Chapter Text
The bass thrummed through the air like a living thing, pulsing under Jungkook’s skin as he lounged in the plush leather booth.
He hadn’t planned on being here tonight — his friends had dragged him out, swearing this was the club in the city. Usually, places like this were all the same to him: overpriced drinks, desperate attention, beautiful people who would do anything for a taste of his money.
Then the lights shifted.
Pink.
It spilled across the stage like cotton candy melting in the heat, and then he saw him.
The dancer stepped into the glow, hair the exact shade of spun sugar, skin gleaming under the spotlights. Every movement was deliberate, controlled — the kind that made the air feel heavier.
Jimin. That was the name whispered from the front tables.
He wrapped one long leg around the chrome pole, leaning back until his stomach muscles tightened and the glitter at his hipbone caught the light — and the room stilled. Even the drunkest men in the front row shut up.
Something twisted low in Jungkook’s stomach.
Want.
Simple. Immediate. And as far as he was concerned, already his.
When the set ended, applause crashed like waves. Jimin stepped down, a faint smile on his lips as he headed for the bar. Jungkook didn’t waste a second.
He caught Seokjin — one of the owners, apparently — as the man passed his booth.
“How much for a private dance with him?” Jungkook asked, already reaching for his wallet.
Seokjin didn’t blink. “He’s not available for private bookings.”
Jungkook smirked. “Everything’s available for the right price.”
A single eyebrow rose. “Not here.”
Unbothered, Jungkook stood and intercepted Jimin at the bar. Up close, the man was even more magnetic — eyeliner smudged just enough to look dangerous, a sheen of sweat at his temple, pink hair damp at the roots.
“You were incredible,” Jungkook said smoothly. “Name your price for an hour.”
Jimin’s gaze slid over him once — slow, assessing — before he smiled. Sweet. Almost kind.
“No.”
The word landed like a slap in the quiet pocket between them.
Jungkook blinked. “You don’t even want to hear the number?”
“I heard it,” Jimin said lightly, flagging down the bartender for water. “It’s still no.”
Around them, people were starting to notice. A few regulars exchanged knowing smirks. Jungkook’s pride burned under the attention.
He leaned in, voice dropping. “You don’t say no to me.”
Jimin turned fully, really looking at him now. That same almost-kind smile curved his lips — but this time, it was edged with steel.
“Maybe no one else does,” he murmured, “but I’m not for sale. Enjoy the show, rich boy.”
And just like that, he was gone, disappearing into the staff hallway in a sway of glitter and pink hair, leaving Jungkook standing alone — humiliated for the first time in years.
The quiet laughter from nearby tables was soft, but it might as well have been deafening.
Jungkook sat back down, jaw tight.
Fine.
If “no” was the game, he’d learn how to turn it into “yes.”
And he’d enjoy every second of breaking him down.
Dancer's Room
The Dancer’s Room was quiet except for the low hum of the vanity lights and the muffled bass bleeding through the walls.
Jimin sank into the chair in front of his mirror, tossing his glitter-speckled towel over one shoulder. The cold press of his water bottle against his palm was the best thing he’d felt all night.
From the corner, Hoseok — still in his sequined red jacket, chest rising and falling from his own set — raised an eyebrow.
"Well,” he drawled, “that was… ballsy, Jimin-ah.”
Jimin unscrewed his bottle cap. “What was?”
“Turning him down. In front of half the club.”
Jimin took a long drink, not bothering to answer.
Hoseok slid into the next chair, swiveling to face him. “Do you seriously not know who that is?”
Jimin shrugged, reaching for makeup wipes. “Some rich brat who thinks the world is a vending machine. Why?”
“That rich brat is Jeon Jungkook,” Hoseok said, leaning forward like he was about to spill state secrets. “His family owns… I don’t even know how many hotels, shipping companies, nightclubs. He’s the kind of guy who buys a car just because it matches his shoes.”
Jimin met his gaze in the mirror, unimpressed. “And?”
“And,” Hoseok went on, “he’s infamous. Never hears the word ‘no.’ Walked out of three different clubs in this city with their managers on his arm. I’ve seen him spend more in one night than we make in a year. People bend over backwards for him.”
“Good for them,” Jimin said dryly, swiping under his eye to remove the last smudge of eyeliner. “I’m not people.”
Hoseok laughed. “No, you’re definitely not. Which is exactly why he looked like you slapped him. I think you just became the first person to bruise his ego.”
“Not my problem.” Jimin capped the wipe packet and started packing his bag. “Namjoon hyung and Seokjin hyung have rules for a reason. No amount of money changes that.”
Hoseok grinned. “Oh, I’m not saying it’s a problem. I’m saying… you might have just made yourself someone’s next obsession.”
Jimin froze for just a fraction of a second before tossing his towel into the laundry bin. “If he wants to waste his time, that’s on him.”
As they headed for the door, Jimin cast him a sideways glance. “Speaking of obsessions… shouldn’t you be getting ready for your regular?”
Hoseok frowned. “My—?”
“You know,” Jimin sing-songed, “Suga-ssi.”
Color rushed into Hoseok’s cheeks. “It’s not—he’s just—Jimin, shut up.”
“Ohhh, he’s just the guy who books you every Friday, tips twice your rate, bans you from taking other clients, and keeps asking when you’ll take a night off with him,” Jimin teased, bumping his shoulder. “Totally nothing going on there.”
Hoseok stammered something incoherent, ducking his head as they walked into the hall, ears glowing red.
Jimin laughed all the way to the dressing room door.
But as they left the room together, Hoseok caught the tiniest crease between Jimin’s brows — like maybe, just maybe, Jimin already knew Jeon Jungkook wasn’t the kind of man who gave up easily.
The Owners’ Office
The office was quieter than the club floor, but the faint thump of bass still pulsed through the walls, a steady heartbeat from the world outside.
Namjoon sat behind the desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, pen moving in smooth strokes over a stack of paperwork. Seokjin perched on the edge beside him, one leg crossed over the other, flipping lazily through a ledger. His free hand rested lightly on Namjoon’s shoulder, an absent touch that spoke of habit rather than thought.
The door swung open without a knock.
Jungkook stepped in like he owned the place — black silk shirt half-buttoned, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a slim leather checkbook.
“I’ll make this quick,” he said, voice smooth, confident. “Name your number. I want Jimin for a private evening. Whatever his rate is, I’ll triple it.”
Namjoon didn’t look up. “He’s not available for private evenings.”
Jungkook’s lips curved faintly. “Everyone’s available for the right price.”
Seokjin closed the ledger with a soft thump and finally looked at him — expression polite, eyes sharp. “Not here.”
“You’re turning down—” Jungkook let out a humorless laugh, like the words tasted absurd, “—Jeon Jungkook’s money?”
“Easily,” Namjoon replied, still writing.
Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “Do you have any idea—”
“Yes,” Seokjin cut in smoothly. “We know exactly who you are. And how you operate. And we’re telling you plainly: it doesn’t work here.”
Namjoon finally set down his pen, leaning back in his chair to meet Jungkook’s gaze head-on. “Our dancers aren’t commodities. They choose their clients. They choose if they want clients. If Jimin says no, it’s no. End of conversation.”
The silence stretched. Jungkook was used to people backpedaling, scrambling to appease him. These two didn’t even blink.
Seokjin tilted his head, voice still pleasant. “You’re welcome to enjoy the club like everyone else. But if you harass one of our employees after they’ve declined you…” He let the sentence hang, smile widening a fraction. “…well. Let’s just say you won’t be welcome anywhere in the city we can reach. And we can reach far.”
Jungkook stared at them for a beat longer, the checkbook still in his hand.
Finally, he slid it back into his pocket. “Fine.” His tone was light, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.
He turned, walking out with the same unhurried grace he’d walked in with — shoulders loose, expression unreadable. But the moment the office door shut behind him, his jaw flexed, and his fingers curled once at his side.
Pride intact on the surface, he was already thinking ahead. This wasn’t over.
They’d told him no. He would make sure Jimin was the one to take it back.
Inside, Namjoon picked up his pen again. “He’ll be back.”
Seokjin smirked, glancing toward the door. “Of course he will. They always come back when they’re told they can’t have something.” His hand gave Namjoon’s shoulder a light squeeze before he returned to his ledger.
Rooftop Bar
The rooftop bar glittered with gold light and city skyline — the kind of place where one cocktail cost more than an average person’s rent.
Jungkook sat in their usual corner booth, a drink sweating on the table, untouched. His mood was dark enough that even the easy breeze couldn’t cool it.
Across from him, Taehyung sprawled with his long legs kicked up on the seat, sipping something neon from a martini glass. Yugyeom was halfway through a plate of oysters. BamBam scrolled lazily through his phone, clearly only half-listening.
“So,” Taehyung drawled, like a cat playing with its prey, “I hear you got rejected.”
Jungkook’s jaw flexed. “It wasn’t—”
Yugyeom snorted. “Bro, it was all over that club. My cousin was there. Said you looked like someone told you Santa isn’t real.”
BamBam didn’t even look up. “I saw it on Instagram. Replayed it twice. Gorgeous.”
Jungkook glared at them in turn. “You think this is funny?”
“Yes,” all three said in perfect unison.
Taehyung grinned over the rim of his glass. “Jeon Jungkook, heir to half the damn city, walks into a club and gets told no . I’ve lived for a lot of things, but this…” He tapped his chest. “…this is special.”
“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered, leaning back. “He’s not like the others.”
Yugyeom tilted his head. “What, because he has a spine?”
BamBam finally looked up, smirking. “Or because he’s hot and immune to your face? Dangerous combo.”
Jungkook rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.
Taehyung leaned in, mischief sparking. “If you can’t get to him through the owners, go straight to him. Not with cash — too obvious — but with presents.”
“Presents?” Jungkook frowned.
“Yeah,” Taehyung said, shrugging. “Expensive, hard-to-get stuff. Something that says, I notice you, and I can spoil you rotten. People love to claim they don’t care about gifts — until it’s the exact thing they’ve been wanting.”
Yugyeom slurped an oyster. “Or make it so over-the-top he can’t ignore you. Worst case? You just look like a lovesick idiot with too much money. Which you already do.”
BamBam chuckled. “Exactly. Either he keeps refusing — which will drive you insane — or he bites, and you win.”
Jungkook’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. He reached for his drink, finished it in one swallow, and set the glass down with a soft click.
“Oh, he’ll bite,” Jungkook said, voice low, certain. “They all do. Eventually.”
He leaned back, eyes glinting under the rooftop lights, already running through the possibilities.
“If Jimin thinks a little word like ‘no’ is going to save him—” Jungkook’s smile widened, sharp and sure, “—he’s about to find out how wrong he is.”