#tbh i do feel like short fiction is difficult for reasons of confinement but

[essektheylyss]

Okay, this book draft is not going as smoothly as fic does, natch, but I have finally gotten to a point where I'm able to identify which dominoes I've set up need to fall to make the ending come together, and that is such a goddamn relief.

[kernelmeow]

Diary of a Bodyguard: Client Safety and ‘Care’

Fandom: BTS (K-pop)

Characters: Park Jimin, Reader/Insert

Warnings: smut, sub!Jimin, fem!dom

Rating: NSFW

Word count: 9k +

Summary: Being a bodyguard, and a female one at that, was never going to be the easiest career path of choice. But when hired to ensure the protection and security of a touring k-pop boy band, it all seems worth it for one peculiar and unforgettable encounter.

A/N: It’s my BTS debut! Despite initial mixed feelings about this one-shot, I’ve overcome my personal conflict and decided to share this. Tbh I’m not 100% satisfied with the final draft; too many reasons to list, but there ARE elements I’m proud of. If I’ve learned anything from this drawn out process, it would be to STORYBOARD! I’ve since discovered the talented jeonjagiya and her ‘tips’ for aspiring writers - check her out! I really hope you guys enjoy this <3

Disclaimer: This work of fiction is written for entertainment purposes and is not a report of true events or an attempt to libel the persons represented.

The air is cool tonight; a precursor for autumns coming. It's enough to warrant a light blanket about your shoulders but decidedly, the windows remain open, preferring the fresh air. The evening has unfolded without expectations nor objective, free to indulge in relaxation and calm. By your design, these moments are fleeting however appreciated. You can't tolerate idleness, thriving on purpose and commitment. Beep. The personalise tone of your smart phone draws you from contemplation. Unlocking the device, an alert identifies an email occupying your inbox. It's work, and more importantly, it's marked 'urgent'. Arousing your intrigue, you proceed to read the emails content without further delay and soon discover that you've been nominated for an assignment. As you continue to peruse, you note information of particular importance; a select few from the agency, yourself included, would be an addition to the security detail touring across the country. If accepted, you'd be contracted for a month which was an unusually long period in comparison to other assignments. The email concludes with an expression of your presence being required immediately.

Well that doesn't leave much time, does it. With a simple phone call, you confirm your acceptance and receive flight information. The prospect of steady work was exactly what you needed. Discarding the phone on the bed, you rummage through your wardrobe and withdraw a suitcase from the confinements, and proceed to organise the essentials for a month away from home while wondering what the future might entail. Being a professional bodyguard provided the occasional thrilling story to share at gatherings.

This assignment would be no different than any other job, clientele typically being public figures, rich and powerful or both; businessmen, politicians and celebrities alike. During routine introductions, you could pinpoint the exact moment of scepticism which was both expected and ignored. This was a male dominated profession after all, and being anything but was distinguished as being everything but capable. You might possess the stature and exceed the standard requirements of the profession, but it wasn't enough to convince some otherwise. Yet, however tempted, you made no deliberate act to showcase physical prowess or allow ego to influence your actions. You completed each job, ensured the safety of your clients, and that ultimately mattered above all else, even if they didn't express gratitude for your service.

Most jobs were uneventful but occasionally, physical but minor intervention was required to deter an unwanted admirer or, and most commonly, the media. Displays of force were rare and the stereotypical 'brawn over brains' ideology is ill favoured. This isn't a Hollywood feature. A bodyguard is expected to have confidence, common-sense and good communication skills with their client and those involved in maintaining security. It's a common misconception that defensive training was the one and only prerequisite for this career path, and you've lost count how many times the awe exhibited by those who inquired and discovered otherwise.

It was still early days, having been in the profession a couple of years and thereby considered a novice. Eventually, given enough experience and a superior list of credentials, you would go private and work as a personal contractor, but until then you had enlisted at an agency and bodyguards were hired on a 'need be' basis. Contracts were generally short, anywhere from a couple of hours to a full day and sometimes a week at most, but generally no longer. But occasionally there was the odd contract that was for an extended period of time, and one such assignment had been appointment to you.

That's about it, looking over the packed case one last time. It'd be an early start tomorrow, and with that in mind, you ready for bed. The final, fleeting thoughts before sleep consumes consciousness, is that there was nothing else to worry about. Living alone did come with its perks; you could come and go as you pleased.

The venue is vast and situated in the heart of the metropolis, commanding attention of the area. Peering through the window of the taxi, your eyes travel up the advancing brim of the stadium, marvelling at the architectural feat. Must be drawing quite the crowd tonight. Your warm breath, traced with two necessary coffees, mists the glass, obstructing your view. You fall back into the seat, attention diverting to snippets of radio conversation. The event is drawing media coverage.

The bulking figure of the second agency representative sits beside you. Blake. Of all people, you're thankful he was chosen. He's fifty-something, family orientated and had been in the profession for over twenty years now. Ex-military and that's all he'd ever mention. He had been the most welcoming and non-judgemental. He never underestimated your abilities, allowing you to make mistakes and acknowledge and learn from them. He reminded you of that Australian actor; the one who played the grisly superhero. Only Blake wasn't grisly, not in the least, but he utilised his appearance to his advantage. People think twice about fucking with a guy who looked like him, but he was the biggest softy. Though bilingual, his linguistic skill couldn't offer assistance for this assignment, but he offered experience gained from working with a variety of clients. This assignment was nothing he hadn't done before.

Besides the carer choice you shared with Blake, there was one other thing for certain that you had in common: a thrill and desire for power and control; to be of service to someone in this capacity is an awesome feeling. Not long after entering this line of work did you realise that it reflected your personal life. Others at the agency had learned early on that you weren't a 'piece of ass' who thought she'd try dress-up for fun. It took one incident and one idiot for everyone to realise you intended on maintaining a tight separation between you personal life and work life, and that no one was going to succeed wooing you with such alpha tactics. It was laughable. Imagine their surprise should they know your preferences delved into different territories.

The taxi eases to a stop and you abandoned the thought. As Blake settles the costs, fully redeemable by the agency, you exit the vehicle. The contrast of the artificially heated air and fresh breeze is felt immediately. It was colder here, the city experiencing full blown autumn, and unconsciously you tug the collar of your jacket up to shield your neck. As you're inspecting the area, you feel Blake presence at your side.

“The cavalry has arrived,” he boasts enthusiastically.

You roll your eyes in response. “Oh yes. Very fearsome.”

“When you've seen what I have, two people can make a hell of a difference.” His reflective response was a testament to his wealth of knowledge and experience, and served to highlight your naivety, but you respected him nonetheless. “Come on. Let's get inside before my nipples erect.” And then he said something like that.

Flanked at his side, you match his pace with steel resolve and the cold forgotten.

On entry, you're welcomed by the facility manager and introduced to the tour manager and the head of security whom would coordinate alongside Blake and yourself. Blake, being a natural born leader and surpassing you in experience, was the agencies chosen representative and primary liaison between the facility staff and those who have hired the agencies service. It had taken time and understanding of this business to accept that you wouldn’t command respect without first earning it, and made all the more difficult to do so because of your sex. During your transition into the workplace, Blake had offered advise on the matter.

“Don’t let anyone, especially your client, see when shit gets to you,” he’d said. “That's a disadvantage you can't afford.”

Like much of Blake’s advice, you had adopted it if it meant bettering your service. With that in mind, you’re attentive, listening keenly and never straying to distraction.

An identification lanyard now hangs about your neck in addition to the uniform. The dress code was optional within reason but personal preference was dictated by the nature of the job. Foreseeing the long hours, you decided comfortability is a sensible choice. You're dressed in the standard company shirt, tucked into fitted cargo pants and finished with a belt and boots - cushioned insoles included. You favoured a tight pony tail and light makeup to refine a natural appearance. Blake and yourself are equipped with a two-way radio receiver; no dark shades, no suit. It's about practicality and sensibility.

Introductions conclude and swiftly eventuate to the next task of importance: a tour of the stadium lead under the guidance of the event security coordinator. It allows for the opportunity to familiarise yourselves with the environment and learn the layout of the venue, noting key areas such as the main entry and exit points, stairwells and bathrooms, and public and private access. Some areas are a maze of passages that you aim to commit to memory.

Local law enforcement will police the parameter of venue and surrounding areas to appropriately navigate traffic, while facility security will monitor the entrance booths and patrol the corridors and seating area. Private security, being Blake, yourself and the Korean security detail, would operate backstage for that was where the clientele would be situated. For this venue alone there were two scheduled concerts over two nights. Proceeding, there would be an additional recoup day before setting off for the next city and there the routine would repeat again.

While knowing the environment was just one aspect of the job, knowing your client was another. Would they listen and respect your judgement? Were they prone to risk taking or attention seeking behaviours? If so, they were more likely to draw attention, often adverse attention and that's when security was a necessity. Certain clientele were more notorious for such behaviour. You didn't believe in first impressions, hell, you were all too familiar with the misconception, but meeting your client for the first time gave you a sense for what you might expect of them. Intuition was a skill that would be refined in time.

The train of thought keeps you occupied during lunch. It was one of the few but appreciated perks at large events such as this – free food. While the time allowed, you check your phone and send replies to inquisitive friends and concerned family. Before you become too comfortable, the radio crackles and Blake's distorted voice sounds from your hip.

“Up and at it. We've got incoming.”

Taking the receiver in hand, you mumble, “They're early.” Taking another bite of your sandwich.

“And you're still sitting on your ass.” You pout at the device. His intuition was kinda scary.“You're still on your ass. East entrance. Now.”

You resist a mock salute, instead stuffing the remnants of the sandwich into your mouth and brushing the crumbs on your pants. Without further hesitation, you're marching to the destination.

Outside, security gathers and awaits the expected arrival. This entry was strategically separate from civilian access and allowed for the discrete arrival and exit of high profile visitors. A reinforced, automated but staffed security gate was the first check point that filtered entry. Cement barriers shield either side of the road to minimise civilian contact but as Blake points out, the secret entry isn’t so secret. Amused, you observe the small gathering of fans lining the erected barriers - a thriving hive of excitement. Fangirls and fanboys. They never failed to know when and where to be. Their dedication and sources commendable.

The buzz intensifies and you adjust your gaze to the road and observe a sleek, black limo inbound. Passing through the first security check, the limo gains entry and passes through a second check, navigating the road to the venue entrance. Faces indent the fence, peering to claim an advantaged view of the limo. The vehicle parks and the Korean security detail stiffen in attention. One of the doors open and as if on cue, the distant but unison scream announces your client's arrival, and there were few reasons for this particular type of hysteria and loyalty.

A boy-band.

One by one, the idols emerge from the vehicle and silently you count, brows raising a fraction when the number continues to exceed your expectations. When all the members are gathered, you've counted seven in total. Seven surprisingly attractive young men. They could be no more than a few years younger than yourself. They assess their surroundings and you watch as a mixture of curiosity and reservation play upon their delicate features. They're ushered along and the crowd ensures to showcase their undeterred enthusiasm, and like a protective shield, Blake, yourself and the other members of security escort the musicians inside.

Settled inside, the idols are addressed by the tour manager. The conversation is lost on you but the interpreter kindly shares information of importance. Before long, the interpreter steps forward and joins the conversation, gesturing to Blake and yourself. There is a moment of awe and some exclamation which is quickly attributed to the attention directed at your person, and it didn't take a genius to summaries the cause. Their reaction and naivety is too comical to even feel a mild sense of irritation toward the group of guppy-faced musicians. But without fault, you maintain the practiced poker-face, staring long and hard at them.

“Oh! She's so serious.”

“And looks so strong! Do you think she could lift me?”

“With those chicken legs, anyone could lift you.”

“Naw! You're so mean!”

They break into laughter, two shoving each other playfully. You restrain a smile, finding their exuberance contagious though ignorant of what was said. Their manager hushes them and the group simmers to a contained titter, and the discussion continues further interruption. You offer Blake a sidelong glance who smiles with understanding. Remain impassive to provocation, he had once said. This was unlike typical circumstance, but it was important for clients to understand the seriousness of your role and that you weren't easily influence by emotion and a damaged ego.

Time allows you to study each idol, one by one. The email had proved minimal detail on each member, but as personally expected, you had memorised all seven, and was able to select a member at random and assign name to face, even if you weren't confident about pronunciation. They exuded boyish charm and energised charisma, and combined with their youthful attraction was the perfect components for successful entertainers. But what of their talent? You imagine they sung and perhaps danced, but there needed a special ingredient to the mix. Inevitably, you would see in time and as if on cue, the interpreter mentions that they would proceed for practise.

Construction of the stage is near completed with minor adjustments being carried out by stage technicians. A large LED screen extends the stage anterior, flickering with random colour as staff ensure the interconnectivity of every panel. Metal beams raise above and across the foreground, outfitted with spot lights to capture the performance. The stage itself features a large rectangular platform from which a thin path extends from its center, pathing far across the green lawn and to end at a smaller platform. A fence, somewhat flimsy in appearance, surrounds the parameter of the stage and its extension; a meter in width would separate the compacted bodies from the stage and allow security to patrol the barrier, and camera-techs to capture the performance.

With a wardrobe change, the idols are ready for practise, guided by their stage choreographer who motions at different areas of the stage. Blake and yourself roam about the foreground, familiarising yourselves with the area you would spend a better part of the two days. Minimising interference with the group, you follow Blake as he inspects the fenced barrier, pointing out access onto the field, voicing comments aloud, more-so to himself, but you listen. He was thorough, nothing not worth his attention.

“What do you see?”

You regard him briefly, not surprised by the question, then you survey the environment, formulating a response.

“Low risk gig in my opinion. It’s a large venue but considering the demographic, attention will be focused on the performance. Stage-crashers are always a possibility but a minimal one at that.” Blake nods in agreement and you feel like you’ve successfully passed an informal test. “What’s the estimation of sales?”

“Surprisingly, ninety-thousand for the two nights.”

Those were good numbers. They were more popular than you'd given them credit, having not heard of the pop group before this assignment.

Blake spies your contemplative expression and asks, “What of them?”

Sparing a glance at the idols, you summaries your impression of the seven members since introductions and casual observation.

“Babysitting.”

Blake laughs, the arena enhancing his booming voice, briefly drawing attention to yourselves. Perhaps it was harsh and perhaps you were right, but it honest. You predicted that the dressing room wouldn't be trashed nor would you and others have to monitor inebriated persons. They were well mannered but no less enthusiastic and potentially prone to some mischief.

“I can see why you think that.” He grins. “They might surprise you.”

You snort, “I doubt that.”

He chuckles in response, entertained, and with laughter still rumbling in his chest, he retraces the path of the stage, skirting the main platform until you’re both backstage. He then mentions something about having to see to matter and instructs you to remain, throwing “Keep watch, Nanny” as he leaves.

Asshole, you think fondly.

True to his word, your attention trails the idols while monitoring the immediate area. They venture about the platform and extension, getting a sense for the area on which they'll perform. It's not exactly a riveting spectacle but remember that you're not being paid to be entertained. As they make their way back to the main platform, the stage choreographer barks a command which is answered with blaring stereo. The slow introduction of music piques your interest, casually observing as each member claims a position of the stage as the music gathers momentum. Then the beat drops and idols break into dance.

The hip-hop composition is fast-paced and memorised flawlessly, and the longer you watch, you note subtle variations in each members expression of style. They're good, you admit, really good. Impressed by the skill and choreography. As they disperse across the stage, you wander out from the sidelines to spectate. It just needed a sell-out audience to complete the picture. The music begins to ease only to transition into another song and more choreography. You were no dancer, but it rivalled everything you’d seen. The stage choreographer monitors the performance critically but seemingly satisfied.

This continues for a another four songs until the music lulls to a stop. They relax, dropping the staged composure to break into conversation, laughing heartily. The performance has certainty alleviated your bored disposition. As you observe the scene, flitting from one idol to another, you're caught by surprise to match gazes with one member. It's purely accidental, you're sure of that, but he doesn't shy away, holding the connection long enough for you to question his attention. However, the brief moment is severed when he's addresses by another idol.

You think nothing of it.

Rehearsal recommences and you continue to watch, loitering at the sidelines, but ignorant of a habit you quickly develop. You’d never considered yourself prone to distraction, but unconsciously, your gaze frequently strays to one particular member. It’s when you catch yourself, suddenly aware your gaze lingered unusually long and potentially risked being exposed for unwarranted attentions, is the habit realised. You're perplexed for the reason alludes you.

This new found distraction goes by the name: Park Jimin.

Though the encounter had been uneventful and meaningless, since chancing a brief but mutual connection between yourself and silver haired idol, you can't expel a growing curiosity toward him. The exchange was enough to capture your interest, so you indulge in the curiosity with hopes it might explain your gravitating gaze. Before, your attentions were without cause but now with new-found focus. You study the way he moves and intensity of expression as he dances. Perhaps you contemplated unnecessarily and studied too long, fostering a growing attraction, yet your mind wanders to dark places as your eyes unconsciously track his movement.

Get a hold of yourself, you chastise. It wouldn't do you any favours to indulge in such thoughts, especially while on the job and about a current client. Banishing the images, focus returns to the stage where rehearsal has since concluded and you're unexpectedly caught by the mutual attentions of said person. You’re ensnared by his gaze, provoking alarm at the blatant regard and find yourself shying away with an irrational fear that your thoughts are projected for him to know. With mustered composure, you casually cast your eyes around to portray casual but purposeful intention in being there, and hoping to ward off inadvertent attentions. When you gauge enough time has passed, but against better judgement, you chance a glance toward the group with intent to single out Jimin only to be caught off guard. He's expectant, a sly smirk playful upon his lips and you wretch away as if burned, heat colouring your face. Shit, silently cursing the indiscreet conduct.

Hushed conversation and smothered giggles prickle your ears and too often do you suspect eyes to palpate your ridged form. They are, thankfully, more discreet than your previous behaviour. You look anywhere but at the group and try to maintain a low profile, remaining out of sight and beyond the reach of prying eyes, allowing the wordless interaction to dissolve – hoping it will.

Blake returns with five minutes to spare before practise concludes. He doesn't comment on your changed demeanour. If it didn't compromise the assignment, he wouldn't ask questions, but his silence is provoking, if not more so than verbal inquiry. Internally, you're frazzled at having been so careless and so easily provoked. It was unlike you and that is what concerned you most. You had allow personal indulgence to interfere with work. It was a set-back but you'd mask the damage while repairing your professional persona.

As the sweat soaked idols are escorted to their dressing room, your attention stares pointedly ahead, resolute and refusing to give consequence of those whose gaze might drift your way in want of something. When the dressing door closes, concealing them behind its confinements, you sigh with relief, stoicism dropping. Blake observes the immediate change and while ignorant of what transpired in his absence to necessitate the hardened demeanour, he offers comfort in one of few ways he knows you'll accept.

“Coffee?”

You needn't consider his offer long before nodding in agreement.

Sinking into the couch that you'd befriend earlier, steam rises from the styrofoam cup of cheap coffee cradled between your hands. The couch shifts, Blake following your motive. Only silence exists between you. That was another quality you admired about Blake, he re-framed from making unnecessary small talk. The silence is comfortable and welcomed, and you absorb the quiet atmosphere and allow it to clear your mind, reclaiming peace within yourself.

Sometime later you're being nudged awake by Blake, having apparently dozed off. The slightest movement jars the crick in your neck and you grimace at the pain, grumbling complaints.

“Come on, off your ass.” And he offers his hand. You resist shooting him an irritated look, instead taking his hand and allowing his strength to haul you up.

With a series of stretches and carefully testing the movement of your neck, you're satisfied with manoeuvrability and give Blake a thumbs up.

The seven manned group has since been escorted backstage. The collective chanting of thousands of fans is all anyone can hear. Watching the idols as they're equipped with ear-pieces and microphones, you observe a mixture of churning nervousness and adrenaline fuelled excitement. There must be something about performing before thousands of people, you contemplate, that no matter how many times, you'd never get used to it. The group comes together and embrace each other, and you find that it's not just yourself that witnesses the scene fondly, silently wishing them the best.

The lights dim, the crowds hysteria explodes and the idols claim the stage under the darkened disguise. The darkness doesn't subdued the crowd only encouraging their echoing need. The music commences and the stage is illuminated with brilliant light, revealing seven stationary pop-idols commanding the undivided attentions of everyone within the vicinity.

Then it starts.

It was what you'd seen at practise and so much more. Was it their stage presence? The sharply styled clothing? Or maybe they were just really fucking talented? Whatever the mysterious equation, you see for the first time the sum of all those components: a successful boy-band.

Blake was right, you realise. You were if not more than surprised.

Throughout the concert, the idols dash backstage for impressively quick wardrobe changes, and on the first occasion you automatically turn away. Blake's amused by the considerate if not innocent gesture, his laughter barely audible over the combination of cheering and music. You resist shoving him but he can discern your desire to do so and it only provokes him to laugh harder. On the second occasion, you stubbornly refuse to turn your back, instead choosing to avert your eyes. Blake appears if not more entertained with this development, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. It proves challenging to purposefully ignore him while maintaining the privacy of the changing idols. Yet, try as you do, their frantic movement occupies your peripheral vision, and it takes just one slip.

Your gaze strays, like it had before, and the timing couldn't be worse. At least half the group is naked from the waist up, their sculpted torsos bear to the chilled night and wandering eyes. It wasn't on purpose, you swear, blaming a higher power for the unfortunate timing, but the damage is already done. Jimin is a vision of everything you never realised you desired. Though the lighting is poor, his lithe body is perfectly contoured, defining crafted muscle and holy shit those abs! Not only that, his pants appear insanely tight and you can only image it would take only a flex of muscle to reveal the toned thighs beneath. Sweat glistens upon his chest and neck, and your eyes follow the trail, even appreciating the damp locks. When your gaze meets his, you realise your repeated mistake. He knows your thoughts and you're afraid of what you've unconsciously let slip.

He disregards you so easily, resuming the task of changing clothes. You're acutely aware that he doesn't conduct himself with the same haste as his fellow band members, instead taking pleasure to leisurely indulge in dressing himself. As he pulls on a white singlet, unmistakably his hooded gaze shifts to you, as if to confirm your attention lingered still. Then with deliberately obvious intent, one hand grips the buckle of his belt, pulling at it suggestively to reveal more skin as the singlet is slowly lowered until his torso is eventually concealed.

In that moment, you're many things; perplexed, embarrassed, amused, and just a little turned on. Your mind is in a state of shutting down and rebooting that you can't possibility control your stunned, slack-jawed reaction. And Jimin, seemingly satisfied with the outcome, breaks a crooked smile, taunting you as he shrugs on the accompanying jacket to complete the outfit. It's enough to make you remember yourself, mouth snapping shut which causes him to snigger. How his little exhibition has transpired without notice is beyond you, quickly analysing the attentions of those nearby, yet miraculously it has. It remains a secret shared between yourselves. You return a steady gaze, a smile fighting to break free, so you cross your arms for good measure. He laughs again, the expression so delicate you don't know whether to hate it or love it. The moment is however, fleeting, his attention claimed by a member who clasps his shoulder and gestures to the stage.

With his ploy forgotten, Jimin jogs away along with the six other members. The elevated mood evaporates quickly but leaves a desire fostered by his actions. This was the first day for Christ sake!

The remainder of the night is uneventful, in one particular sense, but a success for the idols. The crowd roars with applause; thousands of fans crying simultaneously with joy and anguish at the concerts inevitable conclusion. The members provide one final bow, waving and throwing kisses to the audience as they withdraw backstage. Their manager intercepts them, gushing praise and the boys congratulate each other in a rowdy manner. Though what you thought matter, you're happy for them; they had earned it.

Jimin and yourself don't cross paths again that night. What's odd is that you take notice of that fact.

Minutes from midnight and comfortably settled into pyjamas, you sit cross-legged on the hotel bed, and it was a relatively nice hotel, you note appreciatively. Conveniently situated near the venue, it was but a five minute fare. The agency hadn't been too frugal with expenditures. The room divider, a pair of sliding doors, is open providing unrestricted view into the opposite room. Blake and yourself, like minded at times, are irrevocably attached to your phones. For the past ten minutes, you've persistently scrolled through Spotify in search of the familiar tones of the songs you've been repeatedly exposed to today. With each successful find, the song it added to your play-list and growing variety of music. All the while, you've unconsciously subjected Blake to the incessant skipping of music during your determined search.

“At least use your headphones.” He grumbles.

“You're welcome to close the door,” you reply dismissively. He glares but the non-verbal retaliation goes unnoticed as your attention never strays from the device in-hand.

“Do you want to coexist amicably these next few weeks?”

It's more so the tone than the question itself that successfully pries your eyes from their attachment to regard Blake. He stares dangerously with prospect of the repercussions should you not head his warning. The last thing you needed was to piss him off and warrant his wrath.

“Fine,” you drawl, muting the music. “I won't torture you unnecessarily with my music. So long as I get to smother you if I'm woken by your snoring.” You counter.

“Can't help that I snore,” he sniffs.

“Help it.”

He removes himself from the bed, all the while grumbling 'it's not my fault' and 'you started it' as he closes the sliding door.

“Goodnight!” you call, laughter colouring the expression.

With the negotiation concluded, you decided it best to follow suit and retire. The following morning, you take delight in goading Blake, reporting that you slept soundly and without disturbance. You cease his torture when he lunges for your phone.

You expected day two to play out much the same. Fully rested, you're prepared to bounce back into routine. Ahead of the bands arrival, Blake and yourself reviewed updates from the facility and tour manager. There were no issues reported from the night before. No security breached. All is well and was positively assured for the second and final night at this venue.

Blake wittingly assigns you to babysitting duty, payback for last night. Despite his best to rile you, and though you wouldn't admit it aloud, you can't deny the nervous flutter at the prospect of coming face to face with one particular idol in light of yesterdays incident. But such concerns are masked behind neutrality.

The stage had been substituted for a large rehearsal room. You overhear the commotion behind the door, the group expectantly enthusiastic. Really, there was no need for your presence within the room, but you needed to confirm they were all accounted. Perhaps overly formal but you choose to rap on the door before entering, the room quietening at the sound. You're meet with the inquisitive stares of all within.

“Hello!” One idol shouts, waving animatedly.

You’re taken back by the greeting. The idol in question possessed a sunny disposition, Hoseok, if you remembered correctly, and inwardly you warm to his friendly nature and offer a smile in return which serves to inspire to a winning grin, all cheeks and teeth that he boasts to his peers.

“See, she can smile.”

“Nobody said she couldn't smile.”

“Her eyes are expressive.”

“Yea, they express a special something for Jimin!”

The group explodes into laughter, evidently Jimin being the target of the fun as he’s affectionately jostled by the other members. The corner of his eyes pull in an attractive fashion, cheeks dimpling as he laughs along with them. You take caution during your observation, wanting to avoid a repeat of yesterday, but you acknowledge the difficulty of ignoring his person.

Without that thought occupying the back of your mind, you ascertain that all seven idols are accounted for.

Someone claps suddenly, jolting you from your fixed daze and quietening the rowdy group. He commands the attention of his peers, exhibiting leadership as he addresses the six youths. So he was the band front-man, you deduce, the smooth confidence of Namjoon radiating. His tone is affable, speaking with purpose but as their equal. When he concludes, he utilises a remote to commence the music. Everyone disperses, claiming formation across the buffed, wood floor to perceive themselves in the full length mirrors of the feature wall.

You needn't stay, reasonable that the room could - should - be guarded from outside, but gravity fastens you still, and you don't fight, compelled to remain by the unnameable force. Just five minutes, you lie.

The following hour consists of relentless rehearsing but the idols persevere with feats of stamina; their dedication unquestionable. They break twice, replenishing themselves with sports drinks while wiping away the accumulation of sweat. During the first interval, you observe with mild interest, as Jimin is cajoled by this friends, their influence obvious and insistent. He protests weakly, perhaps not overly opposed, but his demeanour expressing hesitance. The nature of the situation, you soon discover, is made apparent when under the influence of their incessant hands, he’s guided toward you. He swots at them impatiently but a smile never falters from his lips. He casts one last look back toward the group and they beckon him forward with words of encouragement and one final push. He utilises that momentum to carry him forward, and as he leaves the safeguard of the group, and all attention invests in the orchestrated union.

You sharpen as he approaches, guarded and critical. He's nervous, you perceive. Radically different to his conduct last night which was strategically hidden beneath stage confidence and an awareness of his physical attraction. He holds his chin defiantly, shoulders tight and square yet saunters with ease that might otherwise fool you. It's his eyes; they evoke innocent intrigue but nervousness. When he pauses before you, you can't help regard his actions with caution. He falters under the severity of your analysis, eyes retreating from your own, perhaps reconsidering the plot of his friends. But the momentary lapse is overcome when he presents to you a bottle of water, somehow concealed. You're shocked by his consideration, the gestured unexpected and sincere. The moment hinges on bated breath, all waiting in eager anticipation of what will happen. You move as if automated, accepting the offered drink, expression softening to betray a subtle smile and he swells with giddy happiness, ducking his head as he grins. He chances a final glance, catching your laughing eyes and flushes. He nods, a polite farewell, and retreats to the safety of the watchful six manned group, openly inquisitive of the exchange they instigated.

His return is met with cheers of triumph, as if he had achieved an incredible feat deserving praise and acknowledgement. It was comical and almost ridiculous, enough that you hide a chuckle before loosening the capped bottle. You take a generous gulp of the cool drink, ignorant of how thirsty you were until the liquid relieves the starvation of your throat, pooling coolly in the pit of your stomach. It was a satisfying sensation.

The heightened mood continues a minute longer and you observe as Jimin engages in whispered conversation, primarily with Namjoon. You can’t fathom the reasoning for their secrecy, but when they unanimously glance your way, you're expectant of another ploy in the making. Namjoon calls the other members to attention and they huddle together, heads lowered as they concoct their plan. Some giggle while others, they too, peek slyly from the sheltered cluster. When eventually they break apart, aligning themselves in preparation of what you perceive to continue rehearsal, what strikes you surprised is that instead of facing the mirrored wall, they face you. While you're acutely aware of the collective attention on your person, it's the attention of one that ultimately matters, and you can't fight the unnerving tickle of excitement and anticipation.

Namjoon holds the remote, poised to commence his shared plan and says, “He said this one is for you.”

You're struck surprised by his fluency, even more so by his meaning, but you don't question it, allowing them to show you. The introduction of a song begins to play and he pockets the remote. Jimin stars centre stage, eyes keen and pointed, a smirk playful upon his lips, resembling the cocky entertainer from last night.

With unison, they break into dance, immersed in the music and perfectly synced. Each movement of their bodies is influenced by emotion; a slave to the songs expression. You're mesmerised, unable to tear away from the performance. A private audience for one. You’re paralysed by their hypnotic movement and gyrating hips. What would presumably be a four minute routine seems longer and for that time, you've forgotten the purpose in being there, that anything existed beyond this realm of choreographed seduction. All that mattered was a growing and dangerous desire that darkened your eyes.

They simultaneously freeze, holding the struck positions. You blink, breaking the spell and finding yourself breathing again, and they too, drop the stance, overcome with exhaustion. It was deserving of an applause of thousands! Yet, in fear of yourself, you dare not move. But he waits, they all did, expectant of some expression or gesture of your approval. He need only a taste validation, enough for him to crave more. It need be something simple and not overly gratuitous. Then an idea strikes you and you must resist smirking.

Pushing from the wall, your heavy boots tread across the wooden floor. You're the epitome of composure and congratulate yourself on the mastered skill. With each step, Jimin's eyes marginally widen, the heighten thrill from his bold performance crumbling, and you saver his unravelling resolve. With precise imitation of his gesture, you present the water bottle, brow arching with silent challenge and perhaps a little condescension. He appears baffled, at a loss to your reasoning, yet still he accepts the presented gift, and it's not until you wink at him on turning away he realises you jest. The barest hint of a smile assures him of your appreciation and he’s left to ponder what has transpired as he's swarmed with eager question of the group.

Before a grin threatens to break from ear to ear, something motions by the door and on identifying Blake, you straighten in attentiveness. His gaze passes over you, interest resting on the clamouring idols. Almost obediently, you walk over to stand at his side, awaiting his acknowledgement.

“How things?” he asks.

You can't help regard him slyly, looking for a trace of the questions subtext, what ever it might be, but Blake hints to nothing, and you should've expected such. Deliberating an answer, you share Blake's regard of the chattering youths, summarising the events of the past hour. Jimin looks over, equipped with a dimpled grin and you find yourself biting you're cheek to suppress the betrayal of a smile.

Confident in you're ability to reply without fault, you reply, “Interesting.”

“Should I be concerned?”

Turning to him again, brows arching, you ask innocently, “About what?”

“That you and pretty boy were blatantly eye-fucking each other,” he replies, deadpanned.

“Harmless, I assure you.” Marking your heart with a cross, yet the sly smirk doesn't inspire confidence. Blake chuckles, a deep heart-felt sound, and shakes his head.

“Try to keep it in your pants.” And you feign injury at the connotation. But in honestly, he needn’t worry. It was all merely innocent fun.

It was time.

One by one the idols leave the confinements of the dressing room, exuding excitement and joviality. They're sharp and styled, a flare of make-up accentuating their fine features. High fashion models beware.

The manager leads the group, two security guards flanking the group, Blake and yourself leading the rear. The corridor is a congested highway of bodies; everyone rushing to ensure a flawless night, though they part to allow the group to pass without being detained. Your constantly on the lookout, a natural instinct; assessing and interpreting risks, not that you expected such but being cautious wasn't wasted effort.

It takes only a matter of minutes to get backstage, the area darkened and noisey. As the technicians are equipping concealable earpieces, you look from one member to another only to realise something.

Six? No, that can't be right, recounting the group. One, two, three...six. But the number adds up the same. Six idols minus one silver haired menace. You've got to be kidding me?! Nudging Blake, you draw his attention.

“We’re one short.” Jutting your chin toward the group. “Park Jimin is MIA.”

He frowns, seemingly sceptic until you watch the realised truth of your comment dawn on his face as he counts for himself.  

“How the fuck did this happen?” his tone interrogating.

“I don’t fucking know,” you hiss. “There were all present when we left.”

“You sure of that?”

That you were, having done a head count before the group had been escorted. Something had gone awry between then and now. The corridors had been chaotic; too many bodies crammed together. Something wasn't right, and you spare a look toward the idols who appear awfully amused and shrewd.

“Shit.” You mutter.

“What?”

“ I - no, it's nothing.” Voicing your suspicion wouldn't aid issue

“Nothing is no use right now,” Blake quips irritably. “Find him and make it quick.”

Your lips part, a defense prepped on your tongue, but you let your ego take the hit. So you nod and exit the stage. Once clear of the darkened environment, you break into a jog, swerving between the stage crew who still busy the corridors.

You can't say where he'd separated from the group but make for the bathroom along the way. Bursting through the door, an anonymous man screeches with surprise, compromised by the urinal.  

“Don't mind me,” you say distractedly, stalking into the bathroom. One by one, you push open each stall, waiting to meet the resistance of a locked door and hoping to find your missing idol, but your hand meets no such resistance, and the final door is swings open. Shit! That ruled out one area, and that questioned the next destination. Pivoting, you make for the exit, another apology thrown at the still shocked occupant who watches you leave with single-minded purpose.

Emotions coil in your stomach, threatening to expose themselves. You're pissed off, embarrassed, frustrated and concerned. Stalking to the destination, your pulse quickens, heightened by the building anticipation. You better be here! Throwing open the dressing room door, you march inside expecting the worse only to find the source your unnecessary stress, complacent and expecting.

Jimin sits before one of the mirrors, cast in the revealing light of the rectangular arranged globes, highlighting his flawless complexion. His attention diverts from the mobile in-hand, flickering to acknowledge the sudden interruption.

”Took you long enough.” He mumbles.

You're awash with sudden and unexpected relief. He's safe. But the emotion is fleeting, contested by confusion and growing irritation fostered by his lack of reactivity and indifference. He doesn't motion to move or attempt to express an explanation for why he's been found here when he's expected elsewhere. You're honestly confounded by the situation and it only serves to flame your simmering anger.

“Hey!” Aiming to command attention, but you're ignored and it furthers to dominate your surging irritation. “Jimin?” you press, but still nothing. Growling, you storm forward, patience exhausted. Grabbing the back of the chair, you swivel it around and it's occupant until you're face to face. He perceives you lazily and it succeeds to push you to breaking point. Fucking musicians.

Steadying your voice to a wavering calm, you do your best to speak reason.“You. Need. To. Go.” And gesture to the door, hoping he'll understand the improv. He regards the door and you again.

“No.”

You might not speak the language, but you're sure as hell know what a flat out refusal sounds like.

“That wasn't a suggestion.” Plucking the mobile from his hand and pocketing the device. You cross your arms, raised brows daring him to protest. “We're going. Now.” He maintains a leveled gaze and you meet is head-on, unyielding. This was one power-play he wouldn't win. He raises slowly, never wavering, but there is an immediate shift; attuned to an unspoken or gestured change in his character.

His shadowed eyes reflect an ambiguous intensity, and you're gripped by sudden transformation. Automatically, you assume the worst, that you've overstepped an undefined boundary and provoked him. But he doesn't lash out verbally and his physique doesn't suggest anger. Instead, his chin lifts, sudden like, as if to gesture a challenge.

Then, tentatively, his hand reaches out toward and you. Stunned, you watch the seemingly slow approaching hand, but at the last second grasp his wrist, halting further movement. You want to object to this, to whatever this game was, but words fail you, dying in your throat. And you know that your composure has since faltered, expressing perplexity, and Jimin preys on the vulnerability, persistent in his ploy. He steps closer, unbearably close, and your mind is screaming caution; the situations trajectory entering dangerous territory. Abort!  Yet, he continues without expressed objection on account of yourself, his unrestrained hand plucking the seam of your collar with feigned interest. His fingers trace the seam, gliding up and down with sensual purpose, coyly watching the conflict play upon your face – gauging for the moment his victory is assured.

“Jimin,” you hiss in warning.

He feigns ignorance, head tilting marginally, teeth catching his bottom lip and god-damn, you're doomed for eternity. Those fucking eyes, wanton and heavy and beckoning - how could you resist? And it's in that moment that Jimin fastens his grip on you, and caught within his carnal spell, you allow him to pull you down, capturing your lips.

It's gentle and soft, barely a kiss, and it's for the briefest moment when he inclines to pull way – reeling in the bait. Such a simple yet profound gesture for your undoing. You act on instinct, claiming what had been taunted. You claim his lips with no intention for gentle gestures. It's raw and hungry; everything that had accumulated to this point. Teeth on teeth clash in the domineering attack, mercilessly claiming those full lips and mouth hot.

But it's not enough.

Your hands, insistent and undisputed, guide him backwards, stumbling blindly past the chair and until the bench hits the back of his legs. Still you persist, urging him back and he catches the hint, propping himself onto the bench-top. He stares, eyes alive and thrilled, and oh, how you want to make him regret it. You want - want everything he has to offer, and he'll do so. He'll beg. Your hands hasten upon his hips, and with a swift tug, pull your pelvises flush against one another. A grin shapes those full lips and you crave them again.

The onslaught of tongue, lips and heat recommences, and you bite into that bottom lip that he had so shamelessly teased earlier. Greedy hands snake beneath his top, mapping and groping everything within reach, all the while devouring him with another kiss. He is all the right components of soft and hard – simply perfect. He gasps into your mouth as a thumb brushes a nipple, and your voracious appetite demands more, pinching the small mound and you're not disappointed.

“Is this what you want?” You whisper, releasing his mouth so that he may exclaim again, and he does. Through gritted teeth he whines, eyes squeezed shut, and its enough to satisfy you, if momentarily.

Delicate kisses trail his jaw, his neck, a balm to the nails that rack across his abdomen with aim to imprint and leave mark of your possession. A souvenir for him to remember you by.

“Have you found Park?”

The radio crackles at the cessation of the transmission and you pause your attack, attempting to process the question through the lustful haze.

“(Y/L/N)?”

You breathe a sigh of frustration against Jimin's neck, growing irritated by the continual disturbance. Inclining away, you pin Jimin with your heated gaze, and reply into the receiver.

“(Y/L/N) here. I've located Park.”

“What's the situation?” His voice unquestionably testy.

“The situation is...under control.” It was so fucking cliché but you can't resist smirking at the double entendre. To prove the point, you angle your hips down and Jimin whimpers.

“Then hurry your ass up,” he growls, ending the transmission.

Impatient asshole, discarding the device on the bench, perhaps too carelessly. Jimin, having regained some composure, quirks a brow in question of the brief conversation. Blake was right and you hate that he was. The concert was scheduled to start at anytime! Jimin, as if sensing the internal battle, wraps his legs about your waist, securing you. He fastens his fingers into your shirt, and tugs incessantly. You level him with a look, rationalising. Events have long exceeded the point of no return, doomed by your actions, and you consider no point to stop now.

Your thumb brushes his bottom lip, admiring its fullness from the abuse of your mouth. Then tilting his chin, you lean in to kiss him gently and slow. While he's distracted, a hand slides between your bodies and grasps the mound of his pants, earning a gasp. You massage and kneed the area, sweet sounds escaping between the breath of space between your mouths. His grip moves to your arms but you're not having that. Distantly thanking your defence training, swiftly his wrists are secured and panted against the mirror. He protests with a whine, but he'll have real reason to protest soon enough. With effortless ease, your unencumbered hand works diligently to unfasten the belt and then the button of his pants. Then with devilishly slow movement, the zipper is drawn down, prolonging the tension. Commando, you note approvingly, and claim your prize, revealing his stifled cock from the oh so tight confinement of his tight pants.

Pretty thing it was, flushed and perfectly girthed to fit comfortably within the grasp of your hand. Testing Jimin's arousal, you thumb the head of his cock, massaging the slit with precum, and he mewls. His expression is agony and pleasure, contorted beautifully; an instrument willingly submitted and at your behest. And glutinous for his pleads, you stroke him with precision to earn such exclamations. Hot, searing kisses mark his neck and jaw, feeling the erratic pulse of his jugular. He resists the hold, arms struggling weakly to wiggle free of the iron-clad hold. You smirk into his neck, relishing in the futile attempt, but reprimand the behaviour with a series of trailing bites for his disobedience. He whimpers into your ear, oh, and what a sweet sound it is. All the while you pump at his cock, fast and dirty – time is of the essence.

You know he's close. He pants feverishly, arching into you, legs straining about your waist. Come on, you urge, eyes keen on his face as you drink in the writhing of expression; pink lips parted and face wrought with pleasure. It was everything. Fastening your hold, the pace slows to controlled, lengthy strokes. He bucks into your hand, so naughty and eager, and then he reaches his peak. He cries out and conscious of the volume, you kiss him, swallowing every moan and exclamation of his orgasm. He spills over your hand but it only serves to fuel the task of maintaining the pace.

When he's milked of everything he possesses, you pull back slightly to appreciate the view. His slack expression is reward enough and you fondly brush his bangs. Now what to do with you? There's a box of tissues on the counter, and plucking a few you proceed to remove his essence while inspecting yourself. There could be no evidence of your conduct. However, on regarding Jimin, you grimace, noting the stained shirt and glistening perspiration. He meets the look lazily, still drunk on his high.

There was a rack of clothes and thankfully they're named. Selecting another top from Jimin's section, not quite a replica of the damage goods, but hopefully no one will notice the sudden wardrobe change. Returning to him, you offer the clothing and he takes it without question. Standing, he tucks himself away, unabashed as you watch. Then stripping off the shirt, you're gifted the chance to look upon him once again; the lighting in your favour this time. He's all too aware of his captivated audience and doesn't cower under the scrutiny. Lastly, he regards his reflection, patting away the sweat and brushing a hand through his hair. Satisfied, he turns to you, offering a soft smile, unperturbed by the events.

It’s difficult to reciprocate his ease.

He strides past toward the exit, and with his hand upon the door handle, he inclines his head in question when you don’t follow. Daunting realisation threatens to ruin your resolve. Fuck. You release a deep, long breath as he opens the door. The first foot forward marks the hastened facade you’ve constructed to make it through the remainder of the night. You trail behind him all the way, and Jimin’s conscious of your presence, feeling your eyes bore into his back.

Backstage, your bodies are swallowed by darkness and the energetic crowd chants eagerly. As you near the expectant group, Jimin stops and turns to address you and your breath stalls.

He steps closer and want you back-away, fearing the intimate interaction will draw attention. Worry creases your brow, hands bawled at your sides and if he notices, he doesn’t show. He radiates an unfathomable calm yet still maintaining a hint of that shy personality you’ve witnessed; much unlike his forward and seductive counterpart. He smiles again and it almost inspires confidence that maybe everything will be alright.

“Don’t worry, it’s our secret,” he says, and what you wouldn’t give to know what he said. “Wish me good luck!” And with a wink, he leaves.

You don't have time to consider the possibly of his words nor the incident before Blake is breathing down your neck, and demanding an explanation. It's easily avoided, casually throwing in the reminder that you're dealing with musicians, and he accepts the comment though evidently doubtful it’s the whole truth. Your focus returns to guarding tonight’s show and your secret. But as the show commences and a screams roar from the crowd, an unmistakable fact shadows your thoughts: you’re not nearly as guilty as you’d expect yourself to be, nor of the consequences if you’re inappropriate conduct becomes known. And in addition to that, there was still four weeks left of the tour...

End.