pairing - jjk x reader
contents - you met jeon jungkook eight months ago during rehearsals for an upcoming performance with your group, Bloom, and though you feel a tug coming from his direction, your management forbids anything from developing, so what, then, will happen when your groups are set to perform together at the upcoming MAMAs?
word count- 4.6k+ words
warnings - nothing tbh aside from eye fucking and cussing
The first direct rule given to you was simple. Do not be alone with him. Not because he was dangerous, because he wasn’t, not because you were dangerous, because you weren’t, but because the room changed when Jeon Jungkook walked in and apparently everyone with a paycheck from your company had noticed.
The second rule came after the first, hidden in prettier language, softened with phrases such as professional boundaries and brand alignment and fan perception risk. Your manager said it while scrolling through her tablet, her voice careful, diplomatic, almost bored.
No unnecessary physical contact, no off-camera closeness, no personal conversations where staff could not be present, no giving fans something they could possibly misunderstand. The last one made you laugh, which was a mistake as your manager immediately looked up at you. You stopped laughing then.
Because fans did not misunderstand, not really. They noticed, compiled, slowed footage down to half speed and circled hand placements in red. They made timelines out of blinks. They caught glances even when you swore you hadn’t given any.
And Jungkook? God. Jungkook looked at you like he had never learned how not to.
You had met him eight months prior in Los Angeles, in a rehearsal room that smelled like floor polish, iced coffee, and expensive perfumes. BTS had been there for a private industry showcase. Bloom had been flown in too, still riding the strange, dizzying momentum of being called ‘global’ by every magazine that wanted to make your existence cleaner than it was.
Global was polished and strategic, good for the numbers and the wallet.
It did not sound like five girls from five different countries crying in airport bathrooms, memorizing choreography until five am and waking up three hours later, arguing over who had stolen whose setting powder, and smiling through interviews where people asked you to represent entire continents before you had even eaten breakfast.
You were Bloom’s leader, which meant you were the one who answered when no one else knew what to say.
You were the one who corrected pronunciation, soothed nerves, translated when needed, lied when necessary.
It meant that when your youngest member missed her mother so badly she couldn’t sing, you sat on the bathroom floor with her until her mascara dried. It meant that when your oldest member got called intimidating by a producer who was too scared to call her talented, you smiled with teeth and asked him to repeat himself.
It meant you always entered rooms first. Always.
That day in L.A, you entered the rehearsal room first, too.
And Jungkook had been sitting on the floor with one knee bent, hair damp from practice, oversized black t-shirt clinging slightly at his collar. He had looked up when you walked in.
Not at Bloom, or the stylists trialing you, or the staff holding different clipboards and tablets like holy documents.
He looked at you. For one unbearable second, his expression went still, and then his mouth curved. Small and private and almost rude with how quiet it was. You stared back because you were taught that leaders didn’t flinch.
He had said, in English, “you’re the leader?”
“You sound surprised,” you replied with a lifted brow.
His smile widened. “No, it just makes sense.”
It shouldn’t have been anything but a polite comment, a passing exchange between two people who understood exactly how many cameras existed in the room and in the world. But something about the way he said it rooted under your skin.
So you tilted your head. “And you’re Jungkook.”
He pressed a hand to his chest, exaggeratedly wounded. “Only Jungkook?”
You looked over him once, slow enough to be a problem but quick enough to deny it if asked. “Should I add something?”
His tongue poked the inside of his cheek. One of your members made a strangled noise behind you, and behind him, Jimin started laughing. That was the beginning. Not of anything real, or anything that was important.
There was no beginning of anything real between idols like you and Jungkook. There were no movie montages, no midnight walks, no holding hands across tables in restaurants. There were no soft-launch Instagram posts, no casual mentions in interviews, no “we met naturally and fell in love” explanations that would not detonate both of your careers on impact.
There was only accidental eye contact across rehearsal rooms, messages left unread for hours because responding too fast felt dangerous, inside jokes spoken through microphones while managers stood ten feet away… A friendship everyone pretended was normal because pretending was easier than admitting. Besides, you were good at pretending, you’d built an entire career out of it.
Tonight, though, pretending felt harder.
Because MAMA rehearsals were running late, your feet ached, your hair was coming loose from its painfully perfect ponytail, and Jungkook was standing across the studio in a black beanie, watching you lead Bloom through the transition into BTS’s formation.
Maybe watching was too gentle of a word. He was studying you. Your reflection caught his in the mirror, and you looked away first like a coward.
“Again from the top,” you called, clapping twice.
A chorus of groans came from your members.
“No complaining,” you said automatically.
Mina, who’d been born and raised in Korea and had, for some reason, never feared consequences in her life, threw her head back. “Our beloved leader’s trying to kill us.”
“I’m trying to make our work cohesive,” you argued.
“We already look cohesive.”
“You look sweaty,” You smirked.
“I look hot sweaty, try again.” She said with a kiss blown your way. You caught it, crushed it in your fist, and flipped her off through the mirror.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Jungkook laugh.
Your stomach did something humiliating as the track restarted.
The choreography for the collaboration stage was ambitious in the way entertainment companies loved: dramatic, slightly impractical, clearly designed to become viral within twenty minutes of airing. Bloom opened the performance with sharp and clean formation work influenced by each of your backgrounds– hip hop, contemporary, dancehall, even flashes of traditional movement your choreographer had carefully woven in after weeks of conversations with all of you.
BTS would enter halfway through.
Jungkook’s part crossed directly behind yours, and that was a problem.
You had known it when they first showed you the blocking. Your manager had known it too, because her face had done that awful neutral thing people did when they were screaming internally.
Jungkook passed behind you on the count of six.
Your shoulder dipped, his hand never touched your waist, it only hovered near it. That was the choreography, that was the excuse, that was the actual nightmare.
Because every time he moved behind you, your body knew he was there before your mind could catch up. Heat at your back, the shift of air, the faint scent of detergent and skin and whatever fucking cologne he was wearing that made you want to commit several stupid, career-ending decisions.
You hit the next move too hard.
“Careful,” Jungkook murmured behind you.
You did not turn around. “I’m careful.”
“No,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear over the music. “You’re frustrated.”
Your jaw tightened as his laugh brushed against the back of your neck. You missed half a count just barely, almost no one noticed.
When the music finally cut, the choreographer called for a water break. Your members scattered immediately, some collapsing against the wall, some checking their phones, one filming a dramatic fake death on the floor for behind-the-scenes content that would absolutely never be approved.
You went for your water bottle near the speakers, grateful for something to do with your hands.
Jungkook got there first. He picked it up and held it out for you. A simple enough gesture. Still, your manager’s head followed the movement from across the room.
You saw it, and Jungkook saw you see it. His smile faded slightly.
You took the water bottle without letting your fingers brush his. “Thanks.”
“Wow,” he said softly. “So formal.”
You unscrewed the cap, shaking your head at him. “Would you prefer I bow?”
“Maybe.”
You gave him a look and his eyes brightened.
“A little one,” he added.
“You’re annoying.”
“You once told me I was charming.”
“I’ve matured.”
“In eight months?” He laughed.
You shrugged at him, taking a deep swig of water.
He leaned one shoulder against the mirrored wall, still breathing hard from practice. Sweat darkened the hair near his temple. His cheeks were flushed, and it made him look younger and more dangerous at the same time. Like he could just grin his way through a locked door or a heart.
“You disappeared after the Grammy rehearsals.”
You continued to drink your water, which was a terrible choice because it gave you too much time to think and not enough to breathe. “I’ve been working,” you tell him finally.
He nods, unconvinced. “So, if you’re working, you’re never anywhere else? Ever?”
“Typically when I’m working, I’m working. So, yes.”
His smile twitched, and then faded as he watched you. Flirty Jungkook was easy. Teasing Jungkook was manageable. You could parry him, roll your eyes and simply walk away and pretend like your pulse was normal. Quiet Jungkook made everything more complicated.
He looked down at the floor between you, then back up. “Did I do something wrong? During those rehearsals, I mean. I thought we were getting along.”
The thing you hated most about him settled heavy between the two of you. His sincerity. You wished he had more ego, it would have been so much easier if he were arrogant in the way people expected him to be. If he acted like his attention was a gift, or if he flirted because he knew you would blush and not because something in him actually softened when you walked into a room.
You looked towards your members.
Mina was laughing with Taehyung over something on her phone. Your youngest, Hana, was speaking shy Korean with Namjoon, who listened with his whole body like he had nowhere else in the world to be. Lila, the middle child, bickered with Jimin over contemporary dance. Staff lingered nearby, watching all of you.
Always watching.
You lowered your voice, “No.”
Jungkook’s brows drew in, “That’s hardly an answer.”
“It is an answer, though.”
“A bad one.”
You laughed once, but it came out brittle. “You’re such a brat.”
“You don’t like that?”
Your eyes cut to his, and there it was again. A little spark. A terrible little thread between you that neither company had managed to cut, no matter how many rules they printed or whispered in hushed tones.
For a second, you let yourself look at him. Really look. You looked at the tiny scar on his cheek, the silver hoops in his ears, the way his gaze flicked down to your mouth and back up so quickly that anyone else might have missed it even if you did not.
You didn’t miss it at all, which was the whole problem. “You can’t say things like that,” you said.
His face changed, not dramatically, Jungkook was far too trained for that. You both were. But his expression lost some of its warmth, like someone had dimmed a light behind his eyes.
“Right. Okay.”
Your throat tightened at the clipped words. You hated them, hated how small they sounded. Hated that you put them there.
“Jungkook–”
“No, I know.” He nodded once, glancing towards the staff. “Rules.”
You should have let his words sit there. You should have accepted a clean exit. Instead, because apparently you hated yourself, you said, “it’s not just rules.”
His attention returned to you so fast it was painful. “No?”
“No.”
The studio felt louder suddenly, even though no music was playing. Sneakers squeaked, someone laughed, a manager coughed. The hallway outside of the room leaked in other noises, too, other rehearsals, other idols, other perfectly controlled disasters.
You gripped your water bottle. “You know what happens,” you said. “If people think there’s something.”
He looked at you for a long moment before asking quietly, “is there?”
The answer had been there for months, sitting between your ribs like a bruise you kept prodding just to see if it still hurt, yet your heart dropped anyway. You looked away, and Jungkook laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it.
“Okay.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he shook his head, smiling even though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You said ‘okay’ like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I just hurt your feelings.”
His eyes sharpened slightly. “Didn’t you?”
The room tilted and you wanted to snap back. You wanted to tell him he did not get to put that on you, not when both of you had signed contracts longer than some marriages, not when Bloom was still fighting to be taken seriously, not when one wrong rumor could turn your leadership into selfishness and your ambition into betrayal. You also wanted to tell him you were tired.
Tired of filtering yourself, tired of smiling when interviewers asked whether Bloom’s “diverse concept” made it harder for you to be a unit, as if friendship was only believable when everyone came from the same place. Tired of being responsible, tired of wanting one thing that belonged only to you.
But Jungkook was looking at you like he would listen to all of it, and that was dangerous too, so you swallowed it all down. “I’m trying not to.”
His face softened, a little devastation still present, before he nodded. “Yeah, me too.”
The choreographer clapped from across the room. “Five minutes! Back to positions!”
The spell broke. You turned away first because that was what leaders did, they moved forward and set the tone. They did not fall apart beside barres and walls while one of the most beloved idols in the world looked at them like there was an inkling of possibility lying between them.
You took your place at the center, and Bloom formed behind you. BTS moved into position around you. Jungkook came to stand at your back again, close enough for choreo, far enough for rules. In the mirror, your eyes met his that were now cloaked in professionalism, calm and unreachable. It should have been a relief, it should have helped you, but it didn’t.
The music started and you hit the first count perfectly. So did he.
That was the cruelest part of it all, and the most beautiful. You were always best when you were pretending nothing was hurting.
By the third run-thorugh, your body has stopped feeling like yours. It belonged to the counts, the holds, the drops, the turns, the looks.
You made an effort not to look at Jungkook again. It wasn’t written in the choreography, obviously. No choreographer in their right mind would write do not look directly at Jeon Jungkook unless you are prepared to ruin your own life beside the formations.
But it might as well have been there, honestly.
Because every camera in the practice room seemed to find the two of you. Every staff member seemed vaguely aware of the invisible string between the two of you. Every reflective surface was another traitor waiting to catch your eyes drifting where they really shouldn’t. And Jungkook was being good now. He did not tease, did not murmur anything under his breath when he passed behind you, did not hover by your water bottle, did not throw secret smiles your way in the mirror, did not make some quiet, stupid joke just to see if he could crack a smile on your face.
He did everything right and was professional and distant. And you hated him for it, almost as much as you hated yourself for wanting him to stop.
“Again,” the choreographer called. “Bloom, sharper on the second transition. BTS, give them more space on the cross. Jungkook, watch the distance behind YN.”
Your spine went tight as Jungkook nodded. “Yes.”
Your mouth pressed into a tight little line, and Mina, stationed just behind your right shoulder, leaned in close enough that her ponytail brushed your arm.
“You’re doing that thing,” she whispered.
You didn’t move your eyes from the mirror. “What thing?”
“The murder face thing.”
“I’m focused.”
“Totally. Super focused and not at all planning an assassination.”
“I’m the leader. That’s part of my charisma.”
“More like emotional constipation.”
You almost laughed, but Jungkook shifted behind you, stepping into position, and whatever humor had tried to climb its way up your throat died a pathetic little death.
Mina followed your gaze in the mirror, and her expression softened in that annoying way friends had when they knew too much and could do nothing about it. “Ah,” she mumbled, “So it’s that thing.”
“There’s no thing,” you hissed through the side of your mouth.
“Girl–”
“Mina.”
“Respectfully, you and that man have been eye-fucking in 4k since Los Angeles.”
You whipped your head toward her. “Mina.”
She smiled brightly, all innocence, then snapped back into position as the music started up once again. You missed your entrance by half a breath. It wasn’t visible or badly, but you felt it and Jungkook did too. His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror, and that was all it took to tap a little crack in the carefully built wall.
His gaze dropped away again, and the absence of it sat against your chest like a dumbbell. You danced harder, possibly too hard.
There was a vicious satisfaction in pushing your body past the point of elegance. In letting the ache behind your ribs sharpen the feeling into movement. You hit the floorwork like it owed you money. Snapped your head so cleanly on the turn that one of the assistant choreographers actually muttered, “Oh, wow.”
Good. Fine. Let them see leader YN.
Let them see Bloom’s anchor. The girl who could switch from English to Korean mid-sentence without blinking. The girl who could carry questions for five people in interviews and still smile when they asked something insulting. The girl who knew how to bow, how to laugh, how to soften her accent when needed, how to straighten her shoulders when some executive talked too much about marketability. Let them see everything except the one thing you were failing to kill.
The music cut on the final pose. Silence slammed down afterwards as applause filtered in from separate corners of the room.
“Better,” the choreographer said, nodding. “Much better. Take ten. Then we’ll run it with the cameras for the behind-the-scenes content.”
Your members collapsed immediately while you stayed standing. Your lungs burned, your knees trembled faintly. Sweat had slipped down the side of your neck and beneath the collar of your cropped rehearsal top. You lifted a hand to wipe it away, but before you could, a towel appeared in front of you.
Black, folded once, held by a tattooed hand. You stared at it.
Do not be alone with him. No unnecessary physical contact. No personal conversations where staff could not be present. No giving fans something to misunderstand.
A towel, arguably, was not personal, or a confession. A towel was fabric.
Your life had become so absurd you could laugh. You took the towel, and this time your fingers touched, just barely. A brush, a spark, a crime scene. Jungkook stared at your hand like he felt it too.
“You’re pushing too hard,” he said quietly as he let go of the towel.
You dabbed the towel against your neck and gave him your prettiest, coldest smile. “Thanks, coach.”
His jaw flexed. Mina, from the floor, suddenly became very interested in stretching. Across the room, Namjoon looked over with a cautious expression.
Jungkook stepped closer by half an inch. It was still technically appropriate, still public, and still enough to make your entire body pay attention.
“You have got to stop doing that.”
Your smile stayed in place. “Doing what?”
“Turning everything into a joke when you’re upset.”
“Better than wallowing in misery.”
His eyes held yours and his voice dropped. “Are you sure?”
Your stomach twisted and you looked away, first again. You hated that pattern. Hated that he asked questions like both of you weren’t surrounded by people whose job it was to make sure your lives remained profitable and uncomplicated.
“You don’t get to do that.” You said.
“What?”
“Act like I’m the only one choosing this.”
His expression shifted, a flash of hurt, there and gone. “I’m not.”
“You are,” you laughed.
“I’m standing right here.”
“That’s not the same thing. You know it’s not.” The words slipped from your lips softer than you’d meant for them to.
Jungkook glanced past you, toward the line of managers pretending not to monitor every breath, then he looked back. “No,” he said. “It is not.”
For a second, neither of you said anything else. The practice room continued moving around you. Staff adjusted the cameras and someone laughed near the speakers. One of the BTS members, probably Hoseok, said something that made Jimin nearly choke on his water. Hana layed flat on her back timed her own death.
Normal and easy things. Things that, realistically, should have pulled you back into yourself. They didn’t, though.
Because Jungkook was still watching you with that unfair, unbearable softness. Like he understood that you were not angry because you didn’t want him, but that you were angry because you did. Too much. At the wrong time, in the wrong industry, under the wrong lights.
He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. “Do you want me to stop?”
Your fingers tightened around the towel. You knew exactly what he meant. Not the choreography, or the teasing, or the almosts. All of it.
The looking and waiting and finding you in every room. The way his smile changed when aimed your direction. The messages that never said enough to be dangerous but said too much to be considered harmless.
You could say yes. You could absolutely say yes. It would be kind, probably. Clean and mature. The responsible and leader thing. Yet your throat closed heavily around the word. Jungkook watched your silence register. He nodded once, slow and wounded in a way that made your chest ache.
“Okay.”
“You keep saying that,” you whispered.
“Well, you keep not answering.”
Your eyes burned, which only made you more furious.
“You want an answer?” you asked, still quiet.
“Yes.” He replied with a sharp gaze.
“No.”
Jungkook went still the same second you did.
The room didn’t stop, but it felt like it should have. Something catastrophic had happened. You had said one small world in a rehearsal room full of people, and somehow it felt like glass cracking underfoot.
His lips parted slightly. You looked down, panic blooming hot in your chest.
“I mean–”
“No,” he repeated softly.
Your cheeks burned. “Don’t.”
His voice was almost nothing. “You don’t want me to stop?”
You closed your eyes for a second. Coward, coward, coward. When you opened them, he was closer than before, but still not close enough for anyone to scold. Close enough, though, that you could see the sweat caught along his collarbone. The chain around his neck. The way his breathing had changed.
“I don’t know what I want,” you lied.
Jungkook’s face softened and it offered you a tiny mercy. He knew you were lying, but he let it rest between you all the same.
“Okay,” he said again, but it sounded different.
Your manager called your name, too sharp and timed. You stepped back immediately, and Jungkook did too. The towel remained in your hands as your manager approached with a smile that did not touch her eyes.
“YN,” she said in English because it made reprimands sound less public in this room. “Camera blocking is next. We need to discuss your center mark for the bridge.”
You nodded. “Sure.”
Her gaze flicked to the towel, then to Jungkook, and then back to you. “I’ll take that.”
For one wild, childish second, you wanted to outright refuse. It was a towel. A towel. But it had touched his hand before yours, and apparently that was enough to make you pathetic or sullied.
You handed it over, watched as your manager folded it once, then tucked it under her arm like evidence. “Come,” she said.
You followed, because that is what you did. You followed rules even when you hated them. You protected the group even when it meant cutting pieces out of yourself. You put Bloom first, always, because the girls trusted you. Because the company trusted you. Because every interview called you a leader like it was an honor instead of a beautifully constructed cage.
At the monitor, the assistant director replayed the last run-through.
You watched yourself on screen and smiled at how untouchable you looked. Jungkook moved behind you like a shadow with restraint. His hand hovered near your waist, never landing. On camera, it looked intimate anyway. That was the trouble with almost-touching, sometimes it looked worse. The assistant director paused the frame and your manager sighed through her nose.
“Here,” she said carefully. “This is too close.”
The choreographer leaned in. “It’s the formation.”
“We need to adjust it.”
“It will affect the transition.”
“Then affect it.”
Your stomach sank, from the other side of the monitor, BTS’s staff had gone quiet too. Jungkook stood several feet away, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable.
The choreographer pulled back the footage and paused again. There you were, frozen on screen, your back arched into the move. Jungkook behind you, eyes angled down, hand suspended near your hip like he was holding himself back from touching something holy or forbidden or both.
Someone cleared their throat.
Your manager said “fans will slow this down.”
No one argued because everyone knew she was right. The room seemed to shrink around you. A strange humiliation crawled up your neck, not because you or Jungkook had done anything wrong, but because desire, even buried beneath clean choreography and professional distance, had apparently found a way to show its face.
You looked at Jungkook and found him already looking at you.
Not flirty now, or playful. This was something else. Something unnervingly close to being sorry.
The choreographer sighed. “We can move Jungkook two counts later. Have him cross behind Taehyung instead.”
Your manager nodded immediately. “Better.”
Something inside you dropped and you felt ridiculous for it. It was choreography, it should have been a relief to not have his hand hovering near your waist. Instead, it felt like being erased from the only place where you were allowed to almost have him.
Jungkook’s face did not change. “Fine,” he said.
You wanted to scream as the choreographer clapped. “Okay, reset positions. We’ll try the new blocking.”
Everyone moved and you moved with them. The shape of the entirety of the room changed around you. Jungkook no longer stood behind you. Taehyung did instead, kind and easy and so unaware of the way your throat tightened when the music started again. Jungkook crossed behind him, not you. The choreography worked, but it looked cleaner, less dangerous.
Your manager watched the monitor with visible relief. And you, Bloom’s leader, America’s polished export, the girl trained to carry herself like no one could touch her, danced like nothing had been taken from you. In the mirror, for just one second, Jungkook’s eyes met yours from the wrong side of the formation. Too far away and somehow too close.
You didn’t miss his hand near your waist, necessarily, but you missed the restraint. You missed knowing he was close enough to want you and disciplined enough not to ruin you, which was, undoubtedly, the saddest thing you had ever wanted from anyone.
summary: looking for a decent job, you stumbled upon jungkook’s job posting on instagram, what could go wrong?
warnings: playfuldom!jungkook x fem reader, explicit sexual content, clit rubbing, pussy eating, edging, spitting, degradation, dirty talk, multiple positions, detailed smut, jk is very playful in a degrading way, oral sex, camera sex, pussy slapping, choking, praising, usage of slut, cum eating, marking, multiple orgasms, rough sex, crying, overstimulation, fingering, nipple spitting, penetrative sex, creampie.
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“How about being a barista again? There’s a job opening at Moonlit Cafe down the street,” Hari suggested while you sat hunched over your laptop, endlessly browsing through job postings.
You were still a student, graduating next year with bills clawing at your throat. When college started, you wanted independence so badly it ached beneath your skin. An apartment near the university. Your own keys. Your own groceries. Your own life.
Your parents had offered to cover everything without hesitation, gentle and loving as always, but guilt settled heavily in your chest whenever you thought about it. They were already paying your tuition fees. You wanted them to live comfortably too, without worrying about whether their daughter had enough money for rent or food. So you smiled and told them not to worry, drained your savings account for the apartment, and picked up multiple part-time jobs just to prove to yourself that you could survive on your own.
And for a while, you did.
The first two years of college went smoothly enough. You found decent jobs, saved enough money to live comfortably, and even bought yourself a flat-screen TV after months of careful budgeting. Your days blurred into exhausting routines—classes in the morning, shifts at the coffee shop at night, and weekends spent organizing shelves as a bookstore assistant.
You were tired all the time, but it was a satisfying kind of tired. The kind that made you feel accomplished.
Independent. Adult.
Until the coffee shop let you go.
Budget cuts, they said apologetically, avoiding your eyes while handing you the notice. Part-time workers were the first to go.
You still had the bookstore job, but the pay barely stretched far enough to cover groceries, let alone rent, electricity, and university expenses. Asking your parents for help would’ve been easy—too easy—but stubbornness rooted itself deep inside you. There were thousands of job postings online. Surely one of them would take you.
Only they never called back.
Two months had passed, and your savings were bleeding out faster than you could stop them. Every day followed the same suffocating routine: school, assignments, cheap instant dinners, and hours of doom-scrolling through applications until your vision blurred from the brightness of your screen.
You groaned quietly, rubbing your tired eyes before glancing over at Hari, who sat cross-legged beside you on the couch with a milk tea in hand. She had shown up at your apartment earlier carrying takeout bags and your favorite boba, worry written plainly across her face after noticing how little you’d been eating lately.
“I already applied there,” you muttered with a pout, dragging your gaze back to the laptop. “But they want someone full-time.”
Hari sighed dramatically, setting her drink down on the coffee table. “You seriously need to rest. You’ve been staring at that thing for hours.”
Before you could protest, she grabbed your boba and pushed it into your hands. The cold plastic pressed against your palms pleasantly.
“Drink,” she ordered. “And let me do the scrolling before you spiral into another existential crisis.”
A laugh bubbled out of her as she pulled the laptop from your lap, and despite the anxiety twisting endlessly inside your chest, you felt your shoulders loosen just a little.
You pouted lightly, sipping your boba while Hari busied herself with your laptop. Your brows slowly furrowed when you noticed her opening tab after tab with alarming confidence.
“Why are you on Facebook?” you asked with a quiet chuckle, watching her click somewhere else before another page loaded. “And now Twitter? Instagram too?”
Hari rolled her eyes dramatically, her face illuminated by the screen’s pale glow. “Because the jobs on LinkedIn are painfully boring,” she scoffed. “There are tons of part-time job offers on social media. I swear I saw one yesterday.”
She narrowed her eyes at the laptop suspiciously, scrolling with the intensity of a detective solving a murder case.
A laugh escaped you as you leaned against her shoulder, chewing on the tapioca pearls you had missed more than you cared to admit. You’d been saving every spare dollar lately, cutting out small comforts one by one until even buying boba started to feel irresponsible.
“But you don’t even know if those are legit,” you pointed out, tilting your head at her. “The sites I applied to are safer from scams and stuff.”
“I know,” Hari replied instantly. “That’s why we’re looking for jobs with a pay-first policy if it’s online.” She clicked onto another account before adding casually, “And if it’s onsite, we’ll bring a gun in case things go wrong or something.”
You burst out laughing at that, nearly choking on your drink.
“Hari!”
“What?” she laughed too, grinning shamelessly. “I’m just being prepared.”
You shook your head at her usual nonsense, warmth blooming faintly in your chest despite the stress that had been suffocating you for weeks now. Hari always had a way of dragging you out of your own head, even if only for a little while.
The apartment suddenly felt less heavy with her around.
You were honestly relieved that semester break had finally arrived. One whole month without classes. No early morning lectures. No deadlines. No professors piling work onto your shoulders.
But instead of resting like a normal person, you had thrown yourself deeper into job hunting.
Hari hated that.
As your closest friend, she had spent the last week trying to convince you to take a break—to go shopping with the girls, take an out-of-town trip, do literally anything that didn’t involve staring at job applications until three in the morning.
You declined every single invitation.
Your friends understood your situation, but they also thought you were driving yourself insane. Which, honestly, you probably were.
That was exactly why Hari showed up tonight carrying your favorite food and overpriced boba tea, determined to drag you away from your spiral. She kept trying to tempt you into going on a girls’ trip with them, insisting that one weekend away wouldn’t kill you.
But every time you thought about relaxing, all you could picture were your bills piling quietly on the kitchen counter. So instead, you stayed curled up on the couch beside her, stubbornly searching for a job you desperately needed.
Hari was beginning to look almost as desperate as you. Maybe not for herself, but for you—for the way your shoulders had slowly grown heavier these past few months, for the exhaustion permanently shadowing your eyes. She wanted you to land a job already so you could finally breathe again without worrying about rent and unpaid bills swallowing you whole.
Which was exactly why she was now doom-scrolling through Twitter with frightening determination.
“I really don’t think you’re gonna find a job there,” you muttered skeptically, watching her open an alarming amount of random threads. “Most of those look like scams.”
“Wait, wait—look at this!”
Hari suddenly grabbed your arm and pulled you closer to the screen, quickly setting her milk tea down beside her like she was preparing for something serious.
Her eyes widened.
“Okay, this one actually looks promising.”
You leaned in slightly as she read aloud.
mnijungkook on ig posted: i’m looking for someone who can take insanely good videos and photos [of me]. i’ll somehow figure out the equipment myself..! please somehow reach out to me! lol, looking for someone to film for me, seriously. and if you’re good at editing too? let’s go on tour together
“There are so many likes and retweets,” Hari said immediately, already opening another tab to search for the original Instagram post. “This has to be legit.”
The second you recognized the username, you nearly choked on your drink.
Laughter burst out of you uncontrollably, your shoulders shaking as you clutched the cup tighter. Hari blinked at you in confusion while your eyes watered from laughing too hard.
“Hari,” you wheezed out, “That’s Jungkook.”
She stared blankly. “Huh? The boss?”
Another laugh escaped you.
Hari genuinely knew almost nothing about K-pop or Korean artists in general, and moments like this always reminded you just how different the two of you were.
Meanwhile, you had once been painfully obsessed.
You used to stay up until dawn watching livestreams, memorizing lyrics, collecting photocards you definitely couldn’t afford, and keeping up with every tiny update posted online. Back then, being a fan felt like a second full-time job.
But life eventually became busier.
School consumed your mornings, work consumed your nights, and somewhere in between surviving deadlines and paying bills, your fangirl phase quietly faded into the background. You still listened to their music almost daily, still smiled whenever one of their songs shuffled into your playlist, but you no longer kept up with every post or appearance the way you once did.
You guessed you had simply grown up.
Even so, seeing Jungkook casually asking for a videographer and editor on Instagram felt surreal enough to make you laugh all over again.
Not updated enough to know that Jungkook was apparently posting job offers on Instagram now. Or that he was even on tour.
“No,” you laughed, shaking your head as you finally calmed down a little. “That’s Jungkook. From BTS. They’re, like… insanely famous, Hari. This is probably some kind of joke or publicity thing.”
Hari’s brows knitted together in confusion before realization slowly dawned across her face. She clicked onto the Instagram profile, eyes widening at the blue verification check and the terrifying number of followers sitting beneath his username.
Nearly thirty million.
“Ohhh, BTS,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Wait—I think I’ve seen him before.” She squinted at one of the photos. “Wasn’t he in a Calvin Klein ad or something?”
You snorted. “Yeah. That’s him.”
Honestly, you expected her to laugh it off after realizing who posted it. Maybe call the idea ridiculous and move on to another job listing.
Instead, Hari clicked onto his Instagram story again with alarming seriousness.
“That means…” she trailed off.
“It’s probably a joke,” you interrupted immediately.
“This is good pay,” she said at the exact same time, eyes practically glittering now.
Before you could stop her, she pressed the reply button beneath the story.
Your lips parted slightly. You genuinely couldn’t tell if she was being serious or completely delusional right now. Probably both. But either way, you let her continue typing because there was absolutely no chance Jungkook himself would ever see it.
He probably received thousands of messages every minute. Millions, even.
The thought alone felt ridiculous.
“Whatever,” you muttered with a helpless chuckle, giving up entirely. “I’m heating up the rice bowl.”
Hari waved you off distractedly, already multitasking between your laptop and her phone like this had suddenly become her personal mission.
You shook your head fondly before standing from the couch, grabbing the takeout container she bought earlier. The apartment filled with the quiet hum of the microwave a moment later, warm light spilling across the tiny kitchen while Hari continued aggressively applying for a job that definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent was never going to happen.
-
You woke up to the shrill sound of your alarm, already preparing yourself for another long day of job hunting.
Hari went home late last night after spending an absurd amount of time DMing Jungkook and scrolling through social media for more “opportunities,” as she called them. Somewhere between laughing at ridiculous job listings and sharing takeout on your couch, the two of you ended up watching an old Disney movie to help you relax.
She still tried convincing you to go on the girls’ out-of-town trip. You still refused.
No matter how badly you wanted a break, your priorities were painfully clear right now. You needed stability first. A stable paycheck. A stable life. Then maybe you could afford to breathe.
After showering, you made yourself a decent cup of coffee and opened your laptop with a tired sigh, mentally preparing to send out another batch of applications that probably wouldn’t get answered.
Then your phone buzzed beside you. An Instagram notification lit up the screen.
You snorted softly to yourself. “This must be Jungkook,” you joked under your breath, absentmindedly opening the app.
What the fuck.
Your heart nearly stopped when you saw the message sitting in your inbox. The coffee suddenly tasted bitter in your mouth.
What the actual fuck?
“Hari!” you practically shrieked the second she answered your call. “Fuck! I don’t even edit videos! I only know basic stuff! I can’t even record properly without my hands shaking!”
You paced around your apartment while panicking into the phone, one hand gripping your hair as you reread the messages over and over again in disbelief.
Sometime after you went to the kitchen last night, Hari had apparently taken it upon herself to completely ruin your life.
She sent Jungkook your entire curriculum vitae.
Not only that—she also wrote and attached a full cover letter explaining why he should hire you.
The realization alone nearly made you pass out.
And when you discovered she had changed your insta profile picture into a formal-looking one while you weren’t paying attention?
You almost laughed and cried at the same time.
It genuinely looked like you had desperately prepared for this opportunity your entire life.
Your eyes skimmed through the cover letter again, horror slowly mixing with something embarrassingly emotional. Hari had written your entire backstory in there—about struggling financially, balancing school and work, trying to stay independent despite everything.
And then she started lying. Blatantly.
Apparently, according to Hari, you were “highly skilled in video editing” with “experience in cinematography.”
Cinematography my ass.
“Hehe… well,” Hari giggled shamelessly through the phone, completely unbothered by your spiraling. Noise echoed behind her, voices and music blending together enough for you to realize she was already with the girls on their trip. “You have to fake a few things to get accepted sometimes, right?”
“Ugh, I can’t do this!” you cried dramatically, pacing back and forth around your apartment while gripping your phone tightly. “I literally don’t know anything about filming! And what if he sues me for faking my skills? He’s famous and influential, Hari!”
Your eyes darted back toward your laptop sitting open on the table, Jungkook’s message glowing on the screen like a ticking time bomb ready to ruin your entire life.
Hari only laughed harder through the call.
“Girl, just try!” she said between giggles. “Watch a tutorial on YouTube or something. Besides…” her tone suddenly turned suspiciously persuasive, “It’s really good pay.”
“Hari!” you screamed again, horrified.
“God, I still can’t believe he actually replied to you,” she continued teasingly. “You must’ve impressed him with your amazing cinematography skills.”
You groaned so loudly you nearly scared yourself.
The worst part was that she wasn’t wrong about the pay.
Your eyes had nearly bulged out of your skull when you saw the amount attached to the offer. There were so many zeros that your brain genuinely short-circuited for a moment.
That was exactly why you couldn’t let it go.
Out of everyone who probably replied to his story, Jungkook somehow answered you.
You. The probability alone felt absurd.
Thousands of people would kill for this opportunity right now, and meanwhile you were pacing around your apartment like you were preparing for a court trial instead of a job offer.
At first, the teenage fangirl buried deep inside you nearly exploded from excitement. The situation dragged you back to years ago—staying up until four in the morning streaming music videos, binge-watching funny compilations, memorizing choreography you could never actually dance, spending money you absolutely shouldn’t have spent on albums and photocards.
Back then, BTS had practically consumed your life. But time passed.
Somewhere between work shifts, college deadlines, and trying to survive adulthood, you slowly stopped keeping up with them. You still listened to the music, of course, but you no longer knew where they were, what they were doing, or how much they had changed over the years.
Curiosity eventually got the better of you. So you stalked Jungkook’s Instagram a little.
And oh.
Oh, he had changed.
A full sleeve of tattoos now wrapped around his right arm, dark ink decorating skin that used to be bare. Silver piercings glinted against his face in ways that somehow suited him unfairly well. His frame had broadened too, shoulders stronger, body lean and built with the kind of maturity that made him almost unrecognizable from the boy you remembered.
You were used to soft brown hair, oversized hoodies, black skinny jeans, clean arms, and those wide doe-like eyes that made the entire internet lose their minds.
Now he looked mature. Sharper. More dangerous somehow.
A man instead of a boy. And annoyingly enough, it looked really good on him.
“Fuck,” you muttered to yourself, finally realizing you’d been staring at a motorcycle video he posted for far too long.
You immediately locked your phone and pressed it dramatically against your forehead.
“I cannot fangirl right now or I’m seriously gonna lose it.”
Hari kept telling you to just go for it. “You literally have a whole month off from school,” she argued over the phone while you spiraled for the hundredth time. “This is basically the perfect sideline job.”
Sideline job. As if working for Jungkook of BTS was equivalent to tutoring kids after class.
Your stomach twisted anxiously as you stared at the message again. Every second that passed made you feel like the opportunity was slipping farther away. With the amount of people probably flooding his inbox right now, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t change his mind the moment someone actually qualified replied to him.
Your eyes skimmed over his message again, pulse quickening embarrassingly fast.
mnijungkook: hey, i saw your cv ㅎㅎ you really didn’t have to explain everything, but i’m glad you did. i can tell you’re being genuine about this. even without samples, the way you talked about cinematography/editing made me feel like you actually care about it and pay attention to details. sometimes that matters more to me than someone trying too hard to look “professional”
also i get the whole semester break thing. a month is still enough time to try something fun and see if we work well together
don’t stress too much about equipment either because i barely know what i’m doing there yet lol
for payment, don’t worry. if you end up coming with me, i’ll make sure you’re paid well — probably around $20-30k usd for the month depending on the schedule + travel and hotel covered.
send me your contact info? we can talk more properly :))
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“I am not passionate about cinematography,” you nearly whimpered to yourself, dropping your face into your hands. “To hell with cinematography.”
The amount of lies in Hari’s cover letter was genuinely evil.
And now Jungkook thought you were some hidden creative genius with an artistic eye and a deep love for filmmaking when in reality you barely knew how to stabilize a phone camera.
You felt sick.
But then your eyes drifted back to the payment offer. Twenty to thirty thousand dollars. Travel covered. Hotels covered. Your bank account practically screamed at you to shut up and take the opportunity.
So with trembling fingers and the overwhelming sensation that you were actively ruining your own life, you began typing a reply. A reply that dug your grave even deeper.
You agreed with him. You agreed that you were a “good editor.”
You added your contact details while simultaneously praying that YouTube tutorials could somehow transform you into a professional videographer overnight.
Your fingers hovered above the send button before you forced yourself to press it.
You: thank you so much for even considering me :D i really do believe i’m a good editor, especially when it comes to making things feel natural and cinematic instead of overdone.
i’d genuinely love to work for you if you’ll have me. i’m willing to learn fast, adjust to whatever style you want, and work hard during the whole month of my semester break.
my contact details are below, thank you so much!
The message was sent instantly.
You stared at the screen in silence afterward, horror slowly settling into every inch of your body.
Yeah. You were doomed.
-
“Wow, what the hell.” Your eyes widened the second you stepped into the hotel room Jungkook had booked for you.
The past few days had moved so fast it almost gave you whiplash. After you sent your contact details, Jungkook immediately messaged you about schedules, filming dates, locations, and travel arrangements as if hiring strangers from Instagram was a completely normal thing for him to do.
Everything had already been prepared before you could even panic properly.
Your plane ticket? Booked.
Hotel room? Paid for.
Transportation? Arranged.
Food allowance? Included.
All you had to do was pack your bags and somehow learn how to film and edit professionally before embarrassing yourself on an international scale.
Easy.
“I am so spoiled,” you muttered in disbelief, slowly stepping farther into the room. It was huge.
Bigger than huge, honestly. The hotel suite looked almost the size of your apartment back home, warm lighting spilling across polished floors and neatly arranged furniture that looked far too expensive for you to even breathe near.
Then your attention landed on the large table sitting near the windows. And your soul nearly left your body.
Equipment. So much fucking equipment.
Two massive black cameras rested neatly beside a smaller handheld one. There was an iPad, a laptop, tripods, microphones, chargers, lighting equipment, and cables so intimidating they looked like they belonged inside a spaceship instead of a filming setup.
Your luggage slipped from your fingers onto the floor with a dull thud as you walked toward the table cautiously, like the devices might explode if you touched them incorrectly.
Your eyes widened even more.
For the past several days, you have been desperately teaching yourself how to edit videos and film cinematic shots. Watching tutorials until sunrise. Memorizing transitions. Learning random camera terms you barely understood.
But you had been practicing with your phone. Your fucking phone.
Meanwhile these cameras looked expensive enough to pay your rent for the next ten years.
You carefully picked one up with both hands, terrified you’d somehow damage it through sheer incompetence alone.
Honestly, you were still shocked Jungkook never asked for samples of your work.
If he had, your career would’ve ended immediately.
The only thing you could’ve shown him was a mediocre CapCut edit with dramatic black-and-white filters slapped over it to make it look “cinematic.”
You groaned loudly, dropping your forehead against the edge of the table.
“Oh my God,” you whispered into the expensive wood. “I’m actually a fraud.”
You nearly lost balance holding the enormous camera in your hands, quickly tightening your grip before your entire future shattered onto the hotel floor in high definition. “Woah, this is heavy.”
Your eyes stayed locked on the equipment nervously as you adjusted the strap around your wrist, trying your best to look like someone who actually knew what they were doing. Because if Jungkook realized how painfully inexperienced you were, he might personally send you back to your country on the next available flight.
You wouldn’t even blame him. The past few nights had been brutal.
You barely slept at all, surviving almost entirely on instant noodles, caffeine, and pure fear while desperately teaching yourself editing techniques through YouTube tutorials. Your laptop had become an extension of your body at this point, constantly running sample footage you filmed around your apartment just so you could practice transitions, lighting adjustments, stabilization, and color grading.
You even studied Jungkook’s editing style specifically.
The pacing of his vlogs.
The soft cinematic filters.
The random zoom-ins.
The casual, natural feeling of the clips.
You analyzed everything like your life depended on it because technically, your rent kind of did. You were getting paid for this. A ridiculous amount, too.
And there was absolutely no way you could afford getting exposed now.
“Okay…” you muttered slowly while fiddling with the camera settings. “This is kinda… easy?”
You said it more like a question than a statement. Still, you forced yourself to keep going.
You searched up tutorials for the exact camera model, watched setup guides, practiced adjusting focus and lighting, and filmed random clips around the room like an aspiring film student fighting for survival.
At some point, you even started taking artistic shots of your coffee cup near the hotel window. For practice, obviously.
Tomorrow was your first official filming day.
According to the schedule Jungkook emailed you earlier, you’d be accompanying him to a golf activity before the concert. He wanted behind-the-scenes footage for the fans—small moments throughout the day, casual interactions, preparations before performing.
And apparently that was only the beginning. Over the next few days, you’d also be filming soundchecks, backstage moments, errands, workouts, rehearsals, and random snippets of his daily routine while on tour.
Basically, your entire existence now revolves around documenting Jungkook’s life aesthetically.
No pressure.
You used his latest vlog as your main reference while practicing, pausing every few seconds to study angles and editing choices carefully. Honestly, the style itself wasn’t impossible to recreate. It leaned more natural than overly polished, which helped calm your nerves slightly.
The problem was you. You weren’t skilled.
And the more you thought about his expectations, the more your stomach twisted itself into knots.
But backing out wasn’t an option anymore.
Not after the cover letter.
Not after the hotel.
Not after the plane ticket.
Definitely not after seeing the paycheck.
So instead of panicking yourself into quitting, you threw every ounce of energy into learning. Practicing. Training.
Like you were preparing for the Olympics instead of secretly faking your way into being Jungkook’s videographer.
You almost had a heart attack when your phone suddenly buzzed while you were testing the cameras.
The heavy device nearly slipped straight out of your hands as Jungkook’s name flashed across the screen.
Your pulse instantly skyrocketed.
Jungkook: hey, i left all the equipment on the table in your hotel room because i had to leave early for rehearsal. camera batteries are charging already, memory cards are inside the small black case, and i think i accidentally tangled all the wires together so… good luck with that honestly ㅎㅎ
there’s also a pass hanging on the chair for backstage access. don’t lose it or my manager’s gonna kill me lol
take your time checking everything first before we head out tomorrow. and if anything’s confusing just call me :))
You stared at the message for a moment longer than necessary, a smile unconsciously pulling at your lips.
His personality somehow translated perfectly even through text messages alone—easygoing, playful, ridiculously approachable despite being one of the biggest celebrities in the world.
It reminded you exactly why he used to be your ultimate bias years ago. There was something naturally charming about him. Something warm.
You quickly typed a reply before you could overthink it too much.
You: yes! i am checking them out hehe.. the batteries are currently charging, the cards are safe, and i’m currently fighting for my life trying to untangle these wires hahaha
good luck with rehearsal!! see you tomorrow!
The second you pressed send, immediate regret flooded your body. You stared at your message in horror.
Why did I sound like that?
Your cheeks burned violently as you reread the multiple “hehe’s” and unnecessary laughter typed into the conversation like a teenager texting her crush for the first time.
You physically covered your face with your hands.
“Oh my God,” you groaned into your palms. It wasn’t like you were trying to flirt.
Or maybe… just a little bit.
Which honestly made the situation infinitely worse.
You used to be an incredibly dedicated ARMY once upon a time, and frankly, this entire situation was making your heart malfunction.
Working for Jungkook.
Texting Jungkook.
Meeting Jungkook.
It all felt unreal in the most dangerous way possible.
But you forced yourself to set the fangirl part aside before it completely consumed you. You needed to stay professional. Calm. Composed.
Otherwise, you were genuinely convinced you’d suffer a stroke before filming a single decent piece of content for him.
So instead of spiraling, you spent the entire night practicing.
Testing the cameras.
Learning the settings.
Adjusting lighting.
Checking the microphones repeatedly to make sure the audio sounded clean.
You edited random sample clips until your eyes burned from exhaustion, determined to familiarize yourself with the equipment enough to at least fake confidence tomorrow.
And somehow, by pure fear-driven determination alone, morning arrived faster than expected.
You woke up early to practice filming one last time before leaving, moving around the hotel room with nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin. You were oddly dedicated now—almost desperate—to prove that hiring you wasn’t a mistake.
After showering, you dressed carefully in clothes that screamed “professional videographer” despite the fact that you absolutely were not one.
A black long-sleeved polo, dark slacks and black shoes. You even tied your hair back neatly, staring at yourself in the mirror afterward like you were about to infiltrate the FBI instead of filming golf content.
A knock sounded at your hotel door.
“Good day, Ms. Y/N. Are you ready?”
You immediately straightened up before opening it, greeted by one of the bodyguards Jungkook assigned to escort you. His black shades reflected your visibly nervous expression back at you.
“Yes,” you answered quickly, trying to sound more confident than you felt.
Before leaving, you double-checked everything one last time—the batteries, memory cards, laptop, chargers—making sure nothing important was missing before following the bodyguard downstairs.
Outside, a sleek black car waited for you.
Your heartbeat quickened the moment you stepped inside.
You were scheduled to arrive an hour earlier than Jungkook so you could prepare the equipment and set everything up properly before filming started. Which meant you had an entire hour alone to panic in peace.
The ride itself was painfully quiet. Only the soft hum of the air conditioner filled the car while city lights blurred past the tinted windows. Your hands rested stiffly over your bag, fingers nervously tapping against the expensive camera inside while your thoughts spiraled endlessly.
You swallowed hard. “I can do this,” you whispered quietly to yourself.
Though honestly, you sounded unconvinced. The moment the golf course entrance came into view, your stomach twisted so violently you almost gagged.
Oh God. This was actually happening.
The bodyguard escorted you inside shortly after, guiding you toward the smaller private golf area before leaving you alone to prepare your setup.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
You slowly placed the equipment down, inhaling deeply as the morning breeze brushed against your face. The golf course stretched beautifully beneath the early sunlight, calm and expensive and intimidating all at once.
And somewhere in the middle of unpacking tripods with trembling hands, one horrifying realization settled heavily into your chest.
Soon, Jungkook was going to arrive.
You looked around quietly, taking in the golf course while trying to calm the violent beating of your heart.
The place felt tucked away from the rest of the world somehow—small, peaceful, almost unreal in its stillness. Unlike the massive championship courses you usually saw online, this one felt more intimate. The holes were laid out closer together across smooth fairways trimmed so perfectly they looked like green velvet beneath the morning sun.
Small sand bunkers curved around the landscape, soft hills rolling gently beneath clean white flags planted in the distance.
No screaming crowds. No cameras flashing endlessly. Just the distant rustling of trees, the muted hum of golf carts somewhere farther away, and every now and then, the satisfying thunk of a golf club striking a ball cleanly through the air.
Though, it would’ve been relaxing if you weren’t moments away from throwing up from anxiety.
Your hands were already sweaty as you unpacked the equipment carefully, trying not to look like you had absolutely no clue what you were doing. You adjusted the camera repeatedly, searching for decent angles while silently thanking every higher power possible that there weren’t many people around.
Only a few locals occupied the course, minding their own business.
Good.
Less witnesses for your downfall.
You became so focused on testing camera movements and practicing steady shots that you completely failed to notice someone approaching behind you.
It wasn’t until you angled the camera upward during practice that your soul nearly exited your body.
Jungkook stood directly in frame, smiling right into the lens. Your heart stopped.
“Hi,” he greeted warmly, amusement flickering across his face as he glanced at the camera in your hands. “Looks like you’re having fun already.”
A black sports bag rested beside your equipment now, meaning he must’ve walked over while you were too busy pretending to be a professional filmmaker to notice.
Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my God—”
You almost tripped over your own feet while hurriedly lowering the camera, panic rushing through your body all at once.
“I was just, um—checking the angles,” you explained nervously, mentally cursing yourself for sounding so awkward. “Nice to meet you! I’m Y/N.”
You quickly wiped your damp palms against your slacks before offering your hand to him politely.
Up close, he somehow looked even more unreal. Tall, broad-shouldered, with beautiful tattoos curling around his arm, silver piercings catching the sunlight softly whenever he smiled.
And unfortunately for your sanity, he was even more handsome in person. Ridiculously so. The kind of handsome that made it difficult to think properly when he looked at you for too long.
He chuckled softly before taking your hand in his. His grip was warm.
Your brain short-circuited immediately.
Dressed in a fitted white polo shirt and black Nike shorts, a black cap resting low over his dark hair in a way that somehow made him look both ridiculously expensive and effortlessly casual at the same time.
The shirt did absolutely nothing to hide how built he was.
You could see the outline of his muscles beneath the fabric every time he moved, his shoulders broad enough to almost completely block the sunlight from where you stood.
“Hello,” he said warmly, shaking your hand once. “I’m Jungkook. Nice to meet you too.” Your cheeks instantly burned.
Seeing him through a screen was one thing. Seeing him in person felt entirely different.
He was so much more charismatic up close it almost irritated you. His bunny teeth peeked out whenever he smiled, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners while he spoke in that easy, friendly tone that made it impossible not to relax around him.
His entire aura felt bright somehow. Light. Dangerously charming.
You were absolutely screwed.
“I’ll leave the filming techniques up to you,” he continued casually, walking over toward the cooler nearby. “Feel free to film me however you want. No pressure.”
No pressure.
As if your nervous system wasn’t already collapsing in on itself.
He grabbed a cold bottle of water before offering another one toward you naturally, like this entire situation wasn’t surreal at all.
“Thank you,” you answered quickly, taking the bottle before immediately setting it aside again. “Uh—I’ll start filming now!”
You lifted the camera again with almost aggressive determination, eager to gather as much footage as possible. More clips meant more editing options later. More editing options meant a smaller chance of exposing yourself as a complete fraud.
Jungkook raised an amused brow at your sudden seriousness, his gaze briefly traveled over your outfit before returning to your face.
“You sure?” he asked lightly. “You don’t wanna eat first? I still have to stretch and stuff anyway.”
You shook your head immediately. “Nope.”
Your grip tightened around the camera slightly. “I wanna include behind-the-scenes snippets too, so…” you explained, trying your best to sound professional despite your racing heart. “This would actually be good footage.”
The determination in your voice made Jungkook smile again. And for some reason, that tiny look of approval made your stomach flip harder than it should have.
Jungkook chuckled softly. “Alright,” he said easily. “Just tell me if you need specific details or angles.”
Then he walked toward the side of the golf course to begin stretching.
You immediately followed after him with the camera clutched in your hands exactly the way you practiced all night, quickly pressing record before your nerves could stop you.
At first, things seemed to be going surprisingly well. You filmed everything.
His warm-ups were slow, deliberate—like he was already in control of everything around him.
The way he adjusted his gloves with quiet precision. The subtle flex of his arms as he set up his iron, muscles shifting beneath fabric like something effortless and practiced. The clean, confident swing of the club cutting through air before striking the ball with a sharp, satisfying sound. The soft crunch of grass beneath his shoes as he shifted his stance, grounding himself between each shot.
Then the stillness between it all.
Him sitting down beneath the shade, momentarily retreating from the sun. Him lifting a bottle of water to his lips, throat moving as he drank, the back of his hand brushing sweat away from his neck without much thought.
You practically documented his entire existence.
At one point, you even almost followed him toward the restroom before your brain caught up with your body at the last second.
You genuinely thought you were doing an amazing job.
From your perspective, more footage meant more options later during editing. You didn’t want to miss a single moment that could potentially look cinematic or useful.
But from Jungkook’s perspective… It was a little concerning.
At first, he simply watched quietly. He noticed the small mistakes immediately—the way you held the camera too stiffly sometimes, the awkward adjustments of the lens, the shaky transitions between movements.
Still, he tried convincing himself that maybe you were just getting comfortable with the equipment. Maybe you simply needed time.
But as the day continued, realization slowly settled in. Especially when he caught you aggressively zooming into completely unnecessary details before quickly rotating the lens too fast, creating footage that would probably look dizzying when played back.
Beginner.
The word settled into his thoughts almost instantly. You followed him everywhere with unwavering focus, constantly checking the framing, adjusting settings, filming from different angles even when your hands visibly started struggling beneath the camera’s weight.
By the time he returned from the restroom later that afternoon, he paused slightly at the sight of you near the equipment table.
You were rotating your shoulders carefully with a tired grimace, trying to ease the soreness from carrying the camera all day. Sweat clung lightly against your forehead beneath the heat of the sun, and your fingers looked faintly red from gripping the equipment for hours.
Still, the moment you noticed him approaching again, you instinctively reached for the camera.
“I think you have enough footage for today,” Jungkook said quietly before you could pick it up again.
His voice carried something firmer now. Your hands froze mid-motion.
You blinked at him in confusion. “Huh?” you asked, adjusting your grip on the camera. “But you’re not done yet.”
He was still in the middle of playing. There were still shots left, more footage you could take, more angles you could practice.
But instead of continuing, Jungkook simply placed the iron back onto the rack with a quiet sigh.
Something about his body language had changed. Subtle, but noticeable.
The playful brightness from earlier dimmed slightly, exhaustion settling into the slope of his shoulders as he rubbed the back of his neck.
And suddenly, anxiety crept beneath your skin.
Was he disappointed?
The answer was yes. Not angry—he wasn’t angry. But disappointed enough to realize the truth little by little throughout the day.
You don’t have any clue on what you were doing.
The way you handled the camera, the inconsistent framing, the random zoom-ins, the awkward adjustments every few seconds—it was painfully obvious that you were inexperienced.
And for a brief moment, ugly thoughts crossed his mind despite himself.
He trusted you.
Even without polished sample reels or impressive portfolios, he still chose to trust you. Your cover letter had been painfully sincere, especially the part about wanting independence. Wanting to do things on your own so you wouldn’t burden your parents. Wanting to make them proud. Wanting to stand on your own feet.
That part stayed with him longer than it should have.
A lot of people sent him impressive applications. High-quality edits. Cinematic videos. Professional portfolios crafted carefully to catch his attention. Thousands of direct messages flooded his account constantly, most of them blending together into meaningless noise after a while.
But yours stood out somehow.
Maybe it was the formal profile picture that made him laugh- looked strangely earnest among the endless stream of unserious messages. Maybe it was the desperation hidden between your carefully written sentences. Or maybe it was simply because your letter resonated with him more than he expected it to.
He understood that kind of desperation.
That overwhelming need to prove yourself to the world.
He had been independent from a young age too, forced to grow up far earlier than most people ever had to. He knew what it felt like to carry pressure so heavy it started shaping the person you became.
But still—
Maybe you lied just to get close to him.
Maybe you wanted the money.
Maybe you were just another person trying to take advantage of him somehow.
God knew he had already met far too many people like that.
But every time those thoughts surfaced, they disappeared almost instantly the second he looked at you again.
Because you were trying so hard. Too hard, honestly.
The determination written across your face all day felt painfully genuine, from the way you followed him around with aching arms to the sweat gathering near your forehead while you forced yourself to keep filming despite your obvious exhaustion.
You looked less like a manipulative opportunist and more like someone desperately trying not to fail.
Still, disappointment lingered quietly beneath his ribs. A dull ache he couldn’t quite shake away no matter how sincere you looked trying to impress him.
And instead of sending you home immediately, another thought slowly crept into his mind.
Something dangerous.
Something mean.
Something dirty enough to make his pulse slow.
He wanted to punish you for it.
Not enough to truly hurt you—never that—but enough to make you understand exactly what happened when you lied to him. Enough to leave you breathless beneath the weight of his attention, overwhelmed by the consequences of trying to fool him so boldly.
Jungkook had always been competitive for a reason.
He hated losing, hated being made a fool of.
And now that you had managed to slip past his guard so easily, there was no way he was letting you walk away untouched by it.
Oh, he was going to have so much fun with you.
“I wanna film something,” he finally said instead, voice quieter now. More serious.
Your breath caught slightly at the sudden change in tone. The warmth from earlier had faded into something calmer. Harder to read.
“Oh,” you answered softly, momentarily caught off guard. “Okay! What kind of content?”
You quickly stood up and began fixing the equipment into your bags, noticing him grab his car keys from beside his sports bag.
“You’ll see,” he said simply, before turning toward the exit.
Your own brows furrowed in confusion. The schedule he sent clearly stated golf content for today. Nothing else.
Still, you followed him quietly anyway. When he told you to ride with him instead of the escort vehicle, your confusion deepened even more, though you didn’t question it aloud. Maybe he wanted driving footage or some cinematic clips for the vlog.
That had to be it.
Your heart thumped nervously as you climbed into his car beside him, immediately noticing how sleek and absurdly expensive the interior looked. The soft scent of fresh mint lingered in the air, clean and comforting somehow.
The realization that you were sitting inside Jungkook’s car with Jungkook himself nearly made your soul leave your body.
Your hands instinctively reached toward the camera bag.
“No,” Jungkook chuckled softly the moment he noticed. “You’re not gonna film here, pretty girl.”
Pretty girl.
Your entire brain stopped functioning. Heat rushed violently into your cheeks as you slowly pulled your hands away from the bag.
“Oh,” you answered weakly. “Okay…”
You bit your lip afterward, turning slightly toward the window to hide your expression while curiosity twisted tighter inside your chest.
Where exactly was he taking you?
The moment you saw the familiar hotel building come into view through the windshield, confusion settled deeper into your chest.
You followed Jungkook quietly through the lobby, nerves buzzing beneath your skin with every step.
He had gone strangely quiet after golf. Still calm, still composed—but not as bright as before. The easy smiles disappeared, replaced by something heavier lingering beneath his expression, and it made your stomach tighten painfully.
“Uhm…” you started carefully while standing beside him inside the elevator. “Are you gonna get a few more cameras or something?”
The elevator doors slid shut. Jungkook glanced at you briefly, his doe eyes half-lidded in a way that made your throat suddenly feel dry.
“Take a guess.”
Your heartbeat stumbled. Something about his tone made nervousness crawl violently through your body. And when the elevator finally opened onto your floor, Jungkook grabbed your wrist without warning.
You gasped softly, he dragged you out impatiently, long strides carrying the two of you quickly down the hallway toward your hotel room. His grip wasn’t painful, but firm enough to make your pulse race uncontrollably beneath your skin.
By the time you stopped in front of your door, your mind was already spiraling. Jungkook looked down at you expectantly, his pupils dilated, still holding your wrist while waiting for you to unlock the room.
Did he figure it out? The thought struck so hard your chest physically tightened.
Your fingers trembled slightly while pulling out the keycard. Guilt flooded your system all at once, thick and suffocating.
You were scared.
Scared he’d yell at you. Scared he’d confiscate the equipment. Scared he’d have you booked on the next flight home before you even had a chance to explain yourself.
Completely unaware of the way his dark, playful mind worked. Completely unaware of how badly he wanted to punish you.
“Jungkook, I—”
But the words died immediately when he walked past you instead.
He took the camera bag from your hands and moved straight toward the table, pulling out the camera you used earlier before checking the rest of the equipment you left behind.
You blinked in confusion. Huh?
Jungkook grabbed another camera calmly before setting up one of the tripods with practiced ease. The way his fingers moved across the equipment was fast and precise, adjusting settings effortlessly while rotating the camera into position like second nature. His shoulders flexed beneath the white polo each time he lifted the tripod, veins bulging faintly along his tattooed forearms while he fixed the lighting behind it.
Your lips parted slightly without meaning to. He looked ridiculously good doing something as simple as setting up cameras.
“W-What are you doing?” you stammered, confused.
Jungkook glanced back at you over his shoulder while tightening something near the tripod head.
“Sit on the bed for me.”
Your stomach flipped violently. “H-Huh? I mean okay,” you answered quietly, swallowing hard before slowly moving toward the bed.
You sat carefully near the edge while watching him continue adjusting the setup.
With one hand alone, Jungkook lifted the heavy tripod effortlessly and positioned it directly in front of the bed, angling the camera downward toward where you sat.
The veins along his arms flexed again beneath the strain.
Your throat went completely dry. The room suddenly felt much smaller than before.
Hotter too.
You watched silently as he grabbed another tripod, this time placing it to the right side of the bed. Both cameras pointed directly at you now. And for some reason, the sight made your heartbeat pound harder than ever before.
He looked through the camera lens carefully, head tilting slightly as he adjusted the angle. “Lay down on the bed.”
Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “What—”
“Lay down.” he commanded sharply.
This time, his tone came out firmer. Serious. Leaving absolutely no room for argument.
And somehow, the way he looked at you through the camera lens sent a sharp shiver crawling down your spine.
To your own horror, excitement slowly started mixing with the fear curling inside your stomach.
You almost wanted to slap yourself for it.
You swallowed hard before slowly slipping your shoes off, awkwardly climbing farther onto the bed until your back rested against the headboard.
Every movement suddenly felt painfully self-aware beneath the cameras pointed directly at you.
Jungkook poked the inside of his cheek thoughtfully while studying the frame through the viewfinder, eventually stepping forward again to move the tripod closer.
Before you could shift yourself lower against the mattress, he suddenly walked toward you instead. Your breath hitched the second he crouched down in front of you holding the clip-on microphone.
He leaned in close enough for you to catch the faint scent of mint lingering on him.
“You forgot these earlier,” he said lightly, though there was something mocking beneath the softness of his voice now.
“Oh,” you answered weakly. “Uhm… I was in a rush, so…” Your cheeks burned instantly from embarrassment.
Of course you forgot the microphones!
Jungkook raised a brow slowly. “You were in a rush?” he repeated with a quiet chuckle before standing back up again.
Then he walked toward the table and grabbed the smaller digital camcorder, casually aiming it toward you.
The amount of cameras pointed at you now made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Instinctively, you tried sitting up straighter, but Jungkook stopped you immediately.
“Stay still,” he said calmly. “I wanna test the cameras.”
“Test the cameras?”
“I think you need a little demo, baby.” Your heartbeat stopped. “You weren’t doing a very good job earlier.” The teasing mockery in his tone hit you like a truck.
And suddenly everything crashed down at once. Your eyes widened in horror.
Fuck.
He knew.
Of course he knew!
Heat rushed violently into your face and neck, humiliation crawling across your entire body so intensely it almost hurt. Your chest tightened painfully while tears burned behind your eyes before you could stop them.
You looked away instinctively, shame flooding every inch of you.
God, this was so embarrassing.
“J-Jungkook, please,” you stammered quickly, panic slipping into your voice. “I’m not trying to scam you or anything, it’s just that—”
He stepped closer until his knees brushed against the edge of the bed.
And somehow, that almost satisfied look on his face made your stomach twist even more.
You looked so shy. So cornered. Like a poor little thing unknowingly walking straight into his hands.
His gaze lingered on you with dangerous amusement, as though you had already become his favorite test subject for the cameras.
Dark lazy eyes dragged slowly across your body, taking their time, shamelessly roaming over every inch of you while his imagination sparked vividly to life. You could almost see the thoughts forming behind his eyes—every filthy thing he wanted to do to you, every position he wanted to bend you into, every sound he wanted to force out of your mouth while the cameras kept recording.
And somehow, what excited him even more was the thought of filming it all. Editing it afterward. Watching you fall apart for him frame by frame.
“Shh,” he murmured softly. “It’s okay.”
Your watery eyes lifted toward him immediately. “I’ll teach you how to film, hmm?” he said mockingly.
“W-What?” Your lips parted in disbelief.
Jungkook tilted his head slightly, dark eyes fixed on yours with an unreadable expression.
“Gonna show you the right angles, baby,” he cooed. “What do you think?” He smiled without humor.
The contrast made you shiver. “B-But…”
“Will you cooperate with me?” he asked, voice smooth and almost condescending, like he was speaking to a child. His fingers tapped lightly against one of the cameras beside him. “We wouldn’t want these cameras to go to waste, would we?”
Your throat tightened. Part of you wanted to disappear completely. To book the next flight home, apologize profusely, and somehow repay every expense he wasted on you.
But another part of you—the younger version buried deep inside your chest, the girl who once stayed up all night watching his videos and smiling at her screen—couldn’t let go of this moment.
Because despite everything, Jungkook still hadn’t thrown you out.
He wasn’t yelling at you.
He was giving you another chance.
And maybe that meant you still had an opportunity to prove yourself.
Thousands of people probably wanted your position right now. Yet somehow, he was still here. Patient enough to teach you himself.
Completely unaware of how dangerous that patience actually was.
Because the lessons Jungkook had in mind were nothing like the ones you were expecting.
So slowly, you nodded.
Hope flickered weakly beneath your embarrassment while your thoughts tangled themselves around one desperate need: to impress him somehow.
“Okay,” you whispered nervously. “I—I learn fast when someone’s teaching me and…”
Jungkook raised a thick brow at you. “Pretty girl’s a fast learner, huh?”
Your cheeks immediately reddened again. You nodded shyly despite the obvious teasing in his tone, unconsciously pouting a little from embarrassment.
His eyes went down to your lips, eyes darkening. “Can you count the cameras for me?” he asked a bit impatiently.
You glanced around quickly toward the setup.
The two cameras mounted on tripods.
The camcorder in his hand.
“There’s three,” you answered softly.
Jungkook chuckled under his breath. “Good job, baby.” he slowly lifted the camcorder higher, zooming the lens closer toward your face.
“Now look here.”
You shyly looked into the camera lens, your cheeks dusted with pink beneath the warm lights.
The way Jungkook stared at you through the camcorder made you shrink into yourself slightly, suddenly aware of every little movement you made on the bed.
He tilted his head slowly. “So pretty.”
Your breath caught in your throat. Heat crawled up your neck as you shifted uncomfortably against the mattress, fingers curling slightly into the sheets. The entire situation suddenly felt strangely intimate, and for a second your thoughts drifted somewhere dangerous before you quickly forced yourself to focus again.
This is just a demo.
He’s teaching you.
Nothing else.
“Open the first few buttons of your top,” he said, voice quieter now as he continued looking at you through the camcorder.
Your eyes widened instantly.
Did I hear that right?
“W-What?” you nearly choked out, pulse quickening embarrassingly fast despite how badly this entire situation could end for you.
And somehow, against all logic, excitement started curling through your stomach.
“Need you to cooperate, baby,” he answered smoothly. “Come on, do a nice show for me.”
The teasing edge in his tone made your stomach twist nervously.
You hesitated for a moment before slowly bringing your shaky fingers toward your top, feeling painfully aware of the cameras pointed at you from different angles.
Jungkook watched carefully through the lens, adjusting the focus ring slightly while observing the framing.
“That’s it.” he encouraged.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, fingers trembling as you slowly undid the first few buttons of your blouse. Heat crawled up the back of your neck, burning the tips of your ears as the reality of the situation settled deeper beneath your skin.
He’s filming a sex tape.
You were so fucking stupid because instead of panicking properly, instead of running or completely losing your mind, you were following him blindly. Worse—you were getting excited.
Fuck, you should’ve been crashing out right now.
But the way he looked at you— God.
It felt like he wanted to devour you whole. His dark eyes dragged over every inch of exposed skin with quiet hunger, liquid heat pulsed embarrassingly between the gap of your thighs before you could stop it.
“Open your eyes baby, stare at the camera.” he said firmly, an obvious edge underneath it.
You slowly opened your eyes. Your cheeks were already burning, breath uneven as you finished unbuttoning the last one, revealing just enough of your chest to make your thoughts scatter. The camera lens felt heavier now, more invasive, like it was watching you breathe, waiting for you to make the wrong move.
“Hmm…touch your breasts baby, give it a nice squeeze for me.” he whispered, still holding the camcorder, directing it with the ease of someone who knew exactly what every angle captured.
Completely under his control, you obeyed, your hands moving hesitantly at first before you held yourself through the fabric, giving a light squeeze that made your breath hitch. You bit down on your lower lip, trying to stay steady, trying to keep your eyes locked on the camera like he told you, even as your vision softened at the edges and your body betrayed your focus.
The room felt smaller now. Heavier.
You were getting so wet.
Jungkook let out a low groan, eyes still fixed through the lens.
“Remove your top, wanna see your pretty nipples.”
Your ears burned red at the filthy undertone. With shaky hands, you slowly pulled your top off, revealing the white lace bra beneath. The delicate fabric hugged the soft swell of your breasts perfectly, and the moment Jungkook’s eyes settled on them through the camera lens, another wave of heat rushed through your body.
You slowly tugged at the first strap, then the second, freeing your breasts as your nipples hardened, flushed and sensitive against the cool air.
“That’s it,” he instructed, voice steady. “Roll those pretty nipples for me.”
You obeyed, pinching them gently before rolling them between your fingers. Your lips parted at the rush of sensation that followed, breath catching as your panties got more stickier with your arousal.
When your gaze dropped, you noticed the strain in his black shorts—the obvious tent pressing against the fabric. A shiver ran down your spine at the realization that despite his composed, professional expression as he filmed you, he wasn’t unaffected.
He groaned, zooming in on how you were rolling and pinching your nipples, his cock throbbing at the sight, precum leaking from its mushroom tip.
“Bring your hand to your mouth,” he ordered, directing the camera at your face. “Now, spit on it.”
You whimpered. Like a good girl, you gathered your saliva and spat thickly onto your palms, showing it to him after.
He bit his lower lip, his cock getting so hard from your submissiveness. “Good girl, now rub it on your nipples—make it nice and wet for me,” he rasped.
You rubbed the spit on your breast, the warm, sticky fluid on your nipples feeling so raw and dirty, spreading the saliva messily as he watched you through the lens with hooded eyes.
You were getting so horny, the dirty act turning you on so much that you could feel your panties sticking to your core.
“Look at you,” he chuckled, slowly reaching toward you. “I bet you’re so wet right now.”
You looked so pretty—your neatly done hair now slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed from all the things he’d been instructing you to do, pebbled nipples glistening under the camera lights. Your legs trembled slightly, aching to be touched, your lips parting every now and then as your breath turned uneven, eyes hazy and unfocused.
The sight made Jungkook’s cock throb painfully hard.
His pretty little doll.
He handed you the camcorder. “Hold this, baby. Show them who’s making you this wet.”
With shaky hands and glossy eyes, you took the camera and tried to point it toward him, your eyes rolling back when he removed his white polo shirt and black shorts, leaving him in his gray Calvin Klein boxers.
You whimpered as you could see the outline of his huge cock, precum leaking at the tip, wetting the center of the cloth.
“Your angle is wrong,” he raised a brow, noticing how your shaky hands were failing a bit at holding the camera properly.
You panicked. “I’m sorry,” you rushed out, trying to straighten it, ignoring the painful pulses between your legs—your body begging to be touched.
He chuckled, leaning over you. “It’s okay, baby. That’s why we have another camera.”
His hands came up to your cheeks, gently holding and angling your face to the right so you could look toward the second camera set up by the side of the bed. “I bet you’d look so good getting fucked from that angle,” he whispered.
His grip on your cheeks tightened slightly, squishing them just enough as the camera captured everything—the way your eyes fluttered, the way your nipples hardened under his gaze, the way your legs shifted restlessly, searching for any kind of friction.
You gasped loudly when his free hand went down to cup your pussy through your pants, your eyes rolling back as he felt the wetness through the fabric.
“Fuck, let me see how wet you are, yeah?”
With one hand, he unzipped your pants, pulling them down in one forceful motion while his other hand remained on your cheeks, keeping your gaze fixed on the camera. Your other hand trembled as it tried to capture what he was doing below.
“Capture this, baby,” he breathed, guiding your hand holding the camcorder to angle it downward, towards your wet pussy.
You almost dropped the camera when he suddenly slapped your cunt, your panties nearly see-through from how wet they were with your arousal.
“Jungkook~” you whimpered.
He sat up and held both of your legs, spreading them wider until your ankles were almost on either side of the bed.
“You’re so wet, I can see your cute little slit through your panties baby.” He chuckled, leaning down and hollowing his cheeks to spit right above your clothed clit, making it even messier.
You whimpered, your toes curling at the sensation, gripping the camcorder tightly as you felt him crouch down, spreading his spit over your panties. His warm tongue then licked along your pussy through the fabric, slotting between your folds, the wet material pressing inside your slit.
“Make sure the camera can see how good I’m gonna eat this pussy.” He whispered while looking at you, flipping your panties to the side and groaning when he saw how wet and pink you were, his jaw slackening as he took almost your whole pussy into his warm mouth.
It was so wet and messy, and you could see him through the mini screen of the camcorder, maintaining direct eye contact with the lens while eating you out, making sure to pull back your hood so the camera could capture how his lips would wrapped around your swollen clit.
He suctioned around it, spreading more spit, sucking as if his life depended on it, then moved down to gather your juices before sliding his hot tongue inside you, coaxing more from you. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, showing you how he drank every bit of your wetness.
“That feels so g-good.” You moaned, trying to zoom in on how his tongue played with your folds.
He hummed, the vibrations making you twitch in pleasure.
“Yeah? This feels good?” he asked, sucking harshly on your clit as your eyes rolled back, your release building up fast. Your pussy throbbed, your clit growing more sensitive with every passing second.
“I’m gonna-’’
You moaned loudly when he buried his face deeper, never letting go of your throbbing clit, his head moving from side to side as he groaned low against you. When he finally let go of your clit, you gasped as he gathered a thick amount of saliva, hollowing his cheeks to spit harshly down on you, then leaning back in with his tongue out to spread it in slow, kitten-like licks.
When he looked up again at the lens, you exploded, your orgasm so intense you could feel your pussy pulsating so hard you almost saw stars.
‘’Stop, please!” You whined, overstimulated as he kept licking your cunt, your legs shaking from the oversensitivity.
His chin and nose were soaked, his lips slightly red and pouty, his dark locks messy, and his pupils dilated. You gasped when he suddenly removed his boxers; his cock was hard and pretty, curving slightly upward, decorated with thick veins and a red, swollen mushroom tip.
Jungkook took the camera and angled it towards you, wide glossy eyes looking up at him weakly.
“Say… thank you for making me cum, Jungkook.” He breathed, his other hand gripping his cock as he spread the precum along his shaft.
“Thank you for m-making me cum, Jungkook.” You croaked, your legs still trembling from your intense orgasm.
He smiled proudly. “My smart girl, very good at following instructions,” he praised, placing the camcorder down beside you and angling it so it could capture how his mouth leaned down to suck your nipples, while his free hand squeezed and rolled the other bud between his fingers.
“Jungkook—” you moaned as his tongue twirled and sucked around your breast, just like he had done to your clit—messy and pouty with saliva.
He bit your nipple playfully, earning a soft whimper from you, his tattooed hand reaching down to cup your swollen pussy.
You gasped when he inserted his middle finger, your walls tightening around the intrusion.
“You’re so tight and warm.” He murmured against your nipple, letting it go with a soft pop before moving to suck on the other one.
You whimpered, your pussy growing wetter from the way he sucked and played with your nipples, the pad of his middle finger brushing against your spongy spot, making you writhe in pleasure.
“Please- too much.” You moaned, his middle finger going so deep that his knuckles were hitting your ass, his finger curling in a “come here” motion inside you, rubbing your spot deliciously as your tight hole produced more juices, the feeling of your previous release being pushed inside you making you tremble.
He let go of your nipple and leaned in immediately, pouty lips capturing yours in a hungry kiss. His tongue slipped into your mouth, messy and demanding, tangling with yours as the kiss deepened and turned overwhelming.
At the same time, his other hand moved up to your throat, fingers wrapping gently around the column of your neck, giving it a light squeeze as he held you in place.
Your lips parted in response, and he took the opportunity to push his tongue deeper, exploring every corner of your mouth, sucking on your tongue and swallowing your whines and protests.
His hard cock pressed against your inner thigh, impossibly close to your wet pussy, grinding lightly as he shifted. You could feel his precum, warm and slick, and the firm pressure of his mushroom tip against your skin made you bite back a shaky breath, a mix of pleasure and nerves twisting together inside you.
Your walls tightened around his finger, making it almost impossible for him to move it from how tightly your pussy gripped him.
He groaned, biting your lip and nudging your thighs wider with his legs, inserting another finger and making you gasp from the mix of pain and pleasure. He swallowed your moans, almost bruising your tongue from the way he was kissing you, the air in your lungs growing limited every time he squeezed your throat.
“Shh, behave for the camera.” he whispered, his thumb caressing your throat while his middle and ring fingers rubbed your spongy spot in slow circles.
Tears fell from your eyes, the overstimulation and edging making you cry from pain. You had already come, but you wanted to cum again so badly, your pussy aching and throbbing for another release, his fingers brushing your g-spot in a teasing, ticklish way, making you shake and move your legs in protest.
“Let me cum again, please, please…” you pleaded, fat tears rolling down your flushed cheeks.
He gripped your throat a little tighter, making you gasp for air. “Aww, you wanna come again?” he cooed.
You nodded desperately, moving your hips to meet his fingers. “Yes, please.”
He chuckled at you. “So polite.” he said, lazily grabbing the camcorder from the side and angling it down towards your spent pussy. “Spread wide, baby.”
You immediately held your ankles, making yourself completely open for him, desperate for release, your body aching from denied pleasure.
He angled the camera at your twitching hole, filming how your wetness dripped down the sheets. He held his hard cock, spitting down onto his shaft and pumping it a few times before angling himself towards your wet cunt.
You gasped loudly when his blunt head entered your hole, biting your lip harshly at the foreign intrusion, the stretch nearly overwhelming you from his swollen mushroom tip alone.
“So big…” you whimpered, holding your ankles tightly as a new wave of tears gathered in your eyes.
Your breath hitched, trembling as you tried to adjust, the sensation stealing every coherent thought from your mind.
Jungkook cursed under his breath, zooming in on your wet cunt to capture how your walls were sucking him in.
“Your pussy looks so good on camera baby, so tight and pretty.” He grunted, pushing halfway in and earning a loud moan from you.
His bangs stuck to his forehead, his lip ring catching the light as he bit down on his lower lip. His broad chest rose and fell heavily, veins tracing along his neck, flushed and taut with effort. Even like this, he held the camera with unnerving steadiness, like nothing about the moment could shake his focus.
So steady and professional at producing sex tapes.
When he bottomed out, you almost fainted, the stretch overwhelming—painful yet intoxicating—as he pressed fully against you. His balls settled deep, his pelvis flush with yours, the soft trim of hair brushing your clit each time he rolled his hips.
He groaned harshly. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, his jaw clenching as your walls enveloped him.
“Relax, baby—you’re gripping me,” he groaned weakly, this time angling the camera toward your face.
You whimpered, trying to cover your face with your small hands, but he caught both of your wrists and pinned them above your head. His sudden hard thrusts made your body bounce slightly with every movement, leaving you breathless.
“Don’t be shy, baby—show your pretty face to the camera,” he drawled lazily, angling it towards your flushed expression.
“Show them how good I’m making you feel.” He grunted, rolling his hips against you. The curve of his cock hitting your g-spot perfectly, buried so deep that he barely pulled out at all—only circling his hips, grinding in a way that made it feel like he wanted to push even further. The sensation drew a sharp arch through your back.
His gaze stayed locked on you through the screen, lips parted, breath uneven—like he was caught between control and losing it. The way your pussy gripped him made his cock throb, his expression darkening with something possessive and unspoken.
“Look at you, whimpering like a pretty little slut.” he said in a condescending tone.
“I-I’m not a slut.” You pouted, your walls tightening around him at his degrading tone.
He raised a brow. “Oh really? You think a lot of people won’t agree once I upload this?”
Your eyes widened, panic flashing across your flushed face as his thrusts turned harsher and sloppier, the rhythm giving away how close he was getting. You were almost impressed that he was still managing to keep the camera steady.
“N-No, you are not gonna do that,” you panicked, your eyes wide and glossy, your small hands trying to push the camera away.
He grunted, his cock throbbing as he felt your pussy tighten around him. He shifted just enough to avoid the camera when you reached for it, tightening his grip around both your wrists so you couldn’t move.
“You like that, huh? Come on, pretty—let me film you properly.” He snapped his hips harder, angling the lens toward you while your bodies met in sharp, rhythmic collisions.
The friction made your breath hitch, your clit brushing against his pubic hair in a way that sent jolts of pleasure racing through your body. His grip tightened around the camcorder, breathing uneven as he watched you come apart through the screen, completely drunk on the sounds you were making for him.
“Moan louder.” he commanded.
You moaned loudly, your chest rising and falling as his harsh movements made your body react against him. His eyes rolled back slightly from the way you kept pulsating around him, every drag sending him deeper into overstimulation.
He bit his lip. “My dirty girl, getting fucked on film.” he rasped.
Then, abruptly, he let go of the camcorder and set it aside.
A soft sound escaped him as he pulled out, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. Before you could fully register it, he was already moving you—pulling your body forward and repositioning you in front of him.
He settled behind you, guiding you into place so that you were now facing the cameras on the tripod, your body fully on display while his broad chest and hard cock pressed close from behind.
“You see those two cameras baby?’’ he whispered behind your ear, spreading your legs wide.
“Yes.” you replied weakly.
You gasped loudly when he entered you from behind, your body settling against his lap as his thighs kept your legs spread wide, positioning you so the camera could clearly capture the way he entered you.
“Smile for them baby, need some footage from this angle.’’ He cooed softly, thrusting his hips upward while his other arm circled around your waist to keep you steady.
You moaned, trembling so badly when you saw how the lights caught both of your bodies—the glittering sheen of sweat, your smudged makeup, and his tattooed colored arms all captured in high definition under the harsh glow.
"My pretty pretty girl, should I post this? show them how I fuck?" he murmured against your skin before pressing a kiss to your cheek, his tongue brushing lightly over the dampness left behind by your earlier tears.
The tenderness of it contrasted so badly with the hunger in his voice that it made your breath hitch. His hand cradled your face carefully, thumb stroking beneath your eye as though he was soothing you and provoking you at the same time, and the way he looked at you through half-lidded eyes made heat rush straight to your chest.
He suddenly grabbed the clip-on mic from your necklace, your eyes widening as you realized he was angling it downward—towards where his cock met your pussy.
“Need to test the mic baby, let the viewers hear how much of a nasty slut you are.”
The mic was so close that every sound was picked up clearly—the wet, obscene squelches echoing as he pushed and pulled inside you, the way he dragged against your tight heat sounding even more intense through the recording. The noise alone felt almost sinful in how loud and wet it was.
“I bet they can hear how tight your pussy is.” he grunted, putting the mic closer to your cunt.
He could feel how slick everything had become, wetting his balls each time he pushed, your arousal makes each movement messier.
“Gonna cum, oh gosh.” You moaned, your body growing hypersensitive as your clit throbbed with the pressure of an approaching orgasm.
He grabbed both of your cheeks when he noticed your head starting to fall back from pleasure, forcing you to look straight at the camera in front of you. “Be a good girl and look at the lens, don’t want my content to be bad quality.’’
His other hand clipped the mic back onto your necklace before sliding down again, rubbing slow circles over your clit. You moaned loudly, your back arching as your orgasm edged closer and closer.
“Cum for me baby, show them your cute little juices.”
Your legs were shaking when you finally reached your orgasm, your clit throbbing so intensely, your limbs giving out as your body hit its peak. Your swollen bud pulsed uncontrollably in fast, erratic heart beats, your walls clenching around his cock as he was still thrusting inside you.
Your eyes rolled back into your head when you felt your orgasm stretch further from his deep thrusts, his mushroom tip brushing against your g-spot and dragging you straight into another wave. You came again, consecutively, your body twitching as overstimulation took over, your legs instinctively trying to close.
"J-Jungkook I can't anymore."
Jungkook forced your legs to stay open, his index and middle fingers spreading your pussy lips apart for the camera, showing how your clit pulsed beneath the warm lights while his cock remained buried deep inside you.
''Mhm.. spit on your clit baby, make it extra wet before I use you." he whispered.
You squirmed, obediently leaning down as his fingers kept you spread open. With trembling breaths, you gathered saliva on your tongue before letting it drip down onto your clit, both cameras capturing the filthy sight in sharp detail.
A low curse slipped past Jungkook’s lips at the view, his grip tightening instinctively as he watched you, completely consumed by the way you willingly put yourself on display for him.
He quickly flipped your body down to chase his own pleasure, entering you again and sloppily thrusting into your wet used walls, pushing your cum deeper and deeper inside you. You were so weak, your heart still racing as you weakly reached for the camcorder to film him.
When he saw what you were doing, he groaned harshly, his grip on your hips tightening so hard it bordered on bruising as he held you down.
“My smart girl, you learned well huh?” He praised you, thrusting fast and hard, the camcorder shaking in your grip as you tried to capture his deep strokes.
"Your little brain functioning well with my cock deep inside you.'' he muttered darkly, thumb brushing against your cheek as he watched your expression unravel for him.
“A-Am I doing a good job?” you asked softly, biting your lip as you adjusted the camera to capture his face this time.
He let out a low growl in response, movements losing their rhythm slightly as pleasure started pulling him apart at the edges. “Uh-huh,” he breathed heavily. “You can be my personal little porn star. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
A loud moan escaped you at the thought, heat rushing instantly to your cheeks as you tightened your grip on the camcorder, suddenly far too eager to keep filming him.
“Gonna fuck you anytime I want,” he breathed, dilated eyes locked on you through the lens. “Film it however I like.”
With a harsh final thrust, he came inside you, grunting as he pushed through the last of it, staying buried as he finished, his body still tense with the release. You could feel his cock pulsing inside you, warm cum spilling and pooling, some of it leaking out and staining the sheets beneath you while he stayed balls deep.
The camcorder slipped from your grip, forgotten as you breathed heavily beneath him. You were completely spent, still sensitive as his hips gave a few slow, instinctive movements, as if trying to push his cum deeper despite his softening cock.
“Jungkook?” you asked weakly, fingers absentmindedly playing with the soft ruffles of his hair.
“Hmm?” he hummed against your neck, lips pressing lazy kisses there, his cock still buried deep inside you. The red recording lights on the cameras kept blinking steadily in the background.
“A-Are you really gonna post this?” you bit your lip, glancing back at the two large cameras perched on the tripod.
Jungkook let out a quiet chuckle, teeth grazing your skin in a teasing bite. “Mhm. I still need to edit it though.”
“Jungkook!” you squealed, panicking again.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and sharp with need, still carrying that lingering haze of desire. “Do you even know how to edit?” he asked, eyes squinting in playful doubt.
Your eyes widened. “I can edit,” you insisted quickly. “I learned a few things… I kinda know the basics.” Your voice softened at the end, almost uncertain.
A small smile tugged at his lips as he slowly pulled out, earning a shaky breath from you before he reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
“Hmm. Okay…” he murmured softly, lifting the camcorder slightly between you. “Edit this video for me, then.”
“What, r-really?” you blinked, surprised that he was letting you work for him.
“Uh-huh,” he said casually. “Then we’ll see if I have to keep you or not.”
You pouted instantly at that, but he was already shifting away from you, looking at the camcorder and checking the footage with the ease of someone far too experienced at this.
The screen’s glow reflected faintly against his handsome face as he replayed a few clips, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. Even now, completely relaxed, he somehow still looked annoyingly professional.
“Okay…” you mumbled softly, a little disappointment slipping into your voice before you could hide it.
He noticed immediately. Of course he did.
A smirk pulled at his lips as he lifted the camcorder slightly, teasing you with it. “Make sure you include your pretty moans, baby,” he drawled. “Or else we’ll have to retake this again.”
He stood up then, completely unbothered, removing the cameras from their tripods like the decision had already been made long before you realized it.
pairing - jjk x reader
contents - you met jeon jungkook eight months ago during rehearsals for an upcoming performance with your group, Bloom, and though you feel a tug coming from his direction, your management forbids anything from developing, so what, then, will happen when your groups are set to perform together at the upcoming MAMAs?
word count- 8k+ words
warnings - cussing! that's it
chapter one here!
The new blocking worked. On the monitor, the formation looked steady and intentional, albeit a tad professional. Taehyung crossed behind you with easy precision, Jungkook slipped behind him two beats later, absent from your orbit.
It was safe choreography, corporate-approved, which you should appreciate. Yet you watched the playback in silence, arms crossed, sweat cooling uncomfortably at the nape of your neck. Your manager, Manager Lee, stood beside you looking every bit the relieved you should mirror. The choreographer next to her looked annoyed, yet still held some crumb of professionalism.
BTS’s staff looked satisfied in a stiff way that people usually looked when they had prevented something scandalous.
Jungkook stood across the room next to Jimin, one hand on his hip, water bottle hanging from his fingers. He was listening to something Namjoon was saying, nodding at all the right times, his face so carefully blank it made you want to throw something at him even if he had, technically speaking, done nothing wrong.
He was being good. Had to, because everyone in the room had decided distance was the solution to your unspoken attraction and he had finally decided to accept it without making it harder for you. You knew you should be at least the tiniest bit grateful, but instead you felt something mean and wounded stretch awake inside you.
“Such an improvement,” your manager nodded to the choreographer and assistant director.
You turned your head toward her quickly. “Is it?”
She looked back at you, surprised by your tone. “Yes. Can’t you tell?”
“An improvement for who?”
Her mouth pressed together tightly, warning look flashing like a million neon signs at your questioning. A quiet reminder that there were people around and that you were not in her office. That you were not just a girl with aching feet and a bruised ego. You were YN from Bloom. A leader, a brand pillar, the reliable one. You were supposed to know when to stop talking, and usually you did. Tonight, apparently, your survival instinct had clocked out early.
Manager Lee lowered her voice. “Not here.”
You laughed once, and it wasn’t pretty. “No, actually, here seems perfect.”
Her eyes sharpened. “YN.” Another warning.
You looked back at the monitor, where the frozen frame showed you in the center of the formation, beautiful and untouchable and perfectly alone. “We changed the choreo because people might make edits.”
“That is not what happened.”
“No, that’s exactly what happened.”
The assistant director became deeply interested in his clipboard at your words, and one of the camera operators looked away. Bloom, from across the room, had gone silent. Mina first, like usual. Her head lifted from where she was sitting against the mirror, brows raised. Lila sat up too. Hana and Sasha exchanged glances. You should have swallowed it all down then, for them, if nothing else.
But then Manager Lee said, “We’re protecting you,” and something in you snapped clean in half.
“No, you’re managing me.” The room went still in the terrible way they do when people pretend not to hear an argument but absolutely heard every syllable.
Manager Lee’s expression hardened and you could feel Jungkook’s eyes on you without looking up. You turned fully toward Manager Lee, keeping your voice low enough to avoid making a spectacle, but sharp enough that no one nearby could mistake it for obedience. “There’s a difference.”
“Everything we do is for your protection and the group’s protection.”
“Protect the performance instead.” When her brows lifted in confusion, you continued. “That version?” You asked, gesturing towards the monitor. “It’s clean and safe and it is boring.” You turned towards the choreographer then. “The whole point of the bridge and the performance in general is tension. Bloom opens the stage, BTS interrupts the formation, we meet in the middle. That’s the concept, yeah? Collision? Different backgrounds, languages, styles, and we still find rhythm with each other?”
The choreographer, against better judgment, nodded slightly. Manager Lee did not. You looked at her again, “So why are we cutting the tension out of the section where it actually matters most?”
Her voice was thin as she replied. “You know why.”
“Because Jungkook stood near me?”
“Because the camera makes it look like more.”
“Then change the camera!”
Silence stretched through the room, beautiful and awful. The assistant director looked up as Manager Lee stared at you with composed rage. You smiled, but there was no sweetness in it. “What?” you asked. “We’re all professionals, right? Isn’t that what you keep telling me? So, professionally speaking, if the camera angle makes clean choreography look inappropriate, maybe the camera angle is bad.”
Mina’s mouth fell open across the room and Lila made a tiny noise that sounded like a squeak. You just barely caught the movement from the corner of the room where Jimin turned away so fast you could tell he was trying not to laugh. Jungkook definitely didn’t laugh. He did, however, stare at you like you’d done something reckless and worthy of reward.
Manager Lee stepped closer. “Careful.”
You held her gaze. “I am careful.”
“No,” she said quietly. “You are emotional.”
Your smile dropped. That– well, that simply was not okay. Emotional was the kind of word people used when they wanted to make a woman’s point sound more like a symptom than a valid anything. Your shoulders squared automatically.
“I’m not emotional because I disagree with you.” You said with a shake of your head. “I have spent the last five years being told to lead this group,” you continued, voice steady now, colder. “Lead interviews and rehearsals. Lead when someone cries, or when someone messes up Japanese. Lead when an American journalist asks us if our accents make it harder for fans to connect to us. Lead when executives want us to be diverse but not difficult. You do not get to ask me to lead and then expect me to be silent when I have an opinion.”
Bloom was still silent, listening. Manager Lee glanced toward them and then back to you. “This is not about your leadership.”
“Is it not?”
“No, this is about optics.”
You stepped closer to the monitor and tapped the frozen image of yourself on-screen. “There are five girls in Bloom,” you said. “Five cultures, five sets of expectations, five families watching from five different places. We have to be perfect in every market and still somehow look effortless. We have to be strong, but not aggressive. Feminine, but we can’t be weak. International, but not confusing. Respectful, but not boring.” Your throat tightened, but you refused to let your voice shake. “And now I’m supposed to make our performance smaller because people might think I’m standing too close to a man?”
‘Man’ was spoken harder than you expected it to, but that might just be because everyone in this room knew who you were talking about.
Manager Lee inhaled slowly. “You are oversimplifying the issue.”
“No. You are.”
Her eyes narrowed on you. You knew that look. You saw it mostly in conference rooms or vans or backstage before shows. That look typically meant Manager Lee was deciding whether you were worth fighting in public or whether she would drag you into a hallway and skin you alive in private. But you were already past the possibilities of the hallway version. You were exhausted of that kind of privacy.
That privacy was where they put everything they didn’t want your fans to see. Anger, exhaustion, crushes, hunger, homesickness… The ugly parts of being a person inside pretty public packaging.
You looked to the choreographer. “Can you fix the angle without changing the formation?”
He hesitated and Manager Lee said your name again. You ignored her.
The choreographer rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe. If we shoot from the front-left instead of center-right, his hand won’t line up with your waist.”
“Wonderful.”
“And we can adjust Jungkook’s arm path slightly. Less hover, more extension through the turn.”
You nodded. “Does that ruin the transition?”
“No.”
“Will it still read as tension?”
“Yes.”
“Then that seems like the fix.”
Manager Lee laughed quietly. Not amused but warning you again. “You are not the director.”
“No,” you nodded. “I’m the person whose body is in the shot, though.”
That did it. You watched as her expression went completely still. For half a second, you thought maybe you’d gone too far.
Namjoon stepped forward, voice calm and diplomatic. “She has a point.”
Manager Lee’s eyes cut to him. Namjoon bowed his head slightly, polite as ever. “The original blocking has better energy. If the issue is the camera, we can adjust the camera.”
Jimin, apparently done pretending, added, “the first version looked cooler.”
Taehyung nodded from beside him. “Much cooler.”
Mina lifted her hand from the floor. “As someone who has nearly died three times from this choreo, I would like it to look cooler, please.”
A laugh broke out from the staff somewhere, small and nervous, but it punctured the tension just enough. Manager Lee’s mouth tightened again.
She looked at you again, and for a second you saw the calculation behind her eyes. Not just annoyance, but some fear… because maybe she was protecting you. Maybe she was managing you. Maybe those two things had just become so tangled over the years that neither of you knew how to separate them anymore.
Her voice lowered. “And if the fans still talk?”
You looked at the monitor, at the version of you that always came off untouchable. Then you looked at Jungkook. He was still watching you, no smile, no teasing, just a steady stream of attention that always made you feel like he could see the parts of you everyone else would mistake as strength.
Your heart kicked painfully as you looked back to Manager Lee. “Then they talk.” You shrugged.
Her brows lifted, and you swallowed once. “They’re going to talk either way,” you added. “If he stands behind me, they talk. If he doesn’t, they talk. If I smile, they talk. If I don’t, they talk. I can’t keep building my whole career around avoiding someone’s slowmo edit.” She said nothing. “So, let me do my job. Let us do the performance the way it was built.”
No one moved for a long moment, then Manager Lee looked towards BTS’s staff. A silent conversation passed between people paid too much money to make invisible decisions for you all.
Finally, the assistant director cleared his throat. “We can try one take with the original blocking and adjusted camera.”
Manager Lee did not look happy. But she also didn’t say no. You nearly sagged with relief, but instead nodded once, professional and controlled. “Thank you.”
Manager Lee leaned closer as people began resetting, her voice only loud enough for you to hear. “This is not over.”
You gave her a thin smile, “yeah, I know.”
She held your gaze before stepping away. Your pulse was still slamming, your hands were shaking faintly so you curled them into fists before anyone could notice.
Jungkook did, though. He appeared beside you as the room shifted back into place, close enough to speak but not so close that anyone could accuse either of you of anything. Always that measured distance now. Always that invisible forsaken line neither of you could stop finding.
His voice was low, “That was…”
You looked at him. “Stupid? Suicidal?”
“Hot.”
Your eyes widened. “Jungkook–”
“What?” he asked, all innocence, but his eyes were bright again. Alive again. “You told them to change the camera.”
“I did not do all of that so you could flirt with me.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” He leaned the slightest bit closer, voice dropping. “I’m flirting because you did all that.”
You almost laughed. You killed it immediately, but not before his smile deepened like he had won something. Your chest hurt, god, it hurt. There he was again, not unreachable or erased, right behind that invisible line, waiting. You looked away before your face could betray you.
“Don’t make me regret it.”
His expression softened. “I won’t.”
Like always, his sincerity was worse than his flirting. You nodded and stepped into position. When Bloom formed behind you and BTS moved around you, the room felt different, felt more awake.
Jungkook took his place behind you, close enough for the choreography and the ache. You caught his reflection again in the mirror. For a second, he let himself smile. Small and private and proud. Your heart stuttered. The music started and you moved, and on the count of six, Jungkook crossed behind you again.
His hand extended through the turn exactly as adjusted, never hovering, never touching, cleaner than before. The camera caught the motion from the left, no illusion of contact, no scandalous frame, but the tension was there. Worse, maybe, because now it felt intentional. You hit the next count with your chin lifted and fire in your chest. Behind you, Jungkook matched you perfectly. For the first time in years, you danced not like something had been stolen from you, but like you’d taken it back.
The take was good, not in the clipped way that Manager Lee’s revision was. It was good. The room felt it the second the music cut. The final pose held, one count after another. Your chest heaved and sweat slid down your spine. Your hands were still shaped exactly where the choreography left them, fingers splayed, chin lifted, Bloom fanned out behind you like a flower opening. Jungkook stood behind your shoulder, the energy of him burned at your back.
“That’s it,” the choreographer muttered.
A ripple went through the room, recognition and congratulations spreading infectiously. It had all finally clicked into place, you could still feel the irritation coming from different figures because it had taken arguing to get there. The assistant director leaned over the monitor, replaying the bridge. “Camera angle works,” he confirmed.
Manager Lee didn’t speak. That was how you knew you’d won. Not permanently or cleanly, or without dues waiting to be paid somewhere down the line… but for that moment, in the rehearsal room where everyone had tried to sand down the edges of the performance, you had won.
You stepped out of formation and reached for your water, but Mina passed it to you before you could grab it yourself. Her eyes were sparkling. “You’re so getting yelled at later,” she whispered.
“I know,” you nodded, taking the bottle. “Probably sooner than I’d like.”
“Worth it?”
You looked toward the monitor, where your body and Jungkook’s shadow moved through the bridge again. The shot was pristine. Electric. There was no cheap almost-touching or accidental scandal, only tension and performance. Both were proof you were right.
You lifted the bottle to your mouth. “So worth it.”
Mina grinned, “that’s our girl.”
Across the room, BTS had gathered around the playback too. Namjoon watched with a thoughtful frown as Hoseok talked animatedly with the choreographer, hands moving like he was already tweaking details in his head. Yoongi glanced over at you once and gave a small approving nod.
Your eyes found Jungkook as they always tended to do. He was watching the monitor with Namjoon, for once not watching you. So you studied him. The set of his shoulders, the damp hair curling slightly under his beanie, the line of his jaw when he clenched it like there was something he wanted to say and had decided against it.
You knew that look because you wore it all the time.
Manager Lee appeared at your side. “Hallway,” she said.
You capped your water slowly. “Now?” Mina’s smile dropped.
“Yes.” Her tone didn’t invite argument.
Unfortunately for her, you’d apparently discovered you had a fresh appetite for it. “We’re still rehearsing.”
“You have five minutes before reset.”
“Then say whatever you need to say here.”
She looked at you with exhausted disbelief. “Do not push me on this.”
You met her eyes, and for a second, you almost did push her. There was still adrenaline in you. Still heat, and a reckless, wild pulse that had made you speak up in the first place. The part of you that had been quiet for years was awake now, pacing behind your eyes and showing teeth.
But then Hana looked over. Your youngest member’s face was carefully blank, but her fingers were twisted around the hem of her shirt. Watching and learning, not just the choreography.
You exhaled through your nose and set the water bottle down. “Fine.”
Manager Lee turned toward the door and you followed. The hallway outside the rehearsal room was colder, quieter, and washed in ugly fluorescent light. The noise of the room dulled behind the closed door, leaving only the low hum of vents and the distant thud of base from another studio.
She walked a few steps away from the door before stopping. You didn’t make her begin because you were petty enough for silence.
She turned on you. “What was that?”
You folded your arms. “Which part? The choreography is extensive.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Do not.”
You smiled again without warmth. “Use your words. I’m emotional, remember?”
Her jaw tightened and a small mean part of you enjoyed it. A more tired part of you hated that it had come to this at all.
“You undermined me in front of two groups, three management teams, and production staff.” she said. “The girls, YN.”
“I disagreed with you.”
“You challenged a decision that was made for your benefit.”
“No. I challenged a lazy solution.” Her eyes flashed, but you kept going before she could cut in. “Moving him out of the formation was easier than fixing the shot. That doesn’t mean it was better.”
“You are not seeing the bigger picture.”
You laughed once. “Did you not hear what I said in there? I am always seeing the bigger picture. That’s the problem.” You stepped closer, lowering your voice because you were angry, not stupid. “I see it when I tell Mina not to post something because a joke reads differently across the world. I see it when Lila stumbles in Korean and I jump in before people can clip it. I see it when people call Bloom experimental like we’re not human beings who had to leave home and become experts in being observed. I see the bigger picture so much that sometimes I forget I’m in it.”
Her expression shifted slightly, not soft but not untouched. You hated it because you saw it, that she wasn’t some cartoon villain trying to ruin your life. She looked like a woman with too many emails, too many fires to put out, and a job that already probably required her to think of every single possible disaster before it happened. But she was also standing in front of you and asking you to be grateful for a cage because the bars were padded.
“I know what you carry,” she said carefully.
“No,” you said. “You know what I’m useful for.”
You regretted the words immediately, because they were true and they hurt her. You could see it.Those were always the ugliest truths, the ones that came out sharp enough to damage because you had spent too long shoving them down.
“You think I don’t fight for you…?”
Your anger faltered.
“You think that I don’t sit in rooms and tell men twice my own age that you are not difficult, you are exhausted? That Bloom does not need to be simpler for people to understand and connect with you? That you do not need to smile more in American interviews or soften your tone in Korean ones?”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
“I fight for you, for all of you, all the time.”
You swallowed. “That doesn’t mean you get to silence me.”
“I am trying to keep you safe.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” your voice cracked slightly. “But lately it feels like safe and small are being made the same thing.”
She didn’t reply. Behind the rehearsal room door, music started again briefly, then cut off. Someone laughed as someone else called for water. Life continued, and yours felt suspended by a thread. You took a breath.
“I know there are rules,” you said. “I know what fans can do. I know what companies can do. I’m not asking to be reckless.”
Her gaze sharpened on you again because she heard the thing underneath your words. The person underneath them. Jungkook. Not just the choreography or the camera or your bruised pride.
Her expression turned into something that made your stomach drop. “Oh, YN–”
“No,” you said, stepping back immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
She looked tired now, less angry. “Is it serious?”
Your whole body locked in response, there were a thousand answers you could have given. No. Of course not. We’re just friends. We barely know each other. It’s just banter. It’s nothing.
You had actually practiced them in your head. Every idol did because denial was practically part of media training. Keep your face open, keep your tone amused, make the idea sound so silly that everyone feels ridiculous for believing it. But in the hallway, with Manager Lee looking at you like a person instead of a problem, the lies felt too heavy to lift.
You said nothing, and she closed her eyes briefly. “YN.”
“It’s not anything,” you said quickly.
She opened her eyes, and looked gentle.
“It isn’t,” you insisted, too fast. “Nothing happened. Nothing is happening. We don’t– there’s no–”
You stopped as she inhaled slowly. “Does he know that?”
You looked at the floor, the scuff on it near your sneaker. You focused on that because it was easier than focusing on the fact that, yes, Jungkook knew. Of course he knew. He knew more than you wanted him to, but he also knew you didn’t want him to stop. He knew you were scared, and that you could say no to him with your mouth and yes with every other part of you, brain included.
Your manager’s silence became answer enough.
“You’re the leader,” she said finally.
Something in you recoiled. “I know.”
“You are not the only one who pays if this goes badly.”
“I know.”
“Bloom is still small enough that people are waiting for reasons to dismiss you.”
“I know.”
“Then act like it.”
Your head lifted, and there it was again, the old anger all hot and bitter. “I do.”
“Not tonight you didn’t.”
“Yes,” you snapped. “Tonight especially. I am not going to teach my members that leadership means letting people cut away pieces of your autonomy until you’re ‘easy’ to manage. I’m not going to show them that the second someone says ‘optics,’ we fold. I’m not going to tell them their instincts don’t matter because some imaginary fan edit might maybe happen. I am careful, I am painfully careful, but I am not dead or spineless.” Your chest rose and fell and your voice softened, not because anger had left you, but because the truth beneath it all hurt. “I don’t want them to become those things either.”
She stayed quiet again, and for a long minute you could not read her. Then she looked away and one hand came up to rub at her temple. “You’re impossible.”
A laugh slipped out of you, small and tired. “Yeah.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
She sighed like she was trying not to care, but was failing miserably. “I will talk to production about the original blocking.”
You blinked, and she pointed at you immediately. “Do not look victorious.”
You attempted to arrange your face but failed. She shook her head. “You’re still not to be alone with him,” she added.
Your almost-smile disappeared immediately. “There it is.”
“Yes. There it is.” Her voice was firm again. “I am not punishing you. I am setting a boundary before the two of you do something stupid.”
Your mouth fell open. “Stupid?”
“You heard me.”
You laughed, just once, and then the ache came back because the boundary was reasonable and you also hated it. Because Jungkook was still behind the door, close enough to walk to, far enough to remain untouched, and somehow that sentiment encompassed your life now.
Manager Lee studied your face. “You need to decide what matters most.”
You looked at her. The answer should have been easy.
Bloom. Always and forever, Bloom. Your girls. Your dream. The years you spent scraping yourself raw for a chance to stand in rooms like this. The little leader title you carried like armor even when it dug into your skin. But Jungkook’s face appeared in your mind anyway. His quiet Do you want me to stop? Your terribly honest No.
Manager Lee saw enough in your expression to sigh again. “God help me,” she muttered.
You frowned. “What?”
“Nothing. Go back inside.”
She started toward the rehearsal room, and you followed her footsteps again. Right before she opened the door, she paused. Without turning around, she said, “And YN?”
“Yeah?”
“Emotions are good. Just make sure when they’re heated ones, you bite the right people.”
She opened the door then and walked back in like she had not just knocked the air out of your lungs. You stood there for a second stupidly before stepping in yourself.
The room had shifted while you were gone. People were scattered again, finishing up the reset for another run. Bloom was gathered near the speakers, pretending they had not been staring at the door. BTS was near the mirror, talking amongst themselves.
Jungkook looked up the second you entered. His eyes moved over you quickly, searching, asking if you were okay without saying it out loud. You gave him the smallest nod. Barely anything. His shoulders loosened by a fraction, and he pulled out his phone.
Yours buzzed a second later. You didn’t look at him, wouldn’t risk it after the hallway debacle. You reached for your phone with the calm of a woman handling a live grenade.
JK: did you win?
Your mouth twitched before you could stop it. You angled the screen away from Mina, who immediately leaned closer because she had the instincts of a raccoon near a trash can.
YN: depends who’s asking ig
Across the room, Jungkook looked down at his phone and his lips curved.
JK: the guy who got his spot back
He glanced up, found you watching him, and smirked. You looked down fast.
YN: then yes
Three dots appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again. Your heart did something embarrassing.
JK: you were scary
YN: good
JK: no
JK: not good
JK: dangerous
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. Dangerous. You should not have liked that, but obviously, you liked that.
YN: you should be careful then
JK: i am
JK: it sucks
You stopped breathing for a second. The room continued moving around you as staff adjusted marks, the choreographer called for positions, Mina asked if you were alive and you ignored her completely.
Your phone felt warm in your hand. You should have put it away or locked the screen. You should have remembered the hallway, the warnings, the rules, your manager’s tired eyes when she said you are not the only one who pays.
YN: don’t do that
JK: do what?
YN: text sappy shit like u mean it
JK: i do mean it
JK: that sucks too
The choreographer clapped loudly. “Back to first positions!”
Mina looked at you with an expression that was half concern, half I knew it, half ready to beat someone with a folding chair. Three halves, very Mina.
“You good?” she asked quietly.
You looked at Jungkook one last time, he was putting his phone away too. Professional face returning. Distance settled back over him like a coat. “Yeah,” you said.
Mina’s eyes narrowed. You lifted your chin. “I’m good.”
It was not true. Not even close to a partial truth, but the music was about to start and your group was watching, and Manager Lee was standing by the monitor with her arms folded, and Jungkook was moving back into position behind you.
So you became good. You became the leader, the center, smart and careful, as the track began.
The rehearsal ended at 1:17 am, not that you were counting (you absolutely were.)
You counted every minute after Jungkook whispered “good job, leader,” under the music like he had any right to be proud of you after the first run through. You counted every step, every water break, every small adjustment production made to justify keeping the original blocking after all.
You counted the number of times his eyes found yours in the mirror, which was seven. You counted the number of times you looked away first, which was six. You were winning by one, which was maybe petty, but leadership required small victories.
By the time the choreographer finally clapped his hands and called it for the night, your entire body felt wrung out. Your legs ached, your hair had escaped its ponytail in soft, damp pieces around your face. Your throat was dry from calling counts and corrections, and your phone had been buzzing with messages from your company group chat for the past twenty minutes.
You knew what they were.
Manager Lee had gone quiet after your hallway spat, which meant the lecture had likely evolved. It had grown legs or reproduced or become an email thread with subject lines like URGENT: REHEARSAL CONDUCT REVIEW and MAMA COLLAB OPTICS–FOLLOW UP.
You were thrilled to be murdered professionally. Couldn’t wait.
“Good work today,” the choreographer said, looking between both groups. “Next week we’ll run with full camera rehearsal and wardrobe pieces. Rest and ice your knees. Do not go live with any of this stuff. Do not post clips. Do not leak anything unless you want me to personally hunt you down.”
Mina raised a hand. “Can I leak that I almost broke my elbow on the last drop?”
“No.”
“What about–”
“No.”
“Buzzkill.”
A few people laughed at Mina’s antics, you didn’t. You were too busy pretending not to notice Jungkook standing by the mirror, towel around his neck, talking to one of his managers while looking like he was listening to absolutely nothing. His manager said something. Jungkook nodded and then his eyes flicked to you, just once before they glanced back down at the floor.
The room began to empty in small pieces. Staff packed cameras, assistants gathered water bottles, tape marks, discarded towels. Your members moved around you in various states of collapse, drama, and hunger.
Lila was wrapped in her hoodie like a burrito. “I think I left my soul in the back half of the bridge on that final run.”
Mina slung an arm around her shoulders. “Leave it. It belongs to the MAMA ghosts now.”
Sasha, who had been mostly quiet for the last hour, glanced at you while zipping her bag. “You okay?”
You looked up at the sound of her careful tone, gave her the leader smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Mina snorted, and you shot her a look. “Girl, that smile can’t fool a toddler.”
“I’m fine.”
“Fine is what people say when they’re either about to cry or do something shitty, like cheating.”
“Or all of those things,” Lila said faintly from inside her hoodie.
You sighed. “Can we please not psychoanalyze me in front of the production crew?”
“We can psychoanalyze you in the van,” Mina offered.
“Great. Looking forward to Hell.”
Sasha touched your elbow lightly. “Manager Lee said we’re leaving in ten.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
Your manager had not said it to you directly. You glanced toward the door. She was there still, speaking quietly with someone from BTS’s team, her posture straight and tense. Always professional. You wondered if she had ever been like you, and the thought turned over something uncomfortable in your chest.
You bent to grab your bag, but another hand reached it first, tattooed and strong.
“Don’t,” you said quietly.
Jungkook paused before lowering your bag to the floor like it was a bomb he had politely decided not to detonate. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for trying to be nice.” You straightened slowly and slung your bag over your shoulder yourself. It was heavier than you expected, or maybe you were just tired enough for everything to feel like it was more.
His mouth curved slightly, but his eyes stayed serious. “Feels like I do.”
You looked away, looked at the people who were still around. Too many of them. Staff crossing behind them, your members pretending not to stare from the speaker corner, Jimin looking over with the subtlety of a circus elephant.
“You shouldn’t come over here,” you whispered.
“Mmm,” he nodded. “And yet.”
You looked at him, which, admittedly, was your mistake. He looked exhausted too, but softer around the edges because of it. Less golden maknae, more boy at the end of a very long night, still unwilling to leave without making sure the damage he’d done earlier hadn’t completely eviscerated your heart.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you said.
His eyes dipped briefly, not to your mouth, but to the tense line of your shoulders. “I think you’re already in trouble.”
You huffed. “Thanks.”
“Not because of me.”
You gave him a look, to which he tilted his head, conceding. “Okay, maybe partly because of me.”
“Mostly because of me,” you admitted.
“That’s what I was going to say, but I’m scared of you now.”
Your mouth twitched and his face brightened a fraction. Another problem to add to your list. Every time you gave him an inch of softness, he looked like you had handed him something big and beautiful and irreplaceable.
You shut it down fast, “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“No. You’re not.”
His smile faded. The room picked up behind you. Zippers closed, wheels rolled across polished wood, laughter peeled from the hallway, managers exchanged final notes. Jungkook stepped closer. “I’m serious all the time with you.”
Your fingers tightened on your bag strap immediately. You wanted to be mean. You wanted to be very mean. There was safety in it. Sharpness. It was a familiar little door you could slam shut before anyone got close enough to see the mess existing inside you. But you had already used up so much anger, and beneath it there was only a heavy sense of tired.
“Don’t say that here,” you whispered.
His gaze flicked around the room before landing back on you. “Where should I say it?”
Your breath caught when the question didn’t land like a simple line. He asked it like a question he actually wanted answered, not a practiced quick pick-up that worked on backup dancers or instructors. He asked it like some impossible place where the two of you could speak plainly and not be punished for it might exist.
A hallway without cameras, or a city without fans, or a life without limitless contracts. You could almost picture it, which was a new cruelty in and of itself. You let out a quiet laugh with zero humor in it. “There isn’t anywhere.”
Jungkook’s jaw tightened and for a second he looked young again, like he did eras ago when he was just a picture on a billboard or an online article, and not a man you’d spoken to many times and had texted privately without your managers knowing even more so. He also looked hurt in a way that was unhidden.
“You really believe that?” he asked.
You stared at him. Did you?
You definitely believed in rules. You believed in consequences even more. You believed in fans who would love you until they felt betrayed by an imagined version of you. You believed in companies that called you family while reminding you they owned your schedule, image, and voice at certain hours of the day.
You believed in Bloom… in your girls.
And Jungkook was asking you to believe in something additional, between all of that. You hated him for being brave enough to even imagine it.
“I have to,” you answered.
Disappointment flickered fast across his face. Not disappointment in you, exactly, but disappointment in your answer.
“Right.”
“I’m trying to be honest, Jungkook.”
“I know,” he nodded.
“Please stop that.”
He laughed under his breath, but it sounded rough and wrong. “Sorry, I’ll schedule my feelings better next time.”
Your eyes snapped up at the bite in his voice. He still wasn’t trying to be cruel or loud or hard with you, but the anger had shown face. “You don’t need to do that either.”
“So you get to be upset with your manager today, but I don’t get to be upset with you?”
“None of this is my choice, Jungkook,” Your brows furrowed, breath leaving you in an astonished laugh. Your blood heated as you took half a step closer.
“That is…” he shook his head. “That’s just sad, YN.”
Your stomach dropped and you worked hard to keep your face still. Mina tensed near the door, still watching over you while the other members chatted with a mix of production crew members and backup dancers.
“That is rich,” you scoffed.
“Is it?” Jungkook replied, eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” your voice stayed low. “Coming from the man who eats, breathes and sleeps NDA’s and limited public outings? I mean, be serious, Jungkook. I’ve heard stories. You flirt until shit gets real and then you hide behind having contractual obligations and policies.”
His face went still. Part of you was happy with the way your words hit him, and you should have left it there. But you didn’t.
“You want to ask me if there’s something between us? Fine. Ask. Go ahead. You want to act hurt when I won’t say the thing out loud in a room full of people paid to keep me profitable? Fine. Be hurt. Do whatever. You don’t get to stand here and pretend that you’re not also choosing the easier version of this, too, though.”
His gaze sharpened on you. “Easy version?”
“Yeah. This picture you have in your head that somehow makes me the scared one. The one who won’t own up to whatever this is,” you whisper, motioning between the two of you.
His jaw ticked. You had never seen Jungkook like this before. Still controlled, still aware of the room, but something was under his expression. Something dark and stung and painful. “You think this has just been easy for me?”
“I think people forgive you faster,” you shrug.
Jungkook blinked and your chest tightened. The words were out there, and you couldn’t take them back. So you kept moving forward, quieter. “You know they do.”
He looked away for a second, which was enough to tell you that he knew exactly what you meant. It was not his fault. Jungkook hadn’t built the industry. He hadn’t invented the double standards that made male desire romantic and female desire reckless. He hadn’t asked to become a symbol people projected purity and fantasy onto until every human thing he did became either worshipped or weaponized. He just lived in a different version of your cage. Bigger, but still locked.
You swallowed. “If this went wrong, you’d be heartbroken. Maybe you’d be criticized, maybe watched more closely.”
His eyes met yours. “And you?”
You gave him a humorless little smile. “I’d become the girl who distracted Jungkook.”
His expression cracked and you nodded once, like he had finally caught up. He said nothing and you hated the silence. “I become selfish,” you explained. “Calculating. Too flirty, not serious enough. Too forward, too much. Bloom would become the group with the leader who couldn’t keep her hands clean during their first MAMA collab. My members would answer for me in interviews. My company would stop trusting me in any rooms ever. Fans would start looking at every interaction I have with any idol as possible evidence for another dating scandal.” Your throat burned. “And maybe you end up defending me, maybe you don’t. Maybe you can’t. Either way, I’m the story.”
Jungkook’s face was tired under the flush of rehearsal. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
“You wouldn’t be able to stop it.”
He flinched at the words neither of you had been able to say in the eight months of intermittent phone calls and texts. The eight months of memes exchanged over various social media outlets. The words hurt, but they were true. Jungkook, who could sell out stadiums, break records, trend worldwide by breathing differently, could still not protect you from the thing loving him would turn you into.
Not publicly, not completely, and not without costing you both.
“Maybe you’re right,” he sighed. You wished he would say something stupid, or arrogant, something worthy of making you hate him, even. Instead he just looked at you with horrible and steady honesty. “Maybe I can’t stop people from talking, maybe I can’t make things fair. But stop telling me I’m choosing an easy version of things. I’m still reaching out. Still coming up to talk to you. You’re the one who keeps deciding for the both of us.”
Your head snapped back. “What?”
“You heard me.”
You stared at him, too stunned to speak. He stepped back. “You tell me what’s impossible. You tell me what fans will say. You tell me what I can and can’t do. You tell me when I’m allowed to flirt with you and when I have to pretend like I don’t want to. You gonna get mad when I listen and finally stop reaching out, too?”
Your mouth open and closed, and you realized that he wasn’t wrong. You would build up a stupid wall, brick by brick, and then hate it when he didn’t tear himself up trying to bring it down. His face softened when he saw your face.
He sighed quietly. “YN–”
“YN. Van is here.” Manager Lee called from across the room.
You both turned. She stood near the door, looking between you and Jungkook. Her expression didn’t change much, but you knew that while she hadn’t heard everything, she had heard enough. Your throat tightened and you adjusted your bag on your shoulder.
“Coming,” you nodded.
Jungkook said nothing. You passed by him slowly, turned once when he continued to be silent. For once, he looked vulnerable. Looked like he was waiting for you to choose anything but leaving with Manager Lee. You hated your fear, then.
“Good rehearsal,” you told him.
The words sounded awful as soon as they left your mouth. They were flat and polite. A door closing. His face shuttered, though not completely. “Yeah. Good rehearsal.”
You deserved it, but it still hurt. You turned away before any of the pain could register on your face. Mina was waiting by the door still, arms folded, face unreadable in a way that meant she was choosing between hugging you and calling you out on your bullshit. Hana hovered beside her, quieter but equally concerned. Manager Lee held the door open. You walked through it and did not look back.
The van waited outside beneath the black entrance awning. Seoul at night glowed around the building, pavement slick from rain you hadn’t seen start. Security moved ahead, checking the side alleys. A staff member opened the van door. You climbed in first, Mina slid in after and sat beside you without asking. The others piled in quietly, Manager Lee in the front passenger seat.
No one spoke for almost three blocks.
“So,” Mina started.
“‘So,’” you mimicked. “Let’s not, please.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Mina.”
She softened a little, leaning in to bump your shoulder and whisper quietly. “Did he hurt you?”
Your eyes stayed closed. “No.”
“Did you hurt him?”
The answer sat between you in the dark van, ugly and obvious.
Mina sighed. “Oh, babe.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Mina.”
“Okay.”
That surprised you enough to open your eyes. She was looking out the window, jaw set.
“That’s it?”
“For now,” she shrugged.
“That is ominous.”
“I’m being respectful. It’s new for me,” Mina offered.
Hana, from the back row, whispered, “I hated that.”
You turned slightly. “What?”
“You saying good rehearsal.” She peeked out from her hood, face scrunched. “That was nasty.”
Sasha nodded gravely. “You said ‘good rehearsal?’ Brutal.”
You stared at them.
Mina pointed at Hana. “See? Even baby mushroom knows.”
“I panicked,” you muttered.
“No shit,” Mina said.
Manager Lee made a sound from the front. “Language.”
Mina leaned forward. “Respectfully, tonight seems like a bad night to police language.”
Your phone buzzed in your lap. You looked down, no message preview, just a notification from your private account. Your pulse jumped and you unlocked your screen before you could talk yourself out of it.
JK: sorry
Your chest caved in around the word. Mina leaned in, and you shoved your phone against your chest. “Privacy, Mina.”
“I saw nothing,” she smiled.
“You saw everything.”
“I saw five letters and a period. Devastating punctuation, honestly.”
Your fingers hovered over your screen. You shouldn’t reply. Not with your members around, and especially not with your manager in the front seat. Not with your heart still bruised from words that were too true on both sides. Your phone buzzed again.
JK: i shouldn’t have said it like that.
You stared at the message until the letters blurred. Mina was quiet beside you. You typed, deleted, typed again… deleted. Before your courage could completely evaporate, you replied.
YN: no, you should’ve
Three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again. You watched them unblinkingly.
JK: i don’t want to make things harder for you.
Your throat tightened and you stared out the window. Watched Seoul pass by in smears of wet neon, at your own reflection staring back at you from the glass. You looked tired, young, and not untouchable at all.
YN: you do
YN: but not because you’re doing something wrong
He didn’t answer right away. The lapse of response stretched long enough for Mina to stop pretending she wasn’t invested. She reached over and squeezed your knee once.
JK: what do u want me to do?
It was a reshaped version of the questions from earlier. Do you want me to stop? Where should I say it? What do you want me to do? He kept asking like your answer mattered more than the rules you were sworn by contracts to live by.
YN: I don’t know
YN: but I don’t want you to disappear.
Your heart hammered so loudly you were sure everyone inside the van could hear it. Three dots, gone, three dots, gone.
JK: okay
JK: I won’t
Your mouth trembled and you pressed your lips together hard. Mina leaned against your shoulder like she was pretending to be casual, but her hand found yours on the seat and squeezed. Those two little words he sent sat on your lap and stared up at you. A promise that was small enough to survive between the two of you, but not big enough to build anything on. It wouldn’t stand against companies, fans, contracts, or rules. But it’d last the night. It was enough for the night. Enough that when the van stopped at a red light, and Manager Lee glanced back at you through the mirror, you didn’t look away.
She held your gaze and you held hers. Neither of you spoke. Your phone buzzed again.
JK: and for the record
JK: good rehearsal was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me
YN: you deserved it
JK: maybe
JK: next time i piss you off tho just tell me to shut up
You stared at the second text. Next time. Dangerous.
i got bit by a snake! quick!! you have to jerk me off to get the poison out! and pinch my nipples a little, too. and call me good boy! yeah that’s the only antidote I looked it up on Internet Explorerrrrrrr
Just wanted to say that I don’t think ur fic read like AI at all, but that’s also not something you can just gauge.
AI literally takes from writers everyday, and then spits out their style like it’s its job (bc it is).
Please please PLEASE don’t feel bad about ur work!! Your writing is very good, and the way you write dialogue kind of inspired how I write it in some of my own stories.
Hope you’re well. And keep the writing style that YOU like the best!!
- ✌🏾
Thank you so much??? This is so kind and I can’t put into any words how much this means to me. AI is big evil, and I would never knowingly take from other writers or artists and incorporate that into my own personal works.
With how prolific it is as a tool now, albeit a shitty and lazy one, I do understand people being wary and questioning artists. AI does have tells, like memory lapse, short structured sentences (as I’ve learned during research) and strange descriptors. I’ve always been a whimsy girlie so I get that when I paint imagery into my fics like a little gremlin, they can read as potential AI flags. I also have always been a fan of repeat phrasing/sentences and short form sentences. When you pile all of those into a chapter or oneshot or a series, I understand concerns taking root.
I wish we lived in a world where asking if someone is utilizing AI wasn’t necessary, truly I do. But all of this is to say I also understand why it is.
I’m glad you’re fond of my work, in whatever small or large dose that manifests as. I love it, too, and I plan to continue! If that means I have to adapt and filter/revise my writing style, I’m willing to (in moderation.) I’m just glad I have this hellspace to post my ramblings and aus on, the interactions never stop warming my heart.
Thank you so much, nony! We’re all really out here just doing our best! I’m so happy I could inspire you in any capacity. Keep being an absolute dream, the world is better for it. 💞🫂
pairing - jjk x reader
contents - you met jeon jungkook eight months ago during rehearsals for an upcoming performance with your group, Bloom, and though you feel a tug coming from his direction, your management forbids anything from developing, so what, then, will happen when your groups are set to perform together at the upcoming MAMAs?
word count- 4.6k+ words
warnings - nothing tbh aside from eye fucking and cussing
The first direct rule given to you was simple. Do not be alone with him. Not because he was dangerous, because he wasn’t, not because you were dangerous, because you weren’t, but because the room changed when Jeon Jungkook walked in and apparently everyone with a paycheck from your company had noticed.
The second rule came after the first, hidden in prettier language, softened with phrases such as professional boundaries and brand alignment and fan perception risk. Your manager said it while scrolling through her tablet, her voice careful, diplomatic, almost bored.
No unnecessary physical contact, no off-camera closeness, no personal conversations where staff could not be present, no giving fans something they could possibly misunderstand. The last one made you laugh, which was a mistake as your manager immediately looked up at you. You stopped laughing then.
Because fans did not misunderstand, not really. They noticed, compiled, slowed footage down to half speed and circled hand placements in red. They made timelines out of blinks. They caught glances even when you swore you hadn’t given any.
And Jungkook? God. Jungkook looked at you like he had never learned how not to.
You had met him eight months prior in Los Angeles, in a rehearsal room that smelled like floor polish, iced coffee, and expensive perfumes. BTS had been there for a private industry showcase. Bloom had been flown in too, still riding the strange, dizzying momentum of being called ‘global’ by every magazine that wanted to make your existence cleaner than it was.
Global was polished and strategic, good for the numbers and the wallet.
It did not sound like five girls from five different countries crying in airport bathrooms, memorizing choreography until five am and waking up three hours later, arguing over who had stolen whose setting powder, and smiling through interviews where people asked you to represent entire continents before you had even eaten breakfast.
You were Bloom’s leader, which meant you were the one who answered when no one else knew what to say.
You were the one who corrected pronunciation, soothed nerves, translated when needed, lied when necessary.
It meant that when your youngest member missed her mother so badly she couldn’t sing, you sat on the bathroom floor with her until her mascara dried. It meant that when your oldest member got called intimidating by a producer who was too scared to call her talented, you smiled with teeth and asked him to repeat himself.
It meant you always entered rooms first. Always.
That day in L.A, you entered the rehearsal room first, too.
And Jungkook had been sitting on the floor with one knee bent, hair damp from practice, oversized black t-shirt clinging slightly at his collar. He had looked up when you walked in.
Not at Bloom, or the stylists trialing you, or the staff holding different clipboards and tablets like holy documents.
He looked at you. For one unbearable second, his expression went still, and then his mouth curved. Small and private and almost rude with how quiet it was. You stared back because you were taught that leaders didn’t flinch.
He had said, in English, “you’re the leader?”
“You sound surprised,” you replied with a lifted brow.
His smile widened. “No, it just makes sense.”
It shouldn’t have been anything but a polite comment, a passing exchange between two people who understood exactly how many cameras existed in the room and in the world. But something about the way he said it rooted under your skin.
So you tilted your head. “And you’re Jungkook.”
He pressed a hand to his chest, exaggeratedly wounded. “Only Jungkook?”
You looked over him once, slow enough to be a problem but quick enough to deny it if asked. “Should I add something?”
His tongue poked the inside of his cheek. One of your members made a strangled noise behind you, and behind him, Jimin started laughing. That was the beginning. Not of anything real, or anything that was important.
There was no beginning of anything real between idols like you and Jungkook. There were no movie montages, no midnight walks, no holding hands across tables in restaurants. There were no soft-launch Instagram posts, no casual mentions in interviews, no “we met naturally and fell in love” explanations that would not detonate both of your careers on impact.
There was only accidental eye contact across rehearsal rooms, messages left unread for hours because responding too fast felt dangerous, inside jokes spoken through microphones while managers stood ten feet away… A friendship everyone pretended was normal because pretending was easier than admitting. Besides, you were good at pretending, you’d built an entire career out of it.
Tonight, though, pretending felt harder.
Because MAMA rehearsals were running late, your feet ached, your hair was coming loose from its painfully perfect ponytail, and Jungkook was standing across the studio in a black beanie, watching you lead Bloom through the transition into BTS’s formation.
Maybe watching was too gentle of a word. He was studying you. Your reflection caught his in the mirror, and you looked away first like a coward.
“Again from the top,” you called, clapping twice.
A chorus of groans came from your members.
“No complaining,” you said automatically.
Mina, who’d been born and raised in Korea and had, for some reason, never feared consequences in her life, threw her head back. “Our beloved leader’s trying to kill us.”
“I’m trying to make our work cohesive,” you argued.
“We already look cohesive.”
“You look sweaty,” You smirked.
“I look hot sweaty, try again.” She said with a kiss blown your way. You caught it, crushed it in your fist, and flipped her off through the mirror.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Jungkook laugh.
Your stomach did something humiliating as the track restarted.
The choreography for the collaboration stage was ambitious in the way entertainment companies loved: dramatic, slightly impractical, clearly designed to become viral within twenty minutes of airing. Bloom opened the performance with sharp and clean formation work influenced by each of your backgrounds– hip hop, contemporary, dancehall, even flashes of traditional movement your choreographer had carefully woven in after weeks of conversations with all of you.
BTS would enter halfway through.
Jungkook’s part crossed directly behind yours, and that was a problem.
You had known it when they first showed you the blocking. Your manager had known it too, because her face had done that awful neutral thing people did when they were screaming internally.
Jungkook passed behind you on the count of six.
Your shoulder dipped, his hand never touched your waist, it only hovered near it. That was the choreography, that was the excuse, that was the actual nightmare.
Because every time he moved behind you, your body knew he was there before your mind could catch up. Heat at your back, the shift of air, the faint scent of detergent and skin and whatever fucking cologne he was wearing that made you want to commit several stupid, career-ending decisions.
You hit the next move too hard.
“Careful,” Jungkook murmured behind you.
You did not turn around. “I’m careful.”
“No,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear over the music. “You’re frustrated.”
Your jaw tightened as his laugh brushed against the back of your neck. You missed half a count just barely, almost no one noticed.
When the music finally cut, the choreographer called for a water break. Your members scattered immediately, some collapsing against the wall, some checking their phones, one filming a dramatic fake death on the floor for behind-the-scenes content that would absolutely never be approved.
You went for your water bottle near the speakers, grateful for something to do with your hands.
Jungkook got there first. He picked it up and held it out for you. A simple enough gesture. Still, your manager’s head followed the movement from across the room.
You saw it, and Jungkook saw you see it. His smile faded slightly.
You took the water bottle without letting your fingers brush his. “Thanks.”
“Wow,” he said softly. “So formal.”
You unscrewed the cap, shaking your head at him. “Would you prefer I bow?”
“Maybe.”
You gave him a look and his eyes brightened.
“A little one,” he added.
“You’re annoying.”
“You once told me I was charming.”
“I’ve matured.”
“In eight months?” He laughed.
You shrugged at him, taking a deep swig of water.
He leaned one shoulder against the mirrored wall, still breathing hard from practice. Sweat darkened the hair near his temple. His cheeks were flushed, and it made him look younger and more dangerous at the same time. Like he could just grin his way through a locked door or a heart.
“You disappeared after the Grammy rehearsals.”
You continued to drink your water, which was a terrible choice because it gave you too much time to think and not enough to breathe. “I’ve been working,” you tell him finally.
He nods, unconvinced. “So, if you’re working, you’re never anywhere else? Ever?”
“Typically when I’m working, I’m working. So, yes.”
His smile twitched, and then faded as he watched you. Flirty Jungkook was easy. Teasing Jungkook was manageable. You could parry him, roll your eyes and simply walk away and pretend like your pulse was normal. Quiet Jungkook made everything more complicated.
He looked down at the floor between you, then back up. “Did I do something wrong? During those rehearsals, I mean. I thought we were getting along.”
The thing you hated most about him settled heavy between the two of you. His sincerity. You wished he had more ego, it would have been so much easier if he were arrogant in the way people expected him to be. If he acted like his attention was a gift, or if he flirted because he knew you would blush and not because something in him actually softened when you walked into a room.
You looked towards your members.
Mina was laughing with Taehyung over something on her phone. Your youngest, Hana, was speaking shy Korean with Namjoon, who listened with his whole body like he had nowhere else in the world to be. Lila, the middle child, bickered with Jimin over contemporary dance. Staff lingered nearby, watching all of you.
Always watching.
You lowered your voice, “No.”
Jungkook’s brows drew in, “That’s hardly an answer.”
“It is an answer, though.”
“A bad one.”
You laughed once, but it came out brittle. “You’re such a brat.”
“You don’t like that?”
Your eyes cut to his, and there it was again. A little spark. A terrible little thread between you that neither company had managed to cut, no matter how many rules they printed or whispered in hushed tones.
For a second, you let yourself look at him. Really look. You looked at the tiny scar on his cheek, the silver hoops in his ears, the way his gaze flicked down to your mouth and back up so quickly that anyone else might have missed it even if you did not.
You didn’t miss it at all, which was the whole problem. “You can’t say things like that,” you said.
His face changed, not dramatically, Jungkook was far too trained for that. You both were. But his expression lost some of its warmth, like someone had dimmed a light behind his eyes.
“Right. Okay.”
Your throat tightened at the clipped words. You hated them, hated how small they sounded. Hated that you put them there.
“Jungkook–”
“No, I know.” He nodded once, glancing towards the staff. “Rules.”
You should have let his words sit there. You should have accepted a clean exit. Instead, because apparently you hated yourself, you said, “it’s not just rules.”
His attention returned to you so fast it was painful. “No?”
“No.”
The studio felt louder suddenly, even though no music was playing. Sneakers squeaked, someone laughed, a manager coughed. The hallway outside of the room leaked in other noises, too, other rehearsals, other idols, other perfectly controlled disasters.
You gripped your water bottle. “You know what happens,” you said. “If people think there’s something.”
He looked at you for a long moment before asking quietly, “is there?”
The answer had been there for months, sitting between your ribs like a bruise you kept prodding just to see if it still hurt, yet your heart dropped anyway. You looked away, and Jungkook laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it.
“Okay.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he shook his head, smiling even though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You said ‘okay’ like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I just hurt your feelings.”
His eyes sharpened slightly. “Didn’t you?”
The room tilted and you wanted to snap back. You wanted to tell him he did not get to put that on you, not when both of you had signed contracts longer than some marriages, not when Bloom was still fighting to be taken seriously, not when one wrong rumor could turn your leadership into selfishness and your ambition into betrayal. You also wanted to tell him you were tired.
Tired of filtering yourself, tired of smiling when interviewers asked whether Bloom’s “diverse concept” made it harder for you to be a unit, as if friendship was only believable when everyone came from the same place. Tired of being responsible, tired of wanting one thing that belonged only to you.
But Jungkook was looking at you like he would listen to all of it, and that was dangerous too, so you swallowed it all down. “I’m trying not to.”
His face softened, a little devastation still present, before he nodded. “Yeah, me too.”
The choreographer clapped from across the room. “Five minutes! Back to positions!”
The spell broke. You turned away first because that was what leaders did, they moved forward and set the tone. They did not fall apart beside barres and walls while one of the most beloved idols in the world looked at them like there was an inkling of possibility lying between them.
You took your place at the center, and Bloom formed behind you. BTS moved into position around you. Jungkook came to stand at your back again, close enough for choreo, far enough for rules. In the mirror, your eyes met his that were now cloaked in professionalism, calm and unreachable. It should have been a relief, it should have helped you, but it didn’t.
The music started and you hit the first count perfectly. So did he.
That was the cruelest part of it all, and the most beautiful. You were always best when you were pretending nothing was hurting.
By the third run-thorugh, your body has stopped feeling like yours. It belonged to the counts, the holds, the drops, the turns, the looks.
You made an effort not to look at Jungkook again. It wasn’t written in the choreography, obviously. No choreographer in their right mind would write do not look directly at Jeon Jungkook unless you are prepared to ruin your own life beside the formations.
But it might as well have been there, honestly.
Because every camera in the practice room seemed to find the two of you. Every staff member seemed vaguely aware of the invisible string between the two of you. Every reflective surface was another traitor waiting to catch your eyes drifting where they really shouldn’t. And Jungkook was being good now. He did not tease, did not murmur anything under his breath when he passed behind you, did not hover by your water bottle, did not throw secret smiles your way in the mirror, did not make some quiet, stupid joke just to see if he could crack a smile on your face.
He did everything right and was professional and distant. And you hated him for it, almost as much as you hated yourself for wanting him to stop.
“Again,” the choreographer called. “Bloom, sharper on the second transition. BTS, give them more space on the cross. Jungkook, watch the distance behind YN.”
Your spine went tight as Jungkook nodded. “Yes.”
Your mouth pressed into a tight little line, and Mina, stationed just behind your right shoulder, leaned in close enough that her ponytail brushed your arm.
“You’re doing that thing,” she whispered.
You didn’t move your eyes from the mirror. “What thing?”
“The murder face thing.”
“I’m focused.”
“Totally. Super focused and not at all planning an assassination.”
“I’m the leader. That’s part of my charisma.”
“More like emotional constipation.”
You almost laughed, but Jungkook shifted behind you, stepping into position, and whatever humor had tried to climb its way up your throat died a pathetic little death.
Mina followed your gaze in the mirror, and her expression softened in that annoying way friends had when they knew too much and could do nothing about it. “Ah,” she mumbled, “So it’s that thing.”
“There’s no thing,” you hissed through the side of your mouth.
“Girl–”
“Mina.”
“Respectfully, you and that man have been eye-fucking in 4k since Los Angeles.”
You whipped your head toward her. “Mina.”
She smiled brightly, all innocence, then snapped back into position as the music started up once again. You missed your entrance by half a breath. It wasn’t visible or badly, but you felt it and Jungkook did too. His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror, and that was all it took to tap a little crack in the carefully built wall.
His gaze dropped away again, and the absence of it sat against your chest like a dumbbell. You danced harder, possibly too hard.
There was a vicious satisfaction in pushing your body past the point of elegance. In letting the ache behind your ribs sharpen the feeling into movement. You hit the floorwork like it owed you money. Snapped your head so cleanly on the turn that one of the assistant choreographers actually muttered, “Oh, wow.”
Good. Fine. Let them see leader YN.
Let them see Bloom’s anchor. The girl who could switch from English to Korean mid-sentence without blinking. The girl who could carry questions for five people in interviews and still smile when they asked something insulting. The girl who knew how to bow, how to laugh, how to soften her accent when needed, how to straighten her shoulders when some executive talked too much about marketability. Let them see everything except the one thing you were failing to kill.
The music cut on the final pose. Silence slammed down afterwards as applause filtered in from separate corners of the room.
“Better,” the choreographer said, nodding. “Much better. Take ten. Then we’ll run it with the cameras for the behind-the-scenes content.”
Your members collapsed immediately while you stayed standing. Your lungs burned, your knees trembled faintly. Sweat had slipped down the side of your neck and beneath the collar of your cropped rehearsal top. You lifted a hand to wipe it away, but before you could, a towel appeared in front of you.
Black, folded once, held by a tattooed hand. You stared at it.
Do not be alone with him. No unnecessary physical contact. No personal conversations where staff could not be present. No giving fans something to misunderstand.
A towel, arguably, was not personal, or a confession. A towel was fabric.
Your life had become so absurd you could laugh. You took the towel, and this time your fingers touched, just barely. A brush, a spark, a crime scene. Jungkook stared at your hand like he felt it too.
“You’re pushing too hard,” he said quietly as he let go of the towel.
You dabbed the towel against your neck and gave him your prettiest, coldest smile. “Thanks, coach.”
His jaw flexed. Mina, from the floor, suddenly became very interested in stretching. Across the room, Namjoon looked over with a cautious expression.
Jungkook stepped closer by half an inch. It was still technically appropriate, still public, and still enough to make your entire body pay attention.
“You have got to stop doing that.”
Your smile stayed in place. “Doing what?”
“Turning everything into a joke when you’re upset.”
“Better than wallowing in misery.”
His eyes held yours and his voice dropped. “Are you sure?”
Your stomach twisted and you looked away, first again. You hated that pattern. Hated that he asked questions like both of you weren’t surrounded by people whose job it was to make sure your lives remained profitable and uncomplicated.
“You don’t get to do that.” You said.
“What?”
“Act like I’m the only one choosing this.”
His expression shifted, a flash of hurt, there and gone. “I’m not.”
“You are,” you laughed.
“I’m standing right here.”
“That’s not the same thing. You know it’s not.” The words slipped from your lips softer than you’d meant for them to.
Jungkook glanced past you, toward the line of managers pretending not to monitor every breath, then he looked back. “No,” he said. “It is not.”
For a second, neither of you said anything else. The practice room continued moving around you. Staff adjusted the cameras and someone laughed near the speakers. One of the BTS members, probably Hoseok, said something that made Jimin nearly choke on his water. Hana layed flat on her back timed her own death.
Normal and easy things. Things that, realistically, should have pulled you back into yourself. They didn’t, though.
Because Jungkook was still watching you with that unfair, unbearable softness. Like he understood that you were not angry because you didn’t want him, but that you were angry because you did. Too much. At the wrong time, in the wrong industry, under the wrong lights.
He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. “Do you want me to stop?”
Your fingers tightened around the towel. You knew exactly what he meant. Not the choreography, or the teasing, or the almosts. All of it.
The looking and waiting and finding you in every room. The way his smile changed when aimed your direction. The messages that never said enough to be dangerous but said too much to be considered harmless.
You could say yes. You could absolutely say yes. It would be kind, probably. Clean and mature. The responsible and leader thing. Yet your throat closed heavily around the word. Jungkook watched your silence register. He nodded once, slow and wounded in a way that made your chest ache.
“Okay.”
“You keep saying that,” you whispered.
“Well, you keep not answering.”
Your eyes burned, which only made you more furious.
“You want an answer?” you asked, still quiet.
“Yes.” He replied with a sharp gaze.
“No.”
Jungkook went still the same second you did.
The room didn’t stop, but it felt like it should have. Something catastrophic had happened. You had said one small world in a rehearsal room full of people, and somehow it felt like glass cracking underfoot.
His lips parted slightly. You looked down, panic blooming hot in your chest.
“I mean–”
“No,” he repeated softly.
Your cheeks burned. “Don’t.”
His voice was almost nothing. “You don’t want me to stop?”
You closed your eyes for a second. Coward, coward, coward. When you opened them, he was closer than before, but still not close enough for anyone to scold. Close enough, though, that you could see the sweat caught along his collarbone. The chain around his neck. The way his breathing had changed.
“I don’t know what I want,” you lied.
Jungkook’s face softened and it offered you a tiny mercy. He knew you were lying, but he let it rest between you all the same.
“Okay,” he said again, but it sounded different.
Your manager called your name, too sharp and timed. You stepped back immediately, and Jungkook did too. The towel remained in your hands as your manager approached with a smile that did not touch her eyes.
“YN,” she said in English because it made reprimands sound less public in this room. “Camera blocking is next. We need to discuss your center mark for the bridge.”
You nodded. “Sure.”
Her gaze flicked to the towel, then to Jungkook, and then back to you. “I’ll take that.”
For one wild, childish second, you wanted to outright refuse. It was a towel. A towel. But it had touched his hand before yours, and apparently that was enough to make you pathetic or sullied.
You handed it over, watched as your manager folded it once, then tucked it under her arm like evidence. “Come,” she said.
You followed, because that is what you did. You followed rules even when you hated them. You protected the group even when it meant cutting pieces out of yourself. You put Bloom first, always, because the girls trusted you. Because the company trusted you. Because every interview called you a leader like it was an honor instead of a beautifully constructed cage.
At the monitor, the assistant director replayed the last run-through.
You watched yourself on screen and smiled at how untouchable you looked. Jungkook moved behind you like a shadow with restraint. His hand hovered near your waist, never landing. On camera, it looked intimate anyway. That was the trouble with almost-touching, sometimes it looked worse. The assistant director paused the frame and your manager sighed through her nose.
“Here,” she said carefully. “This is too close.”
The choreographer leaned in. “It’s the formation.”
“We need to adjust it.”
“It will affect the transition.”
“Then affect it.”
Your stomach sank, from the other side of the monitor, BTS’s staff had gone quiet too. Jungkook stood several feet away, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable.
The choreographer pulled back the footage and paused again. There you were, frozen on screen, your back arched into the move. Jungkook behind you, eyes angled down, hand suspended near your hip like he was holding himself back from touching something holy or forbidden or both.
Someone cleared their throat.
Your manager said “fans will slow this down.”
No one argued because everyone knew she was right. The room seemed to shrink around you. A strange humiliation crawled up your neck, not because you or Jungkook had done anything wrong, but because desire, even buried beneath clean choreography and professional distance, had apparently found a way to show its face.
You looked at Jungkook and found him already looking at you.
Not flirty now, or playful. This was something else. Something unnervingly close to being sorry.
The choreographer sighed. “We can move Jungkook two counts later. Have him cross behind Taehyung instead.”
Your manager nodded immediately. “Better.”
Something inside you dropped and you felt ridiculous for it. It was choreography, it should have been a relief to not have his hand hovering near your waist. Instead, it felt like being erased from the only place where you were allowed to almost have him.
Jungkook’s face did not change. “Fine,” he said.
You wanted to scream as the choreographer clapped. “Okay, reset positions. We’ll try the new blocking.”
Everyone moved and you moved with them. The shape of the entirety of the room changed around you. Jungkook no longer stood behind you. Taehyung did instead, kind and easy and so unaware of the way your throat tightened when the music started again. Jungkook crossed behind him, not you. The choreography worked, but it looked cleaner, less dangerous.
Your manager watched the monitor with visible relief. And you, Bloom’s leader, America’s polished export, the girl trained to carry herself like no one could touch her, danced like nothing had been taken from you. In the mirror, for just one second, Jungkook’s eyes met yours from the wrong side of the formation. Too far away and somehow too close.
You didn’t miss his hand near your waist, necessarily, but you missed the restraint. You missed knowing he was close enough to want you and disciplined enough not to ruin you, which was, undoubtedly, the saddest thing you had ever wanted from anyone.
