Yandere BTS Oneshots.

The Idol's Possession || JJK

Y/n never imagined her life would wind up tucked between private studio doors and luxury SUV windows, hidden behind tinted glass and deeper shadows. She'd grown up quietly, the kind of girl who covered her mouth when she laughed, who looked down when strangers made eye contact. The kind of girl no one would pick out in a crowd—which is exactly what made her his.

Jeon Jungkook spotted her first at a fan sign—not on purpose. She hadn't screamed, hadn't reached, hadn't even made it close to the front. He saw her in the back. Eyes wide, sweater sleeves tugged nervously over her fingers, cheeks pink just from being in the same room. Every cell in his body zeroed in like a predator scenting the pulse of a mouse.

Weeks later, she was in his private lounge at HYBE, knees pulled up on a velvet couch that cost more than her apartment, shivering under the stare of a man the world thought they knew.

"You didn't think I'd let you leave after making me feel like that, did you?" he'd said, voice silk wrapping a knife.

Since then, she hadn't.

It wasn't public. It could never be public. HYBE managers nodded silently whenever he dragged her along to another set, another late-night recording, another week overseas. The other BTS members didn't joke about it. They didn't need to. Taehyung once passed her in the hallway and gave her a quiet, pitying glance—because everyone knew.

She belonged to Jungkook.

And Jungkook didn't share.

⸻

"Y/n," he murmured as he stood shirtless in front of the flashing strobes, body glistening from makeup oil and sweat. "Come here."

They were in Tokyo for a Calvin Klein shoot, the kind where the waistband of his briefs peeked out just right, where his tattoos were left uncovered, where fans would cry just watching the teaser. She sat backstage, chewing the inside of her cheek, hoping someone would need her to leave the room.

No one ever did. Because Jungkook had already told everyone: she stays.

"Come on, baby," he said louder, flashing a smile that had melted entire continents. His eyes, though, were steel. "Don't make me ask twice."

The crew turned politely, pretending not to notice the shift in his voice, the drop in tone that meant she'd pay for this later. She shuffled to him, head ducked, the hem of her skirt brushing against her trembling thighs. When she reached him, he looped an arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head in front of everyone, audacious and possessive.

Then in her ear, low enough only she could hear: "If you ever hesitate again, I'll make sure you regret it for a week."

She didn't nod. She didn't breathe. He loved that.

⸻

Every night, he made her sleep in his bed even when she didn't want to. Wrapped around her like a boa constrictor, one inked arm draped over her chest, his thigh between hers.

"I just get so scared," he whispered once, the night before a world tour kickoff. His voice cracked like a child's. "That one day you'll decide you don't need me."

He stared at her in the dark, eyes wet and furious. "I'd lose my fucking mind, Y/n. I really would. You understand, don't you?"

Of course she nodded. What else could she do when his fingers were tangled in her hair like shackles?

She was never photographed. Never leaked. But the whole industry knew. The girl in the shadows. The shadow he cast.

And every time he kissed her in private—rough, hungry, desperate like someone trying to carve their initials into flesh—he whispered the same thing: