Jeon Jungkook, the name was normally followed by the roar of adoration from a screaming crowd or shy smiles, not by anything other than pure excitement at being in the same room as him. He knew he was attractive, hearing it a hundred times a day, in person or on the internet, made that clear to him. The tattoos, the piercings, the abs he worked incredibly hard for. Between BTS, his solo music career and his modelling averts and billboards it was hard not to run into his face. But he’d met his match, someone who undisputedly, disliked him. Hated him maybe. Someone who looked at him like they could see into to soul, could see the boy underneath all the layers of man. You had been his makeup artist since what felt like his debut, he couldn’t remember a time he sat in a chair before a concert, before a photoshoot, interview or a red carpet that he didn’t see you. The way you remained at a professional distance, with a look that stripped him bare. He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand you. The two of you traded comments like it was a tennis match, but still no matter the insult or comment, he wouldn’t have anyone else as the last face he saw before he became the idol version of himself for whatever event.