Stigma Love's Algorithm [ A BTS x Reader Poly ]

Chapter 113: Motion, Emotion, Devotion

Jimin's POV

It's just past 10 p.m., and the rain has started again.

Soft, steady, hypnotic - tapping against the windows like it's composing background music for a slow-burning scene.

Somewhere else in the house, laughter drifts faintly through a cracked door, the scent of vanilla candles and Yoongi hyung's peppermint balm lingering in the air.

Tae's playlist is still floating lazily through the house speakers - soft jazz now, like we've entered the cozy end credits of a drama that doesn't want to end.

Wacha is curled into a perfect croissant on the velvet ottoman in the corner.

Yeontan is asleep under Tae's desk, little paws twitching as if he's chasing something in a dream.

Probably Wacha. She'd hate that.

Everyone else has peeled off into their nightly sanctuaries - cuddle puddles in the master bedroom, Joon hyung and Yoongi hyung debating data privacy over sleepy kisses, Y/N noona in Joon hyung's hoodie, legs tangled between them like she's claiming custody.

It's peaceful.
But not quiet.

Because in Tae's VR studio, something electric is happening.

It hums beneath the soft LED lighting, glows beneath the dual monitor screens and warm amber desk lamps.

It breathes between the scattered sketchpads, tangled headset cords, two half-eaten slices of peach pie, and a leftover makgeolli bottle neither of us is willing to admit we finished.

We've been working in this space for hours - like we have almost every night for weeks now.

Our own passion project - a full-scale immersive VR experience that blends interactive performance and dream-state environments.

A kind of emotional theater piece built for full-body storytelling.

Taehyung's vision.
My motion.
His brushstrokes, my bones.

Taehyung sits cross-legged on his chair like a big cat - lean and languid in a washed-out "Puppy Love" tee and plaid pajama pants.

His tablet is perched on his lap, stylus gliding fast and sharp across the screen.

His mouth is slightly open.
Brow furrowed. Focused.

He's got that face on. The "don't interrupt unless it's an emergency or you're bringing food" face.

But I interrupt anyway. Obviously.

"You know you look like a genius when you're like that," I say, stretching my arms above my head and arching my back, my crop sweatshirt riding up just enough to be noticed.

"All broody and tortured-artist. It's very... hot."

His hand stutters.
The stylus leaves a long, accidental streak of blue across the treetop he was shading.