when cameras are flashing

“So,” you say, and An Yujin smiles brightly at you across the conference table. “How’d you manage to fuck up this week?”

It’s barely professional, but you’re you - you’re past all that, over courtesy, propriety. Yujin’s manager clears her throat, levels you with an unamused glare. You cock your head, spread your hands out in surrender: “Look,” you say, “I’m just trying to get a feel for the situation.” 

“Oh,” says Yujin, in her carefree, entirely charming way. “Well, if you’re just trying to get a feel for it.”

You raise an eyebrow at her. She raises one right back, sweetly challenging. Hey, here’s how it goes with her: another day, another scandal. 

It’s actually kind of insane, considering Yujin is hands-down one of the most normal, sincere, well-intentioned celebrities you’ve ever worked for - and that’s a long list. It’s almost hilarious, that people go after her the way they do, because as far as you can see, she never does anything wrong. She’s practically angelic, by standards of fame. No boys, no bullying allegations, no benders.

Still - and you can say this, because you’re one of the best publicists in the game - being famous at her age and with her face is a largely uphill battle. Gorgeous enough to attract jealousy, genuine enough for all the people jumping through hoops to maintain their personas to despise her, young and talented and charismatic enough for the rumor mill to love her and hate her at the exact same time. There’s sympathy, and of course you have it - but then there’s that look on Yujin’s pretty features, in front of you now.

Nothing gets to her. You find it impressive, a little fascinating: there’s a reason she’s one of your favorites.

“And?” You lean back in your chair, gaze shifting from Yujin to her manager and back again. “What are we dealing with?” 

You’re observing Yujin carefully, trying to get a feel on how bad this is going to be - her long, glossy black hair falls over both shoulders, effortlessly flawless; the fluttering eyelashes, the dimple - then there’s the outfit, the tight white shirt, the pants, tapering in at her tiny waist; they’re an almost offensively vibrant shade of bubblegum pink, but she’s miraculously pulling it off-

Yujin’s manager clears her throat, again. 

You smile. If she’s bothered about you staring at her client, she can say it to your face. “Yes?” 

“There was a photoshoot,” says Yujin’s manager, eyeing you like she thinks you’re about to mount Yujin right there at the conference table - which is extreme. You’re a professional, you’re surrounded by obscenely beautiful people on the daily - and Yujin’s too young for you, anyway. It’s not even a question. Barely even a thought in your head. “Here, take a look-” 

Yujin’s manager passes her phone towards you, lets you swipe through the photos, and - well, shit-

Okay, it’s more than barely a thought in your head. 

“Hm,” you say, keeping your face studiously blank; it’s something you’ve perfected over the years, but still, Jesus. It’s a series of pictures of Yujin in this silky, slinky black two-piece - there are her thighs, the defined cut of her abs, the way she tilts her head, parts her lips; the camera loves her, but who wouldn’t - and it’s sex, it’s sin, it’s every dirty word wrapped up in one - but like you said, both Yujin and her manager are staring straight at you right now, and you’re a professional. 

You place the phone back down on the table, summon all the nonchalance possible. “Looks fine to me.” 

Clearly, you’ve failed, at least on some level. “Dial it back,” advises Yujin’s manager, disdainfully.

“Yeah,” echoes Yujin, cheerfully, fingers laced underneath her chin, dark eyes dancing. “Dial it back.”

You fix her with a pointed glance, cautionary. She’s always a little flirtatious, but that’s her thing, her trademark - it’s easy for the whole country to fall for her when she talks to everyone like they might be able to touch her if they play their cards right - but there’s something a little more obvious about it today, and you don’t know how to take it.

“Sure,” you say, relenting; you don’t know what game she’s playing and you’re not sure you want to. “What are people saying?” 

“People think it’s too suggestive,” says Yujin, raking a hand through her hair, the delicate point of her wrist only a little mesmerizing. “Or seductive, or something. Which is crazy, because it’s just me being hot and existing.”

Somehow all her comments come off as charming rather than arrogant - or she manages both, all at once. It’s that smile: goddamn irresistible. You get why she bounces back from every stupid scandal, and it’s not just that you’re helming the ship of her image. People hate her, they love her, they do both at the same time. Price of fame: it’s a fickle thing. The one constant is that it’s An Yujin, and people never really stop talking about her - and in the end, for a girl like her, that’s the ultimate goal. 

“They’re overreacting,” says Yujin’s manager, but her eyes are back on her phone, her fingers suddenly flicking fast. “It’s not - ugh - I mean, it’s such an insane double standard, the way they treat you versus the way they - fuck, I’m sorry,” she says, right when her phone rings. “I have to take this.” 

“Go ahead,” says Yujin. There’s a goal, here - her eyes dart to you, smile drenched with intention - and she tips her chin up at her manager as she stands. “We’ll behave.” 

This gives her manager pause, right in the doorway. She holds her phone in her hand, lets her gaze do circuits between it and the two of you - but she’s responsible, so she doesn’t have a choice.

“You’d better,” she says, a warning meant solely for you; it’d be insulting, but she probably knows better than anyone how men like you act around girls like Yujin. “I’ll be back in, like, two minutes.”

Then the door’s clicking shut - the sound is like a latch to a coffin, a vault decimated and snapped right open - sealing you in, sure, but opening up something else entirely. Yujin runs her tongue under a canine, studies you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room; you can’t figure out her angle. 

“So,” you say, coolly - you’re trying to maintain some approximation of control. See, you’re far from the most fascinating sight in the vicinity; you’re on one of the highest floors of the building, and all the windows are spotless, glass gleaming - there’s a view to die for, streets and cityscapes and all that open sky - and she’s still looking only at you. 

“I think you’ll be fine,” you continue. You’re not that intimidated by a pretty little pop star, so you’ll hold her gaze. It’s one challenge you don’t mind taking. “It’s not that much to dig you out of. It’s not like the photoshoot was anything majorly scandalous - people are just blowing things out of proportion, but that also means it’ll blow over fast. Because, really, it’s like you said. It’s just you being - well - it’s just you existing.” 

Yujin looks mildly entertained by your fumble, like she knows it was an amateur move. “It’s just me being what?”

You pin her with a look, but she presses on, smile curling at her mouth - it’s a slip-up she’s not going to let slide. “Are you afraid to call me hot?”

“Afraid’s a little strong,” you say, dryly. “I’d say I’m being mindful. Respectful. Professional, if you will.” There’s that word again; you’ll hold onto it like a lifeline. 

“Oh, yeah?” There’s a turn she’s taken, something sneaking into her tone, something primal saturating her dark eyes. Yujin sits up straight, drops her elbows on the table, inclines her head like she’s assessing you. “You think admitting that you think I’m hot would be unprofessional?”

“Deeply,” you say, flexing your fingers so you don’t do something stupid like stand up, like walk over to her, like grip her hair in your fist and trap her body against the conference table. “It’d be a scandal waiting to happen.”

Turns out all your self-discipline is a moot point. Now Yujin’s the one standing from her chair, approaching you slow - there’s something about the way she moves her body, so aware of every dip and curve; it’s like a weapon she’s flaunting, a knife right to your jugular - and she stops right in front of you, propping her hip to the table. She’s standing, and you’re still seated. She’s not exactly short, but she’s tiny compared to you. You shouldn’t think about it, but you’re thinking about it.

“Like I care,” says Yujin, grinning. “Besides - there’s no scandal I could get in that you wouldn’t get me out of, right?”

“You’re feisty today,” you comment, still wrestling for the upper hand. “Does the threat of losing your career get you going or something?”

“I’m not going to lose my career,” says Yujin, airily, like she finds the prospect hilarious. There’s that arrogance, and it’s so much more enticing than it has any right to be. “And - no, it doesn’t. But watching you try to keep your cool while looking at pictures of me when it’s so obvious that you want to fuck me - yeah, I’d call that a turn-on.”

There’s that weapon, aiming and firing; there’s that blade, straight into your neck. There’s your lifelines, sliced to ribbons. “Who says I want to fuck you?”

Yujin laughs at that, full and musical. “Come on,” she says, and it’s a battle you’ve already lost. “Everybody wants to fuck me.”

Your eyes flicker over to the closed door. “Your manager said she’ll be back in two minutes.” 

“She’ll take twenty, minimum.” 

“This is a bad idea,” you warn, but it’s a half-assed cover, barely concealed - you’re not scared of her, but then there’s everything touching her would trigger. She’s got her weapons, but you’ve got your own. The flat of your palm finds her hip, and you won’t stand; you’ve got other plans. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.” 

“Why do I have to get into anything?” Yujin’s hands drop, and now she’s popping the button of her pants, sliding the zipper. “It’s just sex,” she says, watching your expression, perfectly cavalier. You grit your teeth. You don’t go for it yet. “It’s not the end of the world.” 

“For a girl like you?” you ask, and now she’s dragging down her pants, revealing her panties, thighs, inch by mouthwatering inch. “It would be close.” 

You’re talking about reputation, about the ever-present threat of social suicide - she’s a perpetual hot topic, and just her face sends tongues wagging, so this’d be doomsday - but Yujin’s got her pants pushed down to her knees, and there’s an undercurrent to it, a desire that goes somewhere beyond sexual. You’ll bite:

“What’s your angle?” you ask finally, surveying her. Ah, you’ll give her what she wants, but it’s the nature of your job: you need to find every possible way to spin it, all the light and shadow and nuance. “I’ve been your publicist for this long, and you just decided out of the blue that you wanted me to fuck you?” 

Yujin pauses, eyes glimmering, keening into your hand on her hip. “Most guys wouldn’t ask this many questions.” 

“I’m obviously not most guys.” You’re older, you’re smarter, you run her fucking career - if she falls, you do, too. “Are you done deflecting?” 

Oh, talk about light: Yujin tips her head, silky hair spilling over her collarbone, sunlight filtering in through the windows - she’s drowning in it, catching it in her irises like gold, her glint of teeth like there might be already cameras flashing - and slowly, you ease her up onto the table, until you’re sitting in front of her, right between her legs. She’s criminally gorgeous, she’s filthy, she’s everything; she’s staring down at you, deliberating, mouth curved in something like victory.