summary: hybe publicly announces you and jungkook’s relationship, but you struggle with the extreme response from the ‘fans’.
word count: 2,210
content warnings: use of y/n, very brief mention of not eating due to busy schedule, y/n receiving threats and general cyber bullying, y/n is a cisgender woman who uses she/her pronouns, L-bomb, smoking jungkook mentions, fluffy fluff.
author’s note: my first piece of work!! 😞 please go easy on me im literally just a girl
The world was able to offer endless and bountiful amounts of information at anyone’s disposal to just about prepare for anything basically at one’s fingertips at any time — however, there didn’t seem to be a “Dating an Idol for Dummies” book anywhere (you did try looking for something of the sort on at least one occasion).
You were a freelance tour manager in the K-Pop industry for 4 years, having worked hard enough to get your phone number in manager’s phone book and eventually be the trusted name in the industry that was the first one to be uttered in Zoom calls and board meetings when idols touched the tarmac of American airports. You were diligent, efficient, sharp — yet still carried an air of warmth despite the daily stressors your occupation offered to you on a platter of gold.
It was one faithful day when the name “BTS” came across your desk. It wasn't like you hadn’t worked with the biggest names in the industry already, but they were easily the biggest on the planet. Sold out shows, high production value, concerts that went on for hours — you had naturally tuned into other tour shows when you weren’t working and could tell that the stressors surrounding a BTS tour would be uniquely special in the worst way possible. You couldn’t have been more correct.
Days went by without sleep. Countless amounts of biting your tongue not to curse yourself a storm at a backdrop being the wrong shade. Dumb amounts of occurrences of lost earpieces and jewelry. Yet, you still showed up as the competent, productive worker you were, never uttering a request without a ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.
Jungkook saw all of it.
All seven of the men were sweethearts (even Yoongi who you had assumed seemed a little standoffish initially, but was truly warm on the inside) and there was no interaction with them that was truly negative apart from a harsh word in moments of chaos or a click of the tongue in an exchange of words. However, Jungkook’s smile was always that little bit wider when you came into view. He attempted to speak English with you tirelessly to impress you, despite you having learned Korean and you tirelessly reminding him that you were fluent in his native tongue because it was a requirement of your job. You always attempted to carry an air of professionalism consistently, but Jungkook broke the persona effortlessly without much thought.
After a successful American tour, all of the production team arranged a small dinner with the BTS members to celebrate a fruitful tour and to thank everyone, but namely you. It was then that Jungkook really let loose and poured himself out to you — most of your conversations on tours were maximum three minutes at a time, a short “hi” or “how are you” while running helter-skelter — but this time, he had followed you out to the restaurant’s exterior for some air in the midst of the members and other production staff engaging in excruciatingly painful karaoke.
Between you stepping outside and the two cigarettes that Jungkook went through, you became hyper aware of the fact that you were falling for him hard.
He made it clear that he too had fallen for you.
So where does that leave you?
In bed crying?
The soft dark sheets seemingly cradled you, a small bunny plush in your grip, its brown ears mopping up your salty tears that fell incessantly. The rest of the apartment was eerily quiet and dark besides the sobs that wracked your body like a fever of sorrow that you couldn’t quite shake off and the soft glow of your phone screen.
BTS’ management had made the executive decision to make you and Jungkook’s relationship public — after months of him begging them to do so — and so the articles started rolling in since morning. Dispatch, Pop Crave, TMZ among countless other pop gossip pages and websites spread the news like the gospel. Of course, there was a chorus of people in support of your relationship — but whether or not it was louder than the hate, you weren’t sure.
Your Instagram and Twitter DMs became flooded with the most horrendous string of words and phrases you had ever seen in your life. You had been threatened endlessly, your baby pictures that had harmlessly been on your mother’s Facebook page became warped and edited with the most heinous things. Your comments (before you had limited them) were littered with fans egregiously slut shaming you, thousands of puking emojis, thousands more of poop emojis. Even as you laid there, hiccuping through your devastated sobs, your phone maintained its light with more and more notifications of hate rolling in. HYBE had already issued a warning threatening legal action, but it was of no use.
In that moment, as the saltiness of tears was the only thing your tongue could confess, your lip twisted into a quivering frown, the gentle fur of the toy in your grasp interrupted by wetness, your eyes burning and sore from unadulterated sorrow, the darkness in the room and the light of your mobile further drawing you into maddening misery — you were a shell of a woman. You had dealt with the most overindulgent music artists, been dealt harrowing words from your superiors, ran yourself on nothing but coffee and determination for 24 hours straight, but nothing seemed to come close to how awful you felt now. Your heart ached with an ache you had never previously felt before.
You had been so overcome by your own emotions that you missed the familiar melodic beeps that coincided with Jungkook’s arrival. He had rushed from dance practice, hurriedly packed away his damp sweat towel, looped the elastic of the dark face mask around his bejewelled ears while racing down the corridors, bundled himself into his arranged transportation with an air of urgency and insistence that pulled onto the threads of his heart urgently. However, now that he had set foot in your shared apartment, the young man had become eerily unsure.
He had spent most of his day scrolling through social media and running through his pack of cigarettes at an alarming pace. Jungkook was not new to this — he had been subjected to intense criticism from the most audacious rumors stemming from seemingly wearing something similar to another female idol, or even a small interaction with one that was so insignificant that he couldn’t even recall them if he were asked. This was different. you didn’t ask for this. You wanted to proudly be Jeon Jungkook’s partner, to freely post about your cute text messages, the gifts he showers you with — to be a normal couple. You didn’t ask to be in this shit storm that had been created. For that, he was devastated.
He had tried hopelessly to text and call you where his schedule allowed. The last time he had called you was that morning right before the news broke. You were elated. There was a sweet relief in your tone that was infectious and Jungkook couldn’t help but to succumb to its effects. It wasn't long after that you became unavailable, gradually distancing yourself with every comment, every message, every email that laid out just how disgusting you were, how you were unworthy of being in Jungkook's life.
The air in the apartment was thick with something that the singer could not describe. It was so stifling, he immediately shed himself of his mask, cap, boots and backpack at the front door. If he wasn’t nervous before, he was definitely anxious now. His socks padded along the wooden floorboards, barely making a peep, as he made his way to the bedroom. Just as he found the door ajar, the sound of your wrecked sobs was enough to stop him in his tracks for a long minute. He too needed to take the time to swallow down the lump in his throat that had seemingly formed out of nowhere. Nonetheless, this was his cross to carry and not yours. Nudging the door open with his foot, his eyebrows set a deep frown at the sight of your body, completely enveloped in the sheets, turned away from the door. You shook a little from the extent at which your weeps rippled through your person, so much so that you even missed his presence at the door.
It was only when you felt his arms wrap around you, the grieves of your voice became relieving.
He pressed his face into your neck, pressing the smallest pecks against your warm skin. His body was cold from the evening winds that had whipped around him, but it did wonders in beginning to anchor your body in what seemed to be lost and flailing in your despair. For what seemed like hours, his presence vouched for him in what all the words in the world could not say. His soft humming of a love song, his thumb stroking the back of your hand which still held onto your bunny plush, his soft, sweet caresses of his lips — they all dwindled your spiralling state into one of peace, reducing your previous weeping to residual hiccups and tear stained cheeks.
“It was all so.. bad,” you managed after some time. you still did not have the heart to turn around and face him. His humming had stopped as soon as you had opened your mouth, but his other calling ministrations continued, a nonverbal way of encouraging you to continue voicing your feelings. So, you did.
“It’s everywhere I look. It's like I can’t escape it and I feel like maybe I deserve it.” Towards the end of your sentence, your words got caught in your throat once again and fresh tears welled up in your eyes, shamelessly threatening to spill over. There was no better time to use his words.
“Did you burn down an orphanage?” He spoke simply. The comment, so bizarre and out of place, was enough to draw a small smile across your mouth. “Not quite,” you had quipped, almost incredulous of the sudden conversational detour. It was then you finally moved to face him, one hand raising to press against his clothed chest. You could see, even through the darkness, his facial expression softened at the dimmed sight of your face. Though there wasn’t much he could see, the moonlight through the window did enough to reflect the wetness of your eyelashes, the lightly colored streaks staining your skin, your eyes looking so fatigued and low. You’d been through hell and back within a day, and Jungkook wasn’t there to brave the flames along your side. Still, he couldn’t stop what he had started.
“Then why on earth would you deserve the shit they’re saying to you?” His voice had an edge to it — as if there was venom he was trying so desperately to keep at bay but was seeping to the surface despite his efforts. Your voice was lost on you, unable to gather the words that had been whirring in your brain nonstop for hours. Your gaze dropped, as if to be looking for the words in the bedsheets.
“Hey,” his voice smoothed. He raised his inked arm to your face, where his pointer finger tucked itself underneath your chin and forced you to raise your gaze to meet his own. His eyes were strong, stoic yet gentle, emphatic. “You’re perfect, Y/N. Everything about you. You're perfect for me and they don’t see that,” his voice whispered, and for a moment you think he might shed a tear from how unstable his voice became at the tail of his sentence.
“I’m sorry that you’re going through this alone. I know we wanted this but you didn’t sign up for… whatever this is.” The finger propping your chin upwards moved to the flesh of your cheek, lovingly tracing the trails of sadness. You found your head nodding, finally receiving what he was pouring into you. “We’re gonna sue every last one of those losers blowing your phone up, okay? The only thing….” A kiss on the cheek. “…that matters…” A kiss on the forehead. “…is me and you.” A kiss on the lips. By the end of his little monologue, a small smile had finally reappeared on your face. Jungkook couldn’t have been more grateful to return the color back into your vision.
“I love you,” you grinned. You finally moved in and pressed your lips against his, soft and gentle. Jungkook, however, was not going for that. He quickly deepened the kiss, with his other hand moving to cup the back of your neck. His lips moved slowly against yours, painfully unhurried, yet so deep he stole the breath from your mouth. His lip rings pressed into your own naked ones, bound to leave a temporary dent in the pink. He was staking his claim on you. It was a kiss that gave you all the reassurance the world could possibly muster for you. The rhythm he established was so pleasing, it drew a soft moan into his own mouth. After a stretched minute, he was the one to break the kiss and rest his forehead against yours, breathless.
