —cheeks pink, eyes heavy with a wonder he doesn’t yet understand.

The spell snaps when boots crunch across the gravel. Captain Jung stands at the edge of the arbor, arms crossed, grin shamelessly wide. His smile gleams brighter than the trellis flowers.

“Your Majesty. Your Grace,” Hoseok drawls, bowing low with wicked courtesy. “Apologies for intruding on the royal garden frolic. Lord Kim demands you remember you still rule a realm —and that your knights grow restless without drills.”

Yoongi glares murder at him over Jimin’s shoulder. Hoseok only raises his brows innocently.

Jimin squirms but doesn’t let go. He looks at Hoseok with round, scandalized eyes. “We were only having tea—”

“I’m sure you were, my sweet Consort,” Hoseok says, voice dripping with mischief. “Though from here it looked like the tea was about to boil over.”

Yoongi curses under his breath, jaw tight. Jimin pouts against his chest. “Tell Seokjin he can wait,” the king snaps.

Hoseok’s grin flashes sharper than any sword. “As you wish. But I’ll be nearby, in case your ‘tea’ needs cooling again.”

When he’s gone, Yoongi drops his forehead to Jimin’s, chest heaving with unspent heat. Jimin just hums, fingers sliding up to stroke his jaw. “Ignore him. He’s jealous.”

Yoongi laughs hoarsely —“He can have my crown, my gold, my sword —but not you, tiny flower. Never you.”

Later still, when the fuss is over and the sun slips westward, Jimin curls up on the garden bench, head pillowed in Yoongi’s lap. The king’s cloak drapes over him like a nest. Yoongi sits there utterly still, hands stroking curls back from Jimin’s temple, breath caught in his throat as the omega’s lashes flutter and settle. A faint smile plays on Jimin’s lips even in sleep —innocent, trusting, claiming him without chains or words.

Beneath the silken folds of his tunic, Yoongi aches. His knot throbs, the beast inside pacing and snarling for what should be his by right —his to claim, to bind, to fill with his scent and seed until the world knows who this bloom belongs to.

But he holds still. He strokes Jimin’s hair. He listens to the doves coo in the hedges. And when the ache turns to pain, he buries his face in the sweet crown of curls and breathes through it.

At dusk, Seokjin finds them like that —the King, unmovable as stone, the Consort tangled around him in sleep, sunlight flickering soft gold through the leaves.

Seokjin clears his throat. “Your Majesty. You’ll catch a cold.”

Yoongi looks up, eyes hooded with exhaustion and the raw edge of longing. “He’ll catch a cold if I move.”

Seokjin clicks his tongue, unimpressed. “And you, Majesty? Will you keep lying forever? The court expects a swelling belly before winter, or they’ll begin sniffing for scandal.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightens. His hand curls protectively over Jimin’s hip.

“Let them sniff,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “They’ll choke on my flame before they ever lay claws on him.”

When Seokjin leaves, grumbling, the garden falls quiet again. The moon is rising, the air perfumed with late-blooming jasmine.

Yoongi gazes down at the boy asleep in his lap —this fragile holy flower who clings to him with reckless trust, not yet knowing the ruin he cradles inside his chest. He presses his lips to Jimin’s crown, eyes closing, breath warm on silken curls.

“One day, tiny bloom,” he whispers. “One day I’ll claim you properly. But only when you beg me to.”

And somewhere deep beneath his ribs, the beast lowers its head —not tamed, never tamed, but glad to wear the leash for as long as the bloom commands it.

Notes:

Thank you for reading everyone☕️✨

Chapter 9: The Budding Flame

Summary:

When the new grass grew taller and the gardens swelled with tulips and shy bluebells, the talk of Mooncastle turned from feasts to foreign roads. Seokjin fretted himself thin pacing the halls: for all his skill at courtly intrigue, nothing worried him more than the King’s stubborn refusal to claim his mate in truth. He pestered the royal bedchamber servants for rumors, quizzed Jimin’s handmaid for any slip of gossip —but the silks stayed spotless, the bedsheets pure as Jimin’s doe-eyed innocence.

Yet none but Seokjin seemed to care. The human realm’s wagons rolled northward, loaded with silk banners and offerings —for soon the royal pair would ride beyond the Barrier, to Liven’s evergreen realm, to have their bond consecrated by ancient elven rites. Not just the King of the North but the Protector of the Sacred Realms —a dragon wed to a holy flower, binding fae and mortal once more.

But if any soul could read the strain in the dragon’s shoulders at dusk, they’d know the truth: Yoongi was slowly unraveling.

Notes:

Cute misunderstandings🌸

 

A crisp afternoon finds Jimin wandering through the orchard garden, pale blossoms drifting down in lazy spirals. Prince Jeon trots beside him, a bright wisp of a boy with dark hair like his cousin’s and eyes always darting to new wonders —birds nesting, bees humming, Jimin’s soft sleeve snagging on rose thorns.

Jungkook tugs at Jimin’s arm. “Do you think they’ll let me plant sweet plums here? I read they grow best under frost if you bury fish beneath the roots.”

Jimin laughs, brushing petals from Jungkook’s shoulder. “We’ll ask the gardeners. I’d love a plum tree.”

But before Jungkook can answer, two scullery maids round the corner, voices low but not low enough. They curtsey hastily when they see the royal pair —but a whisper drifts behind them on the breeze.

“…unclaimed, that consort. Saw him myself —neck smooth as silk…”

“…then whose blood stained the sheets? I heard the matrons talk…”

The prince freezes. Jimin flushes, hand rising unconsciously to his bare throat, where curls spill, skin soft and unmarked.

Jungkook huffs, steps closer in a protective puff of adolescent bravado. “What do they mean? Shouldn’t your neck have a mark if you’re claimed? I read that once —in the old folktales.”

Jimin looks away, heart fluttering like a trapped bird. “I… don’t really know. My mothers never spoke of it, only said it’s sacred, but—”

“Does it hurt?” Jungkook asks, eyes wide and fascinated.

Jimin’s  mouth goes dry. “I suppose it must, a little. But… Yoongi never— he hasn’t—” He twists a blossom between his fingers until it snaps. “He said I don’t have to worry about it.”

Later, under the same blossoming branches, Jungkook’s curiosity won’t die.

“Why doesn’t he do it, though? He’s King. Kings do whatever they want, don’t they?”

Jimin hushes him quickly, glancing about. “He’s kind. He never forces anything. Maybe… maybe he’s waiting for the right time.”

Jungkook nods as if this makes perfect sense. But when they part ways, Jimin’s fingers drift to the curve of his neck, where the skin is soft, untouched, whispering a question he can’t shape into words.

A few nights later, when the garden’s question won’t stop echoing, Jimin sits cross-legged on the royal bed, curls falling over his shoulders like spilled ink. He twirls the hem of his night robe —a pretty thing of sea-glass silk, tight at the waist, the straps so slender he keeps tugging them up when they slip from his shoulder.

Yoongi comes in late, weary from court and the weight of a realm. He expects darkness —finds instead warm lamplight, the smell of roasted figs and honey. And Jimin. Waiting.

The sight knocks the breath from his lungs.

“Flower?” Yoongi asks, voice already rough as gravel. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

Jimin rises from the bed, the King’s heart stutters as his eyes trace the dainty frame of his mate, silk clinging to thighs, hips, waist —too tight in places he has yet to touch. When he turns towards the hearth, Yoongi adverts his eyes, not letting them linger too long over the plump swell of the omega’s backside, lest his resolve betrays him. He settles on the way Jimin’s curls fall down his back, brown warm and striking against pale silk.

Jimin’s small, bare feet pad across the room to pat the low table by the hearth. “Come. I prepared supper. Let me feed you.”

Yoongi kneels, lets Jimin brush his hair back and unclasp his cloak, his breastplate. Bit by bit the iron dragon peels away until he’s only a man at his mate’s feet, hungry for more than food.

He giggles when he accidentally smears honey on Yoongi’s lower lip. “Open. There. Sweet?”

Yoongi hums, licking it from his thumb. The taste drives heat up his spine —but worse is the way Jimin leans in, lips catching his with a sticky peck.

“Again?” Jimin dares, pupils wide in the firelight.

Yoongi obliges —once, twice, deeper. When his teeth scrape Jimin’s lower lip, Jimin breathes out: “Does it hurt? The bite?”

Yoongi freezes mid-kiss. “Who told you about that?”

Jimin shrugs, curls falling over his bare shoulder. “The servants whisper. Jungkook asked too. I know I’m yours —but they say I’m not, not really, until you…”

His fingers brush the side of his neck, where that soft skin begs for a mark.

Yoongi’s gut twists —the dragon in his chest pounding at the bars. He cups Jimin’s throat gently, thumb resting where his claim should sit, right where his fangs ache to break skin and stake forever.

“My darling flower—” His voice is hoarse with want and horror. “There’s no rush. It’s not… not just a bite. It’s forever. It changes you. I won’t do it until you understand.”

Jimin’s eyes go big, confused. “But… if it’s only a bite, I can bear it. I’m not afraid of pain.” He leans in, presses a pleading kiss to Yoongi’s jaw. “I want to make you happy.”

Yoongi shudders, fighting a low growl. “Don’t tempt me. You don’t know what you’re offering.”

Later still, in their bed, Jimin curls up close, night robe slipping scandalously down his shoulder. He trails shy kisses over Yoongi’s throat, murmuring questions about his day at court, his next hunt, when they might ride out to the coast together.

Every brush of lips is a match to dry tinder.

Yoongi’s hands tighten on Jimin’s waist. He feels his fangs lengthen behind his tongue, his knot throb painfully where it’s caged by silk sheets and the ghost of Jimin’s scent.

Jimin only hums, threading his fingers through Yoongi’s hair. “Bite me,” he whispers. “Please? If it makes you happy—”

The beast surges up —hot, fanged, a heartbeat from tearing through the King’s last threads of reason. For a breath, Yoongi almost obeys —mouth lowering, lips brushing that innocent throat.

But the trust in Jimin’s eyes stops him cold. This childlike love. This softness he’s not ready to spoil.

Yoongi rips himself away, heart slamming. He cages Jimin in his arms instead, burying his face in those curls, forcing his pulse to steady.

Jimin trembles in his hold, lips still parted in bewildered longing. “Why—”

Yoongi hushes him, voice a rasp of steel barely sheathed. “One day, tiny flower. Not yet. Sleep now. Please… just sleep.”

Outside, the first storm of spring rattles the windows. Inside, the Dragon King lies awake, his knot swollen and aching, his mouth watering for the taste of holy skin —but he holds his bloom safe in his arms, his beast muzzled behind a single whispered vow:

One day. When you truly understand.

When the new grass grew taller and the gardens swelled with tulips and shy bluebells, the talk of Mooncastle turned from feasts to foreign roads. Seokjin fretted himself thin pacing the halls: for all his skill at courtly intrigue, nothing worried him more than the King’s stubborn refusal to claim his mate in truth. He pestered the royal bedchamber servants for rumors, quizzed Jimin’s handmaid for any slip of gossip —but the silks stayed spotless, the bedsheets pure as Jimin’s doe-eyed innocence.

Yet none but Seokjin seemed to care. The human realm’s wagons rolled northward, loaded with silk banners and offerings —for soon the royal pair would ride beyond the Barrier, to Liven’s evergreen realm, to have their bond consecrated by ancient elven rites. Not just the King of the North but the Protector of the Sacred Realms —a dragon wed to a holy flower, binding fae and mortal once more.

But if any soul could read the strain in the dragon’s shoulders at dusk, they’d know the truth: Yoongi was slowly unraveling.

Some nights, when Jimin fell asleep warm and sweet in his arms —his head tucked beneath the King’s chin, his legs tangled trustingly with Yoongi’s broad frame— the dragon could barely bear it. He’d lie awake, knot pulsing painfully, the beast in his blood roaring for what it was owed. He’d slip quietly yet again from the tangled sheets, brush a soft kiss to Jimin’s forehead, and stalk barefoot to his writing desk.

There he’d write two words on a scrap of parchment —Courtyard. Now.— and tie it to the leg of one of his ravens, sending it off once more into the night. Within the hour, Captain Jung would arrive in the torchlit training courtyard, rubbing sleep from his eyes, sword balanced carelessly on one shoulder.

“You look like death, your Majesty.” Hoseok would yawn, squinting at the King’s sweat-dark tunic. “Your holy flower too much for you tonight?”

Yoongi would only grunt, lunging forward with a practice blade. Steel rang through the sleeping keep as the Dragon King and his boyhood friend circled like wolves beneath the moon. When they paused, chests heaving, Hoseok would grin like the mischief he’d always been. 

“Remember when you bragged no bloom would ever tame you? Swore you’d die with a thousand scars but never a mate?”

Yoongi would only wipe blood from his lip, teeth bared in something halfway to tormented laughter. “Happily shackled now. Happily ruined.”

“And yet here you are, battering me senseless again, instead of burying your fangs where they belong.”

Yoongi would snarl and charge again —because the steel was better than the sweet scent haunting his bed.

A few nights later, doubt starts festering beneath the Consort’s fragile ribs. Why hasn’t he bitten you? 

So  Jimin tries again.

He tries with silk and wine, candlelight and soft laughter. But when the last flicker of hope dies in his chest that night —when Yoongi flees the brink with trembling arms instead of fangs— Jimin curls up under the furs alone, wide awake until dawn.

Seokjin notices first, of course. He sees it in the way Jimin drifts through the sunlit corridors, curls unbound, fingers brushing that unmarked throat as if to reassure himself the skin is still soft, still unbroken.

The advisor catches Hoseok by the sparring yard the next day, the young captain leaning on his practice blade, shirt dark with sweat.

“If he doesn’t claim him soon,” Seokjin hisses, fanning himself like a scandalized auntie, “someone will spread the rumor that our holy flower isn’t truly royal at all. You know how these court jackals are.”

Hoseok raises a brow. “You want me to force the King’s hand, Lord Kim? Drag him to the marriage bed and pin him there?”

“No!” Seokjin squeaks, then lowers his voice as a stablehand trots past. “But perhaps you might keep our reckless King from cornering himself like this. If he won’t bite the boy, at least keep the gossips at bay, bar the maids from peeking —gods forbid anyone catches a glimpse of that soft neck again.”

“He won’t stand it forever.” Hoseok wipes his blade on his sleeve. “One of these nights he’ll lose the leash. Better here than out in the wilds beyond the Barrier.”

“One would hope,” Seokjin mutters. “Now go spar him again. Wear him ragged. Keep that fire somewhere safe until the elves finish what we poor mortals cannot.”

A few hours later, Yoongi stands at the foot of their bed, hair wet from the rain, cloak dripping onto the stone floor. He’s dressed for travel —riding boots, a thick collar at his throat to hide the pulse that thrums too hot beneath his skin. Jimin sits upright amid their tangled bedding, a book forgotten in his lap.

“You’re going out?” he asks, voice soft but edged in disbelief. “Now? It’s nearly midnight.”

“There’s planning to do,” Yoongi says, though his eyes betray him —red-rimmed, too bright with the strain of hunger and self-denial. “Scouts to dispatch. Maps to chart for the crossing.”

“You have people for that. Stay here. I’ll brush your hair. I’ll read to you—”

“No, flower,” Yoongi cuts him off, too quickly. He scrubs a hand through his wet curls, jaw clenched. “It’s safer this way.”

“Safer?” Jimin’s voice cracks, wounded. “From whom? From me?”

Yoongi crosses the room in three strides, bends to cup Jimin’s cheek, kisses his temple like an apology and a plea in one.

“Never from you,” he whispers, lips ghosting over that unclaimed throat, that pulse his fangs ache for. “From myself.”

“I don’t understand,” Jimin breathes. “I only want to make you happy. I can wait. I’ll wait forever if you ask me to—”

Yoongi’s hands tighten, then fall away as if burned.

“One more week,” he rasps. “Then we’ll be in Liven’s groves. Under ancient vows. I’ll have no excuses left, and neither will you.”

He pulls away before he can change his mind, storms out with the door left ajar behind him. The hall echoes with the heavy tread of the guards who follow him like shadows.

Left alone, Jimin drags the covers up to his chin. He tells himself he’s not angry —only longing, only confused, only patient. He tries to believe what Seokjin murmured through the door earlier that evening —“All good things bloom in their season, sweetling. You need only trust the sun will rise.”

So he lies there sleepless, tracing the hollow of his own throat with trembling fingers. Imagining the weight of a crown of teeth pressed to skin —imagining the garden in spring, the Barrier far behind them, the moment when the last petal of doubt will finally fall.

And Yoongi, somewhere down the stone corridors, stands alone in his war room —maps forgotten, fists braced on the great table, breath ragged with a dragon’s low growl he dares not unleash until the holy flower calls him home at last.

Days before they were to depart, Jimin woke pale and dreamy-eyed from a short nap in the library, startling Seokjin by nearly fainting onto a pile of scrolls.

By supper, the bloom of an idea had taken root in his mind —so sweet and heady it made him giggle like a child with a secret. He waited until Yoongi returned from the granaries, hair wind-tossed, the scent of steel and wild forests clinging to him.

He brushed his hair in the looking glass, cheeks warm with excitement, catching his alpha’s reflection behind him —the way Yoongi watched him with that hungry reverence that never quite turned to touch. 

Tonight, Jimin thought, tonight I will give him news that will make him claim me for certain.

“How was your day, dear? Busy?”

“Tiring, I longed to come and kiss you. I saw you in passing by the gardens on my way to the hall. You looked absolutely ravishing in that emerald dress.”

He turned, small brush clattering forgotten to the floor. He padded over to the foot of the bed, where Yoongi sat unlacing his bracers and slipped his dainty fingers into the King’s calloused palm.

“My love, I have marvelous news…”

Yoongi, exhausted but alive with quiet longing, perked up instantly —drawn by the softness in Jimin’s voice, the mischief glittering in those doe-bright eyes.

“What is it, flower?”

“We are… I am, well —I believe we shall soon share our chambers with another.”

The dragon froze. His mind, so quick to plot war strategies and sign decrees, utterly failed him now. He stared. Jimin’s small hands squeezed his, thumb tracing his knuckles as if to coax the right words out.

“I believe I am with child.”

A heartbeat of stunned silence. Then Yoongi huffed a breathless laugh, confused but enchanted by the vision of his omega blinking up at him so earnestly.

“You… my dearest…”

“My king, we are married after all… It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Jimin climbed into his lap before he could finish, nuzzling at his throat, peppering shy kisses there. “Are you happy, husband? I am certain it is so —just like my sister! I felt faint, a little sick —I knew at once. It must be an alpha —strong like you, bold like you…”

Yoongi’s arms came up to hold him, steady and trembling all at once. His throat burned with guilt and wonder both —how to explain without shattering the sweet dream blooming in his flower’s mind?

“My flower… my love… you bless me with every breath you take,” he murmured, brushing his lips to Jimin’s temple, fingers trembling where they curled around his waist. “But tomorrow, you will see Seokjin, have him summon a medic for a proper examination. Just to be certain all is well —for you.”

Jimin beamed, breathless with pride, already picturing tiny crowns and tiny boots.

By dawn, Jimin flitted through the corridors like a nightingale in spring. He nearly dragged Seokjin from his work desk, cheeks flushed with giddy joy, spilling the news before the poor advisor could even pour his tea.

Seokjin, to his eternal credit, only choked on his drink once. He tried to speak gently, his fan fluttering wildly. But there was no soft way to say it —the King’s flower was still pure, untouched.

“Your Grace, I do not wish to upset you but, I’m afraid you are not bearing.”

“What do you mean? I’m most certain I felt the symptoms, it must be too soon but surely the medic will tell...”

“Oh dear, I apologize for being the bearer of this news, but that simply cannot be.” Seokjin sighs, a sympathetic smile on his plump lips.

“What do you mean it can’t?”

Seokjin coughs, clears his throat and leans closer to whisper, as if afraid the walls might hear, “I am aware the King has yet to give you a claiming bite, therefore you haven’t… Well, consummated the marriage…”

“Excuse me?”

“You are not with child, sweetling,” Seokjin croaked, voice caught between laughter and pity. “I am sorry —but cubs don’t grow from poetry and good intentions alone…”

Seokjin is just as awkward with his words as Jimin is embarrassed to hear them. The advisor spent the rest of the morning patiently explaining the concept of claiming with pink ears and graphic detail.

Mortification nearly devoured the young omega whole. That night he barely met Yoongi’s eyes over supper. But when the King took him aside, pressing him against the chamber wall with a low promise to “remedy such misunderstandings soon enough,” a new kind of warmth bloomed low in his belly.

By the time the royal party crossed into the realm of the fae, the holy flower was no longer quite so innocent —and the dragon at his side was ready to claim what had always been his, beneath the oldest elven boughs where magic and moonlight would bind them true.

As they ride out into the Sacred Realms, the carriage sways gently over the frosted path of the frozen mountains. Jimin, tucked in beside his King, rests his cheek on the alpha’s shoulder. His fingers draw lazy circles on Yoongi’s thigh, each loop a spark that sends fire licking under the dragon’s skin.

Jimin murmurs drowsily, lips brushing Yoongi’s neck. “I love this. Being yours.”

The King’s hand cups the back of Jimin’s head, threading through soft hair. “You were always mine.”

Jimin hums a shy, pleased sound. Then quieter: “When we… when we do it for real, it won’t hurt, will it?”

Yoongi stills, heat coiling deep. He turns, kissing the crown of Jimin’s head with reverence. 

“Not if we’re patient, flower. Not if you trust me.”

Jimin peeks up, cheeks pink. “I do.”

Yoongi swallows the beast’s howl behind his teeth. Not yet. Soon.

He leans in, brushing Jimin’s lips with a promise —feather-light, almost chaste.

“Rest now. I’ll wake you when we see the first blooms.”

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading☕️✨

Shout out to another cute flower from French class🪻, you know who you are💜

Chapter 10: The Sacred Realms

Summary:

Jimin strayed too far ahead, chasing a drifting wisp of faelight. When Yoongi caught him —hidden behind a giant oak, fireflies spinning in the dusk— his hands were too rough on Jimin’s delicate hips, pulling him flush to hiss out his terror at losing sight of him.

“You shouldn’t wander,” Yoongi growled against his throat, voice more Dragon than King. “Not here. Not from me.”

Jimin only laughed, breathless. Yoongi kissed him hard enough to bruise, tasted his answering whimper, then forced himself back with a snarl that startled even the birds from the canopy.

Notes:

The tea is about to boil over🗣️🫖

Quick note: some of the monster and elven lore is based off of The Witcher’s video games, so you might recognize some if you’ve played🐺

Also, is monster slaying considered gore? If so, then consider this a trigger warning!

 

Yoongi had warned him, voice low beside the campfire that first night inside the Barrier. He had cupped Jimin’s cheek, thumb brushing over his soft lower lip as if to soothe away every cruel sight before it could happen.

“Do not look when the dark things come, my flower,” he murmured, the words rough like claws scraping over velvet. “The elves keep this realm tame, but balance must be. Where there is light, shadows follow —and some teeth were made to tear. If we cross paths with monsters, promise me you’ll look away. Hold tight to me, and trust I will shield you from what must be done.”

Jimin had nodded, clutching that warm hand to his heart. He believed him. He wanted to.

It happened as they climbed the stone pass that split the Barrier’s jagged peak —a narrow gorge where the wind howled like wolves. Snow lay piled in grimy banks along the cliff face, but underfoot the earth steamed, slick with a stink like spoiled meat.

Yoongi’s keen eyes caught it first —black shapes slithering in the half-light. Then the smell hit: copper, acid, decay. Rotfiends. Their bald, blistered hides gleamed wetly in the shadows of a cavern mouth torn into the mountainside like an old wound.

One heartbeat, the world was just wind and ice. The next, it was shrieking hunger —a pack of gnarled limbs and snapping jaws lurching from the darkness, stinking of grave rot and spoiled blood.

Jimin froze where he stood on the snowy ledge. Beside him, his handmaid let out a shriek so thin it hardly made a sound —then her knees buckled and she crumpled into the snow. The King’s valet, a poor boy barely nineteen, doubled over and vomited onto his boots.

But Jimin couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even shut his eyes. Because there —in the churn of panic— stood his husband.

Yoongi moved like iron made flesh. His silver sword caught the moonlight, glinting cruelly bright as he stepped between the monsters and his trembling court. He swung wide once —silver sang— and one Rotfiend’s skull split like rotten fruit, spraying black filth over the snow.

Another lunged for a downed guard —jaws gaping with rows of brown teeth slick with pus. Yoongi’s bellow cracked through the shrieking —not words, but the roar of a dragon in mortal skin— and he grabbed the thing by its slick spine. His biceps bunched, veins a corded map along his strong hands, as he ripped it off the soldier’s back and threw it to the ground with a sickening crack.

The silver blade flashed again —an arc of light cleaving through rot and bile. He planted his boots wide, feet steady in the blood-slick snow, eyes molten with fury that was not wild but terribly, perfectly controlled. He swung again —right, left, a brutal dance that ended each time with bone cracking and poison blood hissing into the cold air.

Jimin’s breath misted before his lips, but he did not feel the cold. He did not faint. He only clutched his cloak to his chest and watched his husband stand as a wall between life and the nightmare.

His king. His dragon. His shield.

When the last Rotfiend lay twitching and silent, steam rising off ruined flesh, Yoongi turned —breath heaving, sword dripping with foul black ichor. He found Jimin’s eyes at once, like a tether pulling him back from the red haze of the fight.

“My flower,” he rasped, voice raw with the remnants of his roar. He reached out —not with the sword, but with his bare, bloodied hand. “Look away now. Look only at me.”

And Jimin did. He stepped over the snow and filth, ignoring the horror, seeing only the man who fought the monsters so he would never have to. He pressed his shaking palms to Yoongi’s cheeks, kissed his brow as if his king were not a beast crowned in gore but a lover who had just brought him a bouquet.

He whispered only, “I am looking, my King. Only at you.”

And behind them, the forest shuddered and sighed —the Sacred Realms watching, balancing, waiting for the next shadow to slither free.

Past the Barrier’s crumbling spine of ancient mountain stone lies a world that hums with breath older than kingdoms. It is a place where the wind itself seems to think, to whisper secrets in tongues too old for any mortal to speak.

Here, the trees rise impossibly tall —gnarled trunks as wide as Mooncastle's towers, their crowns a tangle of silver-green canopies that blot out the sun and drip with blue moss that glows softly come nightfall. Flowers as big as Jimin’s hands sprout between roots like knots of muscle, perfumed with sweetness that sometimes masks the rot beneath.

The air is crisp, sharp with the bite of distant snow, but heavy too —carrying spores and pollen, faint melodies like laughter drifting just out of sight. Some nights, the woods fall into a hush so deep it suffocates the sound of footsteps. Other nights, the quiet breaks with a low moan or a wet chitter that makes the horses skittish and the torches flicker.

This is the realm of the elves —the greatest among the fae, beautiful and terrifying in their wisdom. Their crystal towers shimmer like moonlight caught in glass, half hidden beneath the living boughs. Yet for all their grace, they are not gods. They keep their borders like gardeners pruning an orchard that forever tries to grow wild again —and in the shadows beneath the roots, ancient dangers still coil, hungry for blood.

They made camp in a glade deep within the Sacred Realm, where the trees broke apart just enough to allow a spill of dimming sunlight onto moss-soft ground. A narrow stream fed a lake clear as blown glass, its banks tangled with lilies and ghostly reeds. When the fire was lit and the venison turned on the spit, the forest began to stir —the hush of the glade broken by the lilting laughter of water nymphs drawn to the warmth of mortal life.

They slipped from the lake like silk sliding off wet skin, eyes shimmering pearl-white beneath strands of hair that clung like riverweed to pale shoulders. They circled Yoongi first, whispering in a tongue older than the Barrier itself —half invitation, half taunt. They cooed at the king’s scars, ran dripping fingers through the air inches from his crown of dark hair, testing the dragon’s patience with their liquid beauty.

But Yoongi, wearied from the road and drunk on the scent of his young husband by the fire, turned his cold eyes upon them. One word in the ancient tongue, spoken like thunder rumbling through stone, and the nymphs scattered back to the reeds with disappointed trills —leaving the royal party in peace once more.

They feasted well —roasted venison, crisp bread, and wild berries gathered under watchful afternoon sun. Jimin ate beside his king, leaning into his warmth as if to draw from it all the courage he’d ever need. It was there by the flickering flames that the king’s ravens came —black wings gliding soundlessly from the canopy to settle near the fire.

Nightshade, broad as a wolf and twice as cunning, with eyes like polished jet, regarded Jimin first with suspicion. Shadow, sleek and long-winged, already preened near his master’s shoulder. They were creatures who belonged to no hand but Yoongi’s —save perhaps Captain Jung, who they tolerated with a warrior’s respect. But tonight, as Jimin reached out a slender hand with scraps of venison, the ravens shifted closer. Shadow came first, bold enough to nudge at his palm, beak brushing his wrist as if tasting his sweetness. Nightshade followed, letting him scratch the feathered ruff at her neck, her molten stare softening for him alone.

Yoongi watched them, half-smiling despite the ache simmering in his chest —for if the ravens trusted his flower, perhaps the forest did too.

Later, when the embers burned low and sleep called to the weary, Jimin slipped away to the edge of the lake to bathe. He wore only a sheer white robe, gossamer silk clinging damply to the gentle curve of his hips as he waded in waist-deep. Sunset spilled through the drooping arms of a weeping willow, scattering over his shoulders, turning the water to molten gold around him.

Yoongi stood guard a ways back, back braced against a tree, eyes averted out of respect —or at least he tried. But the rustle of silk and the ripple of water betrayed him. He turned his head and for the briefest, cruelest moment, he saw: light caught in wet curls, the thin robe glowing translucent where it clung to young, soft skin. The soft slope of his husband’s throat, the shy shimmer of his collarbone. Innocence draped in white silk —temptation draped in sunset.

Desire thundered through the alpha like dragonfire caught in his throat. His fists clenched at his sides, breath ragged as the heavy weight of his knot pressed and ached beneath his belt. He could claim him now —take him right there in the lake, fill him until he grew round with the royal heir the kingdom needed so desperately. The cub his husband yearned for. 

His kingdom. His heir. His flower.

But when Jimin turned, smiling shyly with droplets streaming down his brow, Yoongi’s resolve cracked open —not with lust, but love. Such pure sweetness did not belong to the forest ground or a cold bedroll under watchful stars. It deserved silk sheets and rose petals, honeyed wine and quiet laughter behind locked doors.

So he did neither —neither the lake nor the claiming. He waited by the fire until Jimin crept back to him, skin damp from the bath and seeking warmth from his husband’s side. At night, he pulled him into his arms, knot still swollen with torment, heart still heavy with longing, and buried his nose in the crook of his neck. Berries. Honey. His peace. His damnation. He held him until sleep found them both —though it never quite reached him.

The Sacred Realms seemed built to test the dragon king’s leash at every turn. Moonlight dripped from silvered boughs like oil on a flame; every rustle of silk and pollen-heavy breeze fanned the slow burn under Yoongi’s skin until it roared behind his ribs. Magic here made instincts sharp as knives —the bond thrumming louder with each heartbeat.

Some nights, it was all he could do not to drown in it.

One dusk, as the royal party crossed a meadow thick with wild lavender, Jimin strayed too far ahead, chasing a drifting wisp of faelight. When Yoongi caught him —hidden behind a giant oak, fireflies spinning in the dusk— his hands were too rough on Jimin’s delicate hips, pulling him flush to hiss out his terror at losing sight of him.

“You shouldn’t wander,” Yoongi growled against his throat, voice more Dragon than King. “Not here. Not from me.”

Jimin only laughed, breathless. But when he felt the hands grip tighter, pressing him back against the bark —when he felt the telltale shape of his king’s want hard and caged— he gasped, soft and wondering, tilting his head like an unguarded flower. Yoongi kissed him hard enough to bruise, tasted his answering whimper, then forced himself back with a snarl that startled even the birds from the canopy.

They did not speak of it after. But Yoongi later found himself pacing the camp’s edge like a chained beast, muttering prayers into the wind.

Nights were the worst —Jimin tucked beside him under furs by the fire, skin warm, heartbeat soft as a bird’s wing. The fae wood’s drifting magic curled around them, seeping into every sigh, every accidental brush of thigh. And now that Jimin knew —now that Seokjin’s careful, blushing explanations had armed him with truth— he saw so much more.

He saw the flush that crept up Yoongi’s throat when Jimin shifted in sleep and brushed a bare leg over his hip. He felt the rumble in his king’s chest when Jimin’s scent went sweet and heady. He learned what the hard press against his lower back meant —the evidence of all that ironclad control threatening to snap.

But the moment that nearly undid them both came just before dawn —when Yoongi, seeking quiet, slipped from the camp to wash beneath a hidden waterfall. The pool was cold as mountain snowmelt, yet steam seemed to rise off his skin where moonlight struck old battle scars and the dragon’s rune burned faint and ghostly over his shoulder.

Jimin found him by accident —or perhaps by fate— creeping after him barefoot, drawn by the low rush of falling water. He hid behind a spill of wildflowers and watched, wide-eyed, as his mate rose from the spring like some beast of old legend, muscles slick, hair dark and wet, droplets trailing down a spine carved by war and want.

He thought of every kiss that ended too soon. Every time Yoongi had pulled away, breathing harsh warnings into his curls. Every heartbeat that hummed mine, mine, mine beneath that steady crown. Shame and heat warred in his chest when he turned away too late —Yoongi caught the soft gasp in the hush of dawn, the quick rustle of flowers underfoot.

The King found him moments later, still half dressed and damp where the glade met the path, moonlight still painted across his bare shoulders.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Yoongi asked, voice raw velvet, not unkind.

Jimin’s lashes fluttered. “I felt cold.”

Yoongi’s laugh was soft, pained. He gathered him in —wet hair dripping onto Jimin’s shoulder, his arms iron bands around that slender frame. “Then I’ll keep you warm, little bloom. Always.”

They sank to the moss by the pool’s edge as the first blush of sunrise kissed the trees. Yoongi kissed him slow, softer than any promise spoken in the day’s cruel clarity —until Jimin felt his whole body answer, sweetness pooling, hips squirming closer on instinct alone. When he realized the warm slick dampening his robe, the way his own small length throbbed shy and clumsy between them, he went still —wide-eyed with a new kind of helplessness.

Yoongi felt it at once —the trembling, the little hitch of breath. He pulled back just enough to cradle Jimin’s face, brushing his thumbs over cheeks pink with shame.

“Hey. Hey…” His voice cracked on a low growl that curled in his chest. “It’s alright. Everything you feel —all of this— it’s right. It’s good.”

Jimin’s lips trembled. “But I— it’s— should I—?”

Yoongi’s mouth ghosted his temple, his nose buried in sweet hair. “No rush. No shame. Nothing you do could ever be wrong to me.”

He held him like that while the dawn broke open, until the trembling eased —until Jimin only sighed and pressed his sticky thighs together, hidden under furs that Yoongi wrapped around him with tender, aching care.

When they returned to camp, Jimin still wore Yoongi’s cloak draped over his shoulders —and the king’s scent clung to him like a vow no moon or fae could break.

Yet that night, Yoongi banished himself to sleep by the ravens’ perch, under the excuse of studying maps and preparing offerings for the high rites. Jimin pouted at first —then yielded, trusting the hush of a promise in his king’s eyes.

All good things come with time, he told himself, curling into furs that smelled of cedar and dragonsmoke and longing.

And just beyond the ring of firelight, the dragon paced —jaw tight, eyes burning gold in the dark— praying the Sacred Realm’s ancient hush would hold him together just a little longer.

🏰

Far from the enchanted hush of the Sacred Great Greens, Mooncastle’s black halls buzzed with tension. Captain Jung paced the ramparts at dawn and dusk, silver armor half-forgotten beneath heavy furs as he drilled new recruits on the training grounds. Seokjin, quill in hand, moved like a ghost through the elder court’s echoing chambers —calming disputes, rewriting orders, and silencing whispers that grew too bold.

Yet shadows crept where vigilance could not reach. Lady Jeon, stripped of her rights yet still venomous as ever, slipped through the west gate under cover of a thunderstorm, her loyalists cloaked and armed. Southward she fled —to gather the fractured remnants of her kin and poison the minds of old allies still nursing grudges against the Mad King’s reign.

It was not long before word reached Mooncastle’s high towers: the South had broken truce. Raiders poured from the Western borders like locusts over barley fields. The East, ravaged by skirmish after skirmish, could barely hold its line —villages set alight in the dead of night, children fleeing barefoot into the snow.

Hoseok held the walls with an iron hand, barking orders through the thunder’s roar, while Seokjin penned plea after plea for aid —messengers vanishing into the white, never all of them returning. They burned Lady Jeon’s banners on the ramparts, but her poison spread all the same —whispers of rebellion, rumors that the king’s court lay unguarded with its lion in the Elven woods.

And always, in Hoseok’s mind, the echo of the king’s command: “Hold until I return. Mooncastle must not fall.”

🪾🌸

At the break of dawn, after days winding through ancient groves and crossing crystalline streams that whispered in old tongues, the royal party crossed the final veil of silver mist and emerged at the gates of Liven —the Elven Kingdom hidden beyond the Barrier.

The Elven Court rose from the forest like something half-remembered from a dream —spires of living wood twined with pale stone, roofs woven from leaves that shimmered gold and green under the sun’s gentle gaze. Trees impossibly tall formed natural halls, roots coiling in spirals that glowed faintly with runes older than mortal crowns. Everywhere, the hush of age and magic tangled in the wind —a place where time itself bowed to beauty’s rule.

At the great bridge woven of white birch and moon-silver ivy, the Elven King and Queen waited —the Queen radiant in flowing robes of pale jade, hair cascading like spun silver threaded with living blooms. The King beside her, his antlered crown a symbol of his pact with the Sacred Realms, regarded Yoongi with eyes that seemed to pierce flesh and thought alike.

When Jimin stepped forward, guided by Yoongi’s steady hand on his back, the Queen’s gaze softened, then sharpened —as though she peered through him, into generations forgotten. She reached out, fingertips grazing his cheek, and murmured in a voice both warm and faraway:

“You wear her face… my dearest High Priestess… the moon’s gentle vessel that calmed the flame of the human heir so many ages past.”

Jimin blinked, lips parted, but words failed him. Beside him, Yoongi dipped his head in solemn respect, though confusion flickered in his eyes.

Later, while the king met with the Elven rulers to speak of shadows and steel, young Prince Taehyung —slight and ethereal as drifting pollen— took Jimin’s hand and led him down winding corridors carved through hollow trees. They passed under archways where soft light dappled old murals, footsteps muffled by carpets of moss.

At last they came to the Elven Library —a living archive, its walls grown from roots twisted into shelves heavy with tomes bound in bark and vellum. In a hidden alcove, candlelight spilled over a painted screen that towered nearly to the carved ceiling.

There she was —the High Priestess. An omega of gentle strength, clothed in moon-white silk and crowned in blossoms and silver chains. At her side, an alpha heir clad in human steel, eyes alight with the same protective flame Jimin saw in Yoongi’s gaze each dawn. The priestess’s hair, the curve of her brow, even the shape of her shy, kind smile —all mirrored in Jimin’s reflection on the polished marble floor.

“Do you see?” murmured Taehyung, voice hushed as if they stood in a temple. “You are her echo… Perhaps her blessing, reborn to calm the storm again.”

Jimin only lifted trembling fingers to the painted face, breath caught halfway between disbelief and wonder. 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading! ☕️✨

Tae is finally here🍄

Chapter 11: The Holy Bond

Summary:

“I am sorry, my flower,” he rasped, voice breaking. “I drag you from your home into forests full of monsters. I fail to silence my uncle’s ghost. I would give you silk and gardens, laughter and children —but all I bring is blood and knives.”

Jimin only smiled —so gently that it hurt. He lifted Yoongi’s hand, pressing it over his racing heart. “You give me you, my King. And I shall take no less. If you bear the crown of fire, I shall be your garden —and no ghost shall touch you where I stand.”

Notes:

Finally.

 

In the high chamber of the Elven Throne, Yoongi sat before the King and Queen, his armor traded for a robe of deep black trimmed in gold —the mark of one who seeks peace in another sovereign’s hall. Yet the phantom weight of Frostpire’s iron crown pressed on his brow more heavily than any circlet of gold ever could.

He flexed his hands on his knees to hide the tremor in his knuckles —hands that should be wrapped around a sword hilt, not folded meekly in a foreign court while walls he had sworn to defend stood distant and besieged.

“I fear I have done nothing but doom my people to more war,” Yoongi confessed, his voice rough as a rasp dragged over old stone. 

“Every step away from Frostpire feels like another stone pried from my fortress walls. My uncle’s ghost gathers his followers —shadows and lies and poison I cannot root out from so far. I left my people with only half a king to stand guard.”

His voice cracked there, soft enough that only the Queen heard the unspoken truth: I am here because my heart demanded it. Because he is here —and he is worth any throne.

The Elven King’s smile cut through the hush like dawn through fog. “No king worth his salt holds his crown with idle hands, Dragon Lord. Iron must be quenched in ice and blood —and tempered in love, too. You did not flee your halls. You came to seal your people’s future in roots older than Mooncastle’s tallest tower.”

The Queen, her eyes ancient and soft as deep forest moss, laid a cool hand over Yoongi’s wrist. 

“Trust the walls you built,” she said. “Trust the men you raised. Captain Jung’s blade is an extension of your own. He will answer your ravens swiftly —and truly. And trust this bond. What you bind here tonight will outlast your uncle’s poison by centuries.”

Yoongi closed his eyes, exhaling the iron bite of old fears —and in the hush of the Sacred Realms, he let himself believe it.

That night, beneath the ancient canopy of star-lit boughs, the elves gathered in a vast clearing strung with lanterns made of blown glass and fireflies. Harps and reed pipes lilted among the trees. Tables groaned under platters of glazed meats, wild fruits dripping nectar, sugared blossoms, and wine that glowed faintly blue in crystal flutes.

Yoongi and Jimin sat side by side at the high table, a circlet of woven silver crowning Jimin’s curls. The Elven King poured a libation of moon-wine into the sacred chalice, blessing their bond under the open sky, and when Yoongi lifted it to Jimin’s lips first, the guests murmured blessings in a hundred old dialects.

They danced too —Jimin barefoot on the soft grass, pulled close by his king, spun under flickering lanterns while the elves sang songs so old they’d forgotten who first gave them voice. For that night, no monsters lurked at the edges of the clearing. No traitors whispered in cold halls. Just the bond, sealed and witnessed by starlight and ancient eyes.

Much later, with the last harpsong fading under the rustle of leaves, Yoongi led Jimin to their chamber —a bower grown into the heart of a giant oak, walls alive with soft bioluminescent vines that glowed pale green and gold. There, alone at last, Yoongi stood by the arched window, the moonlight catching the exhaustion carved beneath his eyes.

Jimin came to him, shy fingers brushing the back of his hand until Yoongi turned, and the dam within him cracked. He cupped his darling’s face, resting his forehead against his husband’s, eyes squeezed shut.

“I am sorry, my flower,” he rasped, voice breaking. “I drag you from your home into forests full of monsters. I fail to silence my uncle’s ghost. I would give you silk and gardens, laughter and children —but all I bring is blood and knives.”

Jimin only smiled —so gently that it hurt. He lifted Yoongi’s hand, pressing it over his racing heart. “You give me you, my King. And I shall take no less. If you bear the crown of fire, I shall be your garden —and no ghost shall touch you where I stand.”

Yoongi laughed, hoarse and wet with tears he refused to let fall. He kissed him then —not the soft, fleeting brush of lips they’d traded on their wedding night, not the longing restrained kisses under wisteria trees, but a claiming of breath and promise both. And when they sank together onto the bed of moss-soft linen and living petals, he held his flower close —not to ruin him with hunger or to force fate’s hand, but to remind himself that amid monsters, kingdoms, and blood, there was this: a heart that chose him back.

The hush of the sacred chamber pressed close around them —only the faint rustle of the living oak, the steady trickle of a hidden spring behind the walls, and the soft exhale of their breath filled the space between heartbeat and heartbeat.

Yoongi’s hands trembled where they rested on Jimin’s hips. They had kissed until their lips were raw and slick with whispered promises, until the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stand back and bow to this holy rite. Jimin’s lashes fluttered as he looked up at his king —the flush on his throat a delicate bloom against skin the color of warm cream.

“My King…” he breathed, voice small yet unafraid. “Don’t hold yourself back from me tonight.”

It was all Yoongi needed —and everything he feared. For too long he had chained the dragon within, buried the primal ache that rose like fire whenever his flower pressed soft kisses to his jaw or curled sweetly against his chest at night. But here, now —with the bond sealed by elven blessing and the scent of fresh blossoms weaving with the rich tang of his mate’s arousal— the king’s restraint frayed like silk under flame.

“Are you certain?” he asked, voice rough as a beast’s growl but his touch so tender it made Jimin shiver.

“Claim me, Yoongi.” Jimin’s small hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing away the tears he hadn’t known had fallen. “Make me yours in all ways.”

Yoongi pressed his lips to the palm of Jimin’s hand, to his forehead, then his cheek, his nose, his lips —reverent kisses that bled into hunger until his fangs grazed the corner of Jimin’s mouth, tasting the sweet whimper that spilled out. His hands slid down Jimin’s back, tracing the line of gossamer that did little to hide the soft curves and the trembling promise beneath.

When he pulled back just enough to see him —laid out on the moss-scented linens, hair spilled like molten chestnut, sheer white robe slipping from one slender shoulder —the sight nearly undid him. His length pulsed thick and hot between his thighs, demanding, feral. But he forced himself to go slow.

Yoongi’s hands trembled when he undid the sash of Jimin’s night robe. He undressed his flower inch by precious inch, lips chasing the garment as he peeled it away, murmuring praise with each patch of bare skin revealed. The sweet flush at his mate’s throat. The soft tremor in his belly. The shy hips that shifted beneath his touch, seeking more before they even understood what more meant.

Jimin’s breath came in soft gasps, hands grasping at his King’s broad shoulders, eyes wide and wet with love and want and a flicker of fear that only made the dragon inside Yoongi vow to be gentle —to claim with love and devotion. Finally shedding that careful restraint that had choked him for months with the starved reverence of a dragon too long denied the warmth of his hoard.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, voice like gravel and silk tangled together.

Jimin nodded, too shy to answer, breath hitching and arching into his touch when Yoongi’s calloused hand traced the inside of his leg towards the heat between his thighs. He made his flower soft and pliant first, a tender press of a rough palm over his omega’s small flushed length, drawing tiny gasps from his lips with every careful touch. 

“My King, I— I don’t know what to do…” Jimin admitted, breathless and blushed, small hands gripping and fumbling on the bedsheets.

“Let me take care of you, flower. Let me love you, you just relax.” The King’s mouth found Jimin’s throat, pulse quickened and strong, soft lips and warm tongue latching onto unblemished velvet. He licked and kissed and breathed him in, the scent that would always haunt him, that would always hold him. 

“Y—Yoon— My King—“ Jimin’s chest heaved, small body ecstatic and flooded with newly found sensations, unsure if he wanted to lean into them or squirm away.

“Are you alright, love?” Yoongi took a pause, halting his strokes to a gentle press of his palm on Jimin’s belly, his other hand reaching up to brush a curl behind a small flushed ear. 

He lifted up, bracing his weight on his forearm, kissing Jimin’s warm cheek in reassurance. “We will stop if you so wish, we don’t have to do everything tonight.” He searched his eyes for hesitation, for fear, yet only found the everlasting brightness of his trust. 

“I— I want—“ Jimin started, fingers trembling where they gripped the linen, “Will you kiss me? Please…” 

Yoongi’s heart hammered in his chest, swallowing hard, feeling scales sprout through his skin. “Of course, my flower. I’m all yours, I will give you anything you want. Everything you ask for, always.” 

He leaned in again, claiming his lips once more, falling into the rhythm of those kisses hidden behind trees and garden strolls. Jimin reached a hesitant hand to Yoongi’s cheek, making the alpha sigh into the kiss, all too starved for his touch. Jimin noticed, those strong hands desperate to claim, yet still holding back for his sake, for his comfort.

So he ventured further for a change, dainty fingers threading into his husband’s hair, another clumsy hand resting on the King’s chest, grasping at his shirt, yearning to see alabaster again, the Dragon’s mark on his shoulder, those scars marring his broad back, the one along his ribs, —to trace them, to feel him closer. He tugged at the garment until the King took the hint, only ever straying from his lips to take it off.

Jimin’s hands found their home in Yoongi’s skin, on the wide plains of his back, brushing over the rune on his shoulder and scratching at the scales scattered around, small fingers dipping into collarbones and the muscles on his belly, wondering how such strength could find a way to hold him so tenderly.  

The heat beneath Jimin’s skin thickened, the feeling of his husband’s warmth steady and vast, the hand splayed on his belly that didn’t dare move lower again if not asked, those hungry lips that always wanted more, that made him weak. It made him open his legs wider, buck his hips and whine with longing —silently pleading to be touched again, finally taking that leap. 

“Please… Yoongi.” He whispered between kisses, breathless and bothered. The alpha hummed while leaving small pecks along his jaw, ready to give anything his flower would demand.

“Touch me, please.” 

It was barely a whisper but enough to make the King’s chest rumble, one arm moving beneath Jimin’s spine until his hand found purchase on his nape and the base of his skull, cradling him like a delicate treasure. The other trailed downward, from Jimin’s trembling belly to that small swell, drinking a moan right from his lips once he started to move. Not teasing, yet soft.

Jimin whimpered, opening his legs more, trying to close them when the heat coiled tighter. It was so much, the tongue that danced with his own, the strong arm keeping him close, the calloused touch that undid him whole for the first time. He trembled and whined when hot liquid spilled between them, the King’s hand stopping to soothe rather than coax. Legs going slack, sparks traveling through his bloodstream, small jolts that felt like nothing mattered as long as his dragon was always this close. Yoongi felt something within Jimin give in, neck tilting in submission as his thighs shook and his hips squirmed.

“So beautiful, my tiny flower. So soft, my whole heart. My dearest, the one carved into my soul.” Yoongi mumbled soft praise between kisses, easing Jimin into bliss and helpless tenderness until the tremors stopped. 

“My King…” Jimin reached up to stroke a gentle thumb over the King’s brow. “I want it all.” 

Yoongi looked into his eyes, gleaming with bliss and quiet wonder, leveling his hunger, making his heart ache.

“Please… I trust you, give me all of you. Let me feel you. Let me hold you too.”

The alpha hid his groan in the crook of Jimin’s throat, hips helplessly bucking up, the strain of his trousers brushing the flower’s hip, making his breath hitch. The King’s gentle fingers coaxed him open, careful and slow when Jimin gasped, a new kind of need settling in his bones like molten gold, he did not once wince or doubt, taking anything his love would give, surprised to find himself eager for more.

Yoongi’s lips and tongue traced every new tremble of pleasure until Jimin arched up, slick and shy and wanting all the same. When his fingers pulled away, a small displeased sound broke from Jimin’s throat, bringing a small huff of disbelief to the alpha’s lips.

“It’s alright love, I’m not going anywhere.” He pressed a chaste kiss to his darling’s lips as his trousers were discarded. His omega shivered, gasping softly as he caught the sight.

“Yoongi…” Jimin swallowed thick, heat creeping up his face, valiantly resisting the urge to hide behind his hands. Yoongi stroked his cheek gently, —always patient, always waiting.

“Does it— will it…” Jimin tried to ask.

“Hurt?”

“… fit?”

Yoongi couldn’t help his chuckle, Jimin’s cheeks flushed deeper, small fingers tightening around the King’s biceps.

“We’ll go slow. Breathe for me, flower. Don’t think, just feel.” He pressed a devout kiss to his temple, settling between soft thighs. He eased Jimin with wanton kisses, those that made the omega search his lips for more, and when he entered him at last, he did it with a groan that ripped from somewhere deep and sacred —moving slow, patient, but possessive in a way that left no corner of his mate untouched.

They moved together like a slow storm —gasps and moans and soft cries filling the sacred hollow of the oak. When Yoongi finally sank his teeth into the tender juncture where Jimin’s neck met his shoulder, the omega’s gasp turned into a sweet, broken sob of relief. A bond older than kingdoms sealed with flesh and blood, scent tangled until there would never again be any doubt to whom this precious soul belonged.

Yoongi’s length moved inside with aching patience, stretching his flower open to fit him fully, completely —until there was no space left for ghosts, doubts, or any power but the King’s love and the omega’s fierce surrender.

He moved with reverence and desperate hunger alike, whispering promises against flushed skin —that no monster would touch him, that no crown would weigh heavier than this love, that they would build a kingdom where their cubs would run laughing through endless gardens.

Yoongi’s throat worked around a growl that shook the oak’s roots. Not yet a beast. Not yet. He pressed gentle kisses over dainty collarbones —reverent and patient even as his knot swelled painfully hard, demanding its rightful place. Each time Jimin whined, it was all Yoongi could do not to sink completely into the molten heat of his mate —to knot him full, to seal the bond so deep no treachery could touch it. 

Jimin gasped, helpless, his small body tensing, then melting as the bond snapped tight. His slick sweetness milked every last ounce of Yoongi’s restraint until the dragon roared free —knot binding them as nature and crown both demanded.

Jimin clung to him, soft cries muffled against his throat, fingers buried in Yoongi’s thick hair. When release finally tore through them —fierce, all-consuming— they held each other through the quake of it, knot locked tight, the bond sealed with heat and the salt of spent tears.

After, the dragon king did not pull away. He stayed buried deep, hands splayed over the swell of his mate’s hips, lips brushing fevered prayers to the shell of his ear. Beneath them the living wood pulsed with soft green light, as if the Sacred Realms themselves gave their blessing to what had been made whole. Yoongi did not move —not even when his knot softened. He stayed snug within his omega’s velvet heat, arms wrapped around his flower as if to shield him from every dark thing that ever haunted the world.

And Jimin —boneless and pliant, shy tremors still flickering down his thighs— only smiled when Yoongi pressed endless kisses to the bite mark blooming on his throat.

“My flower,” Yoongi murmured when Jimin drifted close to sleep, boneless and spent against his chest. “You are mine —and I am yours. Let the realms remember this night when they dare to threaten you.”

Jimin only smiled, drowsy and bliss-drunk, fingertips tracing the fresh bite at his neck. “All yours, my king. Always yours.”

And in the hush that followed, no monsters dared come close. Only the hush of trees and the soft glow of new life, waiting patiently to root and grow in the warm cradle of their bond.

At dawn, the new-bonded kings rose from their tangled bedding, reluctant but resolute. The hush of the sacred oak felt heavier now, like the forest itself curled protectively around them. Yoongi pressed one last lingering kiss to the fresh mark on Jimin’s neck —the crescent of teeth now half-healed but still pink and proud.

“You rest, my love,” Yoongi murmured, brushing sweat-mussed curls from Jimin’s brow. “I’ll send word home. Captain Jung will answer before the moon climbs again.”

Jimin only hummed sleepily, one hand splayed over his belly where, beneath his palm, he hoped for new warmth to flicker and root. He let himself drift, wrapped in the scent of cedarwood and dragonsmoke that clung to his mate’s skin.

Outside, Yoongi knelt by the clearing’s edge and whispered to Nightshade. The raven preened her feathers, then hopped onto his arm —a shadow born of myth and loyalty. “Find Jung,” he told her, voice low and fierce. “Tell him we are safe. Tell him I expect good news.”

With a powerful beat of her wings, the sacred bird vanished into the canopy, dark against the dawn.

And in the hush that followed, no monsters dared come close. Only the hush of trees and the soft promise of new life, waiting patiently to root and grow in the warm cradle of their bond.

🏰

Far to the north, the mood was anything but calm. Captain Jung stood on the battlements at Mooncastle’s outer wall, Seokjin at his side, both men squinting into the storm-swept horizon. The once peaceful courtyard below bristled with soldiers donning heavy iron and silver scale.

“How far has she gotten?” Hoseok asked, voice sharp with the edge of sleepless nights.

“Westward, my sources say. Lady Jeon has friends in old places —the traitor lords near the Western Ridge have given her sanctuary, perhaps more. And now, skirmishes from the Southern Marches and raiders at the East? It is more than coincidence.”

Seokjin’s breath steamed in the cold. His ink-stained fingers clutched a fresh scroll —news from the southern front, where villages burned and the old guard struggled to hold ground.

“Our king is away sealing the bond that might bring us allies. But if these lords test our borders before he returns—”

“Then we hold, Seokjin,” Hoseok snapped, spinning on his heel. “We hold the line, we keep the court together, and we do not let the old witch’s poison spread inside these walls. Minjae underestimates us —she forgets the North has iron bones and cold blood when tested.”

Below them, black-armored guards trained with crossbows and pikes. “Let her flee west and scratch at our gates like a starved dog,” Hoseok muttered. 

“When our king returns, we’ll show her whose land she dares to claim.”

🪾🌸

That evening, word came —Nightshade swooped back into the sacred grove where Yoongi waited, Jimin at his side wrapped in a velvet cloak. The raven’s claws clutched a ribbon of parchment —Hoseok’s hand, brisk and precise:

“North holds firm. Minjae flees west. Skirmishes at southern ridge. Await your command. Mooncastle stands.”

Yoongi read it twice, jaw flexing as he tucked the message into his belt. Jimin’s hand found his. “We will go home soon,” the young omega whispered, his voice steady though his thumb brushed anxiously at the mark on his neck. “They are strong —because you made them so.”

“Because we made them so,” Yoongi corrected softly, pressing a kiss to his mate’s temple.

That night, the sacred groves blazed with fae lanterns strung through the towering boughs —spheres of witchlight that shimmered in colors not seen in mortal realms. The elves laid out a banquet that glowed with enchantments: moonfruit and star-honey, roasted hart glazed in crystalline sap, nectar wine that made Jimin giggle after only a single sip.

They sat on a raised dais beside the Elven King and Queen, both ancient and impossibly elegant. Prince Taehyung lingered at Jimin’s side, laughing softly as he translated the murmurs of the high fae and guided him through strange delicacies. At one point, the young prince pressed a hand to Jimin’s belly, as if feeling for some secret warmth the newly claimed consort himself could barely name.

Yoongi watched it all in silence, drinking in the sight of his mate blooming among the otherworldly flowers and lights —the only sweetness in a world that too often tasted of steel and blood. When at last the feasting ended, and the court spilled out into the night to dance beneath the weeping moon, the king and his flower found themselves alone again.

Yoongi sat at the edge of their bed, boots tossed aside, shirt half open, silver crown glinting on the table beside him. His strong hands rested on his knees —but his eyes stayed locked on the omega who came to kneel between them.

“Tell me what burdens you, my king,” Jimin said softly, palms sliding over Yoongi’s tense thighs.

And for the first time, the dragon let the walls fall. He told him of the burning borders, of Minjae’s flight, of the kingdoms testing their young reign. He spoke of the weight he feared to place on Jimin’s shoulders —the fear of losing him to monsters, to betrayal, to the merciless teeth of fate.

When he fell silent, Jimin only rose to straddle him, guiding Yoongi’s head to rest against his chest where his heartbeat fluttered —stronger now, and somehow different.

“You carry us all,” Jimin murmured, threading fingers through Yoongi’s dark hair. “So let me carry you now, and all the nights to come. Let them try to break what we have built —they will not break me, or you. And when we return home, they will see a king and his true mate stand unshaken.”

Yoongi closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of berries and honey that no blade nor monster could ever tarnish. And for the first time since he’d put the crown on his head, warm between his husband’s arms, he let himself believe —that the kingdom he bled for might yet bloom, fed by roots deeper than frost and iron.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading, get ready for rut.
☕️✨

Chapter 12: The Simmering

Summary:

“G’morning, flower,” came the King’s voice, husky and thick with sleep.

Yoongi’s morning drawl would always be one of his favorite sounds in the world, a lullaby in and of itself that melted his bones into butter and stirred something warm low in his belly.

Jimin smiled and shifted slightly, brushing his lips against Yoongi’s jaw.

“Good morning, my dear.”

Notes:

🧚‍♂️

 

Their honeymoon in Liven was made of stolen moments and sacred quiet.

Yoongi took Jimin to hidden meadows where wildflowers swayed in the breeze, to waterfalls that glowed with moonlight and bioluminescent fish. In the deepest pools, Yoongi would dive down and return with glinting gems from hidden nooks, cupped in his calloused palms.

“For you,” he’d say softly, almost shy and boyish, as if it mattered whether Jimin approved. As if he could ever doubt their bond, as if the alpha didn’t already hold his soul.

Jimin would take the offering and press a kiss to Yoongi’s cheek. “You already gave me the most precious thing,” he’d murmur. “Your heart.”

The King would press him into the soft flower beds and kiss him senseless, leaving Jimin flushed and breathless.

At court, they sat among the elves on woven rugs beneath a great tree. There were no thrones here, no hierarchy. The Elven King and Queen sat beside their people, barefoot and serene, and everyone was welcome to speak, to sing, to laugh without fear. Jimin watched Yoongi soften in those moments, his armor falling away each time he pulled Jimin close when a breeze passed, wrapping an arm around him without a thought.

Life in the elven groves of Liven shimmered with enchantment.

By day, golden sun filtered gently through jade canopies, warm but never harsh, casting dappled light on glades and winding roots. At dusk, soft flute songs drifted in the wind, and Jimin found himself nestled in the library, always beside Prince Taehyung, who was tireless in his mission to introduce him to everything the elves treasured: their tapestries and love ballads, honey-sweet pastries and firefly-lit poetry. While Yoongi signed treaties and whispered policy with the elven monarchs beneath the silverwood archways, Jimin listened to Taehyung with wide-eyed wonder —or mild resignation.

Prince Taehyung arrived each morning with a new trinket: a moonstone pendant strung on moss-silk thread, a woven bracelet dyed the deep green of spring, a pin shaped like a silver foxglove. “For luck,” he’d chirp. “And fertility. And beauty. All of which you already have, obviously.”

He also carried pomegranates in the crook of his arm, cracking them open and feeding the ruby seeds to Jimin with overzealous glee —so many that Jimin would occasionally spit a few into the bushes when Taehyung wasn’t looking. At night, he offered warm milk steeped in cinnamon and honey with a satisfied smile, watching Jimin drink it down like a mother bird watching over a chick.

“I’m just helping the moon do her work,” Taehyung would wink, as Yoongi silently stepped forward, lacing fingers with Jimin and leading him off to bed. “Sleep well, Consort. Or not. You’ll have to tell me tomorrow.”

Jimin would flush and scurry off, while Taehyung laughed behind his hand.

One afternoon, they sat beneath an almond tree heavy with pale blossoms, the kind of quiet day where time felt slower. Jimin leaned back on his elbows, letting his eyes close, the scent of sun-warmed petals filling the air. But when he looked over, Taehyung had gone still.

“Tae?” Jimin whispered. “Why are you—?”

“Shh! Don’t move,” the elf hissed, eyes wide. “They’re here.”

Small orbs of silvery light floated in the air like drifting stars, swirling gently among the almond branches. Jimin blinked, startled, as one drifted down toward him, trailing light like a falling star. It hovered, then landed gently on his folded hands. Where the light touched, he saw the faint shimmer of wings, gossamer-thin and shimmering like dew on spider silk. Two tiny fae beings emerged, dressed in soft petals and light, delicate as breath.

They nudged at his thumbs, as if asking permission. Awestruck, Jimin let them unfold his hands, and they gently placed a blossom into his palm before pressing his fingers shut around it. Then, without a sound, they faded into sparks and vanished into the wind.

Taehyung gasped like someone had struck him. “By the gods… Jimin. They blessed you. Faeries haven’t shown themselves in a century! They came to you. That’s a blessing for light, for love… for life. You’ll have a child. You will.”

Jimin’s cheeks turned pink, his gaze fixed on the blossom nestled in his hand. That night, he didn’t spit out the pomegranate seeds. He drank all of the cinnamon milk and even let Taehyung braid a flower into his hair. But when the prince suggested he play prey and have Yoongi chase him through the glade “like a true dragon courtship,” Jimin fled the garden in mortified silence.

Jimin awoke the next morning cocooned in warmth and scent and love.

His King’s arms were a fortress around him, the slow rhythm of his chest rising and falling beneath Jimin’s cheek. He nuzzled closer, burying his face in the crook of Yoongi’s neck, breathing in smoke and cedar, salt and musk, the scent of home.

Everything had changed since their claiming night —the long days of restraint and tension behind them. Since that night, since Yoongi had left his mark where his left shoulder met his neck, everything felt… clearer. Grounded. Sacred. Jimin felt it in his blood now, in the way their bond pulsed steady in his chest, in how the world itself seemed gentler. His alpha, his husband, his forevermore.

Yoongi stirred with a groan, his fingers flexing where they rested at the small of Jimin’s back, dipping into the dimples at the base of his spine. Then a low, gravel-rich rumble escaped his chest, vibrating through them both.

“G’morning, flower,” came the King’s voice, husky and thick with sleep. 

Yoongi’s morning drawl would always be one of his favorite sounds in the world, a lullaby in and of itself that melted his bones into butter and stirred something warm low in his belly. 

Jimin smiled and shifted slightly, brushing his lips against Yoongi’s jaw. 

“Good morning, my dear.”

His fingers tangled in Yoongi’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as the King let out a pleased sigh, then buried his face in the curve of Jimin’s neck, inhaling deeply like it was his first breath in days.

“Let’s stay here today. No court. No obligations. Just you, and me, and this bed,” Yoongi mumbled against his skin.

Jimin laughed softly, the sound like wind through a wind chime. “Tempting. But we only have a few days left before we return to Frostpire.”

“Exactly.” Yoongi kissed along his shoulder. “We won’t have peace like this again for a long time. Let me pretend for one more day that the world doesn’t need me. That I can just… love you. Let me drown in you a little longer.”

Jimin blushed, hiding his face against Yoongi’s chest. For all his titles —Dragon, Tyrant, Mad King of the North— Yoongi was also the man who whispered love poems against his shoulder and buried daisies in his hair.

They spoke of dreams, of children, of peace.

“I would be content with one,” Jimin whispered, tangled in sheets, their legs intertwined.

“I want a whole brood,” Yoongi replied, chuckling as he kissed Jimin’s brow. “They’ll all look like you.”

Jimin laughed, soft and shy. “They’ll have your fire.”

“Then the world best prepare.”

 

The midday sun was high when Yoongi tugged Jimin by the hand, ducking under the arch of a blooming trellis and pulling him down the winding paths of Liven’s famed garden labyrinth. The walls of honeysuckle and ivy towered around them, the air fragrant with wild roses and the warm tang of crushed grass beneath their feet. Jimin followed, breathless and laughing.

“Are we being chased?” he asked, as Yoongi turned another corner and finally came to a halt in a shaded nook, hidden by curling vines and blue wisteria.

Yoongi turned, eyes glinting. “Yes. Prince Taehyung. With another charm of fertility and a pomegranate the size of your head.”

Jimin groaned and leaned against him. “He means well.”

“He means mischief,” Yoongi grumbled, and then —without warning— he cupped Jimin’s face and kissed him.

The kiss was warm and urgent, as though the King had held it in for days. Jimin melted into it, arms winding around Yoongi’s neck, heart fluttering. But then, too suddenly, Yoongi pulled away. His breath caught, and his brow creased as if in pain.

“Yoongi?” Jimin asked, blinking. “What’s wrong?”

Yoongi’s jaw tensed. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s nothing,” he said too quickly. “The sun —it’s just too hot.”

Jimin tilted his head. “You look flushed…”

“I’m fine.” The King cleared his throat, already walking out of the nook. “Let’s get back. Before Taehyung summons a search party.”

But Jimin didn’t miss the tension in his shoulders —or the way his scent had spiked with something deeper, something more primal.

The next morning, the change was undeniable.

Jimin woke to find himself already pulled against Yoongi’s chest, his husband’s nose buried in the crook of his neck, arms wrapped so tightly around him it was difficult to breathe. When Jimin tried to shift, Yoongi only grumbled and dragged him back into place, pressing a kiss just under his ear.

“You’re warm,” Yoongi muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Stay.”

Jimin squirmed gently, smiling. “Love, we’re late for court—”

“Let them wait.”

It didn’t stop there.

That day, Yoongi barely left Jimin’s side. At breakfast, he sat close enough that their thighs touched under the table. During court sessions, he pulled Jimin onto his lap under the shade of the Grand Oak, arms circled firmly around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder. When Jimin shifted, Yoongi only tightened his grip.

“You’re being clingy,” Jimin whispered, biting back a smile.

“Am I?” Yoongi hummed into his neck, breath hot. “How tragic.”

Even the elves noticed. Prince Taehyung arched a knowing brow. “I suppose moonstones do work faster than expected.”

Later that afternoon, beneath the hush of the inner groves, Yoongi requested a private audience with the Elven King. The monarch waited on a stone bench beside a lilypond, silver hair shimmering in the breeze. He looked up with a serene smile as Yoongi approached.

“Ah. The Dragon King. You seek advice?”

Yoongi ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before standing still. “I think… my rut is coming.”

The Elven King nodded, unsurprised. “The signs are there. You’ve bonded recently. This would not be unusual.”

Yoongi exhaled sharply, frustrated. “We were meant to return to Frostpire in two days. If it hits on the road, in unguarded woods, I—” He stopped, shaking his head. “I can’t risk that. Jimin’s… he’s not ready for a full rut. I don’t want to lose control. I won’t hurt him.”

The King was quiet for a moment, gaze thoughtful. “Then do not travel. Let it run its course here, where you are safe. The groves will shelter you, and we will keep guard. I would not risk the path north in your state, not with your mate so newly bound.”

“But I need something —anything— to dull it,” Yoongi said, almost pleading now. “A potion, an herb, a hex —please. I’ll stay, but I need to stay myself. I need to protect him from me, too.”

The Elven King rose, placing a gentle hand on Yoongi’s shoulder. “Love such as yours doesn’t turn to violence, Yoongi. But I understand. I will have you sent to the healers. They can offer you a brew that slows the blood’s fire. It will not stop your rut, but it will let you think clearly. Be warned, however —it may dull your strength. And your instincts.”

“I don’t care,” Yoongi said, hoarse. “So long as it dulls the edge.”

The King nodded. “Then go. I’ll make the arrangements. And tell your omega that he is safe here. And adored.”

The Dragon King’s skin began to stretch thin with something quiet and smoldering —like smoke curling beneath. The crisp sweetness of Liven’s spring air couldn’t mask the shift in Yoongi’s demeanor. Where once he’d been playful and tender in his affections, now he flickered between two extremes —gravitational pull and sudden distance. Jimin noticed it in the smallest things.

One moment Yoongi was at his side, brushing his fingers through Jimin’s hair with wordless reverence, pressing kisses to his temple like he was breathing him in for the last time. The next, the King would stiffen, as if burned by his own desire, and abruptly leave Jimin’s side under some vague excuse —something about politics or needing air or having to walk the orchard before it got too hot.

Jimin blinked at the retreating figure one morning after Yoongi all but fled the moment their fingers touched while picking grapes. The air was not too hot. And Yoongi certainly wasn’t walking anywhere with purpose.

“…What is going on with him?” Jimin whispered, half to himself, plucking a grape from the vine. His hand trembled slightly, and he wasn’t sure if it was concern or something deeper. “He’s not himself.”

“Oh, sweetling,” Prince Taehyung crooned from behind him, suddenly appearing with a basket full of ripe grapes. He nibbled on one fruit and covered his giggle with his sleeve. “You’re far too lovely to be this oblivious.”

Jimin turned, blinking. “Oblivious?”

The prince cocked his head. “You truly don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Taehyung’s eyes gleamed with the sparkle of every elven mischief ever brewed in song or ink. “Your alpha is going into rut, my dear.”

Jimin nearly dropped the grape. “He’s… what?”

Taehyung snorted into his sleeve. “Yes. Poor soul’s been trying to restrain himself ever since you kissed him in the garden. I thought he was going to set the hedges on fire.”

Jimin flushed, every memory of Yoongi’s heat-filled gaze flashing back all at once —how he’d groaned into his mouth before suddenly pulling away, leaving Jimin breathless and confused. “He said it was just the weather…”

“Oh, it is,” Taehyung chirped, “but the weather in his blood, not in the sky.” He plucked a blossom from Jimin’s hair and tucked another grape into the basket. “He’s fighting it tooth and nail. It’s almost admirable, if it weren’t so stupid.”

Jimin frowned. “Why is he fighting it?”

Taehyung gave him a rare moment of silence. Then, softly, “Because he’s afraid of hurting you. Because ruts are… not gentle. Because he loves you.”

Jimin clutched the hem of his sleeve. The thought of Yoongi suffering through this in silence, fighting his instincts while surrounded by reminders of softness and comfort —by Jimin himself— left a tight ache in his chest.

That afternoon, Jimin noticed the change again. Yoongi hovered close while Prince Taehyung lectured on the symbolism of the elven birthing trees, one arm draped over the back of Jimin’s chair, fingers grazing his spine as though by accident —then again, and again. By sunset, he refused to let Jimin walk without touching him —palm to elbow, hand to lower back, thumb brushing over his nape. Possessive. Protective. Hungering. But when Jimin turned to him, seeking his gaze, Yoongi looked away like he couldn’t bear to be caught.

Later, alone in the gardens, Jimin found his alpha sitting near one of the glowing waterfalls, head bowed, hands clasped in prayer or desperation. He didn’t speak. Just watched the rippling light with clenched jaw and trembling shoulders. His scent, once cedar and smoke, now simmered with something heavier. Sharper. Wilder.

And when Jimin reached for him —just touched his shoulder— Yoongi flinched.

“…Yoongi?”

“I’m sorry,” the King rasped. “I… can’t—” He stood, backing away. “Not yet.”

Jimin stood still, a hand pressed to his chest. “Then don’t walk away from me. Let me stay.”

Yoongi looked torn apart by that. He turned, walked into the waterfall, and let the cold glow drown out the sound of his own pulse.

By the third morning, the scent of Yoongi’s nearing rut had become unmistakable. Strong and feral. Commanding. Saturating the very walls of the guest wing with a heady pull even the most seasoned of elves began to notice.

Omegas in the court grew restless. A few even skipped that morning’s gathering altogether. One advisor stumbled during a diplomatic ritual and flushed so fiercely the elven Queen herself had to intervene with a wave of her perfumed sleeve.

It was all too much.

And so, with soft authority and a twinkle of amusement in his ancient eyes, the Elven King appeared outside Yoongi and Jimin’s chamber, hands folded before him, flanked by two guards with silver swords.

“You are not to leave these rooms, King of Frostpire,” he said with great kindness. “Not until your… condition passes.”

Yoongi, standing with his arms crossed and jaw clenched tight, barely managed to keep his voice civil. “I am no prisoner.”

“No,” the elven King replied smoothly, “but you are rutting. And while our Queen adores you dearly, she would prefer not to have to explain to half the court why they’ve started dreaming of dragonfire and waking with slick on their thighs.” He chuckled, completely unbothered. “We trust you’ll understand.”

Yoongi did not understand. He was pacing within an hour.

Worse, the entire chamber smelled of Jimin —his fresh, blooming scent threaded through the linens, the cushions, the air itself. It made the dragon King’s skin buzz with a constant, maddening awareness. Every breath felt like a taunt.

But he bore it. He had to.

Or so he thought —until Shadow tapped twice at the window with a scroll tied in gold thread. Yoongi opened it with a weary hand and read the delicate, spindly script. Prince Taehyung’s handwriting.

“By royal decree of your very own mate: you are not to be tended by any omega, nor spoken to by any other court attendants unless absolutely necessary. You are his now, completely. Do enjoy being claimed.

P.S. The pomegranate embargo is not lifted. I tried.”

Yoongi couldn’t help the low, startled growl that escaped his throat —a strange sound between amusement and pride. He could almost feel Jimin’s jealousy burning in the scroll. A bloom of heat unfurled in his chest that was entirely unrelated to the rut —it was pure affection. Wanting.

The cause of it came only an hour later, flushed from the orchard path, arms full.

Jimin arrived with a carved tray of supper —venison stew, soft herb bread, and warm fruit wine— and a handful of scrolls bundled together in ribbon.

“I brought food,” he said softly, nudging the door open with his hip, “and work, in case your mind needs something to chew on other than me.”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him. Really looked.

The sight of his mate —hair wind-tossed, cheeks pink from the sun, arms full of things chosen with care— was enough to break whatever thread of restraint he had left.

Jimin barely had time to set down the tray before Yoongi surged forward, wrapping strong arms around his waist and pulling him straight into his lap as he sat heavily on the cushioned bench.

“Yoongi—!”

“No.” The word came out as a growl. Not angry, but desperate. “No more distance. Stay here.”

Jimin blinked, heart racing. “Are you alright, love?”

Yoongi buried his face in Jimin’s neck, inhaling deeply, letting out a shaky breath against his pulse. “You smell like home. You smell like mine.”

“I am yours,” Jimin whispered, softening, threading his fingers through Yoongi’s dark hair.

They sat like that for a while, breaths evening. Yoongi eventually reached for the tray, offering a spoonful to Jimin.

“I’m not eating unless you’re eating,” he muttered, pressing the bite to Jimin’s mouth.

Jimin opened his mouth obediently, cheeks flushed. “You’re impossibly stubborn.”

“So are you,” Yoongi muttered into his shoulder.

“You heard about what I told the Queen?”

“I did.” Yoongi pulled him tighter. “And you were right. No other omega should be within scenting distance of me while I’m like this. I’m already losing myself. I can’t…” His voice cracked. “I won’t let anyone near.”

“You think I’d let them?” Jimin raised a brow, clearly offended.

Yoongi blinked. “You’re jealous.”

Jimin huffed. “I heard two maids whispering about how deep your voice is and how masculine you smell. One even said something about your hands.” He shuddered as if the memory alone was an insult. “I nearly threw a lemon tart at them.”

Yoongi laughed —an honest, rumbling sound. “You threw a lemon tart?”

“No. But I thought about it.”

Yoongi leaned forward, brushing their noses together. “You’re adorable when you’re feral.”

“I’m not feral,” Jimin said, ears bright pink. “I’m reasonable. And you’re mine.”

Yoongi kissed him slow, possessive. “And you’re mine.”

They stayed like that, working through the scrolls one at a time.

Jimin read them aloud while Yoongi fed him spoonfuls of stew or bits of warm bread, pausing only to grunt out a gruff, “Yes,” or, “No,” before signing lazily with one hand, the other arm ever-tight around Jimin’s waist.

By the end of the hour, the scrolls lay forgotten, the supper half-eaten, and Jimin’s legs draped across Yoongi’s lap, head resting on his shoulder.

Yoongi whispered against his ear, “If I fall into rut tonight, you must promise to leave. I won’t be able to hold back.”

Jimin’s voice was equally quiet. “I’m not leaving you.”

Yoongi shut his eyes.

The scent of his omega, the fire of his blood, the pulse of his bond —it was all too close. Too much. But it was also the only thing grounding him.

“…Then may the stars help us both.”

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading everyone☕️✨

Chapter 13: The Dragon’s Desperation

Summary:

“No feet on the cold floor,” Yoongi growled against his ear, carrying him easily to the secret hollow behind the chamber —an ancient hot spring nested within the tree’s roots, where steam rose in ghostly curls beneath the vaulted canopy of green.

“But— my King, I can walk,” Jimin protested weakly, giggling when the King’s breath rumbled a warning low in his throat.

“You will not,” he said, dipping his head to brush kisses along the curve of Jimin’s throat. “Your feet are mine. Your skin is mine. You are mine. I will bathe you myself.”

Notes:

I can’t believe we got Yoongi’s scrunch face with a backwards cap today, so we get two chapters🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

 

That night, the moon was high and heavy above the elven canopy, veiled in cloud, as if the sky itself sensed something sacred about to fracture.

The chamber was still. Quiet. Almost deceptively so.

The King’s pulse roared in his ears like the beating of war drums, each heartbeat pumping liquid fire through his veins. The fever of his rut clawed at him from within, savage and ancient, a draconic force older than any crown he wore on his brow. He pressed his burning forehead to the cold oak beam, scales shimmering where flesh met wood. Gold and obsidian ridged his shoulders in jagged rows, glittering in the moonlight that streamed through the arched windows like a mocking benediction.

He could taste his mate in the air —honey and wild berries, the scent so thick it almost choked him. He dragged a clawed hand down the wall, gouging splinters from the polished wood as his body ached for the softness of the bed behind him. For the willing warmth curled so trustingly in the center of that nest of silk and furs.

“Not yet,” he snarled under his breath, fangs bared at the shadows that coiled in the corners of the room. “Not like a beast. He deserves more.”

He staggered to the desk, the parchment already stained where his claws nicked the edge. Ink smudged under his trembling hand as he forced the simple words into place. A king’s order, a lover’s surrender to nature:

“Hold Frostpire strong. Rut.”

Two copies —one for the North, one for the Elven royals who’d be all too aware of the raw violence of an alpha’s rut. He tied one note to Nightshade’s claw, the raven croaking once in quiet understanding before vanishing into the velvet dark. The other he pressed to Shadow’s talons —the clingy male nipped affectionately at his ear before winging away through the high window.

Left alone, Yoongi clenched his fists and tilted his head back, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The beast in his blood demanded freedom —wings bursting half-formed beneath his shoulder blades, bones shifting but refusing to snap fully into draconic form. His body knew where its true transformation lay —not in fire and scale, but in seed and blood, in planting life within the soft warmth of the omega now stirring under the covers.

Omega. Breed. Mine. 

The words pulsed like a litany behind his eyes, his chest heaving as he stumbled back toward the bed. He fell to his knees beside it, forehead pressed to the curve of Jimin’s hip through the silken sheets, inhaling the sweet innocence that threatened to break his iron resolve. The scent calmed him and tortured him all at once.

He forced himself to stay there, trembling, breathing him in —choosing love over instinct, for just a moment longer.

By the time Shadow returned to the royal oak chambers, the moon was near its zenith. He landed softly on the window ledge, feathers ruffling as he settled beside the bed where his master lay —tangled around the delicate form of his mate. Yoongi’s scales shimmered faintly in the moonlight, golden plates half-hidden by the messy fall of blankets.

Jimin slept on, blissfully unaware of the beast wrapped around him —a King holding himself back with teeth clenched and claws dug into the mattress, willing his body not to wake the sleeping heart of his kingdom just yet.

Outside, the fae woods shivered with restless magic, the raven standing sentinel while the beasts of the old dark paced just beyond the barrier. But inside the chamber of oak and silk, King and Consort lay sealed within their bond —a fragile fortress more enduring than any stone wall or iron gate.

And though war loomed and dragons trembled in their skin, for now the young king only let his hand rest over the soft curve of his mate’s belly —the promise of all he’d sworn to protect, waiting to bloom in its own time.

By the time dawn teased the treetops with thin bands of pearl and rose, Yoongi was no longer a man so much as a beast wearing a man’s skin. His claws traced circles over the silk sheets, his scales glinting faintly in the watery light that spilled through the latticed windows of the great living oak. His wings threatened to tear free of his back, restless under his skin —yet he held them in check for one reason only: the fragile warmth curled against his chest.

Jimin stirred, soft lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks, oblivious to the war raging beneath his husband’s ribs. Yoongi buried his nose in the young omega’s neck, inhaling the sweet, almost cloying scent that promised him everything — heir, home, forever.

“Good morning, my flower,” he rasped, voice a rough purr as he pressed a kiss to Jimin’s  bare shoulder. The smaller body shivered, arching instinctively closer.

“My King… you’re burning up,” Jimin murmured, half-drowsy, half-worried as he reached to touch his husband’s jaw. His fingers traced over the scales that now crept in ridges over Yoongi’s throat and collarbones.

“Let’s sleep some more. You’re warm. I don’t wish to move.” Yoongi burrowed deeper into Jimin’s neck, scenting deeply —coaxing his omega back to sleep. It didn’t take much longer before Jimin was dozing against his chest again. He could hold off just a little longer, trusting the elven brew to wane the desperation crawling beneath his skin. Needing to keep his sleepy flower soft and sweet for as long as it would give.

A few hours later, Jimin woke curled in the nest of silken throws and moonsoft furs they’d gathered through the week. Yoongi sat at the edge, hunched, back bare and glistening with scattered scales, claws digging into the wooden frame of the carved bed.

The air was too thick. Too warm.

Jimin turned slightly, watching his mate’s shoulders —tense and trembling under the strain of something powerful. “My love,” he called softly, “are you alright?”

The Alpha growled low. Not a warning. A plea.

“Don’t—” Yoongi said, voice strangled. “Don’t come closer.”

Jimin sat up anyway, wrapping a fur loosely around his shoulders. “You’re in pain.”

“I’m in rut.”

There was no hiding it now. His eyes glowed gold in the dim candlelight. Sweat dampened his collarbones. The veins at his neck pulsed dark, furious. And the shimmer of his scales caught the morning sunlight. He was trembling from the effort of restraint. Of holding back what nature had designed him to unleash.

Jimin moved, crawling toward him across the bed. “Then let me help you.”

Yoongi flinched away, head bowed. “No. Not like this. I— if I hurt you—”

“You won’t.”

“I could.” His voice cracked into a snarl. “You’re not ready. Your body —your scent— I can’t even think straight. I don’t want to take what you’re not offering.”

Jimin’s answer was to take Yoongi’s hand and press it to his neck, right over the claiming mark, where their bond pulsed faint and ever-present like a heartlight beneath the skin.

“I’m yours,” Jimin whispered. “You’ve never hurt me. You never will. And I want you.” His voice faltered, flushed and trembling, but unwavering. “Let go, Yoongi. I’ll catch you.”

The growl that rumbled through Yoongi’s chest was all instinct. A jagged, broken sound —relief and hunger and the sharp edge of adoration all at once.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he whispered, voice low and trembling with restraint. “I’m at the edge, Jimin. The edge.”

Jimin leaned in and kissed his jaw, slowly, reverently.

“Fall,” he said. “Fall into me.”

His restraint shattered.

Yoongi surged forward, capturing Jimin in his arms like he’d been starved for touch. His mouth crashed to his mate’s, hot and wild, teeth grazing lips before he stilled —just for a heartbeat— to check himself.

“You tell me to stop,” he rasped, cupping the back of Jimin’s neck. “The moment it’s too much—”

“I won’t,” Jimin breathed, fingers already threading into his hair. “I need you.”

And the Dragon’s leash snapped.

He growled and pushed Jimin down into the nest, lips dragging down his throat, biting hard at the base of his neck before softening with kisses, then biting again —claiming, branding. One hand tangled in Jimin’s hair, tilting his head to bare the bond mark, and the other gripped his hip with desperate hunger.

Jimin gasped, head spinning, body flushed and pliant beneath him. “Yoongi— please—”

The King’s hands were everywhere. Pulling, pinning, undoing fabric and baring skin with single-minded focus. His rut burned behind his ribs like dragonfire, but even at his wildest, he remained aware of Jimin’s gasps, his softness, his surrender.

Torn between need and reason, Yoongi made himself busy making love bites bloom along the delicate curves of his husband’s collarbones. Darling Jimin, soft and pliant beneath him. All trust. No fear. But the beast within him stirred.

Omega. Claim. Devour.

It was primal. Apex predator and prey. Already within his claws, his hoard, his treasure. He forced himself away from the omega’s neck, ready to satisfy other needs. To taste.

Jimin is startled by the world turning, suddenly face to face with the plush pillows, he finds himself encompassed by his husband’s sturdy body, feverish skin pressing against his, too warm but not close enough. Yoongi gathers two dainty hands in his claws, closing Jimin into himself, making the omega feel tiny, fragile and protected.

The King makes his flower shiver, leaving trails of reverent kisses all over shy shoulderblades. He grabs locks of chestnut curls, tangled in his claws to uncover the curve of his neck. He nips at the skin, licks and worships to his liking, soft sighs and whimpers escaping his darling’s plush lips.  When the King moves southward, his flower squirms.

“M—my King?”

“Don’t move.” A rough drawl. A command in tender voice.

Yoongi noses along the swell of Jimin’s bottom, face to face with the source of sweetness, despite the mortified sound escaping his lips —cowering into the bedsheets— Jimin can’t move, not an inch away from his husband, even if the feeling of being so exposed makes his face burn.

“Spread for me,” Yoongi growled, voice rough as crushed stone. “Let me scent you.”

Jimin obeyed, blushing furiously, but his eyes were blown wide with need.

Careful claws keep the gentle mounds open. The scent so heady and rich he almost gives in to full instincts. The first lick makes his flower tremble and try to shy away. With a low warning growl Jimin stills, small fingers holding tightly onto the bedding. Tears spring to his eyes and an embarrassed whine is muffled by the pillows. 

Yoongi pushed his face deeper, scenting deeply before groaning like a beast. Slick dripped onto the fur beneath, sweet and inviting. He lapped at it like a man dying of thirst, and Jimin cried out, grabbing fistfuls of the fur, already shaking.

“You taste like heaven,” Yoongi groaned. “Like mine.”

He took his time. Tongue dragging slow and deep. Gentle fingers coaxing more slick from Jimin’s trembling entrance, his own restraint straining to its limits.

Making his flower come undone by his tongue, Yoongi cannot remember the threats of war.

But when Jimin’s body arched with need, begging without words, Yoongi rose, bracing himself with both hands, cock hard and weeping, rut haze thick in his blood. He helped Jimin turn to face him once more. Eyes glistening with unshed tears, blush high on his cheeks, his bitten lips, it all made Yoongi shudder.

“I can’t be gentle,” he warned, voice guttural.

“I don’t want gentle,” Jimin answered, eyes shining. “I want you.”

With a growl torn from deep in his chest, Yoongi pressed inside.

The stretch was deep and burning —Jimin gasped, clinging to his shoulders, body trembling as he took every inch. Yoongi stilled once he bottomed out, arms shaking as he held himself back.

“Too much?” he ground out.

Jimin shook his head rapidly. “No. Just— move. Please.”

And Yoongi did.

The thrusts were heavy, deep, rut-driven. Each stroke filled Jimin to the hilt, drew gasps and moans and Yoongi’s own low curses into the open air. But even in that hunger, Yoongi was still aware —still watched Jimin’s face, brushed kisses to his cheeks, groaned in awe every time Jimin clenched around him.

When Jimin’s eyes fluttered and his thighs began to tremble, Yoongi bent down and whispered, “I’ve got you, flower. You’re taking me so well. My brave, beautiful omega.”

Jimin whimpered, pleasure cresting like waves.

Yoongi shifted, pulled Jimin’s legs higher, and angled himself deeper. The cry Jimin gave was sharp, desperate —and Yoongi lost it.

His knot swelled fast, instinct demanding to lock, to bind. He gritted his teeth, trying to hold off —but Jimin, panting and flushed, pulled him down.

“Do it,” he whispered. “Claim me again.”

The bite was swift and deep —Yoongi’s teeth sinking into the bond mark as his knot popped inside, locking them together. Jimin screamed his release, body arching, pulsing around him as Yoongi spilled with a roar, the bond between them pulsing with radiant, blinding heat.

They remained tangled together, knotted, shaking, breaths mingling in the dark.

Yoongi pressed kisses into Jimin’s damp curls, over and over.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into his skin. “I tried so hard—”

Jimin hushed him with a kiss.

“You gave me everything I needed,” he said, soft and sure. “And everything I wanted.”

Yoongi pulled him close, cradling him as if he were something sacred. He growled, the possessive note in his voice unmistakable —a dragon’s command, primal and absolute. “You’ll stay with me. Always. Today. Forever.”

Jimin blinked, a shy smile ghosting his lips as he tilted his head in soft submission. “Of course, my King.”

And in the afterglow, with his knot still locked deep inside his mate, the Dragon King of Frostpire whispered his thanks into Jimin’s skin. Not just for the pleasure, or the bond, or the surrender —but for the trust.

For the love. For being his.

When Jimin tried to slip from the bed, whispering about needing to wash and gather his robes, Yoongi only snarled softly, scooping him up in one sweeping motion. His strength made the smaller man gasp, slender arms looping reflexively around the King’s broad shoulders.

“No feet on the cold floor,” Yoongi growled against his ear, carrying him easily to the secret hollow behind the chamber —an ancient hot spring nested within the tree’s roots, where steam rose in ghostly curls beneath the vaulted canopy of green.

“But— my King, I can walk,” Jimin protested weakly, giggling when the King’s breath rumbled a warning low in his throat.

“You will not,” he said, dipping his head to brush kisses along the curve of Jimin’s  throat. “Your feet are mine. Your skin is mine. You are mine. I will bathe you myself.”

He stepped into the warm pool, silk robes and trousers forgotten behind them. The steam clung to his scales, glistening along the golden ridges of his back and shoulders, down to where his wings trembled, aching to unfurl. Jimin melted against him, limbs slack with trust as Yoongi lowered them both into the mineral-rich waters.

The omega’s breath hitched at the heat wrapping around them —and at the sight of his mate’s eyes, now molten gold shot through with large pupils that flicked between Jimin’s  face and the swell of his own possessive hands drifting over soft skin under the water.

“So beautiful, my flower. My perfect mate.” He cupped water in his palm, letting it trickle down Jimin’s bare chest, washing him with tender reverence and searing hunger alike. When inevitably the King’s hand trailed lower to the small swollen length between his flower’s legs, every brush of his calloused thumb over delicate skin made Jimin tremble and whimper, his soft moans echoing under the vaulted canopy of the living oak.

When they finally emerged, Jimin shivering in the cool dawn breeze despite the hot spring’s warmth, Yoongi wrapped him in a robe spun from elven silk, carrying him like a prized treasure to the sunlit alcove where Shadow had left a basket brimming with fresh breads, spiced meats, and fruit kissed with morning dew.

“Sit,” Yoongi commanded, settling Jimin gently onto a nest of plush pillows near the window. The young omega’s curls gleamed with droplets of water, and he shivered again as Yoongi knelt before him, claws gentle but firm as he tucked the silk tighter around Jimin’s slim shoulders.

“My King… I can feed myself—” Jimin started, but the possessive growl that rumbled from deep in Yoongi’s chest silenced him instantly.

“No,” he said, eyes burning bright gold as he held a piece of honeyed bread to Jimin’s lips. “Open.”

Jimin obeyed, cheeks flushing pink as he bit down. Yoongi watched every movement of his lips, his own breath ragged as he traced a clawed thumb along Jimin’s jawline, collecting a smear of honey and licking it away with a low purr.

“So sweet. More.” A piece of fruit, pressed to the omega’s mouth. Then roasted venison, sliced with careful claws and held for him bite by bite. Jimin squirmed under the scrutiny, every swallow making the king’s eyes darken further.

By the time the basket lay empty and only crumbs and fruit peels remained, Jimin was trembling again —not from cold but from the heat that smoldered in his belly under his husband’s unwavering gaze.

Yoongi rose over him in a single fluid motion, muscles rippling as the beast in his blood rose to the surface. He scooped his mate into his arms once more, cradling him as though he weighed nothing, voice little more than a husky promise against Jimin’s lips.

“You’re mine. My Omega. My Flower. My Hoard.”

His breath came in soft, pleading whimpers as Yoongi carried him back to the nest of furs and silk by the hearth. The primal need that burned in the King’s molten eyes met only trust and yielding warmth in Jimin’s. No court, no crown —only the dragon’s rut finding sacred ground within his omega’s hold.

Omega. Mine. Forever.

🏰

Far to the north, beneath a darkened sky heavy with storms, Captain Jung stood in Mooncastle’s courtyard when the flap of wings broke through the clangor of iron and barking orders. Nightshade descended in a whirl of feathers, landing on his outstretched arm like a black omen made flesh. He untied the king’s note with gloved fingers, brows drawing together as he read the single brutal word: Rut.

“My King,” Hoseok muttered, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “At least you still have your priorities.”

He turned to Seokjin, who hovered by the barracks door, a bundle of scrolls and missives clutched to his chest like fragile hopes. Seokjin’s eyes darted to the note.

“Good news?”

“The best we’ll get. The king is alive. The bond is strong. And he is… preoccupied.” Jung tucked the note inside his breastplate. “Which means the burden is ours until he returns. Emyr’s dogs sniff at our gates but they haven’t broken the line. And they won’t.”

Seokjin let out a breath that fogged the cold air. His shoulders, so long drawn taut with worry, seemed to drop a fraction.

“Then we stand,” he murmured, more to himself than to Hoseok. “We hold Frostpire strong.”

“And more,” Hoseok said firmly, already reaching for fresh parchment and ink. He dipped his quill, his script swift but steady.

To His Majesty — West and South remain restless but cornered. We ride east by dawn to lend steel and gold to the border lords of Moongate. In your consort’s name, they will remember their allegiance. Frostpire stands strong. Return home when you are able, your crown waits. — Jung.

When the black raven lifted off again, Seokjin watched it vanish beyond the ramparts, the heavy rain muffling the courtyard’s restless noise. For the first time since the crown changed hands, he closed his eyes and dared to hope —that somewhere in the wilds of the sacred realms, a king and his omega flower were safe enough to dream of tomorrow.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading☕️✨

This story is just starting, strap on!

Chapter 14: The Dragon’s Desperation Pt. 2

Summary:

Jimin smiled, sleepy and warm and too sore to move.

“I don’t want to leave this bed,” he murmured.

“You won’t,” Yoongi growled softly, pressing closer, scenting the curve of Jimin’s neck. “You can’t. You’re mine. I won’t let you go.”

And just before they drifted off, Yoongi whispered—

“If our child grows in you… I will burn the heavens to protect you both.”

Notes:

They’re so cute, I love them🤧

 

Morning had not yet kissed the canopy outside their window, and the elven moon still lingered —silver and full— draping its light over the tangled nest of furs and limbs.

Yoongi woke with a low, rumbling exhale.

His first awareness was heat. The damp, heady scent of slick and sex clinging to his skin like smoke. The ache of spent need low in his gut.

The second was weight —Jimin, back pressed tight into his chest, breathing soft and slow in sleep, their legs intertwined, the imprint of Yoongi’s bite still red and raw on his neck.

And the third —was the knot.

Still locked deep inside Jimin’s body, swollen, pulsing faintly with the echo of their bond.

Yoongi held utterly still, muscles trembling with restraint as instinct rose again in a slow, insistent tide. His hips shifted, just enough to feel the unbearable slick warmth cradling him.

A groan slipped unbidden from his throat. His knot throbbed inside his omega, so swollen he could feel it stretching Jimin open still, holding him filled and flushed.

Gods.

He was still hard.

And worse —Jimin was so soft, pliant, the sweet scent of him dizzying now that Yoongi’s rut had fully bloomed.

His hand, large and calloused, drifted down his flower’s chest with slow reverence. And then he felt it.

Jimin’s belly —flat when he fell asleep— now swollen under the sheets. Gently, noticeably distended, round from where his seed had settled and remained.

Yoongi choked on a gasp.

“Fuck…”

He pressed his palm to the gentle swell, completely undone by the sight when he peeked over Jimin’s shoulder. His mate —his flower— already full with the promise of future life. His instincts went feral in an instant.

Jimin stirred then, brow twitching, his legs shifting.

“Mm… Yoongi?”

Yoongi’s hand gripped his hip, holding him down, even as his knot twitched and ground deeper.

Jimin blinked, still bleary from sleep. He squirmed slightly, confused at the heat between them, the pressure from behind.

“Wh—what’s wrong?” he mumbled.

“Shh,” Yoongi murmured, voice already thick with desire. He nuzzled against Jimin’s cheek, breathing him in, drunk on him. “Don’t move, flower. I can’t—” He sucked in a breath as his hips gave an involuntary thrust. “You’re still so tight around me. Gods, still so wet.”

Jimin whimpered, half-awake, half-aroused, his body already remembering the rhythm from the night before. “You… still?”

Yoongi couldn’t hold back anymore. He pressed him down into the mattress, large body blanketing Jimin’s smaller frame, possessive and shaking.

“You’re full, little bloom,” he growled, burying his nose into Jimin’s neck, breathing hard. “So full of me. You should see yourself —so round, so sweet… my seed took so well. You were made for this.”

Jimin gasped as Yoongi’s knot ground in deeper, stretching him anew, sparking pleasure that made him writhe beneath the alpha.

“W-Wait—Yoongi—” he whispered, hands weakly pushing at the King’s arms before curling into the sheets as another slow grind made him moan. “I— feel strange— full—”

“Because you are, flower.” Yoongi’s voice broke into a low groan. “You’re mine. Every inch. Even your womb knows it now. Look at how your belly swells with me. You’ll carry my cubs, won’t you?” He nosed behind Jimin’s ear, voice dark velvet and need. “Tell me you’ll carry them. That you’ll give me little ones with your eyes and my fire.”

Jimin whimpered, breath catching at the heat pooling low in his belly again.

Despite the soreness, despite the stretch —he felt himself softening, yielding to the words, to the alpha’s hunger and reverence and longing.

“You’ll be so beautiful,” Yoongi murmured, slowly starting to move, grinding just enough to push another helpless cry from Jimin’s lips. “Tiny flower, round with my child. No one will ever doubt who you belong to.”

Jimin whimpered, flushed deep pink, hands grasping at the sheets.

“I— belong to you…”

Yoongi groaned like a dying man. “Say it again.”

“I belong to you,” Jimin breathed. “Always. Only you.”

That was the breaking point. Yoongi surged forward with a guttural growl, teeth grazing Jimin’s bite-mark before biting again, a claiming over a claiming, just to feel him scream.

The second wave began like a storm. Rougher. Hotter. But still —with care.

Jimin sobbed and trembled, arching into him, letting Yoongi take and give in equal measure, letting the knot swell again, pressing and dragging into that spot that made his legs shake and breath come in broken, adoring moans.

Yoongi didn’t let him go. Not even once. Not between thrusts. Not after. And when they both lay trembling and knotted again, hands splayed over Jimin’s swollen belly, the alpha’s heart stuttered.

“You’ll be such a perfect father.” Jimin whispered —eyes wet, breath shaking— as Yoongi raised an eyebrow in disbelief and wonder.

Jimin must’ve dozed off at some point. He woke to the feeling of cool cloth dabbing gently at his inner thighs, a strong hand bracing his hip as something wiped away the remnants of their second claiming. His whole body ached—thighs trembling, hips sore, his entrance stretched and slow to close around the remnants of the alpha’s knot.

But the hands touching him were soft now. Reverent.

“Easy,” Yoongi murmured, his voice lower than usual, roughened by rut but laced with worry. “Don’t move yet, flower.”

Jimin blinked up at him, dazed and flushed, breath shallow.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, blinking slowly. “I didn’t… even know I’d fallen asleep.”

Yoongi let out a low breath, his thumb stroking slow circles at Jimin’s  hip. “You passed out on me, love. I thought I’d pushed you too hard.” His jaw clenched. “Gods, you were so sweet, and I— I was trying to hold back but then I saw your belly and I—”

Jimin’s eyes flickered down, following Yoongi’s gaze.

There it was again. The slight swell. As if something already nestled inside him, something hopeful and fragile and impossibly sacred.

Yoongi’s hand hovered over it. Then settled.

“You’re still warm,” he murmured. “Still full of me.”

Jimin’s heart stuttered at the way he said it—not with arrogance, but wonder. Like he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t stop believing in it either.

“Do you think it’s taken root?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “So soon?”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked up to meet his. Hungry. Awed. Afraid.

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “But the way you smell —how you’re still holding me so tight inside— it’s possible. Gods, I hope so.”

Jimin flushed, both bashful and overwhelmed. He reached for Yoongi’s hand where it still cupped his belly and threaded their fingers together.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he whispered. “If it did.”

Yoongi froze. Then slowly, he leaned down and pressed a kiss right to Jimin’s forehead, then another, on his lips, a silent prayer written in breath. His eyes shone dark with emotion when he pulled back.

“But I need to care for you first,” he murmured. “Before it happens again.”

He eased away from Jimin’s body with utmost care, untying the bond of his knot with a growl of restraint. Jimin winced slightly at the stretch and loss, whimpering as slick spilled down the insides of his thighs, warm and steady.

“I know, sweetling,” Yoongi said softly. “I’ve got you.”

He tucked a pillow beneath Jimin’s hips, then moved carefully around him, fetching clean cloths, warm water, and a healing salve from the elven apothecary’s case —everything the Queen had gifted them “in case the rut grows too strong.”

With gentle hands, Yoongi cleaned the mess he’d made. He never looked away from Jimin’s face, watching every breath, every flinch. And when he applied the salve, working it carefully into the tender skin between Jimin’s thighs and the bruised place where their bodies had met, he looked like he was about to fall apart with guilt.

“I hurt you,” he whispered.

“You didn’t,” Jimin said, reaching down to touch his cheek. “You claimed me.”

“I lost control.”

“You kept me safe. Even in your rut, even with everything raging inside you.” He pulled gently until Yoongi rose and lay beside him again, curling protectively around him. “You never stopped loving me. I felt it. In every touch.”

Yoongi let out a slow, shaking breath, burying his face into Jimin’s  neck. “I wanted to tear the world apart when I saw you swollen with me. I never knew it would feel like this.” His hand drifted again to Jimin’s  belly, possessive, tender, trembling. “Like I’ve planted something holy in you.”

Jimin smiled, sleepy and warm and too sore to move.

“I don’t want to leave this bed,” he murmured.

“You won’t,” Yoongi growled softly, pressing closer, scenting the curve of Jimin’s  neck. “You can’t. You’re mine. I won’t let you go.”

He wrapped both arms around Jimin, pulling him flush against his chest, his thigh thrown over Jimin’s  legs, enveloping him entirely. The alpha’s scent was everywhere now —cedar and smoke and firelight. A den made of muscle and warmth and breath. Jimin let himself melt into it.

But even then, Yoongi’s hand didn’t stop resting on the slight swell of Jimin’s  belly, as if anchoring himself to that small, quiet hope.

And just before they drifted off, Yoongi whispered—

“If our child grows in you… I will burn the heavens to protect you both.”

 

The chambers were cloaked in velvety quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the cooling hearth. Dawn had yet to break fully, casting everything in pale silvery-blue. The thick scent of rut still hung in the air, heady and warm, but Yoongi —miraculously— slept on, wrapped protectively around his mate.

Jimin stirred first. Sore, aching in places he hadn’t realized could ache, but comforted by the weight of his alpha’s arm slung over his waist. He turned slowly, careful not to wake him, and pressed a soft kiss to Yoongi’s temple.

“You need rest, my love,” he whispered. “Let me care for you this time.”

With gentle movements, Jimin slid from the bed, suppressing a wince as his thighs protested. He padded barefoot through their chambers, found a robe spun from the light silks the Queen had left for him, and wrapped it around himself. His scent still clung to everything —alpha musk and slick and heat— but he needed to feel clean, if only for a moment.

He slipped through the ivy drapes of their chambers, and descended to the hidden spring beneath the elven grove. Steam rose in delicate coils from the water’s surface, the warmth licking his skin even before he stepped in. The pool was surrounded by mossy stone and soft fern, a private sanctuary hidden beneath the roots of the trees. Jimin sighed in relief as he sank into the waters, letting them ease the tension in his muscles, washing away the remains of passion.

He was just beginning to relax, head tilted back, eyes closed—

When a snarl echoed through the chamber above. A deep, guttural sound of loss and fury.

Jimin’s heart skipped. Yoongi.

He turned to scramble up from the water, calling, “I’m here— Yoongi, I’m—!”

But heavy footfalls cut off his words. The scent of alpha struck him like a storm. Then Yoongi appeared at the edge of the pool —bare, wild-eyed, half-mad with instinct.

Jimin barely had time to stand before Yoongi was on him, stepping into the spring without pause, water lapping around his waist as he surged forward and pressed his chest to Jimin’s back, arms caging him in.

“You left me,” he growled into Jimin’s neck, voice cracked and feral. “You left the bed.”

“I didn’t— I just wanted you to sleep a little longer—”

Yoongi didn’t listen. His mouth found the nape of Jimin’s neck, fangs grazing over the place where his mating mark sat, already bruised and flushed. He bit —not to break skin, but to reprimand, a deep, primal warning. Jimin gasped, going rigid beneath him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

But Yoongi stilled. His hands slid over Jimin’s  sides, then lower, then forward to cradle the small swell of his belly. His breathing hitched —deepening, slowing— something in him soothed by the contact.

“Mine,” he murmured roughly. “Still full. Still mine.”

Jimin let out a breath of relief, though his heart still pounded. He felt like he had whiplash from the rapid swing of Yoongi’s instincts —from fury to affection in a single breath— but the alpha was trying. He was holding on.

Yoongi pressed a kiss to his shoulder, then another to the curve of his jaw, and finally bent to lap slowly at the mark he’d just bit. A gesture of apology. Of love.

Jimin melted in his arms.

They remained like that for a while —swaying gently in the water as Yoongi washed him, hands careful now, tracing every bruise and softening each one with reverent kisses. Jimin helped him, drawing water over his shoulders, sliding his fingers through the thick waves of his ink-dark hair.

The tension began to build again —slow this time. Heavy. Charged.

Jimin’s breath caught when Yoongi’s hands cupped his hips again, when he bent his head to mouth kisses down his spine. His core clenched, aching once more. Needy.

And then Jimin turned in his arms, straddling his lap with slow, confident ease. His knees slipped against the smooth stone beneath the water, but he caught himself by bracing against Yoongi’s shoulders.

“My alpha,” he whispered, eyes wide, voice sweet and low. “Will you take me again? Here… in the warmth?”

Yoongi’s pupils blew wide. His hands gripped Jimin’s  thighs so tight he almost growled —but he nodded, a groan rumbling deep in his chest.

“Say it again.”

Jimin leaned forward, pressing his lips just below Yoongi’s ear. “Take me again,” he whispered, “like I’m yours. Like you’ll never let go.”

Yoongi surged upward with a kiss that knocked the breath from his lungs. The water rippled and splashed as he shifted to press Jimin against the edge of the spring, guiding his slick body down onto his length. Jimin gasped, back arching, nails scraping over Yoongi’s shoulders as the alpha filled him in one slow, overwhelming thrust.

He moved with control this time —barely— but each roll of his hips was laced with need. Reverent, yet claiming. Jimin moaned, fingers trembling as he clung to his mate, gasping his name over and over between kisses.

Yoongi buried his face in Jimin’s neck, breath hot and ragged.

“I’ll give you more,” he groaned. “As many as you’ll carry.”

Jimin clung tighter. “Then make me yours again, my King.”

And so Yoongi did —again and again— as the hidden spring steamed around them, rising with the heat of their bond.

🏰

In Mooncastle’s great hall, Seokjin sat with Hoseok as the owl sent by the East landed, the letter tied securely to its leg. Hoseok broke the wax with steady hands, scanning the message as Seokjin leaned in.

“The South has pulled back,” the Captain read aloud, a rare flicker of relief brightening his battle-hardened face. “We must ride to the East to lift Moongate. In His Highness Jimin’s name.”

Seokjin’s tired eyes shimmered with unshed tears, his voice barely more than a whisper as he touched the parchment reverently.

“Then the Consort’s people will see the North’s banner beside theirs. They will remember.”

Hoseok placed a hand on Seokjin’s shoulder, the clang of armor echoing in the icy hall. “Hold the faith. The King will return to a kingdom still standing. And a mate carrying the North’s future in his belly.”

Seokjin nodded, his breath a soft ghost in the cold hall —hope, fragile but burning, at last warming the stone bones of Mooncastle.

🌸🪾

Night fell heavy over Liven, and though the grove outside their chambers glowed gently with firefly light and moonlit blossoms, within their room the air was thick, saturated with musk and heat and the rhythm of a bond in its final, consuming throes.

Yoongi’s breath came in broken gasps, teeth clenched as he gripped the carved headboard behind Jimin’s  back, every muscle trembling with the effort to hold back.

Jimin was beneath him again, flushed and slick, thighs trembling from how many times Yoongi had taken him through the day. But his eyes —half-lidded, pupils wide and blown with heat— held no fear. Only craving. Only Yoongi.

The hush of the ancient oak chamber was broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the distant trill of wild birds echoing through the sacred glade. In the nest of furs and silken sheets, Yoongi loomed over his mate like a storm poised to break —scales glinting gold and coal-black where the moonlight kissed the curve of his shoulders, the arch of his wings, half-sprung from his back in his fevered need.

Jimin lay beneath him, tired yet trusting, his legs parted by the King’s hips. The claim mark at the crook of his neck glowed faintly where Yoongi had bruised it earlier, a fresh bite layered over older scars —proof that he belonged to no court, no kingdom, only to the Dragon King above him.

“Are you afraid, my flower?” Yoongi’s voice was raw silk and gravel, cracking at the edges as he brushed his mouth over Jimin’s temple.

Jimin trembled but shook his head, wide eyes glistening with tears that weren’t from fear but from the sheer ache of anticipation. 

“Never of you, my King,” he whispered, arching up to brush their lips against his jaw, tasting the rawness of Yoongi’s hunger and returning it with a shy, desperate want of his own.

“You’re trembling,” Jimin whispered, voice hoarse and wrecked but still impossibly tender.

“I—” Yoongi choked out, sweat dripping down his temple. “I can’t— I’ll be too rough—”

Jimin reached up, pulling Yoongi’s mouth down to his. “Then be rough,” he said fiercely against his lips. “Take me like you need to, my King.”

A deep growl tore from Yoongi’s throat —not anger but a sound so primal and soft it made the shadows in the chamber seem to lean closer. His claws traced up the insides of Jimin’s thighs, careful not to break the fragile, silken skin as he spread him wider.

“You are mine. Say it, Jimin.”

“Yours,” Jimin gasped, voice cracking when Yoongi pressed inside —the first deep thrust, a heavy, burning stretch that made his back arch, hands fisting in the furs.

“Again,” the King rasped, rut-driven hips grinding deeper, claiming every trembling inch.

“Yours! I’m yours Yoongi!” Jimin sobbed, wrapping trembling legs around Yoongi’s waist, clinging to his broad shoulders as the world narrowed to the roll of muscle and bone and the delicious, raw ache of being made to hold him, to keep him.

Yoongi’s rhythm started slow, brutal in its tenderness, every thrust punctuated with worshipful kisses pressed to Jimin’s  open mouth, his fluttering pulse, the tear-wet corners of his eyes. 

He drove into Jimin with a desperate, feral need, burying himself to the hilt with every thrust. Jimin cried out beneath him, keening with pleasure, hands tangled in his hair, back arching and pulling him deeper. Their skin slapped together, loud and wet and raw, the sounds of rut echoing in the chamber like thunder.

“Mine,” Yoongi growled. “My mate. My omega.”

Jimin moaned, “Yours, all yours—”

Yoongi’s hands gripped Jimin’s hips so tight his knuckles blanched, head dropping into the crook of his neck to bite and lick and worship the mark he’d made nights ago. Jimin sobbed, not from pain but from overwhelming pleasure, his body lighting up every time Yoongi’s knot swelled thicker and pressed insistently into him.

Soon, instinct overtook reason —Yoongi’s half-wings unfurled halfway, scales clattered against the furs, and a snarl curled from deep in his chest as his knot began to swell at the base.

“Bear me a cub,” he growled between kisses, the words half-plea, half-command. “A strong heir. My heir. Tell me you will, my flower.”

Jimin’s mind was haze and starlight, his voice broken but sure as he clung tighter, body soft  around the thick stretch of him. Ready to cradle the fruit of their bond. “Yes —yes, my King— our cub, please—”

Yoongi’s fangs grazed the claim mark again, renewing it with a bite that sent white lightning through Jimin’s bones. The omega sobbed and writhed, pinned beneath the dragon’s bulk and the unstoppable rut-driven movement of hips and length stubbornly pushing deeper.

They shattered —Yoongi roaring low against Jimin’s throat as he emptied himself with a final, powerful thrust, knot locking tight, hips grinding through the last, helpless pulses of release. Jimin convulsed around him, gasping, seizing, his nails clawing into Yoongi’s back.

Heat spilled inside him in waves, a fertile tide as Yoongi’s breath stuttered in his throat. He buried his face in Jimin’s hair, inhaling the sweet scent turned musky with slick and heat and salt tears —the scent that would forever mean home.

Hours passed, or maybe centuries, until the king lay half-shifted above his mate —half-wings draped protectively around the two of them, shielding them from the cool dawn light that crept through the living wood.

It took long moments for the tremors to fade. For the world to tilt back into place.

When at last the fever broke, Yoongi could not —would not— let go. He pressed trembling kisses to Jimin’s damp brow, his cheeks, his soft lips parted in sleep. His claws traced circles on the ever so slight bump of his belly, where warmth pulsed deep inside —the King’s seed stubbornly refusing to slip free, held tight by the knot until nature gave leave.

“Mine,” he murmured again and again, voice hoarse but gentler than any courtier would ever believe possible from the Mad King of the North. “Mine. Our cub. Mine.”

He couldn’t quite trust it —the primal certainty that something had quickened inside his mate. The beast in him felt it: the seed caught, the warmth of an heir stirring already under that delicate skin. But his human mind whispered caution. 

Not yet. Wait for a healer’s word. Wait for signs.

Yet every time he moved —every time Jimin shifted and whimpered softly in sleep, hips pressing back to his mate —Yoongi’s heart thudded with savage joy. The kingdom, the wars, the storms to come —all seemed distant when he felt the heat of his claimed mate, bound tight to him by nature’s oldest law.

“Easy, flower. You’re safe.”

He would never stray far again. He could not —his claws would itch, his wings would ache, his soul would tear itself in half if parted. His people would see him rule from Mooncastle’s frozen halls with his flower by his side —round-bellied and radiant with the life they’d made together, proof of the dragon’s undying vow.

Outside, the ravens circled and cawed in the dawn, their wings black banners against a pale sky —messengers of flame and frost alike. Somewhere far North, Captain Jung and Seokjin waited, blades and prayers at the ready.

And here, tangled in silks and furs within a sacred living oak, the Dragon King clutched his flower close and whispered promises to the heir he could almost taste on his tongue.

“Mine. Always mine. Always ours.”

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading and all the nice comments☕️✨

Chapter 15: The Magic Within

Summary:

“You question my mate’s strength?”

The lord swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “We question only what the realms must depend on—”

“The realms depend on my word.”

“Speak ill of my mate again, and I will peel your line from this world —root and branch. I will salt your fields, take your sons for the Wall, and scatter your bones for crows to worry.”

Notes:

We’re back in the human realm!

 

Yoongi woke hours later, mind clear. For the first time in days, his instincts had calmed, the haze of rut lifted. What remained was soreness in every muscle, the tangle of limbs beneath silk sheets —and the gentle weight of his mate on top of him, wrapped around like a second skin.

Jimin was glowing.

Flushed and pliant, cheek pressed to Yoongi’s chest, a dopey smile stretched over his face. A sweet purr coming from his throat. He looked drunk on scent, blissfully adrift in the afterglow.

Yoongi blinked, dazed.

“Jimin?” he rasped softly, a hand brushing down the curve of his back. The other pulling the blanket higher on instinct alone.

Jimin hummed dreamily, tightening his thighs around Yoongi’s hips, arms looping around his shoulders. “Mmm —no moving,” he mumbled.

Yoongi shifted slightly. “I should get water. And food. You haven’t eaten since—”

Jimin whined. Whined. High-pitched and pitiful, urging Yoongi back down.

“Stay,” Jimin whispered. “You’re warm. You’re mine. Don’t go.”

Yoongi smiled helplessly, stunned at the need in Jimin’s voice. “Flower, I just want to take care of you.”

“You are,” Jimin protested, nuzzling under Yoongi’s chin. “Stay here. I’ll bite if you leave.”

Yoongi huffed a soft laugh, his chest vibrating beneath Jimin’s ear. “Are you threatening your alpha?”

Jimin looked up, eyes glazed and bright. “No. I’m promising.”

“Gods,” Yoongi murmured, kissing the top of his head. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

They lay like that for a while, Yoongi content to let his mate cling and melt against him, arms wrapped tight, fingers brushing the chocolate curls falling down his back. One hand moved to his hip, thumb tracing circles to the soft swell of Jimin’s lower belly again, still slightly distended, and his heart staggered at the touch.

He couldn’t tell if his seed had rooted yet, but some ancient part of him —some primal core— believed yes. Something had begun. The bond felt deeper now. Like a seed buried in spring soil, already yearning to grow.

Jimin stirred with a sleepy sigh. “I know what you’re thinking,” he murmured.

Yoongi raised a brow. “Oh?”

“You’re thinking about our cubs.”

Yoongi’s throat caught. “I… am.”

Jimin smiled, still dreamy. “Me too. But you’re not leaving this bed until I say so.”

Yoongi chuckled softly. “Then I suppose I’ll have to carry you.”

Jimin blinked. “What—”

Before he could finish, Yoongi sat up —still refusing to let Jimin’s delicate feet touch the ground, —his mate too holy and revered for something as worldly as walking. He stood, cradling his mate in his arms like a treasured prize.

Jimin gave a shocked squawk. “Yoongi!”

“Quiet, flower,” he said with a soft growl. “I’m going to wash you. And then I’m feeding you. And then we’ll lay down again.”

Jimin flushed, clinging tighter as Yoongi padded barefoot to the hidden spring once more, both of them still marked by the intensity of their bond. And though the rut had passed, its embers still glowed bright between them, woven into every look, every kiss, every breath.

They had crossed a threshold into something unshakable. Eternal.

The morning after Yoongi’s rut broke, the world seemed softer somehow —like the forest itself exhaled, warm and damp with promise. A celebratory breakfast was prepared under the ancient canopy, recipes from the time when fae and humans still sat at the same tables, when dragons were crowned and omegas worshipped as sacred bearers of future dynasties.

The air was thick with prayers —whispered between sips of sweet elderflower cordial and bites of honeyed rootcakes. Soft invocations drifted through the branches like motes of pollen: Let the waters be crystalline and fresh to nurture the seedling. Let the earth be firm so it may take root. Let the warmth of fire coax it to sprout. Let the force of wind lift it to the sky.

Jimin sat tucked into Yoongi’s lap, unwilling —unable— to be parted from the warmth and weight of his alpha. His small hands clutched at a fold of his husband’s tunic or curled around the thick wrist that held a cup of steaming tea to his lips. He let Yoongi feed him morsels of fruit and fresh bread, pressing sticky-sweet pieces back to his mate’s mouth in return, laughter and shy kisses mingling with the scent of spiced apples and damp earth.

When the final blessings were given —sprigs of rosemary and sage tied with silver ribbon, laid in Jimin’s open palms— the elves gathered an escort for their kings. A hunting party clad in living armor of vine and ironbark, sworn to guard the dragon’s seed and its delicate cradle. They would watch the woods, keep the cursed and corrupted at bay, so that Yoongi could lay aside his crown for a heartbeat and be only a husband, only a mate.

When dusk neared, Yoongi would rest his head in his flower’s lap, the Dragon King’s eyes drifting shut as Jimin’s gentle fingers combed through his hair. He fed his alpha grapes and whispered sweet nonsense while Prince Taehyung perched nearby, spinning stories as old as the bones of the world —tales of the Wild Hunt, of elder bloodlines, of the wolf schools and the cat-eyed witchers who once stalked monsters through moonlit fields.

Still, when the campfires burned low, Yoongi rarely slept. His restless gaze found only his mate —the fine line of Jimin’s throat, the soft rise of his belly beneath layers of linen, the tiny glimmer of what might be taking root inside him. He made silent vows to every star that pierced the canopy above: no kingdom would threaten what he held. No beast would claw through his walls. He would tame the restless North and break every blade raised against his heart.

Traveling beside them, Taehyung and Jimin became a matched pair —two young souls with secrets in their blood. The Elven Prince, only a century old and bright-eyed with mischief, took to Jimin like an older brother might. They spoke of human dinners and scones with clotted cream, of the simple sweetness of mortal hearths compared to the splendor of eternal groves. Taehyung confessed his fascination with human fragility —how quickly they loved, how fiercely they died.

“I see more in you than a human, Jimin,” Taehyung whispered one night as the fire cracked and Yoongi slept at their backs.

“I see a sliver of the old blood. Perhaps it is wishful —but I would like to think you are her kin, the Priestess who loved the mortal warrior. Some lines run deeper than stone and time.”

Jimin thought then of his grandfather’s book, its leather cover worn soft with centuries of secrets. Maybe there was something there —something hidden in his veins, waking now in the hush between his heartbeats.

So Taehyung taught him. In the hush of dawn, in the hush of dusk. Little sparks of something more —the old Witcher sigils passed down from elf to elf. Aard, for a sudden push of air and power. Axii, to calm or confuse. Igni, a flick of flame for warmth or wrath. Quen, a fleeting shield spun from the bones of old wards. Yrden, a trap that turned ground to snare and snarl.

Jimin practiced whenever he could, palms humming with the memory of Taehyung’s guiding touch. Even if he doubted he had a drop of elder blood —it felt right, a quiet weapon for the omega whose only shield had been his husband’s claws.

Days passed in soft hours —until the path took them through Blathanna’s broken spine. Once a valley of flowers where the fae wove songs into the roots, now a ruin where curses slithered through moss and shattered stone.

A low rumble, deep as thunder, split the hush. The ground heaved —a groan of ancient pain— and from beneath the cracked altar rose an earth elemental. A thing made of rock and grief and memories of battles that should have been forgotten.

“Protect the King’s heart!” an elven voice rang out —silver clashing against the creature’s stone fists. The escort lunged as one living wall, fae blades meeting fists of mud and jagged shale.

In one blink Jimin was staring up at the lumbering mass —the next he was crushed to Yoongi’s chest, feet lifted clean off the mossy ground. Wind roared past him —his King’s half-wings unfurled in furious promise. He felt the savage beat of the dragon’s heart beneath his palms. Prince Taehyung was at their flank, palm glowing with Quen’s flickering shield —ready, fearless.

The fight was a storm of teeth and grit. The dimeritium bombs barely held the creature back —stone fists broke spears, claws skittered on its hide. But the dragon’s rage was older than iron. Yoongi’s roar split the valley as he tore through the monster’s back, claws sinking deep to crush its core. Earth fell silent, dust swirling around the shattered ruin of the beast.

Jimin’s pulse thundered in his ears. Taehyung’s shoulder bled where stone had grazed him, and Jimin’s hands trembled —until he felt the old words ignite in his throat. 

Quen. 

His palms sparked gold. The shield hummed around him and Taehyung both —a soft dome of power, flickering and real. He held it there, even when it was done, even when the elemental lay broken and still.

Yoongi found him then —scenting him, cradling him, whispering his name like a prayer until the shock broke him down. Jimin sagged into his mate’s arms, vision swimming, the world spinning with the dizzy hush of magic and fear and the fragile thing alive within him.

The King carried him far from the ruin’s bones, refusing to set him down until the elves raised a fresh camp and Taehyung’s gentle fingers checked him for harm. There were no wounds —only exhaustion, and something deeper. A life that seemed to whisper I am here each time his pulse slowed.

The last days of their journey passed beneath a soft drizzle of late spring rain. Giant insects skittered from dark roots, but the elves cut them down before they neared the dragon’s mate. Yoongi’s hand rested always on Jimin’s hip, thumb brushing over his stomach in thoughtless circles.

On the final morning before the Barrier’s misted shield rose before them, Jimin found he could not swallow more than a bite of bread. The smell of eggs turned his stomach. The dizziness lingered behind his eyes like a new dawn.

No one spoke the words aloud. Not yet. But Yoongi’s hand cupped his nape —warm and certain— and the elves lowered their heads in silent thanks to ancient gods and forgotten thrones.

The dragon’s seed had taken root. The kingdom’s future curled tiny and fierce inside its flower’s belly —a secret promise that would grow taller than any wall of stone, deeper than any threat of frost and fang.

Crossing the Barrier felt like passing from a dream back into a half-forgotten nightmare. The Elven woods faded behind them —that hush of ancient magic, the gentle murmur of witchlight and silver-tongued blessings —but the feel of it clung to Yoongi like the ghost of warmth on cold skin. It lingered behind his ribs like a promise and a warning both.

Yet already the old dread coiled tight around his spine. Beyond these final stretches of thawing woodland lay Mooncastle —his ancestral fortress of stone and steel, perched like a scar among the mountains. There, his uncle’s loyalists still skulked like rats behind marble columns. There, Jeon Minjae’s web of traitors waited to test how far the new King’s mercy would stretch before it snapped.

He trusted Hoseok and Jin —their iron sense and unyielding loyalty had held the realm steady in his absence— but no one could hold the North like its dragon could. He knew it in his bones. And yet… how could he be both king and mate, sword and shield and tender keeper of this fragile bloom that now fluttered unseen in his flower’s belly?

He saw the court in his mind: the sharp-eyed lords and their silken smiles, already hungry for spectacle. They would demand proclamation, expect him to stand Jimin at his side like a standard —proof of the King’s virility, proof of the realm’s enduring strength. To declare an heir was to declare open challenge: 

Come test me. Come try to break what I hold.

And yet… how could he do otherwise? His people would look to him for certainty, for the promise that the dragon line would never break again. He needed the East brought back into the fold, the brotherhood of Jimin’s lost house restored. The South waited —greedy for trade, suspicious of a North ruled by claws and flame.

And the West… The West owed him answers for the blades that had slithered through his woods and left traps for his mate.

A King’s list of burdens never ended. But all those troubles turned to mist when he felt his mate’s shiver seep through his tunic and settle against his chest.

The North did not forgive easily. By nightfall, frost bit at the edges of every shadow, and the wind keened like a widow through the passes. Yoongi brought them to rest in the oldest of shelters —a cave hollowed by generations of dragon kings who’d crossed into fae lands and returned heavy with new vows. The walls were smoothed by centuries of claw and fire, etched with the half-faded runes of his line.

In that sacred hollow he curled himself around his mate. Jimin’s fingers gripping his tunic, tugged at his wrist, dragged him closer until there was no space left for cold to slip between them. He buried his nose in Yoongi’s throat, scenting him again and again until the King’s pulse thundered like an oath against his lips. So small, so stubborn —demanding to be marked, to be scented and kept safe.

Yoongi rumbled low, heat rolling off him like the heart of a forge, wrapping his mate and the tiny seed within in a warmth no winter storm could breach. Outside, his soldiers stood grim-eyed and patient, blades ready for any ice wraith or nightbeast that dared test the dragon’s den. Prince Taehyung knelt watchful at the mouth of the cave, coaxing sparks from dry tinder, feeding the flames until dawn painted frost into silver.

By the time they descended the slopes, the cruel bite of winter loosened its claws. At the mountain’s foot, snow gave way to bursts of wild daffodils —brave yellow flares pushing through thawed earth. Mountain goats clambered from rock to rock, bleating soft to their spindly-legged kids. Does grazed the budding underbrush, flicking startled eyes toward the royal party before vanishing like ghosts into the pines.

Jimin leaned into Yoongi’s side, color returning to his cheeks with every step away from snow and stone. The crisp air was gentler here —sweet with pine sap and new grass, the land itself seeming to bow low to greet its King and the secret life nestled warm inside his Consort.

A raven’s silhouette circled above them —Nightshade, slick as spilled ink, carrying the King’s sealed words ahead to Mooncastle. 

Keep it quiet. Ready the hearth. Your king returns by midnight. 

Hoseok would wait at the gates, Seokjin at his shoulder —silent guardians of the realm’s fragile heart.

By the time the castle’s back gate swung wide, dusk had bled into starless night. No banners, no trumpets —only a handful of stablehands startled from half-sleep, bowing low to the Dragon King’s silent return.

Yoongi wasted no breath on ceremony. His mind was already on the private chambers above, the soft pile of furs, the hush where no blade nor courtly eye could pierce. He all but carried Jimin inside, armor clinking, boots wet with mountain snow. One more night —one night to be only flesh and warmth, not crown and claws.

In their chamber, he stripped away the trappings of rule and let himself sink beneath the covers, pulling his mate with him —Jimin pliant as silk in his arms, sleepy and sweet, still clutching at him like a child with a beloved doll. Yoongi pressed his palm low to his belly, felt the promise beneath, the tiny heartbeat not yet heard but felt in every trembling breath.

He would hold this. Just this —before dawn clawed him back to iron and duty.

Jimin refused to let go come morning. He burrowed deeper when Yoongi rose to dress, sleepy murmurs muffled against the broad span of his back. The only thing that roused him was the promise of sitting on his King’s knee while he ate —the only way, he claimed, to keep his stomach calm as dawn’s light touched the dew-rimed windows.

Yoongi fed him tenderly, each bite a small reassurance against the tide that waited beyond the bedchamber door. He bent low, pressing a lingering kiss to Jimin’s temple as he rasped, voice rough from sleep,

“If it were only my will, I’d never leave your side. Not for a breath, my dearest.”

Jimin only pressed closer, face hidden in the curve of his neck, clinging to the heavy folds of his cloak like a lifeline.

But the world waited —relentless and hungry. And the world barged in with Seokjin, exasperated but not unkind, bowing stiffly as he swept in like an east wind, papers and scrolls rattling in his wake. He paused only to brush Jimin’s hair back and promise him honeyed tea later —quiet comfort for the soft King’s heart who now carried Frostpire’s fiercest hope within his belly.

Yoongi let his mate linger in the circle of his arms a heartbeat longer. Then, with iron settling over his spine like a second skin, he rose —Dragon, King, sword. But the warmth against his throat, the scent of Jimin clinging to him like a secret vow, reminded him with every step:

He would wield every blade in the North —break every chain, drown every plot in fire and fang— for the sake of what lay soft and hidden in his flower’s womb.

The great hall of Mooncastle was colder than the slopes outside —cold not with wind or snow, but with old stone and older ghosts. Braziers guttered against the walls, fighting back the chill, shadows flickering like the shapes of the kings who had ruled here before —conquerors crowned in dragonbone.

Yoongi sat at the head of the long blackwood table, flanked by Hoseok at his right hand and Seokjin just behind —a silent shadow with quill and scroll in hand. Before him spread the Council: hard-faced jarls and petty lords wrapped in fur and iron, eyes sharp as hawks as they drank in the sight of their young King returned from the fae lands.

They bowed —deep enough, but the sharpest among them straightened too quickly, breath held like wolves scenting blood.

Yoongi’s voice broke the hush. “My absence has ended. My claim stands, iron-bound as ever. The Barrier holds. The Elves stand as allies, not enemies. And the line of Min…”

He let the words hang like a blade above their heads. Some leaned in, hungry for confirmation. Others stiffened, shifting in their chairs as though bracing for battle.

“…the line of Min endures. And it will flourish.”

A murmur —low, but bitter. An older thane, hair slicked back with bear fat, cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the vaulted chamber. 

“Your Majesty, if we are to stand strong before West and South alike, the realm must see the heir. It must be proclaimed before the next full moon. The wolves gather when they smell fresh meat —let them smell fire instead.”

A few around him nodded, emboldened. Another voice —oily, with the accent of the coastal barons— piped up.

“With all due respect, my King, the people will wish proof. The boy consort… well, none here doubt your virility, but the Consort is small. Fragile. Who’s to say his belly will hold the dragon’s line?”

Silence fell sharp as a knife. Somewhere near the back, a single breath hitched —a young page paling as he felt the temperature drop like iron in deep water.

Yoongi did not rise. He did not have to. He simply leaned forward, elbows resting on the table’s carved edge, molten gold eyes settling on the fool who had spoken last. In that stillness, his presence grew —like coals banked too long flaring back to life.

“You question my mate’s strength?” The words were soft, careful —as if he might taste them before deciding whether to speak them at all.

The lord swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “We question only what the realms must depend on—”

“The realms depend on my word. My word is that my mate will bear the North’s heart. My word is that this child will stand above every blade drawn against Frostpire.”

He let the silence stretch, savoring it like a beast savoring the scent of fear. Then he smiled —thin, cold, the smile that had once earned him whispers of Mad King once the crown touched his brow.

“And should any man here,” he went on, each syllable dripping like slow poison, “suggest again that my omega is anything less than worthy of this crown, I will have your tongue nailed to the gates you pretend to guard.”

No one moved. No one breathed.

“Speak ill of my mate again, and I will peel your line from this world —root and branch. I will salt your fields, take your sons for the Wall, and scatter your bones for crows to worry.”

He leaned back then, as if the warmth had returned to the chamber, folding his hands loosely before him. “Now. Since loyalty is clearly so dear to our hearts today —let us speak of it properly.”

His eyes slid across the lords like a blade tracing a throat.

“The West meddles. The South whispers. The East bleeds and looks North for salvation. My scouts find signs of coin and steel that should not cross these borders. If any soul here keeps counsel with foreign gold —speak now, and you may keep your breath. Hold your tongue, and the next time I smell treachery, you will not keep your head.”

A hush, heavy as falling snow. Seokjin made a careful mark on his parchment, eyes lowered but lips curved at the corner in faint approval. Hoseok simply stood behind the King’s shoulder like a statue carved from the same cold granite as the keep.

Yoongi did not shout. He did not roar. He did not need to. In that chamber of dragons and wolves, it was enough that he smiled —that they saw the glint of fangs behind it.

Beyond those doors, down hushed halls and behind heavy doors guarded by knights loyal only to their King, Jimin lay curled in their bed. Warm furs, a cup of Seokjin’s sweet tea steaming on the bedside table, the tiny spark in his belly guarded by more steel and wrath than any mortal child had known in an age.

And far above, cold mist rimmed the keep’s spires like a crown of thorns —but at its heart, the seedling slept in peace, sheltered by a dragon whose madness would break kingdoms before he let the bloom be touched.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading! ☕️✨

Alpha King Yoongi is my favorite Yoongi🗣️

Chapter 16: The Flower in The Shadows

Summary:

“I’m ensuring—”

“You are smothering,” Seokjin cut in, softer now but no less firm. “Trust your Consort. If you cannot trust him, then at least trust me.”

The next morning, Captain Jung appeared in the training yard with a wicked grin and two blunted practice spears.

“Orders from The Rose,” he said cheerfully. “You and I are going to spend the day knocking each other into the mud until the banquet begins.”

Notes:

Courtly duties…

 

The heavy doors of the royal bedchamber stayed shut to all but the most trusted. Outside, the castle rumbled —courtiers murmuring like restless birds, steel boots on hard stone, rumors flitting through torchlit halls faster than any raven.

But within the Kings’ antechambers, the hush was near holy. The fire burned low and steady, a few drift-globes casting warm light on the carved beams overhead.

Jimin lay half-curled in the sofa full of furs and pillows, a book half-open on his lap. He didn’t read so much as drift —one hand laid gently against the slight swell of his lower belly, though no eyes but his could see it yet.

A knock, then the softest creak —and Seokjin stepped through, arms full of parchment, ink-smudged fingers still damp from sealing some urgent letter or another. He tutted the moment he saw Jimin’s distracted gaze.

“Your Grace,” Seokjin said, more fond than formal. He set the papers aside and perched on the edge of the nest, brushing imaginary lint from Jimin’s blanket. “You’ll make your eyes sore pretending to read that old tome when your mind is leagues away.”

Jimin tried to look scolded, but his smile betrayed him. “It’s a book on the Old Faith. It says seeds grow best when spoken to kindly.”

“Mm. Then it must feel most welcome already.” Seokjin’s hand hovered near the young omega’s belly, though he didn’t touch. His eyes softening at Jimin’s smile.

“How do you feel today?”

“Soft,” Jimin confessed, cheeks flushing warm. “Tired, but not unhappy. When I wake, Yoongi’s  scent lingers all around me. It feels…” He faltered, but Seokjin only waited, patient as ever. “It feels like I’m exactly where I should be.”

A soft rap at the outer door broke their hush. Before Seokjin could scold the interruption, a swirl of shimmering fabric slipped through —Prince Taehyung, his braid loose, a scattering of spring petals on his shoulders.

“Your Highness!” Taehyung chirped, sweeping in like moonlight through parted drapes. He perched himself cross-legged on the floor by Jimin’s feet, heedless of protocol. “I couldn’t stay in that stiff guest wing any longer. May I stay with you awhile?”

Jimin laughed, too charmed to deny him. “Of course. I missed you at breakfast.”

“Your King kept me busy, drilling the guard on how to handle drowner packs at the river crossings.” Taehyung mimed a stern face, then broke into giggles.

“Do you know, your Mooncastle soldiers keep calling me ‘little fae lord’? I think they forget I could hex half of them blind if I wished.”

“They’d thank you for it if you asked politely enough,” Seokjin muttered under his breath, earning a scandalized laugh from Taehyung and a stifled giggle from Jimin.

Not long after, the heavy door swung wide again, this time with less courtesy —young Prince Jeon half-tumbled in, breathless with the excitement only a child of ice and iron could muster.

“Is it true?” he demanded, eyes huge as he bounced on his heels. “Is it true there’s an elf in the King’s House?!”

Taehyung straightened, chin up like a cat presented with a curious hound. “I suppose you’ve found him, then.”

Jungkook squealed —truly squealed— and flung himself forward, half-bowing, half-toppling onto the floor. “Will you come see the kitchens with me? There’s honey cakes. And the roof garden —and the stables! You must see the war hounds!”

“War hounds?” Taehyung asked, eyes sparkling. “How could I refuse?”

With a conspiratorial grin, Jungkook tugged Taehyung to his feet and out they went, a prince and an elf prince arm in arm, giggling down Mooncastle’s ancient halls like springtime breaking the snowdrifts.

Left in the hush again, Seokjin poured more tea for Jimin, the fragrant steam curling in the low firelight.

“You’re thoughtful, my King,” Seokjin said softly, watching him over the rim of his cup.

Jimin lowered his eyes to his lap, where his hand still pressed gently to the tender swell.

“I feel it,” he whispered, voice trembling. “A flutter in my heart —just once or twice, but… something’s there. I know it is.”

Seokjin’s eyes shone with quiet pride. “Then let’s have the midwife confirm it, sweetling. A truth given to your King at supper —let him hold it like a torch when the shadows grow close. There will be no room for fools to speak doubt again.”

Jimin’s lashes fluttered as he nodded. “He would storm heaven to keep me safe, Jin.”

“Aye. He would.” The advisor set down his cup, leaning forward to brush a lock of hair from Jimin’s brow. “But you, darling heart, must remember: even the fiercest dragon cannot guard every corner of the sky. You are Consort now. One day you will rule beside him —not behind, not beneath. Beside.”

Jimin’s breath hitched —fear and wonder tangled so tightly he could not tell them apart.

Seokjin’s voice softened, tired yet unyielding. “Yoongi will bear any burden that dares come your way. But I know for certain you are strong enough to keep him steady. And that sprig of yours? It will grow strong too —roots sunk deep in the warmth only you can give it.”

After dinner, when the high tables were cleared, the lingering scent of roasted hog and smoked herbs replaced by fresh candles and the hush of loyal servants slipping away like shadows, Yoongi sat back in his chair, heavy crown set aside, hair still damp from spring rain. 

He had barely touched his food, though Jimin had fed him shy mouthfuls when no one else looked —the only thing that made him taste anything at all, when the weight of the North pressed like iron on his shoulders.

Now they were alone. The great hall flickered gold with firelight, but the hush felt sacred again, like the breath between storms.

Jimin shifted closer where he sat beside him —small hands smoothing the front of Yoongi’s  tunic, fussing with the furred collar like a nesting bird. “You look tired, my love.”

Yoongi only hummed, eyes half-shut as he leaned into the gentle touch. “This court would gnaw the bones from my fingers if I let them. But I won’t. Not while you’re here to keep me human.”

Jimin’s smile was a trembling thing —not from fear, but from the secret he held, warm and fluttering in his chest like a hidden star.

“I have something to tell you,” he whispered, fingers curling at Yoongi’s collar as if to keep him still.

Yoongi straightened, the dragon edge of his worry sharpening. “Is something wrong? Tell me, little flower—”

“Nothing is wrong,” Jimin interrupted, breath catching on a laugh and a tear all at once. “No —everything is right, Yoongi. Everything is right.”

He took the King’s broad hand in both of his, soft palms pressing it carefully, reverently, over the tender swell below his ribs —slight, hidden under silk and fur, but real enough.

“I had Seokjin send the medic this afternoon. She said it’s true. The sprig —it’s really there. A heartbeat, Yoongi. It’s so small —but I feel it. I feel it flutter when you hold me.”

Yoongi did not breathe for a heartbeat —then another —then another. The hall felt too small for his lungs, his bones, the fire roaring silent in his ears as he searched his mate’s face for any flicker of jest.

But there was none. Just Jimin —trembling, radiant, tearful and fierce— a living promise of everything he had ever bled for. A confirmation to his nagging instincts.

Slowly, Yoongi sank to his knees —a Dragon King bowing not to a god nor a crown, but to the tiny heartbeat carried in the warmth of his flower’s body. He pressed his brow to the place where life stirred, where hope lived —strong despite storms and poison and all the wicked teeth of the world.

“Mine,” he breathed —voice hoarse, breaking like snow under spring’s first sun. “Mine, mine, mine —both of you. Always.”

Jimin’s fingers threaded through his hair, the soft laugh shuddering into a sob as he pulled Yoongi closer. “Always.”

When the King rose again, his mouth found his mate’s —a kiss that tasted of salt and honey and a thousand unspoken vows. He scooped Jimin into his arms, carrying him back to the bedchamber that had never felt holier than it did now.

That night, Yoongi did not dream of blades or banners or bloodied fields. He dreamed only of soft laughter pressed against his throat, of a heartbeat inside another heartbeat, a promise carried under the fragile ribs of the one soul he could not bear to lose.

In the deepest hush before dawn, when Jimin slept warm and safe in his arms, the Dragon King let himself whisper to the ceiling beams, to the ancestors and the old stones and the gods who might still listen:

“Let them come for me. I will burn their kingdoms to ash before I let them near my heir.”

And beneath his palm, the sprig fluttered —as if it heard him and answered: Let them try.

 

The frost had begun to flee the mountains weeks before, yet now every flower in the North seemed to bloom and with it came the stubborn clamor of ancient tradition —the Spring Equinox Banquet, older than the castle’s oldest stones, older even than the dragon kings who ruled them.

Yoongi would have cast it aside like spoiled meat if he could —but Seokjin’s counsel had come gentle yet unyielding, over tea in the private solar while Jimin dozed curled against the window seat.

“Yoongi, if you refuse the Equinox rites, you insult not only the court but the land itself. The Equinox is our pact with the earth —that as we tend it through war and winter, so it feeds us in return. And…” Seokjin’s eyes, soft but edged in iron, had flicked to where Jimin slept with one hand tucked protectively over the gentle swell that marked him now for all to see. 

“It is also the old way to test the King’s Consort —to see if they can host, receive, command respect. Let them see how our flower blooms, even under shadows.”

So Yoongi relented —teeth gritted, storms churning behind his dark eyes— and gave Seokjin leave to guide Jimin through the rituals of preparation.

It had begun softly —Prince Taehyung perched on a velvet stool at Jimin’s side, sketching elegant seating charts and whispering gossip about which lord would glare at which, who might dare a snide comment and who could be flattered with fine wine.

“The trick,” the elf confided with a conspiratorial grin, “is to make the peacocks dance around each other until they forget you hold their strings.”

Seokjin was sterner but kind, showing Jimin which vintages from the cellars to serve, which meat would please both mountain lords and southern emissaries alike. When Jimin hesitated over flowers for the tables, Taehyung dragged in armfuls of early-blooming crocuses and snowdrops, weaving them through Jimin’s hair to make him laugh.

Yoongi, however, could not seem to stop hovering. Every time he passed the solar, he found a reason to stay —straightening Jimin’s posture, tugging his shawl higher over his chest and warning against drafts, asking whether the cushions were too hard, whether the light was too much.

When he began muttering about southern envoys being seated too close, Seokjin lost his patience.

“Yoongi.” The advisor caught him by the sleeve, voice low but razor-edged. “You are hovering like a stormcloud over a seedling. Step back, or you’ll stunt the growth you claim to protect.”

“I’m ensuring—”

“You are smothering,” Seokjin cut in, softer now but no less firm. “Trust your Consort. If you cannot trust him, then at least trust me.”

The next morning, Captain Jung appeared in the training yard with a wicked grin and two blunted practice spears.

“Orders from The Rose,” he said cheerfully. “You and I are going to spend the day knocking each other into the mud until the banquet begins.”

By the time the bells rang for the evening feast, Yoongi was scraped, sweat-slick, and marginally less inclined to pace holes into the stone floors.

So the hall bloomed for the Equinox, though its light was stiff and sharp in the cold stone. Lords and ladies filed in like wary wolves scenting blood, silks rustling over old flagstones.

Jimin sat at Yoongi’s right, Prince Taehyung at his left —a hedge of soft smiles and fae poise to shield him from the worst of sharp tongues.

And yet there was no denying what had changed.

No whisper in the hall could ignore the curve of the Consort’s belly, shown off gently by pale spring silks that caught every flicker of candlelight. Where once he had seemed slight as a reed, he now bore a softness that could not be mistaken —a visible promise of life.

Jimin did his best to hide his squirming discomfort —the long hours at the high table were nothing like the intimate feasts under fae lanterns. The music was stiff, the wine less sweet, the laughter stilted. He longed to slip down and curl against Yoongi’s side, to feed him berries and hide his face in his neck like before. But Seokjin’s warning rang in his head: Stay seated. Let them see you as you are —guarded but unyielding. You are the King’s Consort, not a court toy.

So he stayed.

Jimin sat very still, back aching, fingers curled tight around the armrest of his chair. He could feel the weight of every glance that trailed over his gently rounded belly —the living proof that the dragon’s line had taken root where so many had whispered it could not.

But behind that proof came the prickle of envy, of old resentments and whispered poison. He heard it in the scraping hush as courtiers dipped low in mock bows, each word of “Your Grace” tasting like iron under their tongues.

Seokjin saw it too. He lingered near the dais, all courtly smiles, gathering gossip with the ease of a spider weaving silk. Now and then he caught Jimin’s eye, giving a subtle nod: Steady, sweetling. Let them talk. Let them show their teeth.

Some courtiers merely stared too long; others leaned into crassness, their voices pitched just low enough to feign innocence.

The first barb came from a portly count, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry.

“I thought dragons hoarded gold, not… delicate things.”

Prince Taehyung answered for them with airy disdain:

“Delicate things,” the elf said sweetly, “often have sharper thorns than dull men realize.”

Jimin, for his part, kept his spine straight, though the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed the strain. Every so often, Taehyung distracted him with a whispered jest about the fur collars of the northern dukes —“They look like startled owls, don’t they?”— or slipped him a candied nut when no one looked.

The next came from a northern lady in furs, her smile all teeth.

“And here we thought the King’s mate too frail for Frostpire’s winters. Seems the east breeds sturdier flowers than we assumed.”

Jimin’s lips curved in a polite court smile, but his hand tightened around his goblet until he could feel the faint tremor in his fingers. Yoongi’s gaze found the lady’s, cold and unblinking until she looked away.

“Perhaps the eastern blood runs sweeter than I thought,” murmured one baron to his neighbor, eyes lingering far too openly.

“Our King must have been very… diligent to get such a fragile thing to quicken,” another chuckled into his wine.

Yoongi heard every word. His jaw flexed, his fingers curling around the stem of his goblet until the crystal creaked. The dragon in him wanted blood —hot, immediate, cleansing.

Instead, he stayed seated, Seokjin’s voice carrying just enough to reach the offenders.

“A fragile thing?” His tone was soft, yet cunning. “He endures the Northern winds without complaint, the weight of your stares without flinching, and the burden of a dragon heir with grace. Tell me, my lords —which of you could claim the same?”

Jimin felt his smile falter. His first instinct was to look at Yoongi —but he forced himself to sip his tea instead, letting his gaze drift toward the musicians as if the comment had not touched him. Beneath the table, Yoongi’s hand pressed lightly against his thigh, an unspoken I heard.

The laughter died. One of the barons flushed darkly; the other ducked his head and found sudden fascination in his plate.

The last one cut deeper —not because it was crueler, but because it was lewder.

“I wonder what spells he whispered to make a dragon kneel,” a lord murmured down the table, earning a soft laugh from his neighbor.

“Or perhaps,” a baron drawled, eyes fixed on Jimin’s midsection, “the trick was in how he knelt.”

Jimin’s heart gave a hard, sickening thud. Heat crawled up the back of his neck —not shame, but the raw urge to be anywhere else. He felt Yoongi’s fingers flex once against his leg, the faintest quiver of muscle, as if the dragon in him had sunk claws into the table to keep from leaping across it.

Then Yoongi rose. Slowly.

The scrape of his chair echoed under the vaulted ceiling, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet enough to make every ear strain for it.

“Finish that thought,” he said, eyes fixed on the baron, “and I will have you speak it again before the entire court —while on your knees.”

Jimin did not breathe until the baron swallowed hard and looked away. The hall itself seemed to hold still until Yoongi sat again, hand returning to Jimin’s thigh.

The rest of the feast passed in brittle civility. The boldest eyes avoided Jimin’s belly now, but he could still feel the sideways glances —the ones that landed like cold fingertips brushing across his skin.

As the final toasts were made, the high tables were cleared of pheasant bones and spilled wine. The lords and ladies drifted apart like wolves slinking back into the dark —forced smiles traded for narrowed eyes, murmurs curling under the vaulted arches like curling frost.

As the nobles filed from the hall, pockets of hushed conversation bloomed like mold in cold corners —Southern envoys murmuring about ancient alliances frayed thin, a Western baroness trailing her fingers down a jealous duke’s arm, planting seeds of what-ifs and if-onlys.

They thought the Equinox would show weakness —a Consort soft in body and spirit, ripe for manipulation. But Jimin had endured their poisonous words, endured the stiff ache in his spine and the stares to his belly, endured the simmering tension that thrummed under Yoongi’s strong hand on his thigh.

Above the marble floor, the King’s eyes stayed dark and distant —but inside, the storm coiled tighter. He read every sneer, every darted glance. He counted them like debts to be collected in blood if need be.

When at last they were free of the hall —Prince Taehyung gracefully pulling Jimin to his feet, Seokjin shielding them both from the final lingering gossips —Yoongi said not a word. He simply gathered his mate’s arm in his, possessive, careful, iron. 

The moment the doors of the great hall shut behind them, the air seemed to change —no more cloying perfume, no more murmured barbs curling like smoke under the vaulted arches. Only the echo of their footsteps down the long corridor, the faint thud of Yoongi’s heartbeat where his arm pressed to Jimin’s .

They walked in silence past darkened tapestries and shuttered windows until Seokjin and Taehyung peeled away with murmured farewells.

Yoongi did not let go of Jimin until they reached the small antechamber before their private quarters. There, he stopped so abruptly Jimin nearly stumbled.

“Sit,” Yoongi said —and though his voice was quiet, it thrummed with the same restrained power Jimin had felt all evening.

Jimin sank into the carved bench by the hearth. His belly felt heavy, his spine aching from hours at the high table. “Yoon—”

Yoongi was already pacing. Not with the idle prowl Jimin knew, but in sharp, deliberate lines, his hands flexing open and closed as if resisting the urge to seize something.

“I counted,” he said finally. “Every stare. Every whisper. Three comments spoken aloud. Seven I heard but they thought I could not. And more —too many— that never reached my ears but reached yours.” His eyes cut to Jimin, dark and fierce. “Do you think I did not see?”

Jimin’s throat tightened. “I saw you holding back.”

Yoongi stopped pacing. 

“Holding back,” he repeated, the words tasting like iron. “I wanted to drag them from the table by their tongues. To show them—” He broke off, jaw working.

Jimin reached for him, palm up. Yoongi hesitated only a moment before taking it, his grip almost too tight.

“You didn’t,” Jimin said softly. “You stayed. You let them see that I could endure it.”

“They saw you endure,” Yoongi said, “and they saw me not burn their hall for it. That is the only reason the court still stands tonight.”

Jimin smiled faintly at that, though it was weary at the edges. “If you had lunged across the table, Seokjin would have had a fit.”

“I would have let him.” Yoongi’s thumb brushed against Jimin’s  knuckles, slower now, as if the touch was pulling him back from whatever cliff he’d been toeing. 

“But you… you sat there with your spine straight, even when they tried to slice you open with their words. That cost you more than it cost me.”

Jimin’s gaze dropped to their joined hands. “It wasn’t easy. But I had your touch with me the whole time.”

Yoongi’s eyes softened, though the storm still lingered in them. “Next time,” he said, voice low, “there will be no second warning.”

And then —as if to ground himself as much as Jimin— he knelt, one broad palm splayed over the swell of Jimin’s belly, the other braced on the bench beside his mate’s hip. His forehead rested there for a long breath, warm and steady.

“You are mine,” he murmured, the words meant for Jimin alone. “And they will remember it.”

Jimin’s fingers slipped into his hair, not to restrain but to hold him there, feeling the coiled strength finally begin to loosen.

Yoongi rose without a word, his hand never leaving Jimin’s as he guided him down the last stretch of corridor to their chambers. 

Once the door shut behind them, the castle seemed to vanish. Only the slow crackle of the hearth remained, the scent of cedar, smoke and the warm sweetness that belonged only to Jimin.

Yoongi helped him out of the pale robes —careful not to tug— his large hands brushing reverently over shoulders, down arms, lingering at the curve of Jimin’s waist before skimming over the swell of his belly.

“You wore this well,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, “even with every viper in Frostpire watching.”

Jimin tried to smile, but it wavered. “You make it sound like I was on display at market.”

“You were,” Yoongi said simply, and before Jimin could protest, his hands slid to the small of his back, drawing him close until the swell pressed between them. “And I wanted to kill them all for staring.”

The words were not bluster. Jimin could feel it —the sharp truth in them, the way Yoongi’s pulse still ran hot under his skin.

“You didn’t,” Jimin reminded him softly.

“No,” Yoongi admitted, leaning down so his forehead touched Jimin’s. “Because you stayed. Because you were stronger than I wanted to be.”

They stood like that for a long breath, the world narrowed to warmth and the steady rhythm of each other’s breathing. Then Yoongi eased Jimin toward the bed, helping him settle back against the cushions heaped high by the firelight.

The King removed his own tunic with slow, deliberate movements —as though each piece of steel and cloth shed was part of laying down the armor he’d carried all evening. When he joined Jimin, he stretched out beside him, one arm curled around his waist, his hand splayed protectively over his belly.

For a while, they didn’t speak. Yoongi’s thumb traced idle circles against Jimin’s skin where the King’s own nightshirt rode up, and Jimin’s  fingers threaded lazily through Yoongi’s hair.

Finally, Yoongi broke the quiet. “You did well tonight,” he murmured, voice raw from holding back roars meant for lesser men’s throats. “You held your ground, my flower. You shamed them without a word.”

Jimin only sighed, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. He wanted to hide there —to pretend the glances and the daggers they hinted at did not exist. But even now he felt the little life stir, a gentle flutter, as if reminding him that for all his softness, he carried within him the iron of a dynasty unbroken.

“It’s not over,” he whispered against Yoongi’s throat. “They’ll plot, and scheme, and hope I break.”

Yoongi’s chuckle was a low rumble —not cruel, but ancient and dangerous. A dragon’s promise echoing in stone. He lifted his eyes, dark onyx catching the firelight. 

“They’ll learn what lengths I’ll go to before I ever let them touch you —both of you.”

Jimin shivered —not from fear but from the enormity of what they carried between them on the bed that no courtier’s poison could ever breach, no intrigue could sour.

Outside, Mooncastle’s towers cut the starry sky —cold and crowned in spring’s drifting blossoms. And within, warmth bloomed soft and steady: a King’s shield lowered for only one soul, a Consort’s gentle strength wrapped in silk and life and stubborn hope.

Seokjin would make his plans. Prince Taehyung would guard him like kin. And in the shadows, the traitors might whisper. But behind closed doors, a dragon and his flower dreamt of summer —and the tiny heartbeat waiting to be born into a world that would learn, in time, just how strong gentle things could be.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading🌱☕️✨

Chapter 17: The Coveted Bloom

Summary:

For a moment, Jimin only studied him —this great, unyielding alpha who could be ice and blade to the world, and yet here, with him, seemed almost… unsure.

Jimin reached for his hand, threading their fingers together.

“You can’t protect me from every shadow, my love.”

“I can try.”

Notes:

Some want to be Jimin, some just want Jimin.

But he’s Yoongi’s, he can’t give him to anybody

🌸🐉

 

As spring rose to its lush crescendo, Yoongi carved through the court’s lingering rot with a sword in one hand and cold strategy in the other. Secrets rotted under sunlight —his uncle’s cowardly alliances, the secret coffers lined by bribes, and the silken threads of Jeon Minjae’s influence that still slithered through Mooncastle’s corridors. She, cunning viper that she was, had slipped South when the walls closed in and now nestled in the lap of the West like a pampered serpent, waiting for the day to bare her fangs anew.

Yet even her absence barely disturbed young Prince Jeon. The boy, not yet fifteen summers, cared little for his mother’s schemes. His bright eyes were forever fixed on Jimin’s gently blooming belly and the shimmering presence of Prince Taehyung, whose silver hair and moonlit laughter turned the old stone of Mooncastle into something enchanted. Jungkook would perch at Jimin’s side in the gardens or sneak peeks through the solar doors, begging for tales of elven realms and the secret flutter of life beneath the King Consort’s robes.

The North stood strong as the thaw swept down from the mountains. The East, under Seokjin’s quiet hand, stitched itself back together, brick by brick and treaty by treaty. And though Jimin’s heart still ached for his lost family and ruined homeland, he pressed his grief into the soft pages of books and the stiff parchment of council papers —learning the delicate dance of being a King Consort under Seokjin’s watchful eye and Taehyung’s gentle encouragement.

He was free to wander any corridor now —no guard dared bar his path— yet the true weight of his station still pressed only faintly on his shoulders. The murmurings never ceased. They slipped through tapestries and trickled under heavy oak doors: He’s just the vessel. The pretty belly to carry the King’s seed. The dragon must warm his bed elsewhere… surely.

They named him fragile, too slight for dragons’ blood. And if tongues wagged about supposed paramours —a Viscountess from Windshire, an iron merchant’s soft-hipped son, an eastern wing handmaid, a stableboy with hay in his hair— then Jimin let them. He knew better. 

He knew the truth that lingered in the hush of the royal chambers each night: the Dragon King curled tight at his side, forehead pressed reverently to the gentle mound of their heir, voice murmuring dreams into warm skin.

Some days, the whispers slithered closer, unashamed. The sound of their snickering followed Jimin long after he’d passed. One evening, he found himself blurting it out to Seokjin in the solar, voice trembling despite himself.

“They say Yoongi has others… that I’m only—” Jimin’s throat tightened, refusing the word.

Seokjin sighed, folding the parchment in his hands and setting it aside. “And has he? Ever spent a night away from you?”

Jimin shook his head quickly. “Not once.”

“Then believe in your bond, not in idle tongues. The court is a restless creature. It will gnaw at any hand it thinks is soft enough to bleed.”

Jimin tried to take the advice to heart —until the morning he strolled the upper hall with Prince Taehyung, their arms linked in easy conversation. A group of laundry girls, thinking themselves unheard, tittered as they passed.

“The Great Alpha’s hunger must need more than a dainty bloom.” One murmured.

A younger voice —bolder, male— cut in with a smirk, “If His Majesty ever tires of the Consort, I’d gladly offer myself to ease his need.”

Jimin froze mid-step, blood flaring hot. He would have spun on his heel had Taehyung not caught his arm.

“Don’t,” the elf murmured, serene as moonlight. “That’s exactly what they want —to see the Consort ruffled. Don’t give them teeth to chew on.”

But after that day, Jimin saw the gardener everywhere. Passing under the arches with an armful of lilacs. Fetching water at the same fountain. Crossing the training yard with a tray of apples. And always —always— his eyes lingered a little too long.

One afternoon, Jimin sat in the garden pavilion having tea with Yoongi, sun gilding the edge of his cup. The gardener approached, bowing low enough to brush the gravel.

“An honor to be under Your Majesty’s service,” he said, lashes batting like a storybook rogue.

“Your work keeps the gardens worthy of our guests,” Yoongi replied without even glancing up from the table, his attention wholly fixed on the way Jimin turned up his nose at the sweets on the platter.

“Not hungry?” Yoongi asked, leaning forward.

Jimin shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just our cub being… picky.”

Yoongi rose from his chair without hesitation and knelt beside him, speaking low to the tiny swell beneath his robes. “Be gentle with your Papa, little one. Let him eat.” His palm smoothed over the curve, protective as armor.

Then, without asking, he pulled Jimin into his lap, the tea cooling on the table as he pressed a biscuit to his lips. “Here. From my hand.”

Jimin took the bite, cheeks heating, but Yoongi’s eyes softened as he brushed away crumbs with the pad of his thumb. “If anything bothers you —anything— you come to me.”

Jimin nodded, but his tongue stayed still. The rumors were not a burden he wished to add to his King’s already heavy shoulders. Yet as Yoongi’s arm cinched around his waist, holding him there through the rest of the meal, Jimin couldn’t help wondering how much longer he could keep his silence.

The gardener’s boldness didn’t go unnoticed for long —at least not by Prince Taehyung. One late morning, as the youth lingered near the pavilion steps pretending to trim an already perfect row of roses, the prince’s silver gaze fell on him with the precision of a blade.

“A word, boy,” Taehyung called, his voice carrying no more weight than a sigh, yet somehow commanding obedience. The gardener stepped forward, chest puffed just enough to look defiant.

“You are fond of looking at what is not yours,” Taehyung said, folding his hands behind his back.

The youth’s smirk was slight, but there. “A man can admire the moon even if he cannot touch it.”

Taehyung’s smile was cool as frost. “A man can also burn his eyes staring into the sun. Keep your aspirations realistic. The Dragon King does not stray from his mate. His flame may draw eyes, but it is his unyielding loyalty that keeps them.”

Most would have flushed in shame and turned away. But the gardener’s pride bent instead into challenge. He bowed low, but when he straightened, there was a spark in his eyes that spoke of mischief, not surrender.

From then on, he began to manufacture chances —appearing in corridors Yoongi favored, offering to carry trays to council chambers, volunteering to tend the indoor citrus grove when Yoongi walked there after supper. Jimin noticed it all. He tried to keep a cold head, telling himself this was no more than youthful arrogance —but every false smile felt like grit in his tea.

It was Yoongi, in the end, who cut the game short. One afternoon in the gardens, the boy approached again with a too-eager bow. “Your Majesty, I was thinking the lilies would—”

Yoongi didn’t let him finish. “I’ve no time for lilies or dahlias. For such things, go to the Consort. Every garden in Frostpire blooms for him, not me.”

The words were simple, but the frost in his tone was unmistakable. Jimin, seated nearby, felt the sting of them —and the warmth, too. The gardener, however, heard only dismissal. His jaw tightened before he bowed himself out, retreating with polite words that rang hollow.

The gardener still worked in the palace gardens, though now he kept his head down and his words short whenever Yoongi was near. Jimin, however, had grown weary of seeing him flit about the hedges like a sulking moth.

One bright afternoon, Jimin took tea in the east gardens with Prince Taehyung and a few court ladies. The gardener was tending roses nearby, pretending not to listen, but his ears tilted toward every word.

Jimin lifted his teacup and spoke in a pleasant, almost airy tone. “These blooms are so lovely. I must thank my husband for ensuring the gardens are always kept so well for me.”

Prince Taehyung glanced at him sidelong, already sensing the dagger beneath the lace.

A court lady smiled. “The King has always said all of the North’s gardens are yours, Your Grace.”

Jimin’s lips curved in the faintest of smirks. “Yes. He says every bloom here grows for me —and me alone. I’m told he sees no lilies, no pansies, no roses at all… only what pleases me.”

Across the path, the gardener’s hand faltered on his pruning shears.

Jimin’s gaze slid toward him as if by accident, the kind of glance that makes a man wonder if he’s been weighed and found wanting. 

“Of course,” he added lightly, “if there is ever a question about what to plant or tend, I expect all inquiries to come to me. The King… well, he’s far too busy to be distracted by anyone else’s flowers.”

Prince Taehyung nearly choked on his tea, covering his smile behind the rim. The gardener muttered something about needing to fetch tools and retreated, his shoulders tight.

Later, as Jimin strolled back through the palace with Prince Taehyung, the elf murmured, “That was… surgical.”

Jimin only shrugged, though a quiet satisfaction warmed him. “He started it. I simply reminded him where the roots lie.”

That evening, Yoongi returned from council to find Jimin in their chambers —barefoot, hair loose— looking at fabrics for baby tunics near the fire. He came up behind him, arms winding around his waist to rest over the gentle swell.

“You’ve been busy today,” Yoongi murmured, voice low against his ear.

Jimin tilted his head in mild innocence. “Just tea in the garden.”

“Mm.” Yoongi’s mouth curved against his neck. “Then why did three courtiers tell me the roses now belong solely to you?”

“Because they do.” Jimin’s tone was firm enough to draw a satisfied rumble from deep in Yoongi’s chest. 

 

Yet the boy was not done. He changed tactics, moving among the stables and the lesser guardrooms, leaning on fence rails and leaning even closer to bored men with idle hands. His voice, low and conspiratorial, spun a new web: The Consort is not only beautiful now, but radiant —bearing the North’s heir, the King’s precious bloom. What man wouldn’t give a month’s wages, a year’s, for a night tangled in those chestnut curls?

The whispers took root like weeds in wet soil. Soon, when Jimin passed through the stables, the air felt thicker —gazes lingering a moment too long, the scrape of shovels slowing mid-motion. And though no one dared speak aloud in his presence, the echo of the gardener’s poison clung to the air, sour and restless.

Yoongi heard of it first not from Jimin, but from a stable sergeant with more loyalty than tact.

They were saddling Storm —the King’s stallion—  for the short ride to inspect the outer watchtowers when the man cleared his throat.

“Begging your pardon, Majesty, but… there’s been talk.”

Yoongi stilled, one gauntleted hand resting on the saddle pommel. “What kind of talk?”

The sergeant hesitated, then said, “About the Consort. Among the lads. Fool’s talk —born from that young gardener’s tongue, I reckon. About his… beauty. And—” He broke off, unwilling to finish.

Yoongi’s voice went glacial. “And?”

The man swallowed. “What they’d do for a night with him.”

Yoongi did not ride to the watchtowers that morning.

He stood for a long moment beside Storm, gauntleted hand still braced on the saddle, until the stallion shifted under the weight of his silence. The sergeant, realizing he had spoken too much already, busied himself with the girth straps, pretending not to notice the iron chill that settled over his King.

“See to the stallion,” Yoongi said at last, voice low but heavy as frost. He walked away without a backward glance, boots striking the cobbles with a clipped, deliberate rhythm.

The first days after, he told himself he would keep the matter quiet. Jimin’s pregnancy had already weighed enough on him —morning sickness lingering past its usual course, the stubborn ache in his back, the way he tired too easily on cold days. Yoongi refused to add the rot of gossip to that burden.

But now that he knew what to look for, the stables’ whispers seemed to crawl into every corner of the castle.

He noticed how too many eyes lingered on Jimin when they walked together through the courtyards. Stablehands pausing mid-rake, guards adjusting their spears just enough to watch them pass, kitchen boys slowing on the steps with baskets of bread. It was not overt —not the kind of insolence that could be cut down with a sword— but the hunger in those glances was unmistakable to any alpha who could scent it.

Soon, small tokens began appearing outside the guarded wing of the Consort’s chambers. A sprig of rosemary tied in ribbon. A pouch of lavender. A folded note tucked into a posy of meadow flowers. Harmless enough on their own, but the pattern was clear —and Yoongi’s teeth ached with the grind of holding his tongue.

He began to see it everywhere.

An alpha guard bowing too low when holding a door, gaze flicking upward before retreating.

A steward too quick to fetch whatever Jimin might wish for, without so much as a glance toward the King.

Even the way some lingered when Jimin laughed, as though the sound itself were a rare spice they might steal for themselves.

Once, as they crossed the south hall, Yoongi caught a lesser guard’s head tilt, just enough to glimpse the slender ankle peeking beneath Jimin’s robes. The sound Yoongi made —a soft, warning growl— drew the man’s face pale, his bow clumsy and hurried.

At supper one evening, Jimin sipped from his cup, cheeks faintly flushed from the fire, and said with quiet wonder, “Everyone’s been so kind lately. It must be the excitement for the heir.”

Yoongi almost choked on his wine. Kind? He bit back the truth, instead setting his cup down with too much force. “Perhaps,” he said, tone clipped.

Jimin smiled, turning back to the roasted pheasant as though the matter were settled. But under the table, Yoongi’s hand found his knee, possessive and steady, thumb stroking idly as though reminding himself the warmth there was his.

From that night on, his behavior shifted in ways Jimin could not name. He no longer allowed him to walk the corridors alone. His hand would rest on the small of Jimin’s back in public, guiding him through crowds that didn’t feel threatening until Yoongi’s looming presence made them scatter. He took to leaning closer than needed when someone addressed Jimin, scent a quiet brand in the air.

And still, he said nothing. But his jaw set tighter each time a gift appeared at the Consort’s door, and his gaze sharpened to a blade’s edge whenever a man’s glance lingered too long.

It happened on a pale afternoon, the air smelling faintly of rain and wet stone.

Jimin had been walking between Prince Taehyung and young Prince Jeon, their elbows linked, when the faintness stole over him. It was barely a warning —just a shimmer at the edges of his vision— before the ground seemed to tilt. Taehyung caught him under one arm, Jungkook bracing the other side, both lowering him gently to the marble bench that lined the hall.

But before Jimin had even settled, a shadow fell across them.

“Your Grace,” a guard said, stepping forward with too-eager swiftness. “Let me carry you to your chambers.” His voice was a touch too smooth, his eyes lingering a heartbeat too long on the dazed curve of Jimin’s mouth.

Taehyung’s silver gaze sharpened. “No need. We’ll call for the medic.” He nodded to Jungkook. “Fetch your cousin too. Now.”

The boy darted off, but the guard did not move back. His hand hovered at Jimin’s shoulder, bold enough to almost touch. “With respect, my lord, a medic can meet us there. You shouldn’t wait.”

Taehyung caught the faint intake of breath —not concern, but hunger. The guard leaned in just enough to draw the Consort’s scent, eyes half-lidded as though savoring it: honey and fresh berries, with the soft, milky note that clung to him now.

“Step back,” Taehyung said, low and cold.

The man smirked faintly, as if an elf prince posed no threat to a seasoned alpha. “Only trying to help,” he murmured, shifting to slide an arm beneath Jimin.

He never got the chance.

Boots struck stone in a fast, hard rhythm —and then Yoongi was there, all steel and shadow, moving between them in one breath.

The guard had just enough time to look up before the King’s hand was at his throat, driving him back against the wall with a force that rattled the sconces.

“You dare,” Yoongi said, voice quiet but thunderous. His gauntleted fingers pressed until the guard’s breath hitched —claws threatening to grow— until his face went red and his eyes began to widen with real fear. 

“While I live, you dare.”

“M— Majesty—” the guard choked, but Yoongi’s grip only tightened.

“Did you think I wouldn’t smell it on you? That I wouldn’t see your eyes on what’s mine?” His other hand was already at the hilt of his sword, the rasp of steel sliding free a promise more than a threat.

Taehyung’s voice cut in, measured but not pleading. “Yoongi. Jimin needs you.”

The King’s gaze flicked down to his mate —Jimin pale but conscious now, eyes glassy with confusion— and then back to the guard.

When he spoke again, it was softer, deadlier. “You will never look at him again.”

By the time the medic arrived, there was no guard in sight, and the faint, metallic tang of blood trailing down the corridor toward the outer barracks. By dusk, the whispers had already spread: the alpha who’d overstepped was now one of Frostpire’s newest eunuchs.

The lesson was clear.

Yoongi carried Jimin himself to the royal chambers, settling him into bed with the medic’s tincture easing his dizziness. He remained there, one hand curled over Jimin’s, as if the day had carved the need into his bones.

The dizziness had passed, but Yoongi hadn’t left his side —not for food, not for counsel, not even to change from the armor still creased into his shoulders. He sat now at the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, staring at the fire as if it had offended him.

“You’re brooding,” Jimin murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Yoongi’s gaze flicked to him —soft for a heartbeat, then guarded again. “I’m watching you.”

Jimin huffed a laugh, shifting to sit up a little. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s not what worries me,” Yoongi said quietly.

There was a stretch of silence between them, filled only by the crackle of the flames. Then he exhaled through his nose, as though surrendering something he’d been holding far too long. 

“There’s been… talk. About you. About what men would do, if given the chance.”

Jimin blinked, startled. “What sort of talk?”

“The sort that makes me want to kill every tongue that dares speak it.” His jaw tightened. 

“It began with that boy in the gardens. Spread through the stables. Too many eyes on you. Too many small gestures, meant to draw closer. Flowers. Oils. Doors opened just to let their gaze linger.”

Jimin tilted his head, a frown forming. “I thought they were just being… nice, kind.”

“They were being covetous.” Yoongi’s voice was low, controlled —but the coals of fury still glowed beneath. “And I have no patience for men who think my mate is for their taking.”

Jimin’s lips parted, something like guilt stirring. “You should have told me.”

“I didn’t want you burdened with it,” Yoongi said, shifting to face him fully. “You’re already carrying enough. Our heir. The demands of the court. Your own grief. I wanted to spare you the rest.”

For a moment, Jimin only studied him —this great, unyielding alpha who could be ice and blade to the world, and yet here, with him, seemed almost… unsure.

Jimin reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. 

“You can’t protect me from every shadow, my love.”

“I can try.”

The words were so simply spoken that Jimin’s throat tightened. He leaned forward, pressing his brow to Yoongi’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet.

“I’m yours,” Jimin whispered. “No matter what they say, no matter how they look. Only yours.”

Something in Yoongi’s shoulders eased at that, the steel of him softening. He cupped the side of Jimin’s face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone as if reacquainting himself with the shape of him.

“There will never be a day when I allow another man to think he might touch what is mine.”

Jimin’s heart tripped in his chest, but he kept his voice steady. “And there will never be a day when I let them think they could.”

They didn’t speak of it again, but that night Yoongi’s arm was iron around Jimin’s waist in sleep, his nose buried in the hollow of his mate’s neck as though daring the world to try him.

 

 

 

Notes:

Thanks for reading!!☕️✨

Brace for trouble🐍

Chapter 18: The Blade Beneath The Silk

Summary:

Jimin set down his goblet with care, uneasiness returning to coldly travel down his spine. He was growing weary of being perceived as weak, as if he had no thoughts or purpose beyond his looks.

“Your Majesty, I suspect our conversation may not find common ground,” he said pleasantly, yet in no mood to entertain an obnoxious greying man.

“You might find me dull —I am, after all, so very young at twenty-three… and you, well… seasoned.”

The smile Yoongi hid behind his wine goblet was betrayed only by the deepening crease at the corner of his eyes.

Notes:

🐍🐍🐍

 

The next morning, the Dragon King strode with firm steps to the stables. The only sound was the slow leather creak as he pulled his gloves tighter. Then —quietly enough to make the sergeant pale— “Fetch the gardener.” He said.

By the time the youth arrived, Yoongi was standing in the courtyard, Storm towering behind him like an omen, Nightshade perched on his shoulder —beady eyes glinting in the sunlight. The King’s gaze pinned the boy in place.

“I hear your tongue is busy in my stables,” he said.

The gardener tried to protest —some nonsense about harmless talk and admiration— but Yoongi stepped closer, and the air between them seemed to thin.

“My mate carries my heir. He is under my protection. His name will not be passed between the teeth of men like a gambling coin. You will not speak of him again. Not in jest, not in longing. Not at all. Do you understand?”

The boy’s voice wavered. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Yoongi’s smile was humorless. “Good. Because if you forget, I will not speak to you next time. And you will find the silence far worse.”

The King tilted his head, almost as if considering leniency —though the sharpness in his eyes killed any hope of it.

“And as for your ambitions,” he went on, “thinking yourself fit to earn my affection —your pretenses of ever warming my bed— those are delusions. I would not waste my time plucking weeds when I already have the rarest, most tender bloom in my care.”

The boy’s cheeks burned scarlet.

“You will be reassigned to the western gardens,” Yoongi said, each word a quiet blow. “Perhaps tending the empty quarters once kept for my uncle’s concubines will suit you better.”

He turned away as if the matter were already beneath him, but his voice carried back, low and final:

“And if you feel the urge to weave more gossip, you may tell them this —The King of the North despises sleazy bonds and covetous omegas.”

With that, he left, boots striking the stones with measured weight.

When the gardener emerged from the stables, red-faced and tight-lipped, the stablehands and kitchen maids waiting nearby hid their snickers poorly. A few traded knowing looks, and someone whispered, “Off to the western wing.”

Laughter followed him down the path.

By dusk, the word had spread —though no one dared speak it too plainly. The stables were quieter, the corridors sharper-edged with silence. The eunuch’s absence was a story told only in glances, in the way hands tightened around broom handles and boots scuffed the flagstones without purpose.

Jimin noticed it first over breakfast. The servants who brought the trays kept their gazes fixed on the floor, bowing so deeply he barely caught sight of their faces. Even the older guards posted outside the royal chambers stood as still as statues, eyes front, jaws tight.

Yoongi seemed in no rush to explain. Instead, he poured Jimin’s tea himself, added honey with an absent precision, and slid the cup into his hands before spearing a piece of fruit from his own plate to offer him. Jimin accepted it without question, though a small crease had formed between his brows.

When they left the royal wing later that morning, the change was even clearer. The guards along the great hall snapped to attention the moment the pair appeared. No lingering stares. No sly half-smiles. Even the youngest pages seemed to vanish into alcoves rather than risk crossing their path.

Yoongi didn’t soften his stride —if anything, he slowed it, one large hand resting at the small of Jimin’s back as if announcing to every living soul in Mooncastle: mine.

Even in the gardens, where Jimin had often found respite from the press of the court, the atmosphere had shifted. The gardener was gone —reassigned, though no one would tell him where. In his place, older groundsmen worked quietly, their greetings brisk and eyes properly averted. The roses were in bloom, but no fresh bouquets appeared at Jimin’s door.

Jimin tried to make light of it over supper, swirling a spoon lazily through his stew. “I think you’ve frightened half the castle into forgetting I exist.”

Yoongi didn’t look up from slicing his bread. “Good.”

Jimin’s mouth curved despite himself. “And the other half?”

“They already knew better,” Yoongi said, then finally met his gaze —and the heat there was enough to undo any teasing Jimin had planned.

Later, in the quiet of their chambers, Yoongi drew Jimin into his arms again, the same way he had the night before, as though the court and its gossip and its hungry eyes had never existed. He pressed his face into Jimin’s neck, breathing deep, and murmured against his skin,

“They can think what they want. I am yours and you are mine. That’s the only truth that matters.”

 

The days carried on with quiet peace, Jimin’s skin slowly stretching under silk. His flushed cheeks warmed by late afternoon’s sunsets while he chatted away with Taehyung. Or worked on his embroidery with Jungkook over tea.

Some evenings, when dusk found Yoongi chained to scrolls and statecraft, Jimin sat at his feet, knitting needles clicking or pages turning, lending the King the soft balm of his presence. 

Eventually, always, Yoongi would look down with weary eyes and growl, “I won’t have Frostpire’s budding flower dozing in a chair.” And then strong arms would lift him —silk and warmth bundled against cold iron— to their bed in the northern wing.

Yet comfort never lasted long. It came coiled in fancy parchment sealed with gold: an invitation from the West, sugar-laced poison on thick vellum —A feast to honor the Dragon’s line unbroken. A gesture of peace, they claimed. Yoongi knew it for what it was: a blade hidden beneath an olive branch.

The journey West bloomed under a warmer sun than Frostpire’s colder brilliance. Jimin had never seen seas that glittered so fiercely or forests that sang with such warmth. Yoongi ensured his mate wanted for nothing —well-fed, cosseted, thoroughly scented in the dragon’s claim. Taehyung rode beside him in the royal carriage, whispering gentle distractions about elven customs and the stars beyond the Barrier, while Yoongi rode ahead on his steed, an iron shadow cutting through green fields.

The carriage wheels slowed as the towering spires of Westfield’s castle rose into view, their cold stone glinting like distant stars against the deepening sky. Jimin’s fingers curled tightly on the embroidered cloth draped over his lap, a quiet tremor running through him. The long journey left him weary, yes, but beneath that fatigue stirred something sharper—an unnameable unease coiling in his gut, like a shadow threading through the warm afternoon light. His hand rested instinctively on the soft swell of his belly, as if his cub could sense it too.

Yoongi’s eyes darkened as he caught the flicker of worry in Jimin’s glance. Prince Taehyung, ever watchful, exchanged a knowing look with the King —a silent exchange loaded with unspoken caution. Their gazes subtly shifted toward the castle’s grand entrance just as the heavy doors swung open.

The Western King awaited them, tall and broad-shouldered, his smile a practiced mask of regal hospitality. Yet when his eyes settled on Jimin, that smile faltered —too slow, too measured. His breath hitched subtly as he bent to press a customary kiss to Jimin’s hand, lingering too long, inhaling deeply as if memorizing a secret scent. Yoongi’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching along his temple.

“Welcome to Westfield,” the King said smoothly, voice rich but tinged with something sharper beneath the polish. “I trust your journey was… enlightening.”

Jimin swallowed, forcing a polite nod. But when they were seated for tea in the ornately decorated solar, the King’s questions came —not for Yoongi, but for Jimin alone. His tone was casual, yet his curiosity cut deeper than mere civility.

“So, Jimin of Anthos,” he said, swirling tea in his cup, “how does one carry a king’s heir beneath their heart? Surely the burden is heavier than most could bear.”

Jimin’s cheeks warmed, not only from the words but the intensity behind them, the invasive interest that didn’t quite mask the intentions lurking beneath.

The King’s youngest son, a slight omega with dark eyes that flickered with both deference and something unspoken, served the tea. His gaze lingered on Yoongi with a shadow of wistfulness.

“No alpha has ever stirred the depths of my father’s approval as your King does,” the omega prince remarked quietly. “If anyone could be half the alpha that Yoongi is, then perhaps my father would finally consent to my hand.”

The King’s lips twitched in a tight smile, adding, 

“We’ll have to see about that. I must apologize for my son’s boldness. My wife, unfortunately, is too ill to entertain guests this season.” His glance slid to the side, briefly missing Yoongi’s sharp gaze.

Jimin shifted uneasily, feeling the atmosphere thicken around him. The unspoken undercurrents wrapped tight —an invitation laced with subtle tests and veiled threats. Yoongi’s hand, resting just beneath the table, tightened around the reins of his own restraint.

Trouble crept in like dusk. First, sly courtiers offered separate chambers for the Consort’s “comfort.” Yoongi’s low voice in Jimin's ear was all promise and warning —“You will not sleep alone. You will sleep where you belong —curled against your dragon’s heart.” 

So Jimin and Prince Taehyung were led away to satin sheets and guarded hallways while Yoongi sat at polished tables, cold wine on his tongue and sharper words on his lips.

The chamber was warm from the banked fire, but the air between the two kings carried the cool weight of politeness strained thin.

Yoongi stood at the window a moment longer than courtesy required, looking down over Westfield’s sprawling gardens. Then, with deliberate calm, he took the high-backed chair opposite King Emyr.

“We’ll speak plainly, Your Majesty,” Yoongi said without preamble. 

“My outpost at Ravengrove’s Pass was raided four moons past. Grain stores stripped bare. The men left half-dead in the snow.”

Emyr blinked, the picture of injured surprise.

“I was unaware. Likely hungry peasants, driven to desperation. The West’s winters are cruel.”

“And yet mine are colder.” Yoongi’s voice was smooth, but his gaze was flint.

“I find it hard to believe that a King of fifty-five could be so blind to what happens in his own borders.”

The older man’s lips thinned. “I want only peace with the North. Your late uncle understood barter, understood that good neighbors share resources. But you…” He let the words trail with a faint smile. 

“Well. Dragons do have a tendency to hoard.”

Yoongi leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. 

“My ‘hoard,’ as you call it, is nothing but my people’s work —fields kept, stores stocked, land stewarded so no child goes hungry. Perhaps you should walk your own fields more often.”

For a moment, Emyr’s smile faltered, but then he waved a hand as if swatting away the topic.

“Enough of this political wrangling. We are men with kingdoms to bear —surely we can speak of other things.”

Yoongi almost snorted aloud. Everything between kings is political. But he only inclined his head, letting the silence stretch until Emyr filled it.

“I see you’ve taken an eastern consort,” Emyr said at last, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “A rare bloom from the ruins, no less. How does a Dragon King come by such a treasure?”

Yoongi kept his tone mild, giving him nothing. “Fate put him in my path. I had the sense to keep him there.”

“Fate,” Emyr repeated, rolling the word like wine over his tongue. “He must be… unusual. To thrive so far from his native soil.”

Yoongi’s jaw ticked. “He is exactly where he belongs.”

Unperturbed, Emyr leaned back, his smile edging toward something almost lewd. 

“And such delicate beauty, in the North of all places. Tell me, what’s he like behind all that courtly polish? I imagine there’s—”

Yoongi’s gaze went knife-sharp. “Your Majesty,” he said, the title turned into warning.

Emyr chuckled low, then shifted without shame. 

“Forgive me. I only wonder because my own queen has been… difficult. Sickly these past years. She’s given me no alpha-born heir, and without one, my hopes rest on my children marrying well. But if they cannot find a worthy alpha…”

He let the sentence dangle, studying Yoongi’s face. Then, with the deliberate malice of a man testing his boundaries, he added, 

“I might have to find a young bloom myself. Someone like your consort. Someone who could bear the royal line and give me the alpha heir my kingdom deserves.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to bow the beams overhead.

Yoongi didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But the air in the room seemed to thin, as if the dragon in him was quietly drawing breath.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft enough to be mistaken for civility —by a fool. 

“Be careful, Emyr. Some blooms have thorns deep enough to pierce even a king’s throat.”

Emyr swirled the last of his wine, his gaze fixed like a hawk’s. “So… this consort of yours. Does he keep to himself, or is he… spirited?”

Yoongi let the question pass through him without catching. “My Consort manages well enough in Frostpire.”

“Well enough?” Emyr prodded . “A young mate in a cold keep… I imagine you must keep him entertained.”

Yoongi leaned back, tone cool and distracted. “I run a kingdom, Emyr. I’ve little time to keep up with his day beyond what is necessary.”

A flicker of something passed in the Western King’s eyes —calculation, perhaps. 

“So,” Emyr said slowly, “you do as most kings do? Take concubines? Or is it only that eastern flower who warms your bed?”

“No concubines,” Yoongi said, voice even as a drawn blade. “No time for either, in truth.”

Emyr’s brows arched, disbelief slipping into his tone. “Then how in the gods’ name did you find the time to sire an heir?”

Yoongi’s mouth twitched —not quite a smile. 

“Duty, Emyr. I am bound to secure my line.”

“Of course, of course,” Emyr murmured, then his tone grew sly. “And no scattered children? No forgotten bastards tucked away in some distant village?”

“If I had sired another child,” Yoongi said flatly, “Jimin would not be my Consort.”

That earned a pause —brief, but enough to mark the line Yoongi had drawn. Still, Emyr leaned in, stubborn as a weed. “You speak as though the boy is… convenient. A matter of circumstance, rather than the heart.”

Yoongi’s gaze met his without flinching. “A king has little luxury for heart, Emyr.”

It was a half-truth, and they both knew it —but Emyr mistook it for the whole. His eyes lit with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed he’d read his opponent.

“Ah. Bound by crown and law,” Emyr said with a slow nod. “Rigid as the northern ice. I see.” 

He smiled, the kind of smile that belonged in the dark, not the light of the throne room. “Then perhaps there’s room enough for a friend to… keep your consort company while you’re busy.”

Yoongi’s expression didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes went molten. “Be careful where you imagine there’s room, Emyr. You may find the door locked… from the inside.”

The older king only laughed, already convinced he’d found a crack in the dragon’s armor.

By the time Yoongi rose to leave, Emyr’s mind was set: the Dragon King was too proud, too bound by propriety to guard his nest closely enough. All it would take was the right moment… and Emyr was certain he could find it.

Far in the Prince’s wing of the castle, the solar smelled faintly of honey and cardamom, sunlight pooling gold over the lacquered table. Prince Erin reclined in his chair as though the world were his mirror, a languid smile playing on his lips.

“So,” Erin began, eyes alight with mischief, “tell me… is the Dragon King truly as… formidable in private as the ballads would have us believe?”

Taehyung’s hand paused halfway to his teacup. “You are indecent, Your Highness,” he said, voice smooth but with an edge like a honed blade.

Erin chuckled, entirely unbothered. “Indecent? Merely curious. One hears such… appetizing stories about dragons.”

Jimin’s gaze flicked to Taehyung, catching the purposeful sting in his tone. “Taehyung,” he chided softly, “we must remember, we are not used to western customs. Perhaps western omegas tend to be more… open-minded in such matters.”

Taehyung’s brow arched, but he subsided into sipping his tea.

Erin’s smile faltered —only slightly— before he leaned forward, his voice dropping into the conspiratorial. 

“And what of you, Consort? You must tell me something. Does His Majesty keep you on too short a leash, or do you… roam?”

Jimin met the younger prince’s gaze with a warmth so poised it was almost icy. “The only thing I can be certain of, Prince Erin,” he said lightly, “is that my King has been… very territorial. And very pleased that I have not once spared a glance for anyone else.”

For the first time, Erin’s smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The clink of porcelain was the only sound for a beat before Taehyung set his cup down with exaggerated delicacy.

“How tragic,” the elf said mildly, “when one’s curiosity meets such impeccable loyalty.”

Erin’s fingers tightened slightly on the handle of his cup, but Jimin only smiled —serene, untouchable— letting the silence answer for him.

Erin’s laugh came a shade too quickly. “Impeccable loyalty,” he echoed, brushing an imaginary speck from his sleeve. “How… quaint. I suppose some flowers truly bloom for one hand only.”

Jimin inclined his head in polite agreement. “Just like a gardener might favor Manuka over Rafflesia.”

The remark was sweetened with a smile, but something in it made Erin’s posture stiffen. 

“And like some might wither when handled by too many.” Taehyung murmured into his cup.

The western Prince set down his teacup with deliberate care. “You must excuse me —I find I’m due in the stables for my riding lessons.”

Taehyung barely stifled his snort. 

With a short bow —shorter than courtesy demanded— he swept from the salon, his trailing sleeves whispering over the marble floor.

Silence lingered for a moment before Taehyung exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “Too young to hide his hunger. And far too sure he’s clever.”

Jimin’s fingers toyed with the porcelain rim of his cup. “That makes him dangerous,” he said quietly. “Foolish men trip over their own schemes, but fools with a title tend to drag others down with them.”

Taehyung’s mouth curved faintly, though his eyes stayed sharp. “You handled him well. I almost wish you’d flustered him further.”

Jimin shook his head. “We’re here as guests, Taehyung. I would rather not have Yoongi return from his audience with the King only to find I’ve sparked a quarrel in the solar.”

Taehyung’s smirk deepened. “You mean you’d rather not give him a reason to drag you away before dessert.”

Jimin’s cheeks warmed despite himself. “Precisely.”

The tea service had gone cold by the time the heavy doors swung inward.

Yoongi’s silhouette filled the frame, broad shoulders and dark hair outlined in the light from the corridor. The room seemed to shrink around him, the lazy murmur of servants’ footsteps faltering as he stepped inside.

Jimin rose, smoothing his tunic —out of habit, not necessity— and offered a sweet smile.

Yoongi’s eyes swept the salon in a glance sharp enough to slice glass. They paused on the empty chair Erin had left behind, lingered a fraction too long, then settled on Jimin.

“Your Majesty,” Taehyung greeted lightly, though his expression was unreadable. “We were just enjoying Westfield’s… unique take on hospitality.”

Yoongi moved to Jimin’s side without a word, his hand finding a smaller one to kiss. The touch grounding and reverent.

“Any trouble?” he asked, voice pitched low enough that only Jimin could hear.

“None worth noting,” Jimin replied with a calm that was mostly true. “Just a cultural exchange.”

One dark brow arched —Yoongi never believed vague answers, but he let it pass for now. Instead, he guided Jimin’s chair back, settling him down as if to reclaim the space Erin had vacated.

Taehyung’s gaze flicked between them, his smile faint but knowing. “I imagine your talk with King Emyr was equally… enlightening?”

Yoongi’s jaw worked, but he only said, “We’ll discuss it later.”

The words weren’t a dismissal, but they closed the subject. The storm in his eyes hadn’t faded, though his hand remained steady on Jimin’s shoulder —an anchor for both of them.

Jimin glanced at Taehyung over the rim of his teacup.

Yes, his look said. Something happened.

And Taehyung’s returning nod was almost imperceptible.

The banquet hall of Westfield’s castle glimmered with golden candlelight, shadows swaying across carved pillars and jewel-toned tapestries. Music floated from the dais where minstrels played softly, but the air felt heavier than it should —too many glances darting, too many smiles that didn’t reach the eyes.

Trouble only deepened over clinking goblets and buttered meats. 

When Prince Erin arrived, the change in the room’s hum was immediate.

He was dressed in flowing silks of shimmering cream and pale green, the same understated palette Jimin favored for court dinners. His long hair, usually worn loose, was woven with slender braids threaded with tiny blossoms —wildflowers tucked so deliberately that their asymmetry looked accidental. Even his cheeks and lips bore the faintest tint, a whisper of color that mimicked Jimin’s own natural flush.

Emyr’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as his son approached. The flicker of irritation was quickly smoothed over, but it lingered in the set of his jaw. Whatever game they had intended, Erin had stepped into another.

When the first course had been served, King Emyr rose with his goblet lifted.

“To King Min, The Dragon of the North, his Consort, and the future heir they carry,” he declared, his voice smooth as aged wine. “May the Dragon’s line endure, as fierce and unbroken as the flame itself.”

A polite murmur of approval swept the tables, goblets raised in response. Jimin inclined his head, accepting the toast with a soft smile, but his eyes stayed politely guarded.

Emyr leaned toward him once the hall’s chatter resumed. “You’re even lovelier than this morning, your Grace.” he said, voice pitched low, almost conspiratorial. 

“Positively glowing. Omegas who are carrying… they have a certain appeal. The kind that lingers in an alpha’s mind…”

Jimin set down his goblet with care, uneasiness returning to coldly travel down his spine. He was growing weary of being perceived as weak, as if he had no thoughts or purpose beyond his looks.

“Your Majesty, I suspect our conversation may not find common ground,” he said pleasantly, yet in no mood to entertain an obnoxious, greying man.

“You might find me dull —I am, after all, so very young at twenty-three… and you, well… seasoned.”

The smile Yoongi hid behind his wine goblet was betrayed only by the deepening crease at the corner of his eyes. His free hand found Jimin’s thigh under the table, giving it a squeeze that was half pride, half warning not to push Emyr too far in public.

Prince Taehyung, however, choked outright on his drink, disguising his laugh as a cough that fooled no one at their table.

On the opposite side, Prince Erin made his own attempt at conversation —but to Yoongi, it was little more than background noise. The Dragon King gave no more than short, distracted replies, his attention fixed entirely on Jimin.

“You should eat more,” Yoongi murmured to his mate, setting a portion of roasted pheasant on his plate. “Not everyone can bear a dragon heir. I’ll see to it our cub grows strong.”

It was said just loud enough for those nearest —including Erin— to hear. The slight tightening around the young prince’s mouth was answer enough.

When the meal finally broke into the looser rhythm of after-dinner mingling, the hall’s edges filled with quieter pockets of conversation. Servants swept away emptied platters, replacing them with delicate desserts and sugared fruits.

Emyr was quick to close the space between himself and Jimin, intercepting him as he and Prince Taehyung moved toward one of the arched windows.

“My Consort,” Emyr said smoothly, the title almost mocking in his mouth. “You’ve been far too surrounded tonight. Allow me to show you the smaller gallery —it has a view of the gardens you might enjoy.”

Prince Taehyung’s polite smile didn’t reach his eyes. “His Grace will enjoy them better in daylight. Tonight’s air is far too damp for someone in his condition.”

Jimin, ever courteous, gave a diplomatic smile to both men. “Perhaps another time, Your Majesty. My King would not forgive me if I caught a chill.”

Emyr’s gaze lingered a beat too long before he inclined his head in mock concession, stepping back with that same thin smile. The words My King, still stinging his pride. Spoken with such deep and solemn respect it made his eye twitch. 

How the dragon regarded such a bloom with mere convenience was beyond him.

Meanwhile, at the opposite side of the hall, Yoongi found himself cornered by Prince Erin. The younger man was all painted charm and sweet-spoken words, his tone light enough to sound innocent to anyone not listening closely.

When Jimin turned away to exchange a few words with Taehyung across the table, Erin seized his moment. 

The omega prince —silken-haired, eyes too clever— leaned too close. A perfumed handkerchief fluttered to Yoongi’s lap. A whisper, sweet and venomous: “The bathhouse at midnight.” 

An offer. A test. 

A trap for Yoongi. An insult to Jimin.

Yoongi plucked the handkerchief, folding it neatly into his pocket as though accepting a gift. He did not smile. He did not refuse. He played the part of a wolf pretending interest.

The banquet dragged on under golden lamplight and the hum of music, but Jimin found a narrow moment in the quiet alcove of a columned archway where Yoongi stood apart from the court’s chatter.

Jimin smiled softly. His King was always brooding, still mysterious, dark and handsome even in the stuffy halls of Westfield’s keep.

He slipped into the shadow at his side, close enough that Yoongi’s arm instinctively shifted to make space for him, tugging him close into the circle of his hold.

“I don’t like it here,” Jimin murmured into his chest, voice pitched low enough for no one else to hear. 

“The walls are too close. The smiles are too sharp. And Emyr—” His breath hitched faintly. “I don’t like the way he looks at me. I just… I want to go home.”

Yoongi’s gaze softened, though his jaw was still tight with the discipline of a man who had endured far too much diplomacy in a single evening. 

“Then home we go, flower.” he promised, his voice the deep, sure rumble Jimin had always known to mean he would make good on his word. “At first light, we leave for Frostpire. You have my word.”

Warmth replaced the chill of court air as Yoongi bent to kiss him —once at his temple, once at the curve of his cheek. “You belong with me,” he whispered. “Not here. Not with them.”

Jimin’s hands fisted in the folds of his coat, clinging like an anchor. “I don’t want to go back to the prince’s wing,” he admitted, almost boyishly, though there was an edge of unease beneath it. 

“I want to sleep with you like we do at home. I don’t feel safe on my own.”

Yoongi’s hands found the small swell of Jimin’s belly, his palms broad and warm as they cupped over the tender curve. 

“You’ll wake in my arms,” he murmured, a vow disguised as reassurance. “Exactly where you belong.”

He said nothing of the handkerchief, nothing of the bathhouse —those shadows could wait until they were far from this alcove, far from Emyr’s ears. For now, Yoongi only pressed his scent along Jimin’s neck, a slow, deliberate claim, until the stiffness in his shoulders eased.

They stayed there in the shelter of stone and silk until the spell of privacy threatened to break. Then Prince Taehyung approached, a watchful shadow in his own right, and Yoongi held his flower tighter for one last moment before letting him go.

“Come,” Taehyung said gently. “I’ll take you back.”

Yoongi watched them walk away, Jimin’s hand brushing Taehyung’s sleeve for comfort, before turning back toward the hall —toward the wolves dressed as men.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you all for reading and for your nice comments!☕️✨

Next chapter is one of my favorites, I hope you like it🌸

Chapter 19: The Rain Before The Storm

Summary:

“You’ve grown, Yoongi. The reckless dragon I knew would have torched the palace before breakfast.”

Yoongi’s mouth curved in a faint smile. “Yet you haven’t changed a bit. Still proper. Still sharp. Still the Court’s Rose.”

The title made Seokjin’s brow twitch, but his voice softened when he answered.

“Even if Frostpire’s burden rests on your shoulders, you’re not carrying it alone. The whole of the North stands ready —every sword, every shield— to keep Jimin and your cub safe. At any cost.”

Notes:

It’s always the west🗣️

 

Under the veil of night when all nobles had retired between laughter and wine to Westfield’s guest wing, Nightshade slipped through shadows to deliver a note to Prince Taehyung: Take him to the bathhouse. Midnight.

While the castle fell to restless dreams, Jimin’s fingers twisted into the soft folds of his robe as Prince Taehyung led him through the winding marble corridors, torchlight flickering off polished stone. He didn’t speak much —Taehyung never did when the halls might listen— but when they paused by the carved doors of the old bathhouse, the elf prince squeezed Jimin’s shoulder gently.

“His command,” Taehyung murmured, silver lashes low over watchful eyes. “He wants you safe… and seen.”

Before Jimin could ask what he meant, Taehyung slipped away, soft as mist, leaving him staring at the steam curling beneath the door. He hesitated —the West’s old bathhouse was vast, echoing, full of shadowed alcoves and secrets. He pushed the door open, breath catching as warmth wrapped him whole.

Yoongi stood waist-deep in the pool, steam swirling around his broad shoulders, dragon mark shimmering faintly against pale skin damp with heat. He turned at once, that ever-hungry gaze softening when it landed on Jimin.

“Come here, flower,” Yoongi rumbled, voice echoing off the high stone walls. “Stay dressed. I want you warm —and I want their prying eyes to see only what I choose to show.”

Jimin padded closer, silk dragging along damp marble, the hem of his robe already heavy with droplets. Yoongi’s hands were warm as they tugged him closer to the water’s edge, helping him sit. Palms stroking reverently over his sides, hips, leaning in to kiss the soft curve of his belly.

“The West’s pretty prince thinks himself cunning,” Yoongi said, brushing a lock of hair from Jimin’s cheek, his touch almost delicate for a man made of iron. 

“Sent by his father, no doubt —a spoiled gift meant to tempt me, make me appear faithless. Make us appear weak.”

Jimin’s breath hitched when Yoongi leaned up, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, then his throat, teeth grazing skin as if tasting the truth of him. He felt clumsy here —the vast echo, the warm water lapping at his knees before Yoongi pulled him into the pool, silk clinging to his skin.

Yoongi’s mouth found his again, deeper now, hungry, tongue pushing between his lips as his hands slid over the swell of his belly, then to the curve of his lower back, fingers finding the dimples there. The King’s hands dipped lower, over his omega’s plump behind. 

Jimin whimpered softly, pressing back. Dainty fingers —slipping, trembling— trying to grasp onto his husband’s damp skin. The King caged him to the pool’s edge, nipping at his throat. He parted Jimin’s legs with his own, the grip of his strong hands bringing him closer to grind against the heat between his thighs. 

A feral groan tore from Yoongi’s throat as his hands moved to explore beneath the wet silk clinging to Jimin’s skin. His length heavy with need, knot already swelling, too drunk on his flower’s scent. He pulled him closer —closer still, hungry for the warmth only his omega could bring.

But the old stone walls made Jimin skittish —all that emptiness, the faint flicker of candlelight, the snickering of the western lords still echoing in his ears.

As rough fingers dipped to find Jimin’s slick entrance, he pulled back with a soft gasp, shaking his head, pushing at that heavy chest to stop. 

“Yoon… I—”

Instantly, those iron hands softened. Yoongi kissed the hollow of his throat instead, gentler now, resting his brow against Jimin’s shoulder as if to steady them both. 

“Forgive me, my flower. I forget how sacred you are. I forget I must go slow.”

He might have pulled away altogether —but the seed of doubt was already flickering back to life, burrowing into Jimin’s chest like a thorn. His mind conjured whispers in marble halls, sneers hidden behind polite smiles. Too fragile, too small, only a vessel. That pretty too-bold prince, soft-lipped and ready to purr for a dragon’s favor.

“No,” Jimin breathed, his voice trembling as his fingers tangled in Yoongi’s damp hair. “Don’t stop. I want—” He swallowed, cheeks hot. 

“I want it known. I want you to take me, claim me. So they know. So I know.”

He lifted Jimin in one easy motion, settling him against his waist, silk robe floating soft like blossoms around them. 

“Flower… not if you don’t wish to. I—,” he shut his eyes, sighing against the mark on his mate’s neck. “I frightened you. When my only wish is to keep you safe and happy.”

“It’s this horrible place.  It’s not you, my love. Never you.” Jimin clung to broad shoulders, nuzzling against the alpha’s hair.

Yoongi’s answering rumble was low and gentle in his chest —meant to steady. To comfort.

“I want you closer to me. I feel safest in your arms. I’m the happiest with your kiss.” Jimin whispered into his King’s neck, scenting. Searching.

Yoongi hesitated, keeping his face close to Jimin’s neck until the warmth of his omega’s purr overpowered the cold dread on his shoulders. His tiny fingers tracing shapes on his back, scratching at his scalp. Coaxing the dragon out of its cage, rekindling the embers of his flame.

Jimin sighed in relief as Yoongi’s mouth covered his again, sealing his plea with heat and teeth. A slow and careful dance of tongue and lips.

When Yoongi finally sank into him, it wasn’t the echoing walls or the steaming pool that filled Jimin’s mind —it was the unyielding truth that there was no room for any other.

He didn’t care for court gossip, or sly omegas. He only cared for the heat of Yoongi’s lips, the reverent worship of hands that knew every inch of him. A thumb stroking a tender nipple to stiffness, before the King’s warm mouth found the other. The length that buried deep in slow thrusts. The soft words of praise kissed into his skin.

Yet in the darkness of Westfield’s walls, a silk-wrapped shadow crept to warm marble and steaming pools, drawn by the prominent scent of an alpha. The hush of water broke against the high ceiling —not gentle ripples, but waves crashing against stone. Prince Erin rounded the screen, pulse quickening at the sight: the Dragon King, every inch dominance and flame and hunger, buried deep in the wet embrace of an omega.

But not any omega. A breathless gasp. A pale throat bared. The Consort’s flushed face hidden by his chocolate curls, body shielded by his husband’s broad frame. His voice soft like spring rain: 

“My King…” Jimin’s thighs clung tighter around Yoongi’s waist, back arching against the steam, silk robes half-sunk in the heated pool.

“Don’t fret, my flower,” Yoongi growled, low and lethal, as if he knew who watched. “No one shall disturb us.”

The slap of water, the breathless moans, the sharp scent of a true claim —a message sent without parchment or courtly words. The prince fled the scene, cheeks pale, his delicate perfume curdled to sour shame, then sharpened into envy.

When it was over, Yoongi carried Jimin through quiet halls, wrapped tight in his husband’s heavy furs, his cheek pressed to the dragon’s steady heart. The castle’s chill couldn’t touch him when his alpha’s warmth bled into his bones.

Once in their chambers, Jimin pulled Yoongi down with trembling hands, tugging him close until they lay twined in their furs. He buried his face in the crook of Yoongi’s throat, inhaling the thick, unmistakable scent of them tangled together —mate, protector, dragon, husband. His.

“Again,” he whispered, fierce even in his exhaustion. “Take me again. I don’t want a trace of them left.”

Yoongi’s answering smile was soft —a dragon’s promise. He kissed Jimin’s brow, his temple, the corner of his eye where salt threatened to spill. 

“Only you hold the key to my heart, my flower. My soul belongs only to you.” he murmured against damp hair, hands already moving to remind him —to remind the world— that the Dragon King’s flame burned for no one but him.

Jimin slept safe in his mate’s arms, flesh warm from steam and claiming, their child fluttering softly beneath his palm —a heartbeat no whisper could touch.

And later, the hush of gossip would crackle through marble halls like a slow spark in dry grass —proof that the North’s dragon would break any trap, any whisper, any soft-bodied temptation flung in his path.

The third and final straw came at dawn, when Westfield’s King, grasping at straws like a man drowning, pulled a last desperate trick from his frayed sleeve. Erin —spoiled and petty, was drowned head to toe in cloying perfume of berries and wildflower honey, the scent eerily reminiscent of the Dragon’s Consort own —he had been powdered, painted, and draped in silks soft as a promise.

“The Consort’s scent,” his handmaid whispered, pressing the sweet oil into delicate wrists and under his throat. “The King of the North will never resist.”

So Emyr sent him once more —a last, desperate effort— slinking through dawn’s hush toward the chambers meant for the King of the North alone. The guards, bribed or foolish, turned their eyes elsewhere. Doors unlocked themselves with soft clicks. 

The conspirators likely pictured a triumph: the rumor of the Mad King undone by his own hunger, the Consort’s honor stained, Mooncastle’s heir cast into doubt before it could even draw breath.

But they knew nothing of dragons —nor of the bond between this dragon and his precious flower.

Yoongi woke before the sun had even dared slip past the high windows. He felt the first tremor of distress before Jimin’s soft whimpers found his ears. Dreams haunted his mate —sharp, cold things that prowled the edges of sleep. Instinct tightened his arms around his omega, one wide palm splayed protectively over the swell of his belly, thumb brushing the skin like a holy vow.

He chased the nightmares away with warmth. With a voice roughened by sleep and devotion, he pressed kisses to the delicate curve where shoulder met neck, breathed love and promises against the fragile shell of Jimin’s ear. His flower stirred —drowsy and flushed, pulling him closer with a soft sound that cracked Yoongi’s chest open with helpless tenderness.

“Cold…” Jimin mumbled, though the sheen of sweat on his temple betrayed the lie. It was not cold that made him cling so fiercely, not chill that made his scent tremble with a hidden edge of want. Yoongi only hummed —a rumble deep in his throat as he nuzzled his mate’s flushed cheek.

“I will warm you, tiny flower. You need only ask.”

“Please…”

And he did. He warmed him with careful worship —with teeth scraping gentle at tender skin, with a rough hand folding a pliant leg to make room for the claiming his mate silently craved. The soft silk of Jimin’s voice, breathy and pleading, filled the chambers as he squirmed and melted around him, asking without shame for more, for his alpha’s seed, for another promise of life growing strong within him.

Yoongi gave him all he asked for. He moved with the steady, patient force of a tide —deep, sure, claiming every part of him as his own. He pressed kisses to parted lips, to damp temples, to the fingers that gripped his hair as if to tether him in place forever. When the final shudder came and the knot bound them together, Jimin’s small hands drifted protectively over the gentle swell of his belly, a soft, sleepy sigh of contentment breaking the silence.

He would have kept him there forever —sealed in warmth and love and dragonfire— if not for the faint, treacherous click of the chamber’s outer door. Yoongi’s eyes snapped open. His nostrils flared —some nauseatingly sweet perfume drifting into his den like poison.

A low growl spilled from his throat, primal and cold. He curled himself tighter around his flower as half-formed wings split skin and bone, iron and gold fanning out to shield the one thing the world could never touch. His mate, still half-lost in bliss, did not stir —but the intruder did.

A rustle of silk slipped through the outer curtains, the soft slap of bare feet on cold marble. Westfield’s pet prince, dripping sweet honey scent, eyes wide with fake innocence —until they met the gold flame burning in the Dragon King’s eyes.

He never made it more than two steps past the threshold.

Yoongi’s snarl —dragon-deep and bone-shaking— sent the boy stumbling backward, eyes wild with panic. From the hallway came the sharp clash of startled guards and the furious, horrified screech of Prince Taehyung, who had woken in the Consort’s true chambers to find an unknown alpha creeping in like a threat. The elf prince’s voice tore through the palace like a clarion bell —his righteous fury enough to summon half the West’s gilded court from their beds in confusion and dread.

And so the morning rose not on whispered rumors, but on shouted accusations and shame. Courtiers scurried like rats from the scene, scandal blooming in every corner. The West treachery —so carefully wrapped in silk and honey— now lay bare as bone.

Yoongi would not stand for such filth. He dressed Jimin himself, still trembling and soft from their shared warmth, and wrapped him in furs thick enough to shield him from every foreign gaze. He gave Prince Taehyung a single nod —silent gratitude for his sharp eyes and sharper tongue— and escorted his mate and their loyal elf guardian straight to the waiting royal carriage.

As Emyr feigned ignorance and disappointment, Prince Erin was pushed towards the courtyard, still barefoot and slick with oils, to be shamed and seen by the rest of the court. Even as he turned on his own son, even as he tried to parlay with the Dragon of the North, the King of Westfield had to remain silent when he saw a flicker of flame behind Yoongi’s fangs.

As the wheels turned over stone, Yoongi sat beside his flower, one heavy arm a steel band around Jimin’s shoulders, every inch of him a promise of ruin. He spoke not of treaties anymore, but of lines drawn in blood and iron. Of the price of dignity. Of the sanctity of matehood that no court, no king, no spoiled prince could soil without paying in kind.

“They think me unreasonable, very well,” he murmured, thumb brushing Jimin’s knuckles where they lay folded on his thigh. “The West will learn the Mad King of the North does not forget. Or forgive.”

Jimin sighed softly, already drifting, curling closer until his head rested in the crook of Yoongi’s neck. The dragon’s hand adjusted the fur cloak to cover him entirely, the motion instinctive, protective.

Across from them, Prince Taehyung watched in silence until Jimin’s breathing deepened. Only then did he lean forward slightly, lowering his voice. 

“I asked after Lady Jeon during the banquet,” he said. “The courtiers know nothing —or pretend to. She’s not in the palace. If she’s still in Westfield, she’s hidden in another noble’s estate.”

Yoongi’s gaze didn’t leave Jimin as he answered, voice low. “Emyr feigned innocence as well, when I pressed him about the raids on Frostpire’s borders. But make no mistake —he knew. As of now, war could break at any moment. Their offense is too high to forgive.”

Taehyung’s jaw tightened. “Is there no way to avoid another confrontation? If it comes to war…” 

His eyes flicked to Jimin, who shifted in his sleep, murmuring something soft against Yoongi’s throat. “…the strain will fall on him, too.”

Yoongi’s palm moved slowly over the swell of Jimin’s belly, rubbing in quiet circles as though weighing the question in his hand. He pulled the blanket higher, tucking it under his omega’s chin, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his voice was iron wrapped in silk. “Frostpire will not be the first to draw blood. But neither will we grant leniency to the West after this. If they rise in arms, we will not stay still. I will keep them far from my borders, far from my mate. Whatever it costs.”

Taehyung inclined his head, the carriage falling back into the steady hush of wheels and hoofbeats, the weight of the Dragon King’s words settling over them.

The elf said nothing more, though his sharp gaze caught the truth beneath Yoongi’s even tone: the Dragon King had not looked at him once during their exchange. Every word had been spoken with his eyes fixed on Jimin, as though the whole of Frostpire’s policy, its borders, and its armies existed only to shield the sleeping omega in his lap.

Outside, the landscape shifted. The gilded stone and perfumed gardens of the West gave way to the stark, sweeping wilds that belonged to the North. The air grew sharper, cleaner; even through the closed carriage windows, it carried the faint scent of pine and snow from the frozen ridge guarding the Barrier.

Jimin stirred only once when the carriage tilted over a rise, murmuring Yoongi’s name against the hollow of his throat. His hand stilled over his belly, fingers splayed in a silent vow. He bent, pressing his mouth briefly to Jimin’s temple before murmuring, “Sleep, my flower. We’re almost home.”

In Mooncastle’s deep halls, rumors would grow wings —that the West’s sly scheme had failed. That the Dragon King’s wrath now lay coiled, ready to strike. And that his Consort, no longer so fragile, glowed with the steady flame of the kingdom’s future curled safe beneath his heart.

And that not even the oldest kingdom on the continent could stand untouched if they dared lay a hand on what belonged to the Dragon King.

Word had travelled like wildfire on cold winds —carried by ravens, merchants, and gossips alike— that the proud West had called to Frostpire in velvet gloves, pretending amnesty while hiding poisoned blades beneath silk sleeves. They had wagered their youngest omega prince, perfumed and ribbon-wrapped, against the iron bond of the Dragon King’s bed —and lost him to shame and bitter tears when their scheme shattered like thin ice under a warhorse’s hoof.

Now, in dark corners of Mooncastle’s candlelit halls, the few remaining lords still tethered to Western coin and Jeon Minjae’s whispering tongue knew the sword hovered above their necks. They had heard the rumors that it had all been her counsel —the serpent-voiced concubine who had once warmed Min Hanseo’s bed while Yoongi fought monsters at the edge of the realm. 

Lady Jeon, who had learned that the old stand-in was easy prey for sweetened omega skin and sons hidden away for leverage. But she had forgotten one truth: the late King was a hollow throne —no dragon’s blood in his marrow, no iron to his word. He was nothing like his nephew, the true heir to Frostpire’s crown and its ruthless fire.

The private antechamber of Mooncastle’s great hall was warm with the glow of the hearth, though the weight in the room had nothing to do with the winter beyond the stone walls. Yoongi stood with his back to the fire, broad shoulders haloed in gold light, as Hoseok and Seokjin listened in silence.

He told them everything.

From Emyr’s thin smiles and honeyed words, to the brazen handkerchief dropped in his lap, to the midnight “trap” that had ended with a certain Westfield prince fleeing the bathhouse pale and shamed. He told them of the dawn intrusion into his private chambers, of the false perfume, the guards who had looked away, the cold fury in Prince Taehyung’s voice as the plot came apart in full view of the West’s courtiers.

By the time he finished, Hoseok’s hand had closed around the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

“Had it been me,” the captain growled, “Westfield would be a smoldering grave by now. The king, his brat, his honey-dripping court —I’d have fed the whole lot to your dragonfire and salted the ashes.”

Seokjin, who had listened without so much as a blink, finally spoke —his tone low, measured, but carrying the same steel.

“As your friend, I would have done worse,” he said. “And as Jimin’s friend, I’d have taken pleasure in it.” His gaze, sharp as a frost-edged blade, flicked toward the northern banners hanging above the hearth. 

“But as the court’s advisor, my counsel is this: withdraw all trade from the West. Let their markets wither. Whatever goods they think we need, we can get from the East —and at a cleaner price.”

Yoongi’s jaw worked, then eased. “Agreed,” he said at last. “It will be done. And my thanks to you both —for standing by me.”

Hoseok straightened, his expression hard but loyal. “Always, brother. I’ll see to the soldiers. They’ll be sharper than any blade in your treasury when the time comes.”

Seokjin’s eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. “And send scouts south,” he added. 

“The southern lords will side with whoever promises them the fattest spoils. Best we know which way the wind leans before it turns.”

Hoseok nodded once, then strode out, leaving the two oldest friends alone in the quiet.

For a moment, the fire popped and hissed between them. Then Seokjin tilted his head, a faint, knowing smile ghosting across his lips. 

“You’ve grown, Yoongi. The reckless dragon I knew would have torched the palace before breakfast.”

Yoongi’s mouth curved in a faint smile. “Yet you haven’t changed a bit. Still proper. Still sharp. Still the Court’s Rose.”

The title made Seokjin’s brow twitch, but his voice softened when he answered. 

“Even if Frostpire’s burden rests on your shoulders, you’re not carrying it alone. The whole of the North stands ready —every sword, every shield— to keep Jimin and your cub safe. At any cost.”

Yoongi inclined his head, the firelight catching on the edge of a smile. “Let’s see if the West will test us. They’ll learn the price soon enough.”

The gates of the North slammed shut in the West’s face before spring’s final bloom could wither. No grain wagons rolled out, no furs traded for western silks. If Emyr of Westfield thought to squeeze tribute from the North with sly words and sweet flesh, he tasted only the edge of Yoongi’s blade instead. 

The East, rising like a scarred wolf from the ashes of its ruin, stayed staunch beside Frostpire's standard —for they remembered too well how Jimin’s home had burned, how he had crawled from the ruin to become the North’s tender bloom. They would not trade in stolen grain or flesh smuggled up from southern coasts, no matter how the West bartered.

Even Stonewell, the proud kingdom of the South, too distant and tangled in its own strife, found itself pulled into the slow tightening of the Dragon’s coil. The young Alpha Queen, reigning alone without a consort or an heir to steady her throne, bent under the West’s pressure —but fear simmered beneath her crown. For she knew that if Frostpire’s anger turned Southward, the dragon’s fire would scorch both her enemies and her fields alike.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading☕️✨

Summer is around the corner🌸

Chapter 20: The Summer Bloom

Summary:

“I’ll approve,” he said slowly, “under one condition.”

Jimin nodded. “Agreed.”

The King leaned down, tapping his cheek with one gloved finger. “Here.”

Jimin blinked, then laughed under his breath, leaning in to press a kiss to the offered cheek.

Yoongi straightened, utterly pleased. “Request accepted.”

Notes:

I feel the need to add this note for this chapter and the next one.

Trigger Warning: Fluff

 

Behind Mooncastle’s walls, the summer was bright. The gardens, once frozen and still, now unfurled with riotous life —green vines tumbling over stone arches, early fruit swelling in orchard boughs heavy with promise. The cold old halls, once hushed with fear and whispered court poison, now hummed with music and fresh laughter. Even the bitterest tongues that had once whispered of Jimin’s fragility bent to kiss the air around the soft swell of his belly, the visible sprig of the Dragon’s line that no rumor could poison.

Yoongi stepped from the audience chamber, the murmured farewells of the last merchant still fading from the vaulted space, when a flash of movement caught his eye.

A rustle of heavy tapestry.

A sudden burst of fresh berries and smeraldo blooms —richer now, warm with milk and honey.

He knew before the curtain even stirred.

But when Jimin popped his head out from behind the woven scene of ancient kings, grinning like a boy caught in mischief, Yoongi still let his mouth fall open in a feigned gasp.

“My flower! Here? I thought I’d misplaced you in the library again.”

Jimin only laughed, slipping from behind the tapestry to loop both arms around Yoongi’s. The king’s gaze dropped instantly, inevitably, to the curve of Jimin’s belly, where his palm settled as though it belonged there more than anywhere else in the world.

“The sun is so nice these days,” Jimin said, tilting his head with that careful, wheedling tone he used when he wanted something. “I thought… maybe we could see the orchards. The fruit must be ripe by now.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed, thumb stroking an idle circle over the taut silk of Jimin’s dress. “Beyond the walls?” His tone was all reluctance, the word a fortress in itself.

“Mm. Just with Taehyung and Jungkook. They can keep me safe.”

“No,” Yoongi said, without hesitation. “If you go, I go. And Captain Jung as well.” His hand spread wider, as if to shield the child inside from even the thought of distance between them. 

“I will not have you wandering where I cannot reach you in a single breath.”

Jimin smiled, leaning up just enough to press a kiss to his jaw. “Then it’s settled. You’ll come. We’ll take the air and see the people. I’ll bring a basket —we can have a picnic.”

Yoongi hummed, still unwilling to take his eyes —or his hand— from the gentle swell beneath his palm. “A picnic,” he echoed, as if testing the word for safety.

But Jimin was already stepping back, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “I’ll go tell the kitchens!”

The King’s fingers tightened briefly on empty air before he let him go. Jimin’s steps were light, almost a skip, as he hurried down the sunlit hall.

“Be careful!” Yoongi called after him, voice booming through the stone. 

And though he stood there in the middle of the great hall, all armor and dragon’s pride, there was no mistaking the soft, helpless smile tugging at his mouth as he watched his mate vanish around the corner.

🍑

A few days later, Jimin appeared in the courtyard before their departure like some soft vision of summer itself —draped in a flowing peach-colored robe that clung just enough over the bump on his belly to make The King’s throat tighten. The silk shifted with every step, catching the light like ripened fruit in the sun. His long brown hair spilled in loose curls down his back, shorter strands pinned away with tiny flowers that trembled with his movements.

Yoongi did not even pretend not to stare.

Prince Jeon, already waiting beside the carriage, reached to help Jimin inside —only for Seokjin —who had only meant to walk the Consort to the courtyard—  to be herded along with them, the young prince’s hand firmly at his back.

“I have letters to write,” Seokjin said mildly, which in his voice sounded almost like an argument.

“You can write them later,” Jungkook replied cheerfully, nudging him up the step.

Seokjin sat with the air of a man enduring mild torture, already fanning himself as the wheels began to turn. The King and Captain Jung mounted their horses instead, riding close alongside, Yoongi’s gaze never far from the carriage window.

When they reached the orchards, the warm air smelled of sun and fruit. Villagers lined the lane to greet them, offering bows and shy smiles. The alphas in charge of the fields approached Yoongi and Hoseok, leading them down the long rows heavy with ripening plums and peaches, while ahead of them Jimin, Jin, and the two princes were already enjoying the view.

The princes darted ahead, leaping for the low-hanging plums with laughter in their voices. Taehyung called back over his shoulder, “Take off your shoes! Feel the soil, Kook —connect with it!”

Seokjin’s expression soured slightly as he and Jimin followed, elbows hooked and careful steps. “Utterly unbecoming behavior for two princes.”

Jimin only laughed, nudging him in the ribs with gentle insistence. “Cut them some slack, Jin. They’re happy.”

“They’re trouble,” the advisor sighed. “Together, they are always trouble.”

The path wound between neat rows before spilling into the backyard of a small cottage, where more villagers had gathered. Their welcome was humble yet warm —low tables laden with what they called peasant fare: rounds of milk cheese, fresh loaves still fragrant from the oven, barley stew, salted dry fish, and a thick cream drizzled with honey that Jimin fell upon with guilty delight. The royal basket completely forgotten.

They did not let him sit on the ground but instead arranged mounds of soft cushions beneath a shady bough. A pitcher of chilled peach juice was placed at his elbow, along with baskets of the orchard’s best fruit as an offering for the royal household.

At first, Yoongi hovered —eyes sharp for any imagined discomfort, hand lingering too often on Jimin’s shoulder. But as the afternoon went on, seeing his mate’s bright smile and flushed cheeks under the sun, his vigilance softened. The people’s affection was genuine, their welcome without edge or court poison.

It was only when a group of the alpha villagers approached, hats in hand, asking quietly for a private audience, that Yoongi rose.

“I’ll hear them,” he said, brushing his knuckles over Jimin’s cheek in passing. “Captain Jung will stay with you.”

Jimin smiled up at him, peach juice still glistening on his lips. “Go. I’m fine here.”

Yoongi gave a look that said he would be quick, though they both knew he’d still check over his shoulder more than once before the conversation was through.

They led Yoongi a short way beyond the orchard, to the shade of a great walnut tree. The alpha who seemed to speak for the group —broad-shouldered, with sun-browned hands— bowed low before straightening.

“Your Majesty,” he began, voice steady but thick with emotion. “We thank you for coming here… and for what you’ve done for us. Since your reign began, our work’s been fairer —our dues lighter, our wages honest. The fields have not been so well-tended in years.”

Yoongi inclined his head. “The land feeds the kingdom. The hands that tend it must be strong and steady. If they are worn to bone, the land suffers. That will not happen under my rule.”

A murmur of agreement passed among them. Then the spokesman hesitated, glancing at the others before taking a half-step forward. 

“There is… one matter, sire. We’ve had a summer without trouble, but the rains have been light. The irrigation channels from the hills have grown choked with silt and root. By autumn, if the work is not done, the trees nearest the rise will dry before the next bloom. We’ve written to the steward, but…” He trailed off, clearly uncertain whether the words were overbold.

Yoongi’s answer was immediate. “You’ll have the channels cleared before the moon turns. I’ll send men from the capital to help —tools, beasts, whatever you need. And if there is more, you will send word.”

The man bowed again, almost too quickly. “We are grateful, Your Majesty. Truly. We… we did not expect such an answer.”

Yoongi frowned faintly. “Why?”

Another villager, older and wiry, shifted uncomfortably. “No peasant’s been inside Mooncastle’s gates in more than a decade. Since the late king shut the doors to us, we were told our troubles were for the stewards to handle. If they did not, well… we learned to hold our tongues.”

Yoongi’s expression cooled. “Then remember this: Mooncastle is not only stone and banners. It stands for you as much as for me. If you have need, you come to my court. You ask. And if anyone tries to turn you away, tell them the Dragon King sent you.”

The words seemed to ripple through the group like wind through grass —astonishment, relief, a cautious spark of hope. They bowed as one, not with the stiff formality of duty, but with the weight of something freely given.

“I’ll see to the channels myself when I return,” Yoongi added, his voice softer now. “The trees will not thirst on my watch.”

The men promised their thanks again and again before leading him back toward the cottage, where Jimin’s laughter carried faintly over the orchard rows.

Yoongi returned to the yard with long, purposeful strides, only to find the so-called “guard” sprawled under the shade of a walnut tree. Jung had his arms folded behind his head, eyes closed, looking far too content for a man on duty.

One dark brow arched. “I see the orchard’s peace has lulled my captain into retirement,” Yoongi said dryly.

Hoseok cracked one eye open, unfazed. “All quiet, Your Majesty. No hostile trees in sight.”

Yoongi grunted but let it pass, his attention already shifting to Jin. The advisor sat cross-legged on a low bench, fan flicking lazily, deep in conversation with two omega villagers who were laughing softly at something he’d said. His fingers plucked delicately at a fig, the pink fruit staining his lips in the most undignified —and oddly comfortable— picture Yoongi had ever seen of him.

The princes were farther off, crouched over a wicker basket, popping berries into their mouths with little care for decorum. Their lips and fingertips were stained red, and Jungkook’s sleeve bore the evidence of an ill-aimed blackberry toss.

But it was Jimin who caught —and held— Yoongi’s focus.

He sat among a pile of soft cushions, a slice of buttered bread dripping with cherry compote in his hand, his cheeks adorably round from a greedy bite. A small girl had claimed his lap, her tiny hands deftly tucking wildflowers into his curls, tongue sticking out in concentration. At his knee, a plump brown rabbit sniffed curiously, whiskers twitching.

Yoongi slowed. He could feel it —heat blooming beneath his collar. Jimin glanced up, startled by the looming shadow, and flushed at once. The King’s gaze swept over him, lingering on the delicate spill of curls, the flushed cheeks, the way the robe clung over his belly.

And before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

“You look like a peach.”

Jimin blinked, then turned the shade of one. Around them, villagers exchanged quick glances, trying —and failing— to hide their amusement.

Yoongi realized what he’d said a heartbeat too late, his own ears warming. He cleared his throat, the attempt at composure only making the moment more transparent.

Prince Taehyung hummed around a mouthful of berries. “More like a fairy,” he declared.

“A peach fairy,” Jungkook corrected without missing a beat, grinning through stained teeth.

The toddler in Jimin’s lap beamed as though she’d done the styling for a coronation.

Yoongi’s long shadow settled over the cushions as he lowered himself beside Jimin, the movement slow and deliberate —as though wary that the moment might vanish if he approached too quickly. The villagers shifted, making space for the King without being told, though the little girl on Jimin’s lap did not budge, stubbornly finishing the braid she’d started.

Yoongi said nothing at first. His arm slid along the back of the cushions, his hand almost —but not quite— brushing Jimin’s curls. He watched as his mate reached for another slice of bread, the compote staining his fingertips, and resisted the urge to take his hand just to lick it clean.

“You’ve eaten?” he asked quietly, though his gaze had already taken in the evidence —crumbs clinging to his lips, the soft fullness of his belly beneath the robe. Jimin nodded, chewing happily.

Yoongi’s mouth curved faintly, though his voice stayed low. “Good. I need you full. You’re feeding two, after all.” His palm drifted almost of its own accord to rest over Jimin’s bump, thumb moving in an unconscious, tender arc.

Jimin leaned into him, their shoulders brushing. “They’re so kind here,” he murmured. “It’s like… the whole orchard is humming. I can feel it.”

Yoongi tilted his head, studying him. The sunlight caught on his hairpins, setting the flowers aglow. “You glow brighter than the orchard,” he said, the words meant only for him.

Jimin’s cheeks warmed again. He glanced down, pretending to fuss with the toddler’s braid, though his smile betrayed him.

They stayed like that for a while —Yoongi’s hand on the small bump, Jimin tucked close, the villagers discreetly pretending not to watch. When the braid was finished, the little girl proudly declared it “for the peach fairy,” making both King and Consort laugh despite themselves.

Hoseok, now fully awake, muttered something about soft kings and their softer consorts, though the fondness in his eyes betrayed him.

By the time the shadows stretched long between the orchard rows, the baskets were brimming —golden pears, sun-warmed plums, and more peaches than the carriage could reasonably carry. The villagers insisted, pressing fruit into their hands as though trying to pack their gratitude into something tangible.

Yoongi oversaw the loading himself, every few minutes glancing back to make sure Jimin wasn’t lifting anything heavier than a napkin. He stood under the low bough of a plum tree, the brown rabbit stubbornly in his arms despite Yoongi’s glare, chatting with the toddler’s mother, the braid in his hair now lopsided but somehow even sweeter for it.

When the villagers began to line the path to the road, Yoongi offered his arm, and Jimin took it without hesitation, fingers curling into the crook of his elbow. The setting sun washed them in gold, throwing a halo over his curls and setting his robe aglow like a ripe fruit’s skin.

Yoongi leaned down as they walked. “You’re tired,” he murmured. It wasn’t a question.

“Only a little,” Jimin admitted, though his smile was content. “But I’ll sleep in the carriage.”

“No,” Yoongi said softly, his voice almost tender enough to hide the possessiveness beneath. “You’ll sleep in my lap.”

The villagers called their farewells, bowing low as the royal party passed. Prince Taehyung waved like he was leaving a festival, Prince Jeon carried an entire basket under one arm as though he meant to eat it all before they reached Mooncastle, and Seokjin looked as though he’d rather walk than share a seat with either of them.

Yoongi, however, kept his pace unhurried. Every step back to the waiting carriage was a slow claim —his hand steady on Jimin’s back, guiding him over the ruts in the road, his attention fixed solely on him despite the calls and bows all around.

By the time they reached the carriage, the sky was streaked with rose and violet. Yoongi helped Jimin inside, settled him among the cushions, and climbed in after him. Outside, Jung gave the signal to depart. Inside, Yoongi shifted until Jimin’s head rested against his chest, his palm warm over the mound of their heir.

As the wheels began to turn and the orchard faded into the distance, Yoongi murmured, almost to himself, “One day, I’ll bring you back here. No crowns, no guards. Just us.”

Jimin’s sleepy hum was the only answer he needed.

🍓

The audience chamber smelled faintly of old stone and ink, the air thick with the weight of petition after petition. Yoongi lounged on his throne, his chin propped against one gloved knuckle, one elbow hooked lazily over the armrest. 

His legs sprawled in the careless posture of a man growing weary of hearing the same pleas on repeat —lords with faces red from false indignation, bemoaning tax levies they could easily afford, or pressing for him to lift the ban on trade with the West, their protests far more about coin than principle.

His crown sat slightly askew. He knew it, but he hadn’t cared for the past hour.

When Seokjin announced the final petitioner, Yoongi barely looked up —until the great doors opened and the figure stepped into the hall.

The King straightened at once.

Jimin crossed the marble floor, his presence soft but unmistakable. Yoongi’s bored eyes sharpened, his spine lengthening as his hand discreetly pushed the crown straight on his head. His shoulders squared. His chest swelled in something perilously close to preening.

The light caught the overcoat Jimin wore, a warm shade Yoongi couldn’t quite name —is it brown? Is it yellow?— over a creamy robe speckled with tiny dots of red and pink. His bump curved sweetly beneath it. Yoongi swallowed hard. 

He was hungry, but Jimin… Jimin looked like a cream puff. No, worse —worse because it was better— he looked like a strawberry cream puff. And his curls spilled down his shoulders like chocolate drizzle.

Yoongi was halfway lost in the thought when Jimin stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed. Bowed.

The scrape of the throne echoed as Yoongi was suddenly on his feet.

“Don’t kneel,” he ordered, voice low and sharp, his gaze fixed on the way Jimin’s hand supported the gentle swell of their heir. “Never kneel for me.”

Jimin straightened, meeting his eyes with a diplomat’s composure, though there was the faintest glimmer of amusement in his expression.

“I have a request, Your Majesty,” he said.

Yoongi stepped down the dais, closing the space between them. “Whatever you want, you’ll have,” he replied instantly, reaching to draw him in.

Jimin’s small hands pressed lightly to his chest, keeping him at a polite distance. “It’s an important matter,” he said —but the corners of his mouth curved in a tiny giggle he couldn’t quite hide.

Yoongi’s fingers twitched. He tried to stand still, he really did, but failed spectacularly when a loose curl caught his eye. He reached up to wind the soft strand around his finger, his voice quieter now. 

“Tell me.”

Jimin inhaled, his tone smoothing into that calm firmness Yoongi was learning meant he’d already made up his mind. 

“I want to cancel the Summer Solstice Banquet in the castle. I don’t wish to dine with lords and ladies who’ve been less than courteous. I want to do it differently.”

Yoongi blinked, curiosity stirring.

“I want to break bread with the people,” Jimin continued. “The villagers we visited… they’ve stayed with me. I’ll take care of everything —I only ask your permission.”

The alpha tilted his head, weighing nothing at all —because his answer was already yes. 

“I’ll approve,” he said slowly, “under one condition.”

Jimin nodded. “Agreed.”

The King leaned down, tapping his cheek with one gloved finger. “Here.”

Jimin blinked, then laughed under his breath, leaning in to press a kiss to the offered cheek.

Yoongi straightened, utterly pleased. “Request accepted. And if any courtiers complain…” his mouth quirked, “…they may join the feast in Frostpire’s streets. See how they like their bread without a gold plate under it.”

Jimin snorted at the sudden shift into lofty political gravitas.

The alpha leaned down again, this time catching his mate’s cheek with his own kiss before taking his arm. 

“Come, flower.” he said, already leading him toward the side doors. “Enough court business. It’s time for supper.”

And Jimin, stepping fully into the power that nestled behind the gentle press of his palm to his middle, would not see this season wasted on stiff wine and wary glances in Mooncastle’s draughty banquet hall. 

“No more feasts for the wolves in silk,” Seokjin had murmured, half-amused. 

So Jimin did. With Prince Taehyung’s calm counsel and Seokjin’s cunning at his shoulder, he swept into the kitchens —sleeves pinned up, delicate fingers dusted in flour, choosing which pies would bake, which barrels of the cellars’ secret old wine would be cracked open and poured not for the lords but for the cobblers, the shepherds, the old women who carried frostbitten hands and heavy baskets through the gates each dawn.

All seemed to carry rather smoothly.

 

 

 

 

Save for the King’s constant hovering.

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading!☕️✨

🍓🍑🫐🍒

Chapter 21: The Summer Solstice

Summary:

“You’re hopeless.”

“I’m King,” Yoongi corrected with a sleepy grin, brushing his lips against his mate’s ear. “Which means I can decree you’re not leaving this bed until I’ve had my fill of you.”

Jimin flushed. “You sound like you mean that in two different ways.”

“Both are true.”

Notes:

Summer is smooth like butter💛 🧈

 

 

The royal bedchamber was awash in the dim glow of the hearth, the flames crackling softly against the quiet. Jimin sat propped up on a fortress of pillows, his notebook on one hand, quill scratching furiously across the page. Every so often, his brows knit in concentration, lips pursing in thought as he jotted another line —decorations for the solstice feast, where to set the tables, how to arrange musicians so their tunes reached every corner of Frostpire’s bustling market square. 

Yoongi lay stretched beside him, broad frame sprawled comfortably across the coverlets, his face pressed against the softness of Jimin’s belly like a lazy cat. His arm wrapped possessively around his waist, one hand absently rubbing the warm curve as if it might coax their cub closer to his voice. His nose nuzzled against the thin fabric of Jimin’s nightrobe, drawing in his scent —milk-soft and warm with sleepiness. 

He was half-asleep himself, his words slow and rumbling, meant only for the little ears still growing beneath his flower’s heartbeat. 

“Your Papa’s beauty is unmatched,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “He’s soft like spring blossoms… scent like heaven… voice as clear as summer sky…” He shifted, pressing a kiss to the bump, his tone drowsier now. “…and he looks like a cream puff.”

Jimin’s quill stilled mid-stroke. His lips twitched. The more he tried to smother the giggle bubbling in his chest, the more it fought free —until it burst out in a muffled snort that made his whole frame shake. The sudden tremor startled Yoongi, who lifted his head blearily, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

“What’s so amusing?” Yoongi asked, propping his chin on Jimin’s belly like a pillow.

Jimin quickly set his notebook and quill aside, sliding down the pillows until he was face-to-face with his husband. 

“Tell me,” he said, feigning seriousness, “why is it that lately all my nicknames from you are food-related?”

Yoongi’s mouth curled in a faint smirk. “Because you’re delicious?”

Jimin rolled his eyes. “Do you wish to eat me?” The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Yoongi’s grin turned positively wolfish. He leaned in without warning, giving a playful nip to Jimin’s shoulder —just enough to make him squeak— before his tongue flicked lazily over the mark at his neck.

Jimin dissolved into breathless laughter, squirming and trying to push him away. “Yoongi—!” he squealed, giggling helplessly.

“You’re so sweet, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi rumbled against his skin, a devil’s smile in his voice. “I always want to eat you.”

Jimin’s protests melted into warm laughter, the kind that made his eyes crinkle into crescents and his cheeks flush. Yoongi pulled him in close, tucking him under his chin as their amusement faded into drowsy murmurs and softer touches. The fire’s glow painted them in gentle gold as their breathing slowed, sleep curling around them like another blanket.

They drifted off that way —two heartbeats, three if you counted the little one— wrapped in the warmth of shared breath and the scent of home.

The first light of dawn crept through the high windows, spilling a pale gold wash across the bed. Mooncastle’s bells had not yet rung to call the keep to waking, but Jimin was already half-sitting up, hair in a tangle of loose curls, his notebook once again balanced on his lap.

He chewed thoughtfully on the end of his quill, eyes scanning the scrawl from the night before. “We’ll need more benches… oh, and barrels of cider. I should ask the kitchen to—”

A heavy arm slid over his middle, dragging him back down into the warm hollow of the bed.

“No,” Yoongi’s voice was gravel-soft from sleep, his nose immediately finding the curve of Jimin’s neck. “Too early.”

Jimin chuckled under his breath. “It’s not early, love. The sun’s up—”

“Don’t care.” Yoongi’s arm tightened, keeping him firmly caged against his chest. “Stay. Warm.”

“I have things to arrange,” Jimin said, though the protest lost force when Yoongi’s hand spread over his belly.

“Send Jin,” Yoongi mumbled into his hair. “That’s why you have an advisor. So I can keep my mate in bed where he belongs.”

Jimin laughed softly, leaning back into him despite himself. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’m King,” Yoongi corrected with a sleepy grin, brushing his lips against his mate’s ear. “Which means I can decree you’re not leaving this bed until I’ve had my fill of you.”

Jimin flushed, twisting to give him a pointed look. “You sound like you mean that in two different ways.”

Yoongi’s only answer was to nip at his ear in a mock bite, then nuzzle back into the crook of his neck. “Both are true,” he murmured, his voice rumbling against Jimin’s skin.

Jimin sighed in mock defeat, shutting his notebook and letting it fall to the side. “Fine. Ten more minutes.”

Yoongi smirked without opening his eyes. “Ten more hours.”

The sound of Jimin’s laughter filled the chamber, bright and soft all at once. Neither noticed how quickly the ten minutes became twenty, then longer still, until the morning slipped quietly into the arms of noon.

It took gentle whining to get free of him.

A soft complaint of hunger, a wish for a peach tart from the kitchens finally coaxed Yoongi into releasing Jimin from his arms.

But freedom was an illusion.

The moment Jimin stepped into the hallway, Yoongi was there —barely dressed in all black, loose trousers and a half-laced shirt, old leather boots and hair still mussed from sleep, walking with long, lazy strides at his side.

“Yoongi,” Jimin said, trying for patience as they passed a pair of startled maids who immediately dropped into deep bows. “You don’t need to follow me everywhere.”

Yoongi gave him a look that was nothing short of scandalized. “Of course I do. You’re carrying my heir. My heir,” he repeated, as though Jimin might have somehow forgotten.

“I’m going to the kitchens, not the border,” Jimin pointed out, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Mm. The kitchens have knives,” Yoongi countered seriously. “And stairs. And floors that might be slippery. And—”

“And Jin,” Jimin interrupted, gesturing ahead to where the advisor was waiting with a stack of papers and an expression of quiet suffering. “You trust Jin to protect me, don’t you?”

Seokjin arched a brow. “Protect you? Certainly. Tolerate the King hovering like a mother hen? Less so.”

Yoongi ignored him entirely, stepping forward to open the kitchen doors himself. Inside, cooks and scullions froze mid-task before bowing low. The scent of fresh bread and roasting meat filled the air, and Jimin’s eyes lit up in a way that made Yoongi soften instantly.

He shadowed Jimin’s every movement as he spoke with the kitchen staff —approving extra bread loaves for the feast, ordering barrels of wine, tasting the jam to “make sure it was worthy of his mate.”

Jimin rolled his eyes but didn’t stop him.

When they moved to the great hall to discuss seating with the stewards, Yoongi was still glued to his side. Seokjin trailed behind with the air of a man resigned to an endless day, quietly noting that at this rate the entire court would see how besotted their King truly was.

By the time they reached the tailors for Jimin to look over decorations, Yoongi had become not just a shadow but an extension —pulling out chairs, steadying his elbow over nothing, and once brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder in a gesture that made Jimin’s ears pink.

When Jimin finally leaned close and whispered, “Are you going to follow me into the bath next?” Yoongi didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes,” he said plainly.

🌸

Jimin sat at the long table in the steward’s office, a scattering of parchment before him —sketches of street banners, lists of dishes, and Seokjin’s neat notes about budget allocations.

Prince Taehyung and Prince Jeon flanked him, passing ribbons back and forth, arguing over which shade of gold looked “more festive.”

“What about this one?” Taehyung asked, holding up a strip of shimmering satin.

Jungkook squinted. “That’s not gold, that’s mustard. You want people to think they’re at a harvest festival?”

Jimin barely managed to smother a laugh as he dipped his quill to jot down quantities of bread loaves for the feast.

Across the hall, Yoongi was supposed to be finishing with a small council of minor lords. Instead, the heavy doors had slammed shut behind a rather bewildered man mid-plea for tax leniency —only for Yoongi to stride straight toward them with the purposeful gait of a predator on a hunt.

Jimin felt it before he saw it: that subtle shift in the air, the weight of his scent pressing warm at the back of his neck.

Taehyung’s eyes tracked the approaching King, brows lifting. “Why is he here again? Didn’t he have petitions until sundown?”

Jungkook leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Why is my cousin hovering like this? He’s never this—” he searched for the word “—available.”

Taehyung tipped his head. “Must be a dragon thing.”

Seokjin, without looking up from his ledger, let out a quiet, knowing huff. “It’s also an alpha thing. Which makes it twice the trouble.”

Before Jimin could retort, the florist arrived —an omega woman in a crisp apron, her arms full of summer blooms. She curtsied and presented the bouquet for Jimin’s inspection. The arrangement was perfect —blush roses, white peonies, sprigs of rosemary— but he leaned in anyway, drawing in the sweet scent with a soft hum.

Pollen dusted the tip of his nose.

The sneeze came fast and unexpected —small yet sharp, head-snapping, entirely harmless.

It didn’t matter.

Yoongi was there before the florist had straightened from her bow, his large frame eclipsing the table’s light, hands braced on either side of Jimin’s chair.

“What happened?” His voice was low, sharp enough to make Taehyung and Jungkook both straighten in their seats.

Jimin blinked up at him, caught between laughter and exasperation. “I sneezed, Yoongi.”

The King’s gaze swept his face, his shoulders, his belly —seeking the threat as though an assassin might be hiding in the bouquet. “You’re flushed.”

“I’m fine,” Jimin assured, reaching up to brush the pollen away, but Yoongi was already producing a handkerchief from his breast pocket, catching his wrist gently and dabbing at his nose with such care that Jungkook muttered something about surely this was not the King of Frostpire.

Taehyung’s lips quirked. “Definitely a dragon thing.”

Seokjin didn’t look up, but Jimin could see the smirk in the corner of his mouth. 

“Told you. Twice the trouble.”

🌸

Yoongi had worn grooves into the carpet outside the consort’s chambers.

Back and forth, boots whispering against the stone, tail of his dark coat swishing like an agitated banner in the wind. Every so often, he would pause —ears straining for the faintest sound of movement inside— only to start pacing again when all he heard was muffled rustling.

Seokjin, perched on a nearby bench with the poise of a man accustomed to endless royal nonsense, fanned himself lazily.

“For the love of the gods, Yoongi,” he drawled, “sit. He’s only dressing, not escaping.”

Yoongi shot him a look. “He’s been in there for ages.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Seokjin corrected, glancing at the clock.

“Feels like ages,” Yoongi muttered.

The advisor sighed, closing his fan with a sharp snap. “Do you even hear yourself lately?” He tilted his head, studying the King as though observing some rare, mildly irritating creature. 

“Since the season shifted, you’ve been… odd. Clingy. Overprotective.”

Yoongi frowned, bristling. “I’ve always been protective.”

“Yes, but this—” Seokjin gestured at the deep furrow in Yoongi’s brow, “—this is different. My guess? Pre-rut. Your instincts are prickling, but since Jimin is already carrying, your rut won’t hit in full force. The urge for intimacy dulls, but the guarding behavior stays.”

Yoongi blinked. The words landed like a pebble dropped in a still pond, ripples spreading.

It made sense. That restless itch in his skin whenever Jimin was out of sight, the way the air felt too thin if he didn’t have his omega in his line of vision. The way even palace corridors felt unsafe without him there.

“I—” Yoongi started, only to cut himself off, startled by the latch turning on the chamber door.

The scent hit him first —warm milk tangled with elven blossoms and honeyed berries— and all thoughts fled his mind.

Jimin stepped out in a flowing robe of pale pink brushed with soft golden undertones, a sash knotted gently above the curve of his belly. His curls tumbled loose, caught here and there with sprigs of white flowers. The sight pulled the air from Yoongi’s lungs.

Yoongi closed the space between them at once, his hand finding Jimin’s waist as though it had been crafted for that purpose alone.

“You’re radiant,” he murmured, voice low enough for only Jimin to hear.

The omega’s cheeks warmed, but he leaned in, amused. “You were pacing, weren’t you?”

Yoongi didn’t deny it. He only held him closer, unwilling to let go as they started toward the banquet together.

 

Carts and wagons, decked in garlands of yellow bloom and fluttering ribbons, had rolled down Frostpire’s winding roads toward the town square. There, under the high summer sun, barrels were tapped, loaves broken open still steaming, and the delicate sweets that once only gilded the high tables of the lords were passed from hand to hand —from King’s steward to miller’s child, from palace cook to traveling merchant.

Inside the castle’s marble corridors, some lords of the court bristled —venom on their tongues now bared in full view. “Wasteful,” they hissed behind jeweled fans and velvet cuffs. “Foolishness. Peasants will forget by winter.” 

But their complaints tasted stale and thin next to the sight of Frostpire’s King and his Consort stepping from their royal carriage and walking hand in hand through the people’s square, breaking bread not at a gilded table but on the rough stone steps with the same shepherds and stonemasons who carved the castle’s bones from the mountain itself.

The streets of Frostpire glowed in the warm lantern-light, banners in gold and deep blue fluttering from balconies. The air was rich with the scents of roasting meats, fresh bread, honeyed fruit, and woodsmoke. Laughter and the music of fiddles spilled between the buildings, a sound that carried far beyond the castle walls.

Jimin walked beside Yoongi, his steps unhurried, every few paces pausing to greet a villager, take a hand, or exchange warm words. Children darted between the throng like darting swallows, their shrill giggles weaving into the music.

It didn’t take long before the smallest of them began orbiting around Jimin like he was a sun in their night sky —little hands tugging at his robe, presenting him with wildflowers, ragdoll toys, or simple tokens: a ribbon here, a button there, a pebble polished smooth by the river.

Yoongi lingered close at his side, a looming shadow of dark coat and steel gaze, watching each approach like a hawk. It was enough to keep most adults at a respectful distance. But the children, apparently, were braver —or oblivious.

One boy in particular, a slip of a thing with hair like pale wheat and eyes wide as river ice, stared up at the King. He was known to be shy, the sort that hid behind his mother’s skirts when strangers came calling. Yet tonight, he inched forward and… tugged at the edge of Yoongi’s cloak.

A small gasp went up from the other children.

Yoongi looked down, his expression unreadable, but he bent at the waist all the same.

The boy’s small fist uncurled, revealing a flat river stone, a crooked raven carved into its surface. The carving was simple, rough, but the lines were sure.

Yoongi took it with surprising gentleness, his thumb brushing the boy’s palm. “It’s well done,” he said, voice quiet but carrying enough for the boy to hear. The child’s eyes shone. 

Later in the evening, Jimin spotted the boy again —this time perched on Yoongi’s hip as if he belonged there, the King’s arm secure around him.

From a distance, Jimin could see the boy whispering something into Yoongi’s ear, the King’s mouth twitching at whatever was said.

Curious, Jimin approached, leaning in to pinch the boy’s cheek lightly. “And what did you tell His Majesty?”

The boy just smiled —then leaned in and planted a quick kiss on Jimin’s cheek.

Yoongi made a show of narrowing his eyes, muttering just loud enough for Jimin to catch, “Tiny traitor.”

Jimin laughed, cradling the boy’s head with his hand for a moment before letting him dart back to his friends, Yoongi’s arm immediately slipping around his waist as if to claim him back.

They eventually found a place at one of the long trestle tables set beneath a line of lanterns strung between the buildings. The air was fragrant with roast venison, herb-flecked bread, and sweet cider. Yoongi, for all his imposing stillness, sat so close his knee pressed against Jimin’s under the table, his shoulder a steady wall of warmth.

Jimin was barely halfway through a helping of honey-drizzled barley pudding when Yoongi, face perfectly neutral, slid another slice of bread and a generous portion of roast onto his plate. Then another spoonful of stew. Then a heap of greens.

“Yoongi,” Jimin murmured under his breath, giving him a pointed look.

The King did not even glance at him. “Eat,” he replied, his tone deceptively even —though his hand lingered just a moment too long on the edge of Jimin’s plate before withdrawing.

Villagers seated across from them chatted easily, some leaning in to share local gossip or thank Jimin for the day’s feast. An elderly woman with silver hair bound in a scarf passed him a small pouch of dried herbs “for healthy carrying,” patting his hand with such tenderness that Jimin’s eyes shone.

Another, older still, with eyes clouded by age but voice sharp as ever, peered at Yoongi through the lamplight. “I remember you,” she declared, pointing a knotted finger at him.

“Round cheeks and stubborn jaw. Couldn’t be pried off your papa’s robe —Gieon’s boy, through and through.”

Yoongi’s straight face cracked just enough for a hint of pink to touch the tips of his ears. “I was a child,” he said, but it only encouraged her.

“Oh, aye, a child who growled at anyone that dared speak to your papa,” she cackled. “Wouldn’t even let him stir the stew without you glued to his hip. I would know, I worked the kitchens of Mooncastle back in the day.”

Jimin covered his mouth, his laughter shaking his shoulders. “So our King has always been this clingy,” he teased, his eyes bright with mischief.

Yoongi shot him a look that was half warning, half helpless fondness, before turning back to ladle more stew onto Jimin’s plate —his version of a retort.

As the night deepened, the villagers passed around mugs of cider, little ones darted in to show Jimin their trinkets, and Yoongi, despite his best effort to appear the picture of regal detachment, never once let Jimin drift far from his side.

Yoongi watched the crowd —how the people’s eyes turned soft, how the stiff shoulders eased when they saw their flower bright and blooming beside their Dragon King. He saw that hope was a fire that needed only a breath to roar back to life —a fire his father had once kept, that his uncle’s rotten reign had tried to snuff out, but that Jimin now kindled anew with every soft smile and gentle touch to the curve of his belly.

🌸

Steam curled lazily through the royal chambers, softening the lamplight into a hazy gold. The great porcelain tub sat near the hearth, the water scented faintly with crushed mint and chamomile. Jimin reclined against the curved edge, the warm water lapping at the swell of his belly. Yoongi was half behind him, half wrapped around him —his arms looped over Jimin’s middle, his cheek resting heavily on his shoulder.

The hum of the feast still lingered faintly through the open window, muffled by the summer night air. Jimin tilted his head back, closing his eyes with a sigh. “We should do this again,” he murmured, tracing idle circles on Yoongi’s forearm. “Another celebration in the streets. Maybe for the harvest?”

Yoongi made a low, thoughtful sound, his lips brushing Jimin’s damp skin. “Mm. If it makes you smile like tonight, then yes. Every year, if you wish.” His hands skimmed the curve of his belly under the water, possessive even in the quietest gestures.

Jimin chuckled softly. “You’ve been stuck to me all week,” he teased, not turning to look but smiling into the steam. “Even more than usual.”

That earned him a pause. Yoongi’s arms tightened slightly, his breath warm against Jimin’s ear. “…You’ve noticed.” His voice dropped, as though embarrassed to say more. 

“Jin says I’m… in pre-rut. Makes sense, I suppose. It’s… different, since you’re already carrying.”

Jimin opened his eyes, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see the tips of Yoongi’s ears turn pink.

“I’m not… dangerous,” Yoongi added quickly, his gaze dropping to the water. “It won’t hit fully. Just— my instincts are sharper. I want you close. Safe.”

Jimin’s cheeks warmed, his pulse quickening despite the calm. “I’m not scared,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t mind if it were like… in Liven.”

Yoongi’s lips curved faintly at the memory, but he shook his head, brushing his thumb over the back of Jimin’s hand under the water. 

“There’s no need for that now. Our sprig is already on the way.”

Jimin turned fully to him then, water rippling around them. “It doesn’t matter that our royal duty is taken care of,” he murmured. “I still wouldn’t mind.”

For a moment, Yoongi just looked at him —quiet, searching— before leaning in to kiss the damp skin at Jimin’s temple. “Then I’ll remember that,” he said, voice low and warm, before settling in again, holding him just a little tighter as the water lapped gently around them.

The water had cooled by the time they finally stepped out, wrapped in thick linen towels, steam still clinging to their skin. The hearth burned low, throwing slow-moving shadows across the room as they slipped beneath the covers. Yoongi didn’t bother with the pretense of space; he curled around him instantly, one arm around his waist, palm resting on the gentle rise of his belly.

“You did well today,” he murmured into Jimin’s hair. “I’m proud of you.”

The omega blinked up at him, surprised. “For… what?”

“For stepping in,” Yoongi said, voice firm but warm. “For making the Solstice feast your own. You didn’t just follow the old ways —you decided what you wanted. For them. For us.”

Jimin’s lips curved faintly. “I had a lot of help. You, Jin, the princes… The villagers were so kind last time. It didn’t feel right to celebrate without them. I’ve never been very political, you know. I grew up guarded —maids, the butler, the tutors— but this… this felt right.”

Yoongi’s thumb stroked over his side. “We might get pushback. We’re young. Still settling into these titles. The court sees that and thinks it’s an opening to test us.”

Jimin’s smile didn’t falter. “Then let them test us.”

Yoongi huffed a quiet laugh. “It will work out,” he agreed, pressing his nose into his mate’s curls.

Jimin was about to reply when he froze, his hand darting to his belly. His eyes widened. “Oh—”

Yoongi instantly sat up. “Flower? What is it? Are you—”

Jimin laughed through a sudden rush of tears, shaking his head. “It’s fine. It’s— it’s the first proper kick. Not a flutter. A real one.” His voice cracked, and the tears spilled freely.

Yoongi’s panic melted into breathless awe. “Here?” he asked, and Jimin caught his hand, guiding it to the spot.

It came again —small but undeniable. Yoongi went still, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. His eyes shone, but he didn’t cry; still, the way he swallowed and blinked told on him.

“Hello there,” he rumbled softly, leaning down to nuzzle the bump. “I’m your Appa. Your Papa is the one you’re making cry —he’s soft, and gentle, and smart, and beautiful… and you should never give him trouble.”

Jimin sniffled a laugh, rubbing at his eyes. “And your Appa is strong, and brave, and handsome, and kind and you’re safe because of him.”

They traded gentle, silly introductions, describing each other to the shifting bump until Jimin’s breathing slowed and the little kicks subsided. Yoongi’s voice grew quieter, words trailing into a low hum against his flower’s skin.

When sleep finally took them, they were still wrapped close —Yoongi’s hand resting over the life they’d made, his forehead against Jimin’s temple, both wearing the softest smiles.

When dawn broke the next morning, the gates of the castle overflowed —not with hungry beggars but with offerings. 

Coarse linen baskets brimming with herbs to ease labor pains, copper-bound jars of sweet honey, milk cheeses wrapped in rushes, half-grown lambs led by string harnesses, flowers tucked into every crack of the stone walls —a promise from the North’s beating heart to the King who guarded it and the gentle Consort who would one day raise its future in his arms.

Despite greedy courtiers’ whispers about wasted coin and fare on mere villagers, the King and his Consort had achieved something greater: their people unified by purpose.

“We will keep them safe,” the people talked to one another, to the wind that carried word down the valley and up to the far flung villages. 

“We will keep our dragon, and his flower, and the sprig they’ve sown safe from all storms to come.”

 

 

But something far fouler than politics festered in the West’s shadowed bowels. In a forgotten dungeon, deep beneath Westfield’s castle keep where the sun never dared reach, a young warlock lay chained in iron so cold it seared his skin raw. 

The air was thick with the stink of burnt herbs and blood —fresh wounds layered over half-healed ones, carved sigils of binding and obedience etched into flesh that still trembled with a spark of wild, unmastered magic. 

Under Minjae’s careful cruelty and Emyr’s greed, the warlock was forced to tear open the seams between the human world and the old, buried marrow of Frostpire’s black frozen cliffs. 

And from those thin tears, dark things slipped through —things best left to rot in myth.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading and for your comments!☕️✨

Chapter 22: The Dragon’s Hoard

Summary:

Jimin was mid-sentence —something about the absurdity of spending an entire evening as a living pillow— when Yoongi’s claws flexed, catching in the fabric.

“This won’t do.”

The sound was quiet but decisive: rrrrrip.

Jimin’s eyes dropped to see a neat, deliberate slash beginning right where the curve of his belly rose. The night gown now gaped open, the line split clean down the middle, the exposed skin catching the firelight.

Jimin scoffed softly at the absurdity, glancing down at the torn cloth. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes.”

Notes:

I can’t believe I saw OT7 Live in real time…

We get 3 chapters.

 

It began small enough, a horror barely whispered: two drowners dragged themselves from the icy brine along the North’s coastal fringe. The fisherman they took screamed so long the villagers swore the waves carried his echo for days, his bones spat back out onto the black sand gnawed clean. Then a water hag surfaced in the Eastern swamplands —half woman, half corpse, slick with algae and old hate— pulling down three hunters before slipping back under the moss-choked water with their skins. 

But before whispers of monsters could crawl their way up Frostpire’s passes, a different kind of magic crept into the hush of the royal chambers.

Jimin woke slick with sweat, the air of the royal den suddenly too warm, the weight of covers too heavy. His mouth was parched, his pulse quick in his ears, and heat pooled at the tips of them. The source of the stifling warmth made itself known in the iron band of arms locked around his waist  —his husband’s arms, hard as forged steel, chest pressed along the curve of Jimin’s spine. Yoongi’s skin was damp and searing, his breath thick with the faint, smoky tang of dragonfire, his scent a heady storm of burning cedar and deep musk.

It took only a beat for the truth to sink in.

His rut was closer than they thought.

Jimin shifted in his hold, turning to face him, but the movement only drew a low, rumbling growl from deep in Yoongi’s chest —not warning, but claiming, the sound vibrating against his back in a way that made him still. His husband’s black hair clung damply to his brow, his lips parted as he slept on, breath slow and heavy, lashes casting shadows on flushed cheeks.

Jimin bit back a grin, leaning in to press the gentlest kiss to the tip of his nose. Yoongi didn’t wake —only burrowed closer, nose nudging at Jimin’s throat, scenting him in slow, deliberate pulls before settling again. His limbs loosened their vice-like grip, the unconscious possessiveness softening into a sprawl.

Taking advantage, Jimin carefully slipped free, the shift in weight making Yoongi murmur something incoherent against the pillows. Jimin eased off his own thin night robe and draped it over the King’s torso. Yoongi sighed, even in sleep, clutching the fabric like a talisman, rolling onto his back with the ease of a man who knew his claim was unquestioned.

Jimin stifled a fond laugh, padding across the chamber to retrieve a lighter robe and pin up his hair to keep the heat from his neck. From the cool basin on his vanity, he drew a cloth, dipped it, and wrung it twice before returning to the bedside. Sitting again on the edge, he dabbed carefully at Yoongi’s temple and jaw, the sheen of sweat catching in the dawn light, before folding the cloth neatly across his forehead. Only then did Jimin reach for the golden pull-cord beside the bed.

The King’s valet arrived in record time, skidding to a halt before bowing so low Jimin thought the boy might topple.

“Your Grace! Forgive me, I—I must have misheard. I thought— I’ll fetch Lune at once!” he stammered, already half-turning.

“No need,” Jimin said warmly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I rang for you. His Majesty is… indisposed. Please send for Lord Kim as soon as he wakes.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“And have breakfast brought —for His Majesty, something rich, but not hot. A cooled broth. And a pitcher of iced lemonade.”

“Right away.” Another deep bow, and the valet all but fled, no doubt eager to be out of range of the Dragon’s heat.

The chamber was quiet again once the door shut, save for the birds chirping outside. Jimin moved to open the tall windows of their chamber, his alpha’s rut the perfect excuse to finally open them wide without the King fussing over Jimin catching a chill. Yoongi’s breathing stayed deep, almost lazy, but Jimin could feel the heat radiating off him from across the bed —a steady furnace that no fur or fire could compete with.

It wasn’t long before there came a knock on the door, and Seokjin slipped inside with the quiet caution of a man used to waking dragons. His gaze swept the room almost in a soldier’s measure —first Jimin, alert and neat in his light robe, then Yoongi sprawled bare-chested in the tangled sheets, the damp cloth already slipping down his temple.

Seokjin’s brows arched ever so slightly. “Well,” he murmured, keeping his voice low, “that explains the guards’ confusion this morning.”

Jimin tipped his head, curious. “Confusion?”

“They swore His Majesty was… ah… radiating enough heat to fog their helms before the sun was even up.” Seokjin’s mouth curved faintly. “I told them they weren’t wrong.”

Jimin hid a smile behind his hand, glancing toward the bed. “He’s warm enough to bake bread on, yes.”

The advisor stepped closer, eyeing the faint flush still lingering across Yoongi’s chest. “Well, at least he’s not going feral.” he said without ceremony. 

“Pre-rut hit him harder than I expected, but it’s no wonder. Usually he just shifts and flies past the Barrier to gods know where.”

Jimin looked back at his husband, sleeping like a man who had fought his way to the bed and refused to let go. “He’s sweating buckets,” he observed softly.

Seokjin’s eyes softened as he studied him. “Don’t fret over it. It’s not a burden —just means you’ll have your own shadow for the next while.”

Jimin’s lips quirked. “He’s already that.”

“He still has about a day before he chains you to the bed. I’ll send word that petitions must be handwritten for the next few days.”

The two shared a quiet moment before Seokjin excused himself, promising to be back later with stacks of work for the King. The broth arrived with quiet ceremony —the valet placing the tray on a nearby table before vanishing as though the room were holy ground.

Only when the chamber was theirs again did Jimin return to the bed. He sat on the edge, pouring a glass of lemonade to ease his thirst, then another for the King, before daring to coax him awake.

He set the cool glass aside for a moment and leaned in, brushing a thumb along Yoongi’s temple where damp hair clung to his skin.

The King stirred, lids dragging open to reveal eyes still clouded from sleep —and something deeper, more primal. His gaze found Jimin instantly, locking with a single-minded focus that made the omega’s breath hitch despite himself.

“Mm,” Yoongi rumbled, voice low and rough as gravel. He reached before thinking, palm sliding over Jimin’s thigh and hip to settle over the swell of his belly. “You were gone.”

Jimin’s heart softened. “Only across the room.”

“That’s too far,” Yoongi muttered, dragging him closer until Jimin was kneeling beside him, caught in the cage of his arm. He inhaled deeply at Jimin’s belly, the sound almost a purr.

“You’re burning up,” Jimin chided, reaching for the lemonade. “Here, drink this.”

Yoongi’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he accepted the glass all the same, letting Jimin guide it to his lips. The tart chill seemed to cut through some of the fog, though it did nothing for the way his hand refused to leave Jimin’s side.

“Better?” Jimin asked, taking the empty glass back.

Yoongi hummed in approval, then moved around, rearranging himself in the bedsheets, pulling Jimin down to sit on the pillows, and tucking his head against his omega’s chest like a man determined to anchor himself. “Stay here,” he ordered softly.

“I will,” Jimin promised, smoothing a hand through his damp hair. “But only if you let me feed you. You’ll need your strength.”

That earned him the faintest of smirks —lazy, but already warmer. “If you’re feeding me, you’re not leaving. Deal.”

Jimin rolled his eyes but didn’t move, thinking privately that Jin had been right. His shadow had woken.

He reached for the bowl, only for Yoongi’s arm to tighten.

“I can’t feed you like this,” Jimin pointed out, eyeing the ridiculous way the King had wrapped himself around his body.

Yoongi’s temple came to rest on his shoulder, his breath warm against Jimin’s neck. “Yes, you can. You’re clever.”

Jimin huffed a laugh but relented, settling the bowl on his knee. The smell of slow-simmered meat and herbs rose between them, and he scooped a careful spoonful, blowing on it before pressing it to Yoongi’s lips.

The King accepted it without a word, but the moment he swallowed, his gaze softened —not for the broth, Jimin suspected, but for the hands that held it.

“You should eat too,” he murmured after a few mouthfuls. “Or I’ll start hoarding the food.”

“You’re already hoarding me,” Jimin teased.

“Mm. You’re worth more than all the gold in Frostpire.”

The spoon clinked softly against the bowl. Jimin ducked his head, cheeks warm, but he kept feeding him until the broth was gone and Yoongi looked slightly less fevered. Only then did the King loosen his hold, enough for Jimin to breathe properly —though not enough to let him go.

He smoothed his fingers over Yoongi’s forearm. It struck him, in that quiet, hazy moment, that Jin had been right: whatever this half-rut state was, it made his dragon all the more impossible to pry from his side. And part of him… didn’t mind in the slightest.

The knock at the chamber door was polite, but firm —the kind that carried the weight of someone who’d been waiting far too long for an audience. Jimin glanced toward it, but Yoongi didn’t even lift his head from where it rested against Jimin’s shoulder.

A beat later, Seokjin’s voice came through, dry as old parchment.

“Your Majesty. Your Grace. I trust neither of you are dead, since I hear movement.”

Jimin bit back a laugh. “We’re alive, Jin-ah.”

“Excellent. Then perhaps the King can release you long enough to address the council that’s been pacing the solar for an hour.”

That earned an unmistakable low growl from Yoongi’s chest —not loud enough to be threatening, but absolutely petulant.

Jimin sighed, leaning his head so his lips brushed Yoongi’s temple. “You can’t growl at Jin, love. He’ll start charging you for the privilege.”

“He can wait,” Yoongi muttered.

Another knock. Louder this time. “I assure you, I cannot,” Seokjin replied.

Jimin shifted in Yoongi’s hold, patting at his arm as though soothing a restless hound. “If you let me open the door, I’ll come right back.”

“You say that,” Yoongi rumbled, “but then someone will start talking at you, and you’ll be gone for half the day.”

Jimin arched a brow. “Is the King of the North truly holding me hostage because he’s in a mood?”

Yoongi’s ears flushed faintly, but he didn’t deny it.

“Yoongi,” Jimin said softly, turning just enough to cup his cheek. “Let me up. I promise I’ll be quick.”

There was a long, begrudging pause before the King finally loosened his arms. Jimin slipped free, smoothing his robe before heading to the door.

When he opened it, Seokjin looked him up and down, noting the faint flush to his cheeks, the now slightly mussed curls and wrinkled robe. His eyes flicked over Jimin’s shoulder toward the bed, where Yoongi sat scowling at the intrusion.

“Your Majesty,” Seokjin said, expression unreadable. “Please be kind enough to read through, while I further entertain the court until your arrival.”

Jimin stifled a laugh. Seokjin then stepped inside with a stack of parchment for Yoongi —and the subtle, unspoken understanding that he’d be delivering them at arm’s length.

🐉

Yoongi sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless and glaring at the steaming bath as if it were an enemy general.

“Go on,” Jimin coaxed, standing nearby with a towel. “If you don’t wash, you’ll scandalize the entire council before you’ve even opened your mouth.”

“I’ll wash if you join me,” Yoongi countered without missing a beat.

Jimin rolled his eyes. “You have a meeting, not a seduction.”

“Why not both?” the King asked with such dead seriousness that Jimin nearly tripped over his own feet.

In the end, Jimin perched at the bath’s edge, dipping the cloth in warm water and dragging it slowly over Yoongi’s shoulders while the alpha grumbled and submitted to the indignity. When Yoongi finally hauled himself out, dripping and muttering about politics being a curse, Jimin stayed by his side while he dried and dressed, until he pulled on his boots.

When Jimin turned to dress himself, Yoongi’s head snapped up.

“You’re bound to our chambers,” he said, voice low and possessive.

“Bound?” Jimin giggled under his breath. “Will you lock me in here like some stolen treasure?”

“I might,” Yoongi said, leaning forward with the look of a man who meant it. Hands claiming his omega’s waist.

Jimin softened his tone, smoothing his palms over Yoongi’s chest, fixing nonexistent wrinkles.

“After supper, I won’t move an inch, I promise. But I’d like to give the kitchens instructions for our meals —your rut’s going to change what you need, and I want you fed properly.”

The look he gave Jimin was one of fierce affection and reluctant surrender. “Fine,” he murmured, “but only because you said ‘our’.”

Jimin shook his head, amused —right until Yoongi strode to the laundry basket, retrieved a folded pair of Jimin’s underwear, and tucked it neatly into the breast pocket of his shirt.

“Yoongi!” Jimin’s voice jumped an octave.

The King’s grin was downright wolfish as he closed the distance, claiming Jimin’s mouth in a kiss that was all heat and hunger. By the time Jimin shoved him toward the door, his face was burning as though he’d stood too close to the sun.

“Out,” Jimin hissed, pointing. “Before you mortify me further.”

Yoongi chuckled all the way into the hall, the stolen token snug against his heart.

🐉

The council chamber was already thick with the scent of parchment, wax, and old arguments when Yoongi entered. His presence, as always, silenced the room. Lords and ladies rose, bowing low, but the King’s expression was… elsewhere.

He dropped into his seat at the head of the long oak table, leaning back with the lazy, predatory grace that made the courtiers squirm. But instead of surveying the room like a hawk over prey, his gaze flicked more than once toward the tall windows, as though the view might show him what his Consort was doing this very moment.

A minister began droning on about trade levies with the South, unfurling ledgers filled with numbers Yoongi had already memorized. He nodded in all the right places, but his hand kept straying to the left of his chest. The soft cotton there was folded small, hidden from sight, but its scent bled through —faint and warm, curling in his chest until his jaw unclenched.

“Your Majesty?” one lord prompted, clearly expecting an opinion on the matter at hand.

Yoongi blinked, dragging his mind back from the thought of Jimin in the kitchens, sleeves rolled to the elbows, giving orders with that stubborn pout on his pillowy lips.

“Postpone the discussion until next week,” he said smoothly. “I have more urgent priorities.”

A ripple of discomfort passed down the table, but no one dared question him.

By the third petition of the morning —some nonsense about pasture rights— his patience was gone.

“Denied,” he said flatly, and the petitioner’s face drained of color.

Seokjin, seated at the side, hid a smirk behind his hand. He’d seen that look before —half rut-drunk dragon, half man counting the minutes until he could get back to his hoard. And this time, the hoard wasn’t gold.

🐉

Yoongi found him exactly where he’d guessed —ensconced in the Consort’s private sitting room, sunlight pooling over the low tea table. Prince Taehyung and Prince Jeon sat at either side, nimble fingers working delicate stitches into the tiniest of tunics, soft wools and fine linen spilling from a workbasket at their feet.

Jimin was in the middle, one hand cradling a steaming cup, the other smoothing the pale yellow fabric stretched across his lap. His curls shone caramel under the afternoon glow. The picture was so peaceful, so maddeningly sweet, that Yoongi’s shoulders eased despite himself.

“Your Majesty,” Taehyung greeted, voice just formal enough to make it clear they hadn’t expected him.

“We agreed to supper,” Jimin said without looking up, his tone caught between fond and scolding.

“I changed my mind,” Yoongi replied, stepping fully into the room. “Court was… tedious.”

He stopped just behind Jimin, glancing down at the embroidery. His chest went strangely tight at the sight of the tiny stitches forming a row of snowdrops along the hem of the baby tunic.

The princes exchanged a look as Yoongi claimed the empty spot beside Jimin, unceremoniously pulling his legs into his lap. “If you’re going to stay,” Jimin said mildly, “don’t interrupt.”

“I won’t,” Yoongi promised, though his thumb brushed along Jimin’s ankle like a claim. He reached for the nearest book from the side table, flipping it open but glancing up every time Jimin shifted.

Taehyung and Jungkook worked in polite silence, but there was no missing the small wrinkle of their noses —whether at the faint dragon musk clinging to the King or the way he was coiled so obviously around Jimin, neither could say.

It didn’t help that Yoongi, without a word, reached for the teapot. He poured a fresh cup for all three omegas, setting each gently within reach. Then, with an almost imperceptible smirk, he took the entire plate of almond biscuits from the center of the table and methodically fed them all to Jimin, one by one, ignoring his soft protests.

The princes said nothing. But their sidelong glances spoke volumes.

🐉

By the time supper was announced, Yoongi had finally let Jimin stand —albeit with a possessive hand pressed against the small of his back as they walked to the dining hall. The long table was already set: polished silver and porcelain, steaming platters of roast game and vegetables, bowls of pottage thick with cream and herbs.

Prince Taehyung and Prince Jeon took their places to Jimin’s right, Seokjin and Captain Jung across from them, Hoseok still in partial armor as if he’d been dragged straight from the training yard. The King at the head of the table with Jimin to his right. 

Jimin beamed at the sight of so many familiar faces. “It feels like ages since we’ve all eaten together,” he said, unfolding his napkin.

“That’s because it has been,” Seokjin replied dryly, pouring himself wine. “His Majesty has been difficult to pry away from your chambers.”

Yoongi ignored him, busying himself with arranging Jimin’s plate. Roast pheasant, slices of warm bread spread with herbed butter, soft cheese, a generous spoonful of roasted root vegetables —he built the plate like a fortress, ensuring there was barely room for the knife and fork.

Hoseok chuckled under his breath. “Is that enough for you, Consort? Or should we bring the whole spit to the table?”

Jimin flushed but smiled, answering, “If I can’t finish it, I’m sure His Majesty will help.”

The princes murmured about the embroidery they’d begun that afternoon, passing around the half-finished tunics for inspection. Captain Jung ran a calloused hand over the fine stitches, murmuring his approval, while Seokjin —predictably— offered a critique on thread strength.

All the while, Yoongi’s attention flicked constantly toward Jimin: refilling his tea before the cup was empty, nudging the platter of biscuits closer, leaning in to cut the tougher pieces of meat before Jimin could do it himself.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Taehyung leaned over to Jungkook and whispered something that made them both smirk into their cups. Hoseok hid his own smile behind his wine, and even Seokjin’s stoic mouth twitched upward.

When dessert came —a soft apple tart drizzled with cream— Yoongi slid his portion directly onto Jimin’s plate without a second thought.

🐉

The moment their chamber doors shut behind them, Yoongi exhaled as though he’d been holding his breath all through supper. 

“One more bite and I would’ve rolled all the way here.” Jimin sighed, full and tired.

In one smooth motion, Yoongi swept him off his feet —ignoring the startled laugh that escaped him— and carried him across the room.

“Yoongi—!” Jimin began, but the King was already sinking into the deep armchair by the hearth, settling Jimin squarely on his lap.

“Stay,” Yoongi murmured, voice low, his hands already tugging at the soft laces of Jimin’s dress. “Let me to our child. Please.”

Jimin’s shoulders softened at that, his lips curving in quiet surrender. “You’re relentless,” he teased, but made no move to stop him, letting him manhandle and cling to his heart’s content.

He was carefully undressed and then covered with his night robe by calloused hands, which then lifted him once more before he was set on the plush pillows of their bed.

Yoongi hummed in satisfaction, breath deepening as he scented the place where their little one slept warm and safe. Slow and indulgent, each inhale rumbling through his chest.

Then, in a grumble muffled against Jimin’s belly, “This night robe is an affront to my instincts. I can’t scent you properly through it.”

Jimin rolled his eyes affectionately. “You want me to take it off?”

Yoongi’s head snapped up. “No. You’ll catch a chill. Or worse—” His gaze flickered down, voice dropping into something darker. “—you’ll catch my eye.”

Jimin bit back a laugh at the sudden protectiveness laced with possessive heat. “And what would happen if I did?”

Yoongi didn’t answer. Instead, he ducked his head again, pressing a reverent kiss to the curve of Jimin’s belly before nuzzling deeply, as though the fabric itself could be persuaded to vanish.

Jimin sighed, threading his fingers through Yoongi’s hair.

The hours stretched into a quiet haze. The fire burned low, casting the chamber in amber shadows while Yoongi alternated between nuzzling Jimin’s neck —breathing in his scent until the muscles in his shoulders slackened— and returning to his belly with the same reverence one might give an altar.

Every now and then he murmured something low and private, half for Jimin and half for the cub. Words about keeping them safe, about the seasons they’d see together, about all the storms he’d keep from touching them.

But the night robe remained in his way, soft as it was, its fabric muting the full strength of the scent he craved. Jimin was mid-sentence —something about the absurdity of spending an entire evening as a living pillow— when Yoongi’s claws flexed, catching in the fabric.

“This won’t do.”

The sound was quiet but decisive: rrrrrip.

Jimin’s eyes dropped to see a neat, deliberate slash beginning right where the curve of his belly rose. The night gown now gaped open, the line split clean down the middle, the exposed skin catching the firelight.

Jimin scoffed softly at the absurdity, glancing down at the torn cloth. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes.” Yoongi’s tone was not apologetic —only matter-of-fact, as if it had been as natural as breathing. “I needed to see you. To smell you properly.” His gaze was already hazed, lashes low, the milky scent of Jimin’s pregnancy drawing him deeper into contentment.

Jimin had half a mind to tease him for it, but when he saw the way his husband’s shoulders slackened, the way his eyes softened with drowsy satisfaction, he chose silence, letting the alpha nuzzle openly into the newly exposed skin, lips brushing along the curve of his belly as if in quiet greeting to their cub.

With a small sigh, Jimin simply leaned back into the pillows, his fingers resuming their slow path through Yoongi’s hair. If this ridiculous scene kept the King content and calm, then perhaps it was worth the ruined gown.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading☕️✨

Chapter 23: The Dragon’s Hoard Pt 2

Summary:

Jimin was ethereal in the early light. The sun spilled through the windows to cast a golden halo around him, turning the rich chocolate of his curls almost luminous. Yoongi’s shirt had slipped low over one pale shoulder, his belly peeking from where the fabric had ridden up as he sat. His cheeks were faintly flushed, lips plump and pink, one small hand cupping Yoongi’s jaw while his thumb traced a slow, affectionate stroke across his skin. The faint white lines where Jimin’s body had stretched sweetly over their cub caught the light like the crests of waves, reminding Yoongi of the sea.

Jimin was a vision —his most sacred dream.

Notes:

🤧

 

It was the middle of the night when Jimin woke, wrapped once more in the same enclosing heat as the day before. Yoongi lay beside him, drenched —droplets slipping down his temple, heat rolling off him like the breath of a furnace. His lips were parted in uneasy sleep, low growls threading through murmured, unintelligible words.

The scales scattered across his shoulders and down the broad planes of his back shimmered iron and gold beneath the silver light that drifted in through the chamber windows. White drapes swayed in the warm summer air, their restless shapes dancing like pale ghosts against the dark.

The bond thrummed through Jimin’s veins, steady and insistent. His heartbeat found the slow rhythm of Yoongi’s breathing, each rise and fall a tether. He watched him for a long moment, reaching to dab gently at his damp temple with the sleeve of his ruined robe. In that quiet, something in his chest gave a small, warm leap.

“Your Appa is beautiful, little sprig,” he whispered into the hush of their den, smoothing a tender hand over the gentle kicks beneath his skin. Their own small world of love and dragon fire.

Leaning in, he pressed a chaste kiss to his beloved’s lips before slipping from the bed. Yoongi didn’t stir, lost deep in his fevered dreams.

Jimin stripped off what remained of his night robe and pulled on Yoongi’s discarded undershirt, the fabric falling soft and worn against his skin. He pried the blankets away from where they were hopelessly tangled around Yoongi’s overheated body, hoping it might ease the fever. Cool cloths were replaced against his brow, and slow, soothing circles rubbed down the length of his back until the first gray fingers of dawn began creeping through the windows.

When Yoongi’s eyes finally opened to the gold of morning, the first sight he found was his flower —lovely and round— tending to him with a care so deep it made his heart thump against his ribs. His rut hummed through him, but not with the sharp, blinding need to breed; Jimin was already so beautifully swollen with their heir. What pulsed now was the need to worship —to drown his small family in his scent until no one in the realms would dare even glance their way. His knot still ached, his fangs still itched to claim, but the hunger in him had softened. What he wanted now was to give, to revere, to love.

Jimin was ethereal in the early light. The sun spilled through the windows to cast a golden halo around him, turning the rich chocolate of his curls almost luminous. Yoongi’s shirt had slipped low over one pale shoulder, his belly peeking from where the fabric had ridden up as he sat. His cheeks were faintly flushed, lips plump and pink, one small hand cupping Yoongi’s jaw while his thumb traced a slow, affectionate stroke across his skin. The faint white lines where Jimin’s body had stretched sweetly over their cub caught the light like the crests of waves, reminding Yoongi of the sea.

Jimin was a vision —his most sacred dream.

“Flower…” Yoongi rasped, his voice a deep, gravelled drawl that carried the warmth of embers. Jimin leaned down instinctively, pressing a kiss to his temple, tasting the faint salt of fevered skin.

“Good morning, my love,” Jimin murmured, voice soft as a lullaby. “How do you feel?” He smiled faintly as he drew the damp cloth from Yoongi’s brow, folding it neatly to set aside.

Yoongi blinked slowly, his dark eyes flickering golden, still heavy with sleep. “It’s not so bad,” he murmured after a pause. “Just… different.”

“Are you hungry? I asked for breakfast to be brought early, so it’d be ready when you woke.”

A low hum rumbled in Yoongi’s chest in answer. He shifted onto his back, opening his arms in silent invitation. Jimin didn’t hesitate —curling into him, mindful of the swell of his belly, hunching a little. 

The embrace was brief but grounding, enough for Yoongi to cup the back of his neck and press a devout kiss to his lips before he settled against the pillows. His calloused palm slid beneath the hem of the shirt to splay over the curve of his belly, spreading warmth through the stretched skin.

Jimin blinked at him, surprised by how cooperative he seemed. His rut in spring had been all teeth and possessive growls; this one already felt like something else entirely.

He rose to fetch the tray from the table, not bothering to ask permission —simply setting it aside before straddling his husband’s lap.

The sight made Yoongi’s throat dry. His hands followed the path they’d been longing for —up from Jimin’s plump thighs, over the swell of his hips, slipping under the shirt to cradle the soft, warm curve that sheltered their cub.

Jimin fed him in unhurried rhythm, breaking it with random kisses —on his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his temple, his lips, and once under his jaw where the skin was sensitive enough to make him swallow hard. 

Yoongi settled back on the headboard, allowing himself to be tended to like a temple idol, watching every tender gesture with an ache in his chest. Jimin didn’t move from his lap until the last bite was gone, and even then, Yoongi remained still —content until told otherwise.

Jimin, however, had already taken note of the hardness straining beneath the crumpled bedsheets and the thin fabric of Yoongi’s night pants. He had felt it swell and throb with every brush of lips and hand. Now, he shifted forward until the round softness of his belly pressed to the hard planes of Yoongi’s abdomen.

A deep rumble welled from Yoongi’s chest, and his hands curved instinctively to cup the omega’s hips, squeezing softly.

“It’s my turn to take care of you, my King,” Jimin whispered against his ear, letting his breath ghost over the shell.

“You don’t have to, love,” Yoongi murmured, the restraint in his tone barely holding against the heat in his blood.

“I want to.”

It began as a slow grind, coaxing soft sighs from Jimin and deep, measured breaths from Yoongi. Steel-hard hands roamed reverently —mapping every softened curve, marvelling at the plushness where once there had been taut muscle. 

Their kiss was almost holy: the lazy brush of lips, the unhurried slide of tongues, the gentle sealing of breath and promise. The languid rhythm of Jimin’s hips matched that kiss —deliberate, intimate— meant not for urgency but for closeness. For their bond.

When Yoongi’s breathing deepened into quiet moans, his fingers dug into Jimin’s thighs for purchase. His hips betrayed him, bucking upward in helpless response, pulling a soft mewl from Jimin’s lips. 

Slick had begun to seep through the layers of fabric, and drawn by the scent Yoongi leaned in to press his mouth to the place where neck met shoulder, where his tongue worked in slow, lapping motions over their mark, drawing out the heady taste of his mate —berries and honey, bloom and love— until it blurred his senses.

Jimin’s hands wandered too: from the solid expanse of Yoongi’s chest, to the flex of biceps under his palms, to the wide spread of shoulders. He combed fingers into the thick waves of dark hair, holding him close to his neck, silently asking him to keep tasting, to keep marking. Blunt fangs grazed him before sealing to bruise his skin, dragging a needy whine from deep in Jimin’s throat.

His thighs trembled —not from fear, but from the strain of his own body and the life within him. Yoongi didn’t give him a moment to falter. His hands tightened, guiding Jimin’s hips to a steady rhythm over his lap. His knot twitching with each slick-dampened drag, each brush of his omega’s heat through the fabric.

When the first wave of release broke over Yoongi, it came not as the feral crash of a storm but as a warm tide, pulling them under together. The heat was there —yes— but tempered, softened by the ache for closeness rather than staking claim.

Jimin’s legs quivered with the aftershocks, and Yoongi loosened his hold, smoothing his palms over his hips. He massaged in slow circles until Jimin melted against him, small nose burrowing into the side of Yoongi’s neck.

“I missed you,” Yoongi murmured, voice low and unguarded, his arms folding around Jimin with quiet finality.

“You’ve always had me, my love,” Jimin smiled, breath warm against his skin, “I belong only to you.”

🐉

The light outside their chambers dimmed to gold, shadows stretching across the carved beams overhead. Jimin woke first, his head pillowed against Yoongi’s chest, the steady rise and fall of the alpha’s breathing a quiet anchor.

He shifted slightly, meaning only to reach for the cup of water at the bedside, but the movement stirred Yoongi. A low rumble rose from the depths of his chest, not warning, but recognition —like a great cat waking to find its mate stirring.

“You’re awake,” Jimin whispered.

“Mmh. You moved.” Yoongi’s voice was thick with sleep, and his arms came alive around him again, drawing him back into that warm circle. His nose pressed into Jimin’s hair, inhaling deeply. “Smell stronger now. Sweeter. It’s evening?”

Jimin glanced toward the balcony where the sunset bled into violet. “It is.”

Yoongi made a pleased sound, one hand sliding under the edge of his shirt to find bare skin. “Good. I like the evenings. You’re softer then… slower.”

Jimin chuckled quietly. “That’s you, love. You’re the one who’s slower this time.”

“Because you’re carrying our cub,” the alpha replied without hesitation. “If I move too fast, I’ll miss things. Like—” He bent his head, brushing his lips against the top of Jimin’s belly. “—the way they shift when I talk to them.”

Jimin felt it then, the gentle kick under Yoongi’s palm. “They’re restless.”

“Like their father,” Yoongi said with a crooked smile. “But they’ll settle. They like it when I do this.” He kissed Jimin’s belly again, lingering, letting the scent of him fill his lungs until his eyes half-lidded with contentment.

The touches that followed were unhurried —palms sliding over Jimin’s sides, tracing the gentle new curve of his hips, fingers brushing the underside of his thighs as though reacquainting himself with every change. When his lips found Jimin’s neck, the kiss was slow and warm, teeth only grazing enough to make his omega shiver.

Jimin sighed, tilting his head in offering. “You’re spoiling me.”

“That’s the point,” Yoongi murmured, pulling him closer until their noses pressed together, the swell of Jimin’s belly cushioned between them. “You carry our future. My job is to keep you happy, warm, and fed… and maybe to kiss you until you forget how to speak.”

“That last one might work,” Jimin teased, before Yoongi’s mouth silenced him with exactly that —long, languid kisses that left his lips tingling.

When Jimin shifted to ease the ache in his lower back, Yoongi’s hands immediately followed, massaging slow circles there. “Better?”

“Mm. Yes.”

“Good.” Yoongi’s eyes were glazed now, but not with urgency —with the kind of heavy-lidded need that came from wanting nothing more than to be wrapped around his mate. “Stay here. No more moving about.”

Jimin arched a brow. “I thought you said you’d let me go where I wanted.”

“I did.” Yoongi’s mouth curved faintly. “And I want you to want this —here, with me.” His nose brushed Jimin’s temple, his breath warm. “Do you?”

Jimin looked at him for a long moment before answering. “I do.”

That seemed to be all the permission Yoongi needed. He shifted, rolling them just enough so Jimin was cushioned in the middle of the bed, the alpha half-draped over him, his arm under Jimin’s neck and his leg hooked over Jimin’s thigh. His face pressed into the omega’s neck again, marking him with slow drags of scent.

🐉

The faintest light crept into their chambers, silver strands of moonlight slipping between the balcony curtains. Jimin stirred first, drowsy but aware of the warmth pressed against his back —Yoongi’s chest shifting closer, his breath heavier than in the quiet hours of the evening.

It began as a low rumble in the alpha’s chest, deep enough that Jimin felt it through his spine before he heard it.

“Flower…” Yoongi’s voice was rough, blurred with sleep but laced with quiet hunger. His arm tightened around Jimin’s waist, palm spreading over his belly. “You’re warm.”

Jimin smiled faintly. “You’ve been saying that all night.”

“This is different.” Yoongi’s nose burrowed into the curve of his neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell richer now. Like it’s seeping out of you. I can’t—” he exhaled, a groan dragging through his throat, “—I can’t ignore it.”

The arm beneath Jimin’s neck braced so Yoongi could pull him back more firmly into his body. Jimin felt the heat pressed against him, the steady throb of his alpha’s need —no longer dormant, not yet urgent.

“Your scent is nice too,” Jimin murmured, reaching back to thread his fingers into Yoongi’s hair. “Makes me feel soft.”

Yoongi’s lips brushed his cheek. “I want to keep you like this. Close. Yours against mine.” A pause, softer: “But I want to see you too.”

That gentle insistence was the only warning Jimin got before Yoongi coaxed him onto his back, moving with that peculiar blend of care and possession his rut brought. He straddled Jimin’s hips, careful to brace his weight so the omega wasn’t burdened. For a moment he hesitated, torn between stripping the nightshirt that clung loosely to Jimin’s frame, or keeping him wrapped in its familiar scent.

In the end, he tugged it off, gentle but sure, leaving Jimin’s belly bare to the cool air and his heated gaze.

Yoongi’s eyes softened, the sharp edge of rut tempered by the awe that always stole his breath. Rounded with their cub, flushed from sleep, Jimin seemed almost unearthly, his scent a heady mix of comfort and temptation.

“You’re too much,” Yoongi whispered, more to himself than to Jimin. His claws hovered, tracing the air above the swell before his fingertips finally brushed reverently across it.

Jimin tilted his head, watching him. “You’re staring.”

“Memorising,” Yoongi corrected, his voice thick. He bent low, mouth brushing over Jimin’s navel, his scenting sharper now but still unhurried. “They’re awake too. I can feel them.”

Jimin’s hand slipped into his hair, gentle. “Then talk to them.”

He did —words low and rumbling, laced with pride and quiet promise, all while his palm circled slowly over the swell. Jimin closed his eyes, letting his alpha’s voice settle into him like warmth.

Yoongi’s lips trailed lower, brushing the underside of the curve before returning to Jimin’s throat, where his kisses grew deeper, more lingering. His thigh eased between Jimin’s, coaxing a slow roll of hips that drew out a soft sigh.

“You can touch me,” Jimin whispered, his voice warm with trust.

“I know,” Yoongi murmured, and the way he said it made Jimin’s breath catch —because there was no urgency in it, only the certainty that he would have all the time he wanted.

But Jimin could only endure so much.

The worshipful kisses, the strong hands mapping every line of him, the unhurried reverence —it set his skin alive, goosebumps chasing every press of lips. Heat pooled low, damp seeping into his underwear, his breath hitching at each shift from tenderness into hunger.

“Yoon…” Jimin gasped, hips squirming under the firm anchor of his husband’s arm, while Yoongi nuzzled at the faint stretch marks near his navel.

“Yoongi…” he tried again, more insistent.

“Mm?” came the distracted hum, lips busy against his skin.

When Jimin didn’t answer, Yoongi finally looked up. His eyes glowed golden, half-lidded, pupils blown wide —utterly lost in haze, drunk on scent.

“Please…” Jimin whispered, pulse quickening. “Touch me.”

That sobered Yoongi, if only slightly. He pressed one last kiss to Jimin’s hip before crawling up to nuzzle at his throat. Jimin let out a relieved whimper as teeth grazed their mark.

“What do you want, flower?” Yoongi rasped against his ear, hands already slipping away Jimin’s underwear.

Jimin whined softly, wishing his alpha would simply take the lead. He felt too small, too soft to move.

“Anything… just— please.”

“Anything?”

“Please…”

“Not like this, love.” Yoongi shifted, helping Jimin sit up. “You could hurt your back.”

Too hazy to question, Jimin obeyed. He raised an eyebrow only when Yoongi reclined instead.

“Come here, love. Sit on my face.”

The squeak Jimin let out was downright scandalized. His whole body flushed, hands clutching at imaginary pearls.

“What? No! I’m heavy— I don’t—”

But Yoongi was already guiding him to straddle his chest, trousers tenting shamelessly beneath.

“Come on, flower. Alpha will take care of you.”

“What if I crush you? And you can’t breathe, and—”

“Tiny flower,” Yoongi interrupted, lips curved with wolfish amusement, “I can crush ice-trolls with my bare hands. I think I can handle my little bloom and our lovely bud.”

With that, his hands clamped warmly around Jimin’s hips. The omega let himself be guided, still trying to hold up his weight —until Yoongi’s palm closed around his small hardness. Jimin’s legs buckled, his body giving in, settling fully onto his alpha’s face.

The sound Yoongi made was a deep groan of bliss. He buried himself greedily into the slick entrance, scenting and lapping as though starved. Jimin’s moans rose high and breathless, hands  scrambling to find purchase, eyes shut tight as he trembled under the relentless strokes of tongue and mouth.

When he dared open his eyes, the sight undid him completely. One of Yoongi’s hands had pushed his trousers down, freeing his thick length, twitching heavily as he stroked himself. That image broke Jimin —his whole frame shuddering as release tore through him. Yoongi followed soon after, hand still tight around himself, spilling hot across his abdomen.

For a moment they stayed as they were, panting and trembling, Yoongi’s tongue still lapping idly at the slick. Only when Jimin whimpered did he relent, helping him down and tucking him into the crook of his arm.

Jimin’s face was red, heartbeat still racing as he peeked up at his alpha, who wore a grin both wolfish and besotted, half his face still glistening. With a smirk, Yoongi reached for a blanket corner and wiped it away.

“This is the best day of my life,” he said, matter-of-fact, as though no argument could exist.

Jimin buried his face in his chest, whining in mortification.

“I’m serious, flower. That was heavenly.”

“Stop—!” Jimin whined again, cheeks aflame.

“We should do that every day,” Yoongi teased.

Peeking through his fingers, Jimin caught the look on his alpha’s face —soft, utterly smitten.

“Did you really enjoy that?”

“You didn’t?”

Jimin flushed hotter, tracing idle shapes on Yoongi’s chest. “…I did. More than I thought I would.”

“Well,” Yoongi drawled, wicked as ever, “you have two thrones to sit on now. Whenever you want.”

“Yoongi—!”

Dawn broke around them that way —soft hands, murmured words, and a closeness that never wavered.

🐉

The noon bells had long passed, yet the heat still lingered heavy in the air. The balcony doors stood open, letting in the scents of jasmine and freshly watered grass from the gardens below. 

Jimin was curled up against Yoongi on the long sofa, legs stretched over the alpha’s lap while a rough hand traced the smooth skin of his thighs. A tray of half-finished lunch resting precariously on the low table beside them. He wore one of Yoongi’s shirts again, the collar loose against his throat, the hem brushing the tops of his thighs. 

Yoongi, bare above the waist, lounged in nothing but trousers, the fabric loose over his hips. His skin glistened faintly from the warmth, but he didn’t seem to care —he only seemed to mind whenever Jimin tried to shift away.

“Do you think the court is desperate for you?” Jimin asked idly, tearing a piece of soft bread in his hands before popping it into his mouth.

Yoongi hummed, nose brushing against Jimin’s hair as if he hadn’t heard the words, but then he smiled faintly. “They might be. My uncle didn’t have to wrestle with this part of the line. He could hold council through any season. I imagine they’re not accustomed to waiting so long for an audience.”

Jimin tilted his head back against Yoongi’s chest, studying him with curious eyes. “Do you think… it’s possible our cubs won’t bear the dragon mark?” His hand smoothed over his own belly as he asked, hesitant.

Yoongi’s arms tightened gently around him, his lips brushing the crown of Jimin’s curls. “It’s possible,” he admitted, his voice even, steady. 

“The mark doesn’t show in every generation. Sometimes it skips. Sometimes it fades.”

Jimin worried at his lip, gaze slipping toward the sunlight spilling across the gardens. “And if it does?”

“Then it does,” Yoongi replied simply. His large hand covered Jimin’s over the swell of his stomach.

“I’d still be the happiest father in the realms. Flower, they could come into this world with no claws, no wings, no dragon’s flame —and they would still be ours. Still be the brightest thing I ever helped create.”

Jimin’s throat tightened at that, a soft laugh slipping past his lips. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is,” Yoongi said, brushing a kiss to his temple. “Because there’s no world where I look at you, or at them, and wish for anything different.”

The omega sighed, warmth spreading through his chest as he leaned further into Yoongi’s embrace. From the gardens, birdsong floated upward, mingling with the cicadas that thrummed in the heat. The world felt very far away —and for a little while, Jimin was glad for it.

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading☕️✨

Chapter 24: The Breach

Summary:

My dearest heart,

The conditions in Starvale are dire. I am bound eastward and cannot return as I promised.

Forgive me for breaking my word.

I will make haste when this is finished, so that I may hold you in my arms as soon as the road allows. Until then, know that you are in every thought, and that no crown nor battlefield could keep me from you longer than fate demands.

Yours, always,

Yoongi

Notes:

It’s a good time to remember the monster lore in here is based off The Witcher’s video games🐺

 

Far away from the unyielding warmth of the royal bedchambers, Captain Jung paced the battlements of Frostpire’s western outpost beneath a thin, watchful moon. The air reeked of sweat, steel, and oil, the stench clinging to the stone walls like old blood. Below him, soldiers kept busy with ritual labors —grinding whetstones against blades, polishing dents out of armor, murmuring prayers to whatever gods might listen. Their noise filled the silence that pressed in from the western forests, that heavy hush that always felt too aware of the men behind the walls.

It was in the gray hour before dawn that hooves hammered the damp earth, echoing through the gatehouse. A rider stumbled in, horse heaving, both beast and boy slick with sweat. The lad could not have been more than sixteen, wiry as a reed, his eyes bloodshot and wide from the night’s flight. He almost tumbled from the saddle in his haste, gasping for breath.

“My Captain!” His voice cracked, raw from shouting into the wind. “Message from Coalridge!”

Hoseok’s stride was already bringing him down the steps, his cloak snapping behind him.

The boy clutched the saddle pommel as though it anchored him to the world. “Lieutenant Wang sent me— it’s urgent— we got word— it was a monster, sir— they ate a fisherman alive— the coasts are terrified—”

“Breathe, boy.” Hoseok’s hand fell heavy on his shoulder, steady, commanding. “Speak like a soldier. Air first, words after.”

The lad nodded furiously, gulping down air, then swallowed hard. “There was a monster attack, my Captain. In Blackpearl Cove.”

One of Hoseok’s brows arched. Blackpearl’s waters were known to harbor the occasional beast from the deeps; mangled nets and gutted carcasses washing ashore were not unheard of. A single dead fisherman was not enough to send a boy riding through the night.

“How do you know it was no accident?”

The boy’s lips trembled. “There was a witness, sir. A merchant woman passing along the cliffs. She heard the screams from the shore. She swore she saw… them.”

“Them?” Hoseok’s voice sharpened.

“Two of them. She said they looked like men, but their skin was the color of drowned flesh, their mouths full of fangs, and claws for hands. They tore him apart, Captain. Shreds of him. She was too frightened to even approach.”

A chill ran down Hoseok’s spine, as cold and sharp as a sword slid between his shoulder blades. The word formed in his mind, and he almost spat it to the ground like a curse.

Drowners

Filth of rivers and seas, carrion things that fed on the living. Wretched monsters that should not be found this side of the Barrier.

The boy fumbled with his satchel, producing a scroll bound with a seal of navy wax. “Lieutenant Wang bade me place this in your hands.”

Hoseok broke the wax with his thumb, eyes scanning the hastily written lines by torchlight:

 

To Lord Jung of Frostpire, Captain of the Royal Army

It is with weary heart that I pen these words. A monster attack has taken place in the coastal village of Blackpearl Cove. Two drowners dragged a man from his boat and ate him alive. Nothing was left but his bones. I vouch for the merchant’s word, for I was called to inspect the remains.

I beg that word reach His Majesty, for the people fear worse is coming. In the meantime, we have traded steel for silver, and keep torches at the ready.

At your command and at His Majesty’s service,

Lord Wang of Coalridge, Lieutenant of the Royal Army

 

The torchlight seemed to gutter, as though the words themselves had soured the air. Hoseok rolled the scroll shut, jaw set. Drowners on their shores —a blight from across the Barrier— meant something had gone very wrong. Either the beasts had slipped through unnoticed… or something had brought them here.

The boy still stood at attention, trembling under the weight of exhaustion and fear. Hoseok dismissed him with a nod, his voice level despite the dread gnawing at his gut. “You’ve done well. Find a bunk. Food and water will be brought to you.”

The lad sagged with relief and stumbled away, leaving him alone with the weight of the report. He turned his gaze toward the dark horizon, where the first thin gray of dawn touched the sea.

He had to reach the King at once. Gods willing, Yoongi’s rut would have broken by the time Hoseok crossed Mooncastle’s gates.

Because if drowners had found their way to Blackpearl, then the Barrier was failing —and the kingdom was no longer safe.

The gates of Mooncastle loomed against the morning sky, their black iron teeth catching the pale light of dawn. Hoseok’s horse pounded up the dew-slick road, its flanks streaked with white sweat, nostrils flaring steam. He rode hard, harder than he should have, but the letter’s words gnawed at his bones with each hoofbeat.

When the guards recognized him, the gates opened without question, their helms dipping. The great courtyard was already stirring —servants carrying baskets of bread and salt, soldiers trading morning drills for the comfort of warm stew. But all seemed muted under the weight of Jung’s urgency. He dismounted in one swift motion, shoving the reins into the hands of a stable boy who blinked at him in confusion.

“Captain.” One of the sentries saluted. “You’ve ridden through the night?”

“Yes.” Hoseok’s answer was clipped, his eyes already lifted to the keep. “See the horse fed. No questions.”

The keep’s corridors were warm and stifling compared to the mountain air, the smell of oil lamps and old stone pressing close. His boots struck sharp against the flagstones as he strode past startled courtiers and servants who flattened themselves against the walls. Some bowed, others whispered, but none dared stop him. The guards at the King’s private wing stiffened when he approached.

“His Majesty is not receiving visitors.” One guard held his halberd across the door. “The rut—”

“I know damn well about the rut.” Hoseok’s voice cut like tempered steel. He drew Wang’s scroll from his belt and thrust it forward. “This cannot wait. Tell him Captain Jung of Frostpire bears word of a breach. Or do you wish to answer when the North drowns?”

The guards exchanged a glance, their discipline fraying in the face of his conviction. At last, one slipped inside. Moments later, he returned, eyes wary. “His Majesty will see you.”

The heavy doors groaned open, revealing the King’s solar bathed in morning light. Heat struck Jung immediately, oppressive and thick —not the hearth’s warmth, but the lingering furnace of dragon rut that seemed to cling to the chamber walls.

Yoongi sat in a wide chair near the balcony, his great frame draped in loose trousers, chest bare, skin sheened with sweat as if the fire still burned within. He looked less like a sovereign and more like some old god, half-fallen from his altar —hair wild, scales glinting faintly at his forearms and shoulders, the dragon mark alive upon his flesh. 

Yoongi’s dark eyes fixed on Hoseok at once, sharp even in weariness. “You ride fast, Captain.” His voice carried the gravel of a man still shaking free of rut, yet his tone was gentler than the danger in his gaze. “Tell me why.”

Hoseok bowed low, but there was no time for ornament. He stepped forward and unrolled the letter upon the table, silver light spilling over the words.

“Your Majesty,” Hoseok said, his throat dry, “the Barrier has been breached. Drowners have been sighted on our shores.”

The chamber seemed to still, even the summer air holding its breath.

Yoongi’s gaze flicked to the bedchamber doors for the briefest of moments —the instinctive flicker of a dragon guarding his hoard— before he leaned forward, scales catching the light, claws rasping faint against the table as he reached for the scroll.

“Drowners,” he repeated, low, dangerous.

The word tasted like iron in the room.

The silence stretched long after Yoongi’s words, broken only by the restless crackle of the hearth.

Yoongi sat forward in his chair, scroll unrolled in one great hand, claws glinting faintly in the light. His eyes scanned the page once, then again, eyes narrowing to slits. The sweat sheen on his chest caught the sunlight like hammered bronze, but his stillness was coiled —the posture of a beast deciding between flight or fire.

“Drowners,” he murmured again, the word a curse. “This far inland…” His jaw worked, teeth grinding. “The Barrier was meant to keep such filth chained to the old waters. If it falters—” He stopped, nostrils flaring, shoulders rising and falling with slow, deliberate breath.

Hoseok straightened, clasping his hands behind his back to hide how they trembled from the ride, from the knowledge. He had seen Yoongi in battle before, the fire that bled from him when dragon instincts overtook reason, and even now, in the King’s private chamber, a trace of that power made the air shimmer.

“We armed ourselves with silver at Coalridge,” Hoseok said, steady, a soldier’s report. “Torches lit at every watch. But the men are frightened. They’ve never faced such things.”

Yoongi’s gaze, now gleaming gold, snapped to him, piercing as spearpoint. “Nor should they have to. That land is supposed to be safe.” 

He stood suddenly, the sheer weight of his frame making the chair legs scrape harsh against stone. Hoseok did not flinch, though the dragon part of Yoongi loomed close, as though scenting the salt-soaked horror all over him.

“Did Wang confirm it himself?”

“Yes, he inspected the remains.” Hoseok’s voice dropped, gravel rough in his throat. “Nothing left but bones.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Only the sound of Yoongi’s slow pacing across the chamber, bare feet striking the rugs, the faint rasp of claws flexing at his side. From beyond the carved doors leading to the inner rooms came the faintest creak of floorboards —no servant would dare intrude. Hoseok knew who it must be, knew Jimin would never stray far. The King’s omega listening from safety, while the dragon in his mate prowled.

Yoongi finally turned, shoulders taut, jaw hard. “You did well to bring this straight to me. But we speak of more than one fisherman. If drowners slip past the Barrier, it is not chance. It is intent. Someone weakened the wards.”

Hoseok’s mouth went dry. “You think this was no accident?”

“I know it.” Yoongi’s voice was a growl, tempered but dangerous. He pressed both palms against the table, claws biting grooves into the wood. “Monsters do not respect walls or stone, but magic they cannot cross. Unless…” He trailed off, eyes narrowing, thoughts too grim to voice.

At last he straightened, towering, golden eyes burning with the steady light of command. 

“Summon Wang. Quietly. I want him in Frostpire before the next moon. And put a cloak of silence on the coast guard. If word spreads before I am ready, panic will rot the kingdom faster than drowners’ teeth.”

Hoseok bowed, fist to chest. “It will be done.”

The King’s gaze softened a fraction, though the edge of rut-born possessiveness lingered like smoke. “And Hoseok-ah —”

“My King?”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked once to the closed doors, to the presence he could sense just beyond. His voice dropped, low, intimate in its warning. “Say nothing of this where he can hear. Not yet. Not until I know how deep the dark runs.”

The air between them was heavy as steel.

Hoseok inclined his head, the bond of childhood friendship enough to keep the words unspoken: 

I understand. I will guard him, as you do.

🐉

The King and the Captain had barely passed the capital’s eastern borders when the thunder of hooves broke the morning hush. A lone rider, cloak whipped by the wind, streaked across the road from the east, shouting as she rounded toward them.

“Your Majesty! Captain! A moment, I beg you! I carry word from Starvale!”

Yoongi and Hoseok reined their horses at once. Dust swirled as the rider skidded to a halt, chest heaving from the long gallop. The woman slid from the saddle and dropped to one knee in the dirt, head bowed so low her braid brushed the ground. Her voice quivered as she repeated the plea.

“What did she say?” Hoseok muttered, squinting.

Yoongi shot him a sidelong glance. “You need to work on your eastern dialect.”

Hoseok smirked, unrepentant. “Why bother? You’ve got your Consort for that. Jimin’s more graceful with tongues than I’ll ever be.”

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, half a huff, half a chuckle, before stepping forward. His words, when they came, rolled with the careful cadence of the eastern tongue.

“Stand. Speak, and tell me what drives you here so hard.”

The woman rose slowly, though her head remained bowed —whether from fear or reverence, neither man could say.

“Your Majesty. Captain,” she said, voice steadier now. “I am Corporal Lilian of Starvale. I carry a message from Sergeant Baek, commander of the outpost at the swamplands. She charged me to ride at once, for the matter is dire.”

From the folds of her cloak, she produced a scroll sealed in bright yellow wax, the sigil of the Eastern Army pressed deep into its face. Her pale hand shook slightly as she extended it.

Yoongi broke the seal without ceremony. The script within was hurried but legible, written by a soldier with no time for flourish.

 

To His Majesty, Min Yoongi King of Frostpire & Protector of The Realms,

It is with dread that I write you, for we are at a loss.

Three nights ago, patrols near the swamplands reported the sighting of a creature none among us could name —a woman’s shape twisted with rot, her skin pallid, her hair thick with swamp-mire. The old stories call such a thing a water hag.

Since that night, five of our soldiers have vanished. Each patrol that braves the reeds returns fewer than it left, the muck swallowing men whole. Only broken spears and shredded cloaks have washed back to us. The garrison is restless, and fear grows in Starvale.

We are trained to fight men, not monsters. Without a sovereign to guide us, our kingdom falters. Your Majesty is the nearest crown to us, and in this we beg your aid. If Starvale is lost, the Barrier itself may not hold.

By my oath and my blood, I await your command.

Sergeant Baek of Starvale, Swamplands Outpost

 

Yoongi lowered the parchment, the hard set of his jaw betraying the weight of what he’d read.

“What news?” Hoseok asked, though the shadow across Yoongi’s eyes was answer enough.

“A hag,” Yoongi said grimly. “Past the Barrier. And soldiers gone missing. Five.”

Hoseok swore under his breath. “If it’s truly a hag, steel won’t help them.”

Yoongi turned, already decisive. “You ride to Shadewatch’s outpost. Take half the men —we cannot leave the border naked. Hold until I return.”

Hoseok’s head snapped toward him. “You ride alone?”

“I ride to Starvale,” Yoongi corrected, mounting in one fluid motion. “With the rest of the platoon. If Baek speaks true, the easterners are defenseless. They need a king who knows how to kill monsters.”

The order brooked no argument. Yoongi snapped the reins, his stallion surging forward, dust swallowing his figure as soldiers scrambled to divide —half wheeling to follow the Captain, half spurring hard after their king.

The Corporal of Starvale remained in the road a moment longer, breath still ragged, clutching her reins as though in prayer. For the first time in centuries, the human realm called upon Frostpire’s dragon.

🌸

The news reached Frostpire by midafternoon, carried not by a herald in full regalia but by a weary young soldier with dust in his hair and sweat streaking his brow. Jimin overheard the exchange while crossing the inner hallways, his steps stilled by the low murmur of Seokjin’s voice.

“Slowly, soldier,” the advisor was saying, shoulders tense but his tone calm. “You said he rode east?”

“Yes, my lord. Captain Jung sent me ahead to bring word —the King divided the forces. Half with the Captain to reinforce the outpost, half with His Majesty to Starvale. The… the matter sounded urgent, sir.”

Jimin’s breath caught. He didn’t step into the hall, not yet, but his knuckles whitened around the spindle of yarn in his hands. He didn’t need to hear more; the absence of Yoongi’s name in their chambers that morning had already left a hollow echo. Now it had shape. It had teeth.

By the time he sat down in his private solar, hands trembling as he fumbled for his needles, Prince Taehyung had already joined him. The elf’s ageless calm was an anchor, his long fingers deft as he guided the yarn where Jimin’s quivered. They knit in silence for a time, the soft click of needles steadying the storm in Jimin’s chest.

“You fear for him,” Taehyung said at last, his voice quiet as falling snow.

Jimin’s throat bobbed. “He left without telling me. Without a word. Just rode off into the wilds as if—  as if the court will forgive him for disappearing, as if—” His voice cracked. “As if I won’t break apart without him.”

Taehyung’s gaze softened, the lines of his face etched in patience. “The realm stirs with old currents, Jimin. Magic has always slept beneath these lands, older than kings, older than the Barrier itself. It is not unheard of. When the seasons change, some nymphs still step out from their groves, as they once did in ages past. Perhaps what you fear is only that same ancient tide, waking again.”

Jimin tried to take comfort in the words. He nodded, pretended to find rhythm in the yarn between his fingers. But when Shadow came—black wings cutting across the balcony, a raven’s cry echoing through the stones—Jimin’s composure unraveled with the wax-sealed scroll tied to its leg.

Yoongi’s hand was unmistakable, the strokes hurried but fierce:

 

My dearest heart,

The conditions in Starvale are dire. I am bound eastward and cannot return as I promised. 

Forgive me for breaking my word. 

I will make haste when this is finished, so that I may hold you in my arms as soon as the road allows. Until then, know that you are in every thought, and that no crown nor battlefield could keep me from you longer than fate demands.

Yours, always,

Yoongi

 

Tears blurred the ink before Jimin reached the end. He pressed the page against his chest, but the words were no substitute for the warmth of Yoongi’s body, the rumble of his laugh, the strength of his arms. 

That night, when the candles burned low and the bedchamber stretched too wide around him, he twisted in the sheets, unable to close his eyes.

At last, desperate, he rang the silver bell.

Seokjin was the first through the door, shawl slipping off, hair mussed. Prince Taehyung followed barefoot in his robe, his movements as graceful at midnight as at dawn. Both froze when they saw the tears streaking Jimin’s cheeks.

“It’s the first night,” Jimin whispered, voice breaking. “The first night since our vows… I’ve never been without him.”

The two omegas shared a glance, then crossed the room together. Seokjin eased Jimin back against the pillows while Taehyung drew the covers higher around his shoulders. They didn’t leave him. Instead they stayed, huddled close on either side, warmth pressed into the chill void Yoongi had left behind.

Seokjin, ever the loyal friend, was the first to speak. “Did he ever tell you about the time he broke his arm trying to wrestle a warg? Stubborn fool wouldn’t even admit it hurt until he fainted.”

Taehyung chuckled softly, picking up the thread. “Or how he used to fly across the Barrier, and scorched endrega nests too close to Liven’s roots? Even then in full form, he thought first of others, never of himself.”

And so the night passed, with stories of Yoongi —his valor, his folly, his unyielding loyalty— woven into the quiet chamber. They spoke not only to Jimin but to the small life beneath his heart, a lullaby of memories and promises.

By the time dawn touched the horizon, Jimin’s tears had dried against Seokjin’s shoulder, his hand resting lightly over his belly. For the first time since Shadow’s message, he slept —cocooned in the bond of those who loved Yoongi almost as fiercely as he did.

🐉

The eastern winds bit sharper the further they rode. What had begun as steady summer rains along the roads turned into a clammy mist, thick enough to seep through steel and wool alike. The land bore the scars of the Barrier’s shadow: reeds half-rotten in their roots, trees twisted into hunchbacked shapes, waters black with silt.

Yoongi kept his destrier steady, every stride a drumbeat against the soaked earth. His dragon’s blood stirred in his veins, restless, as if the land itself whispered a challenge. Around him, the small platoon rode in silence, men and women too wary to speak in the heavy dark. They were brave soldiers, but none had seen true monsters before. Their courage was forged against bandits and border skirmishes, not the things that slipped through cracks in the world.

At the swamp’s edge, Sergeant Baek awaited them with a torch raised high. Mud clung to her boots to the knee, her jaw set in grim lines. She saluted sharply as the King dismounted, though her eyes betrayed relief.

“Your Majesty,” she said, her breath clouding in the chill. “I feared you would not come.”

“You feared wrong.” Yoongi’s tone was flint. “Where are the missing?”

“Five gone,” Baek replied, voice tight. “All vanished during patrol. First we thought deserters, but… then we saw her.” Her hand shook as she pointed toward the swamp. 

“The hag. She comes at dusk, dragging nets of bone and mud behind her. She sings, and the soldiers follow —like children after a bell. We’ve dragged two back, but their minds…” Her throat closed around the word. “Gone.”

A ripple of unease coursed through the men behind Yoongi. He stilled them with a glance, the steel of command in his eyes.

“Have you seen her tonight?”

Baek hesitated, then nodded. “At the heart of the mire, near the half-sunken shrine. I’ve forbidden anyone to go near, but…” She trailed off, shame in her eyes. “I don’t know how to fight what I don’t understand.”

Yoongi stepped closer, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder. “You did right. Silver is the answer to her flesh, fire to her song. And the mind—” He tapped his temple, voice low. “The mind you protect with will alone.”

He turned then, eyes narrowing on the swamp’s black horizon. The mist thickened there, curling in slow, unnatural shapes. The faintest sound —like a woman’s voice, sweet as honey, thin as reeds— carried through the reeds. A shiver ran down every spine.

Yoongi’s jaw set. He had faced trolls and rotfiends and ghouls, he had bled beneath steel. But this— this was older, hungrier. He knew enough of monster lore to recognize the danger: drowners were carrion pests, but water hags… water hags were queens of their filth, cunning and cruel, their hunger laced with malice.

He drew his sword. The silver edge gleamed pale in the torchlight.

“Behind me,” he ordered, voice carrying across the swamp. “Torches lit. Keep the line tight. If she sings, do not listen. And if you feel the pull —think of home. Think of the face you love most, and hold fast.”

For him, it was easy. One thought was all it took to anchor him against the lure of the mire.

Jimin.

The memory of his omega’s softness, his warmth. Of his tears of bliss pressed into Yoongi’s shoulder on the nights after intimacy. The sweet voice he used to sing to their cub. All of it wrapped itself like chainmail around his heart. No song, no curse, could pry it loose.

Yoongi stepped into the mire first, silver flashing in hand, the soldiers at his back. The swamp swallowed their boots, the torchlight flickered against the black water, and the singing grew louder, closer —until the shape of her rose from the reeds.

Skin bloated and gray. Hair strung with algae. Mouth too wide, filled with broken fangs. She dragged her net behind her, rattling with human bones.

The water hag hissed, and the swamp itself seemed to shiver.

🌸

Jimin woke with a start, breath catching in his throat. The chamber was steeped in darkness, the kind that clings heavy even with braziers smoldering low. For a moment he thought it had been a dream —some nightmare born of absence— but then it struck again, a shiver across his chest, as though someone had tugged at the cord wound between his heart and Yoongi’s.

It wasn’t pain, not exactly. But it unsettled him, like the burn of iron on skin or a storm looming behind mountains. A pulse of anger, fierce and sharp, radiated through the bond, and Jimin’s hands clutched instinctively at the sheets as though he could anchor himself.

“Yoongi…” His voice broke into the stillness, a whisper swallowed by the high beams of the royal bedchamber.

He pressed a palm to his sternum. The warmth he usually felt —steady, protective, thrumming with life— was muddied, replaced by restlessness. His husband was fighting something. Not someone, Jimin thought with a chill, but something.

The omega rose from the tangled sheets, bare feet brushing against the cool furs. He went to the balcony doors, pushing them open just enough to let the night air slip through. The gardens below gleamed under moonlight, a fragile beauty untouched by the weight gnawing at his chest. Jimin leaned against the frame, swallowing back tears that threatened too easily now.

He could almost imagine Yoongi’s voice, low and sure, telling him to rest, to trust. But the pull in the bond betrayed him: the King was not calm. The King was furious.

Jimin bit down on his lip, hard enough to taste copper. His fingers trembled. He had been warned, gently, that the bond might carry echoes across distance —that Yoongi’s dragon nature was too forceful for neat barriers. But to feel it so raw… it left Jimin shaken.

“Please,” he whispered into the night, eyes closing tight. “Come back to me. Whatever you’re facing —come back.”

The words vanished into the moonlight, unheard by the soldiers on watch, by the still roses in the royal gardens. Yet in the bond, however faintly, he thought he felt a flare of recognition —like Yoongi had heard him, just enough to steady the fire.

Jimin curled back into bed, but sleep did not come. He lay awake, palm pressed firm over the bond’s thrum, listening for any shift, any calm, until dawn brushed pale against the horizon.

🐉

Yoongi’s blade rang as it struck scale, sparks scattering against the swamp’s stagnant fog. The water hag recoiled, shrieking, its voice a guttural rasp that made even seasoned men falter. Behind him, half his platoon held the line with torches and silver, their formation tight but wavering as the muck sucked at their boots.

“Hold!” Yoongi barked, his command a roar that cut through the swamp air. Dragonfire coiled in his chest, hot and demanding release, but he forced it down. Too close to his men —if he breathed flame, he’d scorch them with the hag. He had to be precise.

The hag lunged again, claws slicing through the mist. Yoongi met it with silver, his sword edge biting into its shoulder. The creature shrieked, retreating into the water only to surge out again, twin eyes burning like will-o’-wisps.

The King’s pulse thundered. It wasn’t only the fight —something tugged sharp through the bond. For a heartbeat he faltered, distracted by the unmistakable ripple of Jimin’s voice, faint but certain: Come back to me.

It steadied him, like a hand on his arm in the middle of the storm.

The hag saw the hesitation and lunged for his throat. Yoongi twisted with a snarl, claws raking free as he caught its jaw and slammed it sideways into the mire. He followed with silver, pinning its head under his boot.

“You’ll not touch mine,” he growled, voice low and edged with dragon wrath.

The swamp hissed and churned as the hag writhed, unnatural strength thrashing against his grip. But Yoongi was heavier, stronger, his fury anchored not just in battle-rage but in the bond tethering him home.

He drove the blade down, silver edge cracking bone, and the shriek that tore the night was cut short. The water stilled. The men held their breath.

Yoongi did not release the grip until the body slackened, its skin paling to corpse-gray. Even then, he lingered, his chest heaving, breath heavy with smoke.

“Check the muck,” he ordered, voice clipped. “If one hag was here, there might come more.”

A ripple of assent carried through the ranks. His men moved cautiously, torches lifted, swords ready.

Yoongi wiped the blade clean on the reeds, his thoughts already elsewhere. That echo —Jimin’s plea— still lingered in his chest, sharper than the stench of blood or the heat of battle. He had left his mate vulnerable in Frostpire, and the bond was proof that Jimin felt his unrest.

He sheathed his sword with a snap. “Form double patrols. I’ll not risk another disappearance. Burn the remains before the swamp takes them back.”

The men obeyed. Yoongi turned his gaze east, toward the heart of Moongate’s swamplands, where mist thickened and shadows seemed to breathe.

“Ancient magic,” he muttered under his breath, remembering Prince Taehyung’s quiet warnings. His jaw clenched. “Then I’ll meet it head-on.”

For Jimin. For the cub.

He mounted his steed, black armor gleaming damp with swamp dew, and signaled his men forward.

The King of the North rode deeper into the mist.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

That was a loooong chapter!

Thank you for reading☕️✨

Chapter 25: The Sting of Dawn

Summary:

My flower, my heart

Sleep as long as you wish. I’ll be at war council, but not a moment longer than I must. Today, tomorrow, all my days —belong first to you.

Yours, always,

Y.

Notes:

I am back! With five chapters today🤧

 

The chambers were dark when Yoongi returned, torchlight long extinguished, the air rich with the rich, familiar sweetness of his mate. He stripped off his armor in silence, every buckle and clasp unfastened with aching urgency, until only the black sheen of dragon-scale bruises remained across his skin. He padded barefoot across the rug, the bond tugging at him, heavy with longing and grief.

There, in the middle of their bed, lay his flower.

Jimin was curled tight, a small, forlorn bundle in the sea of blankets. His cheeks were flushed and damp, lashes clumped together with tears. In his arms he clutched one of Yoongi’s heavily scented pelts —an old one he favored in winter— nose pressed into it like a lifeline. Every so often his lips trembled, breath hitching with the remnants of crying. The sight hit Yoongi like a blade. His chest clenched, his throat went tight. He had fought monsters, but nothing undid him like seeing his mate suffer alone.

He shed the rest of his garments where he stood, bare-chested by the time he slid beneath the covers. Carefully, reverently, he drew Jimin against him, gathering his fragile warmth into his arms. His lips brushed damp temples as he whispered into the dark.

“I’m here, flower. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The change was immediate. Jimin’s breathing steadied, his nose burrowed deeper against Yoongi’s chest, and the crease between his brows softened. Only the stubborn pout of his pink lips remained, a small defiance Yoongi longed to kiss away. But instead, he pressed his mouth to Jimin’s forehead, breathing him in, letting the relief of closeness wash over him. The bond hummed low and warm between them, pulling him into sleep at last.

Dawn broke with a pale spill of light through the curtains. Yoongi stirred first, heavy-limbed but ravenous for his mate’s presence. He buried his face against Jimin’s skin, inhaling deep, thorough scents that grounded him back into home. His lips trailed slow across his omega’s cheek, then down to the claim mark on his neck, lingering there in reverence.

“My heart,” he whispered into the bite scar. “My home. My only peace.”

Jimin murmured faintly, shifting but still drowsing. Yoongi pulled him even closer, until their bodies were flush. And then he felt it —a small but certain kick against his abdomen, where Jimin’s rounded belly pressed into him. He froze, then smiled into the crook of Jimin’s throat, eyes closing as emotion flooded him.

“Our sprig,” he breathed. “Always demanding. Just like me.”

He rubbed a broad palm over Jimin’s stomach, soothing gentle circles.

Jimin stirred again, lashes fluttering open, and when he saw Yoongi —really saw him— his breath caught. Tears welled instantly, spilling free as he clutched at his husband.

“You came back,” Jimin whispered, voice breaking. “You’re here—”

Yoongi hushed him with kisses across his cheeks, his nose, his damp eyelids. 

“I’m here. Forgive me, flower. I should never have left you to sleep alone.”

Jimin buried his face against his chest, sobs of relief muffled by his skin. “I thought— I thought it would be longer. That you wouldn't…”

“Never,” Yoongi vowed, holding him tighter. “Not while I breathe. Not while I have strength left in me. At least for today, I am yours and yours alone. I won’t leave this bed, I won’t leave your side.”

Jimin hiccupped a laugh through his tears, brushing his nose along Yoongi’s jaw. “You promise?”

Yoongi tipped his forehead against Jimin’s, the bond pulsing with steady devotion. “I swear it. By crown, by blood, by flame. Today belongs only to you, flower.”

And when Jimin kissed him then, desperate and trembling, Yoongi let himself be claimed just as wholly as he claimed in return, the dawn rising over Frostpire with the two of them bound heart and soul.

The morning passed in a cocoon of furs and lazy warmth. Jimin lay half atop Yoongi’s chest, drowsy but unwilling to part from him for even a breath. His belly, round and restless, shifted against Yoongi’s ribs with a sudden kick.

Yoongi stilled, then laughed low in his throat, brushing a palm over the swell. “I can’t tell if our sprig’s happy to hear me… or if they’re lodging a complaint about my absence.”

Jimin tilted his chin up, lips curved with the faintest smile. “Both,” he said softly. “Happy you’re here. Angry you were gone.”

Yoongi kissed the corner of his mouth. “Fair enough. I’ll accept my scolding.” His hand lingered over the bump, voice dropping into mock solemnity. 

“I won’t leave your Papa to fend for himself  again. You have my word, little tyrant.”

After their midday meal, Yoongi indulged Jimin shamelessly. When Jimin reached for a sugared tart, Yoongi only snapped his fingers for more. Within the hour, a table was covered with towers of chocolate truffles, glazed pastries, honey-dipped fruits, and even a cake dusted in cocoa.

Jimin’s cheeks flushed pink. “Yoongi, this is absurd—”

“Absurd would be me denying you,” Yoongi countered, lounging back with a wolfish grin as Jimin nibbled on a chocolate-dipped strawberry. 

“Eat what you want, flower. I’ll fight off every cook in the castle if they dare complain.”

Jimin laughed despite himself, licking a smear of chocolate from his thumb. Yoongi groaned dramatically, burying his face in Jimin’s shoulder. 

“Do you mean to kill me, looking like that? Sweetness on your lips and nowhere for me to taste it?”

“Yoongi!” Jimin swatted at him, but the blush only deepened.

At dusk, they shared a bath in the great porcelain tub. Steam curled around them as Yoongi sat behind Jimin, one broad hand steady on his belly beneath the water.

“You’re far too loud for one so small,” Yoongi murmured to the restless bump, pressing a kiss to Jimin’s damp shoulder. “Settle, little sprig. You’re safe now. You’ll have all the space you want soon enough.”

Jimin chuckled, fingers brushing the back of Yoongi’s hand. “Love, they can’t understand you yet.”

Yoongi’s voice softened. “I’ll speak anyway, until they do.”

Later, they curled together on the balcony, wrapped in a single fur while the night sky stretched endless above them. Supper was simple, but it didn’t matter —not with Jimin leaning against Yoongi’s chest, his cheek resting right over his heart. They watched the stars in silence, save for the occasional hum Yoongi pressed against Jimin’s hair, as though weaving his own heartbeat into the constellations.

When night deepened, the air between them grew molten with the thrum of their bond —a low, urgent pull that tangled heart with body, scent with breath.

Jimin’s body yielded in soft waves, pliant under Yoongi’s touch, overwhelmed by the cedarwood warmth that rolled from his husband’s skin. The dragon-smoke edge of his alpha’s scent was gentled tonight, tempered into something earthier, something tender, as though the beast itself softened for him.

Yoongi knelt in the middle of their bed, broad forearm braced strong beneath Jimin’s back, holding him aloft as though he weighed nothing. Jimin’s thighs trembled, tightening instinctively around his husband’s waist, while his slender arms clung to the alpha’s neck, dainty fingers finding strands of black hair and twisting as if to anchor himself.

He liked to think he was not particularly small, though others would argue differently, —yet in Yoongi’s arms he was always fragile, delicate, dwarfed not only by his husband’s body but by the sheer care with which he was handled. Every measured display of strength made him shiver, made him keen, made him think there was no fortress in the world more unyielding, more safe, than Yoongi’s hold.

The alpha moved him slow and deep, guiding Jimin’s body on his length, each rise and fall met with the patient, deliberate drive of his hips. It left Jimin panting, trembling, his head falling back, throat bared in surrender.

Yoongi’s free hand roamed: gripping his hip with quiet possessiveness, smoothing the curve of his belly, up his waist, fingers squeezing the new softness that pregnancy had gifted him. Calloused pads brushed up over his ribs, rolling a tender nipple until Jimin mewled, voice breaking.

“Yoon— mmh— Alpha—!”

The sounds were small, helpless, all he could manage. Words dissolved into need, into the bond singing through him like heat and honey.

Yoongi leaned in, reverent, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was both hungry and achingly gentle. He was buried to the hilt when he whispered against his lips, a vow carried on the edge of a growl:

“Shhh, flower. I’ll love you thoroughly tonight. Enough that if I must leave again, you’ll still feel me here—” his palm pressed to the small of Jimin’s back, anchoring them together with raw devotion, “—for days.”

Jimin’s breath hitched, tears stinging at the edges of his lashes. He trembled, undone by the words as much as the rhythm of Yoongi’s body, by the certainty that no matter how hard the world was, his alpha loved him like this: fiercely, reverently, without pause.

He let himself drift, weightless, into the bond —floating in that hazy place where he felt boneless and soft everywhere, where the only anchor left in the world was Yoongi’s thrusts and the echoing rumble of his voice. Every kiss, every word pressed to his skin, poured devotion back into him until he was overflowing with it, until he could no longer hold back the high, fragile sounds tearing from his throat.

When Yoongi caught the haze in Jimin’s eyes, saw the flushed cheeks, the bitten lips, the little tears shimmering on his lashes, his hips stuttered. His knot swelled tight, locking them together in a shuddering climax that wrung them both out, leaving Jimin gasping and Yoongi groaning low into his throat. His seed spilled deep, hot and sure, a claim and a promise, a reminder that their bond was whole, unbroken, untouched by the darkness clawing at their kingdom.

When the worst of it passed, Yoongi laid him back on the pillows with infinite care, bracing his great frame above him, mindful of the swell of his belly. He nuzzled into Jimin’s neck, mouth brushing over the mark there until it bloomed sweet with scent again, coaxing that signal of safety, of sated calm, that soothed the dragon still restless inside him.

When at last the knot loosened, Yoongi eased free and slipped behind his omega, gathering him up, chest pressed to Jimin’s back, lips grazing his cheek.

“Rest, flower,” he whispered, hand splayed over belly and heart alike.

But Jimin’s fingers weakly clutched at his arm, keeping it close. “Don’t,” he breathed, shy and tremulous. “Not yet… please. Until dawn —or until I fall asleep. Whichever comes first.”

Yoongi’s chest ached with a tenderness too sharp to be borne. He kissed Jimin’s temple, then his lips, murmuring the vow against them like a prayer. “Until you sleep, flower. I won’t stop.”

And he didn’t. He loved him slow, deep, unhurried, again and again, until Jimin’s pleas softened into broken purrs, until exhaustion claimed him at last —safe in the cradle of his alpha’s arms, body marked, heart overflowing, bond humming with the unshakable truth that he was treasured.

Morning came golden and quiet. Jimin slept long and heavy, lashes casting shadows over his flushed cheeks. Yoongi lingered for as long as he dared, then, with infinite care, slipped from bed. He dressed in silence, pausing only to write a note in his sharp, deliberate hand.

He tucked it beneath Jimin’s hand where it rested on the covers.

 

My flower, my heart

Sleep as long as you wish. I’ll be at war council, but not a moment longer than I must. Today, tomorrow, all my days —belong first to you.

Yours, always,

Y.

 

With one last kiss to Jimin’s brow, Yoongi left the chamber, the cedarwood warmth of him lingering in the air.

⚔️

Lieutenant Wang arrived swiftly, boots striking sharp against the flagstones as he was ushered into the Dragon King’s council chamber.

Yoongi did not waste time. The great oak table, scarred with the weight of decades of planning, now bore maps inked with hurried lines and markers where the veil had weakened. Around it gathered the King’s most trusted: Captain Jung, weathered and tireless; Seokjin, sharp-eyed and restless with quill in hand; Prince Taehyung, his ageless gaze steady despite the fatigue tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“If more slip through,” Yoongi said, voice low but heavy with command, “the soldiers at the northern and eastern outposts will need counsel. Not blind steel, but instruction on the nature of what they face. You can’t kill darkness with a pike alone.”

Seokjin was already scratching neat, precise lines of ink across parchment, drafting new drills for the garrisons. “I’ll see they’re trained to act without hesitation,” he murmured, “and that they remember fire and silver are worth more than rank in the field.”

Prince Taehyung, who had remained quiet until then, spoke with a measured tone. “I’ll ride with Captain Jung. If your soldiers are to hunt monsters, they must learn monster lore at its root —what drives them, what slays them, what lingers if they are not buried right. Too many spirits walk because men don’t know how to grant rest to their dead.”

Yoongi gave a single sharp nod. “Do it.”

 

They kept all of it carefully hidden. No curious courtier or idle servant was permitted near the western wing of the palace. Seokjin handled it deftly, his talent for intrigue turning away prying eyes with a smile here, a whisper there. The old concubines’ quarter, once filled with silks and perfume, now held maps, weapons, and scrolls of monster lore —a secret stronghold in the heart of Mooncastle.

Only the most trusted guards paced those corridors. Even their footsteps were hushed, as though the very walls understood the peril they shielded.

But time was not merciful.

They had barely trained the largest outposts near the Barrier when the veil cracked wider —and darker filth poured through.

Ghouls clawed their way from raw earth, snapping splintered coffin-lids to gnaw on the bones within. Wraiths rose from burial mounds no priest had blessed, their shrieks rattling windows for miles, hungry for vengeance no mortal could grant. 

By the height of summer, the underbrush festered with nekkers, small and vicious, their packs moving like disease. Endrega queens seeded their eggs beneath rotten logs and roots, turning quiet woods into slick nests of chitin and fangs.

Yoongi rode at the head of every hunt, flame and silver at his call. In the eyes of his men, he was always the Dragon King —unyielding, unflinching.

Beside him rode Captain Jung, tireless and cunning, a spear in the dark. Even Prince Taehyung, once soft-voiced and bookish, took up bow and silver blade, lips murmuring prayers to the old fae of his people as they tracked the spoor of nekkers across blood-seeped ground. 

Yet for all their skill, no one could name the source. No sign of a rift, no trace of dark mages crossing the Barrier from the Sacred Realms. 

When Yoongi sent his black-winged Shadow to the Elven King, Liven’s answer came clear but offered no comfort: 

No soul crossed the Barrier after spring, but we will stand watch, and hunt the dark root if it festers on our side too.

One dusk, crouched on the edge of a forest thick with webs of arachasae silk, Prince Taehyung brushed twigs from his silver hair. The air was heavy with the stench of a nearby nest, thick enough to curdle the stomach.

“There is still wild magic in these bones of land,” he murmured, gaze distant as though he heard something the others could not.

Hoseok spat into the dirt. “Wild magic doesn’t birth ghouls from graves.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed, and his voice softened into something almost mournful. “You think it does not? Long before men carved keeps of stone and crowned kings of iron, these forests belonged to the fae. Old roots run deep, deeper than graves. Some things were bound, not banished. Disturb the land, and the bones will stir.”

Yoongi’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “Tell me plainly, your Highness —are we fighting beasts, or the land itself?”

The elf met his gaze, solemn and unblinking. “Perhaps both. And if that is true, your Majesty, then no steel alone will end it.”

A silence fell, broken only by the far-off chitter of the nest, echoing like a warning through the dusk.

And so, while Nightshade perched like an armored sentinel upon Yoongi’s shoulder —feathers black as ink, talons catching the light like small blades— Shadow lingered faithfully by Jimin. Where the Dragon King’s flower walked, there too went the soft rustle of dark wings and the glint of a sharp, watchful eye.

The great raven was tireless in his devotion.

If Seokjin fussed too sternly about posture, or reminded Jimin for the third time in an hour that  candied nuts were “not a meal,” Shadow would snap his beak and tug at the hem of the advisor’s robes until the man retreated, muttering curses into his ink-stained fan.

“Traitorous bird,” Seokjin would grumble, brushing at his sleeve where the raven’s claws had worried the threads.

And Jimin, suppressing a smile, would smooth his gown over his rounded belly and murmur, “Not traitorous, just loyal. Someone has to defend me.”

When Prince Jeon came to chatter and practice his courtly bows —all gleaming eyes and unspent energy— and Jimin’s temples ached with the storm of too many words, Shadow would leap from the chair-back and flap his wings with such indignant caws that the boy would squeak and flee down the hall. Always, though, Jimin would laugh, thin and breathless but true, and call after him:

“Come back, Jungkookie, he only pretends to be fierce.”

And so the boy would creep back in, cheeks flushed, and Jimin’s smile —tired though it was— softened the sting of the bird’s scolding.

Shadow brought offerings too, in endless procession. Shiny pebbles plucked from the garden path, twigs stripped clean of bark, wildflowers bruised with morning dew. Small, fragile things that he left at Jimin’s feet or tucked beneath his pillow as though hoarding talismans against the world. Sometimes he even dropped a feather, glossy and black, onto Jimin’s lap and cawed softly, as if to say remember me when I fly to fetch more.

Jimin kept every scrap. Every trinket was carefully folded away in a carved wooden box beside his bed. To anyone else, it was a collection of broken things, valueless. But to Jimin they were proof of devotion —of companionship in a house that sometimes felt too vast, too silent without Yoongi.

On quiet afternoons, when the ache in his back kept him near the fire and his belly lay heavy against his thighs, he would take out the treasures. Thread of gold and silver gleamed in his lap as he worked, weaving Shadow’s offerings into the frame of a cot mobile.

A pebble became a charm, a feather became a prayer, a wilted flower became a promise. Each piece knotted and bound with patience, with hope, with the deep yearning that his child would never know loneliness.

“See, little one?” he would whisper, his hand smoothing tenderly across the restless curve of his belly. “Shadow watches us. He brings us gifts so you’ll know you’re safe. So you’ll have something to look at while you dream.”

Sometimes, the cub answered with a firm kick against his palm, as if in approval. Jimin would laugh softly, head bowed, his cheeks still damp from the tears he often shed in solitude.

“You already know it, don’t you?” he murmured. “Appa leaves us guarded.”

And Shadow, perched on the mantel, would tilt his head and let out a single, solemn caw —as though confirming Jimin’s words, sealing them with wing and oath alike.

Each dawn came too soon.

For Jimin, the first breath of morning carried the bitter sting of parting. For Yoongi, it was duty —the summons of war council, the hunt, the endless shadow of the Barrier that would not wait. Yet still, he lingered, every time, as if dawn’s cruel hand could be pushed back by sheer will.

Yoongi woke first, always. He moved with the weariness of a man who had battled more than he’d slept, yet his first act was never to rise. Instead, his palm found the swell of Jimin’s belly, broad hand spanning the restless curve as though by touch alone he could shield what grew there. A small thump met him —a foot, or elbow, nudging against the world. His chest tightened, throat thick with reverence.

“Already impatient,” he murmured, voice low and rough from sleep. His dragon stirred close beneath his skin, scales pressing like heat against his flesh, the ancient hunger to guard and claim shivering through him. He bent and nosed into the hollow of Jimin’s throat, scenting deep, drawing his omega’s warmth into himself as though he could bottle it and carry it into battle.

Jimin stirred, as though the bond itself pulled him from slumber. His lashes fluttered, lips parting in a faint sigh as he turned into Yoongi’s embrace, burrowing close until he could fit his small frame against the iron wall of his alpha’s chest. A soft purr thrummed in his throat, half-conscious, carrying a silent plea: not yet, just one more minute.

Yoongi’s arm tightened around him, tucking Jimin beneath his chin. “Greedy,” he rasped, voice still heavy with sleep, with need.

Jimin’s reply was muffled against his skin, no more than a whisper. “Just one more minute.”

“One more minute,” he promised, though both of them knew he would stretch it into ten, into twenty, until Seokjin’s knocking dragged him away.

Jimin tilted his face up, pout heavy on lips, eyes still swollen from sleep. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.” Yoongi kissed the words into his flower’s brow, lingering there, his mouth trembling against warm skin. “If I could chain the sun itself to the horizon, I would.”

Jimin’s answering sound was a faint, broken laugh —half sob, half joy— as he pressed his cheek over Yoongi’s heart. The steady thud beneath his ear grounded him, the only proof he needed that his husband still lived, still breathed, still returned.

Their cub stirred again, a tiny kick nudging against Yoongi’s stomach where Jimin’s body pressed to his. Yoongi shifted, pulling them both closer still, until the beat of his pulse seemed to echo through all three of them. “Feel that?” he murmured, voice thick. “Our sprig is already so strong.”

“They hear you speak and then have a battle with my ribs,” Jimin complained softly, lips brushing against his chest.

Yoongi chuckled, low and rumbling, though his throat ached with the truth of it. He kissed Jimin again —the mark on his neck, the corner of his jaw, the stubborn crease between his brows. “They must be eager to see me.”

Jimin gave a soft huff, indignant and fond, and pressed closer still, as though he could fuse them together. His body trembled with the ache of knowing this warmth, this safety, could not last past the hour. And yet he held on, purring, letting the bond carry all the words he could not bring himself to say.

Yoongi closed his eyes. For now, he did not rise, did not reach for armor or sword. For now, he allowed himself this stolen eternity, this heartbeat of dawn where the world had not yet claimed him. In his arms was all he fought for: his mate, his child, the fragile sweetness of home.

And so, though dawn pried at the horizon and duty sharpened its claws, the Dragon King stayed. For one more minute.

“Fight your monsters, my King,” Jimin would murmur drowsily when Yoongi’s lips brushed one more time the slope of his belly. “Come back to me.”

“And to you always, little sprig. Be good to Papa, let him rest.” Yoongi would whisper back, mouth grazing skin gone tight with life and promise.

“That’s no longer a sprig —it’s a full log!” Seokjin would grumble from the door, breakfast tray in hand, eyes rolling skyward as he nudged the King out. 

“Out, your Majesty. Save your growling for the monsters. Your flower needs toast and tea more than your teeth.”

Yoongi would snarl half-heartedly, fling an insult at Seokjin’s head —and Jimin’s giggles, soft and bright, would follow him into the cold halls.

“They’re growing well,” Seokjin would say later, calm eyes softening as he settled into a chair opposite Jimin by the hearth, guiding Jimin’s hands through knitting yet another tiny sock or bonnet.

“I feel like I’ve swallowed a wine barrel,” Jimin would sigh, wincing when a sharp kick rattled his ribs.

“Most likely an alpha cub,” Seokjin teased. “But you are the Dragon’s flower —strong things grow best under gentle hands.”

Jimin would laugh, tired but warm, pressing a palm to the restless swell. “A handful already. All Yoongi’s blood, none of mine.”

“And they shall be tamed by your bloom, just as you tamed their father.” Seokjin would smile, secretive and fond all at once.

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading and keeping up with this story☕️✨

Chapter 26: The Autumn Leaves

Summary:

“I am my own furnace, Yoongi,” Jimin would laugh when he inevitably caught him bundling cloak after cloak over his shoulders. “Your child keeps me warm enough for three.”

“You are reckless enough for three,” Yoongi would growl back, tugging a hood over Jimin’s ears, though the scowl never reached his eyes.

Notes:

🍂

When the wind turned and the forests blushed with autumn gold, the monsters pulled back —for a while. Yoongi, always watchful, carved out small mercies: afternoons with no war council, hunts delegated to Captain Jung, maps and reports left in Seokjin’s keeping. And on one such soft day, he returned home to find the bed empty, the den cold. 

No quiet hum of Jimin’s knitting by the window, no gentle gossip curled around the old velvet sofas of his private chambers where the princes would sprawl at Jimin’s feet. The library held only empty inkpots and a faint ghost of Jimin’s scent. The gardens were deserted but for a trailing shawl that made Yoongi mutter curses about thin fabric and a too-bold mate who would dare catch a chill.

“I am my own furnace, Yoongi,” Jimin would laugh when he inevitably caught him bundling cloak after cloak over his shoulders. “Your child keeps me warm enough for three.”

“You are reckless enough for three,” Yoongi would growl back, tugging a hood over Jimin’s ears, though the scowl never reached his eyes.

Yoongi found him at last in the royal kitchen —a vision too soft for any crown. Jimin, sleeves pushed to his elbows, cheeks pink as new roses under the hearth’s glow. A smear of powdered sugar clung to the corner of his mouth as he chewed thoughtfully on a warm beignet. His hair in a braid swung over one shoulder, and he leaned into the dough bowl as though he might climb in and knead it with his whole heart. The old kitchen maids hovered, fluttering like startled birds when they saw their King in the doorway. But Jimin’s eyes found him first —soft, startled, damp with the threat of sudden tears.

“I wanted scones,” he confessed, voice wobbling, thumb pressing to his mouth to hide a trembling lip. “But they don’t taste like Mr. Bates’s.” 

Yoongi strode forward in three long steps, brushing past the fussing maids. His hands closed around Jimin’s wrists, flour dusting his skin. “Flower,” he said lowly, a warning, a plea.

Jimin shook his head, the laugh that wanted to come out splintering into something brittle. “I thought if I kneaded them myself, if I used enough butter… maybe they’d taste the same. But it’s not right. It’s never right.” His breath shivered out of him. “I just wanted a little piece of home.”

Just like that, the string around Yoongi’s heart snapped and rewound tighter than ever around his flower. He gathered Jimin close, heedless of the flour smearing his robe. His chin dipped into the braid, his lips pressing at Jimin’s temple.

“I’ll find it for you,” he swore, voice rough. “Whatever corner of the world it hides in —I’ll bring it back to you.”

Jimin gave a tiny laugh, muffled against his chest. “What will you do, Yoongi? Tear down the realm for a recipe?”

“Yes.” His answer came without hesitation. He tilted Jimin’s chin up, making sure he saw the truth of it in his eyes. “For you, for the life you’ve carried for us, I’d burn ten worlds.”

A silence fell, fragile as spun glass. Jimin’s lip trembled, then steadied. He pressed a sugar-dusted kiss to Yoongi’s jaw. “Always the tyrant.”

“For you,” Yoongi murmured, holding him tighter, “the only tyrant who comes home.”

And so he held him there, in a kitchen full of startled maids and warm bread, with a vow burning bright between them.

He knew then, with a rush of shame and sorrow, that he had waited too long. That somewhere in the ruins of the East still lay a name or a place or a half-remembered hearth where Jimin had once been only a boy who knew the taste of scones made by warm, familiar hands. That he would scour every shadowed corner of Anthos if he had to —tear down Minjae’s whispers, break open the West’s iron gates, raise every ruin until he found whatever piece of Jimin’s old home he could salvage to lay at his feet.

Yoongi’s orders spread like dark wings across the continent —scouts, spies, merchants, old loyalists paid in gold and favors— all slipping through border villages and overgrown roads where the bones of old Anthos still lay hidden beneath moss and time. Yet each whisper led nowhere. Tracks went cold in half-forgotten churches turned shelters for the displaced, or dissolved into rumor over cheap ale at roadside inns.

By the harvest moon, Frostpire’s halls glowed with candles and the smell of spiced bread, but the King’s war table brimmed only with half-truths. Some whispered they’d seen Duchess Jieun —Jimin’s proud alpha mother— slipping like a ghost through a soup line in a battered shelter just north of the old Anthos border, her once-gilded hair hidden under a plain scarf, eyes sharp as ever. Others swore Soo —Jimin’s gentle sister, new babe strapped to her breast, alpha mate at her shoulder— had been sighted further south, trading scraps of heirloom jewelry for safe passage over a mountain pass.

But no word, not a murmur, of Lady Ary —the soft omega mother whose lullabies still echoed in Jimin’s dreams. 

Each lead ended in dust and closed doors. Each rumor, when chased down, dissolved into the same cold silence that clung to the broken stones of Jimin’s childhood home.

When Captain Jung led his men into what remained of Anthos Abbey —once a jewel of the East, now little more than half-buried walls choked with ivy— they found only what thieves and weather had not yet swallowed. 

In a hidden alcove behind what had once been a prayer altar, Jung uncovered a battered old tome bound in cracked leather —Jimin’s grandfather’s cherished stories of an ancient romance: an elven priestess, luminous and wild, and the mortal knight who laid down his sword for her kiss. Tucked between the last pages lay a small painted portrait, edges blackened by careless fire but miraculously intact enough to betray its truth —Duchess Jieun standing proud, one hand on Lady Ary’s waist, Ary’s arms circling a small, chubby-cheeked Jimin perched on her hip, Sue at her side, half-braided hair and a shy smile frozen forever in pigment.

Yoongi held that small painting for a long while the night Jung returned. He traced Jimin’s painted face with a rough thumb, half-ashamed for the burn in his throat, the ache that curled tight in his gut. 

Later that night, Jimin stirred sleepily beside him, belly swollen against the blankets. “You smell sad,” he mumbled drowsily, turning into Yoongi’s chest.

Yoongi kissed his hair and swallowed the truth. “Just tired, flower. Rest.”

But his hand slipped beneath the pillow, brushing the hidden edges of the portrait. For all his fire and crowns and gold, he could not leave Frostpire’s walls to hunt ghosts himself —not when his flower was heavy with their child and helplessly tired.

So he tucked the picture deeper, where Jimin might find it if he ever woke alone in the deep hours and wondered if anyone still remembered the boy he used to be.

Quietly, relentlessly, Yoongi sent gold, bribes, quiet men with keener eyes and softer voices. But he did not speak of it yet to Jimin —he would not lay false hope like fragile glass in hands already carrying so much weight.

It was deep into the wolf-hours when Jimin woke, restless. The child pressed against his ribs, turning, kicking, demanding space. Beside him, Yoongi slept like stone, arm heavy around his waist, breath warm against the back of his neck.

Jimin slid carefully free, padding barefoot across the chamber for a drink of water. But when he returned, pulling at the blankets to settle again, his fingers brushed something firm beneath the pillow. Curious, he slipped it free.

A portrait, old and singed, edges brittle with smoke.

He froze. The candlelight caught the figures: his mother’s arms circling him, Soo’s shy smile, Jieun’s proud stance at Ary’s side. His throat closed. He hadn’t seen their faces —untouched, whole, smiling— in so many years. For a long moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even weep, just stared until his vision blurred.

“Jimin.”

Yoongi’s voice, low and rough with sleep. He pushed himself up, hair falling loose from its braid, eyes narrowing as they fixed on what Jimin held. “Flower—”

“You’ve been searching.” Jimin’s voice cracked, half-accusation, half-wonder. “All this time, and you didn’t tell me.”

Yoongi sat up fully, bare chest scarred and stark in the candlelight. His jaw worked, the words heavy on his tongue. “I would not put brittle hope in your heart. Not when it could cut you deeper.”

Tears spilled down Jimin’s cheeks, hot and helpless. He pressed the painting to his chest, shaking his head. “And what if I needed even the hope, Yoongi? What if the hope is all I have left of them?”

That undid him. Yoongi swung his legs from the bed, came to kneel in front of Jimin. Large hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing at the tears even as more fell. “I am sorry,” he whispered, forehead pressing to his mate’s. “I only wanted to shield you. I am too much a soldier— I see only threats, not… not the soft edges of what you need.”

Jimin gave a broken laugh, leaning into the touch. “You are insane, Min Yoongi.”

“And yours,” Yoongi murmured back, kissing the tears from his cheeks. “Always yours. I swear, flower— I will find them. Your mothers, your sister, all that was stolen. I will scour the ashes until I can lay a piece of your home back in your hands.”

Jimin clutched the painting between them, pressing it against Yoongi’s chest as though anchoring both vow and memory there. “Then promise me one more thing.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t keep the darkness to yourself. If there is sorrow, if there is hope, I want to carry it too. I am not porcelain, Yoongi. I am yours. Let me stand with you.”

Something in Yoongi broke open at that, gentler than any battle wound. He kissed Jimin’s mouth slow and reverent, tasting flour and salt and tears. “I promise,” he breathed against his lips. “Until the day we walk into the East together, and you take back every stone, every song that was ever yours.”

Jimin pressed their foreheads together, smile trembling but sure. “Until that day.”

And with the fragile portrait pressed between their hearts, they curled back into the blankets —not quite whole, but no longer alone in the weight of what had been lost.

Autumn was heavy with the scent of drying herbs and the rustle of wheat being bound for winter stores. Moongate’s soil, bruised by spring raids and monstrous tides, still yielded enough to fill barns to their beams —but only if rationed with care. Yoongi, armor off but crown heavy on his brow, walked the muddy lanes himself, inspecting village by village. He shut down wasteful feasts, trimmed the soft excess of lords too used to velvet banquets while children in the far corners of the North shivered under thin blankets. Guards stood watch over cellars, keys at their belts, sworn to see every family fed before the first frost hardened the fields.

The courtiers hissed behind heavy doors —the Mad King starves his own, they tried to whisper to the trade caravans and passing bards. But in the market squares, no child went hungry. Hearths stayed warm, bellies full enough for laughter to echo down the stone streets long after dark. And when Frostpire’s great hall flickered with harvest lights, the only sour faces were those used to eating three courses of roast while pretending not to see the beggars at their gates.

But for all his iron resolve abroad, the King’s bedchamber saw him worn thin. Yoongi came late most nights, boots still muddy, cloak smelling of steel and smoke. He would find Jimin curled in a nest of pillows, moonlight kissing the slope of his belly where their cub dreamed in safety. Yoongi shed armor and crown until all that remained was his scent —heavy, yearning, all alpha, all his.

He buried his face in Jimin’s throat, in the soft hollow behind his ear, letting the sweetness of him uncoil the knots of command and care. His hands went first to that round belly; he could not keep from it. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to Jimin’s nape, reverent, greedy for the reassurance of life under his palms.

Half-waking, aching with his own need, Jimin would tilt his hips, offering more. Yoongi’s rough hand traced the full swell of him —hips softer than they had ever been, thighs flushed warm beneath his calloused touch. He scented him heavily, nose buried against flushed skin, lips and blunted fangs tugging gently at a tender ear.

The taste of him, the scent —it lit sparks under Yoongi’s ribs, roused the dragon in his blood to pace against its cage. But every time —every time— he stopped.

That visit to the medic still haunted him: the night when he’d been too greedy, too hungry, when Jimin’s bright eyes had begged in bliss, small hands gripping his hair until he fell asleep. The next day Jimin’s body could barely handle the ache in his back.

So now he held back. Even when Jimin’s breath caught, when his scent bloomed slick and hot against Yoongi’s thigh, when his knot pulsed painfully at his mate’s hip —he forced the dragon down. He sheathed the claws, blunted the fangs. Instead he pressed soft kisses: Jimin’s temple, his brow, the taut skin over their child. He rubbed slow circles there until Jimin sighed into sleep.

Jimin pretended not to notice. Not the tremor in Yoongi’s chest when he pulled away, not the swollen weight pressed hot against his back, eager but denied. He pretended not to notice how his own scent turned sweet and ready in the cold night air, unanswered only because his alpha held his leash tight.

Some nights he lay awake long after Yoongi’s breathing steadied, palm resting on the curve of his belly, wondering if the boy once sweet enough to tempt a dragon was still there—or if that shine had dulled now that he was heavy, tired and stretched.

Yet in the softest hours —when the candle burned low and Yoongi’s palm slipped to rest over his heart— Jimin dared to believe. That when the storms cleared, the dragon would claim him whole again. Until then, he would wait, scenting the pillow where Yoongi’s hair lingered, dreaming of the day his King remembered that the gentlest things still burned brightest in the fiercest flame.

⚔️

The hunt had soured before it was finished. They had brought down the beast in the end, but not before it took two soldiers to the healer’s tent with mangled limbs, blood soaking the furs. Yoongi had commanded perfectly, but the dragon in him knew perfection was not enough when men still bled under his banner. By the time he climbed the stairs to the royal chambers, the weight of his crown was a stone in his skull and his chest burned with frustration he could not voice.

Then he opened the door —and was struck dumb.

Jimin’s scent filled the room, thick and sweet, and now doused heavily with milk. It hit Yoongi like a hammer to the ribs, a pull low in his belly, sharp enough to make his breath hitch. The hearth still burned low, casting the bed in a honeyed glow. There, in the center of the nest of blankets, Jimin slept on his side, lips parted, soft curls damp at his temples. His belly rose in a gentle slope, and even from the door Yoongi could see the faint damp spot blooming through the linen of his nightshirt.

Yoongi shed his cloak, boots, and gloves with mechanical movements, but the moment he slipped beneath the furs, instinct devoured him whole. He gathered Jimin in, cradling him against the broad wall of his chest. His hands roamed without asking —finding the new weight of him, the soft rolls at hip and belly, the irresistible curve of thighs made rounder by pregnancy. Jimin shifted in his arms, a sleepy murmur escaping him.

“Mmm… Yoongi?” His lashes fluttered, eyes still hazy with dreams. He tilted up clumsily, brushing a damp, open-mouthed kiss against Yoongi’s lips before sighing and baring his throat. His voice was barely a breath. “You’re warm.”

Yoongi’s hand tightened at his waist, throat dry. The mark at Jimin’s throat called to him —his dragon stirred, pressing sharp and hungry against his skin. He nosed at it, tongue dragging heavy over the scar, sucking slow enough to soothe. Jimin melted, pressing back into his chest with a pleased little sound.

But Yoongi’s calloused palm slid higher, unbidden, until it cupped the soft swell of Jimin’s chest. Not as it had once been —slight and boyish— but rounder now, sensitive, preparing for their child. The heat of it under his hand made Jimin whimper before he could stop himself.

“Ah—”

He arched faintly, thighs parting with instinct, and pressed his face into Yoongi’s throat. “Please…” It wasn’t even a word so much as a sound, soft and needy, the way omegas only ever were in the dark safety of their alpha’s arms.

Yoongi’s length pulsed hot and heavy against Jimin’s thigh, aching, ready. His dragon surged, fangs pressing sharp against the inside of his lips. Jimin’s body begged for it —slick already, thighs trembling— but Yoongi held himself in check with a shudder that shook his frame. Instead he lapped and sucked slow at the mark on Jimin’s throat, dragging his teeth there until Jimin whined and squirmed… and finally, worn out by his alpha’s steady rhythm, sank back into sleep with a faint shiver.

Yoongi stayed awake long after, arms locked around him, chest rising and falling like a forge trying not to flame.

Dawn came too soon.

Jimin woke slick again, the sheets damp beneath him, his body aching for what he hadn’t been given. Yoongi was already dressed down to his undershirt, sitting at the edge of the bed to tug on his boots.

Jimin blinked blearily, then pushed himself up and padded over, curling his arms around Yoongi’s broad back. “Too early,” he mumbled, pressing his warm, soft body against the rigid line of Yoongi’s spine. “Stay a little longer.”

“Flower…” Yoongi’s voice came tight, fraying at the edges. His huge hand covered Jimin’s forearm, as though steadying himself.

“You don’t need to be a king yet,” Jimin argued softly, rubbing his face against the back of Yoongi’s shoulder. “Not for another hour.” 

He pressed himself forward deliberately, the swell of his belly nudging into Yoongi’s back, the scent of slick heavy in the air. “Please, Yoongi. Just… stay.”

Yoongi’s restraint cracked. With a guttural sound, he surged to his feet and turned, gathering Jimin up against his chest as though he weighed nothing. One massive palm splayed over the small of Jimin’s back, pinning him there. He bent low, fangs grazing the mark, his voice a growl rumbling deep in his chest.

“Don’t tempt me, tiny flower. Don’t you dare tempt me.”

Jimin’s breath hitched, heart racing under the cage of his alpha’s arms. His whole body felt small, soft, devoured against Yoongi’s towering frame. He wanted more —he wanted everything.

And then—

A knock at the chamber door.

“Your Majesty,” a servant’s voice carried through the wood, “the soldiers are ready.”

The silence after was suffocating. Yoongi’s jaw locked, fangs still brushing Jimin’s throat. He released him reluctantly, setting him back on the bed with hands that lingered a second too long.

Jimin curled into the furs, cheeks burning, unable to meet his alpha’s eyes. 

All through the day, mortification clung to him like smoke —that he had pressed himself so shamelessly, that he had offered and begged and nearly broken Yoongi’s control, only for the door to steal him away.

And Yoongi —tall, broad, unyielding— marched out to lead his men, jaw clenched, carrying the heat of Jimin’s soft, sweet body like a brand across his skin.

By the time dusk fell, Jimin’s nerves were a tangled mess. He paced their chambers, smoothing furs, tidying small things only to set them back again. Every time his mind drifted to dawn —the way he had clung to Yoongi, begging him to stay— his face burned so hot he thought the whole palace must see it.

When Seokjin came in, ledger under his arm, he paused, head cocked like a bird’s. “You’ve worn a track in the rug,” he said mildly.

Jimin flushed, ducking his head. “I don’t… I don’t know how I’ll face him tonight.”

Seokjin set the ledger aside and folded his hands, watching him with the soft patience of one omega to another. “Face Yoongi?”

Jimin hesitated, chewing his lip. His voice dropped. “Not as Consort. Not as his mate. Just— Jimin. Just me.” He twisted his fingers in his robe. 

“I… I begged him this morning. Shamelessly. Clung to him like a child, as though if I pressed hard enough he’d stay. I—” His throat tightened. “I think I embarrassed him. I embarrassed myself.”

For once Seokjin’s brows rose, the faintest surprise softening his usual reserve. He crossed the room and settled into a chair by the hearth, gesturing gently for Jimin to sit.

“Come now,” he said. “Let us be honest as friends, not court masks. You’ve forgotten, Jimin —I am not mated. I have no bond to wrestle with. But…” He tilted his head, considering. “I do know alphas. And I do know you.”

Jimin sat, belly pressing against his thighs, his hands folding protectively over it. He looked very small in the chair beside Seokjin’s taller frame, curls shadowing his flushed cheeks. “Then what do I do? How do I… fix it?”

“You do not need to fix anything,” Seokjin said firmly. “Yoongi is not ashamed of you. He is an alpha, a dragon besides. Restraint is his armor. You pressed him, yes, but what of it? It only shows you crave him, and what alpha resents being craved?”

Jimin bit his lip. “But I—”

“Listen.” Seokjin leaned forward, lowering his voice. “If you wish to ease his burden, be clingy. That’s all. Let him see plainly how much you enjoy his presence, how your body and your heart both long for him. And if embarrassment threatens you, blame it on the cub. Say your child demands his father close. What dragon would deny his mate and his cub together?”

Jimin blinked at him, startled into a soft laugh. “That’s… almost sly.”

“It is practical,” Seokjin said with a little sniff. “In all the twenty-six years I’ve known Yoongi, through childhood and grief, I tell you he is a textbook alpha. His dragon nature only sharpens that instinct. As a man, as an alpha, as a dragon —he would never deny you anything without reason. If he holds back, it is not because he does not want you. It is because he fears his own strength. You have no need to try so hard, Jimin. Only… hold him close, and let him see you are happy to be held.”

Jimin’s shoulders eased, some of the tightness draining out of him. His hand drifted absently over the curve of his belly, and he whispered, “So I should… let him see. Not hide.”

Seokjin smiled faintly, a rare warmth softening his sharp features. “Exactly. You are already his heart, Jimin. Stop worrying you must earn what is already yours.”

Jimin’s cheeks warmed again, but this time with something gentler than shame. A quiet hope settled into his chest. Maybe Seokjin was right. Maybe all he had to do was let Yoongi see how deeply he wanted him —and the rest would follow.

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading☕️✨

Chapter 27: The Chain

Summary:

“Captain,” he said, eyes forward, jaw like iron. “I need you to find me the best blacksmith in Frostpire.”

Hoseok glanced at him, puzzled. “What is it you plan to bind, Majesty?”

Yoongi’s gaze was bleak, his voice a growl beneath the wind.

“The worst beast there is. A dragon.”

Notes:

Both are stubborn and clueless🤧

 

The infirmary was dim and hushed, smelling of crushed herbs and lamp oil. Yoongi sat on the bench, still in his leathers, his gauntlets discarded at his feet. His broad shoulders hunched forward, the weight of his crown heavy even without its metal.

“I need something,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “A brew, a tonic —anything that can hold a rut at bay.”

The medic, a woman of fifty with sharp eyes softened by patience, paused in the grinding of roots. She looked up at him. “You thought your omega’s pregnancy would spare you again?”

Yoongi nodded stiffly. “Summer passed without trouble. I thought autumn would, too. But…” He clenched his jaw, hand flexing as though he could strangle the air itself. 

“The monsters claw at the borders, and each skirmish leaves me frayed. I come home sharp-edged, restless. The dragon in me won’t quiet. I fear—” His voice caught, and he forced it through his teeth. “I fear my rut would hurt Jimin. Or the cub.”

The medic sighed, setting aside her pestle. “You should not be lying with his Grace so often, Majesty. Too much strain could provoke an early delivery. He is nearly seven months now, and a few days ago he had cramps from the back pain.”

Yoongi’s head snapped up, his whole body stilling like a predator that scented blood. “Cramps?”

She frowned. “Did he not tell you? I gave him a balm for his back and a calming tea. He insisted it was nothing—”

Yoongi’s breath hitched. His hands curled into fists on his thighs. “He said nothing.”

The memory struck him like a hammer. That night —dawn creeping pale beyond the shutters— Jimin curled in his arms, voice breaking with those sweet, needy sounds only Yoongi had ever earned.

Flash— Jimin’s plump lips parted around a whimper, slick thighs trembling as Yoongi drove into him again and again, the little omega yielding without hesitation.

Flash— The warmth of Jimin’s body, wet and clenching, the way he arched to take more, to give more, even when his eyes watered with pleasure too sharp to contain.

Flash— The trust in his gaze, soft and unguarded, as though Yoongi could never be anything but safe. As though the dragon beneath his skin was not something to be feared.

Yoongi’s claws pricked out before he could stop them. He dragged a hand hard over his face, forcing the scales back under flesh.

The medic’s voice broke through the haze. “I could mix you a brew, but human medicine won’t tame dragon blood. You’d be better off finding a warlock, or a fae healer. Until then, Majesty, it will be willpower alone keeping you steady.”

Yoongi rose too quickly, towering, his breath harsh. “Willpower,” he muttered. “A frail wall against fire.” But he bowed his head to her nonetheless, a brusque thanks before leaving.

🐉

The private solar smelled of parchment and smoke. Light streamed through the high window, and in the nest on the sofa lay Jimin, curled with Shadow. The raven was tucked against the swell of his belly, its dark beak gently preening loose curls as Jimin giggled soft and low, stroking its glossy feathers.

Yoongi stopped in the doorway. For a moment, the sight cleaved him in two. His mate, his cub, guarded by a creature small but fierce. All softness, all peace. He didn’t dare breathe too loud, for fear he’d break it.

“My flower,” he said finally, his voice tempered into gentleness. “A good day to you.”

Jimin looked up, his face alight. “My King.”

Yoongi crossed the room, bending to press a kiss to his mate’s temple. He stroked Shadow’s back with one careful finger. “You are a fine guardian. Keep them safe for me.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised Jimin, smoothing his hand down the side of the round belly, memorizing the feel of it. “Rest. Let him protect you until I return.”

When he left, the softness of that image followed him, seared into his chest —and hardened his resolve.

 

On the ride east, frost stinging his breath, Yoongi pulled his horse alongside Captain Jung’s.

“Captain,” he said, eyes forward, jaw like iron. “I need you to find me the best blacksmith in Frostpire.”

Hoseok glanced at him, puzzled. “What is it you plan to bind, Majesty?”

Yoongi’s gaze was bleak, his voice a growl beneath the wind. “The worst beast there is. A dragon.”

And the hooves thundered on, carrying a king who had decided he would chain even himself, if it meant his mate and child would never know harm at his hands.

⚔️

The grave hag had come out of the abandoned burial grounds like a shadow with teeth. Before the men could raise their spears, it had torn through the front line, rending armor like parchment. The air filled with screams and the smell of hot blood.

Yoongi’s dragon surged too close to the surface —his vision rimmed in gold, the sound of his soldiers’ dying breaths feeding the fire inside. Hoseok and him had brought it down in the end, steel and flame cleaving it apart until nothing remained but smoking bones. But not before half their party was strewn across the muck.

By the time they rode into Frostpire’s gates, Hoseok’s cloak was singed black, the captain’s hair stiff with soot. His chest still heaved with the ghost of dragonfire that had missed him by inches.

Yoongi dismounted in silence. Smoke still curled from his lips. His gauntlets creaked under the strain of claws threatening to pierce through.

“Majesty,” Hoseok began, low and wary, “you should rest—”

“No,” Yoongi growled, voice thick, dangerous. He turned, golden eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “Take me to the dungeon. Now.”

Hoseok stiffened. “You don’t mean—”

“I do.” His scales had already begun to ripple down his neck, his breath a furnace. “Before I lose myself entirely. Bind me.”

Hoseok’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You don’t need to do this. You’ve held the dragon in check before. You can—”

Yoongi’s roar cut through the courtyard, sharp enough to rattle the stone. Soldiers turned, pale-faced, as the king staggered, catching himself on a pillar, claws scoring deep grooves in the granite.

“Do it, Jung!” His voice broke between a snarl and a plea. “Bind me, or I’ll burn everything I swore to protect!”

They dragged the heavy chain from the forge —links blackened with runes still faintly glowing from the smith’s hammer. The sound of it hitting stone echoed through the dungeon corridors as Hoseok wrapped it around his King’s broad frame, locking wrists, shoulders, and finally his throat.

Yoongi did not resist. He knelt, muscles trembling with suppressed fury, eyes burning like twin suns.

When the last lock clanged shut, he lowered his head, fangs bared in frustration. “Stay back,” he rasped, breath hissing smoke.

Hoseok hesitated —then stepped out of reach of the chain’s length.

The night stretched long.

The dungeon walls shook with the sounds of Yoongi’s rage —the snap of the chain, the crash of claws against stone, the guttural roars that scraped the marrow. Every few minutes a low growl swelled into a snarl, words half-formed and broken by the beast beneath his skin.

Jung stood his post, hands white-knuckled on his sword hilt though he knew it would be useless against what his king truly was. His armor shivered with every thunderous pull against the chain.

Yet through the terror, one truth carved itself into Hoseok’s bones: every enemy who had ever raised a blade against Frostpire had stood against this. Against the dragon’s fury barely leashed, against the king who would rather chain himself in the dark than risk turning it upon his own.

And Jung, listening to the beast’s desperate snarl echo through the stone, whispered to himself with grim certainty—

“May the gods damn every soul that stands against him, for they’ll never know a crueler fate.”

🐉

The chains bit deep into his skin, each rune-hewn link humming against his blood as if mocking the fire in his veins. Yoongi knelt in the dungeon’s black belly, scales crawling up his arms and throat, glittering black and gold where the moonlight pierced the iron grate above.

His muscles strained until his shirt tore at the seams. The pull to shift was unbearable —wings begged to rip through flesh, jaws to unhinge, fire to cleanse. Yet another need rose sharper still, one he could not silence: the gnawing ache to claim, to bury himself in his mate and burn through the rut with Jimin’s warmth soft and yielding beneath him.

Yoongi threw his head back and roared, fire bursting from his throat. The flames struck the walls and licked up the stone, leaving the chamber blackened, suffocating in soot. The iron links rattled with every heave of his chest.

“Mine…” he rasped, smoke curling from his fangs. His knot throbbed, swollen and aching, a brand of torment he could not relieve.

And in the dark, memories rose unbidden—

Jimin beneath him, mouth open, voice breaking in sweet gasps. The way his little body arched, desperate to take Yoongi deeper, to hold him there. The slick warmth surrounding him, clutching him until Yoongi forgot the taste of restraint.

“Yoongi… please,” his omega’s voice echoed in his skull, breathy, trusting, unashamed.

The dungeon blurred, replaced by the vision of Jimin trembling under his touch, eyes wet and wide, lips plump from kisses that had grown too rough. The way he always clung to Yoongi’s shoulders with soft hands, yielding utterly, whispering his husband’s name like a prayer.

The chain clanged, jolting Yoongi back to stone and soot. His hips bucked uselessly against the air, every instinct howling for what was out of reach.

Another memory rose to taunt him —Jimin sated and purring, cheek pillowed on Yoongi’s chest, fingers curled in the scattered hairs there. That small, content hum vibrating against his skin, soft enough to hush the dragonfire into embers.

Yoongi’s throat tore with another snarl. He snapped at the empty air, smoke pouring from his jaws. “I’ll break— I’ll break—” His body shuddered violently against the bindings, the chain singing under the strain.

But dawn crept in anyway.

When the first silver light bled across the dungeon stones, Yoongi slumped forward, scales dulled to shadow, chest heaving raggedly. Sweat and soot streaked down his skin, fire guttering low in his lungs. His knot was still swollen, painful, but even the ache had lost its sharp edge, leaving only hollow exhaustion.

He let his head rest against the cold stone. The beast’s fury ebbed, leaving a man stripped raw, aching for nothing but the warmth of his mate’s body curled against his own.

Jimin’s scent, faint as memory, filled his mind. The omega’s curls brushing his chin, the softness of him tucked into Yoongi’s arms.

“If I could only hold you…” he whispered, voice breaking on smoke. “Just scent you… gods, just that…”

The dungeon was hushed at dawn, lit only by the guttering torches on the wall. The air still smelled of scorched stone and the musk of dragonfire, thick enough to sting Jung’s throat.

Yoongi slumped against the pillar, every inch of him drenched in sweat, scales retreating sluggishly beneath skin. His head hung low, chains slack where they had been pulled taut all night. The monster’s fury had ebbed, leaving only a man in its place —one worn ragged by his own restraint.

Hoseok stepped forward, key heavy in his hand. For a heartbeat, he hesitated. He thought of Jimin —small, bright-eyed, endlessly trusting— and how the consort deserved to know what storm raged inside his mate.

But he thought also of Yoongi as he’d known him since boyhood: the boy who had borne every burden without complaint, who had taken wounds meant for his friends, who had stood alone at the mouth of war and never faltered.

Hoseok slid the key into the lock. I’ll carry this, too, he swore silently. For him. For Jimin. For The North.

The chains fell away with a final clatter. Yoongi swayed, barely upright, chest heaving with every breath. Hoseok caught his arm, steadying him, but the king shook his head with what little strength he had left.

“Go,” Yoongi rasped, voice hoarse from growls and smoke. “See to the wounded. Tell no one of this.”

Hoseok nodded, jaw tight. He bowed once, deeply, before leaving his king to climb alone from the dark.

By the time Yoongi reached his chambers, the first strands of gold had broken across the horizon. He pushed the door open and was met with warmth, with the steady pulse of his mate’s scent —sweet and milky, rich enough to make his knees buckle.

Jimin was still curled in the nest, hair tousled, lips parted in sleep. The great mound of pillows and blankets cradled him like a jewel in silk.

Yoongi stripped his soot-streaked tunic with clumsy fingers, too weary to care, and slid into bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, his broad frame curling instinctively around Jimin’s smaller one.

Jimin stirred, a soft sound escaping him as he blinked awake. “Yoon…?” he murmured, voice small and sleepy.

The King could not answer. His throat ached, his body leaden. He only pressed his face into the crook of Jimin’s neck, breathing in deep, letting the scent of home fill his chest.

A small hand found his scalp, fingers scratching lightly, working through sweat-damp hair. Another hand pressed against the hard planes of his shoulders, kneading gently at knots of tension.

Jimin’s lips brushed his temple, soft as a prayer. Again. And again. Each kiss pulling him further from the abyss, each touch smoothing the ragged edges of his fire.

Yoongi’s great frame, all claw and fury hours before, slackened by degrees under his omega’s ministrations. His dragon curled inward, soothed by the steady thrum of Jimin’s heart and the warmth of his body.

For the first time in weeks, Yoongi’s breath slowed, deep and even. Sleep claimed him utterly, his arms tightening around Jimin’s middle as if he could anchor himself to that small, precious form.

And Jimin, still stroking his hair, whispered against his skin:

“You’re safe now, my love. Rest.”

Dragonfire yielded at last, tamed not by chains of iron, but by the touch of soft hands and sweeter devotion.

A storm raged over Frostpire like a dire omen, thunder rolling across the mountains as though echoing the threats crawling from the Western borders, where monsters prowled beneath the cover of dusk. Packs of unnatural beasts haunted the frostbitten wilds, scavenging carrion yet growing ever bolder —clawing at stray travelers, cornering green hunters in fog-heavy woods, stealing livestock and leaving only torn hides behind. And yet, strangely, these fiends never turned their claws westward. They were driven east, as though herded by some hidden hand.

Just days before the Harvest Moon Banquet, a sealed message arrived at Frostpire. Its wax was stamped in royal blue: the mark of the Southern court. Inside, Queen Ciri wrote in a hand quick with urgency. Barely past her twenty fifth year, unwed, unclaimed, with neither heir nor sibling to shield her crown, the young alpha begged a private audience with the Dragon King. Her words hinted at secrets too dangerous to consign to parchment. The West stirs, she wrote, it nests snakes and forces unwilling hands. I beg you, for my people’s sake —grant me discretion. I will arrive and leave unseen.

Outside, the storm howled, the northern wind tearing at shutters while rain hammered against tall stained-glass windows. Bare branches, stripped of their autumn leaves, scraped the walls like skeletal fingers, casting ghostly shadows through the grand halls. But within, the King’s Consort glowed like the calm heart of the tempest.

Jimin sat crowned in dahlias and asters, their deep gold and red bright against the tumble of chocolate curls spilling past his flushed shoulders. He presided over the banquet with quiet grace. It was no lavish feast but a holy rite —an ancient thanksgiving for soil that had yielded more than ever before, as though the land itself bent in reverence to the Dragon’s Flower who coaxed it to flourish.

Emerald silk clung to him, stretched over the heavy swell of his belly —nearly full-term now. The gown dipped low at his shoulders, catching the flicker of candles, while within him the heir of the North turned beneath his ribs, restless, less than two moons away from first breath. Only the loyal lords sat at this table tonight —men and women who did not grumble at modest portions or limited wine.

To Jimin’s right, Prince Taehyung fussed endlessly over his swollen feet and the burdens of late term, while Prince Jeon scattered laughter through the air with boyish charm. At Jimin’s left sat Yoongi, his husband and King —handsome and heavy with quiet watchfulness. His large hand was never far from Jimin’s own, fingers twined beneath the table’s edge, thumb rubbing unconsciously at the back of his omega’s hand.

Yet before the banquet, in the privacy of his study, the King had not been so composed.

Yoongi had drawn Jimin in before a word could be spoken, lips already seeking his as though the sight of him dolled up for the banquet had undone every thread of restraint. He kissed him until Jimin giggled against his mouth, clinging to his shoulders as Yoongi lifted him without effort and set him on the edge of the great oak desk.

“My omega,” Yoongi murmured, reverent and breathless, as his hand splayed over the soft swell of Jimin’s belly. 

“Gods, you’re radiant. More beautiful than the stars, than the fire itself.” His lips traced along Jimin’s flushed shoulder, tasting salt and heat.

 “My flower, my light. How can I be expected to face a hall full of lords when you look like this?”

Jimin’s cheeks burned deeper, curls tumbling forward as Yoongi’s hands wandered —thumb brushing too high on his thigh, mouth descending to his collar. His soft whimper broke them both from the spell, leaving them breathless, flushed, a little ashamed of how easily their hunger overtook them.

“We should…” Jimin swallowed, his voice trembling and sweet. “We should go. They’re waiting.”

Yoongi lingered a moment longer, forehead pressed to his omega’s temple, breathing him in. But when Jimin slid down from the desk with careful grace, Yoongi followed wordlessly, ears pink, throat tight. His eyes, despite himself, strayed to the swing of Jimin’s hips and the soft curve of his bottom as they left together.

Later, as the banquet stretched into warmth and laughter, Yoongi bent close, his voice low so that only Jimin could hear.

“A message came this morning,” he murmured, thumb brushing his omega’s palm. “From the South. Queen Ciri herself. She begs audience —quietly. She says the West stirs, that shadows move against her will.”

Jimin’s lashes fluttered as he turned, studying his husband’s face. “She’s your age, isn’t she?”

Yoongi inclined his head. “A little younger, perhaps. No mate. No heir.” His tone darkened. “She walks a dangerous path, asking such things of me.”

But Jimin’s small fingers squeezed his hand beneath the table, grounding him. His voice was gentle, his eyes clear. 

“Then be kind to her, my King. Imagine —our years, and a crown already heavy on her brow, with no one to share it. She’s frightened, and alone. Give her what you would have wanted, when the world placed a kingdom in your young hands.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened, but when he turned to Jimin, the storm in his eyes softened. His thumb stroked over the emerald silk stretched over the swell of their heir. “You always see what I forget to.”

Jimin’s lips curved, shy and fond. “That’s why you married me.”

And despite the storm clawing at Mooncastle’s gates, Yoongi’s chest eased, the dragon soothed —for tonight, at least— by the warmth of his omega’s wisdom.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading☕️✨

Chapter 28: The Helpless Devotion

Summary:

Jimin’s breath trembled. “You’re not a beast, Yoongi. You’re my husband. My King. I trust you —every part of you. I always have.”

Yoongi’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“You’re wrong,” he said, the words low and gravel-edged. “I am a beast. Every part of you tempts me. There is nothing in you that doesn’t make me want.”

Notes:

Queen Ciri is one of my favorite characters so far💙

 

 

When the night wanes and Prince Taehyung insists on guiding him back to the royal chambers, Jimin tries not to dwell on the southern guest: a young queen, only a year older than himself, forced to rule an unsteady throne, to beg for secret help when winter’s teeth already gnaw at her people. It will be a long night for his King —whispers of war, schemes tangled with magic, Captain Jung and the young queen huddled over maps of borders that threaten to bleed.

Taehyung had already prepared a soothing bath for Jimin, the porcelain tub steaming with an elven blend of herbs to ease his aching back and swollen feet. Petals from his flower crown drifted like tired stars across the water. Humming a lullaby —the same he once sang to the little garden rabbit that had followed him through Anthos— Jimin worked fragrant oil into the stretched skin of his belly. A cup of spiced chocolate sat nearby, its surface gone cool. The biscuits were long gone, but the drink remained mostly untouched. It always tasted too bitter without Yoongi there to share it.

The quiet should have calmed him, but his thoughts wandered, heavy and unkind. He imagined Yoongi alone in the cold dungeons beneath Mooncastle, banishing himself there whenever rut pressed too near. Jimin could not help but ache at the thought —the man he loved, shutting himself away with chains and stone, denying his own need for fear of harming the one he cherished most. That kind of devotion, sharp-edged and self-wounding, hurt Jimin to think about. He touched his belly as though it might anchor him, but still his heart yearned for the heat of Yoongi’s arms instead of the knowledge of his absence.

He remembered another night, days past, when dread had overtaken him after Yoongi returned broken and hollow from the hunts. He had cornered Captain Jung in the corridor, small hands clutching at the knight’s sleeve, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Tell me,” Jimin had demanded, voice trembling. “Don’t say he’s only tired. Don’t lie to me. What truly happens out there?”

Jung, who had faced horrors clawed from nightmare, stood stiff as stone at the sight of Jimin’s glassy eyes. He held out longer than most men could —but Jimin’s voice wavered again, soft and desperate, and Jung’s resolve cracked like ice under too much weight. 

With a long exhale, he confessed everything: the hunts gone awry, the beasts that nearly swallowed their men whole, Yoongi burning himself down to embers to shield them all. And worse —that night when dragonfire nearly scorched Hoseok himself, and Yoongi, half-shifted, begged to be bound in the dungeon until the monster inside him relented.

Jimin’s hand had flown to his mouth, and Hoseok, stricken by the sight of tears threatening, looked away in defeat.

“You’re both absurd,” he muttered as he pulled free of Jimin’s grasp. “Devoted to each other in the stupidest, most dangerous ways. No one else in the world could bear it, and yet you both seem set on it.” 

He left before Jimin’s trembling could turn to sobs.

The fire in the hearth snapped and hissed, casting long shadows across the King’s solar. Jimin stood before it, arms folded tight over the swell of his belly, his lips pressed white. Yoongi had only just returned from the training grounds, and already the air between them quivered with unspoken words.

“I know,” Jimin said at last, his voice breaking the silence. His curls caught the firelight, his lashes wet though he tried to blink away the shine. 

“I know what you did. The chains. The dungeon.”

Yoongi stilled, his jaw hardening. He didn’t ask how Jimin had learned; Jung’s guilt had been too thin a veil to last.

Jimin’s breath trembled. “You’re not a beast, Yoongi. You’re my husband. My King. I trust you —every part of you. I always have.”

Yoongi’s hands curled into fists at his sides. 

“You’re wrong,” he said, the words low and gravel-edged. 

“I am a beast. Every part of you tempts me —your warmth, your softness, your smile, your scent. I want to possess it all, Jimin. To have you always warm in my hold, always squirming beneath me in our bed, always so close no one else could ever lay eyes on you.” His voice dropped to a growl. 

“There is nothing in you that doesn’t make me want.”

Jimin’s lip trembled, and tears spilled despite his best effort. His voice cracked. “And what’s so wrong with that? What’s wrong with wanting me, Yoongi?”

The sight of him crying undid Yoongi at once. His resolve shattered. He crossed the space between them and gathered Jimin into his arms, one broad hand cupping his damp cheek, the other spread over the small of his back. 

“Nothing,” he whispered fiercely, pressing kisses to his tears. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I know you’re willing, my love. Gods, I know. But your body is delicate now —with our cub only two moons away.”

Jimin hiccupped against him, stubborn even in his tears. Yoongi stroked his curls, his heart aching as he forced the truth from his chest. 

“Your pregnancy drives me near feral,” he confessed. “Your scent, your roundness, those flushed cheeks —I lose myself in you. And I can’t… I can’t control the hunger.” His breath caught, pained. 

“I know about your visit to the medic. I know about the pain you had after —after that night.” His voice thickened, his forehead pressing to Jimin’s. “She warned me it could trigger an early delivery if I’m not careful. And Jimin… if I hurt you, if I hurt our cub —I’d never forgive myself.”

Jimin clung tighter, his fingers fisting in Yoongi’s cloak. “But I’m in pain when you leave me to sleep alone,” he whispered hoarsely. “That hurts worse than anything.”

Yoongi’s chest squeezed, torn clean in two. He crushed Jimin close, inhaling him, every instinct in him screaming to give in. But he didn’t. He forced himself to remain still, to stroke his mate’s back instead of giving into the ache in his body. 

“I’ll stay with you whenever I can,” he vowed. “As much as the hunts allow. But when the dragon pushes too close —I’ll do what I must to protect you. Even if it means chains.”

Jimin stiffened, unwilling, but he didn’t argue further. He only pressed his damp face against Yoongi’s chest and mumbled, voice muffled by his King’s heartbeat, “Then scent me. At least that. I need it.”

Yoongi exhaled shakily, the fight draining from him. “Always.” He pulled Jimin with him to the couch by the solar window, settling him gently into his lap. 

With one arm anchored around his waist and the other buried in his curls, Yoongi bent to Jimin’s throat, breathing him in deeply, dragging the soft scent through his lungs until it calmed the fire inside. Jimin melted against him with a small, broken sound, and Yoongi rocked him, scenting and soothing, until the weight of duty forced him to leave again for another hunt.

Now, soaking in the warmth of perfumed water, Jimin shut his eyes, the memory pressing tight against his ribs. He ached for Yoongi’s touch, for the steadiness of his presence. Instead, he had steam, silence, and the bitter taste of chocolate left cooling on the table.

🐉

In the war council chamber, Yoongi feels his skull splintering under the weight of new revelations. Queen Ciri has brought more than apologies —she has brought secrets from a western spy: a captive warlock hidden deep beneath the Western King’s fortress. Once, he roamed the North freely, tending sick children in poor border villages, taking from the land only what he needed. Now he lies bound in iron and sigils, forced to bend ancient magic to the king’s will.

“A rift, Your Majesty,” Queen Ciri whispers, voice tight with guilt. “Human steel is no threat to dragon scales. They made him breach the Barrier while you were away —they tested your borders and your patience. When your armies held, they turned on the South instead, burning homes, stealing grain, forcing my hand against your house. I am ashamed —but I won’t watch my people starve through winter. This is all I can offer to repay my debt.”

“How did they force the rift open?” Hoseok presses.

“They trapped the warlock, starved him of choice. He was made to study ancient scrolls —any weakness in the Dragon’s line, any fracture in the Barrier. It was fruitless until your crossing gave them an opening. How exactly they managed it, I do not know.”

Yoongi exhales, the dread pressing cold fingers to his spine.

“They want war,” Hoseok mutters. “Do you know when they’ll strike?”

“They’ve already begun,” Yoongi’s voice cuts sharp and low. “They waste our men, our steel, our sleep —sending monsters to drain us dry.”

“We have enough stores for winter,” Seokjin says, ever the steady hand.

Yoongi huffs a humorless laugh. “And they’ll wield hunger like a blade. If this warlock could tear one rift, he can tear another. Ice trolls could howl down from the peaks before the first snow settles.”

“We must free him,” Hoseok says. “Steal him, unbind him.” His fist slams the map table. 

But Seokjin sees the strain in the young queen’s trembling hands, and the restless rage flickering beneath the King’s calm mask. He raises his voice just enough to end it before fury can find teeth.

“We will sleep on our options. Counsel comes easier when our heads are clear.”

But in the private dark of his study, Yoongi’s fury boils over. He tries to bury it deep —to cage the beast clawing at his ribs. Rut gnaws at his veins —not lust, but anger, a primal need to stake claim, to scorch the threat from his door. 

His claws bite into his palms; his gums ache where fangs press through. Scales bloom at his shoulders, wings threaten to tear free. He cannot afford this —cannot afford three days lost in the dungeons of his own mind, chained in the dungeons of his castle. He will not take his mate with careless, beastly hands. Not when a single sharp claw could mar the swell that carried their heir.

He forced the beast down. He thought of tiny feet pressing at his mate’s womb, of soft hands and softer laughter. The scales retreated. Human enough to find his way to his mate’s side.

🌸

Jimin looks up from his bath, surprised at the soft click of the door. The water is still warm, his heart still cold.

“My darling flower,” Yoongi murmurs as he kneels beside the porcelain edge, brushing damp curls from Jimin’s brow. “You should be sleeping.”

“I couldn’t sleep without you.” Jimin’s voice is gentle, half reproach, half relief. His hand cups Yoongi’s jaw, fingers slipping into dark hair.

The scent of his omega —sweet milk, berries and honey— washes over the dragon, soothing the rumble in his chest. He picks up the cloth, soaks it again, trails it down Jimin’s throat, the curve of his shoulder, the ripe swell of his belly. He lifts the cup of chocolate to Jimin’s lips —only drinks when Jimin tastes first.

“You came early…” Jimin whispers when Yoongi rolls up his sleeves and works the soreness from his feet. Yoongi’s scent —dark cedar, dragonsmoke— coils warm in the steamy air.

“It was better this way. To rest our minds.” Yoongi’s lips brush Jimin’s ankle, reverent as a priest.

“Will you tell me?” Jimin leans forward, curls dripping, eyes wide and endless. He tugs at his King’s arm. “Join me, husband.”

Yoongi wrung out the cloth in his hands, letting the warm water drip back into the bath. Jimin’s flushed cheeks glowed above the steam, eyes shining with quiet longing.

“In the morning, flower,” Yoongi said gently, pressing a kiss to the crown of damp curls. “When you’ve rested, I’ll tell you all. Tonight, I want only your peace.”

Jimin’s lips parted, trembling with the protest he tried to bite back. But then it spilled, sharp and unyielding, a tone Yoongi rarely heard from him.

“You will not chain yourself again.”

The words struck harder than any blade. Yoongi stilled, cloth halfway folded in his hand. He turned slowly, studying the way his omega’s brows pinched together, the faint quiver of his mouth. Never before had Jimin sounded like this —categorical, absolute.

“Jimin…” Yoongi rumbled, voice low, careful.

“No,” Jimin pressed on, his hand gripping Yoongi’s wrist with surprising strength. “You’re not a beast, and I won’t have you treating yourself like one. If you’re tired, you come here. To me. To us.”

The Dragon King swallowed a huff —half amusement, half disbelief. Gods, he adored him. His tiny flower, stubborn and flushed, commanding him with all the authority of a general thrice his size. 

“If it eases your mind,” Yoongi said, tone wry, “I’ll go to the barracks instead.”

The pout that curved Jimin’s mouth could have slain armies. His cheeks puffed, his eyes glared, his curls clung damply to his forehead —he looked every inch the sulking prince, the indignant consort. And to Yoongi, he looked utterly, ruinously delicious.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jimin hissed, chest rising with the force of his indignation. “If you leave this den tonight, Min Yoongi, I swear by the gods you’ll sleep in the barracks until our cub is born.”

For a beat, silence. Then the dragon inside Yoongi purred, low and rough, his chest rumbling with approval. Possessive affection, raw and unpolished, poured from his flower’s every word. He felt it echo in the bond, hot and sweet.

“Gods above,” he murmured, finally setting the cloth aside. His hand cupped Jimin’s jaw, thumb stroking along his damp cheek. “You threaten me so prettily, flower. How could I resist?”

Yoongi folds —always folds for him. For his tiny flower’s wishes spun like silk around his iron heart. He presses a kiss to Jimin’s brow, then rises to shed his clothes and step into the tub.

Jimin’s gaze lingers —tracing old scars, the dragon’s mark coiled over his shoulder, the faint shimmer of scales that betray how close the dragon prowls beneath his skin. Yoongi settles opposite, too far for comfort, too distant for Jimin’s craving.

He wants to feel that power —not the leash, but the beast unbound, fierce and starved for him.

But Yoongi sits too far in the tub. Too careful. Too measured.

“Yoongi…” Jimin says, soft but heavy with need.

Yoongi knows what his flower wants —soft kisses, warm hands, a belly rubbed under reverent lips— but his instinct snarls for more than gentleness, and he fears the leash fraying in his grip. When he does not move closer, Jimin snaps —pushing up from the water to clamber into Yoongi’s lap, stubbornly planting himself there. Not shy but offering, demanding.

“Yoongi,” he says again, voice touched with delicate frustration, breath warm against his throat.

The King’s hands are no longer still —they grip the curve of Jimin’s waist, the small of his back, the tight swell of his belly, thumb circling where skin is stretched and sweet. Jimin’s fingers trace over his shoulders, nails scratch lightly at old scars. Water spills over the sides as they press closer, closer still.

Jimin’s dainty fingers trail water down his chest, kneading tense shoulders until the King bows his head, exhaling the weight of politics into the tender hush of Jimin’s hums. 

Jimin shifts —hips rolling subtle, kisses trailing to his husband’s jaw. He asks again and again —voice a litany of sweet pleas and soft complaints. 

He speaks —of the captive warlock, of Ciri’s fear, of monsters clawing at the borders of their peace. He unburdens himself into the crook of his mate’s neck, soothed by quiet purrs and featherlight kisses.

Yet Jimin’s need simmers under the surface. He shifts in Yoongi’s lap, a slow, sinful grind that draws a low rumble from deep in the king’s chest. Yoongi’s hands tighten at his hips, his mouth finding Jimin’s shoulder —a warning nip that stings sweetly. 

Jimin doesn’t stop —he shifts again, the heat between them too much to bear. His husband’s length swells thick beneath the water, pressing against his thigh. But Yoongi growls low, warning teeth grazing Jimin’s neck.

“My King…” Jimin breathes against his ear. “I wish you’d let go. I fear it is not your dragon but me. Have I wilted for you…?”

Yoongi’s eyes soften, the beast beneath his skin tamed by that quiet heartbreak. He cups his mate’s cheek. “Never, my dearest. My heart burns for you alone. But my leash is thin —I cannot risk my beast’s claws on your soft skin. I won’t let this rage break you —or harm our tiny cub so safe within you.”

Jimin’s lashes flutter as he leans into the touch. “My love, you could never hurt us. The Dragon’s flower blooms in frost and storms —it roots deep, strong enough to cradle an iron heir. Your fire cannot burn what loves you so completely.”

Yoongi’s breath shudders. His hand cups the swell of Jimin’s belly, thumb brushing the place where new life stirs. “Flower, my resolve is thin —my beast would mark you raw.”

Jimin’s full lips curve —soft, devoted.

“Then mark me raw. Chain yourself if you must, but chain yourself to my hips, to me. Bind your rage here, where I bloom for you.”

“Flower…” Yoongi’s will dissolves.

“Please,” Jimin whispers. “Be close. Be mine.”

With a shuddering breath, Yoongi yields —rising from the cooling bath, lifting his flower to wrap him in soft towels before carrying him to the nest of furs and silken sheets by the hearth. There, he lets the beast slip free, but not to claim or seed —that promise already swells beneath Jimin’s skin. Tonight is only raw want —devotion forged in bruises and gentle bites, his scenting rough and reverent in equal measure.

Rough palms roam tender thighs; blunt fangs worry soft skin; lips trace worship across flushed shoulders; roaming fingers squeeze the gentle swell of Jimin’s chest, worrying sensitive buds raw under his thumb and teeth. Words muddling in his mind with only three remaining:

Omega. Mate. Mine.

Jimin’s hands claw at him in turn —a soft gasp for every rough kiss, a quiet moan for every bite that brands him Yoongi’s. The scent of them tangles thick in the air —cedar and dragonsmoke, berries and honey and milk.

Yoongi sits at the edge of their bed, drawing Jimin into his lap, broad hands roaming reverent over every soft curve of his body.

“Yoongi…” Jimin whimpers, mortified only slightly by the wetness dripping onto his husband’s thighs, by the heavy length pressing hot against his slick entrance. He spreads his legs, shameless in his plea to coax more from his King.

“Shh, flower. Trust me.”

Yoongi’s length slides instead between his thighs, forgoing the place Jimin aches for most.

“Keep your legs tight, love,” he whispers into the shell of Jimin’s ear.

The first thrust drags thick against his taint, brushing his own small length. The sound Yoongi makes —a guttural, desperate growl— sprouts goosebumps down Jimin’s skin. It feels lewder than any claiming before, as if his King had found a new way to unravel him. Jimin lets him, eager to indulge, though his body trembles with craving for more.

“Please… more —please…” Jimin begs, head tipping back onto Yoongi’s shoulder, nose searching instinctively for the alpha’s scent gland. Yoongi’s hand closes around his length, making him cry out, while the other tilts his chin to claim his mouth in a kiss that leaves them both breathless.

“What do you want, flower?” Yoongi rumbles.

“You… please…”

“You have me.”

“All of you. Inside. Please—”

Yoongi can’t resist him when he begs so prettily. He shifts, bracing Jimin’s weight, and carries him into the nest of soft pillows —the place Jimin had built throughout his pregnancy. He lays him on the favored cushion, easing the weight of their child with infinite care.

“Let me worship you,” Yoongi growls against his throat before lowering himself to scent between Jimin’s legs, kissing and licking everywhere but the place Jimin needs most.

When Yoongi finally takes his small length into his mouth, Jimin nearly shatters. His thighs close tight around Yoongi’s head, trapping him there. Yoongi moans his approval, working his wicked tongue until Jimin is trembling on the edge. He only relents when a shaking hand presses weakly at his hair, the omega already oversensitive.

His lips trail reverent up the taut swell of Jimin’s belly, nose drinking in the sweetness of skin stretched by life. His hands squeeze the fullness of his hips before his mouth finds Jimin’s chest.

“That feels good,” Jimin sighs, relief in every note as Yoongi’s tongue soothes the ache of his swollen buds. His fingers twine in dark hair, holding his King close.

A deep growl vibrates against Jimin’s chest when warm wetness spills into Yoongi’s mouth, milk sweet as honey flooding his tongue.

“Oh, fuck…” Yoongi groans, eyes dark with awe.

Jimin’s face burns crimson with mortification when their eyes meet, but Yoongi silences it, closing greedily around the other bud as he holds Jimin’s gaze. His filthy praise and relentless tongue leave Jimin trembling, squirming beneath him.

“How are you always so sweet?” Yoongi mutters against him, more to himself than to his omega, who only whimpers and arches under the treatment.

When Yoongi finally sheathes himself inside that molten warmth, his restraint shatters. The gentle King yields to the Dragon, rut-slick and helplessly bound to the sway of Jimin’s hips, to the soft whimpers that spill like prayer from his throat.

“Mine,” he growls, knot swelling as he ruts deep, the slope of Jimin’s belly and the wet sweetness at his chest driving him deeper into madness.

Even the knot cannot cage his hunger —his hips still rolling, seed spilling, lips sealed to the curve of his mate’s throat, his growl echoing low through Mooncastle’s stone halls.

“I can’t stop…” he rasps, teeth grazing Jimin’s ear.

“Don’t.”

Jimin takes it all —every thrust, every searing kiss, every pulse of seed— blooming beneath his husband’s hunger, bending and rising again, unburned. Unbroken.

In the hush of dawn, their bodies remain twined, the bond knotted, his flower warm and pliant in his arms. Jimin purrs softly as Yoongi’s hands roam reverent over swollen belly and tender hips, marking him with kisses, scenting him deep with cedar and smoke.

In the darkness of the mires, monsters may rage but within this nest of furs and silk, the Dragon King has found his unbreakable shield. No monster will breach these walls so long as his flower blooms at his side —not as his weakness, but as the strength that makes him whole.

🐉

In the war council’s chamber, thunder growls beyond Mooncastle’s ancient walls as if echoing the storm brewing inside. Yoongi stands over the great carved table, candlelight spilling across maps inked with new wounds. Seokjin watches him with that hawk’s calm, steady as a stone at sea. Hoseok leans forward, knuckles pressed to the edge, every muscle ready to pounce. 

In the corner, young Queen Ciri keeps her head bowed, shoulders trembling beneath her velvet cloak of royal blue —a queen who crossed half a continent under cover of rain to confess secrets too shameful for parchment.

Yoongi’s voice rumbles low, the sound of stone splitting. Resolve threads every word.

“Captain Jung will lead a scouting party, with Prince Taehyung at his side. If anyone can break the warlock’s binding, it’s an elven mage.”

Hoseok’s eyes glint —a wolf scenting blood. Beside him, Seokjin dips his head in agreement, though a shadow crosses his brow. Across the table, Ciri shifts, fingers twisting her rings, the weight of her crown slipping forward until Yoongi’s stare pins her upright again.

“You will remain here, Your Majesty,” Seokjin says gently but firmly. “If any greater beast claws at Frostpire’s borders, the North must trust the Dragon’s breath to hold.”

It is true. It is necessary. And Yoongi will not leave his mate —swollen with their heir, so near to first breath— unguarded while he chases shadows in the storm.

He turns his gaze on Ciri, fierce and unyielding, yet not unkind.

“The South will prevail. If you came seeking aid, you shall have it. But now you must stand taller than your fear. Gather your armies —shoulder the East as we once shielded it. They have found their feet under our wing, but your people still march stronger than theirs.”

“Your Majesty,” Ciri breathes, voice cracking like thin ice, “with respect… I have never faced beasts. I could not even shield my people from men.” Shame drips from every word as she lowers her head again.

Yoongi’s palm lands on her shoulder, the weight of iron and fire. He knows too well the taste of a crown dropped like a blade in trembling hands.

“Do not crumble,” he snarls, a low growl that coils around her spine. “Your people are cold. Hungry. They look to you —will you lead them to ruin? Or lift them up?”

Something splinters inside her —not fear but the brittle dam that fear built. Beneath her ribs, a coal of rage flickers to life. No western snake will coil around her throat again.

She swallows hard, shoulders straightening under the Dragon’s grip.

“I will stand.”

“Good,” Yoongi says, quiet thunder in his chest. He nods to Hoseok, who gives the young queen a short, sharp bow —pledge and warning all in one.

“Captain Jung will guide you —you shield your people. I will hunt the monsters.”

That night, while the castle sleeps fitful under foggy eaves, the southern queen slips away like a leaf on the wind —riding through the stinging dark with a vow pressed to her teeth: Never again. She will not yield her throat to any treacherous blade, will not bow her crown to a coward’s chain. 

The rumors —the Mad King, the monster who drinks blood, the tyrant who burns cities— she sees them now for what they are. Not lies, not truth, but something fiercer: a warning. For the Dragon’s fury guards only one thing —what is his. His walls. His people. His mate. His cub curled tight within soft flesh and silk. His claws draw blood only from the wolves who circle his gates.

The young queen rides south with northern wind drying her tears, hoping the ice will steel her bones. She prays, when her hour comes, she too will be just mad enough.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading everyone☕️✨

Chapter 29: The Sprout

Summary:

“The consort,” Yoongi continues, “is not merely my mate. He is your King Consort. His word is mine. His wishes are law.” His eyes narrow, glinting with dragon-fire in the dim light. “And yet, whispers reach me. Complaints.”

The head maid stiffens, though she does not raise her gaze.

“You should be scrambling to please him,” Yoongi snarls softly, “for it is he who has done what none of you could —he has borne the heir of the North. He is the bloom that braved winter frost to give you a future King, the protector of your realm.”

Notes:

The sprig is here🌱💛

 

Autumn clutches Frostpire in cold foggy hands, breath steaming in the streets, every shadow swollen with rumor. The people move softly through market lanes, footsteps hushed under the watchful eyes of ravens perched along the ramparts. An unspoken dread hums under every roofbeam —war is not yet at the door, but its chill has crept in through every crack.

Yoongi, ever the dragon coiled round his hoard, commands curfews and careful rationing. No granary left uncounted, no mouth left hungry, no fool’s coin squandered on lavish feasts. Behind shuttered doors, lords and thanes gnash their teeth at trimmed shares and thinner wines. 

They curse the Mad King who guards grain tighter than gold. Yet at every soured banquet, ears strain for word from Mooncastle’s stone heart. Every soul waits —for news, for hope, for the first spark that will either blaze or save them.

Outside, wind lashes the keep. Rain needles down in endless sheets. But no thunder or beast’s howl cuts deeper than the cries that claw through the royal wing.

Yoongi stands in the corridor, head bent, shoulders broad enough to carry kingdoms yet useless to bear this pain for the one who bears his heir. Hoseok’s calm hand anchors him when his claws itch to rip open the door, to chase out midwives and cradle his mate through the storm of birth. But Yoongi is no healer —only a beast who longs to tear the world apart for the sound of each muffled sob.

In the days before, Jimin had grown quieter, frailer, drifting like a blossom on the cusp of frost. Some mornings he did not rise from the nest of silks and fur, cheek pressed to Yoongi’s heartbeat as if trying to remember how to breathe for two. 

When dusk fell, Yoongi scented away every whimper, his nose buried in warm skin, pressing lips to fevered temples. Seokjin brewed herbs and drew steaming baths, lifting Jimin’s curls from the water when sleep stole him under.

He ate only from Yoongi’s hand —or not at all. He curled in the nest with Shadow and Nightshade bracketing him like dark ghosts of a larger beast. When contractions came at last, Yoongi abandoned throne and treaty alike. No court sessions. No signatures. No monster hunts. 

Only Jimin —his flower blooming and breaking open to cradle their cub.

But when Seokjin’s firm voice cut through the hush —You must leave— it cleaved the dragon’s ribs in two.

“He can’t finish with you watching,” Seokjin had told him, voice quiet but unyielding. “Your scent soothes him —too well. He clings to you instead of the pain. Let him fight. Trust him to win.”

Prince Taehyung’s softer murmur echoed it with elven poise, a blade sheathed in silk.

“When it’s done, Your Majesty, you may scent him all you wish. But now… let him bring your cub into this world.”

So Yoongi waits. Pacing. Growling soft threats to the cold stone under his boots. Claws sprout and retract. Scales dust his shoulders like restless ghosts. Each muffled cry from within tears a fresh wound through the iron calm of the Mad King. 

Outside, lightning cracks the storm in two. Thunder answers. And through it —a single, shrill, defiant wail, stronger than storm or sorrow. 

Alive.

Yoongi freezes. Breath held hostage in his chest.

The door bursts wide. Prince Kim stands there, his cheeks wet with tears he pretends are rain. His grin glitters like starlight on ice.

“It’s done, Your Majesty. The medic checks him now —a strong son. He bears the dragon’s mark.”

Yoongi’s knees nearly buckle. His heart —vast, vengeful, terrible— folds soft around a single, fragile cry that means everything worth guarding. The beast inside him exhales fire and settles its wings around its truest treasure.

Yoongi barely hears Seokjin’s words urging calm. He pushes past Taehyung, past the hush of midwives cleaning linens and rinsing basins in steaming water. The chamber smells of iron and milk and the damp salt of sweat and tears —the raw scent of life newly torn into the world.

Jimin lies propped on silken pillows, pale as dawnlight on fresh snow, hair stuck to his brow. His eyes flutter open when he senses the shift in the air —the Dragon come home. A soft, broken smile ghosts his lips as he tries to lift his arms, but the effort is too much.

In the crook of Jimin’s arm, swaddled tight in fine linen stitched with northern runes, a small shape squirms, fussing at the cold, the light, the terrible bigness of life.

Yoongi crosses the room in three strides, the heavy crown of kinghood, generalship, and dragon rage falling from his shoulders at the bedside. He sinks to one knee beside the bed, claws retracting as he cups Jimin’s flushed cheek in a hand that could tear a man’s throat out but now trembles like a boy’s.

“My flower,” he murmurs, voice cracked open at the edges. He presses his forehead to Jimin’s, their breaths mingling warm and salt-sweet. “You’ve done it. You’ve done it, love.”

A sound bubbles in Jimin’s throat —half-laugh, half-sob— his free hand rising to bury trembling fingers in Yoongi’s hair. He wants to say something but the words won’t come, so he lets their bond speak for him instead —the scent of him, soft and raw, binding Yoongi tighter than any vow.

A soft fussing breaks through. Yoongi leans back and the world sharpens around the child —their child— tiny fists flailing, lips puckered in complaint. A midwife steps forward, but Yoongi lifts a hand and the old healer stills, bowing her head in deference. No one touches what is his.

Carefully, so carefully, Yoongi gathers his son into his hands. The warmth of him seeps through the king’s scales, settling into old scars and fresh cracks that no war council or victory could ever mend. 

He smells of milk and new skin and the faintest spark of something more —something that hums through the bloodline, ancient as the frost, burning as the first fire.

The child squirms, eyes squeezed shut, a tiny growl rattling in his chest —so small yet already defiant, already fierce. Yoongi lets out a sound no court has ever heard from him —a rumbling, soft, almost a purr— the dragon’s lullaby, secret and sacred.

He bends low, pressing his lips to the downy crown of his son’s head. He scents him deeply, filling his lungs with this new promise: Mine. Mine to guard. Mine to raise. Mine to teach the roar of the North.

When he looks back at Jimin, the young consort’s lashes are wet with tears, but he’s smiling —truly smiling— for the first time in moons. Yoongi shifts onto the bed, careful of Jimin’s bruised hips and tender belly, tucking himself around him like a fortress built of iron and flame. Their cub rests between them, warm and safe.

Thunder rolls far above Mooncastle’s peaks, but inside the chamber there is only hush —the crackle of the hearth, the soft suckle of tiny breaths, the murmur of dragon and flower twining together anew.

Yoongi presses another kiss to Jimin’s brow, then to his temple, then to his parted lips —claiming him again, not as a king but as a mate. He whispers against his skin, so low the midwives pretend they do not hear:

“Rest now, my love. Let the world rage and monsters gather at my gate. They will find no weakness here —only fire and claw and a line that will not break.”

And in the cradle of that vow, the North’s new heir stirs, letting out a sharp, indignant wail that echoes in the rafters —a tiny roar to answer the storm outside.

Come morning, Yoongi has not stolen even a moment’s rest. Sleep is a luxury he refuses while his world fits so perfectly into the crook of his flower’s arm —a bundle warm and alive, nestled against Jimin’s side, breathing softly, blissfully unaware of monsters or men. Plump and pink, his tiny fists curled like new buds, his pouty mouth opening only to fuss when disturbed. The scent of milk clings sweet and thick to the chamber, a promise of life and warmth against the chill that presses at the castle’s stone walls.

Jimin stirs, eyelids fluttering open to the sight of his mate hunched close, rough fingertips trembling as they trace the delicate curve of their son’s brow. Yoongi dares a gentle prod at the baby’s impossibly soft cheek, earning a sleepy huff and a scrunched nose in protest.

“My King…” Jimin’s voice is a cracked whisper, hoarse but sweet as the dawn. He slides a tired hand through Yoongi’s thick hair. “You haven’t slept at all?”

Yoongi leans in to press a kiss to the inside of Jimin’s wrist —reverent, grounding. “Good morning, flower. How do you feel?”

Jimin sighs, wincing as he shifts against the pillows. “Sore. Exhausted… Nine full moons and he comes out looking only like his Appa.” His lips quirk into a small, teasing smile.

Yoongi chuckles, low and soft, pressing another kiss to Jimin’s knuckles. “Then the next one shall look like you.”

Jimin laughs, a quiet sound, careful not to jostle the restless bundle between them. “The next one?”

“He’s too perfect to be the last,” Yoongi murmurs, eyes fixed on the tiny life between them. “It would be a crime to stop at one.”

As if insulted by their chatter, the heart of the North begins to fuss —small fists flailing free from his swaddle, high-pitched squeaks punctuating the quiet dawn. Yoongi stiffens at once, hands hovering helplessly, warrior’s instincts worthless against a mewling cub.

“Shh, I know, little dragon. Your father means no harm,” Jimin coos, voice soft as silk as he gathers the fussing child into his arms. The baby burrows into the crook of Jimin’s neck, warm breath against his collarbone. Yoongi hovers like a hawk over prey, eyes wide with awe and a touch of panic. 

“He’s so tiny,” he breathes, brushing a fingertip down the baby’s plump arm. He watches, spellbound, as their son snuffles against Jimin’s chest, small nose rooting blindly for warmth and milk, a soft whimper turning insistent.

“Help me sit up, love.” Jimin reaches out, his grip gentle but insistent. 

Yoongi obeys at once, strong hands propping his mate up against the mountain of downy pillows. Jimin hooks a finger at their cub’s lips to soothe him, but it only delays the inevitable.

“He’s hungry,” Jimin sighs, fatigue pulling at his bones as he parts the folds of his robe, baring a breast for the insistent child. He hisses softly at the unfamiliar tug, teeth catching on his lip.

“He’s starving —look at him,” 

Yoongi mutters, fussing at the edge of the bed like a restless guard dog, fingers flexing helplessly as the baby latches on, greedy and fierce for something so small.

Jimin laughs breathlessly, his free hand stroking the curve of their son’s soft cheek. “He’s a dragon, my love. His hunger is boundless.”

Yoongi can only nod, heart clenched so tight it might split his ribs. He feels useless —his hands built for swords and claw, not for this fragile, miraculous thing. But he finds purpose in the only way he knows how —barking orders at the maids, demanding warm broth, sweet milk, bread and fruit for his exhausted mate.

It is Seokjin himself who brings the tray, the advisor’s lips twitching at the sight of his king fussing like a mother bear. He sets the tray at Jimin’s side but fixes Yoongi with a look both kind and stern.

“Your Majesty. The realm waits for you. The lords gather this morning for the proclamation, and Captain Jung prepares to ride. The scouts must leave before long to find the warlock in Westfield’s dungeons.”

Yoongi bristles, torn between duty and instinct —but one look at Jimin’s soft smile, the way he cradles their cub, soothes the beast within. He cups Jimin’s cheek, presses a kiss to his temple, then bends to brush his lips across the fine hair of his son’s head.

“I’ll return before dusk,” he murmurs, more promise than threat. “No harm will come near either of you. Not now, not ever.”

When Yoongi steps into the council chamber, it is with a new edge to his stride —a quiet, simmering wrath coiled under the heavy furs and the iron crown. Hoseok stands ready, Prince Taehyung at his side, maps unfurled and daggers laid out. 

Arrangements are struck swift and sharp: they ride at first light to slip unseen past the Western watchmen, to find the young warlock bound in iron and break him free.

Before they leave, Yoongi sends Nightshade to Liven with a message inked in his own hand: The heir is born, but the West moves to bleed us. The warlock they hold bound spills monsters through my borders. Stand ready.

The elves answer before dusk falls —a blessing of silver runes and a promise of blades drawn  should war come to the North. They swear their warriors will march with the first snow, shields gleaming, arrows poised to blot out the sun if needed.

Behind them, in the high tower where frost bites at the windows, a Dragon King watches over his mate and son —heart steel and flame, ready to drown the world in fire before he lets it steal the warmth in his arms.

🌱

The first days blur together in a haze of milk and soft cries, of firelight burning low through the long northern nights. Jimin bends himself wholly to the rhythm of their son —half-waking at every fuss, learning the subtle difference between a whimper for warmth and a wail for hunger. His hands grow surer with each change of swaddle, each burp coaxed from tiny lungs, though the midwives hover like crows waiting for him to stumble.

“Let me, my lord consort—”

“No.”

It becomes his refrain, spoken with quiet steel. He will not surrender Jiyoon to foreign arms, to scents that make the babe writhe and cry. Only when Seokjin takes him —the omega’s scent steeped in soft roses and fresh mint— does the child rest without protest. Seokjin stays close, steady as an oak, murmuring reminders about herbs for Jimin’s soreness, or bringing broth that he insists on seeing him drink to the last drop. More brother now than advisor, more kin than servant.

Yet the castle whispers.

On the third day, the head maid comes before Yoongi, curtseying so low the furs of her skirts brush the stone floor. Her voice is smooth with practiced humility, yet sharp as a knife beneath the velvet.

“My king… I would never dare to burden an Alpha —least of all a sovereign— with matters of omegan household, but…” She wrings her hands, her eyes carefully downcast, the words already making him uneasy, as if the matters regarding his son and his mate were beneath him.

“The consort has been difficult since the birth. He will not allow the nurses to tend to the babe. He denies them the feeding and care they are trained to give. I fear, sire, that the young prince may go hungry… or suffer from his inexperience.”

Her words slither through the chamber, heavy with insinuation. Yoongi’s claws flex against the arms of his chair. To suggest his mate’s care was lacking —to dare imply his son would starve in Jimin’s arms— felt like an insult dressed in silks. But the Dragon King swallows his fury, giving her only a curt nod, voice clipped and unreadable.

“I hear you.”

Nothing more.

That night, he finds Jimin by the hearth, bent over their son with patient, trembling devotion. The room smells of milk and clean linen, of Jimin’s tender scent layered thick over everything. Jiyoon fusses in protest as Jimin changes him, and Jimin soothes him with a low murmur, lips brushing the baby’s brow as he fastens the cloth. His movements are slow but careful, each gesture carrying reverence.

Yoongi crouches beside them, his massive shadow spilling across the floor. “Flower,” he says softly, watching the delicate work of his mate’s hands. “Are you not weary? Do you not wish to rest more?”

Jimin’s mouth curls faintly —half-smile, half-bitter knowing. “The maid came to you, didn’t she?” His eyes, still ringed with fatigue, lift to Yoongi’s. 

“I knew she would. They think me stubborn. Difficult. Perhaps I am. But tell me —why should our son need strange hands? Why should he breathe strange scents, be bound too tight in strange cloth? He needs only mine. Only ours.” 

His voice falters, fierce even in its fragility. “He doesn’t need anyone else’s milk. No one else’s touch.”

Yoongi sees it then —not defiance, but the primal, unshakable instinct of an omega guarding what is his. The same fire that coils in his own chest, mirrored in his mate’s smaller, wearier frame.

He cups Jimin’s cheek with a hand that could break steel and murmurs, “Then he shall have only yours. No one will lay claim to him. No one will question you again.”

He bends, pressing his forehead to Jimin’s, his voice low, edged with quiet wrath. “I will see your word followed as law. And any who dare complain of it…” His claws flex, a promise rather than a threat. “They will answer to me.”

In Jimin’s arms, Jiyoon lets out a soft sigh, nestling deeper against the warmth of his Papa’s skin. Yoongi watches them —his flower and his cub— and feels the world narrow to this perfect circle. Let the lords whisper, let storms batter the walls. Inside this chamber, fire and claw guard what is theirs, and nothing shall touch it.

At dawn the courtyard lies hushed beneath a pall of fog, breath clouding pale in the biting chill. The servants and nurses shuffle together in uneasy ranks, wool cloaks drawn tight, eyes flicking toward the high steps where their sovereign stands.

Yoongi is a dark shape cut against the mist —black furs draped heavy over his broad shoulders, hair unbound, his crown absent yet his presence more terrible than any circlet of gold. The air thrums with his restraint, claws tucked but close to breaking, his breath curling out like the smoke of a smoldering forge.

No one speaks. Not even the ravens, perched above on frost-slick battlements, dare break the silence.

When Yoongi’s voice comes, it is low and even, yet it strikes through the fog like a blade.

“It seems,” he begins, each word a slow drop of molten iron, “that some among you still do not understand.”

Shuffling ripples through the line of maids and midwives. They bow their heads lower.

“The consort,” Yoongi continues, “is not merely my mate. He is your King Consort. His word is mine. His wishes are law.” His eyes narrow, glinting with dragon-fire in the dim light. “And yet, whispers reach me. Complaints.”

The head maid stiffens, though she does not raise her gaze.

“You should be scrambling to please him,” Yoongi snarls softly, “for it is he who has done what none of you could —he has borne the heir of the North. He is the bloom that braved winter frost to give you a future King, the protector of your realm.” 

His chest heaves, the fog curling thicker around his words. “He bled for this kingdom. He suffered for it. And he will be obeyed.”

The gathered staff shiver, not only from the cold but from the wrath radiating off him. His dark gaze sweeps across them, sharp as talons.

“If one more voice dares to question him —if one hand dares to touch what is his without leave— you will answer not to him, but to me.” His claws click faintly as they flex at his side, the sound sharp in the silence. 

“And I promise you, the Mad King’s patience is far thinner than the Consort’s.”

A hush falls deeper still, heavy and suffocating. The fog clings tighter, as if even the air bends beneath his decree.

Yoongi lifts his chin, furs spilling like wings across his arms. “Now go. See to your work. And remember whose roof shelters you, whose hand feeds you, and whose word commands you.”

The servants bow low, spines bent under the weight of their sovereign’s fury. One by one they scatter back into the keep, their whispers muted, their fear etched sharp.

From the battlements, a raven croaks —low, final, as though sealing the vow.

Yoongi remains a moment longer, gaze turned toward the highest tower where his flower and cub still sleep. His breath smokes against the fog, and his voice rumbles so low it barely disturbs the air.

“Let the world learn —none will touch what is mine.”

🍂

Jimin’s dreams should be of gentler things —of his mate’s broad chest beneath his cheek, of their newborn cub dozing safe in his cradle, of warm gardens blooming under a soft spring sun and nights dusted with stars instead of frost. But dreams do not always heed a man’s wishes. The ghost of grief is greedy, clinging to him even in sleep —a lingering phantom of smoke and blood.

He sees it again, the memory carved in the marrow of his bones: his village swallowed in fire, children screaming through the roar of burning thatch, the sky choked in black smoke that curled above the broken steeple of Anthos Abbey. Rough hands gripping him like a sack of grain, binding his wrists with scratchy rope, throwing him atop a wagon stinking of mud and old hay. 

Nights spent beneath a thin cloak of snow and frostbite, no warmth but the small kindnesses of other stolen omegas —fierce, soft souls who fed him their scraps when the slavers turned their backs, who shielded him with thin bodies and shivering hands until they too were sold and parted like scattered petals in the wind.

But then, the dream shifts. The ashes fade to white —Mooncastle’s garden under a heavy quilt of snow, a stillness so deep it hums in his ears. By the frozen pond stands a lone figure —strange yet striking, a shard of beauty carved from ice. Slim and ethereal, pale as moonlight, locks of ashen hair spilling down his back like woven silk. Robes of silver and soft green swirl about him, blending into the frost. He is so lovely he hardly seems real —a snow nymph dreamt into flesh.

Yet it is the subtle point of his ears that betrays him —elf-blooded, undeniably. He stands so still he might be a statue, marble set against Mooncastle’s dark stone walls. And when he turns —when that otherworldly face meets Jimin’s gaze— something familiar tugs at his chest. Those lips —a soft pout so like Yoongi’s. But the eyes are different: blue, wide and mournful, clear as thawed ice beneath winter sun. No dragon steel, no fire coiled behind the gaze —only sorrow, soft as a prayer.

“Papa!” A child’s voice —bright, sudden, ringing through the hush like a lark at dawn.

The elf’s frown cracks open, replaced by a tender smile that glows from within like a lantern in snow. He crouches low, arms opening wide to catch a little body that barrels into him. He lifts the boy with practiced ease, props him on a narrow hip. Pale fingers sweep wild raven strands from the boy’s brow —and Jimin’s heart clenches when he sees the child’s face. His cub’s eyes, his cub’s nose, the soft fullness of his cheeks, a stubborn tilt to his chin.

Yoongi.

But not the man who holds him now. This is him, perhaps four or five springs, sturdy and bright. A scrape blooms raw red on a little elbow but the boy does not cry —does not look to the elf for comfort. He only puffs out his chest, small jaw set firm.

“What happened, my little dragon?” The elf’s voice is warm —a summer bird’s trill at dawn.

“We were playing. Will you come? Seokjin scraped his knee…” the boy says, all in a rush, tiny hands tugging at the elf’s robe.

A soft kiss is pressed to Yoongi’s plump cheek —so tender it aches to see. The elf shifts the boy on his hip and turns, walking past Jimin on the snow-dusted path. Jimin turns to follow but the elf pauses —eyes meeting his through the drifting snow. A single tear slips down his pale cheek, cutting through the chill.

Find me. The words slip from lips pale as winter, but the elf’s neck darkens —veins blooming dark and purple, creeping like poisoned vines beneath marble skin. His face drains of life, soft glow snuffed out— and the world shatters.

Pitch black. Screams, crashing waves —roaring and cold. Yoongi’s eyes wide and full of horror as the sea swallows him whole, the ocean’s claws dragging him under.

Find us. The voice is deeper now —layered over the crashing surf. Not Yoongi’s. Something older. Colder.

Jimin jolts awake, lungs burning as if the saltwater still clings to them. He claws at the blankets, panic thrumming like a drum in his veins. His hand flings out —searching, desperate— but the bed is empty. His mate’s warmth gone.

He snaps to the cradle —the bassinet— but it sits there vacant, blankets tossed aside. His heart stutters, panic flaring sharp and blinding. He calls for the handmaid —for Seokjin— anyone. His voice cracks on the words. He drags himself out of bed, muscles protesting, still tender and raw from bringing life into the world only two moons past. He snatches up the nearest fur cloak —Yoongi’s— breathes it in to calm the wild stammer of his pulse. The heavy scent of his alpha seeps into him, grounding him like stone.

The chamber door creaks open on its cold hinges —and the sight waiting beyond the threshold stops Jimin’s fear dead in its tracks.

Yoongi sits hunched on a low sofa by the hearth, silver crown proud on his dark hair, shoulders clad in steel and fur. And in those calloused hands —broad enough to crush a skull, gentle enough to cradle kingdoms— rests their cub. Little Prince Jiyoon, swaddled like a blossom in spring, tiny fists peeking free.

Yoongi bends close, voice a rumble of low thunder. 

“Look at these little hands. Just like your Papa’s —far too soft for steel. We’ll have to fix that.” He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. 

“And those wiggly feet? Best hope they kick like a wild colt. Maybe you’ll throw a warg halfway to the sea one day, hm?”

Jiyoon babbles, eyes bright as frostlit stars, reaching for a dark lock of his father’s hair. Tiny fingers curl around it and tug, soft strength wrapped around something so unyielding.

Jimin stands unseen in the doorway, breath caught in his throat. His fear unwinds, replaced by an ache that glows warm in his chest. He wants to speak —to tell Yoongi of the dream, of the elf’s sorrowful plea, the poison in his veins, the drowning tide— but the words tangle on his tongue. His gaze finds his husband’s eyes, softened at the edges by fatherhood’s quiet wonder. He swallows the warning down. Not yet. Not when the dawn feels so gentle in their fortress of frost and stone.

Not when their little dragon sighs against his father’s palm —safe, small, and utterly unaware that the world beyond these walls waits to test his roar.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading☕️✨

Scary Alpha Yoongi is my favorite Yoongi