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In the entertainment industry, secondary genders are ruled by the following laws: omegas are gentle. Alphas are strong. Betas are calming and unremarkable in the way that makes them secretly favoured by HR. Everyone, eventually, falls somewhere along this tidy curve, ideally without making too much noise about where they land.
It's an old, outdated system that's slowly been phased out of general social consciousness in the past few decades. People don’t really say it out loud–it’s gauche, for one, and it’s the 2000s, not the 17th century–but it’s been around long enough to be embedded under the skin of all humankind. Baked into schoolbooks and history lessons. A sort of societal subtext.
And in the entertainment industry, secondary genders are packaged, styled, and sold at an industrial rate–because nothing makes more money than a good narrative.
An alpha idol is powerful, assertive, and desirable. An omega is soft, sensual, and inoffensive. Betas are either relatable or comedic relief, depending on the edit of the cut. There’s no actual law that dictates any of this. It just… happens to sell very well.
Enter: Kim Namjoon. Eighteen. Rapper. Leader of freshly debuted boy group BTS.
He stands at roughly six feet tall, with shoulders that seem built to carry the expectations of an entire generation, and a voice that flits between sexy baritone and benevolent thunderstorm. He debuts under the name Rap Monster–which feels appropriately aggressive to couple with the group's concept of bad-boy, hip-hop heartthrobs–and when he raps it’s with his canines bared, like he’s moments away from actually biting someone on stage. It isn't exactly subtle, but that's sort of the point. People take one look at him and think: he'll be an alpha.
It makes perfect narrative sense: the leader of a rising idol group, all legs and jawline and metaphorical teeth, sliding cleanly into the perfect archetype. And once the group starts to gain traction, so do the narratives. The idea of Namjoon being the ultimate macho alpha gains so much popularity that people start deferring to him before he's even so much as glimpsed his gender. One of their fans' favourite pastimes is theorising over his to-be scent profile.
"Musky and spicy," one comment says.
"Cedar-wood musk," another insists.
("Musk, why do they all say musk?" Namjoon grumbles, reading the comments. "Do our fans think I stink?"
"You smell, hyung!" Jimin guffaws, shrieking with laughter when Namjoon swats at him irritably.)
And then the rest of BTS starts to present.
First is Seokjin, on one of their off-days. He's with the younger members at the grocery store before he suddenly keels over in the middle of the cereal aisle, panting and flushed red. Jimin and Jeongguk have to physically drag him back to the dorms while Taehyung, halfway to tears, babbles into the phone to a very alarmed Yoongi.
"What? What's wrong with him?" Yoongi keeps asking, but Taehyung doesn't know, and it's only when they get Seokjin home and through the door does Yoongi get a good look at him and flatly say, "He's presenting."
Seokjin falls into a fever–a rut–so deep that it’s an entire group effort to keep him fed and hydrated. Hoseok stress-cooks enough soup to feed a small army. Jimin googles “how to not die in your first rut” and it makes Jeongguk cry. After two days of collective delirium, the scent of figs and fresh-cut grass starts wafting through the apartment. Seokjin comes out the other end of his rut alive, and he comes out an alpha.
A few months after Seokjin, Hoseok presents–suddenly collapsing in the middle of a rehearsal and scaring the shit out of everyone. It's surprising, because they all thought Yoongi would be next, but he comes almost a year after, when they find him in his studio half-conscious and moaning unintelligibly into his MIDI keyboard. Then it's Taehyung and Jimin, who present within weeks of each other–one on tour, the other during a music show week, which is inconvenient but extremely well-timed for their soulmate concept. The PR team, having been pushing it for years, is exuberant.
The second last is Jeongguk, the youngest, who keeps the suspense going long enough to drive their fans to the brink of hysterics, but eventually he presents.
He presents as an alpha. All of them, alphas. As if scripted from birth.
The industry is thrilled, more-so than the damn PR team; an all-alpha boy group, still young, still hungry, with the perfect amount of personality and internal contrast to stay interesting. The branding practically writes itself.
And then–quietly, without ceremony–Kim Namjoon presents as an omega.
One moment he's lounging on the couch, half-reading an article and mostly just zoning out. The next moment, all the blood in his body seems to rush to his head, the room tilts on its axis, and the oxygen suddenly vacates his chest.
Ah, it’s here, he thinks. Seokjin is bumbling around in the kitchen and Namjoon means to call out to him, say something polite like, "I've just started to present my secondary gender," but all that comes out of his mouth is a garbled "hrrghk."
Seokjin pops his head out the kitchen anyway, doing a double-take when he spots Namjoon wheezing on the couch, and then bellows out to the rest of the apartment, "IT'S HAPPENING!"
They get him situated in the nest with snacks, electrolytes, and a cold rag over his forehead. And then they wait. But Namjoon... doesn't fall into a rut, he falls into a heat, and his scent goes warm–subtly sweet, heavy, rich like salted caramel–and the rest of them are only a little alarmed before they realise, oh. And it feels as if the pack finally falls into place.
Namjoon's twenty three. His presentation is late, but not alarmingly so. Secondary presentations are often delayed in high-pressure industries, especially one such as idol-hood, and the company has never pushed. Still, when it's confirmed–formally, via a brief press statement–it lands like a nuclear missile in a small town.
Fans are not out-raged, per se. More-so baffled, confused, and a little in denial. The press latches onto his presentation like it’s the craziest thing that’s happened since the invention of the wheel, running headlines that are half-panic, half-prophetic.
What Will Happen to BTS Now?
A Twist in the Alpha Line: RM’s Shocking Reveal
Can an Omega Lead an Idol Group? Experts Weigh In
(They don’t have experts. It’s all a bunch of bullshit.)
At first, Namjoon doesn’t comment. He doesn’t go on live to cry on camera and beg for an apology–if he even knew what the hell he should be apologising for. He doesn’t write a lengthy letter to fans about embracing change. He doesn’t do anything.
The press statement was two lines, almost clinical, truly the barest of bones. Just a simple, RM of BTS has presented his secondary-gender as Omega. We ask that audiences be respectful of him and his family during this difficult time.
“What difficult time?” Namjoon mutters, reading it. “Has South Korea gone into a national mourning period? I’m just sweating a little more.”
A week later, he posts a selfie of him smiling cheekily into the camera, captioned: i still write my own lyrics. calm down.
–
In truth, he’s known for a while.
Not because of the usual signs–no spontaneous self-lubrication or uncontrollable nesting urge–but because something in him had shifted, or perhaps it had always been there and just became a little more obvious.
Over the past few months, his instincts have slowly sharpened. Boundaries rearranged themselves. He caught himself often watching the others more closely than necessary, anticipating their needs and moods. Like noticing exhaustion in Hoseok before he noticed it himself, or shifting just slightly in front of Taehyung in big crowds.
The urge to protect and to nurture, to hold ground, and to build safety with his bare hands–it’s something that he’s always felt, toward his motley group of boys. But over the past few months it just became more obvious than not. So, Namjoon doesn’t feel much different once it becomes official.
The world, however, does.
Some fans claim they’ve always known, reposting fancams from years prior with dubious body language analysis. Others think it's a betrayal of his image, or a rebrand, or a political statement, or identity crisis, or something.
This is why he changed from Rap Monster to RM, they say. It’s because he’s embracing his true omegan nature, they say. He’s healing. He’s lying. He’s changing. It’s all a publicity stunt and this is just for attention, they say.
They say a lot of things. Suddenly everybody’s got a theory, but Namjoon continues to just let them talk. And it seems like his silence is a statement enough, because the press–not to be outdone–scrambles to find language for him. They settle on adjectives like enigmatic, nonconforming, temperate, as if he’s some sort of seasonal trend. A magazine coins the phrase cool-headed omega, and it spreads like black mould.
“KIM NAMJOON: The Industry's First Temperate Omega,” Yoongi reads from his phone, scowling. He’s hunched over at the dinner table, squinting at the small device in his hand.
“What kind of bullshit are they letting people write these days?” he mutters crossly, skimming the article–and still squinting.
Namjoon, passing by with a book under his arm, absently squeezes Yoongi’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t read without your glasses, hyung,” he says, completely unconcerned. Yoongi relaxes, despite himself, and the article is forgotten.
–
They’ve been doing a lot of shows lately.
Not the serious sit-down type, with solemn lighting and hosts who act as if they’ve been personally appointed to unlock some sort of emotional revelation. No, this week’s schedule is stacked with the sort of informal variety shows, presented in a way that’s “just hanging out with friends.” The casual kind, with low-slung couches and coffee tables full of snacks that no one touches.
It’s the kind of show that tends to run on a light, chaotic momentum built for virality. All the members know how to roll with that current: you smile, you laugh, you let yourself be gently mocked or fake-flustered by questions you can see coming from a mile away. The host for today’s segment is well-established in the media, having carved herself a niche as the friendly, older-sister type, unafraid to reach across personal boundaries in the name of good television. She’s known for being cheeky and irreverent and slightly too handsy, touching idols like they’re the pups she raised herself.
Her show has been airing for years. Everyone knows the drill. Namjoon included.
He knows exactly what kind of experience he was in for when they were scheduled to appear, and he doesn’t bother pretending otherwise. There was a briefing email–there always is.
Still. Knowing doesn’t make it any less fucking annoying.
The set they’re on is designed to look like someone’s living room, or at least a stylised version of one. It’s overly curated to appear “random”, like someone took an IKEA showroom and thought “What if we added 7 million won worth of studio lighting?” There’s a couch that’s been sat on by half of the idol groups in the country, and a carpet that’s truthfully not as comfortable as it looks.
BTS are artfully arranged around the space: Seokjin and Yoongi are shoulder-to shoulder on the far end of the couch, Taehyung and Jeongguk taking up the rug like a couple of sentient houseplants, Jimin nestled in the corner hugging a throw pillow. Hoseok is perched on the couch’s armrest, somehow making the awkward positioning look completely effortless. Namjoon, by chance or design, is seated beside the host herself.
When the cameras start rolling, she’s all smiling teeth and charm, tossing out questions and half-insults with the practiced ease of a seasoned industry veteran. She teases Jeongguk about his baby face. She pesters Jimin about his latest perfume commercial. Her comments seem to land a little harder than they should, but it’s all harmless–mostly–and the members laugh when they’re supposed to. Yoongi stares into the far distance, actively dissociating. Namjoon lets him–lets it all wash over him.
But the host keeps coming back to him, her comments carrying a certain tone. There’s a scene that she’s trying to build, frame by frame. Namjoon notices it immediately, but doesn’t say something, in hopes that it’ll naturally fizzle out on its own.
The not-so-veiled flirtation is not new. Her questions skirt the edge of propriety without quite fully committing, and she keeps leaning in a little too close when addressing him, as if the proximity will draw him in. It’s supposed to read as playful banter between two equals–two charismatic adults, toeing the line of sexual tension for entertainment value.
Except, it doesn’t feel like banter. It feels like bait.
“So, Namjoon-ssi,” she begins brightly, about halfway through the segment, turning her body toward him. “You’ve always had this cool, mysterious aura about you. Isn’t it a little hard to connect with people when you’re like that?”
Her voice lilts upward at the end, teasing. She leans in. Out of the corner of his eye, Namjoon sees the cameras follow her with a slow zoom.
She doesn’t say anything explicitly offensive, but it carries that peculiar tone entertainers often use when they want to provoke without prodding–a way of masking a sharp jab as a compliment. You’re so aloof. Do people even flirt with you? Don’t you ever want to be, you know, an alpha?
She’s waiting for him to laugh it off, deflect, maybe duck his head and blush a little. To feign sweet embarrassment the way an unassuming omega is meant to.
But Namjoon doesn’t move. He holds her gaze, unflinching.
Their faces are now rather close, thanks to her leaning in and obviously expecting him to lean back–which he hasn’t. Her smile falters when it becomes evident he’s not going to play along. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, with a sort of detached, polite interest, that somehow makes it worse. Like he’s peering at a bug under a glass, wondering how it got there.
“Are you trying to connect with me, noona?” he asks smoothly. “I hadn’t realised this was that kind of conversation.”
A pause. The camera crew quietens, sensing that something’s just gone sideways. The host’s eyes blink, twice. Then her smile returns, but it’s strained and a little brittle.
Behind them, the mood shifts; Jeongguk’s shoulders draw taut, Yoongi sits up straight. More telling is the smell–there’s the usual scent of sweat and makeup, but layered over it now is the creeping scent of several displeased, peeved alphas. Hoseok laughs a little too loudly, reaching over to give Namjoon a few friendly slaps on the back.
“Aren’t you guys close!” he teases, but his hand lands on the back of Namjoon’s neck, fingers curling and squeezing.
Just lightly, barely with any pressure. Only a little possessive. His thumb rubs back and forth over the skin absentmindedly, like he’s not even aware that he’s doing it.
Namjoon tilts his head again–but this time at Hoseok, and his eyes flick down toward the hand with a look so dry and unimpressed that Hoseok snatches it back like he’s been scalded.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, smiling apologetically. Namjoon, appeased, turns back.
The host laughs, high-pitched and nervous, leaning back. “Ah, our leader-nim really doesn’t get flustered, does he?”
The interview stumbles forward.
She tries again, later, making some offhand comment about his scent. She wonders aloud if his packmates ever get “confused” around him. The implication is so clear that it’s almost offensive to their intelligence. Jimin stiffens and glances at Seokjin, who is suddenly very focused on peeling the label off his water bottle.
“I’ve never really understood the appeal of being confused,” Namjoon replies, perfectly pleasant. “I like clarity.”
She laughs loudly again, but drops the flirting. After that, they finish the recording without further incident, but whatever script she had hoped to follow–the omega flustered under the charismatic pressure of the host–is unceremoniously shredded.
Later, backstage, she stops him in the hallway. “Namjoon-ssi,” she says, without any fake inflection on her voice. All business now. “Next time, please try to work with me a little more. It’s what the audience likes. It sells.”
And Namjoon gets it. He really, really does. He’s a player of the game, after all. It’s the fantasy of the famously cool omega getting flustered by a charismatic alpha host that viewers love.
“I understand,” Namjoon replies, evenly. “But I’m not here to be sold.”
The host blinks again. There’s no malice between them, nor any hostility. All it is is a misunderstanding between business partners, and they both get that.
“Very well,” she says. They both bow politely and walk away. BTS doesn’t go on her show again.
–
A lot of people say their pack dynamic is strange.
It’s strange that BTS–a group composed of six alphas and one omega–functions the way it does. It’s strange that they all defer to Namjoon, seemingly falling into his orbit instead of the other way around. It’s strange that Seokjin is technically the pack alpha, but it’s Namjoon that carries himself like one–as reductive as it is to put it like that. No one in the group bothers trying to explain it to others anymore, after repeating “it’s just the way it is” one too many times.
People who don’t know them, who’ve only met them through headlines or fan clips or industry gossip, come up with all sorts of theories about how their dynamics must be behind closed doors. Depending on the source, Namjoon is either coddled like an overgrown child, or runs the dorm like an iron-fisted dictator. There’s very little in-between. Someone once suggested that he has a special corner in the dorm where the others bring him snacks and kneel to receive orders like a mob boss. That post–mostly a joke, but also a bit too genuine–had three thousand likes before it got taken down.
Neither are quite true. Not really.
It’s a lazy Sunday when Namjoon’s sitting at the kitchen counter, chin propped on one palm as he watches Seokjin cook dinner. Every now and then, Seokjin will turn around to shove his chopsticks toward him and say, “Namjoon-ah, try this.”
Namjoon opens his mouth obediently. Seokjin shoves a bite in like he’s the one eating.
The others are strewn about the dorm in varying states of half-consciousness. Jimin is curled like a cat in a corner of the couch, drifting in and out of sleep. Jeongguk sits cross-legged on the floor with a game console in his lap, Hoseok hanging off his shoulder, providing running commentary and exclamations like an overexcited parrot. Yoongi’s in the kitchen, vertical only because he’s leaning against the fridge. He’s got his arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, trying to pretend like he’s also not half asleep.
Seokjin leans across the counter again, holding up a piece of braised pork. Namjoon closes his mouth around it, making a pleased sound low in his throat. His eyes slip closed as he savours the taste.
“You’re doing it again,” Seokjin says casually.
Namjoon doesn’t open his eyes, still chewing. “Doing what?”
“The–” Seokjin gestures vaguely, “–scent thing.”
Namjoon pauses, then swallows. Takes a deep sniff. And yeah, fair enough.
His scent is thick in the air, warm and plush and heavy like velvet. There’s a sweetness to it, a toasted brown-sugar-something. The kind that settles on the back of your tongue, fills the room up to the corners, and leaves barely any space for anything else. It’s not overly cloying, but unless you’re lacking a nose, there’s no missing it.
“Sorry,” Namjoon murmurs, though he’s not remotely apologetic. He glances at Yoongi, who’s been sliding lower and lower against the fridge. “Hyung, you look like you’re going to melt into the floor.”
“I’m considering it,” Yoongi replies, mouth twitching. His nose flares and he melts a little more, sighing contentedly. “Not a bad way to go.”
“I like it,” Jimin adds, muffled from where his face is smushed into the couch cushion. “I feel like those cartoon characters who smell a pie on a windowsill, like I’m floating. It’s nice.”
“Of course, Namjoon-hyung always smells good,” Jeongguk mumbles, immediately jumping at the chance to praise Namjoon. “It’s just distracting. I can’t focus on my game.”
This earns him a deeply suspicious look from Hoseok, who mutters, “Then maybe don’t play while inhaling his pheromones, if you’re going to act like a Victorian maiden who’s smelling a virgin omega for the first time.”
Jeongguk groans, throwing his hands up and tossing the console aside in defeat. Hoseok immediately lunges for it with a maddened howl.
“Please never refer to me as a virgin omega ever again,” Namjoon says. He then huffs a laugh, a little pink around the ears, and leans on the counter. “You all act like I do the scent thing on purpose.”
“You do,” Yoongi says immediately.
“You don’t make any effort to stop it either,” Jimin pipes up.
“You pretend to not be smug about it but you totally are,” Seokjin says, feeding him another piece of pork. Namjoon accepts it with all the dignity of a king being hand-fed grapes, though the flush is steadily creeping down his neck at being called out so viscerally.
“Hyung smells happy,” comes Taehyung’s voice from deeper in the apartment. He appears a beat later, wearing mismatched socks and eyes laser-trained on the stove. He floats into the kitchen, stepping neatly over Yoongi, and crowds against Seokjin to try to sneak a bite–who cries out in alarm.
“Away with you, foul beast!” Seokjin shouts, brandishing his ladle like a weapon. “You shan’t take this meal from me!”
Taehyung dodges with the expertise of someone who’s been stealing food from Seokjin for years. Which he has. He snatches a piece of pork with his fingers, sprinting out of reach and shrieking triumphantly. Seokjin collapses over the stove in defeat.
Meanwhile, Jeongguk has flung himself onto the couch beside Jimin, burying his face in the cushions as if to get away from the chaos. “Jiminie, tell hyung to tone it down,” he whines. “I can’t do anything with this scent in the room.”
Jimin doesn’t even twitch. “You said it was nice.”
“That’s the problem. My brain feels like warm pudding right now.”
Namjoon presses a hand to his neck like he’s trying to stifle the smell oozing out of it, but he hasn’t stopped smiling. Taehyung, still chewing on the plunders of his victory, sidles up behind him and leans his entire body weight against his back, looping his arms around Namjoon’s waist.
“I feel like a lizard under a heat lamp,” Taehyung says, shoving his face into Namjoon’s neck like he’s trying to absorb himself into the skin. “This is great.”
“You’re going to suffocate,” Namjoon says, trying and failing to shake him off.
“I hope so,” comes the muffled reply.
Namjoon sighs, and reaches back to ruffle his hair.
The thing is, for all the theorising people do about them about who leads, who submits, who falls where on what imagined scale, it’s never been about any of that for them. It’s not that deep. Or maybe it is, but not in the way people think.
He’s always been their leader–the one with the clearest head, the deepest reserve of patience, who reads the contracts when no one else wants to. The one who slips a comforting hand onto someone’s shoulder mid-speech. The one the others drift toward for comfort and protection.
Like how you instinctively end up sitting next to the warmest patch of sunlight. There’s nothing more to it, just gravity, soft and constant, the way it always has and always will be.
And Namjoon, arms full of Taehyung and scent heavy in the room, doesn’t mind one bit.
–
And, well, sometimes Namjoon does need his pack.
What happens is not dramatic. He doesn’t get shoved into a corner, or slammed against a wall, or anything like that–because while that does happen, the entertainment industry is quieter than that. More insidious in its banality.
Namjoon is backstage at a shoot for a clothing brand he only vaguely remembers agreeing to work with. They’ve been sponsoring the group in some way–he thinks it’s shoes, or maybe jackets. He’s not sure. He’s tired, having been doing back-to-back filming for three days straight, and his body feels like it’s about to give up. He hasn’t had a real meal in days, only paper cups full of shitty backstage coffee. If someone stabbed him right now he’d probably bleed straight caffeine.
The rest of the members are somewhere in the dressing room wing, probably loitering near the snack table. Namjoon has no idea why he’s at the post-shoot debrief alone. Or maybe he does know–it had seemed harmless when he agreed. Ten minutes, his manager Sejin had said. Fifteen tops.
It’s been thirty. He’s half-listening now, tuned into the cadence of Sejin’s voice without catching any actual words, standing beside him and nodding like someone who’s more aware than he actually is. The brand’s creative director, a tall, fashion-forward alpha whose name he’s already forgotten, keeps trying to make prolonged eye contact.
Namjoon eyes the exit, willing Sejin to get them out of here.
“Well, that should be it–” Sejin starts to say, blessedly, but he doesn’t get to finish. The brand director steps forward, too close, and smiles wide and bright in a way that has all the warning signs of a man about to say something very stupid.
“Namjoon-ssi,” he says, voice syrupy, eyes flicking over him. “You were so sharp today. The team was saying how unexpected your presence is, such a contrast to your designation.”
Namjoon blinks, too tired to mask his confusion. “Pardon?”
“Oh, I mean that in a good way,” the director says, chuckling. “It’s just–you have that kind of authority. Like a real alpha. Not that you’d know what that’s like, though.” He laughs again, loud and delighted, apparently with himself.
“I’m–” Namjoon starts, straightening up, willing himself to navigate through the next few sentences without losing the last ounce of professionalism he has stored in his pocket. “I don’t think that’s–”
“Of course, of course,” the director says breezily, cutting him off. “Still. Must be hard, right? You don’t even have the typical, ah, omega look.”
Namjoon opens his mouth again, and then stops. Blinks at the man for a few moments, unsure whether he should be offended or just utterly confused. He glances over at Sejin, who seems just as baffled at the director’s sudden audacity, apropos of nothing.
Then, the director gives him a once-over that’s anything but subtle, and says, “I could help you with that. I’m great with visual direction, styling, posture, energy, that sort of thing.” He pauses, licking his lips. “I think you’d benefit from a more… receptive aesthetic.”
It’s the kind of come-on that you’d only miss if you were deaf and blind in one eye. Essentially, one that you can’t miss at all. The man steps closer to Namjoon, close enough that he can smell his cologne, one of those terrible pheromone enhancers that actually just smell like sweat. Close enough to crowd out Sejin entirely, even though the beta–bless him–has awkwardly twisted to try stand between them. Close enough to place a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder, squeezing once like they’re more familiar than they really are.
Namjoon doesn’t flinch. That would be allowing the man too much pleasure. But his body locks up, first his jaw, then his spine, then the joints in his knees. His face twitches and smooths into a stiff, professional smile, lacquered over the emotions boiling underneath.
Namjoon freezes–half torn between jumping away with all his might, and lunging forward to tear out the man’s throat. He lands on staring at a point over the director’s shoulder and willing himself not to do something regrettable.
“If you ever want to rebrand,” the director is saying, voice lowered just a fraction too far, “I could assist you.”
Namjoon thinks very clearly: I would like to go home now.
Instead, he says, “That won’t be necessary,” tone low and smooth but brittle like a sheet of glass. He can feel his top lip twitching, only moments away from curling into a snarl. Aggression as a first instinct is unusual for an omega, he knows, and he tries to hold onto this fact as he fights back a wave of disgust-fear-anger. They’re backstage but there are still staff loitering around, people watching his every move. It will look really, really bad if I attack this guy, he thinks distantly, his fingers curling to press crescents into his palm.
“I really insist–” the director starts, stepping even closer, way too close, and Namjoon sharply inhales and his scent flares up in alarm and a cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck–
Then a new voice joins in.
“Oh wow,” Jimin says sweetly, suddenly materialising out of absolutely nowhere. “What are we talking about?”
Jimin steps up to them, eyes creased in a pleasant smile. His expression is bright and open, as if he’s actually curious as to what they were talking about. But he ends up stepping a little too close, and both Namjoon and the director get a whiff of the scent trailing behind him. Charred cedar and smoke. Like the leftovers of an incense stick left to burn for too long.
Sharp and distinctly pissed-off.
There’s a beat of startled silence. The director pulls back by half a step, clearly caught off-guard. Jimin slides in beside Namjoon, arm casually slung around his shoulder–displacing the other alpha’s hand in the process, as if accidental.
“Hyung,” Jimin says brightly, looking only at Namjoon now. “Did you eat? You smell like you haven’t eaten.”
It’s not polite to comment on someone’s scent, at least not in front of others. They both know that. But Jimin’s trying to make some sort of statement, and Namjoon just exhales, feeling the tension rush out of him at once. “I ate earlier,” he says.
“Liar.” Jimin turns to Sejin. “Hyung, did he eat?”
Sejin, ever the diplomat, raises his hands in surrender. “We had coffee. That’s all I know.”
Jimin clicks his tongue. “Namjoon-hyung, you know caffeine isn’t food, you have to eat better.” Then, with a saccharine smile, he adds, just a bit too punctuated, “The pack won’t be happy.”
The director stiffens, barely suppressing his flinch. Jimin’s eyes never leave Namjoon.
To his credit–or discredit, depending on how your sense of humour–he tries to salvage the moment. “Ah, Jimin-ssi,” he says quickly. “We were just talking about visual direction–”
“Mm,” Jimin hums innocently. “Yes, I heard.”
He turns fully now, smiling with a kind of pleasant blandness that he’s curated to perfection over the years. “But I’m not sure Namjoon-hyung’s visuals are really your concern. Or am I mistaken?”
The director blinks. “Well, no, but–”
“It’s just that,” Jimin continues, tapping his chin thoughtfully, mockingly, “we have our own team for that. Stylists, directors, managers. You know.”
He leans forward slightly. Still smiling. Still pleasant. “People who know us. You, well… this is just a one-time collaboration.”
And that does it.
The director’s pride visibly curdles, his shoulders squaring and jaw working, something defensive tightening in the line of his spine. He sneers, his voice a faux-light and tinged with something acidic. “You’re protective of your omega, aren’t you?”
Jimin grins, all teeth, canines with no smile. “Of our leader, of course," he snaps.
He’s slowly leaning forward, as if preparing to lunge, to tear out a chunk of the man’s neck, and just as the air tightens again, the scent of violent intent getting too strong–
“Jimin-ah.”
Jimin immediately draws back, tucking his canines away. The voice is low and rough and carries an oppressive weight that makes all of them turn at once.
Yoongi appears at the far end of the corridor, walking toward them with a casual yet intent pace. His scent hits a moment before he does, sweeping in like a tidal wave–hot and dense and angry, sharp ozone and rain. The air warps around it, heavy with warning.
The tension in the room seems to impossibly flatline and spike at once, sparking electricity with Yoongi’s arrival. The director straightens instinctively, but Yoongi doesn’t look at him, not directly. He eyes him from the corner of his vision, like he’s just spotted something foul in his periphery.
“Sejin-hyung,” Yoongi says, each syllable clipped. “We’re leaving, right?”
His gaze flicks briefly to Namjoon. Then back to the director. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and there’s a low sound coming from deep in his chest–a growl, soft and continuous, emanating just under the surface and waiting to breach the skin.
Sejin throws him a warning look, which Yoongi ignores unceremoniously. “Yes. We were just wrapping up,” he says quickly, glancing at Namjoon. “Are you ready?”
Namjoon steps forward without hesitation. “Very.”
The brand director makes a feeble sound, trying to claw a bit of his pride back. “It was just a bit of banter,” he says to no one in particular. No one is looking at him anymore–he’s just something distasteful in the background. “Just business talk. You know how it is.”
“No,” Yoongi replies, his eyes barely even flicking back to look at the man. He’s still growling, under the surface, and it just very barely garbles his words when he speaks. “Not really.”
Whatever retort the director was chewing on dies in his throat. Maybe it’s the growl. Maybe it’s the way Jimin has tilted his head again, now visibly bored. Maybe it’s the quiet, invisible pressure of the room turning against him like a tide, threatening to suffocate him. Whatever it is, he shuts up.
They walk away before he can recover.
The four of them make their way into the hallway and none of them speak for several beats–just the quiet shuffle of shoes and the low hum of overhead lighting. Then, Jimin suddenly throws his head back and groans empathetically. “Ugh, alphas,” he laments. “We’re the absolute worst.”
“Hey,” Yoongi mutters. “I resent that.”
Namjoon doesn’t say anything. Just exhales, long and low, and the tightness in his shoulders drop away, leaving only tiredness.
“Thanks,” he mutters. Yoongi glances at him, expression unreadable, and the remnants of his growl taper into silence.
“You don’t have to thank hyung for this sort of thing,” he mumbles, glancing away. Jimin looks away too, rubbing his arm and frowning.
Sejin sighs wearily, dragging a hand over his face. “I don’t know what that was,” he says. “I tried–he just kept talking over me. I think I actually stopped existing at some point.”
“You and me both,” Namjoon says dryly. They walk a little further in silence. Then Sejin snorts softly.
“God,” he mutters. “We’re just two betas trying our best.”
“I’m an omega.”
“Same thing,” Sejin says, shrugging. “We both smell nice and no one listens to us.”
Namjoon huffs out a short laugh, head ducked. Jimin grins and bumps his shoulder against Namjoon’s again, wordless but grounding.
Yoongi doesn’t say anything else. Just walks beside them, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his steps the only part of him not vibrating with a quiet fury. Everyone they pass on the way out moves aside without looking up.
–
So, management starts filtering through their schedules with a closer eye.
It begins quietly, almost sheepishly. Certain names start to disappear from their rosters: the host who always opens interviews with thinly veiled backhanded compliments about Namjoon's scent, the stylist who insists on making offhand comments about how he doesn't "look" like an omega. It's all very subtle. No great declarations, no sweeping reforms. Just sweet, glorious absence.
It had taken a while to get to this point. The change did not occur in a single meeting or cataclysm, though several times it came close. No, it was a slow accumulation of moments, muttered apologies in corridors, and deeply uncomfortable silences that rang too loud to ignore. But it was accelerated–rather dramatically–by one event in particular.
Yoongi's pre-rut.
Yoongi gets weird pre-rut. Weird in an aggressively overprotective way. Weird in that he’s prone to losing his shit at the slightest hint of something that could even be perceived as a threat to his pack. He's always a little more tightly wound, a little less inclined to endure bullshit–an extreme version of his usually subdued personality. Normally that just means extra sleep and a steady stream of calming incense poured discreetly into the dorm air diffusers. But sometimes, when the world insists on being particularly annoying, he...
...well.
They’re in a meeting with the management staff, a mixed batch of company execs and PR handlers who, for all their professionalism, cannot seem to read the damn room. They've been pushing, for the last fifteen minutes, to get BTS to be a variety appearance with a particular host. A host with a history so checkered with black spots it may as well be a chessboard.
"He brings good ratings," one staff member says. "And he’s been more subtle recently."
"More subtle about being a misogynist?" Yoongi asks flatly.
The room stiffens. Someone awkwardly clears their throat. A document is pushed forward, paper as thin as the logic being used to support it. High exposure, it says. Broad reach. Nostalgia factor.
Yoongi has been sitting stiffly for the last fifteen minutes, one leg bouncing under the table with increasing tempo. The air around him has started to thicken, the scent of ozone bleeding outward in creeping waves–sharpening by the minute, electric with something unmistakably agitated. It's the kind of scent that makes you sit up a little straighter, one that warns you to be wary of the approaching thunderstorm, brewing dark and forebodingly on the horizon. "It'll only be a brief appearance–"
Yoongi's chair screeches against the floor as he bursts up. "We are not–" he slams his hands onto the table, loud enough that the intern at the end flinches, "going on that motherfucker's show!"
Everyone stares.
"Yoongi-hyung," Hoseok says gently, but behind his hand the corner of his mouth twitches tremendously, threatening to break out into a giant shit-eating grin.
"You want us to show up for ratings? Parade my omega in front of a man who’s been sued for harassment twice?" Yoongi snaps. "I’d rather gargle gravel and shit bricks."
His omega? Namjoon raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Yoongi," he says warningly, though not without affection.
"No. Fuck this." Yoongi jabs a finger toward the execs. "You think I don’t know what this is? You think you’re being subtle? You want a reaction. You want the whole country to watch and go: ooh, how will the omega respond? Will he get flustered? Will he smile through it? Will the other alphas bare their teeth? You want entertainment."
He snorts derisively, snarling. "Find it somewhere else."
And it seems that finally–after months of Namjoon handling everything with poise and measured silence, of their group subtly redirecting attention away from each snide remark–someone in the company listens.
They don't end up going on that show.
But they go on others. There are still contracts to fulfil, obligations to meet. And so they find themselves, months later, back in front of cameras for another game-show. It’s supposed to be light-hearted. Silly team games, throwback segments, audience call-ins. They’ve done worse. (They really need to stop going on these damn shows.)
It's been months since that terrible moment backstage with that terrible director. It's been a good few months, and they haven't gotten complacent, per se–just comfortable. They didn't not expect it, they just... didn't see it coming. Not tonight.
The host is a beta man–older, charismatic, and far too comfortable in front of a camera. He’s got the kind of industry charm that seems to only multiply with age, He says things like "you kids these days" and claps younger idols on the back hard enough to jostle them. Ruffling hair, grabbing shoulders–physical touch as a way to show familiarity. It’s his thing.
The segment’s been dragging on for a while now–some ridiculous, slapstick relay game involving blindfolds and foam bats–and Jeongguk, ever the good sport, volunteers himself for the final round. He’s ushered to the middle of the set, blindfolded, giggling with nerves, arms stretched. “I can’t see a thing,” he calls out to the others, laughing.
Namjoon chuckles from the couch, flicking a glance toward the host, who’s prowling around the contestants with his usual dramatic flair. It seems fine. Jeongguk giggling, Taehyung is shouting nonsensical instructions, Jimin’s already halfway off his chair with laughter. The mood is high and they're having fun.
And then–
Still mic’d, still grinning, the host circles around and, without so much as a warning, reaches out and scruffs Jeongguk.
Just–grabs the back of his neck. Like a handler disciplining a pet. Fist curling right around the back of Jeongguk’s neck, tugging back hard.
Jeongguk’s head is wrenched backward with the force of it. One of his hands instinctively jerk up, but before it can make it far, his body freezes over in natural response to being fucking scruffed. Jeongguk can’t see through the blindfold, can’t defend or react. The host laughs like it's all in good humour and gives a condescending pat. Like Jeongguk’s some mutt who just performed a neat trick.
Quietly, so quiet you almost can't hear it–Jeongguk lets out the barest of whines.
And the studio goes very still.
The change in air pressure is not metaphorical. Namjoon's scent surges outward, sweeping burnt-sugar and suffocating molasses, cutting through the smell of sweat and makeup and artificial fog. Sharp, sour severity. The heaviness of it is surreal–weighty as if you could reach out and grab on.
Namjoon didn't expect to get angry. Not today. Not like this, not so suddenly. He hadn't even felt it coming on. If you asked him thirty seconds ago, he'd have said he was fine–tired, maybe, a little bored. But fine. Yet here he was, fury clawing its way up his throat with no warning, threatening to choke him from the inside-out, the edges of his vision going blurry with red. Distantly, he sees a few of the crew members inhale, choking, as his scent replaces the very oxygen in the air.
It isn't just the scruffing that does it. It's the months of tension he's kept folded neatly under his tongue. The quiet, backhanded comments he let pass, the interviews he smiled through, the times he'd watched the others play along because that was what professionalism demanded of them. It's the endless balancing act, the fear of seeming too sensitive, too fragile, too much. When Yoongi had blown up at that meeting, he naively thought most of it to be done. To have borne the brunt of the storm. For the worst of it to be over.
He should've known better. He should know better.
The staff are coughing, rubbing at their throats, noses. A few people jerk their heads back to present their necks in submission, an automatic–yet uncommon, rarely seen–response to an enraged omega. One person falls to their knees. He thinks he even hears a whimper.
Namjoon should stop, reign his scent in and apologise for imposing himself on everyone like this. But he sits there, boiling, and some obscure theory about the violence of trivialities suddenly comes to mind. About how oppression doesn’t always wear boots. Sometimes, it shows up in the shape of a hand that lingers too long, a laugh that doesn’t ask permission, an audience that thinks your dignity, your pride, your humanity, is a fair trade for entertainment. Jeongguk doesn't even know who's touching him.
And now Namjoon can't stop himself.
He stands up from the couch with a deliberate slowness, every muscle in his body trembling with the effort it takes not to lunge across the set and kill the host where he stands. His hands are clenched into fists, knuckles popping audibly, nails digging crescents into his palms.
"Do not touch my pack member," he growls lowly, barely containing everything simmering underneath.
The host blinks, still clutching the back of Jeongguk’s neck.
"He’s blindfolded." Namjoon steps forward. "You think grabbing someone like that, when they can’t even see you," another step, "is some kind of joke?" A step again. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Behind him, Yoongi rises too–silent, cold fury. His scent floods the air alongside Namjoon’s, precise and lethal, cutting through the studio fog like a scalpel. If Namjoon is a wildfire, Yoongi is the smothering pressure right before lightning strikes. The host finally releases Jeongguk, stepping back with both hands raised.
"It's just part of the game," he says, weakly. "It–it’s just some fun–"
"Do I look like I'm laughing?" Namjoon spits.
Jeongguk stumbles as he yanks the blindfold off, eyes wide and confused, his lips parted like he’s trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
Namjoon doesn’t look away from the host. He's made his way over by now, right next to where the host and Jeongguk stand. He stands at his full height, imposing and tall, over the small shrivel of a man. "You call that fun? Maybe you’re normally allowed to manhandle people without asking first. But not here.
“Not one of mine.”
Namjoon looms over the host, who flinches and stammers something incoherent–an aborted excuse or apology, maybe, he doesn’t really care. "Don’t ever lay your hands on him again," he says, canines bared, voice like iron. For a moment, the room is completely still and silent, save only for the sound of Namjoon heavily breathing through his anger.
And then people start moving again, slowly, hesitantly. The shoot halts. Not officially, no one says a word–but it immediately dies on its feet. Crew members shuffle around nervously, trading clipped whispers and uncomfortable glances, adjusting lights and fumbling with clipboards just for something to do. No one looks directly at Namjoon, as if afraid to invoke his ire.
The host, white-faced and silent, doesn't try to speak again. Whatever pathetic little quip had formed in his throat shrivels and dies before making it past his teeth. The room is thick with discomfort, a silence swollen with unease. Even the cameras seem reluctant to keep rolling.
Namjoon doesn’t step away from the host until Jeongguk is behind him, visibly uncomfortable, shoulders curling inward. He doesn’t apologize. And no one dares ask him to.
Later, in the dressing room, it’s Hoseok who breaks the silence.
"Joon-ah," he murmurs softly, passing Namjoon a bottle of water. "Wow. That was… wow."
Namjoon sighs, presses the cool plastic to his forehead. "He scruffed Jeongguk. Blindfolded. In front of an audience."
"He deserved worse," Taehyung says, sitting on the floor with his back to the mirror. "I would’ve done way worse. You held yourself together well."
"I yelled on camera," Namjoon mutters. "It’s probably already been recorded and is going to be uploaded before we even get home."
Jeongguk, who has been silent the entire trip back to the dressing room, slides up to Namjoon’s side and tugs on his sleeve. Namjoon frowns and turns to him. “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” he asks, reaching to press his palm against Jeongguk’s forehead only a little nonsensically.
Jeongguk just bats away his hand, and says, “Namjoon-hyung is so cool.”
Seokjin groans from the couch. "Please don’t start with that. I’m still trying to block this day out.”
Jeongguk puffs up in indignation, swivelling to scowl at Seokjin. “Start with what? It’s true! He was all like, don’t touch my pack,” he lowers his voice in a poor imitation of Namjoon’s timbre, “you scum of the earth, I’ll kill you–”
“He did not say that he’d kill him what is wrong with you–”
And as they start arguing in earnest, Namjoon huffs a laugh, half amused and half glad that Jeongguk’s feeling okay enough to bicker with Seokjin. At the sound of it, it’s like a switch is flipped–Jimin and Taehyung jump up, immediately eager to join the fight. Yoongi steps up to stand beside Namjoon and they share a look of exasperated fondness as they watch the youngest three gang up to round on Seokjin. Seokjin cries out, reaching for help toward Hoseok–who does nothing, only clutching his stomach and shrieking in laughter.
It’s been a long day–it’s been a long few years. And Namjoon’s tired, but this–this part of it, this sitting here among the chaos, among his members, watching them smile and laugh and feeling his scent–soft, rich caramel, sweet and happy–seep out into the room and settle over his pack like a well-loved blanket–this is okay.
This, he can handle.