Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jimin plucked a grape from the silver tray in his lap, inspecting it with mild disinterest before slipping it between his lips. The juice burst sweet and cool on his tongue, but it did little to improve his mood.

The sun was merciless, beating down on the amphitheater like a punishment from the gods. Despite the towering canopy shading the royal dais, the air was thick with heat, heavy and stifling. The only relief came from the servants stationed on either side of him, rhythmically waving their large feathered fans that did more for appearances than actual cooling.

Beside him, King Hyunjong was in high spirits, his deep laughter booming over the din. His goblet, filled to the brim with rich red wine, sloshed dangerously as he gestured animatedly, recounting yet another exaggerated tale of war and conquest. The nobles surrounding them hung on his every word, eager to flatter, to laugh at all the right moments. Jimin, however, only half-listened, his focus drifting somewhere far beyond his husband’s voice telling the same tale he had already heard a hundred times.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting the folds of his embroidered robe as Hyunjong’s hand came to rest on his thigh—a familiar weight, more possessive than affectionate. Jimin didn’t react. He had long since learned to tolerate it. Instead, he lifted another grape to his lips, biting into it slowly as his gaze flickered toward the arena below, over the vast pit. The sun illuminated the crimson-streaked sand where the remains of the previous fight were being cleared away. Jimin watched as attendants dragged bodies through the heavy iron gates, the blood seeping into the earth as if the arena itself was hungry for more. He exhaled quietly. Another day, another pointless display of violence.

It was always the same.

The heat, the crowd, the smell of sweat and iron. The fighters, desperate and brutal, clashing on the sand like wild beasts for the amusement of those seated high above them. Jimin had never cared for the games. They were crude and predictable—a cycle of bloodshed meant to entertain people who had never known real suffering.

Hyunjong turned to him with a smirk, his breath laced with wine. "You seem unimpressed, my love," he mused. “Is the company not entertaining enough?”

Jimin didn’t bother returning the smile. “You know I don’t care for the games.”

Hyunjong chuckled, tightening his grip on Jimin’s thigh. “And yet, you sit beside me every time. A dutiful consort.”

Jimin finally turned his head, meeting Hyunjong's gaze with a slow, practiced smile. "What can I say?" he said, voice smooth as silk. "Some performances are simply unavoidable."

Hyunjong gave him a sidelong glance, amusement flickering in his eyes. He was used to Jimin’s sharp tongue, tolerated it, was even amused by it, but Jimin knew there was a line he could never cross. The king’s patience only stretched so far.

Jimin leaned back in his cushioned seat, lifting his goblet to his lips. The wine was too warm for his liking. Just another disappointment in a string of them.

The announcer stepped forward, raising his hands for silence.

“Today, we welcome the return of our undefeated champion, the Titan of the Arena, the breaker of men—Jin Hwan!”

The crowd roared as the gates groaned open, revealing a man more beast than human. Jin Hwan was massive—twice the size of any normal fighter, his muscled frame glistening under the sun, a great scar cutting across his chest. He raised his arms, basking in the adoration of the audience.

Jimin yawned.

“And his challenger,” the announcer continued, voice dipping slightly as if this next name was of no consequence, “Jungkook, the Hound of the West.”

A few scattered laughs rippled through the audience—mocking, dismissive. From the noble balconies to the merchant bleachers, the reaction was the same: amusement .

“He’s a pup, not a hound,” Lord Namyeol muttered with a sneer.

Jin Hwan was enormous, easily twice the size of his opponent, his body built for destruction. The crowd roared for him, chanting his name, already anticipating another brutal victory.

Jungkook, however, was forgettable at first glance. He was smaller than most fighters, lean muscle wrapped in tanned skin, black hair clinging to his forehead from the heat. His expression was unreadable, dark eyes scanning the pit with quiet intensity. There were no grand gestures, no attempts to rile up the crowd—he simply stood there, a stark contrast to the roaring beast beside him.

Jimin exhaled through his nose.

Already, nobles were shouting bets across the balconies, drunken voices echoing over the pit.

“Ten silver on how many ribs the champion breaks!”

Someone threw a coin into the sand at the Hound's feet, jeering, “Buy yourself a coffin, mutt!”

The horn sounded.

Jin Hwan struck first, swinging his blade with enough force to split a man in two.

Jungkook moved.

Not away, but toward.

Jimin blinked.

The younger fighter slipped past the attack with impossible ease, his body weaving like water, swift and unpredictable. Dust kicked up from the sand as he pivoted sharply, delivering a devastating kick to the back of Jin Hwan’s knee. The giant staggered.

The crowd gasped.

Jimin sat up slightly.

Jin Hwan recovered quickly, swinging again, but Jungkook was faster. He ducked, dodged, twisted his body around each deadly arc with a precision that was almost beautiful . He didn’t waste energy, didn’t flail or strike recklessly like so many others had before him. Every movement was calculated, as if he had already seen the fight play out and was merely following a script only he knew.

Interesting.

Jin Hwan roared in frustration, his attacks growing sloppier as anger clouded his judgment. That was all Jungkook needed.

One mistake.

Jimin barely saw the killing blow—it happened too fast. One second, Jin Hwan was lunging forward, and the next, Jungkook had twisted around him, driving a blade deep into his side.

Silence.

Jin Hwan staggered, a gurgling sound escaping his lips before he collapsed onto the sand.

The amphitheater was stunned.

And then, chaos.

The crowd erupted, voices colliding in disbelief and excitement. The undefeated champion, defeated . By a nobody.

Jimin pressed his goblet to his lips, though he had forgotten about the wine entirely. His gaze remained locked on the pit, on the man standing amidst the carnage like a wolf in a den of hounds.

A cluster of men booed, some of them furious they’d lost coin on the giant. Bits of bread and wine-soaked fruit followed. Jungkook didn’t flinch. He stood amidst it all, calm as a statue.

One drunken noble threw a goblet. It missed, clattering in the sand.

Jimin’s lip curled faintly—not at Jungkook, but at them. The crowd. The nobles. The supposed elite, red-faced and screeching like animals in heat because a slave had dared to win. How fragile their sense of control must be, he thought, if one fighter could unseat it.

Jungkook turned toward the royal dais.

Slowly, he bowed, pressing a fist to his chest.

And then, as he lifted his head, his gaze met Jimin’s.

Jungkook’s dark eyes held no submission, no pleading for favor or recognition. Only silent acknowledgment. A challenge, perhaps.

Jimin traced the rim of his goblet with one finger, his gaze still locked onto the man in the arena. The crowd was still roaring, the nobles at his husband’s side bursting into excited chatter, but none of it mattered.

Jungkook stood amidst the bloodstained sand, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, his blade still glistening with the lifeblood of the fallen champion. And yet, despite the chaos around him, despite the way the attendants rushed to drag Jin Hwan’s body away, Jungkook remained still. Unbothered.

Jimin’s lips curled slightly.

“What an upset!” exclaimed Lord Seongmin, his ruddy face flushed from the heat and an excess of wine. He dabbed at his brow with a silk cloth, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jin Hwan, slain like a common foot soldier? I would not have wagered a single coin on such an outcome.”

“He grew slow,” Lord Namyeol said dismissively, sipping from his goblet. “Ten years is far too long for a man to reign undefeated. Sooner or later, the blade finds its mark.”

“But to fall to a nameless wretch?” Seongmin gestured toward the pit. “Where did they unearth this one? Surely not from our ranks.”

Jimin leaned back, letting their voices wash over him like the lapping of waves against stone. Their words held no real weight, only the idle chatter of men who had never once held a sword in their own hands. What interested him was not their prattle—but the fighter himself.

It had been precise. Cold. Unhurried.

Not the wild flailing of a desperate man fighting for survival. Not the arrogance of a brute relying on sheer strength.

Jimin tilted his head slightly, fingers idly tracing the stem of his goblet.

“You’re quiet, my love,” Hyunjong mused beside him, voice thick with amusement. “Have the games suddenly captured your interest?”

Jimin plucked a grape from the tray, pressing it past his lips with deliberate slowness. “Hardly,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “But it is rare to see a man wield skill over brute strength.”

Hyunjong chuckled, watching him over the rim of his goblet. “Ever the discerning one,” he mused. “Perhaps I should have him bought for you. A gift, to keep you entertained in my absence.”

Jimin turned to him then, lips curving just slightly. “A personal gladiator?” He said. “How thoughtful."

Hyunjong hummed, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Yes… a gladiator.”

Jimin returned his gaze to the arena just as the announcer stepped forward once more.

“The Hound of the West stands victorious!” he declared, voice booming over the crowd’s cheers. “Shall he be granted mercy or death?”

The amphitheater buzzed with excitement, voices clashing in heated debates. It was tradition—when a lesser gladiator defeated a champion, the crowd decided whether he lived to fight again or perished for daring to defy the established order.

Jimin rested his chin on his hand, watching as Jungkook stood motionless, eyes unreadable as he awaited his fate.

Hyunjong rose to his feet, and instantly, the crowd fell silent. The final decision rested with him.

Jimin already knew what he would say. The king was not a fool—killing Jungkook now would be a waste. A man like that, one who had already proven his worth by taking down an undefeated champion, was far more valuable alive.

Especially now that Hyunjong had promised him as a gift.

Hyunjong let the silence stretch for dramatic effect before finally raising his hand. “Mercy,” he declared, voice ringing through the amphitheater.

The crowd erupted once more.

Jimin hummed, lifting his goblet to his lips. As expected.

The guards moved swiftly, dragging Jin Hwan’s lifeless body away, his great frame leaving a dark smear across the bloodstained sand. Meanwhile, an official stepped into the pit, grasping Jungkook’s wrist and raising it high for all to see. The crowd roared their approval, their voices swelling to deafening heights.

“The nobles will be fighting over him by sundown,” murmured Lady Seohwa, one of Hyunjong’s concubine, her sharp eyes flickering toward Jimin with interest. “Everyone will want a piece of a new champion. He looks quite delicious.”

Jimin swirled the wine in his goblet before setting it aside. “I wonder if he will last long enough for them to enjoy him.”

Lady Seohwa chuckled softly, understanding him at once.

The arena had seen many men rise swiftly—only to fall just as fast. Champions were not made in a single battle. The sands had a way of consuming those who thought themselves untouchable, chewing them up and spitting them out before they could taste the glory they had earned.

And yet, something about Jungkook made Jimin pause.

Something told him this one would not fall so easily.

•─────⋅☾⋅─────•

The chamber was bathed in the golden glow of candlelight, the flickering flames casting long, lazy shadows against the walls. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense—notes of sandalwood and something faintly floral, a lingering trace of the perfumed oils used to anoint Jimin’s skin before bed.

He sat before a large, polished mirror, his reflection staring back at him as the servants worked in practiced silence, undoing the elaborate gold pins in his hair, letting the dark strands spill freely over his shoulders.

Jimin exhaled slowly, already anticipating the relief of solitude. The day had been long, suffocating in its monotony, and he wanted nothing more than to slip beneath the cool sheets of his bed and close his eyes.

Then, a knock at the chamber doors.

A servant stepped forward, bowing low. “Your Highness,” he murmured, voice careful. “His Majesty’s gift has arrived.”

Jimin stilled. His fingers halted midair, hovering just above a tray of sliced fruit.

He frowned slightly, glancing at the man through the mirror. Gift? He had nearly forgotten about Hyunjong’s passing remark at the games. So, he had followed through with it.

Jimin turned his head slightly, catching the flicker of exchanged glances between the servants before they quickly averted their eyes. He inhaled slowly through his nose, then rose from his seat.

Jimin exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back as the last of his robes slipped from his form, replaced with a sheer silken night garment. He made no immediate move to acknowledge the announcement, simply stepping forward so that one of the servants could tighten the sash at his waist. The fabric clung to his skin, cool and featherlight.

Only when his rings had been removed, his long hair unpinned and brushed to a gleaming cascade, did Jimin finally turn. He lifted a hand, gesturing for the doors to be opened, servants disappearing quietly, as they always did, silent as shadows.

The scent reached him before the man did.

It was sharp, yet rich, with an undercurrent of something dark and earthy. Not the clean bite of mint, nor the thick burn of tobacco that so many alphas carried on their skin. No, this was different. It smelled of warm, sun-scorched cedar, deep and resinous, tangled with the faintest trace of something wilder—like rain on dry soil, fleeting and fresh, yet heavy with something untamed.

Jimin’s fingers curled slightly. He did not let his expression shift, but he was keenly aware of it—the scent, curling through the air unchecked, pressing at the edges of his senses like a challenge.

Alphas of Jungkook’s status, even lowly ones, were trained to control their pheromones in the presence of royalty. It was a show of discipline, a sign of respect. Yet Jungkook made no such effort.

How bold.

Jimin turned, eyes settling on the man who had, just hours before, conquered the sands of the arena.

He looked different without the blood-soaked sand beneath his feet. Without the weight of the sun beating down on him, casting shadows over his sharp, tanned features. He had been bathed, dressed in dark, loose-fitting robes that did little to conceal the lean strength of his body. His black hair had been brushed back, damp from washing, a few strands curling stubbornly against his skin.

Jungkook had the confidence of a man who did not know fear. He walked as if the space belonged to him, eyes flitting lazily across the chamber, taking in the heavy silk drapes, the gilded ornaments, the polished oak furniture.

Jimin watched him in silence, tilting his head slightly.

“You carry yourself boldly for a man in the presence of royalty,” he mused.

Jungkook turned to him, and Jimin was once again met with those dark, unreadable eyes. A slow smile curled at the corner of the gladiator’s lips. “Should I grovel instead?”

His gaze was just as Jimin remembered—dark. Unbowed.

Jimin let his eyes flicker over him, taking in the sight of his newly appointed gladiator. Then, he spoke, his voice smooth as still water.

“You look smaller up close,” he remarked, letting his gaze drift over Jungkook’s frame once more.

Jungkook chuckled—a quiet, throaty sound that sent a ripple of something strange down Jimin’s spine.

“And you,” Jungkook murmured, turning to face him fully, “are exactly as I imagined.”

Jimin studied him, his expression betraying nothing.

He was used to men staring at him with admiration, with hunger, with quiet reverence. But Jungkook’s gaze was different. There was no worship in his eyes, no fearful deference. Only a calm, quiet certainty.

Jimin shifted, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the folds of his robe. He did not like the way this man unsettled him.

“You fought well today.”

Jungkook’s lips curled slightly—not quite a smile, but close. He did not thank him, merely stepped further into the chamber, gaze flickering about the room with interest.

His fingers brushed the rim of a wine goblet, the hilt of a decorative dagger resting atop Jimin’s writing desk, the carved edge of the bedpost—touching things that belonged to someone else without hesitation. As if he belonged here, in a room he had never set foot in before.

“Comfortable?” Jimin mused, watching as Jungkook picked up a delicate jade figurine from a nearby table, turning it between his fingers. A meaningless trinket, yet he studied it as if weighing something.

Jungkook hummed, setting the trinket back down with an air of indifference. “A curious place for a caged bird.”

Jimin arched a brow. “Is that what you think I am?”

The gladiator tilted his head slightly, but did not answer.

Jimin held his stare, unimpressed but not unamused.

He leaned back in his seat, resting his chin against his knuckles. “I see the king has decided to make you mine,” he said at last, breaking the momentary silence. “I assume that means you fight for me now?”

Jungkook’s smile did not fade, but there was something in his expression—something entertained, almost. “Fight?” he echoed.

And then, Jungkook tilted his head, the faintest trace of a smirk lingering at his lips.

Jungkook let the silence stretch, his dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Then, as if savoring the moment, he exhaled a quiet laugh, low and knowing.

“You misunderstood, your highness.”

Jimin’s fingers stilled against the stem of his goblet. The way Jungkook said it—his voice smooth as silk, rich with quiet amusement—made something coil in the pit of his stomach.

Jungkook stepped closer, unhurried, his movements lacking the stiff, measured restraint of those who feared overstepping in royal presence. His scent curled heavier in the air, seeping into the spaces between them, something dark threading beneath it like a whisper of distant storms.

Jimin did not move, nor did he allow his expression to shift. But he felt it—the way Jungkook’s presence pressed in, not overwhelming, not forceful, but there . Unapologetically so.

“Then enlighten me.” Jimin’s voice remained even, smooth as still water. “If not to fight, what is your purpose here? To be my protector, maybe?”

Jungkook’s smile did not waver. If anything, it deepened—just a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes, a quiet, knowing thing.

“Protector?” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “No, your highness. Not quite.”

Jimin’s fingers remained curled loosely around his goblet, his grip neither too tight nor too lax. But inside, something had gone still.

Because suddenly, he knew.

The answer was there, in the weight of Jungkook’s gaze. In the way he stood before him, utterly unbothered. In the way his scent filled the air between them without restraint, curling like a whisper of something forbidden.

Jimin exhaled slowly through his nose, lids lowering just slightly as he studied the man before him.

Hyunjong’s gift had it had been something far more humiliating than he expected. A statement disguised as generosity.

Jimin set the goblet down with a soft clink , his expression composed, unreadable. “Is that what you were told?” he murmured at last, voice smooth as still water. “That you are to warm my bed?”

Jungkook did not answer immediately. He took his time, plucking the grape he had been toying with past his lips, biting down slowly, almost contemplatively. When he swallowed, his dark gaze settled on Jimin once more, unreadable in the dim candlelight.

“That is what I was given to you for,” he said simply.

Jimin’s jaw clenched, so minutely that no one would notice. But he felt it. The stiffening of his shoulders, the way something cold coiled beneath his ribs.

Humiliation.

Hyunjong’s gift was not a soldier, not a warrior to fight under Jimin’s favor. No, his husband had sent him something else entirely—a plaything, a gladiator turned concubine, dressed and delivered to his chambers like an offering at the altar of his supposed desires.

Jimin should have known.

He should have expected it, should have recognized Hyunjong’s cruelty for what it was. This was not a gift—it was a message. A reminder.

A reminder of his place.

Jimin was no fool. He knew what the court whispered behind his back—the beautiful, useless prince, the caged consort with no real power beyond the silk-laden walls of his chambers. Hyunjong had ensured that, binding him in marriage with the same careful precision that one tethers a falcon, keeping it hooded, clipped, its claws dulled for decoration rather than use.

Jimin’s grip around the goblet remained steady, his expression unreadable.

He would not give Hyunjong the satisfaction of a reaction, not even in the privacy of his own chambers.

And yet, he felt it. That quiet, simmering anger beneath his skin, carefully leashed, tucked away behind the smooth curve of his mouth, the lazy weight of his gaze.

Jimin turned his attention back to Jungkook, taking in the way the gladiator watched him, waiting. Not with deference, not with anticipation. Just patience, dark and steady.

Jimin hummed, leaning back slightly against the cushioned divan, feigning ease he did not quite feel. His fingers tapped idly against the rim of his goblet, his head tilting just so.

“And you are eager to fulfill this role?”

Jungkook’s lips curved, just faintly.

He stepped closer.

Not close enough to be improper—not yet—but close enough that the steady heat of him, the weight of his presence, pressed subtly against the air between them.

“I would not call myself unwilling,” he murmured.

Jungkook inclined his head, his gaze never once wavering.

Jimin had spent his entire life surrounded by men who wanted something from him. Some wanted his beauty, others his favor. Some wanted the illusion of power that came with having him in their grasp.

But Jungkook…

Jimin wasn’t quite sure what Jungkook wanted.

And that unsettled him more than anything.

He did not let it show.

Jimin studied him, something slow and calculating in his gaze. He let the silence stretch between them, the air thick with the weight of unspoken things.

Then, he exhaled softly, smoothing a hand down the sleeve of his robe. “I have no use for my husband’s gifts.”

Jungkook did not flinch, nor did he look surprised. He merely regarded Jimin for a moment, before stepping further into the chamber, his fingers grazing the back of a silk-draped chair, the smooth lacquered surface of a table.

“A pity,” he murmured.

"You seem eager to get into my bed."

Jungkook's lips twitched. "Shouldn't I be?"

Jimin arched a brow.

“How presumptuous,” he murmured.

Jungkook chuckled. “On whose part?”

Jimin lowered his goblet, gaze steady. “On yours. For assuming I had any wish to bed my husband’s gift.”

Jungkook’s fingers trailed along the carved edge of a wooden chest, gaze flickering toward Jimin once more. “And here I thought you would enjoy some entertainment.”

Jimin laughed, quiet and sharp.

“Entertainment,” he echoed, tilting his head. “Is that what you think you are?”

Jungkook’s smile remained, but there was something else beneath it now—something knowing.

Jimin exhaled softly, fingers tapping lightly against the armrest before suddenly stepping up. "You mistake me for someone who would welcome their husband’s scraps.”

Jungkook hummed, tilting his head. “Scraps?”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed, though his lips remained curved. “That is what you are, are you not?” he mused. “A discarded thing, sent to me like a leftover meal.”

The words were meant to wound, meant to remind Jungkook of his place. But if they did, he did not show it.

Instead, he stepped closer, slow and unhurried, his scent thick in the air, pressing at the edges of Jimin’s senses.

“Strange,” he murmured. “That you should call me discarded, when you are the one locked away in this gilded cage.”

Jimin stilled.

For a moment, just a moment, something inside him curled, sharp and bitter.

But then he exhaled softly, a quiet, almost amused sound. “You must think yourself clever.”

Jungkook’s lips curved. “Not clever,” he murmured. “Just observant.”

Jimin tilted his head, gaze dark and unreadable. “Is that so?”

Jungkook stepped closer, slow and measured, until there was barely a breath between them. His scent curled, rich and deep, pressing into Jimin’s space without hesitation.

Jimin did not move, did not flinch.

He merely watched, expression impassive, even as the air between them grew heavier, thick with something neither of them named.

“Then what will you do with me?”

Jimin held his gaze, unblinking.

That was the question, wasn’t it?

If he sent Jungkook away, it would be a direct rejection of the king’s generosity—a refusal that could be taken as disrespect. But if he kept him…

Jimin inhaled slowly, letting the night air cool the embers of his frustration.

Then, with all the grace of a man entirely unbothered, he turned away.

“Go,” he murmured, voice soft but firm. “I am not in the mood for games. Tomorrow I will decide your fate.”

Jungkook’s eyes flickered, something unreadable in their depths.

Then, after a moment, he inclined his head.

“As you wish, your highness.”

Then, with a small, knowing smile he bowed down and turned on his heel and walked away.

Jimin did not watch him go.

He simply lifted his goblet once more, taking another sip of wine, and swallowed down the bitter taste of humiliation with it.

•─────⋅☾⋅─────•

Jimin did not wait for the candles in his chamber to be snuffed. The echo of Jungkook’s presence still lingered in the space like smoke — thick, suffocating. It clung to the silks, to his skin, to the very air he breathed. His heart was a riot in his chest, his thoughts unraveling like silk threads tugged loose from their embroidery.

He couldn’t stay.

He wouldn’t.

The corridors outside were dim, lit only by flickering oil lamps and the faint glow of lanterns swinging gently from iron hooks. The palace was quieter at night, but not still. There were always whispers in the dark.

His footsteps were near-silent on the polished floors, though his pace was unrelenting. Purposeful. The anger that simmered beneath his skin gave him speed. Direction.

He didn’t knock.

He didn’t wait.

He pressed his palms against the grand wooden doors to Hyunjong’s chambers and shoved.

The heat of the room hit him first. Then the scent.

Perfumes. Sweat. Musk. The heady stench of sex and indulgence, thick in the air like rot beneath roses.

Laughter stuttered into silence as heads turned toward him. The king’s concubines — some draped across the massive bed, others lounging nearby in various states of undress — froze, eyes wide with shock at the unexpected intrusion.

Jimin said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

His pulse was a drumbeat in his throat, but his face remained carved from stone. Not a flicker of emotion betrayed him—not the revulsion, not the raw humiliation crawling beneath his skin like ants.

The silence snapped.

There was a scramble of limbs, whispered apologies, sheets gathered in haste. Some of the concubines dared to look at him as they passed, curiosity flickering in their eyes. One or two of the males hesitated, unsure if the command extended to them.

“Out,” he said, voice like glass — fragile, beautiful, and sharp enough to cut. And a single look from Jimin, cold and imperious, sent them scurrying after the others.

When the last of them disappeared through the doors, Jimin remained where he stood. The chamber still reeked of debauchery.

And Hyunjong — still lounging in bed, bare to the waist, his long hair loose over one shoulder — looked at him with lazy amusement, like a wolf blinking slowly after a feast.

“Hmm,” the king mused, swirling the wine in his goblet. “If you wanted to join us, my love, you might have come earlier.”

Jimin’s lip curled, barely restrained. “I would rather burn than touch what you’ve defiled.”

Hyunjong’s brow arched, his smirk deepening. “So dramatic. You weren’t always like this.”

“I wasn’t always your prisoner.”

“Ah. There it is.” He sipped from his chalice, eyes never leaving Jimin’s. “The martyrdom. The frost. The steel spine behind all the silk. You wear resentment like a robe, Jimin. Has it kept you warm at night?”

His nails dug into his palms beneath the sleeves of his robe, the pain keeping him present. Grounded.

Jimin stepped forward, slowly, silk trailing behind him like a ghost. “I came to speak of your ‘gift.’”

Hyunjong set the goblet aside, licking the remnants from his lower lip. “Ah, the gladiator.”

“You sent him to my chambers!” Jimin spat, voice low and trembling with fury. “Do you think I am that desperate? That lonely?”

The king studied him, tilting his head slightly. “I think,” he said slowly, “you are in need of something real . Not silks. Not status. Not even love.” His gaze sharpened. “Something brutal. Unrelenting. A man who bleeds. You seemed… captivated.”

Jimin’s fists clenched beneath the folds of his robe. Captivated?

The shame scorched through him, but he didn’t let it touch his face. He would not let Hyunjong see it. Not the humiliation.

“And so you had him washed and perfumed, shackled like a dog, and sent to me like I'm one of your whores in need of amusement? You mistake cruelty for generosity.”

Hyunjong rose from bed, bare to the waist, his steps unhurried, moving like a predator. And the closer he came, the more his scent enveloped him — bitter wine, smoked myrrh, and the cloying sweetness of skin warmed by too many bodies. It sank into Jimin’s throat like rot, made his stomach twist in revolt. 

Not because it was foul, but because it was familiar. Because it clung. It lingered. He could smell it in his own sheets some nights, no matter how many times the servants changed them.

Jimin’s breath shortened despite himself. 

“You forget yourself,” the king said too calmly. “You may scorn my bed, but you are still mine.”

His chest was tight now. That dangerous pressure of a panic too well-known. But his posture didn’t break.

“You cannot own me.”

Hyunjong’s eyes gleamed. “Can’t I?”

And then his hand was around Jimin’s throat.

There was no warning. One moment, words—barbed and burning—the next, silence, save for the sound of Jimin’s breath catching as he was pulled flush against the king’s bare chest.

His grip was firm, but not choking. Not yet.

Jimin’s body screamed to react, to flinch, to tear away. But he forced the tension inward. Pressed it into his spine, into his breath, into the thin space behind his eyes.

“You walk into my chamber reeking of pride and defiance,” Hyunjong murmured, his breath hot against Jimin’s cheek. “As if your refusal makes you untouchable. But you forget—every soul in this palace bends to me.”

Jimin’s hands rose, fingers digging into Hyunjong’s wrist, but not in submission. In challenge.

“I bend to no one.”

Hyunjong’s mouth curled. “Then I’ll break your sweet legs so you learn your place.”

Jimin did not flinch.

And that, more than anything, seemed to ignite something in the king. A dark spark behind his eyes.

“Shall I order the gladiator in now?” he whispered, his tone mocking. “Make you kneel for him before me? I’d have this chamber echo with your moans — not from pleasure, but from the shame of it. Perhaps then you’d learn humility.”

Shame seared down Jimin’s spine, but he refused to look away. His breath was shaking, but his expression did not crack.

“You’d never hear me beg,” Jimin snarled.

“No,” Hyunjong breathed. “But I'm your king," the King leaned in, his lips brushing against Jimin’s ear as he spoke. "You do whatever I decide.”

Jimin’s fingers curled around the king’s wrist, nails biting into his skin, but Hyunjong did not let go.

His breath was warm, his voice smooth as silk, sharp as steel.

“And if I say my consort must lay with the fighter,” his grip tightened, just enough to make Jimin swallow hard, “then I should hear your moans echo through the entire castle as if this was a kisaengs house.”

The tension crackled, thick and dangerous.

Jimin’s jaw was tight enough to ache.

Then, after a beat, Hyunjong released him.

Jimin didn’t stagger. He simply stood taller.

The space between them was scorched earth.

They stared at each other in silence, a battlefield carved from stares and breath and venom.

Then, as if nothing had passed between them at all, Hyunjong turned back to the bed, retrieving his wine.

“There is a feast tomorrow night,” he said idly. “I expect you to attend.”

Jimin’s voice was like frost. “Of course.”

“And bring the gladiator.”

Jimin didn’t answer.

But his silence was louder than any vow.

Chapter Text

Morning had arrived with cruel clarity.

Not in golden warmth or gentle light, but in a gray, muted hush that crawled across the palace like a breath held too long.

He hadn’t returned to his bed. He’d sat in silence, wrapped in his night robes, staring at his reflection for hours and tracing the faint imprint on his neck with cold fingers. Each breath had been slow, measured, until the tremor in his hands had calmed.

Sleep had not come.

Instead, dawn found him at the window, where the breeze stirred the gauzy curtains but failed to reach the heat that coiled low beneath his skin.

Last night lived inside him still—etched along his throat, seared into the silence between heartbeats. The king’s words. His hands. His threat.

Jimin understood now that Hyunjong’s favor was not sanctuary. It was a leash. Beautiful, gilded, threaded with the illusion of choice. And if Jimin pulled too hard, he’d be yanked back, gasping, stripped of what little dignity he still had.

He would not pull against it. Not yet.

There was no winning through pride. Not in this place. Not now. And certainly not if he wished for any kind of future that didn’t leave him broken and used.

He would wear the mask again. Let the king believe he’d won. That he was docile. Compliant. A consort who knew his place.

Because the kind of power Jimin wanted—the kind that could change things—could only be taken with time. And patience.

So when the morning stretched pale across the sky, he did not choose finery. He bathed without assistance, dressed himself in smoke-gray silks, high-collared to hide the bruises. His hair was swept back in a single clean knot. No gold. No jewels. Nothing that could be used to weigh him down.

He walked alone to the west wing of the palace and the deeper he went, the more everything changed.

Gone were the perfumed halls and ivory carvings of the consort’s quarters. Here, the air carried the scent of metal, dust, and sweat. The floor was rougher, the torches burned hotter. Every footstep echoed too loudly, as if the walls themselves were listening.

The guards stationed at the door straightened at the sight of him, eyes flickering with uncertainty. One stepped forward, clearly ready to announce him.

Jimin didn’t pause. “No need.”

The man faltered, unsure, but Jimin’s tone left no room for argument. The door was unlatched with a clumsy nod, and Jimin stepped inside without another word.

The room beyond was spare. Spartan. Built to contain—not comfort.

Stone walls, a slanted wooden ceiling, and a small barred window where thin morning light crept in across the floor. A single cot, a worn trunk, a small wash basin. The tray on the table held half-eaten bread, a cluster of figs, and a chipped cup of water.

Jungkook sat at the center, shirtless on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, like the space was a cage he had already made peace with. His hair was damp, a little wild from drying unevenly. His torso bore the marks of someone who had survived too much—a map of scars and fresh bruises, sharp along the ribs, scattered like brushstrokes across his chest.

He did not rise. Did not bow.

Only chewed the last bite of bread and swallowed it slowly.

“You came earlier than I expected,” Jungkook said, tearing off another piece of bread, chewing lazily. “Am I that irresistible?”

Jimin’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his stomach twisted—tight. Irritated. Almost alive.

“I thought last night made my stance clear,” he said, tone smooth but clipped.

Jungkook tilted his head, eyes dragging over Jimin’s form—not with crude hunger, but something cooler. More curious. “People change their minds.”

Jimin stepped further inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click. “Not I.”

Jungkook leaned back, his palms braced against the bench behind him. The pose stretched him long and lean, his abdomen flexing subtly with the movement, skin catching the pale morning light.

“Then what brings you here, consort?” he asked, voice sliding low. “Did the king give new orders? Sent you down here to claim what you turned away from last night?”

“I came to give you a role.”

Jungkook tilted his head slightly, licking a crumb from his lower lip without looking away. “So not here to apologize, then?”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “For what?”

“For kicking me out like a dog,” Jungkook said evenly. “After looking at me like you wanted to sink your teeth in.”

Jimin’s jaw tightened. He looked away briefly, eyes sweeping the room—at the bare walls, at the iron bars of the window—to anything but Jungkook’s mouth.

“You will attend the feast tonight.”

Jungkook rised his eyebrow, assessing him. “Am I to serve wine? Or just kneel at your feet?” His voice was light, teasing.

“You’ll stand beside me,” Jimin said coolly. “Not as my whore. As my guard.”

Jungkook stood then, slowly, the bench scraping the floor in protest, the air shifting slightly when his full height met Jimin’s. He was taller. Broader. Solid in the way a wall might be—something that could crush if leaned on too hard.

The scent unsettled him more than the man’s gaze.

Earth. Sweat. Steel. And beneath it, something more dangerous — warm skin and heat, not masked by rosewater or incense, but pure , like fire in its rawest form.

It clung like smoke — thick in his lungs, dragging memories that weren’t his to the surface. Bloodied sand. Leather straps. The kind of closeness that didn’t ask permission.

He kept his face still, did not step back.

Even as Jungkook moved closer.

Close enough that the warmth of his bare chest brushed against the delicate fabric of Jimin’s robes. Close enough that Jimin could count the flecks of amber in his eyes.

“You think someone’s going to try and kill you over a roasted goose?” Jungkook asked, mockery soft on his tongue, but there was something sharper beneath it—like the edge of a blade buried in velvet.

Jimin’s throat worked once. “That’s none of your concern.”

“If I’m meant to defend you, it is.”

“You will be what I need you to be.”

Jungkook tilted his head. His voice dropped, slow and deliberate. “And what is that, exactly?”

Jimin inhaled carefully.

“My fighter,” he said, voice even. “My shadow.”

Jimin stepped closer to reclaim the space between them, but Jungkook didn’t yield. He filled it.

Their bodies brushed again — chest to silk, heat to cool elegance — and Jimin felt the scent rise once more. It clung to him. Beneath his robes. Beneath his skin. It shouldn’t have affected him.

Jimin did not flinch. But he felt the curl of it low in his spine— heat, shame, memory. Last night had scarred him. This morning was bruising him in a different way.

“You will walk beside me at court. You will sit behind me when the nobles gather. You will fight in the arena under my name.”

Jungkook chuckled once, low in his throat, eyes still watching—too closely, too carefully. “And fuck you when needed?”

Jimin’s jaw tensed. His gaze didn’t falter, but the air around him did—tightened, charged, fragile.

“You’re not mine for pleasure,” he said, his voice soft but lined with iron. “You’re mine for protection. You are not to lay a finger on me. Not unless I command it. Not unless my life depends on it.”

Jungkook’s eyes dropped to Jimin’s lips. Unapologetic.

“And if I want to?” he asked, stepping in that final inch, his voice nearly touching skin. “If I want to taste what the king doesn’t dare claim?”

Jimin’s pulse jumped.

The air between them was humid with heat and restraint. And that scent — gods, it was everywhere. Like oil on water, impossible to wash away.

“You don’t get to want,” Jimin said, voice soft as velvet and just as sharp.

Jungkook’s smile curled, slow and lazy, his breath stirring the space between their mouths. “Pity.”

The word ghosted over Jimin’s skin like a breath.

Jimin’s hands were trembling — only slightly.

But he didn’t move. His voice stayed smooth, carved from frost.

His fingers curled at his sides, nails biting into his palms beneath the sleeves.

“You’ll wear what they bring you,” he said, tone cold now, mechanical. “Stand beside me when summoned. Say nothing unless spoken to. Do what is required. Then return to your new chamber.”

He turned sharply, silks flaring, and made for the door. But at the threshold, he hesitated—just one beat too long.

“You’re a weapon,” he said without turning. “Use your blade. Not your mouth.”

Behind him, Jungkook laughed—low.

“If you ever want both,” he called, “you know where to find me.”

Jimin didn’t answer.

But the air behind him sparked like something had been unsheathed—and left waiting.

•─────⋅☾⋅─────•

The feast was an illusion of splendor.

By the time twilight brushed across the palace walls, the Grand Hall had been transformed into something decadent—draped in crimson banners, every column lit by tall golden candelabras. Music drifted through the air like smoke. Wine flowed. Power pulsed beneath every laugh.

But in Jimin’s chamber, the air was still.

He sat before the mirror, motionless, as attendants fussed with his robes. His chosen silks tonight were deep, understated—midnight black with ash-grey embroidery, the collar high and stiff, hiding the last traces of last night’s bruises. His eyes were lined in soft kohl, his lips tinted just enough to look alive, not inviting.

He dismissed the servants early.

There was something sacred about this kind of silence.

Something necessary.

Because tonight, he would walk into the lion’s mouth smiling.

He would sit beside the man who left his neck mottled with bruises, whose fingers still haunted his skin, whose voice echoed like a threat in his blood. And he would look untouched.

He would look in control .

But even as he adjusted the fall of his sleeve, his mind kept slipping.

To him .

To the man now waiting at the edge of the consort’s wing, armored in black.

Jungkook had been silent when the garments were brought. He hadn’t complained about the tailored fit, the sword polished to a mirror’s gleam. He hadn’t commented on the leather straps that wrapped around his forearms.

But when he’d fastened the last buckle and turned to face Jimin with that unreadable calm—he felt it again.

That pull.

Not desire. Not anything soft or human.

Something sharp. Like a signal flashing in the dark that he had learned to ignore.

He hated how persistent it was. How it forced itself into his thoughts, unbidden and uninvited.

And he refused to give it meaning.

When he stepped out, the corridor outside his chambers was quiet. Candlelight flickered along the polished floor as the attendants fell into step behind him, silent and well-trained. Their presence was a formality—meant to carry his train, adjust his sleeves, smooth every imperfection before he crossed into sight.

Jimin didn’t look at them.

He didn’t need to.

He moved like a shadow clothed in midnight—fluid, composed, every line of his body sharpened into elegance. The soft patter of slippered feet behind him marked their pace. The scent of oils and rose petals still clung faintly in the air.

Jungkook stood just outside the threshold, dressed in the garments Jimin had chosen. His sword was slung low across his back, the hilt resting against one strong shoulder. The leather at his wrists creaked faintly with each shift of muscle. His hair was tied back, a few strands falling loose across his temple. His face, clean-shaven, was unreadable.

He looked nothing like a slave. He looked sharper than he had any right to, all lean mass and tightly coiled stillness.

When Jimin stepped into the hall, the gladiator grew somehow even stiller.

His gaze dragged over Jimin — lingering too long in too many places — up from the polished tips of Jimin’s shoes, over the fall of the robes, the high stiff collar.

Right at his face.

Jimin stopped. Something prickled at the base of his neck, brows drawing together.

He glanced down, adjusting the fall of his outer sleeve—brushed invisible lint from the embroidery at his shoulder, then touched the line of his collar, suddenly hyper-aware of every thread. The silk still felt cool from the night air, clinging a little where it brushed the hollow of his throat.

“What,” Jimin said, quietly. Not a question.

Still, Jungkook didn’t respond. His eyes flickered—down, then back up—faster now, like he couldn’t help it. A muscle twitched along his jaw. He straightened almost imperceptibly, shoulders squaring like instinct had taken over.

Jimin felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

“I asked you a question,” he said more sharply, his voice low. Controlled.

Still, Jungkook didn’t speak, making the consort quite unsure of himself.

He shifted again, one hand rising to his hair, checking the knot, fingers brushing the fine metal pin holding it in place. “Is something off?”

That broke the silence.

Jungkook blinked. Not startled. Just… delayed.

“No,” he said, after a beat. His voice was low, slightly rough, like it hadn’t been used in hours. “Nothing’s wrong.”

But the way he said it made it worse.

Jimin looked at him properly now. At the way the light caught along his jaw, at the subtle cut of muscle beneath the armor, the way the black leather curved around his ribs and strapped across his chest like a cage made for something far too alive.

And his scent—

Gods.

It was sweat, and something faintly metallic—steel, maybe. A battlefield kind of scent. It shouldn’t have affected Jimin, but it did . Lodged beneath his ribs, ghosted against his tongue.

His eyes dropped—without meaning to—to the strap slung diagonally across Jungkook’s torso. One of the buckles was slightly loose, the edge of it catching the torchlight, gleaming sharp.

He fixated on it.

Because it was easier than looking back into his eyes.

Jimin swallowed, once, the motion small but tight. Then raised his chin.

“You’re staring like I've grown a second head,” he said, tone clean, frosted. “If something’s wrong, say it.”

Jungkook exhaled, something that was almost—but not quite—a laugh. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.”

For a moment, they simply stood there. Neither moving. The tension wasn’t loud, wasn’t violent—it was something quieter. Like fabric pulled too tight. Like breath held a second too long.

Then, finally, Jungkook stepped forward. One slow, solid step.

The heat of him arrived before he did.

Jimin didn’t flinch. But the scent hit him again, stronger this time—leather, smoke, sweat—and something that stirred a heat low in his spine, unwelcome and immediate. Jimin could smell the faint spice of oil on his armor, the cold tang of metal. It settled under his skin, stubborn, like it knew it wasn’t supposed to be there.

He took a step back—elegant, unhurried.

But Jungkook noticed.

And his mouth tilted, just a little.

“Let’s go,” Jimin said crisply, before the space could get any smaller.

He turned on his heel, robes whispering against the floor, and began down the corridor with Jungkook falling into step beside him.

They didn’t speak.

But Jimin could feel it—the awareness. Every movement Jungkook made was felt, not heard. A presence too large to ignore, too quiet to push away. It shadowed him.

And still—

That damned buckle.

Loose. Silver. Flashing in the corner of his eye.

Jimin clenched his jaw and didn’t look again.

But his fingers itched for it.

And the weight of Jungkook’s stare burned between his shoulder blades all the way to the Grand Hall.

•─────⋅☾⋅─────•

The banquet had already begun when they entered.

Jimin moved with quiet grace, every step deliberate, his face a mask of serene indifference. Behind him, Jungkook followed—silent, broad-shouldered, swathed in shadow and steel. His presence was a rupture in the silk-draped harmony of the hall.

The nobles noticed.

Of course they did.

The room rippled with attention—curiosity and calculation humming beneath the string music. Heads tilted. Conversations faltered. Eyes clung to Jungkook’s form: the sword at his back, the way his gaze cut through the crowd like a blade in search of blood.

Jimin felt it. Every look. Every whisper.

Good .

Let them stare. Let them wonder .

He reached the raised platform and lowered himself into his seat with the composure of someone born to the blade of attention. His expression didn’t shift. Not even when he felt the heat of Jungkook behind him—one step back, slightly to the side. Not touching, bu t close enough to burn.

He took a sip of wine, slow, savoring the silence. The music dipped.

And then: “Gods. What is that ?”

Taehyung. Of course.

He arrived in a flourish of green silk and reckless delight, robes glittering with gold thread, eyes wicked with curiosity. He leaned a forearm across the back of Jimin’s chair, gaze fixed unashamedly on Jungkook.

“I’d heard whispers about a new toy in your wing,” he said, voice low and bright with wicked amusement. “Some breathless servant claimed you’d dragged in a gladiator with very specific duties. But I didn’t imagine he’d look like that .”

He didn’t bother to lower his voice. If anything, he seemed pleased that people nearby were straining to hear.

“I haven’t seen arms like that since Commander Bae’s disgrace,” he added, tone light as lace. “Where did you get him? Or should I ask— how ?”

Jimin didn’t lift his eyes. “He’s not for sale.”

“A tragedy,” Taehyung sighed. He plucked Jimin’s goblet from his fingers and drank, uninvited. “Is he mute, or simply rude?”

“I’m right here,” Jungkook said, quiet. Even.

Taehyung grinned. “Oh, he speaks. Low, too. Intoxicating." He leaned across the back of Jimin’s chair, close enough to drop his voice into something silk-soft and sinful. “ Tell me,” he murmured, “have you tested all the weapons he’s carrying—or just the one meant to pierce without leaving a mark?”

“He’s not here for entertainment,” Jimin said, voice flat.

“No?" He said it like it was a personal offense. "It would be such a waste if you only used him for protection,” he murmured, every word soaked in suggestion. “A body like that? Gods, Jimin. You could be so well-defended.”

Jimin didn’t flinch. Didn’t roll his eyes, either, though it took effort.

Instead, he took a slow sip of wine, then turned just enough to glance sideways at Taehyung, his expression dry as bone.

“If you want to be split in half that badly, I’m sure he’d oblige,” Jimin said smoothly, his gaze sweeping the hall.

Taehyung gasped— theatrically, hand pressed to his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Darling, I came here for wine and gossip, not threats of death-by-gladiator. Unless…” he tilted his head toward the gladiator, smile sharpening, “…he takes requests.”

Jimin didn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, he set his goblet down, composed as ever, and said mildly, “He’s not for play. And if you touch him, I’ll have your hand pinned to your own lap with a dinner fork.”

“Oh,” Taehyung sighed, delighted. “There it is. That temper. You get so charming when you're being territorial.”

“I get cautious when sharp things are involved," Jimin corrected, letting the silence stretch. “Especially when they’re mine.”

That finally shut Taehyung up.

For exactly three seconds.

Then he stole Jimin’s goblet, drained it in one smooth tilt, licked a drop from his lip, and muttered, “Fine. But if you ever tire of your… caution, you know where to find me.” He set the cup down with a satisfied clink. “I’ll even bring the armor—for authenticity’s sake.”

He slipped away with a swish of green silk, laughter trailing behind him like perfume—frivolous, reckless, deliberately loud.

And just like that, the air changed.

The strings stumbled—just once, just enough to be felt—and the chatter around the hall dipped, caught on a thread of something colder.

A ripple passed through the crowd like a shifting wind.

He arrived with all the practiced grace of a man who’d never known fear.

Beneath the arch of crimson silk, flanked by guards clad in gold-trimmed armor, King Hyunjong moved like something carved from marble — refined and untouchable. The crown above his brow caught every torchlight, gleaming like a threat.

But as the fanfare began to fade, and the murmurs gave way to breathless quiet, Jungkook shifted.

It was slight — almost nothing. He stepped forward half a pace, adjusting his stance. His hand rose, resting near the hilt of his sword. Not drawn. Not threatening.

But visible. Intentional.

And when the king’s gaze found him — leather strap across his chest, the sword at his hip— he met it.

As if there were nothing extraordinary about returning the gaze of a man who could order his execution.

The king’s smile remained, but something in his expression sharpened.

Just for a second.

When the man approached, it was slower than usual. Measured. His eyes flicked to Jimin — then back to Jungkook.

And when he reached the dais, taking Jimin’s hand to kiss it, the press of his mouth against skin was harder than it needed to be.

“You look breathtaking as always, my love," he said softly, lips just brushing skin.

Jimin offered nothing but a faint smile in return, every inch of him smooth, distant.

The king’s gaze lingered just a moment too long on Jungkook.

“He doesn’t look like a slave,” Hyunjong's voice dropped, low and silken—close enough that only Jimin could hear it. “Or someone meant to warm your bed,” he added, slower now, as if tasting the words.

Jimin took a sip of wine before answering.

“Perhaps Your Majesty has forgotten,” he said lightly. "I’ve never favored ornaments in my bed. Only those who can hold their weight.”

Then the king chuckled, low in his throat, the sound at odds with the pressure of his fingers now curling tighter around Jimin’s.

“Then it seems,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing the shell of Jimin’s ear, “I may need to revise the order I gave this morning.”

There was a smile in his voice now—poised, poisonous, far too pleased with himself.

“Strip away the silk. Dismiss the pretty things. Let you taste something more to your liking, since you seem to crave it so much.”

Jimin didn’t flinch—but the wine caught strangely on his tongue.

The king’s breath was warm where it ghosted across his skin, the promise beneath it too familiar. His fingers remained gentle in their grip, but Jimin could feel the threat in them—the way power cloaked itself in softness here.

He swallowed slowly, head tilting just enough to meet the king’s gaze.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he said, voice sharp but hollow beneath the polish. “I wouldn’t dare leave a morsel behind.”

The words held no fight, no spark. Just the quiet surrender of someone who knew resistance was only invitation for worse.

Jimin’s heart clenched, a bitter knot tightening inside him. His no, once so clear in his mind, was nothing here—no shield, no armor. It was a whisper lost beneath the roar of crowns and chains.

Beneath the table, the king’s grip eased. But the warning lingered — coiled and quiet.

Behind him, Jungkook hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken.

But Jimin could feel him there — heat and steel and silence.

A presence too large to ignore.

And if Hyunjong noticed the way Jimin’s posture tilted slightly back — as if drawing closer to the shadow that was not his — he said nothing.

Chapter Text

Laughter rolled through the Grand Hall like perfumed smoke. The musicians struck up another round of courtly strings while noblemen drank and gossiped beneath chiffon-draped chandeliers. The scent of saffron and roast meat thickened the air like fog.

Jimin had stopped counting how many goblets he’d emptied.

He wasn’t drunk, but the edges of the night had softened. Everything felt warmer and blurred. Which was exactly the point.

He sat with one elbow resting delicately on the table, eyes half-lidded, the ruby wine in his cup shimmering like blood. His posture, his poise—always regal. But beneath the table, his foot tapped a silent, restless rhythm.

The throne beside him sat temporarily empty—Hyunjong had stepped away for a private word with one of the southern warlords. Which meant, for the moment, Jimin could exhale.

He did.

Barely.

“You’re going to fall off that chair.”

The voice came low, dry, and close.

Jimin didn’t glance back. “What a tragedy that would be. All this embroidery wasted on the floor.”

“Your wine’s about to spill.”

“An even greater tragedy. This vintage is older than most of the king’s mistresses.”

There was a brief pause.

Then, steady as ever: “And nearly as expensive, judging by how you cradle it. Or is that how you handle all things that go down warm ?”

Jimin’s brow twitched. He turned his head just slightly, blinking at him over his shoulder. Jungkook stood behind and to the side, a study in stillness—hands clasped neatly behind his back, gaze forward, as if they weren’t speaking at all.

“What did you just say to me?”

“I said,” Jungkook murmured, “that if you keep leaning like that, your dignity will topple long before your cup does. And I’ll be forced to bear you out of the hall—right under the watchful eyes of the nobles.”

Jimin stared at him, expression unreadable.

“You’re very free with your words for a man in shackles.”

“You’re very careless with your wine for a man in silk.”

A pause. Sharp, drawn tight between them.

Then Jimin exhaled—soft, reluctant. A sound that almost passed for a laugh if one weren’t listening too closely.

“You are intolerable.”

“I’ve been told. Often by nobles. Occasionally by their wives.”

This time, Jimin didn’t hide his smile—just a small, crooked thing, more reflex than decision. He turned back toward the table, letting his fingers drift from the stem of his goblet.

“Watch your tongue, or someone might think you’re trying to impress me.”

Jungkook’s voice came quieter now, just behind him.

"Why would I bother?" he said, "You already are."

Jimin went still. But he didn’t reply.

He only reached, slowly, for his goblet again—without drinking this time—and held it, poised, as the music picked up once more and the court resumed its carefully choreographed descent into indulgence.

“Six paces to your right,” Jungkook murmured. “The one dressed like a golden koi.”

Jimin didn’t turn his head. Just let his eyes drift sideways, almost lazily, catching sight of a man draped in what could only be described as an aggressive shade of gold—head to toe. So stiff with embroidery he moved like a rice doll left too long in the rain.

His overcoat shimmered with mirror-glass sequins, catching every flicker of candlelight like he was actively trying to blind the entire royal court. His eyebrows had been painted sharp enough to wound, and beneath the absurd feathered gat perched high on his head—tassels swaying with every regal wobble—his hair shone with a telltale oily gleam.

Jimin’s lips parted slightly. “Is that… hair oil or resin?”

“Both, I think,” Jungkook murmured. “He bowed earlier. It didn’t move. I think it merged with the gat."

Jimin coughed delicately into his sleeve, trying to disguise the laugh.

“And the robe,” Jungkook continued, “was stitched with real coins. I heard him brag about it. They clink when he walks.”

Jimin finally turned just enough to meet Jungkook’s eyes—amused, alight. “That can’t be practical.”

Jungkook made a quiet sound—something between a scoff and a breath. “He bowed, and the tassel caught in one of the feathers. Look, it's still there.”

Jimin leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowing, scanning.

And there it was. A tiny jade tassel, swinging like a sad remnant of dignity from where it had knotted into a tightly pinned bun. No one had told him. Or worse—everyone had noticed and decided to let it stay.

"Now he looks like a rooster tangled in its own tail."

Jimin choked on a laugh.

He didn’t mean to. It escaped him unbidden — a quick, unguarded sound, bubbling up before he could press it down. A quick burst of sound, real and bright and utterly at odds with the courtly decorum around them.

A few nearby nobles turned, their curiosity politely veiled behind half-lowered lashes and wine-dark goblets. At once, Jimin brought his own cup to his lips, not to drink — merely to cover the smile threatening to linger.

“That’s cruel,” he said softly, the corner of his mouth twitching as he glanced sidelong.

“But accurate,” Jungkook replied, the picture of decorum save for the glint in his eye.

Jimin set the goblet down this time, letting it rest against the linen-draped table with a click too deliberate to be casual.

“You are very fortunate I’m tipsy,” he murmured, voice just low enough to pass beneath the harp strings and idle chatter.

Jungkook’s posture didn’t shift — hands behind his back, spine straight — but his voice warmed, relaxed now, like a fire crackling low. “You keep telling yourself it’s the wine that makes me tolerable.”

Jimin exhaled, shaking his head once, but he was still smiling. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.

Because he never smiled at these gatherings. These feasts, for all their candlelight and crystal, were little more than ornamented obligations — rooms full of delicate lies wrapped in silk. He played his part well, as he always did, but he never enjoyed it. Not the laughter. Not the company. Certainly not the wine.

And yet here he was, finding something dangerously close to amusement — at his own table, no less — because of the man standing at his shoulder.

But it was too late. That warmth had cracked through, and now it sat under his skin like a low ember. And worse— worse —he could smell Jungkook again. The same impossible scent: leather, smoke, skin, steel. Something unrefined and maddeningly steady.

It grounded him. In a way he resented. In a way he needed.

“So,” Jungkook said after a beat, voice bone-dry. “Do you always drink yourself half-senseless at royal functions, or am I just lucky enough to witness tonight’s collapse?”

“Only when I know the night ends with a royal summons,” Jimin muttered — too quickly.

Too real.

The words fell between them like a blade, and silence followed — sharp and watchful. Not empty. Not forgiving. It settled over them like smoke from a fire that hadn’t yet been seen.

Jimin shifted, suddenly aware of the way the cushion pressed against his back, stiff and wrong beneath him.

“That was careless,” he said, softer now. “Forget it. The wine’s gone to my head.”

Jungkook didn’t reply. But the silence changed — grew dense, loaded.

And Jimin could feel him. Not physically. In the way the air thickened. In the way the scent of him curled beneath his ribs, settling low in his chest like something lived there.

Not want. Not lust.

Need.

The kind that had nothing to do with flesh — and everything to do with gravity. The kind that called to whatever part of him still longed for steady ground.

He shifted again, spine straightening, mouth dry. The awareness of Jungkook’s closeness — even paces behind — pressed against his senses like heat against glass.

He reached for his goblet.

And stopped.

“Stop that,” Jimin whispered, barely a shape of breath.

“Stop what?”

“That.”

Stillness. Not even the rustle of a shift in posture. But the air responded — changing, subtly, as though Jungkook had pulled something back.

The scent dulled.

Not vanished, not gone entirely, but reined in. Held back. Like Jungkook had drawn a line in the sand with nothing more than will alone.

It startled Jimin more than it should have. He hadn’t expected him to understand.

He hadn’t expected obedience.

A beat passed.

Then, low and dry, the voice returned.

“Better?”

Jimin didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

But his fingers curled, ever so slightly, into the white linen of the tablecloth — a betrayal his face refused to echo.

He hated that it worked. Hated that Jungkook noticed.

Hated, most of all, that for the first time that night he could breathe.

And just as quickly as the moment steadied him, it shattered.

The hush that moved ahead of the king had returned—but this time it was different, edged with something else.

Jimin didn’t need to see him to feel it.

Hyunjong was back.

And this time, his approach came with less grace.

A hand dropped to Jimin’s shoulder—too sudden, too firm. Fingers curled possessively into the silk at his collarbone, and a low chuckle buzzed against his ear.

“There you are,” Hyunjong slurred, breath sour with wine. “Looking like you’ve been waiting for me all night.”

Jimin didn’t flinch — not outwardly. But he turned his head just slightly, deliberately not enough to meet the king’s gaze.

“You were only gone a moment, Your Majesty,” he said, voice level. Measured.

“Too long,” Hyunjong muttered, pressing in closer. “Long enough for you to forget who you belong to.”

He leaned in further—no finesse, no pretense of gentleness now. The press of his lips to Jimin’s cheek was wet, graceless, the kind that didn’t ask permission because permission had never been required.

Jimin’s jaw locked. He did not wipe his cheek. He simply endured .

“You missed me, didn’t you?” Hyunjong crooned, voice low and hungry and far too pleased with himself. “Let’s leave this ridiculous peacocking. I want to taste something softer than politics.”

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

Jimin rose slowly. His movements were smooth, precise, practiced like an old dance. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t hesitate. His fingers found the king’s hand without resistance, and when Hyunjong tugged—just slightly, just enough—it looked like Jimin followed of his own will.

His spine held perfect posture, but it wasn’t pride—it was armor. Habit. The only thing that kept him from shattering open under all the eyes.

From behind, Jungkook shifted—almost instinctively.

Jimin turned—just enough to see the unbearable tension of wanting to move and knowing he shouldn’t on his face.

But before he could take a step, Jimin spoke.

“You’re dismissed,” he said. His voice was soft, precise. But it landed like a blow. “Return to your chambers. You’re free tonight.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was suffocating.

Jimin could feel the weight of his refusal like a hand at the back of his neck.

Something flickered across Jungkook’s face—tight, brief, quickly hidden. But it lived in his eyes a heartbeat longer than it should have.

And for a moment, Jimin thought he might protest, he might disobey. Might follow anyway.

But then Jungkook took a step back. Just one, and stilled again.

Jimin held his gaze a moment longer.

And then—he turned.

Turned away like he hadn’t seen that flicker. Like he hadn’t wanted him to fight. Like his ribs didn’t ache from holding in what would never be said aloud.

The king didn’t notice.

Or more likely, didn’t care.

He was already tugging Jimin toward the edge of the dais, fingers biting, posture loose with drink and heat. The hall parted for them—eager to clear the way, eager to look, eager to not be seen looking.

He could still feel the heat behind him fading. Still taste the wine that no longer comforted. Still smell the lingering smoke of something that might’ve been real, if the world had been different.

But it wasn’t.

And when the doors closed behind them, gilded and heavy and final, he knew the quiet left in their wake wasn’t peace.

•─────⋅☾⋅─────•

Jimin didn’t close his eyes.

He couldn’t afford to.

The silk beneath his back was twisted, damp with sweat—though not his. Above him, Hyunjong moved with the same graceless hunger he always had. Hands roaming like he owned every inch. As if touching something too carefully might suggest he didn’t deserve it.

Jimin didn’t resist. He never did.

The king liked it better that way.

His breath hitched as Hyunjong thrust again, rough and fast, chasing nothing but his own satisfaction. Jimin kept his hands where they’d been placed—one hooked around the king’s neck, the other braced near the headboard, careful not to grip too tightly.

Too tight, and it might look like resistance. Too loose, and it might look like revulsion.

And the king didn’t want either.

He wanted Jimin to want it. Or at least, to look like he did.

The scent hit him again—stronger now. Clinging. Sickly. A sharp musk threaded with sour wine and salt, like spoiled fruit left to rot in the sun. It coated the back of Jimin’s throat and made his stomach curl. He forced himself to breathe through his mouth, shallowly. Carefully.

The king’s voice slurred into his skin.

“Gods, you’re still tight. Have you missed me?”

Jimin didn’t answer. Didn’t speak. He kept his face neutral, tilted just enough to avoid the full weight of Hyunjong’s breath.

He’d perfected this: the art of looking willing.

In truth, his body felt like a mask—flexed, poised, stretched across the bones of someone else. His muscles burned, not from use but from holding . Holding himself together. Holding back everything real.

Hyunjong grunted, slowing for a beat as he pressed closer, dragging his mouth down Jimin’s throat. “You’re holding it in again.”

Jimin’s breath stuttered.

“Let it out.”

He didn’t.

Not because he couldn’t.

But because he hated this—hated offering something so intimately his to someone like him . Hated that even his body was currency. That his scent—something private, instinctive, bone-deep—was no longer entirely his own.

Hyunjong bit down—just hard enough to mark. “I said let it out. ”

Jimin exhaled. Once. His breath shallow. Then, slowly, carefully, he let the edge of his pheromones bleed out—just a little. Just enough to graze the air between them.

Hyunjong groaned  like he’d been starved of it, like it was a drug.

“Yes," he hissed, his grip tightening. "That’s better.”

Jimin swallowed back the bile crawling up his throat. The warmth that followed wasn’t pleasure. It was performance—another veil to wear, another lie to sell. If he let too much loose, it’d feel too real. If he held too much back, the king would notice. Again.

So he crafted the illusion—just enough to pass.

The king didn’t notice the difference.

He never did.

Moments later, Hyunjong’s pace stuttered—sloppy, breathless. He gasped into Jimin’s shoulder as he came, hands digging hard into his hips, rutting through it without care for anything but release.

Jimin remained still. Did not flinch. Didn’t even breathe until the weight on top of him finally shifted.

With a satisfied grunt, Hyunjong rolled off to the side, sticky and sprawling, already reaching for the flask he’d left near the bed. He drank without ceremony, head tipped back, wine dribbling down his chin.

Jimin sat up slowly.

The sheet slid down his back. His skin felt raw. Not from touch, but from tolerance .

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his robe, , a piece he wore more out of obligation than comfort. The garment itself was a gift from the king—lavish, heavy with embroidery, and impossible to ignore. Hyunjong had insisted on it, demanding that Jimin wear it whenever they shared these stolen, hollow moments. Another reminder, Jimin supposed, of ownership disguised as generosity.

Behind him, Hyunjong’s voice drifted out, thick with wine and the ease of satisfaction.

The king poured himself another drink, already reaching for a tray of half-melted fruit. “Try not to look so wounded next time. It’s tedious.”

Jimin tightened the sash around his waist, the fabric biting lightly into his skin, a subtle chain more binding than the gilded collar he refused to wear.

“Your needs are met,” he said, quiet and composed.

There was a soft hum of acknowledgment from the bed. “They always are,” Hyunjong replied. “That’s why I keep you.”

Jimin’s fingers curled slightly around the fabric.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t answer.

Hyunjong laughed—a coarse, lazy thing. “You always leave like you’ve got something better waiting," he said, the sound filling the stillness. "You don’t. This is as good as you’ll ever have. You understand that, don’t you?”

Jimin’s grip tightened for a breath, knuckles paling.

Jimin rose—fully this time—and crossed the room in silence, his bare feet made no sound on the marble. He felt the king’s gaze trail across his back, slow and indulgent, as if Jimin were no more than a well-trained animal that had performed its trick.

He let the door close behind him with a dull thud.

Jimin stood still for a moment.

And then, only then—when the shadows swallowed him whole—did he let the tension shake loose from his shoulders.

Not relief. Not escape.

Just distance.

And the promise that tonight had ended.

At least for now.

•─────⋅☾⋅─────•

The palace corridors were quiet this time of night, their golden fixtures dulled by the hour, their shadows grown long and cold.

He exhaled.

And then he saw her.

Hana.

Waiting.

She stood by the far column, half-hidden in the alcove, back straight, hands clasped in front of her. She must have been there the entire time—far enough not to intrude, close enough to hear the fragments of his unraveling.

Their eyes met for a second. And he saw it—the flicker in her eyes. Not horror or pity.

It was sadness. Quiet and consuming. The kind that knows it can’t stop a storm, only hold the umbrella when it’s over.

Jimin quietly reached up, sliding the king’s robe from his shoulders—still warm from Hyunjong's touch—and held it out to her.

Hana stepped forward immediately and took it from him, her fingers brushing his only briefly—but grounding him all the same. She folded it without hesitation, her face a mask of soft composure.

The absence of that robe felt like the first deep breath he’d taken all night.

A small mercy, but one that mattered.

She said nothing. She never did, not after nights like this. But something in him eased. Just slightly. Like her presence reminded him he wasn't alone completely.

Hana moved then, just enough to hold out the outer robe she’d brought—his. Familiar. Clean. A thread of dignity in silk form. He took it and slid it on slowly, letting the fabric settle against his skin like armor.

Her hands rose to fasten the clasp, smoothing the collar with practiced care. Like she’d done a hundred times before. As if tonight were no different than any other. As if she wasn’t thinking about what lay beneath the fabric she so gently arranged.

Jimin glanced down at her fingers—small, steady, precise.

They didn’t falter. Didn’t betray a single thought.

She’d been with him since his first winter in the capital, and she was the only one who touched his clothes with gentleness. And he wondered how many times she’d done this now. How many times she’d had to stand here, in this same hall, pretending not to hear what echoed past those doors.

He swallowed thickly, avoiding her gaze and stepped forward.

She fell into step beside him—not ahead, not behind. She knew exactly where to walk.

They reached his quarters. A private wing, heavily guarded, thick with perfumed air and old, familiar loneliness.

Hana opened the doors and stepped in ahead of him, her slippers whispering across the tiled floor. She moved with quiet efficiency—lighting the wall sconces, drawing the curtains, pouring hot water into the marble tub sunk into the floor.

When steam began to rise, she turned back to him.

She approached, holding out the robe he’d worn over his shoulders, and waited.

Jimin shrugged it off without a word.

Hana accepted it gently, folding the rich fabric with the same quiet precision she applied to everything. The robe was royal—lined with threads of silver and blood-red—a garment chosen for him, never by him.

Underneath, the marks were already blooming—faint bruises along his hip, a redness at his collarbone. She didn't touch them. Didn't glance at them. She didn’t need to.

She’d seen them before.

She simply folded the robe—careful, methodical—and placed it aside, her hands steady as ever when she finally spoke.

“The water’s ready.”

“Thank you.”

She hesitated, lingered there just a second longer.

“You can go,” he said, voice gentle. Not to dismiss her. To spare her.

Her lips parted, like she might argue, like the instinct to stay warred with the boundary she never dared cross.

But then she only bowed her head and stepped back, vanishing through the doors with her usual, silent grace.

When the doors shut behind her, the silence that followed felt cavernous.

Jimin moved to the bath slowly. Not from pain—he’d long since stopped flinching from that—but because there was something sacred about these moments. The only time he could take his body back.

He stepped in.

The heat hit him instantly, crawling up his skin like a tide.

He sank into it with the controlled grace of someone trained to make even collapse look composed.

Then he reached for the cloth.

He scrubbed.

Arms, chest, neck. Harder than he needed to. Rougher than was wise. He worked the cloth in circles over every inch of skin that had been touched, gripped, bitten. He left no place spared.

He dragged it down his thighs.

Scrubbed his wrists until they were pink.

His collarbone, until the bruise flared angry.

The scent of the king still clung to him. In his hair, beneath his nails, somewhere under his skin.

He washed his scalp once. Then again. And again.

He didn’t stop until his muscles ached and the water had gone cloudy from the oils and sweat and something darker he couldn’t name.

Then he stilled—knees drawn in, arms around them, chest rising and falling in silence. His gaze fixed on the surface of the water, watching the ripples fade, like it might give him back a reflection he could live with.

He hadn’t felt the tears fall.

Not until the first delicate droplets struck the water—small, irregular, breaking the surface in uneven rings.

He wiped them away with the back of his hand—slow, detached. Like brushing off ash, like it was nothing worth keeping. Nothing worth mourning.

No one would see this. No one would know.

His head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering shut, and only then—only in that empty silence—did he let his scent slip free.

It was soft, faint. Something untouched by the night, by the hands. Unshaped by want or command

It wrapped around him like a balm. A quiet reminder. Something of his own, still living inside him.

And for a moment—just a moment—he let it hold him.

Just long enough to remember he was still there.

That Jimin hadn’t vanished entirely.

Not yet.