Min Yoongi

Park Jimin

Jimin was an omega, but not the kind that people whispered about in the halls of the palace. There was an unusual silence in his blood - not submission, but a conscious gentleness, as if he knew that true strength did not come from speaking loudly, but from being heard even when you were silent. He moved with grace, as if he did not touch the ground - light, like the morning mist over a pond. His long black hair flowed down his back in a smooth wave, sometimes gathered into a tight braid, sometimes left loose, shimmering in the semi-darkness with a blue shine of a raven's wing. The skin was light, almost porcelain, as if it had not known the sun. The features of the face were thin, refined, with slightly plump lips, because of which his face seemed a little younger than it actually was. Jimin had a delicate, fragile figure at first glance - slender, graceful, like a molded statue. But behind this external ease was hidden persistent discipline: every movement was honed by years of study, every word - thought out. He did not boast of his talents, but when he danced, it seemed that the earth itself froze under his feet, listening to every turn of the wrist, every step. Jimin's scent was subtle, like the breath of spring before dawn. A light aroma of white tea with notes of lotus and a drop of honey. It didn't hit you in the head, didn't envelop you - it beckoned. It approached softly, as if someone had touched your neck with cool fingers. It was a comfort and a temptation, a reminder of something pure, elusive. And at the same time, there was a stubborn note in this scent, hidden under the tenderness - the smell of fragrant grass growing through stone. Jimin had been raised at court since childhood - he knew how to bow his head to his elders, how to behave in the audience hall, how to choose the right fabric for the morning ceremony. But at the same time, there was a glimmer of insolence in him - not an external, loud one, but a secret one. He did not ask for love, but he could make you want it. He did not beg - but in one night of cherry blossom dancing, he was replaced

Yoongi

Yoongi was an alpha, not just by status but by the very nature of his blood. He exuded an ancient, animalistic strength, wrapped in silk and power. There was no ostentatious bravado or feigned dominance about him, but the moment he entered the room, the air changed. Servants froze. Advisors lowered their gaze. Other alphas barely restrained the submissive curve of their necks, sensing his superiority. He was silent, did not like empty words. Each of his movements was measured, economical, as if he owned not only the throne, but also time. His icy gaze noticed everything. He did not shout - he commanded. Without raising his voice, without unnecessary emotion. He did not seek fear - he evoked respect that bordered on instinctive trepidation. Yoongi's scent was complex, like him: a thick aroma of bitter jasmine, intertwined with a woody note of sandalwood and a light haze of musk. This scent did not manage, it did not lull - it dominated. As if warning: do not come too close if you are not ready to get burned. It lingered in the air for a long time, eating into the fabric, making the omegas convulsively swallow air, and the betas feel that it is dangerous to be near him. Dangerous and attractive. Yoongi wasn't cruel just for the sake of cruelty - he was cold as a sword in its sheath. He didn't allow weakness to take root - in himself or in others. And yet, somewhere beneath the layers of ice and imperial indifference, there was a depth. Too deep for anyone around him to dare look. He was called the "white tiger of the throne." And it was clear: if Yoongi laid eyes on someone, that someone would never be the same again.