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[btgalaxy]

Estrella ~ BTS fantasy!au

➳ pairing: jin x reader, jimin x reader

➳ genre: fantasy!au, fluff, angst, slight smut

➳ word count: 3.5k

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Chapter 1

        The silk beneath your fingers is woven from the cocoons of the larvae of the Bombyx Mori, situated in the Marblewick Woods, hidden amidst the viridescent flora and foliage; expensive, and by all means worth the levy considering your deep slumbers each night, encased in a handcrafted cloud. You extend your arms above your head and arch your back as you stretch each muscle, bending over your fingers till they touch, intertwining them to push your arms further. You sigh as you sit up, blinking to adjust to the warm sunlight spilling through the window like a waterfall of silhouettes depicting a palace window.

“M’lady.” Your handmaid, Nova, walks in with a blush gown draped over her forearm wantonly, “Breakfast will be served at 7.”

You hum, allowing yourself to fall back against the pillows with a deliberate huff. Nova quietly laughs at your lethargy as she sets the dress down on the cream chaise longue by the window, overlooking the grounds.

“I’ll be back in 5 minutes, m’lady, to help you prepare for the day.”

You moan again in response, waving a hand in dismissal. Your eyes are closed, so you can hear only the gentle footsteps of her movement back to the door, and the click of the handle, signalling her leave.

She understands your reluctance to wake this day. The day you shall meet the dreaded Prince of Orion. The man you shall marry in due time, uniting your neighbouring kingdoms through your matrimony and dominating the East of Estrella. You’ve fought your parents on the matter relentlessly, insisting you’ve no desire to be married, nor to unite Lyra and Orion, that the two kingdoms should stay separated as Andromeda intended. But they dismiss your argument, and tell you not believe in such ‘fairy tales’.

The history of Estrella is widely debated, these days. Scholars and historians are very aware of the Great War, but its origins have been tied with mythology and legends, that the Gods and Goddesses the land once worshipped have now been deemed folklore and labelled as bedtime stories for the children of Estrella. You, however, believe otherwise. The stories inked onto the pages of the ancient books in the palace library are far too vivid and haunting for them to not be real; you see them in a way others can’t, a way one blinded by societal pride cannot.

You flutter your eyes open again, gazing up towards the ceiling, admiring the billowing patterns. Each room has been painted by the art maestro, Calypso Vega. She spent seven weeks cooped up alone in your palace, adamant to remain undisturbed till she’d completed her task. And she did it brilliantly. Every room is different, and tailored to its tenant. Yours has been painted to depict a story, the story of Andromeda and Calvus, starting from the left with fires and war, all the way to the right with Andromeda returning to the Onyx Sea. Perhaps that’s why the stories have stayed with you after all these years, having woken to them each morning and dreamt of them each night.

Nova returns far too quickly for your liking, if you could have it your way she’d not return at all and you’d spend the weeks curled up under your horrendously expensive duvet with your eyelids closed and mind wide open with lucid dreams of the Gods and their unparalleled power. But instead, you’re begrudgingly lifting your legs out of the comfort of your quilts, and lowering your feet against the cold of the marble flooring.

“The Queen chose your dress for the meeting today, she said the prince adores warm colours on a woman.” Nova smiles at you, attempting to be excited, but you give a blank response dropping your nightdress to the floor and stepping into some tan drawers, manoeuvred gently upwards to your hips by Nova’s practised hands. Next, she brings a white chemise over your head and you brace yourself against a post of your bed as she wraps a corset around your waist, tugging at the strings hard enough you stumble a little, even with the aid of the mahogany pillar.

“It’s a bit tight, Nova.” You choke out, as she pulls the final strings into a knot.

“The Queen requested I do it tighter today.” She apologises, “She wants you to look perfect.”

“I assume breathing isn’t a constituent of perfection then.”

She chuckles lightly, “I’m afraid not.”

Your crinoline is tied neatly around your waist, the metal bars already resembling a cage as your lower half becomes achingly heavier. Then finally, Nova takes the dress strewn across the chaise longue and requests you raise your arms. You do so, as you’ve been taught the past eighteen years following the same daily routine.

“It’s a beautiful dress.” Nova compliments, adjusting the trail and lacing up the back, “It was fashioned by a tailor in Bellmead, with the instructions the gown should be a warm colour, and suitable for a queen.” Nova laughs to herself, “He must know his way around royalty. And after the people see you wearing this, well, the nobles will come storming through his door.”

You watch your reflection in the mirror; the face staring back at you- sometimes it feels as though it isn’t all there. Like a part of you is missing, a part that might be small but undeniably cardinal. And the thought lingers on your mind nearly daily now, the notion that there’s something, some component of you or your history that’s hidden behind years of luxury and affluence, veiled by your palace life and highly regulated existence. Nova notices your expression and her features soften at the sight as she places a comforting hand on your near bare shoulder.

“Let me do your hair.” She guides you to the stool at your dressing table, littered with various perfume and cosmetics, all of the highest quality shipped from all over Estrella. Your mother says if it isn’t well made, then it isn’t worth having. That may just be the mindset of a queen, however.

Nova starts to pull at the locks of your hair into a bun, a few strands let loose to frame your face. You’re immediately aware of the resemblance of the hairstyle to the Queen’s usual updo, and frankly not surprised. By duplicating her appearance, you echo a sense of security to the new kingdom, a sense of experience; a false sense, but nonetheless present.

“Beautiful, m’lady.” Nova smiles slightly, placing the sleek silver brush on the white painted rosewood, picking up a translucent powder to lighten your skin, and then a small pot of red tinted balm for your lips. She swipes a generous amount of eyeliner across your upper lid to accentuate the striking colour, before finally bringing some wamrth back to you with a rose blush over the apples of your cheeks. You look like some sort of porcelain doll, just like every other royal or noble in Estrella.

You reach forwards, clasping onto an oceanic scented perfume from Volantis, down South. You spray over your neck and wrists, rolling your head back as the pungent aroma wafts up your nose and calms your frantic thoughts. You love the ocean, and anything that reminds you of it, but as princess of Lyra you’ve no chance to parade off to the warm beaches and fall asleep on the sand to the sound of the crashing waves. You’ve other duties to attend to. Like marrying a Prince you don’t love.

“Breakfast will be served in 20 minutes, m’lady. Would you like me to escort you downstairs? Or will you wait for someone else?” Nova’s insinuation is clear, but your head doesn’t feel right to see him right now. Not the day you will be engaged to someone else. The day that you will never be able to see him again, touch him again, kiss him again.

“I’ll go now.” You swallow down the bitter anguish biting at your throat, avoiding her gaze while you take a necklace from the jewellery stand and clasp it around your neck.

“He’s not angry.” Nova begins, and you busy yourself with numerous bijouterie, “He wants to say goodbye.”

“Well he doesn’t get that choice.” You snap, “He is a servant and I am his princess and he shall respect my wishes. Stop stepping out of your place, Nova.”

Although your words are harsh, you’ve no other way of coping with this seemingly endless torment. And so Nova bows her head respectfully, apologising quietly before ambling out of the room, head hung low. You shut your eyes and sigh, immediately regretful. She didn’t deserve that. You begin to walk out of the room, to go and tell her sorry, that you don’t mean what you say and you’re just stressed and upset, but instead you’re met by the force of the door from the other side. And his face appears from behind the gaping oak.

“Jimin?” You choke, as he lets out a breath of relief at the sight of you. He comes tumbling in all of a sudden, wrapping you up in his arms and burrowing his head into your neck, inhaling the scent of your perfume till his lungs are full and he has to breathe out, the gust flying over your flesh. “Jimin you can’t be here.”

“Nova’s on watch.” He mumbles, pulling back and settling his hands on your waist, as close to you as he can possibly be. You daren’t look him in the eye; you know you’ll cave. And he immediately knows what you’re doing.

“Y/N look at me.” He murmurs, bringing one hand to your chin, his thumb delicately grazing over your crimson lips setting your heart alight. His mere presence sets you on fire with pure, unadulterated passion and desire, and you know you’ll never be able to fend him off whilst alone in your bedroom with 20 minutes before anyone comes looking, so you can’t meet his gaze. You have to keep your eyes shut. For your sake and for his.

“Baby, look at me.” His breath fans over the tip of your nose, your eyes still screwed firmly shut.

He tugs you closer, “If you won’t look at me then I’ll have to kiss you.”

You’re eyes shoot open to this, beyond certain the moment kisses you all self-control will be lost to the aching depths of the Onyx Sea and never to be retrieved. How long has it been since you’ve looked at him like this? As the princess, your schedule is frequently packed with meetings, lessons, appearances, trips, and his servant duties are to be attended to all but 4 hours of the day when he sleeps, so you haven’t looked at him like this in a long, long time.

“Y/N,” his voice is deep, husky, ravenous, “I can’t believe you’re marrying him.”

You purse your lips, glancing downwards, “I don’t want to.”

“But you are.” His response is fast, but he continues slowly, deliberately. “You’re going to marry a man; a man that’s not me. And he’s going to touch you, and kiss you, and hold you at night, and flaunt you off to the public. He’s going to love you and I’m going to be stuck here for the rest of my life watching the woman I love give herself to another man each night.”

You aren’t sure when you started, but you’re crying now. Cautious tears, of course, careful not to tamper with your freshly made up face, but you can’t control the rate at which they come out. Jimin’s words are too harsh, too real to deny. And it’s making your heart ache.

“Jimin,” you breathe.

“I love you, Y/N.” Your heart stops for a second. “I love you and you must know I’m yours eternally.”

You finally meet his gaze, boring into you and encouraging the tears brimming at your eyelids, “I know. And I’ll always be yours.”

Then he does the one thing he shouldn’t do. He kisses you.

His lips are warm and soft, as they always have been, although the intensity of the kiss is beyond your usual, slow pace, this is frantic and fuelled by desperation. Perhaps if he shows his love hard enough, then you won’t have to go and marry some bastard prince? The thought is overlooked by lust as Jimin walks you backwards till the backs of your knees hit the bed and he’s clambering on top of you, mouth still working against yours.

The room’s getting hotter. The air, thicker. But you won’t stop him. This may be your very last chance to feel the way his body contracts when you touch him, the way his lips concede when you push back hard enough. And you don’t want to forget, so you savour each second.

He pushes down against you harder, his hands becoming more and more rapid with their movements as you trail your own across his pectorals and towards his abdominal muscles, flexing against your fingertips. He feels so good. His lips find their way to your neck, one hand situated on your hip and the other slowly sculpting the curve of your back as it sinks dangerously low. The breath in your throat hitches as he sucks harshly on the tender flesh of your collarbone, and you have to distract him with your lips again before he can mark you and leave you tainted for the Prince.

He’s always loved marking you. Preferably somewhere people can see, but he’s had to settle for the more discrete places. He has never and will never be able to announce his love for you publicly, as he so desires to, so by leaving a mark on your skin- it satisfied his possessiveness over you, your body. It was proof enough that you belonged to him, that you weren’t to be touched by other men.

Just as things become increasingly fervent, frenzied, fanatical, three gentle knocks on the door signal to you both that your time is up. Your mouths cease their movement, but neither of you go to move from your position on the bed, with Jimin’s chest pressed against yours, legs entangled carelessly. He sighs, pressing his forehead against yours and observing you through hooded, libidinous eyes.

“I don’t want you to marry him.”

“I don’t want to, either.”

The reality is tragic, but you’re both aware that there’s no choice in the matter. No easy way out. No running away. You just have to face this, meaning you will be married and he will be at the palace still, serving dinners and cleaning toilets.

Another knock at the door. “I won’t ever forget about you.”

The words must be a stab to Jimin’s chest as he holds his breath, digesting the situation of you with another man, thinking about him.

“This is too much.”

“You’re perfect, Park Jimin.”

“For you, I am.”

Nova enters abruptly, unaffected by the compromising position she finds you in and interrupting you mid-conversation. Jimin scrambles to his feet, offering you a hand as he pulls you up next to him, bowing his head to your handmaid.

“It’s 8, m’lady. We need to go to breakfast now.” Nova insists, somewhat apologetically.

“Yes, Nova, of course.” You blink rapidly, processing. Then you walk out of the room without looking back at his face, certain you will end up staying if you do. This way is better, this way you can remember him normal with you, gazing down at you hungrily with a venereal glint in his eye and a loving caress on your waist. It’s how you want your memories with Jimin to remain.

Nova escorts you downstairs, down past clusters of maids all frantically putting up decorations, watering plants, folding sheets, polishing, cleaning, dusting. It’s alive with a maniacal enthusiasm to prepare the palace for the Prince’s arrival over the next hour or so. He’s due mid-morning.

The breakfast room has been set up for a crowd you aren’t accommodating, as usual. The numerous platters of food bestrewn over the rich maroon tablecloth would fill an army, let alone three little royals sat so far away from each other they can barely hear another speak.

“Good morning mother, father.” You smile politely, biting back the despondency of parting with Jimin a meagre few moments ago.

The King grins expectantly, “A good morning indeed, Y/N.”

Your mother mimics his expression, “You look so incredibly beautiful. I knew that dress was worth the extra expense.” She continues to gush incessantly about her hardships unearthing the perfect tailor to craft your perfect gown, and how you should be abundantly grateful for all her hard work. You can only seem to manage a miserly nod of ‘appreciation’.

“The Prince is apparently the most attractive royal in Estrella, according to Lady Faye,” the Queen takes a polite sip of her morning beverage, “She says he’s an incredibly polite and handsome young man. The ideal suitor.” She seems to be grinning from ear to ear, but you can’t reciprocate. Not with the thought of your true illicit love hanging over your head like a guillotine.

“I shouldn’t expect any less for our Y/N.” Your father chimes.

“I think I’m finished.” You announce, sighing at the plate in front of you, barely touched.

“But you’ve not eaten.” Your mother squeals, peering over to see all the immaculate pastries and fruits surrounding you, untarnished by a greedy touch.

You wet your lower lip, “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re nervous is all, darling. You should eat.”

“I don’t think I could.” You get up from the seat, pulling out the chair as a server comes rushing over to hold it for you, “I think I’ll retire to my room until the prince arrives, if you’ll allow me.”

The Queen seems to think over your request, a little reluctant to see you leave so hastily before she can perpetually rattle on in your ear about the indefatigable advantages of a matrimony between two kingdoms. The first of it’s kind, she’d brag.

She pushes her lips to the side, “I don’t like you all alone in that stuffy bedroom. You can sit in the gardens until his arrival. The sun will be a blessing, you’re looking slightly pale.” Probably because you’re about to be married off to some foreign prince you’ve never met.

You bow your head respectfully, “Of course, mother. I’ll take a walk to the lake.”

“You haven’t very long before he arrives, don’t muddy the ends of your dress.”

Surprisingly, you’re genuinely thankful for your mother’s suggestion, even on a day she’s unrelentingly overlooking your wishes. The warm, mellow breeze outdoors lifts your mood ever so slightly and wallows up beneath your dress, wafting over the bare skin of your legs. It takes you to a place where life was much simpler, easier. Where you weren’t being forced to marry and you cared only of heedless frolicking in your pinafore and crying for Nova when you couldn’t reach the fruit on the King’s beloved blackberry bushes.

The lake ripples as the ducks sail through the lukewarm water like some picturesque vision only sought out in the depths of your most tranquil dreams, as though you’re in a sort of fictitious world. It’s always been that way; you know your life is beyond the imagination of most of the civilians inhabiting Lyra. Although they aren’t living in poverty, their lives will never come close to equalling the luxury and splendour of yours.

Suddenly, you feel something pinch at your shoulder as talons grate over your smooth flesh like needles. You feel Apollo’s beak nuzzle against your tied back hair, pulling some of the strands out of place in the process, nipping at the skin of your scalp. The small Phoenix has been living on these lands for centuries it seems, well before the palace was built. She is the one creature your parents permit to occupy this land, partly, however, because they wouldn’t know how to make her leave; she abides by her own rules. You slowly raise your hand to caress her oxblood wings, feathered with patches of vermilion and gold, creating a balayage resembling a flame.

“Hey Polly,” you coo, regretting not taking a pastry out from breakfast to feed her. She wobbles back and forth on your shoulder for a second, balancing herself before spreading her wings out and arching her neck backwards. She’s exquisite, truly. Her striking colours incite a blaze in anyone’s eyes, an unparalleled beauty.

The sudden ringing of bells, however, startle her, and she’s immediately off your shoulder and flying low across the lake, raking one talon through the water and frightening off all the ducks. You watch her shoot off into the sky before processing the sound ringing in your ears. The bells. The bells that signal an arrival. The Prince.

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