Re-built

by Fluffyhead

Summary:

After years of searching for a Sub who could truly be theirs, the Kim Eros are encouraged to consider fostering. That’s when they meet Jungkook, a severely traumatised Sub recovering in a rehabilitation clinic.

Withdrawn, non-verbal, and terrified of touch, Jungkook is placed in their care.
Jungkook doesn't know what safety feels like anymore. The Kim Eros would like to try showing him it is still possible to feel safe and whole again.

Notes:

Hello :) This is my first ever work, and I am extremely terrified ahah
I have had this idea in mind for years, but have always been too scared to do anything with it. I don't know what possessed me to start writing, but here I am, winging it.
I hope you like it. I’ve been quietly writing away, and now I’ve got five chapters done — which is wild to me — but it gave me the courage to finally share it.
Please note that English is not my first language and there might be mistakes in here. I also don't have anyone who can beta read it, so all mistakes are mine.

One note on the BDSM dynamic:
In this AU, everyone is born with a dynamic — Dom, Sub, or Switch — and each dynamic also has a scale from 1 to 10, which describes their needs and preferences.

A 1 tends to have lighter needs (for example, they may not require frequent scenes or intense structure).

A 10 usually needs a more intense, structured dynamic, and often thrives with more guidance, rules, and consistent scenes.

This scale doesn’t indicate value or strength — just individual needs within their dynamic. So, for example, Seokjin is a 9, so he feels the need to dominate and enter dom-space more frequently than Namjoon or Yoongi, who are an 8, or Hoseok, who's a 7. They are still doms, but may need to scene less or accept brattiness a bit more than Seokjin. For Jimin and Taehyung who are switches (respectively a 6 and a 4), the lower the number, the "subbier" they feel. For Subs, the higher the number, the longer they will need to stay in subspace or scene more frequently and they strive with set rules etc.

I hope it makes sense, please do not hesitate to ask me any questions or clarifications if anything is unclear. Again, I've never done this before, so things could be a bit messy!!

With that said, please enjoy! And I'll see you soon :))))

Chapter 1: Chapter One

“Did he say he wanted some sanjeok with his lunch?” Jimin questioned softly, putting together the last banchans of the packed lunch.

“Mh? I think so, you know he loves those,” Taehyung said from across the spacious kitchen. He looked almost angelic, with the early morning sunlight pouring in from the big windows behind him. Jimin took a moment to look at him while the other switch was pouring coffee in a travel mug. He smiled, turning back to what he was doing.

“I need to go into the studio today, Minji asked me to go over act four of the script. Said the dialogues feel a bit clunky. I think I’ll be back mid-afternoon, will you be here?”

After screwing the lid on the travel mug, Taehyung approached Jimin and helped him put every component of the packed lunch into an insulated travel bag. He gives Jimin a series of quick kisses of the cheek, making the other giggle. He can smell the perfume of Seokjin’s bergamot shampoo on Jimin’s hoodie, mingling with the other’s woody scent.

“I have an appointment with my agent at 10 and then lunch with the other models that will be present on set, but I will definitely be here when you come back,” he says, sniffling Jimin’s neck playfully, trying to take in as much of the perfume as possible. Jimin lets out a little shriek, weakly trying to step away, not really wanting him to. After scening Taehyung gets a bit more touchy than he normally is and Jimin always welcomes it, knowing that it helps him come up more gently.

“How are my two babies doing?” Namjoon asked, stepping into the kitchen. He was wearing a deep blue suit, paired with a nice crisp white shirt that contrasted perfectly with the blazer, making him look polished and professional. Jimin and Taehyung turned around to look at their Dom, smiling gently as he approached them.

Jimin freed himself from Taehyung’s affectionate grip and extended the bag towards Namjoon. “We made lunch.” Namjoon took the bag and kissed both switches on the forehead, “thank you darlings. Don’t forget to have your mid-morning snacks. Last night was quite intense, and I don’t want either of you dropping.”

“We’ll be good,” Taehyung reassured, his voice a soft murmur. Jimin nodded along, poking at one of the older bruises on his wrist, tracing the outline with absentminded touches.

“Jin hyung’s not out of space yet?”

“He’s a 9, Tae. You know he needs longer mornings.”

They both nodded. Jin hyung usually stayed in the “space room” a bit more than the others, requiring that bit more time to come up from dom-space. He always assured the others that, even if he were to be left alone after everyone else had come up, he did not mind and welcomed the silence that lingered afterwards (that did not mean that he wouldn’t smother in affection the other members of the Eros when he finally resurfaced, claiming that “surely my babies have missed my love”).

Namjoon stayed still for a few moments, taking in the sight of his two switches standing next to one another and, finally, ruffling both their hairs: “I will see you tonight.” As he was leaving, Jimin bid goodbye with a final “Tell Yoongi hyung not to forget to eat!”

“Will do!” came the reply, already at a distance, as the entrance door closed a few seconds after. A gentle silence settled over the kitchen. Jimin and Taehyung stood side by side, momentarily suspended in the stillness of the morning. They exchanged a glance, wordlessly communicating, as they often did.

“I’ll start getting the coffee ready for Jin hyung, you go get ready,” said Jimin patting Taehyung’s bottom softly, knowing it always took the other way longer to decide on what to wear than him. Taehyung did a happy dance and kissed his partner twice in thanks, before dashing off towards his closet.

'What a silly goose’, Jimin thought as he took out Jin’s favourite mug (the one that said ‘baker in the kitchen, spanker in the bedroom’, gifted by Hoseok when he broke his trifle bowl and got a resounding be-more-careful-spanking in turn) and started pouring coffee in it, waiting for his dom to rise.

 

# # # 

 

Namjoon’s office was quiet. The low hum of the building’s AC filtered through the room, steady and cool. He stared at the screen in front of him, though he wasn’t really reading the email open on it. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, stilled mid-thought. There was music playing faintly from the corner speaker — a piano instrumental that Yoongi had passed along the week before. Beautiful, if a bit ominous. Namjoon had told himself it helped him focus, now it just made the silence heavier.

His gaze drifted to the photo frame beside his monitor — a candid shot Hoseok had taken on a summer trip. Seokjin’s eyes were scrunched in laughter. Jimin had frosting on his nose. Taehyung was tangled around Yoongi like a sleepy cat as the other was pulling a face of displeasure, tough one could see he was actually pulling the switch closer to himself. They all looked happy. They were happy.

So why did it still feel like something was missing?

This question had been haunting his thoughts for quite some time, and he knew he was not the only one. They had spoken about it — still spoke about it. Quietly. Gently. Like something fragile that might crack if held too tightly.

Namjoon leaned back in his chair, allowing the music to fill the corners of his mind. The cursor blinked at him, as if mocking his stillness. On paper, everything was fine. The company was thriving. Projects flowed in and out of his schedule, and he handled them with the same steady competence he always had. Yoongi was a force of calm beside him, as always — precise, brilliant. The rest of the Eros were well, too. Happy with sharing a rhythm that never faltered.

And yet.

The thought lingered like smoke — the kind that clung to fabric and crept under doors.

A sub.

A missing presence, one they hesitated to acknowledge too swiftly, torn between the desire to keep it unreal and the fear of facing its undeniable reality.

And yet it had become harder to ignore with each passing month, each gathering or party that promised possibility. They had gone to meet potential matches — young subs presented like novelties, dressed up and eager to please. Some sweet, some fierce, some deeply charming.

But none of them fit. Not with them. Not with the way they lived, loved, existed.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath catching somewhere in his chest. It wasn’t about compatibility on paper. It wasn’t about checking off boxes or chemistry sparked in a single evening. They were looking for something far quieter. Someone who needed the kind of home they had built — not just a sub, but a soul that could fill the aching space between them, and let them be filled in return.

So far, all those meetings had left him feeling more hollow than hopeful. Shiny smiles, vacant eyes. Conversations that echoed long after they ended, not because of meaning, but because of the absence of it.

Still… the idea hadn’t gone away.

He closed the laptop with a soft click, letting the room dissolve into nothing but music and muted light. He does not want to admit it, not to himself nor his mates, but he has run out of ideas. He does not want to attend another party, nor meet another sub only to be crushed by disappointment.

There had to be another way. It was hard for him to rationalize why he was feeling like this, when what they had already built filled his heart with so much love and joy. But there was a particular kind of fulfilment that was hard to reach without a sub needing their attention, and he knew it all too well.

And, truth be told, it wasn’t just his own desire that weighed on him. He could see it in the others — the way Seokjin’s gaze lingered at parties, hopeful and wistful at once; the way Yoongi’s hands grew restless when they did not have someone to care for; the way Hoseok’s smile dimmed a little bit more as each sub wasn’t a right fit for them; the way Jimin and Taehyung exchanged glances before packing up from yet another failed meeting.

They all wanted this.

They all felt the lack.

Namjoon was pulled away from his thoughts by the ringing of the office’s phone. He quickly picked it up, irked by the loud thrilling echoing in the spacious room.

“Yes, Miss Yun?” he asked his secretary.

“There is Jinyoung-nim on line 3 who would like to talk to you, Sir. He says he would like your input on the new trainees that auditioned last week.”

Namjoon huffed a laugh. That was bullshit, Jinyoung already knew what he thought of the new trainees, having penned a detailed 10-page analysis on each one individually and as a collective group. Meanwhile, the other dom was likely overwhelmed by the recently hired interns and was in dire need of some stress relief—cue Namjoon.

“Okay, thank you Miss Yun, send his call through.” He waited a couple of seconds and then Jinyoung, cheerfully strained voice came through.

“Dear friend! If, over the next couple of days, the disappearance of three Bighit’s interns will pop up on the news, please know I had nothing to do with it.”

So, Namjoon was right, he was going crazy.

“Oh please, Jinyoung-ah, as if you would have the heart to do anything remotely harmful to those poor kids. You know how they are the first few days. But once they realise what a wonderful boss they have, aka you, they will work their asses off to make sure you never want to get rid of them.” Namjoon let himself smile softly at the laughter coming through the phone. They did speak about work for a couple of minutes, trying to maintain the façade of busy, important men who didn’t have time for personal matters during office hours. It was a little performance they’d both perfected over the years — professional voices, casual comments, the occasional exaggerated sigh about incompetent interns or looming deadlines.

But it only lasted so long.

Jinyoung’s voice softened, barely above a murmur. “So… how was the party? The one that happened last weekend?”

Namjoon exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair as he leaned further back in his chair. He stared up at the ceiling like it might hold an answer he hadn’t yet found.

“The same as the one before it,” he replied quietly. “Too much perfume, too many questions, not enough… connection.”

“Worse than I thought, then.” Jinyoung’s reply was gentle, without a hint of teasing. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way but… I’m not surprised? You’re all so special. It was never going to be easy.”

“I know,” Namjoon sighed. “It’s just… getting harder. We want this, we really do, but it’s difficult to keep looking when nothing feels right.”

He could hear Jinyoung breathing on the other end, considering his next words with care. “What about a notice?” he suggested. “A listing? Something more direct?”

“That feels…” He hesitated, searching for the right word to contain his scepticism.

“Impersonal?” Jinyoung offered. Another soft laugh, kind and knowing.

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Just say what you said to me. The part about wanting someone special — not just a sub, but someone who fits your life.”

Namjoon sighed, the sound quiet but heavy. “We’ve thought about that too,” he admitted. “Even drafted something once. Seokjin wrote it, of course. Beautiful, sincere. But in the end… we scrapped it.”

“Why?”

“Because we know how it ends,” Namjoon said, voice low. “People see our names, our house, our roles — and they stop reading. They come with rehearsed smiles and perfect manners, and then they leave with expectations we’ll never be able to meet. Or worse… they stay, hoping we’ll turn into what they want us to be.”

He rubbed at his temple, eyes fluttering shut. “It’s not fair. Not to them, and not to us. It just leads to broken hearts. We don’t want to collect admirers, Jinyoung. We want someone to belong.”

There was a pause on the other end, thick with unspoken understanding.

Then, Jinyoung gently drops a suggestion.

“Have you ever thought about fostering?”

Namjoon was silent for a few long moments, not able to formulate an answer. No, they didn’t. They never thought about fostering, never thought about looking into the system, nor presume they could be an Eros that could possibly want such a thing.

When Jinyoung did not receive an answer, he continued, as if he wasn't turning Namjoon’s world upside down, “There’s a clinic that takes in subs who’ve had it hard,” Jinyoung said carefully, like he wasn’t sure how the words would land. “It’s not private — they’re publicly funded, so their resources are limited. But they do good work. Honest work. The staff really care. They’re not in it for the prestige or the politics — just trying to help subs heal, find something steady again.”

As Namjoon still wasn’t giving an answer, Jinyoung went on.

“I know it’s not what you were thinking. It’s not some elegant soirée or polished family introduction. But maybe… that’s exactly why you should consider it. These aren’t subs who’ve been groomed to charm or perform. Most of them don’t have anyone left to advocate for them. But they’re still here. They’re still trying.”

Namjoon exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once against the armrest of his chair. “We’re not… we’re not rescuers, Jinyoung.”

There was a beat of silence before Jinyoung responded — not scolding, but firm in the way only a true friend could be. “No one’s asking you to be. You’re not supposed to save anyone. Just… offer a place where healing might feel possible.”

Namjoon let his head fall back against the chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling again. The idea tugged at something deep inside him — something cautious, yes, but also aching.

He thought of Seokjin’s tired eyes after their last event, of Hoseok going quiet in the car ride home, fingers fidgeting at his wrist. He thought of Jimin, curled up on the couch in the early morning light, whispering, “I just want to feel needed by someone who really needs us.”

They weren’t lacking love. They never had been. But maybe what they had was love in search of direction — waiting for someone who wouldn’t just receive it, but be changed by it. Someone who needed gentleness, not just appreciated it.

Namjoon blinked slowly. “What’s the name of the clinic?”

Jinyoung’s voice brightened, cautious hope curling around the edges. “Cor cordis. It’s in the mid-district, near the old university hospital. I can send you the contact info — they’re always open to visitors, especially potential foster candidates. You don’t have to commit to anything. Just… go see.”

Namjoon hummed faintly, more to himself than to Jinyoung. Go see. That didn’t sound so daunting.

He closed his laptop with a soft click, letting the weight of the conversation settle around him like mist — not heavy, but impossible to ignore.

“Thanks,” he said, and meant it.

As the call ended and the silence returned, Namjoon sat with it for a moment, then reached for his phone again.

He dialled Yoongi.

“Hyung?” he said when the line picked up. “Can you come to my office? I… I have an idea.”

 

# # # 

 

It took around an hour for Yoongi to get to Namjoon’s office. Even though his studio/office is on the floor directly below Namjoon’s one, he always needed some time to finish off whatever work project he was finishing because “if I leave anything unfinished I know I will forget something very important and I will blame you if you rush me”.

In that time, Namjoon took to pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, work long forgotten. As always, his brain started to work a mile per minute, already thinking about the potential time in which they could all go together, what to say if they interacted with some of the subs there, what to wear. They needed to look impeccable, right? Look like the picture-perfect Eros, with loving but strict doms and cheeky but sweet switches. Right? But what if that was the wrong way of introducing themselves. What if they needed certain requirements that they did not have or didn’t display certain behaviours that were imperative in order for the clinic to even consider the possibility of allowing them to foster one of their subs.

He was panicking, he knew it, but this was completely new territorial, something that has not happened in a long time. They were a respectable Eros. One of the most admired in their circle — not just for their success, but for the way they carried themselves. They had built everything from the ground up, without shortcuts.

Namjoon and Yoongi had climbed through the ruthless world of the music industry with nothing but sharp instincts and raw talent, eventually building a production company now considered one of the most innovative in the country.

Taehyung had made a name for himself in the fashion world, a model turned creative director with a mind for aesthetics and a presence impossible to ignore.

Jimin was the soul of the stage, a theatre actor whose performances left audiences breathless — not because he played grand heroes, but because he made even silence feel alive.

Hoseok, with eyes that saw rhythm in everything, had become one of the most sought-after choreographers in the idol world, shaping the movements behind legendary performances.

And Seokjin — Seokjin was the mind behind one of the country’s most forward-thinking eco-engineering firms, focused on sustainable urban development and green architecture. His work didn’t put him in the spotlight, but it shaped skylines. He consulted on everything from self-sustaining high-rises to clean water systems for rural communities. He wasn’t famous, but in his world, his name meant change — and people listened.

They were used to rooms with sharp lighting and sharper words, used to contracts, to deals, to knowing exactly what to say to make people lean in. They had learned how to move through spaces made for the powerful, and they had learned to own those spaces.

But this — this wasn’t about power. This wasn’t about prestige or charm or carefully tailored suits.

This was about care.

And in that world, their titles and bank accounts meant very little. In that world, it didn’t matter how well they dressed or how polished their manners were. What mattered was whether or not they could be trusted with someone who had nothing left to offer but bruised silence.

Namjoon clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe through the swell of doubt in his chest.

Because here, money didn’t buy trust. And love — the kind they wanted to give — had to prove itself without words.

A knock on the door interrupted his spiralling thoughts. He quickly crossed the room and opened the door, allowing Yoongi in, who dropped a chaste kiss on Namjoon’s lips even before saying anything. As if he knew something was not quite right.

“You sounded weird on the phone, tell me Jimin didn’t text you saying he killed another plant, please,” he said as he unceremoniously dropped on the cozy couch on the opposite side of where the desk and chairs were situated. They designed this cosy corner after Taehyung took one look at the room and declared: “if I can’t nap in here, I will not come and visit you,” followed by Jimin and Hoseok’s consent. Brats, the lot of them.

“Oh, I think you would have been able to hear me all the way from your sound-proofed office if that were to be the case,” he snorted, as he poured them some coffee.

He handed a mug to Yoongi and sat next to him, casually resting his hand on the other’s knee. He hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

“Jinyoung made an interesting suggestion today,” he started, careful with the way he framed it.

Yoongi took a sip of coffee, waiting for Namjoon to continue. The silence stretched out comfortably between them — there was never any rush with Yoongi, never any sense that words had to be hurried along.

“Fostering,” Namjoon said finally. “He suggested we look into fostering a sub.”

Yoongi’s eyes widened slightly, an expression that usually did not give away what he was truly thinking. There was no surprise in them — just quiet understanding as the thought settled in.

“From a clinic,” Namjoon continued. “Called Cor Cordis. They take in subs who’ve had… hard times.”

Yoongi’s gaze drifted past Namjoon’s shoulder, toward the wide windows that framed the distant skyline. The city pulsed gently in the distance — all light and movement — but up here, everything felt still.

There was a heaviness to his posture that Namjoon hadn’t noticed before, or maybe had simply grown used to seeing. They were all tired. Not in the way work tired you — not the kind of exhaustion that a day off or a vacation could fix. This was something else. Something quieter. Like the slow erosion of hope. Like walking through weeks and months with the feeling that something was missing, just out of reach.

“I keep thinking…” Namjoon began, the words slow and careful. “We’ve been looking in the wrong places. All these parties, all these meetings. It's always the same. Beautiful subs from wealthy families, trained to smile and speak when spoken to, chosen more for their polish than their hearts.”

He shook his head slightly. “We leave with compliments and business cards, and still… we come home empty.”

Yoongi hummed low in his throat — not agreement, not disagreement, just acknowledgment. He was good at that. Holding space for thoughts that didn’t yet have conclusions.

“Maybe…” Namjoon exhaled, his voice almost uncertain. “Maybe this is worth trying. Maybe what we’re looking for isn’t someone flawless. Maybe it’s someone real. Someone who needs us as much as we need them.”

Yoongi’s gaze flicked back to him then, sharp and searching. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, then a quiet “You think we could handle that?”.

Namjoon thinks about it for a long moment. Could they? They had never precisely been through a situation like this, but they did not start out as the perfect Eros either. They’d had their own struggles — expectations to navigate, doubts to work through, times when their bonds felt strained. Times when others waited for them to fail. To give up. But they hadn’t. They’d learned, adapted, grown together. They’d built something beautiful because they refused to believe it couldn’t last.

“I think,” Namjoon said slowly, “that we’re patient. We’re steady. We don’t break easily. We have a lot of love and care to offer and maybe we are the kind of people who should at least try”.

Yoongi was silent for a few long moments, staring into his coffee like it held a map of everything he hadn’t been able to say. Then, as though he’d arrived at some inner decision, he met Namjoon’s gaze with steadiness and said, “Let’s tell the others.”

Namjoon exhaled, all of a sudden feeling giddy.

“Okay. Tonight?”

Yoongi let out a little laugh, “I like your eagerness. Yes, tonight. I can’t wait to see Hoseok’s face”.

They looked at each other, fondness palpable in the air. This could be a step in the right direction, this could be what would be needed to make them finally feel complete.

The younger dom suddenly stood up and quickly approached the other one, bending down and giving him a long, passionate kiss. In turn, Yoongi laughed and started to stand up, “yes, I know, I am oh so very lovable. I need to go now, Jinho is waiting for me, said he wanted to go over the last track of his album. I will see you at 6, yes?”

Namjoon quickly stood and accompanied him to the door, “Yes, yes at 6. Don’t be late, please! You know that if we leave even 2 minutes later than that we get stuck in traffic, and-” Yoongi turns around right before stepping out the door, interrupting the other’s anxious ramble, “I know, love. I will see you at 6 down in the foyer. I will not forget. Remember to drink water, your plants are not the only ones who need to stay hydrated”. With that, he gave Namjoon one last soft smile and started to head back to his office, feeling just as hopeful as the other did.

 

# # # 

 

The soft click of the door opening echoed through the quiet entryway, followed by the mellow sound of Hugo’s paws against the polished floor. The greyhound appeared at once, all long limbs and curious eyes, trotting gracefully toward the figures slipping out of the evening chill.

Namjoon stepped inside first, the golden hue of the foyer’s sconces warming the edge of his expression. He crouched automatically, his coat still half on, to greet Hugo with a fond scratch behind the ears.

“Missed us?” he murmured, smiling at the dog’s gentle nudge against his chest.

Yoongi followed, already shrugging off his blazer, his movements unhurried. The hallway stretched ahead of them, dimly lit, quiet except for the faint hum of soft music drifting from the other side of the house.

From the living room, a voice floated in, light and melodic. “Is that you?”

Jimin.

Namjoon’s smile lingered. “It’s us.”

The living room opened up before them in golden lamplight and dusk-blue shadows. Jimin and Taehyung were curled together on one of the sofas, half-covered by a thick knit throw, the television playing something low and atmospheric. Taehyung was tucked in close, his head resting against Jimin’s shoulder, fingers twined together loosely like it was second nature.

“Long day?” Jimin asked, his voice softer now.

“Feels like it,” Yoongi answered.

Just then, the quiet padding of footsteps from the corridor, and Hoseok appeared, fresh from the shower, towel slung over his shoulder, skin still glistening faintly in the low light.

“You two look like you’ve been thinking too much,” he said, grinning as he leaned against the doorframe. “That’s either dangerous or exciting.”

Namjoon chuckled, but didn’t answer immediately. Then they heard the front door opened again, followed by Seokjin’s voice.

“Yes, please make sure to have the files printed out first thing tomorrow morning so we can go over them as soon as possible. Yes, thank you, you too”, he finished saying on the phone as he stepped inside—sharp as ever in a muted navy shirt, sleeves neatly rolled, the collar still pressed like he hadn’t touched it all day.

“The weather forecast did not say it was going to rain today, and I didn’t bring an umbrella. I’ll sue the clouds. Hi babies”, he said, not specifying who the babies were (hint: each and everyone of them).

“Come sit,” Taehyung called. “We’re being pretty.”

“You are always pretty, even if a bit bratty”, he sat on the sofa, patting both Jimin and Taehyung’s heads, who in turn leaned into the dom’s touch like little puppies, “So, the text I received around 4pm expressing the need for a family meeting was a bit of a surprise, but I cannot wait to hear what this ‘big idea’ consists in”.

Yoongi glanced at Namjoon then—wordless, knowing.

And Namjoon exhaled, as if readying himself.

“Yes, so… I had a conversation with Jinyoung today” Namjoon starts, feeling all of a sudden a bit anxious. He quickly looks at Yoongi, who in turns nods in encouragement.

“He asked me how things were going, how our last party went, and I told the truth. Things are not going well, I can see how tired we are of looking and not finding and I- we,” he gestures briefly to Yoongi, who is now sitting on the armrest of his chair, “were thinking that it might be time to try something different”. He notices that Hoseok is looking at him intensely, lower lip caught between his teeth, Jimin and Taehyung’s eyes wide in expectation, Seokjin’s brows slightly furrowed in anticipation. No one interrupts him.

He took a deep breath before continuing,“ He suggested we look into fostering.” He heard Jimin’s intake of air. “Fostering?” Hoseok repeated slowly. His eyes widened just enough to betray his surprise.

“You mean…” Namjoon nodded.

Jimin looked at Taehyung, who was now sitting up straight. “Like… a sub from the system?” Namjoon nodded, smiling softly at both of them. “Yes. There’s a clinic called Cor Cordis. They take in subs who’ve been through… hard times. Not just neglected, but overlooked. Forgotten.”

Everyone was silent for a while, just thinking about the option.

Seokjin looked at them without showing any emotions. “And you think we could be that place?”

Namjoon hesitated for just a breath, then nodded. “You know we have tried again and again with those pompous parties and matchmaking events. Things have not worked out. We are a stable, patient family, with a lot of love to give. There will surely be ups and downs, but I think we are good people, in a good Eros, with both mental and monetary stability” he said in one breath.

Taehyung looked down at his hands. “What if they’re scared of us?”

“They probably will be,” Hoseok said quietly from where he’d taken a seat on the edge of the coffee table, towel now discarded. “But that’s not the point. The point is… we wait. We show up. We don’t scare them off with expectations or try to fix them like they’re broken. We just stay.”

Jimin’s gaze flickered between all of them, something thoughtful softening his expression. “Do they know we’re coming?”

Namjoon shook his head. “Not yet. I wanted to talk to all of you first.” He glanced down at Hugo, who had sprawled himself lazily across Taehyung’s feet. “It’s not a small decision. We’d all be responsible. It’s not like going to a party and seeing if someone clicks with us. It’s… deeper.”

Everyone turned their heads to the head dom. Seokjin took a deep breath and said with a decisive tone, “Then let’s take it seriously,” he said. “If we do this, we do it together. And we do it right.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Jimin whispered, “I think we could love someone like that. Not because it’s easy, but because we’ve been waiting for something that feels real.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, believing that this could be the right decision to make more and more.

“So, how do we schedule an appointment?,” asked Seokjin.

Curiosity, hope, nerves. These were all emotions that permeated the air. Something was finally changing. Things were finally looking up.

 

# # # 

 

“Good morning, Kim Seokjin speaking. I was wondering if it would be possible for me and my Eros to schedule a visit to your clinic. The Eros is made up of 6 people, 4 Dominants and 2 Switches.”

There was a pause on the other end, followed by the polite, slightly cautious voice of a receptionist. “May I ask the nature of the visit, Mr. Kim?”

“Of course,” Seokjin replied gently. “We’ve recently been discussing the possibility of fostering. I was given your clinic’s name by a trusted friend, and after learning more about your work, we’d like to meet with someone from your team, speak in person if possible. We understand how delicate this process is, and we’d prefer not to rush anything.”

Another pause, softer this time. “As you probably already know, this is a very important decision to make Mr. Kim. We really care about the wellbeing of our guests and we strive to always ensure they are well taken care of.”

“I can imagine,” Seokjin said with a small, genuine smile only he could hear. “But we’re not approaching this on a whim. We’re willing to go through any steps you deem necessary. It’s important to us that we do this the right way.”

The voice on the line brightened slightly. “In that case, I believe our head coordinator would want to speak with you directly. Could you hold for just a moment, Mr. Kim?”

“Of course. Thank you.”

There was a short pause in which a light music was played, then the receptionist picked the phone back up.

“Yes, Mr. Kim, I just talked to my supervisor and he said that you can come anytime between 3 and 6 pm, preferably on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Would any of those times be good for you and your Eros?”.

“I believe next Thursday at 4 pm would be wonderful, thank you so much”.

The receptionist mumbled the date out loud, probably jotting it down on an agenda, “Oh, thank you Mr. Kim, we are looking forward to showing you around”.

Seokjin smiled again, turning and giving a small nod towards all his partners who were all squeezed on a single couch and were listening intently to the conversation. Jimin let out a small squeal, which was quickly cut short by Hoseok’s hand covering his mouth. Taehyung raised a fist in the air in triumph and Yoongi and Namjoon exchanged an excited little smile.

They were really doing it.

“See you then, goodbye”. As soon as he hung up, he felt five people swarm him, squeezing whichever body part they could get a hold of. Seokjin laughed brightly, squeezing right back.

Still smiling, Seokjin gently wriggled an arm free and raised it like a parent calling a room to order. “Alright, alright,” he chuckled, “let’s calm down a second.”

Taehyung made a playful whining sound, but they all quieted when Seokjin’s tone softened.

“I know we’re all excited,” he said, looking around at them, “and I am too — really. But we have to remember, this isn’t guaranteed. They might not accept us.”

A beat of silence followed, thoughtful and a little heavy.

“And even if they do,” he continued, voice calm and steady, “this isn’t going to be easy. We’d be taking in someone who’s been through things we probably can’t even begin to understand. They might be scared, or angry. They might not trust us, not right away. Maybe not for a long time.”

Hoseok nodded slowly, the warmth in his eyes dimming just enough to show he understood. Taehyung leaned a little more into Jimin’s side.

Seokjin let out a soft breath. “We’re not just offering them a room. We’d be giving them a place in our home, in our lives. That means patience. That means time. That means love, even when it’s hard.”

Namjoon stepped closer, brushing his hand against Seokjin’s back in silent agreement. “That’s exactly what we want to give.”

Seokjin looked at each of them in turn, gaze fond but firm. “Then we’ll do it right. All of us. Together.”

The mood had shifted naturally, gently — as it always did when they were in sync like this.

Namjoon glanced around the room, his gaze landing on each of them in turn. “Would you all like to scene tonight?”

Taehyung's eyes lit up immediately, and Jimin made a soft, happy sound from where he was curled up next to him. Yoongi gave a subtle nod, and Hoseok was already stretching out his shoulders, as if ready to start now.

“I’d love to,” Hoseok said, then turned to the two switches. “How’s your headspace, babies?”

Taehyung grinned, looking to Jimin as if to silently confirm. “Subby,” he answered simply, his voice already shifting, softer at the edges.

“Same,” Jimin echoed, his cheeks tinted with warmth.

They didn’t need to say more. The affection and trust in their voices said enough.

 

# # # 

 

The sceening room was bathed in low golden light, the soft hum of the AC could be heard in the background. The room was elegant, like the rest of the house, coloured in turtledove and beige colours with dark green accents. A massive, bed was positioned in the middle of the room, allowing for ropes, spreader bars and the lot to be attached and positioned in whichever way it was desired. 3 wardrobes containing all a dom, switch or sub could possibly need for a scene were positioned on the left side of the room, opposite the big windows which were covered by thick, dark green curtains. Other objects were placed in the room, each having a designated place and use, like the sleek, padded bondage bench tucked neatly beneath the warm glow of a wall sconce, its leather surface spotless, straps folded with precision.

Namjoon and Yoongi moved with quiet focus, preparing the ropes with care. Namjoon’s fingers moved with practiced ease, testing each knot’s slide, while Yoongi lined the coils in neat loops along the table, his expression serene.

Hoseok was gently testing the tightness of Jimin and Taehyung’s collars, fingers brushing against their necks with a mix of tenderness and control. Jimin let out a soft, happy sigh at the contact, leaning into it as much as possible while kneeling.

The switches were buzzing with barely restrained energy, whispering to each other in a rapid stream of excitement, their movements a little too eager, their bodies shifting restlessly in place.

“That’s enough,” Seokjin’s voice cut through their chatter, smooth and firm.

The switches instantly stilled.

Seokjin stepped forward, arms crossed, one brow raised. “I know you’re excited, but you’re not acting like the good boys I know you can be.”

“Sorry, Sir” they said in unison, eyes wide and apologetic.

Seokjin’s expression softened just slightly. “Better. You know the rules. Respect starts now — not when you’re tied up.”

They both nodded quickly, straightening their postures.

Namjoon looked up from his ropework, sharing a quiet smile with Seokjin. Everything was falling into place.

They were ready.

Namjoon finished looping the last rope and looked up at the others, his voice low but steady.

“All right,” he said, his gaze sweeping over them . “Let’s begin.”

The room quieted instantly. Breath slowed, eyes lowered, bodies softened into place.

There was nothing but trust between them now.

Everything else could wait.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Notes:

Hello hello :)
Update time! Seeing as I finished writing chapter 6, I thought I'd add another chapter on here as well!

Note that I updated the tags as well, so please check to see if anything could be triggering! People don't lie when they say tagging is hard, I keep forgetting one or another :(

This one is a chonky one, but still no Jungkook, I am sorry :( I am debating adding the slow build tag as well ahah
But I promise that he will finally appear in the next chapter!

Also, a very nice reader suggested adding more spaces in my writing and I definitely agree, it looks kind of blocky. I tried to use them more in this chapter, I truly hope it will be an easier read! Let me know :)

I hope I am not forgetting anything, so I will leave you to it. Enjoy :)

The car ride had been quiet. Thoughtful. Each of them wrapped in their own version of anticipation, glancing out the windows as the city shifted from polished glass towers to humbler, lived-in streets. They took the most modest car they owned, not wanting to flaunt their wealth, especially in a place like this.

 

The clinic was situated in a calm neighbour, away from the business of the main streets of the city. Its entrance was quite modest, but with splashes of colour: The main door was a light purple colour, some potted plants were placed along the windowsill, their colourful vases put in rainbow order.

The sign above the entrance caught their attention: hand-painted, the strokes imperfect but deliberate. Cor Cordis, it read, in a gentle script. Someone had outlined the letters in a soft gold.

Namjoon tilted his head as he looked at it, noticing how each letter seemed slightly different in style — the kind of detail that betrayed multiple hands.

Maybe it was painted by the subs, as an art project. The thought made him smile.

Behind the smaller front building, a taller structure rose, clearly lived in. Its windows were narrow and lined with more colour: strings of handmade decorations, origami stars, paper cutouts of moons and suns. A high but worn-looking fence surrounded the back section, encompassing what appeared to be a modest garden, still green despite the winter season.

“That must be the dormitory,” Yoongi murmured, eyes lingering on a wooden bench beneath a tree, and a patch of bare earth where a few volleyballs had been left mid-play.

The whole place radiated care .

You could see the cracks, the need for new paint and better insulation. But there was a tenderness here, in the mismatched curtains, the chalk drawings on the side wall, the fading ‘All are welcome’ plastic sign hanging near the entrance.

Seokjin cut the engine and everyone was silent for a few moments, admiring the place.

“Well,” Namjoon said softly, scrutinizing the building. “This is it.”

They stepped out one by one, coats pulled tighter against the cool air.

“Should we go in?”, asked Hoseok, finally tearing his gaze away from the front door, feeling extremely nervous all of a sudden.

“Yes,” Namjoon replied, but his voice was slower, more reflective as he took in the sight.

“Yes, let’s go”.

Hoseok looked at him and quickly grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze before letting go.

They made their way up the steps with measured strides. Even Taehyung and Jimin — usually bouncing with palpable energy — moved with an unusual stillness between them, eyes wide and taking in every detail.

The main door opened just as they reached it. A young woman greeted them with a welcoming smile, though there was something guarded about her posture, like she’d learned through experience to expect the unexpected.

“Hello,” she said, gaze flickering over the group. “Seokjin-nim?” Seokjin stepped forward, nodding politely. “That’s me. And this is Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin and Taehyung. Thank you for having us”.

Her demeanour softened at his politeness, even though her slight guardness still remained present.

“It is very nice to meet you all, my name is Chaeyeong, please follow me”, she said as she closed the main door behind herself as everyone got in.

She then started to slowly walk down a wide corridor, allowing for the Eros to follow her whilst inspecting the place. She knew how curious people got when they first entered the building.

 

The walls were painted a warm, golden yellow that bathed the hallway in a soft glow. Along them, various posters were hung, all clearly created with care and intention. Some displayed gentle affirmations, others had simple guides to breathing exercises or illustrated grounding techniques, like ‘5 things you can see, 4 you can touch…’. A few were brightly coloured and hand-drawn, likely made by subs themselves — messy watercolours of various objects or sceneries. One had cartoon hearts with smiling faces holding hands beneath a rainbow, with the words “Found family is real too” written in marker strokes.

As they ventured deeper in the building, there were posters about consent, communication, and safe practices, tailored for both subs and doms. The tone was slightly more serious, revealing the seriousness if such reality.

The hallway is silent, save for the soft shuffling of feet and the faint rustling of clothing. The only other noise is the distant hum of a heater, popping and creaking as it warms the space.

Finally, Chaeyeong stopped in front of a spacious room, decorated with various couches and low tables.

She turned to them, “So, I will ask you to please wait in the waiting room as I go and call Doctor Jung and let him know you’ve arrived. We were expecting you, but there is never a dull moment here, and he surely found something that needed his attention,” she says with a soft almost fond smile, clearly accustomed to the way Doctor Jung works.

“No problem at all, we are happy to wait here!” comes the cheerful reply from Taehyung, giving away his nervousness.

Yoongi watched the switch, who was nervously wringing his hands, clearly far more anxious than he should be. Without a word, Yoongi slid closer and placed a firm hand on the younger’s neck, applying a gentle but grounding pressure.

The effect was almost immediate. The switch stopped fidgeting, his hands falling to his sides as his shoulders relaxed. A quick, uncertain glance flicked up at Yoongi before the younger boy lowered his head, resting it against Yoongi's shoulder, seeking comfort in the quiet reassurance.

 

Chaeyeong gave them one last gentle smile and, after excusing herself, disappeared down another corridor, leaving the Eros to themselves.

 

“You okay, puppy?” Yoongi asked to Taehyung, slowly rubbing his back. The switch sighed and snuggled closer to the dom.

“Yes dom, I am just nervous. I want to be good.”

“You’re always good, darling. It’s okay to be nervous, this is a new environment,” Yoongi said softly, brushing his fingers through Taehyung’s hair. “I know this place might feel overwhelming, but we’re all here, together. As a family.”

Taehyung inhaled deeply, slowly nodding, but his nerves didn’t fully settle.

Yoongi continued, his voice firm but gentle, “And you know, if anything feels too much, too fast, you tell us - any of us. We’ll stop, we’ll take a step back, and we’ll figure it out. Like we always do.”

Taehyung looked up at him, finding comfort in Yoongi’s steady gaze. “Okay… I will. Thank you hyung.”

Yoongi gave him a gummy smile, kissing him softly.

“That’s my good boy.”

“I wonder if we’ll meet anyone today, or if they’ll just show us around,” wondered Hoseok, looking out the window from which he could see the large garden. A few people outside could be seen - some were walking, a couple were sitting on a bench. One person was juggling a volleyball on top of their head, as if they were trying to set a new record for the most consecutive bounces they could manage to do.

Where they all subs? Did they know they were coming to visit them? He almost pouted, wanting to know the answer to those questions.

“I am sure we’ll be able to meet someone,” replied Namjoon, sitting next to Jimin and taking one of his hands in between his larger ones, “they know we would like to foster. Maybe they already have someone in mind.”

“I hope so,” Hoseok sighed, “It’s just... all so different from what we’re used to. I can’t imagine what it must be like for them here.” He let his gaze drift back outside, watching a couple of the people walking with their heads down, heads tucked into scarves.

I hope they are warm enough, he thinks. They deserve to be warm enough.

Namjoon squeezed Jimin’s hand, his thumb running gently over the back of it as he met the eyes of the others. “The most important thing we’ve got is that we’re together,” he paused, reflecting. “This might be a bit of a leap, but we’re all capable of learning and adapting to what they need. We don’t know what it will be like yet, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do it.”

Jimin squeezed his hand in return, then leaned against Namjoon’s side, eyes thoughtful as he watched the others.

“I think it’ll be like the beginning,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “when we didn’t know what we were doing, but we knew how much we wanted it.”

They all nodded at that, as if each of them was letting the hope settle a little deeper into their bones.

 

Just then, there was a soft knock on the doorframe. A man stood there — smiling warmly, his hair short and neatly styled, an oversized doctor's coat wrapped snugly around him.

He looked slightly dishevelled, like someone pulled from work more absorbing than any clock could tell.

“Hello,” he greeted them kindly. His voice was light and steady, carrying a sense of ease. “It’s wonderful to meet you all. I’m Doctor Jung, clinic director of Cor Cordis.”

He stepped into the room.

Seokjin was the first to stand up, offering a warm smile to Dr. Jung as he extended his hand. "I’m Seokjin," he said, his voice steady, though the faintest tremor of nerves lingered beneath. "I am the head of the Eros, and I can speak for all of us when I say we’re excited to be here. Though, to be honest…” He glanced back at the others, before continuing, “we’re also a little nervous about what we’re about to experience. We want to make sure we’re fully prepared for this, which is why we wanted to come."

Doctor Jung nodded, his expression kind and understanding. “It’s perfectly normal to feel that way,” he said, his voice calm and steady, “this is a significant step for all of you, and I appreciate that you’re approaching it with such care.”

 

The doctor moved to sit down in one of the couches, folding his hands together before continuing.

 

“I’m sure you’re wondering what to expect from today’s visit, so I’ll walk you through it. We’ll be showing you the various spaces, and you’ll have the chance to meet a few of the subs we’re currently working with. However, it’s important to keep in mind that we won’t rush into making any decisions today. The goal is to assess compatibility, but more than that, to gauge how open and ready you are to step into this kind of dynamic.”

Namjoon leaned forward, his curiosity piqued.

Then, doctor Jung eyes’ darkened slightly, as though the subject he was about to introduce was one he had spent much time reflecting on. “Many of the subs here have faced profound trauma. Some were rejected by their previous Eros, others neglected or even abused. These are not easy histories to overcome, and as a result, they can sometimes struggle with trust and communication. Some have been in dysfunctional dynamics, where their needs weren’t met or they were manipulated.”

He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing.

“We also have subs who were broken down by the systems that were supposed to support them. The sense of abandonment is a powerful thing to overcome, especially for those who’ve been conditioned to believe they are unworthy of love or care. For some, their journey here is their first real opportunity to heal. It’s a delicate process. We work with each sub individually, at their own pace.”

Namjoon’s expression grew more serious as he absorbed Dr. Jung’s words. “We understand,” he said, his voice calm yet firm. “We know this will be a difficult journey. But we’re willing to put in the effort. We want to be the right fit for someone who needs us.”

The doctor nodded again, his eyes kind and understanding. “That’s exactly the attitude that will serve you well here”, he said. “It won’t be easy, and there will be moments when you will question your decision. But the commitment you’re showing today is the first step towards building a safe, loving environment for someone who truly needs it.”

Seokjin exchanged a glance with the others, each of them feeling the weight and promise of Dr. Jung’s words.

Jimin was biting down on his lower lip, as if trying to stop himself from talking before being prompted, but ultimately failing. “Doctor Jung?” he said, voice small but not timid.

“Yes?”

“Do they know we’re here? The subs. Do they know?”

The doctor’s expression softened at once, and when he answered, there was a distinct warmth in his eyes that suggested he understood the layers beneath Jimin’s question.
“Yes,” he said gently. “We don’t ever want to spring surprises on them, so those who’ve expressed interest in meeting a potential Eros were given notice. We never push any of them to meet with visitors if they’re uncomfortable, but many are quite curious about you.”

Jimin nodded quickly, relief and excitement evident in every small line of his body.

 

After a moment of silence, doctor Jung stood up and looked at the Eros. “Shall we begin the tour?”

The others all stood up in unison, anticipation humming between them like electricity before a storm.

“Yes, please,” Taehyung said eagerly, earning him an amused glance from Seokjin and a fond smirk from Yoongi.

The doctor led them through the building with a gentle pace. They passed a series of offices, used by the different doctors that worked at the clinic. Some had their doors closed, some were open and, by quickly peeking inside, they could see either vacant rooms or filled with doctors and nurses, busy running their errands.

“This part of the clinic is mainly used by doctors and nurses. Each of them is assigned a set of subs and it is their duty to monitor their overall health, their physical healing —if required— and how their bodies respond to stress, external stimuli or routine medical care, which can sometimes be affected by their histories as subs.”

Namjoon tilted his head slightly, eyes curiously looking around.

“Do you also track how a sub’s physical reactions change once they start to feel more safe? I imagine the body must carry so much, even when the mind starts to heal.”

Doctor Jung smiled, clearly pleased by the insight.

“Yes, absolutely. The body often speaks before words can. Many of our subs have conditioned responses — flinching, tension, shutdowns. We observe how those shift over time. Sometimes, even small things like posture, sleep patterns, or appetite can tell us if they’re starting to feel secure.”

 

They pass through a big archway and the corridor opens to a spacious room, full of round tables and chairs. In the back, there was a big door made of glass, through which they could see a kitchen.

“This is where our guests eat. We have set times during the day for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and they are required to be present during all three meals...Unfortunately, food insecurity is a big issue,” Doctor Jung continued, his tone softening, “Many of our subs come from environments where food was withheld as punishment, or where they simply couldn’t afford to eat regularly. Because of that, forcing someone into a strict regimen can be more harmful than helpful.”

He gestured toward the cafeteria walls, where colourful posters displayed clear, gentle visual guides on how to portion a meal — not as rules, but as suggestions. One used playful drawings of plates with food groups color-coded and labelled ‘What feels right for you today?’. Another showed a pyramid with options ranging from comfort foods to lighter meals, with encouraging affirmations beneath each tier.

“We work alongside two in-house nutritionists to create individualized dietary plans — nothing is imposed without approval, and we always take a sub’s history into account. Some have specific nutrient needs, others need help recognizing hunger cues again. For many of them, eating regularly is as much an emotional process as it is a physical one.”

He offered a calm smile.

“Rather than control, we focus on reintroducing food as something safe. Meals are predictable, never rushed, and subs are encouraged to explore their preferences at their own pace. The idea is to restore a sense of agency, to listen to their body and understand what feels right.”

They all nodded solemnly, listening attentively to what the doctor was explaining.

“Snacks are always available outside of set meals. As you will see, we have a table in the common area where we place food such as fruit, yogurt, dried fruit and so on. Some subs have issues asking a member of the staff for food when they get hungry, so we try to remove that barrier altogether. By keeping snacks readily available in a low-pressure, self-serve space, we’re encouraging them to listen to their hunger cues without the fear of needing permission or feeling like a burden.”

Doctor Jung glanced at the group with a small smile.

“It might seem like a small gesture, but for someone who’s been denied basic needs, even choosing an apple without being watched can feel like reclaiming a little piece of dignity.”

 

They passed another corridor, which lead to a small gym.

“The gym is mainly used for physical therapy.” Dr. Jung’s expression turns a bit aggravated as he continues, “many subs arrive here with injuries that require not only proper medical attention, but also extended rehabilitation. Unfortunately, some of our guests are so used to being hurt that they do not report their injuries until it is almost too late.”

The doctor picked up a stray soft stress ball of the ground and placed it in its specific basket, “thankfully, we have been able to hire a dedicated physical therapist who comes in four times a week and works with the subs who need it.”

He turned towards the group. “To be as clear as possible — this facility isn’t equipped with luxury in mind. It is designed to maximize what we can offer with limited funding, while still maintaining a sense of community. This being a public clinic, finding funds can be challenging at times. We do what we can with what we have.”

 

Seokjin shared a look with Yoongi. They would not suggest anything or impose themselves in anyway, as this was not the time. However, they were already making plans in their heads to find a way to set up a yearly grant or sponsorship fund dedicated to easing the clinic’s financial strain.

They could talk about this at a later time, though.

 

They followed Doctor Jung up a flight of stairs and through another hallway. As they were walking, he began to talk again, “now, I need to warn you. We are reaching the common area. There, there will be subs. We asked the ones that were not interested in meeting you today to please stay in their rooms for the next couple of hours, so as not to aggravate them,” he continued, his tone gentle but clear.

“That said, please don’t feel like you need to engage with everyone,” he added as they walked. “The subs have all been informed that this is just a visit — not an interview or evaluation. Most will be going about their own routines, and if anyone does wish to interact with you, they’ll let us know.”

He offered a small smile, glancing back at the group. “And if you’d like to speak with someone, just go up to them and start talking. We’ll be present the whole time, so if anything were to happen you won't be on your own.”

 

They reached the top of the stair and a large room dominated the whole floor. There were several seating arrangements — sofas grouped together, beanbags scattered on the floor, armchairs with worn-in blankets draped over the sides.

Large windows lined one side of the room, looking out onto the garden below. An assortment of pots and planters crowded the windowsills, all filled with different plants or colourful flowers.

There was a big tv mounted on one of the walls, switched off for now.

On the other side, a big library took up a good chunk of the wall, filled to the brim with books and magazines. Next to the snack table Dr. Jung was talking about, there were many cabinets with a lot of crafting material, neatly organised.

 

And then there were the subs.

There were around eight of them, each engaged in their own quiet activity. A few were curled up on the worn but cozy sofas, holding books close to their chests like safety blankets — one of them occasionally peeking over the top of the page, eyes darting between the new arrivals. Others simply rested, heads tilted back or legs tucked under them, content to observe in silence.

At a small table near the centre of the room, two subs were playing a game of cards — their hands moved quickly, though they weren’t speaking much, only sharing the occasional glance or twitch of a smile.

Nearby, one was kneeling on the floor, a wide sheet of paper in front of them, painting with quick, fluid strokes in bright colours. The sleeves of their sweatshirt were rolled up to the elbows, revealing paint-smudged arms.

Another stood at the far window, their back turned to the room and to the Eros who had just entered. Shoulders stiff, posture guarded — as if they were trying to disappear into the light spilling through the glass.

Two staff members were present, subtly supervising. One leaned casually near the card table, keeping an eye on the players with a soft, easy expression. The other was organizing the open crafting cabinet, occasionally glancing up to make sure everything remained calm.

 

Doctor Jung cleared his throat gently, drawing everyone’s attention. The room didn’t fall silent, but it did shift — the kind of stillness that comes from curiosity threaded with caution.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Doctor Jung began, his voice calm and warm. “I’d like to introduce you to the Kim Eros. They’ve come to visit today, to get to know our space and — if anyone feels comfortable — perhaps get to know a few of you as well.”

He glanced around the room, making sure to meet the eyes of each sub with a patient, reassuring gaze.

“Please know that there is absolutely no obligation to interact,” he continued. “This visit is simply an opportunity, not an expectation. They will be here for the next hour”.

As Doctor Jung finished speaking, the room fell into a soft hush, the quiet filled with the subtle rustling of fabric and the shifting of bodies. The Eros stood just beyond the entrance, allowing the subs the space to take them in at their own pace.

 

Namjoon and Yoongi both wore serene expressions, their posture relaxed and unthreatening. A gentle smile curved Namjoon’s lips, the kind that held no expectations, only a quiet willingness to connect. Yoongi’s gaze swept the room with a calm sort of attentiveness — observant but never invasive.

Hoseok, on the other hand, was radiant. His warmth was practically tangible, his eyes crinkling with joy as he looked from one sub to another, visibly holding back the urge to wave or offer an enthusiastic greeting. He vibrated with open-hearted energy, but stayed respectfully in place, waiting for permission to approach.

Taehyung looked more hesitant, his eyes wide and curious but clearly nervous. Without a word, he reached out and curled his fingers around the sleeve of Jimin’s jumper, tugging gently.

“Let’s meet them,” he murmured, voice low enough to be just between them, “together maybe?”

Jimin gave a tiny nod, the determined glint in his eyes softening just a little at Taehyung’s voice. He squeezed Taehyung’s hand in silent reassurance, ready to follow his lead.

And then there was Seokjin — tall, poised, and every inch the head of the Eros. With a natural Nine on the scale there was something about him that immediately drew attention. Subs could often sense it — the intensity of his presence, the way he carried authority like a second skin. And more often than not, that awareness brought with it a certain apprehension.

But today, Seokjin wanted none of that.

His stance was open, his hands deliberately kept in front of him, one resting lightly over the other — a posture of peace, not command. He kept his expression gentle, almost amused, and his eyes softened with patient kindness.

Every inch of him radiated calm assurance rather than dominance. He wanted them to know he could be strict when needed, yes — that he required structure and discipline — but he was also a loving, patient soul. Someone who listened. Someone who nurtured.

With a subtle glance toward one of the younger-looking subs who had half-hidden behind a chair, Seokjin tilted his head and offered the smallest of smiles — not the one he wore in public, but the real one, the one reserved for people he wanted to feel safe.

 

The doctor turned to them, “I’d recommend that you spread out a little — ideally, keep it to one-on-one interactions, or two of you at most with each sub. That way, it won’t feel too overwhelming for them.”

They all nodded in understanding. They silently decided that all the doms will split up, as not to feel overbearing. In turn, Jimin and Taehyung will stay together.

 

As they began to move into the room, Seokjin’s gaze lingered on the shy sub hiding behind the chair. The boy had wide, wary eyes and a slight tremor in his frame — as though ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

Seokjin approached slowly, his movements gentle enough to be non-threatening but deliberate enough to show he meant to follow through. He crouched a few paces away from the sub’s curled-up form, keeping his posture relaxed, allowing for the younger one to take in his presence and decide if it was welcome or not.

“Hi,” Seokjin said softly, voice barely above a murmur amidst the quiet room. “I’m Jin. I see you have a really interesting book there.” He nodded toward the well-worn novel clutched in the sub’s hands, the cover half obscured by fingers that gripped it like a lifeline.

The boy blinked at him, clearly startled by being addressed so directly. His fingers tightened slightly on the book, but he didn’t pull away. After a beat of silence, he tilted the cover just enough for Seokjin to see.

“It’s… Kafka on the Shore,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Seokjin’s eyes lit up, a warm, surprised smile spreading across his face. “Really? I’ve read that one. Murakami, right?” He leaned his elbows on his knees, staying low to the ground, keeping his presence steady but non-invasive. “I always thought the way he wrote about loneliness and the inner world of his characters was really special.”

The sub hesitated, gaze flickering between Seokjin’s expression and the book in his hands. “I like… how quiet it is,” he offered, shyly. “Even when strange things happen, it feels… calm. Like a dream.”

“Exactly,” Seokjin nodded slowly. “It’s surreal but grounding, somehow. I remember being really struck by Nakata — the way he saw the world. A bit strange, but honest.”

A small, cautious smile ghosted across the sub’s lips, the tension in his shoulders ever so slightly easing.

“Do you like to read a lot?” Seokjin asked gently, giving the boy space to choose how much to share.

The boy offered a small nod, but didn’t elaborate.

“Mmh… my name is Juwon,” he said, glancing down at the book again. “Why are you looking to foster?” he asked after a pause, the question quiet but surprisingly straightforward.

Seokjin blinked, slightly taken aback by the directness—especially from someone who had seemed so hesitant just moments ago. His gaze lingered gently on the boy, taking in the details now that he was a little closer.

Juwon had short, slightly uneven black hair, as if he’d tried to trim it himself. His skin was pale beneath the fluorescent lights, and dark circles bloomed beneath his eyes, stark against his youthful features. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. There was a fragile sharpness to him—like porcelain edged with steel.

Seokjin’s chest tightened, quiet anger curling beneath his ribs. No one that young should have eyes that tired. No one that young should know how to brace themselves like that—as though expecting kindness to turn sour at any moment.

But his face betrayed none of it. He smiled softly instead, his voice calm and steady. “That’s a good question,” he said. “We talked about it for a long time, the six of us. And I guess the answer is... because we believe in second chances. In making space for someone to heal. To grow.”

He paused, watching as Juwon’s fingers relaxed slightly over the book.

“We know that fostering isn’t easy—for anyone involved. It takes trust, and time. But we want to build something real with someone, not just guide them, but learn from them too.”

Juwon tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Seokjin gave a little shrug, his tone lighter. “Also, Namjoon is convinced that love is a science, Yoongi says it’s a practice, Hoseok swears it’s an art form… I think it’s just showing up. Every day. No matter what.”

As Seokjin’s quiet conversation with Juwon began to flow more easily, their presence melted gently into the hum of the common room. The tension, once thick in the air, now felt slightly thinner, softened by the low cadence of connection.

 

A few steps away, Yoongi made his way toward the card table, where two subs sat across from each other, mid-match. One was holding their cards tight to their chest, squinting suspiciously at their opponent, while the other seemed more relaxed, a small grin tugging at their lips as they laid down a card with a dramatic flair.

Yoongi approached with calm steps, his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his jeans. He let his gaze flicker across the cards and then up to the subs.

“Looks serious,” he murmured with a hint of amusement, voice low and steady.

Both subs looked up. The one with the grin offered a cautious smile; the other stiffened slightly, casting a glance toward the staff member nearby, then back at Yoongi.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” he asked, pausing just a little ways from the table, waiting for their permission to sit at their table.

The more relaxed sub shook their head, pushing a card forward. “You can join if you want,” they said, then added after a beat, “but only if you don’t cheat.”

Yoongi huffed a quiet laugh, tilting his head. “Guess I’ll just have to behave, then.”

He took the seat they gestured to, glancing between the two. “What’s the game?”

The tenser sub spoke this time, voice guarded but curious. “It’s something we made up. It’s like Uno but with... sabotage.”

Yoongi arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “Sabotage sounds fun.”

“It is,” the grinning sub nodded. “Until she wins. Then it’s a crime.”

Yoongi smirked a little, his shoulders loosening as the tension began to ease between them. “Got it. So we’re playing for pride, not prizes.”

The subs exchanged a glance, and then the cards were reshuffled with renewed energy.

Yoongi leaned his elbows on the table, watching as the cards were shuffled and dealt with swift, practiced movements. He could tell they'd played this many times before—there was a rhythm to it, an ease that came with familiarity.

“I’m Yoongi, by the way,” he said, casually picking up his cards. “Since I’m about to lose horribly, I might as well introduce myself.”

The sub with the sharp grin chuckled. “I’m Haneul. And this is Minseo,” he added, nodding toward the quieter sub, who offered a short, polite nod in return.

“Right,” Yoongi muttered as he fanned out his cards, “so Minseo’s the silent mastermind, and you’re the decoy.”

“I am the game master,” Haneul corrected with mock offense, laying down a card and pointing dramatically at Yoongi. “Prepare yourself, Dom.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “That’s not ominous at all.”

The game went on with good-natured snark—Yoongi pretending to be outraged every time Haneul played a sabotage card, Minseo sneaking in a quiet win of their own in the middle of their bickering.

“You two really are dangerous,” Yoongi said, shaking his head with a smirk as he drew another penalty card. “I should’ve stayed with the shy one and talked about books.”

“You’d still lose,” Haneul shrugged, pleased.

Minseo finally cracked a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach their eyes. “We don’t get many visitors who joke around with us,” she said, voice soft but clear.

Yoongi glanced at her, his smirk fading just a touch, replaced by a gentler expression. “Well… you’ve got me now. Even if I’m losing.”

“Spectacularly,” Haneul chimed in, earning a light elbow from Minseo.

“But still here,” Yoongi finished, his tone casual—but there was warmth behind it, a quiet steadiness that lingered in the space between them.

Minseo gave him another look, something flickering in her gaze. “You’re not what I expected.”

Yoongi tilted his head, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “Good surprise or bad?”

Minseo hesitated. Then, finally: “Not sure yet.”

Yoongi chuckled, taking it in stride. “That’s fair. I’ll keep playing. Maybe I’ll win you over with sheer charm.”

Haneul snorted. “Not with that hand, you won’t.”

Yoongi huffed, but kept playing.

 

Namjoon had been scanning the room, quietly taking in the soft murmur of voices, the gentle brush of a paintbrush, the occasional clink of cards hitting the table. He walked with care, not wanting to disturb anyone, until his foot caught on the corner of a thick rug.

He stumbled forward a step with a soft, startled noise—just barely catching himself before toppling completely. A nearby chair creaked under the sudden shift of his weight.

A quiet laugh drifted from the couch nearby.

“Graceful,” a voice said, soft and husky with the remnants of sleep or maybe fatigue.

Namjoon turned his head toward the sound. One of the subs on the couch had cracked an eye open, peering at him from where she lay curled up beneath a worn but colourful throw blanket. Her limbs were tucked in, her hair a little mussed from her nap—or perhaps just the day itself—but her gaze was steady.

He chuckled under his breath, brushing his hair back sheepishly. “I try to make an entrance wherever I go.”

“Consider it made,” she said, sitting up slightly and adjusting the blanket over her legs. Her expression wasn’t unfriendly—just tired, as if even speaking took some quiet decision-making.

Namjoon took a tentative step closer, then gestured toward the other end of the couch. “Mind if I sit?”

She shrugged, and then, after a pause, nodded. “Go ahead. You’re not too loud.”

“I’ve been told that’s one of my better qualities,” he said with a smile, easing himself down and letting the quiet settle for a moment. “I’m Namjoon.”

“I’m Aran.”

“Hi, Aran,” he said gently. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” she said, rubbing at one eye with the back of her hand. “I wasn’t really sleeping. Just… resting.”

Namjoon glanced at her carefully, noting the dark circles under her eyes, the subtle tension in her shoulders despite the soft blanket. “Long day?”

She exhaled a quiet breath. “Long month.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded, letting her lead. After a moment, she looked at him again. “Why are you looking for a sub?”

He blinked at the directness—again surprised, like Seokjin had been—but didn’t flinch. “Because we have more to give than just space in our home. And because everyone deserves a place where they’re wanted.”

Aran studied him, something unreadable in her gaze. “That sounds… big.”

“It is,” he agreed softly. “But we’re not expecting anyone to carry that weight alone. Least of all the people we’d be welcoming in.”

Silence passed between them again, not uncomfortable—just heavy with the kind of questions too large to ask right away. Eventually, she leaned back into the couch again, resting her head against the pillow.

“I don’t like talking much,” she murmured. “But I like listening.”

Namjoon smiled quietly. “That’s more than enough.”

 

Across the room, Taehyung and Jimin lingered near the painting sub, both tentative in their approach. The sub didn’t look up immediately, too absorbed in the wide arcs of color spread across the paper. Deep strokes of red and blue and yellow—a chaotic rainbow, colliding but never quite mixing.

Jimin and Taehyung watched him for a moment, transfixed by the boldness of his work. Eventually, Taehyung sat down on the floor a short distance away, resting his chin on his knees.

“I like your colours,” he said softly.

The sub paused mid-stroke, glancing up with an inscrutable expression. There was a streak of green paint across his cheek.

“I’m Jimin,” Jimin offered with a small but warm smile, sitting down as well. “And this is Taehyung.”

The sub’s gaze flickered between them—wary but curious.

“Jinho”, he said finally. He kept painting, but there was a new awareness to his movements. Taehyung’s eyes softened, looking at his brush strokes.

Without looking up, he says, “you are switches”. Jimin and Taehyung looked at each other for a brief moment, not really sure who should answer, before looking back at Jinho.

“We are… does that make you uncomfortable?”, Jimin asked

“No. Just... makes me nervous. Switches know how to be both.”

Jimin’s brows furrowed slightly. “That’s true,” he said gently. “But that doesn’t mean we want to trick people, or manipulate them.”

Taehyung, still holding onto the edge of Jimin’s sleeve, added softly, “It also doesn’t mean we’re confused. We know who we are. We just… have more than one side.”

Jinho finally looked up, his expression unreadable, but there was something guarded in his eyes—like someone who’d been told too many times that unpredictability meant danger.

“I wasn’t allowed to switch,” he said flatly. “I am a sub, but I am a 2, so I don’t feel the need to be always submissive. They said I was just trying to be difficult.”

Jimin’s chest ached. He took a small breath, staying grounded in the calmness he’d practiced so many times before. “You’re not difficult,” he said. “Having needs isn’t being difficult. Wanting to be safe isn’t difficult”.

Taehyung gave a small nod, not knowing how what to add. Jinho swallowed, then nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“Okay,” he said. “You can stay, if you want. Just… not too close.”

Jimin offered a soft smile, before making a show of getting more comfortable, shuffling on his butt. “What are you painting?”, he asked, trying to keep the conversation alive.

“I don’t really know, I go with the flow. I choose the colours I want to paint with and then I see what I want to do as I paint. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely, it makes perfect sense. I act for a living, and going with the flow is wonderful in my work field. That’s when the best scenes come to life,” replied Jimin, happy to be able to uplift the sub.

Jinho gave a faint smile, and looked up at the switches. “When they said you were coming, I thought you’d be… I don’t know. Bigger. Louder.” he admitted.

Jimin let out a soft laugh. “We can be, sometimes,” he said. “But only when the situation calls for it. Not everything needs to be loud to be meaningful.”

Taehyung nodded in agreement, his voice just as quiet. “Sometimes silence says more.”

Jinho hummed under his breath and looked back at the paper in front of him. “I think I want to use green next,” he said. Then, after a pause: “what do you think?”

Jimin’s eyes softened. “I think that’s a perfect choice.”

Taehyung peeked at the painting. “I like the blue you used here,” he said, pointing gently toward one corner. “It’s calming.”

Jinho glanced at him, then added a brushstroke of green. “Yeah… I think blue is my favourite colour. It’s a quiet colour.”

The switches stayed beside him in silence, sharing his space.

 

Hoseok stole a quick glance at the switches, making sure they were doing all right.

His gaze drifted back to the quiet figure by the window. The sub hadn’t turned when they entered, hadn’t reacted when Doctor Jung introduced them. He stood with their back straight, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the glass — not just the garden, but something else. Something unreachable.

Drawn by a quiet sense of curiosity, Hoseok made his way across the room. He kept a respectful distance at first, taking up a spot a little off to the side, near another window. He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, gazing out at the soft sway of trees and faint shadows of clouds.

After a quiet beat, he finally spoke, his voice warm and gentle.
“It’s a nice view.”

The sub didn’t reply at first, but Hoseok noticed the way his shoulders shifted — just slightly.

“There’s a tree that kind of looks like a dancing person,” he added, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “See it? That twisty one near the fence?”

After a pause, the sub murmured, “...Looks more like someone trying to run away.”

Hoseok blinked, then let out a small huff of breath — not quite a laugh, but close. “Maybe it’s both,” he said. “Running and dancing can feel kinda similar, sometimes.”

That made the sub glance at him for the first time — just a fleeting side-eye, but it was something. He had dark, steady eyes and a face that wore wariness like it was part of him.

“You always talk in riddles?” they asked quietly.

“Only when I’m nervous,” Hoseok grinned, then leaned slightly against the window frame. “Or when I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

Another pause. The sub’s voice was softer this time, “You haven’t said anything wrong.”

Hoseok smiled. A sub reassuring a dom… A sub who has most surely gone trough traumatic things. What an odd juxtaposition.

“What’s your name?”, the dom asked, hopefully diverting the conversation to a lighter topic.

“Myung… What’s yours, Sir?”, asked the sub. Hoseok sputtered, taken aback. Sir? He didn’t, he wasn’t… Sir?

“I am not-you aren’t-you don’t have to call me Sir, you know? I have not earned that title yet.” Hoseok’s words stumbled over themselves, his hands lifting slightly in protest before falling to his sides again. He gave Myung an apologetic smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’m Hoseok.”

Myung turned his gaze back out the window, but this time, his expression had shifted — a small crease forming between his brows, thoughtful rather than tense.
“But you’re a Dom”.

Hoseok tilted his head. “That’s true. But that doesn’t mean I get to be called things such as Sir before you even know who I am. Before I get to know you.”

That earned him a brief glance — quick and uncertain — but Hoseok caught it.

“You don’t owe me anything. Least of all expectations", finished Hoseok, hoping to drive the point across.

Myung was silent for a beat, his gaze drifting back to the window.

“What do you do in your free time?” asked the sub.

Hoseok immediately lit up, happy to let the other discover a bit more about the dom. “Oh! I absolutely love dancing. It is my life. And I am shockingly good at making friendship bracelets or resin keychains. I have all the coloured markers possible, so I can make whatever i want,” he said excitedly. "What about you?"

Myung tilted his head slightly, just enough to glance at Hoseok from the corner of his eye, “Sketching, mostly. I like outlining things. Trees, rooftops, windows — anything with a shape that feels balanced. I would love to get the outline of my childhood's house tattoed on me. Maybe on my arm, so everyone can see it.”

“That sounds beautiful,” Hoseok said sincerely, his voice dropping just a touch in wonder.

Myung gave a small shrug, but there was no bitterness in it. “It’s whatever. I used to carry a little sketchpad everywhere. Still do sometimes, when I remember.”

Hoseok lit up again. “Oh, I love that. I would love to see your works. Maybe we could even do a little art trade — I make you a resin keychain, you sketch my ridiculous face?”

That earned him a soft, surprised huff of laughter, “I’ll think about it,” Myung said, and for the first time, his smile didn’t hide behind anything.

 

And so, the afternoon progressed. The whole Eros managed to talk to all the subs present in the room. However, when the clock struck six o’clock, Doctor Jung approached Seokjin (who was now talking to Jinho) and cleared his throat, getting both the dom and the sub’s attention.

“I am sorry to interrupt, but soon we will have dinner, and we usually allow an hour for them to get ready and wind down before coming to the cafeteria,” he gently said, smiling at Jinho, “I am sure there will be other chances for you to talk to the Eros, Jinho. Don’t worry about cleaning up here, we will take care of it. Do you mind leaving me and Mr. Kim and his Eros to talk for a few minutes?" Doctor Jung inquired gently.

Jinho nodded and slowly stood up from his kneeling position and turned to bow to Seokjin, “It was a pleasure to meet you,” after a moment of hesitation he added, “Mmh, you can keep the drawing… yeah.”

Seokjin smiled softly, touched by the gesture. He accepted the drawing carefully, as if it were something delicate and precious.

“The pleasure was mine, Jinho,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “And thank you… I’ll take good care of it.”

Jinho’s ears turned a little pink, but he nodded, then gave another small bow before quietly walking away.

As Jinho turned to walk away, Seokjin’s gaze followed him, and that’s when he noticed it — a slight limp, subtle but unmistakable. His steps were careful, almost practiced, like someone used to hiding pain. Seokjin’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the drawing he held, jaw tightening just for a moment. He didn’t say anything, but he made a mental note of it.

 

Around the room, the other subs had begun to drift away.

One of the subs from the card game gave a quiet “thank you” to Namjoon before heading toward the hallway. The girl on the couch nodded at Jimin and Taehyung as she stood, wrapping a blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Even Myung gave Yoongi a small, polite bow before retreating down the same hallway. The staff moved too, starting to tidy up the room.

Doctor Jung looked around, then clasped his hands in front of him, the mood shifting slightly now that the space was quieter.

“Well,” he began with a small smile, “that went quite well.” He glanced at each of them, taking in the subtle shifts in posture and expression.

“How did it feel?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. “Meeting the subs — being in the room with them? I imagine it was… a lot, maybe. Emotionally.”

He let the question settle before continuing. “And… do any of you feel drawn to someone in particular already?”

At first, none of them spoke.

Instead, they exchanged quiet glances — subtle, unspoken check-ins. Hoseok’s eyes were still on the hallway where the subs had disappeared. Jimin gave a small nod to Namjoon, who looked like he was already mentally writing things down. Yoongi crossed his arms, thoughtful, while Taehyung’s gaze flickered toward the painting Jinho had left behind and was now in Seokjin's hands.

Finally, Seokjin replied.

“It was a very touching and eye-opening experience,” he said, his voice calm. “Humbling, too. I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we’re grateful to have been trusted enough to share space with them, even briefly.”

He glanced down at the drawing in his hands, then back up to Doctor Jung, “We’ll need to talk it through as a group before making any decisions,” he added. “We want to be mindful — take the time to reflect on today, and on what kind of support we can truly offer. But we would absolutely like to come back. If that’s possible.”

Doctor Jung nodded slowly, his expression softening with approval.

Then Taehyung spoke, a little hesitantly at first, “they’re really brave,” his voice quieter than usual but sincere. “Like… just being in the same room as us, talking — even just smiling. That’s not easy.”

He glanced at the others, then added, “I think I already learned a lot from just being here today.”

Seokjin gave him a small, proud smile, and Jimin lightly bumped his shoulder in silent support. The atmosphere had changed again — a little heavier, but also more certain. Something had shifted.

Something had begun.

 

Just as Doctor Jung opened his mouth to speak again, a loud crash echoed through the hallway — sharp and sudden, like glass hitting the floor or a chair being knocked over. The Eros all flinched instinctively, eyes snapping toward the door.

One of the staff members at the back of the room turned toward the sound with practiced urgency, giving Doctor Jung a quick, loaded glance before slipping quietly out of the room. The door clicked shut behind them.

Doctor Jung stood still for a moment, his jaw tensing ever so slightly before he composed himself. “Please excuse that,” he said calmly, folding his hands in front of him.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Is everything alright?”

There was a pause. Then a small sigh. “We have a… particularly delicate case,” Doctor Jung said carefully. “He arrived about a month ago. We don’t typically use terms like ‘difficult’ or ‘uncooperative’ here, but… progress has been limited. And his adjustment has been more complicated than most.”

The Eros exchanged glances — curious, but respectful.

Doctor Jung offered a small, almost sad smile. “He’s not someone we introduce right away. For his safety. And yours.” He didn’t elaborate further.

There was a silence after that, heavy and full of unspoken questions. They didn’t press for more information.

Eventually, Namjoon spoke up, his voice softer than usual. “Thank you for allowing us to visit,” he said sincerely. “We want to approach this the right way, and today’s given us a lot to think about. We’ll be in touch soon.”

Doctor Jung nodded, his expression kind and understanding. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said warmly. “We’ll be here.”

As the Eros began to make their way toward the door, the doctor added, “And don’t hesitate to reach out if you have questions or concerns before your next visit. We’re always available.” Seokjin gave a grateful smile. “We will,” he promised.

As they left the common room and made their way back through the building, a quiet sense of determination settled over them — each one feeling the weight and possibility of what lay ahead.

None of them spoke much as they walked back to the car, each lost in thought — carrying with them the faces, voices, and quiet truths they had encountered.

Something had shifted today.

And maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of something important.

 

 

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Notes:

Hello hello :) The sun is shining and so are you all!
New chapter! We finally meet our Jungkookie uwu
I am still practicing with the spacing, I hope to improve more and more with each chapter! But please tell me if it is still unclear, I will try to fix it!
I am so excited for you to read this! I am so invested in this story, it is actually ridiculous.

I also would like to thank you all for the love you are showing to this story, I was so afraid to post this, but seeing all your nice comments makes all the nice and fuzzy feeling bubble up in my tummy 🐸

Also also, I will update the tags and add slow burn. I wrote 70 pages on Word and, baby, I am only just getting started.

With that said, I hope you enjoy, I send you kisses and I hope you have a wonderful day! 🤸‍♀️

The door closed with a soft click behind them, muffled by the warmth of the house they returned to — familiar, spacious, lived-in. And yet, it felt different now.

None of them spoke at first.

Jimin slipped off his shoes slowly, as if each movement required more thought than usual. Taehyung lingered near the entryway mirror, eyes unfocused. Seokjin dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, the clatter sharp in the silence.

Namjoon was the first to move, heading into the kitchen to start the kettle without saying a word. Yoongi followed, quiet as always, but with a heaviness in his steps.

Hoseok, Jimin, Taehyung and Seokjin moved to the living room. Hoseok sat on the edge of the armrest, gaze distant. “They were so…” He paused. “Young.”

Taehyung finally looked up. “I can’t stop thinking about Minseo. He looked so fragile.”

Jimin spoke up softly, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look at a paintbrush like it might save them.”

They each carried a different image — a different moment — burned into memory.

Namjoon returned with steaming mugs on a tray, passing them around wordlessly. “We’ll need a second visit,” he said, almost to himself. “There’s no way we can make a decision after just one day.”

Seokjin nodded solemnly. “Yes, I think so too. We need to have at least one more meeting before we reach any kind of conclusion.” Yoongi settled into the couch, taking a mug and leaning back against the cushions. “They all affected us, didn’t they?”, Seokjin added, and looked at each of them.

“Did anyone feel a strong connection?” No one answered immediately. Instead, they sat with their own thoughts, unravelling the tangled emotions still fresh in their minds.

Hoseok was the first to speak. “I think…” He hesitated, choosing his words with care. “I think the ones we didn’t expect might be the ones who need us most.”

“Aran,” Namjoon said quietly, then a little softer: “Myung.”

Seokjin hummed thoughtfully. Their thoughts were still too scattered, and today had been emotionally draining. They needed to rest, think it through and come back to it with a clearer mind.

“We will think about it. As a family and individually. We will listen to everybody and we’ll take into consideration every opinion each one of us might have”, he looked around the room. Everyone was tired and clearly affected by today’s visit, “Let’s relax for tonight. Watch a film and order-in. We have time, let’s not rush ourselves and make the wrong decision that will negatively affect us and the subs.” Seokjin’s voice, calm and steady, settled over them like a warm blanket. The tension in the room eased, just a little, as his words sank in.

Jimin nodded first, slumping sideways on the couch with a small sigh. “Movie night sounds perfect.”

“I second that,” said Yoongi, already reaching for the TV remote. “But no horror this time. I still haven’t forgiven you for the last one, Taehyung.”

Taehyung grinned, unrepentant. “Hey, it was a classic.”

Namjoon chuckled softly. “Maybe something stupid and light tonight. Animated. With animals that talk.”

“Talking animals it is,” Hoseok declared, already heading for the kitchen. “I’m ordering food. Anyone want dumplings?”

“Yes!” came a chorus of voices — almost in sync, and for the first time that evening, there was laughter. Small, real, and needed.

As the cushions were rearranged, soft blankets pulled from the basket in the corner, and the living room lights dimmed, something shifted in the atmosphere — a softness, a quiet bond.

Tonight, there was warmth. The scent of soy sauce and rice filling the air. Jimin dozing with his head on Hoseok’s shoulder. Namjoon trying to explain the movie’s plot with increasingly wild theories. Yoongi pretending not to care but laughing when no one was looking.

And Seokjin, watching them all with a small smile, his fingers curled around Taehyung’s shoulder, heart full and aching.

Outside, the night stretched quiet and still.

Tomorrow would bring questions.

But tonight, just peace.

 

# # #

 

The house had felt different ever since their visit to the clinic.

There had been many discussion. Things weren’t quite clear yet, and much needed to be talked about.

But in the quiet moments — over breakfast, while passing in the hallway, during the evenings when conversations drifted and fell silent — it was clear that the experience had left its mark.

Thoughts lingered long after the visit ended. The faces they’d seen, the voices they’d heard. No decision had been made yet. There were too many layers to consider.

Every member of the Eros took time to reflect, weighing their impressions carefully. They didn’t want to be impulsive. They wanted to make the right choice — for themselves, yes, but more importantly, for the person they might bring into their family.

The gravity of it wasn’t lost on anyone.

And yet, underneath the uncertainty, something else had begun to settle — a shared understanding that the connection had been real. That the impact of that visit wasn’t something they could ignore.

So, when the time came to speak again about the clinic, no one needed convincing.

They were ready for the next step.

“We should go back,” said Namjoon exactly a week later over dinner. Everyone quited down, immediately understanding what he was talking about.

“Okay,” said Seokjin, putting down his chopsticks. “I’ll call the clinic tomorrow morning, see when they are next available.”

So it was decided.

 

 

“We would be delighted to have you back. Does next Wednesday at 4 in the afternoon work for you?”

“Yes, that would be perfect. Thank you so much.”

 

# # #

 

Returning to the clinic felt strangely familiar.

The clean, softly lit corridors. The distant hum of quiet conversations. The colourful posters. Even the gentle smile of the receptionist who greeted them at the door — it all carried a strange sense of déjà vu, though only a week had passed.

But something felt different this time. The atmosphere, though still warm and welcoming, was laced with a quiet solemnity. The usual calm felt heavier, as if the building itself was holding its breath.

“Welcome back,” one of the staff members said kindly, guiding them through the halls. “Doctor Jung will be with you shortly. Please wait in the same room as before.”

The Eros exchanged brief glances but followed without question. The waiting room was exactly as they remembered it — neutral tones, soft cushions, a few quiet paintings on the wall. They took their seats, the silence between them now tinged with a quiet anticipation.

It wasn’t long before Doctor Jung arrived. He entered with his usual composed presence, a clipboard in hand, his expression warm yet reserved.

But just as he opened his mouth to speak — a loud bang echoed down the hallway.

Startling in its suddenness. Something hard, maybe metal, slamming into a wall. A shuddering crash followed, then silence.

Everyone froze.

The staff member’s polite mask slipped for a fraction of a second, her eyes darting toward the hallway. She murmured something under her breath and moved quickly toward the source of the noise.

Doctor Jung’s jaw tightened subtly.

“I apologize,” he said, voice low, calm, but not dismissive. “Please give me a moment.” He stepped out of the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

The wait stretched uncomfortably. At first, it was quiet — too quiet. But then, from somewhere deeper down the hall, came the unmistakable sound of a struggle.

A muffled crash. The sound of hurried footsteps. Voices — low and careful — clearly trying to soothe, to deescalate.

And then came the screaming.

It wasn’t loud in volume, but it was raw. Guttural. Not the kind of scream born from pain alone, but from something deeper — a kind of desperation that clawed its way out of someone’s chest when words no longer worked.

It made their skin prickle.

No one spoke. The Eros sat in stiff silence, each one processing it in their own way, the weight of it settling in their chests.

Suddenly, every sound stopped, followed by a heavy, charged silence.

A few moments later, Doctor Jung returned. Composed as ever, but visibly drained. He signed, suddenly looking older and extremely tired.

Yoongi tentatively broke the silence, “What happened?”

Doctor Jung looked at them, then sighed again. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, the gesture weary rather than casual.

“As I told you last time… we’ve been following a very delicate case.” He paused for a beat, then added quietly, “His name is Jungkook.” He glanced toward the hallway again, his expression distant — not cold, but heavy with a familiar kind of worry.

“He’s not violent,” he clarified immediately, almost defensively. “He’s just… profoundly hurt. Traumatized. Defensive.” Another pause, more thoughtful this time. “Everything he does — the panic, the lashing out, the shutting down — it comes from fear. Not anger.”

Doctor Jung folded his hands in front of him, a rare fidget in an otherwise composed man. “We’ve tried several different approaches. Gentle therapy, sensory desensitization, even silent companionship. But so far… he’s made very little progress. Sometimes it feels like we’re right on the edge of something — and then he closes off again. Slips further away.”

He met their eyes. “That’s why he’s not in the common area. It’s for safety — his, and the others’. He gets overwhelmed easily. Even small sounds, or unfamiliar voices, can be enough to send him into a full-blown episode.”

Jungkook.

There was a brief silence as the Eros processed Doctor Jung’s words. The air felt heavier now — a bit stifling.

Namjoon leaned forward slightly. “How old is he?”

“Twenty-five,” Dr. Jung replied, his tone was soft, a little distant.

Another pause. This time, it was Hoseok who spoke. “And… where does he fall on the scale?” he hesitated. “His sub designation, I mean.”

Doctor Jung’s expression shifted. A flicker of discomfort crossed his face, and his lips pressed into a tight line. “That… is private information. We generally don’t share those kinds of classifications before a fostering has been approved. It's a personal matter.”

Silence followed, a strange atmosphere settled in the room.

“I understand this information should not be shared with us,” Hoseok said tentatively, “But we could, I don’t know, help in some way? We have no experience with subs who have lived such traumatic experiences, but maybe we could offer our help in some way?” Hoseok knew it wasn’t a good argument, a terrible one at that. But maybe the doctor would see that they weren’t just satisfying some sort of curiosity of theirs. They might actually be of some help.

Doctor Jung looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching, weighing. Finally, with a slow exhale, he nodded. “He’s a 9.”

The room was silent, waiting for Doctor Jung to continue.

“As you probably know that means his needs are extremely high,” the doctor explained. “He submissive tendencies are high as well. Spacing is constant for him — not just a reaction to specific stimuli or scenes. It’s his baseline. And when he drops… it’s not just emotional, it’s physiological. He shuts down. Entirely.”

He folded his arms loosely, almost protectively. “He requires ongoing sensory regulation — weight, pressure, grounding touch, controlled environments. He can’t handle overstimulation, but paradoxically, he also panics without clear structure. He craves constant reassurance. Not just aftercare, but during care. Continuous, layered contact. Verbal, physical, emotional.”

Doctor Jung looked around at the Eros, more serious than ever. "Truthfully, Jungkook's case is a difficult one. He has years of traumatic experiences behind himself." Doctor Jung then admitted, his voice quiet. “We’re doing our best to provide for him, but it’s a difficult balance. As much as we want to help, the clinic has limitations. Our resources are already stretched thin. We want to be hopeful, truly we do, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever make it.”

His words lingered in the air like a shadow.

Silence followed — dense, unmoving. The kind that weighed on the chest. The Eros glanced at one another, small flickers of thought and emotion crossing their features. A shared sense of ache, of protectiveness. Maybe even helplessness.

Then, cutting through the quiet like a blade, Namjoon said, “We’d like to meet him.”

Doctor Jung blinked. Seokjin’s head whipped toward Namjoon with sharp surprise, lips parting as if to immediately pivot — to soften the approach, maybe reframe the request in more careful terms.

But before he could say anything, Doctor Jung shook his head. “No,” he said, firm but not unkind. “He’s not up for adoption. He’s barely stable enough for brief contact.” His expression remained calm, but his eyes betrayed the burden he carried. “I know your intentions are sincere. But we’ve learned the hard way that even short interactions can destabilize him. Right now, his world is small for a reason — he needs containment, not disruption.”

A beat of silence.

Then Hoseok stepped forward slightly, his voice unusually steady but eyes burning with emotion. “With all due respect, Doctor… if what you’re saying is true, then that’s exactly why we want to meet him. He needs someone who sees him, not just the wounds.”

Doctor Jung didn’t reply immediately, his gaze unreadable.

Yoongi, arms crossed and jaw tense, added quietly, “You said it yourself — you’re out of resources. Maybe we can offer something you can’t.”

Jimin shifted where he stood, lips pressed tightly together. His eyes were on the floor, but his fingers fidgeted in that telltale way that meant he was holding back.

Namjoon tried again, his tone more measured this time. “We’re not asking for full access. Just a moment. A brief meeting. We’re not looking to disrupt him — we just want to understand.”

The switches remained silent — observant, eyes flicking between the doms and Doctor Jung. They knew this was delicate ground.

Finally, Seokjin spoke. His voice a mixture of reluctance and authority, as if he wasn't truly convinced of what he was saying, but needing to say it regardless. “If we walk away without trying, we’ll regret it,” he said simply. “We’re not claiming we have the answers, Doctor Jung. But you said it yourself — you wonder if he’ll ever make it. So let us try.”

Doctor Jung looked at them — really looked at them — and something in his expression shifted. The resistance didn’t disappear, but the certainty in it faltered.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, the silence stretching long.

“Fifteen minutes. Two people max, preferably a dom and a switch. If he starts panicking I will need to ask you to leave the room immediately.” he finally relented.

There was a collective exhale of relief from the Eros, though it was tempered by the gravity of the situation. Seokjin's posture softened, the weight on his shoulders lightening for a moment, but the knowledge that they were about to meet someone so fragile — someone in need — brought a sobering sense of responsibility.

“We appreciate this,” Namjoon said quietly, his voice steady, but his eyes already brimming with the intensity of the moment.

Doctor Jung nodded, but the look in his eyes remained guarded. “I understand your desire to help. But I need to stress — this is not a simple meeting. Jungkook is not ready for this. He has been in subdrop for a long time, from his blood work we believe it has been at least a year,” Doctor Jung continued, his voice soft, but firm. “This is a very serious condition. Extremely dangerous. We can’t bring him out of it. We’re trying, but it’s a slow, difficult process. His mind is clouded most of the time and he can be quite volatile. Confused. Disoriented. You may not even get a response from him.”

The doms looked at each other, the weight of the situation sinking in. Jimin felt a tightness in his chest, but held his ground, eyes never leaving the doctor’s face. He paused, letting the gravity of those words settle before adding, “This is a delicate matter. No sudden movements. No extreme assertions of power either.”

The Eros were silent for a moment, each one processing the reality of what they were about to face. The excitement they’d felt moments ago was now tempered by the weight of responsibility.

“Do you understand?” Doctor Jung asked, his voice dropping into a quiet, almost hesitant tone, needing to hear a verbal answer.

Seokjin’s gaze was steady as he nodded, the determined resolve in his eyes not faltering. “We understand. We’ll be careful.”

There was a long pause. “I’ll inform the staff,” Doctor Jung said, finally stepping back. “We will try and ask him. If he agrees, you’ll see him tomorrow. Today has been already too overwhelming for him. Mornings are easier on him, his mind is a bit clearer.”

Jimin nodded, determination clear on his face, “Me and Hoseok Hyung will be the ones that will meet him",” he said in a rush. It felt almost as if someone else spoke for himself, so he added more gently, “I mean, if that could be possible, please.” Eevn though Hoseok did not specifically volunteer, he agreed with Jimin's decision.

Doctor Jung looked at the switch, an unreadable expression on his face. Then, he nodded, “Yes, that would be okay. As I said, please be gentle. He has seen many things no one should ever see. I know deep down he’s fighting to recover as much as we are.”

Jimin and Hoseok exchange a glance — a quiet, wordless decision.

“We’ll do it,” said Hoseok.

“Gently,” added Jimin.

With that, Doctor Jeon bowed one last time and exited the room, leaving the Eros in a mix of excitement, fear and nervousness. This could either be a fantastic idea or an enormous disaster.

 

# # #

 

The next day arrived with an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air. The Eros decided to go home after the conversation with doctor Jung. They all agreed that it did not feel right to meet the other subs when they commited to meet Jungkook. They were first going to meet him, and then if they deemed it necessary, they would meet the other subs for a second time as well. So that they would not be too biased. They didn't know if they were doing the right thing, but in that moment it felt like the only right option. 

At the clinic they tried to explain what was going to happen. That the Eros wanted to visit him, and for the most part he seemed to understand. When asked if he would like to meet two of its members, he gave a tiny nod, so it was decided they were going to go through with the meeting.

Jimin and Hoseok had hardly spoken to anyone else that morning, each too caught up in their own nerves and thoughts. The house had been quiet, the others giving them space, sensing the weight of the moment on their shoulders.

They had taken the day off of work, allowing them time to visit the clinic, meet Jungkook and process everything afterwards.

As Jimin stared at his reflection in the mirror, his fingers hovered over the buttons of his jacket, uncertain whether to leave it unbuttoned or adjust it to appear more put-together. His mind kept circling back to the warning Doctor Jung had given them. No sudden movements. No assertion of power. Be gentle. He understood the gravity of those words — but the idea of meeting someone so broken, so deeply hurt, was still daunting.

Beside him, Hoseok ran a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering longer than usual. The nervous energy was palpable, even for someone as charismatic and confident as him. He kept shifting on his feet, glancing at the clock every few seconds, waiting for the moment to come. He had faced challenges before, but this… this felt like something he couldn’t quite prepare for.

“Are you okay?” Jimin finally asked, breaking the silence between them.

Hoseok’s eyes flicked to Jimin, and for a brief moment, a shadow passed over his face — a fleeting glance of uncertainty. “I’m nervous,” he admitted quietly, his voice far softer than usual. “But also… I want to do this right. For him. For us.”

Jimin nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yeah… same here.”

 

Before Jimin and Hoseok left, the rest of the Eros gathered around them in the living room, offering quiet but sincere words of encouragement. Namjoon gave a supportive nod, his usual calm demeanour replaced with a deep care. "Good luck, lovelies," he said softly.

Taehyung flashed a small, reassuring smile, pulling both Jimin and Hoseok into a tight hug. "I want to hear every little detail when you come home, okay?"

Yoongi, the quiet one, placed a hand on Hoseok's shoulder, giving him a quick nod, before kissing him. Then, he moved to Jimin and kissed him softly as well. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. His presence alone was more than enough.

Lastly, Seokjin stepped closer to Jimin and Hoseok. His usual composed expression softened, and cupped Jimin’s face. "Good luck. You’re ready for this," he said, moving closer to Hoseok and kissing his forehead softly. "Take care of each other."

Hoseok gave a light chuckle, his nerves easing just a little at their warmth. "We’ll be okay. We’ll call as soon as we can."

With one final round of kisses, hugs and quiet words, Jimin and Hoseok made their way out of the door, their hearts heavy with anticipation but buoyed by the support of the others.

 

# # #

 

They made their way to the clinic, the journey feeling much longer than it really was. It was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for them to walk through those doors.

When they arrived at the clinic, the familiar warmth and quiet atmosphere greeted them once more. The staff smiled kindly at them, but the warmth of the greeting did little to ease the weight on their chests.

They were escorted back to the same waiting area where they had sat the first time. The room seemed more subdued today — quieter, as if the entire place had settled into an uneasy calm.

Hoseok’s fingers drummed nervously against his thigh, while Jimin kept his gaze focused on the door, trying to prepare himself mentally for whatever would come next.

After a few minutes, Dr. Jung appeared in the doorway, his expression calm, but it hid a veil of tension. After greeting them, he gestured for them to follow him, and the two nodded, standing together. With each step down the hall, the sense of unease grew, but so did the resolve. They were almost there.

“He seemed in a good mood this morning. He managed to eat some of his breakfast and he allowed a nurse to check his ankle. It was fractured when he was rescued,” explained the doctor as they made their way towards a different area of the clinic. A bit further away from everything else, more subdued.

“I am aware that you know next to nothing about Jungkook’s past and what he went through. We will cross that bridge after your first interaction with him. See how he reacts to meeting you.”

They finally reach the end of the corridor, standing in front of a closed door. A staff member was waiting for them, and as soon as they got closer, he stood up from one of the chairs mounted on the wall and offered a small, encouraging smile.

Before opening the door, Dr. Jung looked at the dom and the switch one last time, “We will be right outside. If you need help, if he starts panicking, please alert us.”

Jimin nodded, his heart racing but his resolve firm. Hoseok swallowed hard but met the doctor’s eyes with determination. “We’re ready.”

The doctor opened the door.

 

# # #

 

The room was small and sparsely furnished. A simple bed, its sheets slightly rumpled. A table with a few scattered items — a brand new notebook, a sharp pencil. A single window with bars on the outside, though they’d been painted over with light colours — an attempt to make them less foreboding.

The walls were bare except for one corner where there was a small, mismatched armchair — its fabric faded, worn from years of use. It looked like it had been placed there with the intent of offering comfort, but its dishevelled appearance spoke of the room’s occupant's inner turmoil. The lights were dimmed —”he gets overstimulated easily,” Jimin remembers— casting warm shadows around the room.

The room was eerily quiet as Jimin and Hoseok stepped inside, the soft click of the door closing behind them seeming loud in the stillness. Their eyes immediately found Jungkook — curled up on the bed, facing them with an air of quiet vigilance. His posture was stiff, almost defensive, though he made no effort to move. The deep blue sweater he wore seemed to swallow him whole, the loose fabric barely hiding the tension in his form. They noticed the strings of his hoodie had been removed.

Despite the clear sign of lack of sleep and proper nutrients, Jungkook looked like a beautiful boy. Raven, longish hair, messy from his laying position. Big, starry eyes, a cute nose and thin lips. Jimin thought he would have swooned if he had seen him on any other occasion.

Jungkook's gaze never left them as they entered. His eyes tracked their every movement, dark and wary, but there was an unsettling calmness to his stare. He didn't rise, didn't speak — just studied them silently. Jimin stood still for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, feeling the intensity of Jungkook’s watchful gaze. He could feel the slight tremor in his hands, though he fought to keep his voice steady.

“Hello there,” he says softly, trying to sound reassuring, “My name is Jimin and this is Hoseok. We are part of an Eros made of 6 people. Mmh, they told us a bit about you, and we were wondering if we could get to know each other a bit?”

Hoseok stood a little behind him, watching Jimin. He could see how much he was pushing through his own nervousness — his breath shallow, his hand slightly shaking, but still, he was standing tall. Hoseok couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of admiration for him in this moment. Jimin was scared, but he was facing this challenge with all the strength he could muster.

The silence lingered. The slight tensing of his shoulders told them that Jungkook was listening — but still, no words were spoken.

Jimin’s fingers began to fiddle nervously with one of the friendship bracelets on his wrist. The bracelet, made of colourful threads, had been carefully crafted by Hoseok a while ago. As his fingers looped through the familiar pattern, Jimin’s eyes darted briefly toward Hoseok, hoping the simple act would ease the growing tension in the room.

Jungkook’s eyes immediately flickered to Jimin’s hands. His gaze followed every movement.

Hoseok noticed the shift in Jungkook’s attention. He took a slow step forward, his voice gentle, though it was hard to disguise the curiosity in his tone. "You like friendship bracelets?" he asked softly, his eyes flicking to Jimin’s hand before returning to Jungkook. "I make these sometimes. It’s kind of a hobby of mine… actually, it’s how I get through some of the tougher days. Just... tying the knots, watching the threads come together."

Jungkook’s eyes followed Hoseok’s movements as he spoke, his gaze lingering on Hoseok’s hands. He didn’t respond, but there was a slight flicker of something — curiosity? Recognition? It was hard to tell.

Jimin, feeling the need to bridge the gap, gently moved a little closer, his voice even softer now. "We can make one for you, if you want. It’s a nice way to pass the time, and—"

The moment Jimin took a step forward, Jungkook’s whole body tensed. His breath hitched, and a panicked whine escaped his throat, like a startled animal caught in an unfamiliar space. His eyes darted between them, wide and filled with terror. Both Jimin and Hoseok froze. The smile on Hoseok’s face faltered, and he immediately stilled, sensing the sudden change in Jungkook’s energy. They stayed where they were, not daring to approach any further.

Jungkook’s chest heaved as he stared at them, his lips trembling. His body curled even tighter, as if trying to shrink into himself, to disappear from their sight. A quiet sob escaped his lips, though it was barely more than a whisper.

"Okay," Jimin said softly, voice full of understanding, "We won’t come closer. We’re not going anywhere."

Hoseok nodded silently, his own heart aching at the sight. They both remained still, waiting. Waiting for Jungkook to calm, to feel a little safer. The silence stretched, threaded with Jungkook’s hitched breaths. Each one seemed to echo in the small room. Slowly, the tension in his form began to ease. He did not move toward them, did not speak, but the wild panic in his eyes receded just enough for the wariness to return — a small shift, but one that gave Jimin and Hoseok the hope they desperately needed.

They stayed at a distance, both so still it felt like even their smallest movements could shatter the fragile calm. Even when Hoseok spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry if we scared you, Jungkook.” His tone was gentle, achingly sincere. “We didn’t mean to.”

The use of his name seemed to get through where other words had not. Jungkook blinked slowly at them; his brow furrowed just slightly as if he were trying to piece something together but couldn’t quite make the parts of it click to form one, singular piece. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, but not unbearable. Jungkook’s gaze remained fixed on them, a deep, wary uncertainty lingering in his eyes. His body was coiled tight, every muscle a visible tension.

Jimin and Hoseok stayed as still as they could, their own nerves simmering beneath the surface, but they knew better than to rush him.

Jimin's eyes darted to the bracelet again. His fingers brushed the threads. “You know, Hoseok hyung,” Jimin said softly, keeping his voice steady but warm. “We could use some new colours for the next one. Maybe some darker blues? And a touch of green…”

He didn’t move closer, didn’t make any sudden gestures. He showed the bracelet, his hand extended just enough to be visible but not intrusive. He watched Jungkook carefully, waiting for any sign of reaction.

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea. I saw this nice pattern where they use different shades of blues and indigo and mix them with two kinds of green. It was really pretty.”

Taking the attention off of Jungkook seemed to help him relax a bit more, untighten his muscles a tiny bit. His brow remained furrowed, as if keeping up with the conversation required a lot of effort.

“Maybe, once you’re done making it, we could bring it here. Maybe, if he wants to, we could give it to Jungkook. As a little present, just for him,” he turned to look at the sub, “would you like that Jungkook?”

For a moment, nothing changed. Jungkook’s eyes followed the movement of the bracelet, his brow still furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. But then, as Jimin shifted and the sleeve of his jacket momentarily covered the bracelet, Jungkook’s gaze flickered down to the ground, then back up to Jimin’s face. His lips parted slightly, and for the first time since they entered, he gave the faintest of nods — a barely perceptible gesture, but it was there.

Jimin’s breath caught in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. He caught Hoseok’s eye, and the two of them shared an unspoken understanding, an unspoken relief. It was such a small thing, so fragile and tentative, but it meant everything.

“I’ll make sure to add a little bead at the end, one with the letter J on it. So that everyone will know that it belong to Jungkook,” continued Hoseok, wanting to keep Jungkook present in the conversation.

Jungkook’s eyes flickered to Hoseok for a brief moment, before darting back to Jimin’s hand. He didn’t move, but the fact that he was still following the conversation, that his attention was still on them, felt like a small victory. His lips twitched slightly, though the expression was fleeting and faint, as if a thousand thoughts were running through his mind at once, and none of them had fully settled yet.

But it was a start.

Hoseok smiled, a quiet, relieved smile, and gave a small, careful nod. “We’ll make sure it’s something special. Just for you, Jungkook.”

And in that moment, as the room fell back into a silence that felt a little less oppressive, Jimin and Hoseok felt hope bloom in their chest. Maybe it was too early, they were perhaps being a bit too naive, but still. They were doing it, or at least, they were doing… something. And it seemed to be working.

They didn’t know how much time they had left, but they could feel they didn’t have much left. Jungkook looked exhausted, eyes starting to lose focus again. Even though he did not say it with words, the dom and the switch could understand he wanted to rest.

“We would love to see you again, Jungkook. To give you your bracelet, yes, but to also get to know you a bit more. How does that sound?” asked Hoseok, ever so hopeful.

Jungkook’s lashes fluttered, his gaze drifting between Hoseok and Jimin. He didn’t answer right away — instead, his eyes flicked toward the bracelet on Jimin’s wrist, then back up to Hoseok’s face. There was a flicker of something in his expression. Hesitation, maybe. Or hope, buried under layers of fear and exhaustion.

He blinked slowly, as if weighing the offer in his mind, trying to wrap himself around the idea of more — more visits, more voices, more strangers.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. It wasn’t sharp or confident, but soft. Careful. A motion made with the cautious precision of someone who had been punished one too many times for saying yes to the wrong things. And yet, it was a yes. A small, trembling thread reaching out toward theirs.

Jimin’s heart swelled. Hoseok gave him the gentlest smile, as though afraid anything stronger might break the fragile moment. “Okay,” Jimin whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Then we’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Jungkook closed his eyes, seeming to be asleep almost instantly.

Hoseok and Jimin slowly turned around and approached the door, cautiously opening it, so as to not disturb the sleeping sub.

The door clicked softly shut behind them, and for a long moment, Jimin and Hoseok simply stood in the hallway, shoulders heavy with the weight of everything they’d just experienced. Neither of them spoke right away, both a little overwhelmed, their hearts still echoing with Jungkook’s silent nod.

Doctor Jung was waiting just a few steps away. His brows lifted the moment he saw them. “You stayed in only for 10 minutes, is everything okay?”

“We didn’t want to push him,” Hoseok said softly, rubbing a hand over his face. “But… I think it went well. He didn’t speak, but he was attentive. He listened. He even… agreed to see us again.”

Doctor Jung blinked at them, stunned into silence. “He did?”

“He nodded,” Jimin added, a small, proud smile curling at his lips. “When Hoseok asked if he’d like to see us again. He looked like he really thought about it, too.”

The doctor stared at them for a beat longer. Then he exhaled a breath that almost resembled a laugh — half-disbelieving, half-relieved.

“Would you… come by my office, please?” he asked, already starting to walk. “I’d like to ask a few questions about his behavioural response. There might be some things I can log that could help us in the future — physical triggers, eye movement patterns, autonomic reactions... sorry, I’m rambling.”

Jimin and Hoseok exchanged a glance and nodded in sync.

“Of course,” said Hoseok, but his tone shifted, more serious now. “But only if you can promise us we’ll be able to see him again.”

Doctor Jung paused. His eyes searched theirs, reading the sincerity written across their faces. Then he gave a small nod. “If he consents again,” he said, “and shows no adverse reactions in the next hours… yes. You’ll be welcome to come back.”

It wasn’t a full guarantee, but it was enough. For now.

 

# # #

 

The atmosphere in the Eros living room was quiet but expectant. Hoseok and Jimin sat close together on the large sectional couch, voices low but animated as they wrapped up the retelling of their visit.

“…and then he nodded,” Jimin was saying, his fingers twisting around the same bracelet he’d fidgeted with in the clinic. “Just a tiny one, but it meant something.”

Hoseok nodded in agreement, his expression still soft, lit with a kind of subdued joy. “He didn’t speak, but he listened the whole time. Watched us. And when we talked about seeing him again, he didn’t hesitate long. He chose to say yes. In his own way.”

The rest of the Eros had gathered in the room — sprawled over armchairs and cushions on the floor. There was a hush as their story settled over everyone.

Taehyung, predictably, was the first to break it. “Can we all come next time?” he asked eagerly, sitting forward, eyes wide with hope. “Maybe not all at once, but in pairs or something? I’d love to meet him.”

Jimin smiled, but shook his head gently. “I wish, Tae. But it’s probably too soon. The doctor said we have to go slow. Everything needs to be on his terms.”

A small silence followed, and then Seokjin — who had been sitting quietly, his fingers interlaced under his chin — finally spoke.

“This all sounds good. It is good he made a connection with you,” he said slowly, his voice calm but weighty. “But I can’t help but worry, dears. I was reluctant at first, but now... from what you’re telling me he’s extremely fragile. Someone who needs constant support. And he’s been in subdrop for monthis, years maybe.” He shook his head slightly. "I don’t even know what kind of consequences that could have on him. I—”

“We know he’s fragile,” Jimin cut in, a little too fast, a little too sharply. “But we’re not scared of that. We’re not walking away just because it’s hard.”

Seokjin’s eyes sharpened. “Careful, love,” he said, his voice suddenly cold and firm. “I understand you’re passionate about all this, but I won’t tolerate that tone.”

Jimin lowered his head, immediately chastened. “Sorry, hyung.”

Namjoon, who had been quiet until then, leaned forward with a sigh. “Let’s not fight. I’ve been reading up — trauma care for subs, long-term subdrop, everything I could find. The clinic is willing to work with us, guide us. We wouldn’t be doing this blindly, and we wouldn’t be alone.”

Seokjin exhaled, tension still in his shoulders. He looked toward the window, lips pursed in thought.

Then Yoongi, lounging in the corner with a blanket over his legs, finally spoke. “If we’re going to break, let it be from trying too hard,” he murmured. “Not from being too careful.”

His voice, quiet and steady, hung in the air like a weight. Seokjin blinked, eyes flickering toward him. Another silence fell — not uncomfortable, just heavy with decision.

Finally, Seokjin looked back at Jimin and Hoseok. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s see where this goes. But we do it as a unit. No rash decisions. We protect him together.”

Jimin let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, immediately standing up and plopping on Seokjin’s lap, cuddling him vehemently. Hoseok nodded gratefully. And for the first time that night, the entire room seemed to exhale as one.

They were in this. Together.

The soft sounds of night settled over the Eros home like a familiar blanket — hushed voices, the swish of running water, the low hum of toothbrushes and shuffling feet on plush rugs.

Their shared bedroom, large and open, was dimly lit by the warm glow of bedside lamps. The massive bed in the centre, a custom-made creation that could hold them all comfortably, had already begun to fill up.

Yoongi was half buried under the covers, his arms loosely wrapped around a yawning Taehyung. The younger was already halfway asleep, nose tucked against Yoongi’s neck, his long legs tangled between the blankets.

In the adjacent bathroom, Hoseok stood at the mirror, patting the last of his moisturizer into his skin with practiced, gentle hands. He hummed softly under his breath.

Jimin and Namjoon entered together. They were both in soft sleepwear — Namjoon in a faded tank top, Jimin in one of Hoseok’s oversized shirts. They climbed into bed quietly, slipping into the growing warmth of the nest they'd built together.

“Don’t steal the blanket again,” Jimin mumbled, elbowing Namjoon lightly as he settled beside him.

“No promises,” Namjoon replied with a grin, already sliding an arm towards the other’s waist to hold his close and relaxing into the mattress.

The door creaked open one last time, and Seokjin stepped in with Hugo trotting beside him, the dog’s paws barely making a sound against the wook floors. He was already wagging his tail sleepily, ears perked in lazy curiosity.

“Bedtime, Hugo,” Seokjin said softly, pointing toward the cozy dog bed set up in a corner of the room. “Come on, good boy.” Hugo let out a soft huff, gave the bed a dubious sniff, then circled once before settling down with a sigh.

Seokjin finally turned toward the others, slipping off his robe, leaving him in his matching silk pijamas, and joining them under the covers. As he settled in, Hoseok entered, turning off the last of the lights behind him and padding barefoot to the bed.

The room was now a cocoon of warmth, limbs tangled, breaths beginning to slow, comfort settling into the walls.

In the hush of near-sleep, Seokjin whispered, “good night darlings, I love you.” A chorus of 'I love you's resonated in the dark room.

Maybe, Namjoon thought, a seventh voice could sleepily reply to their head dom, wondering what kind of voice Jungkook could have.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Notes:

Hello hello :)
It is time for another update! 🐰
This one is a bit heavier, a bit a lot, actually. So please, take care of yourselves.
I decided I will add trigger warnings before each chapter, so you will know if any specific chapter could be triggering! If, for whatever reason, you decide not to read it, just send me a message and I will happily summarise it for you 🩷

Also, please note: Jimin and Hoseok, like all the other boys, are not trained to talk or interact with Jungkook. They might and will make mistakes, but that is part of learning and growing from them.

This one is a bit shorter, but I felt like the ending was good enough as it was, and adding anything else just didn't feel right.
But I will come back soon! 🤗

With the risk of sounding like a broken record, I want to thank you all again for the love you are showing to this fic. I read all your lovely comments and I cherish them deeply 🩷

With that said, I hope you enjoy it. I will see you soon and give a hug to your pets for me 🚀🚀🚀

TRIGGER WARNINGS:
Eating disorder and fear of eating,
Mention of kidnapping and torture,
Mention of other characters' death,
Mention of hospitalisation,
Nightmares and panic attack

The second visit felt heavier than the first.

Doctor Jung was already waiting for them by the door, his white coat slightly wrinkled, a coffee cup long gone cold in one hand. He offered a faint smile, but Hoseok and Jimin could see something was torubling him.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, motioning for them to follow him into his office. “There’s something we should talk about before you see him.”

They exchanged a brief look and followed.

The office was tidy, but lived-in. A few case files stacked neatly to one side, a small potted plant in the corner. Hoseok sat on the edge of his seat, alert, while Jimin folded his hands in his lap, shoulders tense.

Doctor Jung set the cup down, then let out a soft sigh. “After your last visit,” he began, “there was a noticeable shift. Jungkook was… different. Quieter, but not in a withdrawn way. More observant. He seemed calmer for a couple of days — even allowed the nurse to approach him with minimal flinching.”

Jimin’s heart fluttered. “That’s good, right?”

“It is,” the doctor nodded slowly. “But unfortunately, it didn’t last. He’s regressed since then. His eating patterns have worsened — actually, they've stopped completely.”

He paused.

Hoseok’s brows furrowed. “He stopped eating?”

“We used to manage at least two meals a day. Small portions, but regular. Now, nothing. Maybe some water if we leave it on the desk and leave the room immediately. We’re concerned. At this rate, we might have to consider a nasogastric tube.”

Jimin winced.

“He won’t respond well to that,” the doctor added grimly. “It would be a complete disaster, actually. He would need to be constantly monitored and touched… he would never allow that.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Then, gently, Doctor Jung looked between them. “I was wondering… if you’d be willing to bring something with you today. Food, I mean. Something light, we prepared some plain rice. Just to try.”

They both nodded, feeling a bit insecure. What would be the chance that Jungkook will eat with them? They hardly know each other, and they surely can’t order him to eat, even if it would be for his well-being.

Jimin offered, “We’ll try. We can’t promise—”

“I know,” the doctor interrupted softly. “But if there’s even a chance he’ll eat with you…”

“We’ll try our best,” Hoseok said, more confident this time.

Doctor Jung allowed himself a small nod. There was something close to hope in it. “There’s something else I think you should know… about where we found him. About what he’s survived.”

Jimin and Hoseok both straightened in their seats, suddenly still.

“You remember the case from last month? The raids that were all over the news?” The doctor glanced between them. “The one involving that underground trafficking ring.”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “The one with the auctions?”

“Yes.” Doctor Jung’s jaw tightened. “The police had been investigating the operation for nearly a year. Subs — kidnapped, isolated, broken down, and trained to be sold to the highest bidder. Extremely wealthy clients, many of them overseas. By the time the authorities tracked down one of the facilities, it was already too late.”

He let out a sharp breath through his nose. “When they arrived the place had been emptied. Whoever ran it must have known they were coming. But they didn’t take everything.”

He finally opened the file and looked down, not really reading — just needing somewhere to place the weight of his words.

“There were five subs in that facility. Four of them were...already gone. The fifth,” he looked up, his gaze steady. “Was Jungkook.”

Hoseok swallowed hard, his hand curling into a fist.

“He was chained to the floor by a collar,” Doctor Jung continued, clinically. “The ring was bolted directly into the ground. The chain was so tight he couldn’t even sit up. He was conscious, barely. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t lift his arms. The officers said he watched them walk in with his eyes wide open, but didn’t react.”

He shut the file.

“He was emaciated. Not just thin — the kind of thin you only see in places where people are intentionally starved. The elite want their subs delicate. Fragile. It’s part of the aesthetic, apparently. His right ankle was broken. And he was wheezing badly. Later, the hospital discovered he had a lung infection — right side. He was immediately put into an induced coma so we could stabilize him. That’s where he stayed for the first week. When he woke up…” A pause. “It became clear very quickly that he wasn’t just physically recovering. He was in a deep, extended subdrop. One we have no way of knowing the length of.”

Doctor Jung sank back into his chair.

“You saw him, he’s disoriented. Sometimes he doesn’t seem to recognize where he is, or who’s speaking. Pupils constantly dilated. He flinches from contact, authority, even normal sounds. Loud noises send him into a panic. The first week here, he refused to sleep, too paranoid, I suppose. And food — it’s always been a struggle, but now…”

He shook his head.

Silence stretched between them, the two Eros members taking in the weight of the doctor’s words.

They had heard of the raid. Everyone had. It had dominated the news cycle for days — headlines screaming about the horrors uncovered, pundits debating how something so monstrous could exist under society’s nose. There had been outrage, pity, sorrow. But for the Kim Eros… it had felt distant. Abstract. Like a tragedy unfolding in another world. They had read the reports while sipping tea in their sunlit kitchen. Heard the radio updates on their way to work. Even murmured a few horrified “how could this happen?” comments among themselves.

But it hadn’t touched them. Not really. Not in a way that stuck.

Because those subs — those broken, caged souls — had always seemed like others. Victims of a cruelty so foreign to their privileged lives that their empathy had remained theoretical.

Until now.

Now, that distant world had a name. A face. Wide, frightened eyes and trembling fingers. Jungkook.

Jimin swallowed thickly. His throat burned, but he managed to swallow the tears that were threatening to slip free.

Doctor Jung looked down at the file again, Junkook’s, “this is all we truly know, the rest we just assumed by the previous subs that had been found and rescued.”

Hoseok was the one to break it this time, his voice quiet but steady. “Thank you for trusting us with this.”

Doctor Jung met his gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes — gratitude, maybe. Or hope. “Alright,” he finallysaid, standing from his desk. “Then let’s not waste anymore time.”

 

# # #

 

When they reached Jungkook’s room, the doctor exchanged a few quick words with the same staff member that was there last time. He nodded, quickly excusing himself, saying he will go and fetch the rice.

Doctor Jung turned to them, “Remember,” he said quietly, “No pressure. Try and persuade him, but nothing forceful.”

The staff member came back with a small container and a fork. He handed them to Hoseok with a small bow, while the dom looked at the utensil confused.

“His hand coordination is not the best. He shakes a lot, a sign of prolongued subdrop,” said the doctor seeing Hoseok’s confusion. The two Eros members nodded in understanding.

Hoseok and Jimin turned to one another outside the door. No words were needed — just a small, shared glance and a nod of quiet determination. They were ready, or at least as ready as anyone could be.

With slow, careful movements, Hoseok pushed open the door.

The room looked just as it had the last time: soft, sterile lighting, no scent lingering in the air.

Jungkook was in the same position they remembered. Curled up on the small bed, limbs tucked tightly into himself like he was trying to disappear. But now, with fresh knowledge coloring their perception, they saw more.

His thinness was no longer just concerning — it was alarming. His cheeks were hollow, skin stretched taut over prominent cheekbones. His wrists, tucked up near his face, looked impossibly small, fragile enough to snap beneath a strong grip. The soft tracksuit he wore clung to legs that seemed almost too thin to support him.

But it wasn’t just the weight loss.

His skin was pallid, not sickly exactly, but starved of sunlight and warmth. A faint tremor ran through one of his hands, and for the first time, they noticed the faintest marks along his neck — barely visible under the collar of his shirt. Pressure marks, Hoseok thought, heart twisting. From the chain, marks that, perhaps, were still healing.

And then Jungkook looked up. His gaze locked instantly onto Jimin’s wrist, where the bracelet from last time still hung. Something passed through his eyes — too quick to name, but Jimin could swear it shimmered with recognition.

He remembers.

"Hi, Jungkook," Jimin said softly, keeping his voice light and calm. He didn’t step forward, didn’t move closer — just stayed near the door with Hoseok.

“Good to see you again,” Hoseok added, gentle and warm.

There was no response, not yet. But Jungkook didn’t look away either.

Hoseok reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small — a carefully knotted bracelet, the same pastel threads Jungkook had admired before, now braided with care and intention.

“As we promised,” Hoseok said with a small smile, holding it up for the sub to see.

Jungkook’s eyes widened just slightly. Not much, but enough to show it startled him — or perhaps moved him. His gaze lingered on the bracelet, transfixed. He didn’t reach for it, but his fingers twitched, just barely. A longing was there, thinly veiled beneath fear.

Jimin caught it too and leaned in slightly, whispering, “Would you like to have it?”

Jungkook didn’t nod, didn’t speak. But his eyes gave it away. That small, desperate spark of want.

Hoseok tilted his head, thinking, before a new idea formed. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, voice playful but still soft enough not to spook. “We’ll leave this on the desk over there. But you’ve got to do something for us too.”

Jungkook blinked, fear clouding his eyes.

“Just a little something,” Hoseok continued. “A few bites of rice. That’s all.”

Still no movement, but there was something shifting in the air — a crack in the armor, maybe.

Jimin nodded encouragingly. “No one’s going to force you. We’ll just leave it right here— We won’t be disappointed if you decide not to, but it would make us very happy.” He gestured toward the small desk near the wall, far enough from the bed to not seem like a threat.

“Only if you want it,” Hoseok finished, crossing the room to place the bracelet gently on the desk, after taking the rice from Jimin and depositing it on the desk as well. “It’ll be waiting.”

But instead of moving, Jungkook’s expression shifted. His eyes, wide already, seemed to stretch further open. His shoulders tensed, back stiffening as he pressed further into the corner of the bed. A soft, broken sound escaped him — not quite a sob, not quite a whimper. A noise that came from the throat of someone who had forgotten what safety sounded like.

Jimin took a small step forward, alarmed. “Jungkook?”

The sub let out another noise — a keening whine, barely audible but unmistakably distressed. Then, with a slow, shaky motion, he scooted further back on the bed, as if trying to disappear into the wall. Tears rolled silently down his cheeks.

“Oh,” Hoseok breathed, heart twisting.

Jimin’s eyes filled with confusion. “Wait, we—we—”

But then he stopped himself. Because they had something wrong. Maybe they were being coercive? The bracelet, the rice — even their quiet, well-meaning words — It was said all wrong.

“He’s scared,” Hoseok whispered, jaw tight with guilt.

“Jungkook listen to me, please. We are not trying to trick you, we are being sincere. We just want to help, the bracelet will be yours, whether you eat the rice or not,” tried to reassure Jimin, hoping he was saying the right things.

They didn’t move. For the next ten minutes, the only sounds in the room were the low hum of the heating system and the soft, whispered reassurances they offered: a gentle “you’re okay,”, a murmured “we’re sorry.”

Then, as if something shifted Jungkook’s arms started to unfurl a little from where they were locked around his knees. His breaths became less frantic, though he was still trembling. The tears started to dry, leaving behind wet tracks on his cheeks.

And then, finally, he moved. With aching slowness, Jungkook pushed himself upright. His limbs shook with the effort.

Jimin and Hoseok held their breath.

Jungkook stood. Wobbled. He looked at them — wary, exhausted, but no longer panicked — and began the slow shuffle toward the desk. His legs were paper-thin beneath the soft tracksuit, knees wobbling with each movement.

Hoseok had to clench his fists to keep from running forward to help. When Jungkook reached the desk, he didn’t touch the food first. His fingers bypassed the container entirely, landing instead on the bracelet. He picked it up with the care of someone handling something sacred.

He stared at it for a long moment, running his thumb along the braid. A quiet breath shuddered out of him.

“I hope you like the colours,” Hoseok said softly, voice hesitant but warm.

There was a pause. Then, just barely — a nod. Jimin felt a flicker of emotion swell in his chest so fast it made him dizzy.

Jungkook set the bracelet gently on the bed, then turned his gaze to the container of rice.

And froze. His expression crumpled — not into fear, not again, but something else. Dread, maybe. Helplessness. His hand hovered above the plastic lid, trembling violently.

“You don’t have to eat much,” Jimin said quietly. “Just a bite. That’s all.”

Jungkook glanced up at him. Then, moving like every part of him ached, he picked up the container and moved back to the bed, sitting down. He opened the lid, the scent of the plain white rice filled the air, neutral and soft. He reached for the fork beside it, and picked it up with fingers that shook so badly the metal clinked softly against the side of the container.

Hoseok bit his lip.

But Jungkook didn’t stop. He scooped up a small mouthful of rice, brought it slowly to his mouth, and ate.

The room was silent. Jungkook’s jaw moved slowly, like he was trying to remember how to chew.

It took him nearly a minute to finish the first bite. But then he took another. And when no one spoke. When no one rushed him or pressured him, he took another. After the fourth bite, Jungkook put the container down and set the fork beside it with shaking hands. He looked at them again, his eyes wide and uncertain, waiting for something.

“You did so well,” Jimin said softly, warmth flooding his voice.

Jungkook looked like he didn’t believe it. His shoulders stiffened. His expression didn’t shift into pride or relief — it twisted, subtly, into something tighter. Guarded. Braced. Like he was waiting to be hurt.

“You really did,” Hoseok murmured. “That was brave.”

Jungkook flinched almost imperceptibly, then shook his head. A tiny, desperate motion.

“No?” Jimin asked gently, confused. “Why not?”

There was no answer. Jungkook only turned his face away and slowly lay back down, curling slightly onto his side.

The silence that followed stretched long and heavy. Then, almost like a knee-jerk response a without saying a word, Hoseok slowly sat down on the floor. Jimin blinked, surprised for a second, before understanding clicked — and he followed. Appear less threatening — put yourself on the same level as the submissive, if not lower, to show that they are not being cornered. That’s what Namjoon’s book said when it talked about trying to make a connection with a scared sub.

The two of them sat cross-legged near the foot of the bed, not too close, their posture calm and non-threatening. Jungkook’s eyes snapped back to them, startled. For a moment, he just stared.

They didn’t explain themselves. Instead, Hoseok broke the silence with a quiet hum. “You know,” he said, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve, “Hugo ran straight into the coffee table again this morning.”

Jimin snorted, his voice low, “He just plowed into it. Like he forgot it was there. Again.”

A pause.

“He does this thing where he runs with his eyes closed when he’s excited,” Hoseok added, shaking his head. “Every single time. You’d think he’d learn.”

“He didn’t even flinch,” Jimin said, a soft laugh escaping him. “Just bounced back like a cartoon character.”

There was silence for a beat. Then—

“Hugo?”

The voice was so faint it could have been a thought. But both Eros turned to look at the bed, eyes wide. Jungkook hadn’t moved, except for his lips. His gaze was still on them, cautious and wary… but curious, too.

Jimin blinked. Then, smiling gently, he said, “He’s our dog.”

Hoseok nodded, his voice just as soft. “He’s a greyhound. Long legs, small brain. Very dramatic.”

Something shifted in Jungkook’s expression — not a smile, not quite — but something softer.

“Do you like dogs, Jungkook?”

Jungkook nodded. His pupils were still extremely dilatated, his hands shaking where they were placed near his head and his shoulders were still very tense. But they couldn’t believe they were having a semi-conversation with the sub. He spoke. He looked interested and, even if he still looked quite scared of them, he tried to engage with them both.

“Can we… show you a picture of him?” asked Jimin, a hopeful tinge in his tone, but still cautious. They still didn’t know what could set him off.

Jungkook didn’t reply at first, but then, slowly, he gave a small nod. Jimin’s heart jumped in his chest.

“I’d have to… come a bit closer,” he said gently, gesturing toward the bed. “Is that okay?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Jungkook flinched. His entire body tensed, shoulders rising as he instinctively curled in on himself, pulling his knees slightly closer to his chest. His breath hitched, shallow and fast.

Jimin froze. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I won’t come any closer unless you say I can. I promise.”

There was a long pause. Jungkook’s eyes darted between them, but then something changed. Like he was weighing it. Like he wanted to say yes, but needed to convince his body it was safe.

“…Okay,” he whispered. So quiet it could have been a breath.

Jimin blinked, his chest tightening. “Okay,” he echoed softly, moving slowly, as he scooted towards the bed on his bottom. He took his phone out of his pocked, searched for a good picture of Hugo and extended it just enough to be in Jungkook’s line of sight.

On the screen, Hugo’s long face stared up at the sub, tongue lolling to the side in pure joy, ears flopping as he lay sprawled across the couch like royalty.

Jungkook blinked. His eyes flicked to the screen. Then to Jimin. Then back.

“That’s… Hugo,” Hoseok said softly from the floor. “He thinks he owns the place.”

And maybe there was the barest twitch at the corner of Jungkook’s lips.

On a whim, Hoseok leaned forward slightly, voice light. “Would you like for us to show you our Eros? I mean, the rest of us. God knows we have about a thousand pictures.”

Jungkook looked at him and slowly nodded.

They both noticed it at the same time — how Jungkook inched ever so slightly closer to Jimin, just to see the screen a bit better. It was a small movement, but it made Jimin’s breath catch. For the next ten minutes, the room was filled with hushed voices and quiet laughter. Jimin and Hoseok took turns showing him pictures — of Seokjin posing with a cake he baked (and almost dropped), of Namjoon asleep with a book splayed open on his chest, of Taehyung in a ridiculous outfit he swore was "fashion-forward," of Yoongi caught mid-yawn with Hugo curled against his lap.

Each time they swiped, they told a story. Not too much, just enough to paint a picture of warmth, of a home that buzzed with life and teasing and affection.

And tentatively, Jungkook began to respond. There were no words. But his eyes softened. A faint tug at the corner of his lips here and there — not quite a smile, but something close.

It was only when Jungkook’s eyes started drooping and a tiny yawn escaped him — quiet and kitten-like — that Hoseok and Jimin shared a look.

Cute.

“Looks like someone’s getting sleepy,” Jimin murmured, his voice soft, still smiling as he closed the phone and pocketed it. He began to slowly scooch back, careful to keep his movements gentle and non-threatening.

Hoseok followed suit, standing up from where he remained near the door this entire time, and together, they stood, ready to take their leave.

Hoseok was about to ask him if he would like to meet again when it happened.

“Come back?” Jungkook’s voice was whisper-thin, raspy from disuse and exhaustion.

Both of them froze.

Jimin blinked. “Of course—”

“Definitely—!”

They’d spoken at the same time, tripping over their own words, surprised and moved.

Then Hoseok, flustered but beaming, cleared his throat and added gently, “It’d be an honour to see you again, Jungkook.” The sub nodded, seemingly content with the answer.

They lingered a second longer, reluctant to go but knowing they should.

“Sleep well, Jungkook,” Jimin whispered before reaching for the door.

Just before it closed, Jungkook lifted his hand — the one that had been clutching the bracelet the whole time — and gave a small wave. Just the bracelet, swaying softly between his pale knuckles.

A quiet goodbye, almost as if to say ‘I’ll remember.’

The door closed with a soft click behind them.

 

  # # #

 

“…and then,” Hoseok said, laughter still in his voice as he held his chopsticks midair, “he waved the bracelet at us. Like a little flag.”

Around the dining table, soft chuckles and smiles broke out — even Seokjin’s lips tugged up. What a stubborn mule, though Jimin, though he didn’t dare say it.

“I still can’t believe he spoke,” Namjoon murmured, shaking his head gently. “That’s huge.”

“He asked us to come back,” Jimin added quietly, eyes a bit glazed with the memory, like he was still holding onto the moment.

The table was glowing with contentment — full plates, soft lighting, and the quiet hum of family warmth. Taehyung leaned forward on the chair, looking a bit petulant. “I want to meet him,” he said suddenly.

That quieted the mood just a little. Not in a bad way — just thoughtful.

Yoongi hummed. “Don’t want to overwhelm him.”

“He’s just now starting to feel safe around the two of them,” Namjoon added, giving Hoseok and Jimin a nod. “Might be too soon.”

“But if we’re talking about fostering,” Taehyung countered gently, “he’ll have to meet all of us eventually.”

Which was true. The connection he was building with Hoseok and Jimin was beautiful, needed. But, from the way they were retelling the story, he seemed happy to see the other members of the Eros as well. Maybe if he met them, all of them, the little steps forward he was taking only with Hoseok and Jimin could be made with all of them. Connections could start to be made between all of them. At his pace, of course, but perhaps they could all help him, help him get out of subdrop, most of all.

A pause. They all looked pensive for a few moments.

Then Seokjin. calm, steady, set down his chopsticks with a soft clink. “I’ll speak to Doctor Jung tomorrow morning,” he said, glancing around the table. “We’ll ask what’s best and go from there. No pressure on Jungkook. But we’ll tell him we are ready.”

Everyone nodded. Seokjin’s eyes lingered on Jimin, who hadn’t touched his food in a few minutes and kept tapping his fingers against the edge of his bowl, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie sleeve. His energy was jumpy. This visit really affected him, he thought.

“You need to be settled, love?” Seokjin asked, voice gentle as his fingers slipped through Jimin’s blonde hair, combing back a soft strand from his cheek.

Jimin leaned into the touch immediately, eyes fluttering shut.

“Want,” he whispered, almost shyly. “Please.” Seokjin gave him a soft smile, warm and full of promise, and scratched behind his ear affectionately.

“Later, I promise” he said.

And just like that, Jimin relaxed a little.

Dinner resumed, bowls scraped clean, laughter quietly blooming again around the table. And under the soft clink of dishes, the quiet thought lingered: They were already becoming something new. Something bigger.

Something that, maybe, just maybe, could hold Jungkook too.

 

# # #

 

The dark was tight. Too tight.

There was no air. Not really.
The air existed, maybe, but it wasn’t for him.

His neck itched, then burned.
Too tight.
Too wrong.
A thing clung to him — that damned collar — thick leather biting into skin that he had never gotten used to it. No matter how long they kept it on.

His fingers scratched at it. Scratched until the skin broke.
Until blood dried under his nails.
Until his hands were tied behind his back.

But even in his dreams, he clawed.
Always clawed.

The silence was loud. He couldn’t scream.
He wanted to scream.

But—
"If you dare scream, I’ll double the hits."

So his mouth was open, but no sound came out. Just that same pressure — a scream trapped inside a body that had stopped being his a long time ago.

And then the slap came.
Always the slap.

The heat of it. The sting.
The pain was real — too real — it snapped his neck to the side and snapped him awake.

Jungkook gasped.

His hands were on his throat.

Fingers digging.

He couldn’t breathe.

He still couldn’t breathe.

The collar was gone, but his body didn’t believe it.
His skin didn’t believe it.
His panic didn’t care.

He whimpered — then cried out.
A broken, strangled sound ripped from his throat, like it had been waiting hours to escape.

He kicked back against the bed. Eyes wild. Chest heaving.
Wrong wrong wrong—

He had to get away. Had to move. Had to find somewhere safe.

The door opened.

Too loud.
The door opened too loud.

Like the basement.

Like that time.

Jungkook screamed again — pure instinct.

Arms flailed. Back hit the wall. His heart felt like it would tear itself apart.

The nurse froze in the doorway, calling his name — softly, but it didn’t matter. Her voice didn’t matter. Nothing felt safe.

Jungkook’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape that didn’t exist, his breath hiccupping in his chest.

He wondered, not for the first time, when he will finally feel safe again.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Notes:

Hello Hello :)
It's Friday, the weather is getting nicer, and I got to cuddle a cat today!

This one is another shorty, but a lot happens and I kinda leave you guys hanging at the end, but I promise chapter 6 is a chonky one!
Just a reminder that this is not beta-ed and all mistakes are mine!

Again, I cannot thank you enough for all the love you're showing to this fic... it astounds me, and I am oh so very grateful 🥺🥺🥺

TRIGGER WARNINGS:
- Eating disorder and food insecurity

I think this is all for this chapter, but if I missed something, please do not hesitate to tell me! I don't want to trigger anyone. And also, if someone wants a summary I am more than happy to give you one :)

I think that is everything, I will leave you to it🩷
I hope you enjoy, I will see you very soon!!!🚀

Seokjin had returned from the meeting with Dr. Jung with a glimmer of cautious optimism. The doctor had noted that, just like after their first visit, Jungkook showed small signs of progress following the second one. Unlike the last time, however, these signs hadn’t faded completely. They lingered, he had spoken a little more, his reactions to the staff were less volatile, and there was a faint but consistent shift in his overall demeanour, as if something deep inside him had begun to lean, ever so slightly, toward the idea of trust.

That said, many struggles remained. His sleep was still plagued by nightmares—vivid, often leaving him shaking and confused—and his eating had become a persistent concern. He refused more often than not, barely nibbling at his meals, leaving the clinic staff worried.

The idea of all of the Eros visiting at once was gently but firmly turned down; the risk of overwhelming him was too great. Doctor Jung, however, offered a different path forward. Since Hoseok and Jimin had already spoken about the rest of the Eros and shown him pictures, perhaps Jungkook might be open to meeting another one of them—if asked directly, and if given the choice to say no.

The Eros had all agreed immediately. Consent and autonomy were precious, especially for someone who had been stripped of both for so long. If Jungkook said yes, then they would follow his lead.

 

Now, the five of them sat once again in the small clinic waiting room, each trying to manage their nerves in their own way. The morning sunlight filtered weakly through the courtains, casting soft stripes across the tiled floor and the quiet thrum of anxiety that hung in the air.

Jimin and Hoseok sat closest to the door, exchanging quiet glances, their knees bouncing in unison. They seemed like the calmest ones, perhaps because they were the only one who had already met Jungkook. They knew what to expect, even if minimally. Also, they knew they were allowed to go in and see him, while the rest of the Eros was left wondering who would be chosen to finally meet him. If he was actually going to agree. Seokjin watched his Eros with a calm, if tired, gaze. He was the only one who seemed still. His shoulders weren’t tense, and his breath came steady—but it wasn’t indifference. He was just ready. Ready for whatever came next. Even if that was going to be rejection.

Doctor Jung emerged a few moments later, his clipboard pressed lightly to his side. He greeted them with a polite nod. Without a word, he gestured for them all to follow him. They trailed behind him down the familiar hallway. No one else spoke. There was nothing to say.

They watched as the trio reached that door. The one they had all memorised now. The Eros exchanged a couple of private glances, an hopeful, nervous energy could be felt surrounding them.

A pause. Then Hoseok opened it. They stepped inside, disappearing from view. The door closed with a soft click.

Silence followed.

 

###

 

Time seemed suspended. None of them spoke. They just… waited. Every now and then, a faint murmur of sound filtered out from the door—a soft shuffle, the creak of movement—but it was impossible to tell what was happening.

Five minutes passed.

Namjoon kept glancing at the clock. Seokjin folded and unfolded his arms, breathing carefully through his nose.

Ten minutes passed.

Yoongi didn’t even pretend to look calm—he leaned forward on one of the wall-mounted chairs, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the door as if sheer willpower could let him see through it. Taehyung remained still, frozen next to the dom, unable to do anything but try to breath.

Fifteen minutes passed.

Then, without warning, the door eased open. Jimin’s head peeked out, his blond hair slightly mussed. His expression was open—soft.

Without speaking, he lifted his hand and pointed straight at Taehyung. A spark of panic bloomed in his chest the moment Jimin pointed at him.

That gnawing anxiety of not knowing if he’d be good enough, gentle enough, right enough. His heart thudded unevenly as he shifted where he stood, frozen in place. His fingers curled into his pants.

Jimin, still half-in and half-out of the room, turned slightly toward Doctor Jung and gestured subtly, cupping his hands as if to form a bowl. No words were spoken, but it was clear he’d made a request. The doctor gave a short nod and turned briskly toward the hallway, quietly instructing a nearby staff member before disappearing from view.

Taehyung looked instinctively at Seokjin. The eldest had already begun quietly moving toward him. The dom’s presence alone grounded him, but when he reached out and placed a firm, reassuring hand on the back of Taehyung’s neck and squeezed, it was like the world narrowed to that single touch. His gaze softened.

“You can do it, puppy,” he murmured, just loud enough for Taehyung to hear.

Warmth flooded him, the kind that melted something tight and anxious inside him. He nodded once, his throat too tight to answer. And when Seokjin’s hand slipped away, Taehyung stood. Just as he stepped toward Jimin, the staff member returned, carrying a small, steaming bowl of rice, together with a fork. They passed it gently to Jimin, who accepted it with both hands. He nodded once in silent thanks, then stepped aside, gaze landing gently on Taehyung. He smiled at the other switch, hoping to portray as much reassurance as possible.

He walked forward and stepped through the door. He heard the click of it closing shut behind himself.

 

###

 

Jungkook was already watching him. He looked curious, if not scared.

He was curled on the bed, like the other times Hoseok and Jimin visited him, if he remembers correctly. His gaze then shifted to Hoseok and was startled by what he saw. He’s kneeling. Hoseok was kneeling on the floor close to the sub’s bed with his phone in his hand, a picture of Taehyung on the screen.

He squared his shoulders, inhaled softly through his nose, and took a tiny step forward, kneeling as well.

Don’t get too close, said Hoseok.

“I’m Taehyung,” he said gently. His voice was quiet but steady, thick like honey. “But you’ve probably already seen me.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m happy you wanted to see me.”

Jungkook didn’t respond with words. Instead, his hands moved slightly—one tucking close beneath his chin, the other curling against his cheek, as if to shield his face from view. His eyes peeked just above his fingers, wide and uncertain.

He’s shy.

Right now, Jungkook looked more like a startled fawn than a feral creature. Taehyung felt his knees press deeper into the floor, the pull in his chest tightening.

A soft chuckle broke the silence—Hoseok’s, warm and light. “Careful, Tae. If you lean any further you’ll fall straight on your face.”

Taehyung turned to him, startled, before raising an eyebrow. “I can’t help it, hyung. Jungkook’s prettiness is just too much to handle.”

Jimin snorted quietly from behind them, bowl of rice still held in his hands. If Jungkook appeared shy before, now he was positively flustered. Even though a certain pallor remained present on his overall complex, his cheeks turned a cute shade of pink, hiding even more behind his fingers.

Still, Taehyung couldn’t shake the feeling stirring in his chest. He was a Switch—a four. Never really one to take charge, not in the traditional sense. He liked following more than leading, responding more than commanding. But here, kneeling on the floor of this softly lit clinic room, with Jungkook peeking at him from behind his own fingers, everything felt... different.

He wanted to guide.

To support.

To protect.

I could be that for him.

Jimin cleared hi throat, drawing everyone’s attention to himself, “I brought some rice again,” his voice was laced with the same coaxing tone he had used during their last visit.

“Do you want to show Taehyung how brave you are, eating your rice?”

The effect was immediate. The warmth in the room thinned out, replaced by something colder. Jungkook’s eyes dropped, his body curling tighter into itself. The thin hands that had been tucked near his face now shook violently. Colour drained from his features as his shoulders began to shake—barely perceptible, but there. His lower lip trembled, and then came the telltale glint of tears, welling and threatening to fall.

Taehyung’s heart lurched. Panic bloomed in his chest, sharp and fast. He needed to fix this. Anything to fix it. He blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“You know,” he said quickly, “I once dropped an entire bowl of rice down my shirt and I had to ask Hoseok hyung to get the tweezers and take out the grands that got stuck in my bell button.”

Jimin turned his head slowly toward him, blinking. Even Hoseok looked baffled.

But it worked.

Jungkook’s hands stopped shaking so violently. His tearful eyes turned to him, this time confused. He blinked at Taehyung for a long moment.

And then—

A sound.

A giggle. Tiny and shy.

The three of them froze.

Jungkook blinked down at the bowl Jimin still held in his hands. He looked back up at him, then at Taehyung again. His body shifted subtly and began to sit up on the bed, legs folding underneath him.

The room exhaled.

Taehyung felt something bloom quietly in his chest. A fragile kind of victory, small and sacred. He hadn’t meant to say anything so ridiculous, and yet—somehow, it had reached Jungkook. The boy was sitting up now. The switch could see the effort it took to complete that movement. As if it required all his quickly dwindling energy.

Beside him, Jimin shifted slightly. “Can I hand it to you, Jungkook? Would that be okay?” asked Jimin in that hopeful yet calm tone of his.

It wasn’t just a suggestion. It was a step forward. A little tug at the limits of the fragile safety they’d built during their last visit. In reality, Seokjin had told them what Doctor Jung mentioned—Jungkook’s energy were very limited. He didn’t have the strength to standing up for long. His body had grown too weak to carry itself. It was a fact that made Taehyung’s chest ache with helpless fury.

Jungkook hesitated. His eyes dropped to the bowl again, then up at Jimin’s face. There was a flicker of conflict in his expression. But then, he nodded. Jimin didn’t move toward him immediately. Instead, he slid down beside Hoseok, positioning himself at a respectful distance. Slowly, he extended the bowl and the fork, holding both out in open palms, like a quiet offering.

As Jungkook moved to take the offered objects, Taehyung saw it.

Jungkook’s arms, thin as reeds. His wrists looked too delicate, his frame sunken and curled in on itself like a question mark that had never gotten an answer. Taehyung nearly let out a sound—some hybrid of grief and outrage.

This is not fair, he thought.

He swallowed hard.

He didn’t say it aloud. But the thought clung to him like a second skin, heavy and hot. His hands curled into fists on his lap before he forced them open again. He needed to stay soft. For Jungkook. He didn’t need to see the anger that Taehyung was feeling. He had experienced more than enough of that, he thought.

Jungkook took the bowl from Jimin, being careful not to touch the other. He looked down into it for a long moment, as if psyching himself up for what came next. Then—trembling fingers pinching the fork awkwardly—he began to eat. It was hardly eating, not really. Just a few grains of rice at a time, a bite so small it almost didn’t count.

He shakes so much, thought Taehyung.

Everyone was quiet, except for the faint sound of Hoseok’s occasional warm praises.

Taehyung didn’t realize how tight his fists had gotten again until he felt the crescent sting of his nails against his palms. He just wanted to help.

His voice came out too fast, too bright. “Can- can I help you?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Immediately, Jungkook’s entire posture shifted. He curled further in on himself, arms drawing the bowl protectively toward his chest. His body went tense like a wire pulled too tight, eyes wide and distrustful, his mouth pressing into a flat line. One hand came up between himself and Taehyung—to shield.

Taehyung froze.

He hadn’t even moved closer, but Jungkook looked like he was preparing to defend his food tooth and nail.

It wasn’t exactly shocking—Jungkook was clearly still wary of touch, of interaction, of anything unfamiliar—but this...

Why so protective, when he had always seemed to hate eating?

The moment sat strangely in Taehyung’s chest, a small knot of confusion forming alongside the guilt. He tucked the question away for later—something they’d have to ask Doctor Jung about.

Before the tension could fester any further, Hoseok stirred beside Jungkook. He didn’t touch him, just leaned in a little closer, his voice—low, warm—tried to penetrate Jungkook’s foggy brain.

“Hey,” he said placidly, “It’s okay. No one’s going to take it. Taehyung can be a bit too eager at times. We call him our puppy, you know?” he continued, trying to redirect the sub’s attention away from the non-existent threat, “he just wanted to help you, he wasn’t going to take it away from you, I promise. But if you say no, then he’ll understand, no hard feelings.” His tone was steady, calm, practiced. Hoseok was always good at this—bridging the gap between fear and comfort with nothing but words.

Jungkook’s shoulders trembled, but he didn’t retreat further. His hand stayed raised for a moment longer, then slowly dropped. Not relaxed—but less stiff.

He went back to picking at the rice, occasionally looking at Taehyung, as if he to check he wasn’t going to suddenly steal his meal.

Guilt.

That is what Taehyung is feeling inside, an immense amount of guilt that keeps growing in his chest, expanding all over his body.

I shouldn’t have done that- I should have stayed quiet- I should have—

Hoseok turned to him and laid one of his warm hands on top of his fisted one. He squeezed once, with intent. He whispers, “it wasn’t your fault,” only for him to hear. Taehyung exhales shakily. The words settle over him like a blanket, not heavy, but grounding. He needed more—more time, more space, more words. He needed to speak the guilt out loud, to let the ugly things crawl out of him so he could breathe again. But for now, this—this hand over his, this presence—was enough.

My Dom is going to take care of me.

Jungkook didn't finish the bowl, but he ate more. A few shaky spoonfuls at a time, spaced by long pauses where he simply stared at the rice in his lap. No one urged him to go faster. But every grain that made it to his mouth felt like a silent victory they all shared.

They stayed for a little longer.

The three members of Eros eased into soft conversation, letting their voices fill the quiet without overwhelming it. They talked about home, about things that didn’t matter much, just funny and silly stories.

(Jimin mentioned how Hugo ran straight into the table leg again that morning.

“I swear he’s doing it on purpose at this point,” he said with a fond sigh, and that got a little smile from Jungkook. A soft thing. But it’s wider than before.)

Every so often, they tried to loop Jungkook in.

“And you know what happened next?” Hoseok would say, glancing at him with a teasing twinkle in his eyes. Or, “What do you think, Jungkook?” from Taehyung, gentle and without pressure.

Sometimes Jungkook answered. Not often. And not with much—just a word here, maybe two. But each one felt like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. And each time it happened, it made their hearts swell so full it was a wonder they didn't burst.

Eventually, Jungkook began to grow drowsy. His blinks grew slower, his shoulders relaxed, and his grip on the now-empty bowl loosened. The soft haze of sleep started to drape itself over him like a blanket. Another small victory—he had stayed upright longer this time. It didn’t go unnoticed. He laid back down with a quiet sigh, curling onto his side, his face half-buried in the blanket. For a moment, it seemed like he might drift off without a word. But then, just as his eyes began to flutter shut, he whispered the same question he had asked before.

“Come back?”

It was quieter this time. Less desperate, less panicked. Like he was still afraid of the answer—but maybe starting to believe it, too.

Taehyung voice was steady when he answered, even as something warm and tender bloomed deep in his chest. “Of course, Jungkook. As long as you want us, we’ll come back.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into the front pocket of his oversized hoodie, fumbling a little with his trembling fingers until he pulled something out. The bracelet. The same one he had waved with during their last visit. This time, he did it again—lifting his hand slightly, the tiniest wave goodbye.

Hoseok made a quiet, choked sound, barely audible. He looked away, blinking rapidly as he bid the sub goodbye and exited the room, Taehyung and Jimin following suit after saying goodbye as well. 

The door clicked softly shut behind them, and for a moment, none of the Eros moved. The hallway felt almost sacred in its silence, heavy with the fragile tenderness they were carrying.

Seokjin was the first to step forward.

His arms opened without hesitation, and Taehyung found himself pulled into a tight embrace. He didn’t even realise he had been waiting for it until he felt the familiar warmth and steadiness of his hyung's body around him.

“I’m proud of you,” Seokjin murmured against his hair.

“I made a mistake,” he said, voice raw and low, barely more than a breath. “I—I scared him.”

Seokjin pulled back enough to look at him properly, hands cupping either side of his face.

“We’re all bound to make mistakes, Tae. This is new for all of us. But you were there. You stayed. You showed him kindness. That’s what matters. You were good. You were strong.” Taehyung nodded, though the guilt still lingered faintly behind his eyes. But Seokjin’s presence, his words, grounded him. He let himself breathe.

Meanwhile, Namjoon had moved to stand beside Hoseok, while Yoongi approached Jimin. No words of greeting were needed; the questions lived in their expressions.

They started to explain—how it went, what Jungkook had done, said, how he had reacted. Their voices stayed low, private. Their eyes flickered with exhaustion but also with something gentler, quieter: hope.

Their hushed conversation paused as Doctor Jung approached the group, his expression composed but unmistakably warmer than usual. “It seems it went well, I am glad.” He looked between the Eros, nodding with quiet approval. “That’s not a small thing.”

Jimin was the one who stepped forward, his expression soft but bright. “He asked if we’d come back.”

That made Doctor Jung smile,“That’s very good to hear.”

Then, as if suddenly remembering, Jimin added, “There was something else. About the rice. I offered him a bowl like last time, and when Taehyung asked if he could help… Jungkook got defensive. Really defensive. It threw us a little.”

Doctor Jung’s expression sobered, “that…yes, that makes sense. We have reason to believe that, in the place where Jungkook and the other submissives were kept, food wasn’t given regularly. Or in sufficient amounts.”

He continued, his voice even but grave. “It seems they may have had to compete for food. Fend for themselves. Hunger like that… it creates deep survival instincts. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jungkook was forced to fight for food. That kind of experience doesn’t just go away because he’s safe now.” A pause. Then he added, “And let’s not forget—he, like the others were probably in subdrop. That alone scrambles emotional regulation, perception, memory…" He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to.

The weight of it settled into their bones, heavy. But now they knew. And knowing meant they could adjust, adapt, try again—with more care, more awareness.

And that, too, was a kind of progress.

“Nonetheless, you’ve done incredibly well today,” he said, eyes soft behind his glasses. “The shift in Jungkook’s behaviour is noticeable. You’re building something.”

Taehyung exhaled slowly, still holding the warmth of Seokjin’s earlier embrace close. Hoseok gave a quiet nod, his shoulder brushing Jimin’s.

“There’s one more thing,” Doctor Jung added. “According to protocol, each Eros group is allowed three meetings with the sub before a decision needs to be made.”

He let the words settle for a moment. “I didn’t want to register these meetings with Jungkook as official visits. Jungkook himself is not a registered sub open for fostering. I am the head coordinator of this clinic, so most decisions that have to do with the subs’ well-being are made by me. However, we had to share Jungkook’s case with the state’s coordinators, and they have asked me for a report of his situations and if there’s been any progress,” Doctor Jung looks torn, as if he does not want to continue this conversation, “I can’t lie in these reports. I have to tell the truth and say that an Eros has taken interest in Jungkook.”

A pause.

“Which means that we’re required to initiate either the foster application process… or step back. It’s a measure meant to protect the sub—avoid unnecessary attachments if there’s no certainty.”

Jimin frowned gently, chewing on his lower lip.

Doctor Jung continued, “If your intention is to foster, we’d need to begin preparing documentation, psychological assessments, household checks… everything the state requires.”

Namjoon’s fingers curled slightly. This is going too quickly.

For them, yes.

But also for Jungkook.

Everyone remained silent for a few moments, suddenly feeling overwhelmed.

It was Seokjin who finally broke the silence.

“We’ll need to discuss this,” he said calmly, but with the unmistakable weight of authority. “As an Eros. This is a big decision.”

“What?” Jimin started, his voice rising before he could stop it. “Why? We should agree now! We told you he—”

“No,” Seokjin cut in, firm but not harsh. He turned to Jimin, gaze steady. “This isn’t something we decide on a whim, Jimin.” His tone didn’t invite debate.

Jimin deflated a little, lips pressing into a thin line, his brows still furrowed with emotion. But he said nothing more.

Instead, the room quieted again. The word foster hung between them all like a held breath.

Taehyung found himself looking down at his lap, fingers toying with the fabric of his pants. Hoseok exhaled slowly beside him.

Seokjin turned back to the doctor, “how long do we have to decide?”

The doctor hesitated, clearly not pleased with the answer he had to give. “Twenty-four hours,” he said. “Regrettably. After that… according to protocol you wouldn’t be allowed to visit again.”

A soft, choked sob broke through the stillness. Jimin turned abruptly, burying his face in Yoongi’s chest. The elder didn’t say a word—just wrapped his arms around him and held him close, fingers weaving into his hair.

Seokjin nodded once, the movement tight and controlled. “I’ll call tomorrow with our decision.”

“Thank you,” Doctor Jung said gently, giving them all a small bow before leading them down the hall, footsteps echoing faintly. At the clinic’s front door, he bid them goodbye with a final nod, then turned back the way he came—disappearing down the corridor like a shadow retreating from the light.

Outside, the air felt colder than it had been earlier. They had come here with a sense of purpose, of hope.

Now, as they stood on the clinic’s steps beneath the dull sky, all that clarity was gone—

Dozens of questions swarmed them, leaving them breathless.

Feeling lost has never felt more stifling.

 

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Notes:

Hello hello :)
First of all, I am so so sorry I was absent for this long :(
BUT!!! I finally finished my internship! 750 hours DONE baby, I was sick and tired of that shit.

And that means I will have more time to write!
So, again, I am sorry, and I hope you will still want to read this!

On to the chapter, this one is a big boy :) A lot happens here, so brace yourself ihih

ALSO WARNING AND POSSIBLE SPOILER
There is a scene in which Jin gives a quick spanking to Jimin without explicitly saying he was going to do so, but Jin felt it was needed to settle Jimin. I want to say this because technically consent isn't given prior to it, but in this universe and in their dynamic it is normal and in no way seen as abusive.

I hope that makes sense! But, as always, let me know if you want a summary instead of reading the chapter!

on to:
POSSIBLE WARNINGS
- eating disorder reference
- self hard (scratching and choking)
- mention of panic attack

I hope that is everything!
As always, I cannot thank you enough for all your support and all the nice comments and kudos you are giving to this fic. I still cannot wrap my head around it.

Luv ya all :)

Enjoy!!!!

The night had settled in thick, leaving an eerie stillness in the air. The rest of the Eros had remained hundled in the living room since they came home from the clinic that afternoon, but Jimin remained locked away in his studio.

He hadn’t spoken much since they returned from the clinic, his anger simmering beneath his skin. Namjoon and Hoseok stood on the other side of the door, exchanging silent glances, their concern growing with every passing minute.

"Jimin ah, come on, open the door," Namjoon’s voice was low but steady, the frustration seeping into his tone, but still trying to keep the peace. "We can’t fix this if you don’t let us in."

Hoseok joined in, his voice softer, gentler. "We understand you're upset, but we can’t just leave things like this. We need to make a decision together."

There was silence from the other side of the door, the only sound being the faint creak of the floorboards. Jimin hadn’t responded. Namjoon and Hoseok waited, their patience thinning but not breaking. The tension in the air was thick, the doms feeling a bit helpless after numerous attempts at trying to make Jimin understand that behaving like this was counterproductive.

That’s when Seokjin appeared. He had been giving Jimin space, respecting his need for time, but this brooding silence had gone on long enough. He approached the door with quiet steps, his presence commanding but not angry. He exchanged a quiet meaningful look with the other two doms, as if saying ‘you did good, let me handle it now’. With a nod and a quick kiss, Hoseok and Namjoon retreated back to the living room, living Seokjin to deal with a very angry switch.

He knocked once before speaking softly, knowing Jimin could hear him. "Jimin, you’ve had enough time to be angry. We need to discuss this as an Eros, not just as individuals."

There was a pause, and then a faint sound from inside, Jimin's muffled voice, too quiet to make out the words.

Seokjin took a breath and he leaned in closer to the door, his tone serious. "I know you think I am being mean, but my top priority is the Eros. Your safety and well-being. Everything else comes after. I understand you formed a connection with Jungkook, but you need to—"

The door suddenly swung open with a loud creak.

“What I need,” Jimin snapped, eyes blazing, “is for Jungkook to be safe. To feel protected!” His chest heaved with the weight of his anger. “You didn’t see him, hyung. You weren’t in the room! You didn’t see the way he looked at me—like he needed me. Like we could be the first good thing in his life!” His voice cracked slightly at the edges.

Seokjin didn’t interrupt, letting Jimin continue expressing his angry thoughts.

“You don’t understand. You couldn’t,” Jimin added, bypassing the dom and storming off down the hallway. “I swear, you doms can be so stupid some—!”

Seokjin stepped forward swiftly, grabbed Jimin’s wrist with practiced ease, and spun the switch back toward him. Four firm swats landed in rapid succession—sharp enough to make Jimin gasp, more from surprise than pain.

Jimin quietened all at once.

“That’s quite enough,” Seokjin said, voice low and commanding. “I understand anger and I understanding having to vent. But I won’t tolerate insults being thrown around like this.”

All of Jimin’s fight bled from him. He couldn’t help but slump against the dom, not having realised how much that anger was affecting him, suddenly feeling exhausted. Seokjin sustained his weight with ease, still keeping an attentive eye on his facial expressions, not wanting him to go into shock. Slowly, he adjusted his grip on Jimin’s wrist, taking the other one in his big hand and secured them behind the switch’s back. Jimin’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

After a minute, all the remaining tension that was still present in Jimin’s body disappeared, his knees gave out and his head started to drop backwards. Seokjin quickly placed a hand behind his head and scooped the switch up in one swift motion, holding him closed to his chest.

“There you go, good boy,”

Jimin let out a soft, broken whine against Seokjin’s chest, muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

“Shhh, I got you,” Seokjin murmured, voice a calming anchor in the quiet hallway. He shifted his grip slightly, cradling Jimin closer. “You just needed a good settling, mh? That’s all. I’m not mad at you, Jiminie.”

He began walking down the corridor at a steady pace, making his way towards the living room.

“We’re a team, remember?” he said quietly, “Like we’ve always been. And we’re going to make this decision the same way we’ve made everything else—together.”

Jimin didn’t answer, but Seokjin felt the subtle way he curled in closer, the tiniest nod brushing against his collarbone.

“All emotions are valid,” Seokjin continued, his tone a little firmer now, though still wrapped in warmth. “We’re allowed to be scared, or angry, or protective. But if we decide to foster, we need to be sure. Not just for us, but for Jungkook. He needs stability. A family that’s strong enough to hold him until he learns how to hold himself.”

He glanced down at Jimin’s face, noting the slow, steadying breaths, the loosened tension along his brow.

“And we are strong enough,” Seokjin said, having reached the living room, “but only if we act like it.”

The room was quiet.

Taehyung sat curled up next to Yoongi on the long couch, his legs tucked beneath him, one of Yoongi’s arms lazily slung across his shoulders. His head rested on the older man’s chest, and Yoongi’s fingers traced idle patterns along his arm—small, grounding motions. Across from them, on the opposite couch, Namjoon sat with his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His gaze was unfocused, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the walls. By the wide living room window, Hoseok stood with his back half-turned to the group. One hand hung limply at his side, the other rested on Hugo’s head, stroking slowly, rhythmically. The greyhound pressed into his touch with gentle trust, as if sensing the subtle strain in his human’s posture.

No one spoke for a moment. Seokjin stood in the middle of it all, Jimin still nestled in his arms, and for a second the only sound was the soft hum of the evening—low breaths, the rustle of clothes, the occasional thump of Hugo’s tail against the floor.

Seokjin moved toward the empty couch adjacent to the one where Yoongi, Taehyung, and Namjoon sat. He settled down carefully, easing Jimin into his lap without breaking the fragile calm that had settled over the room.

His gaze drifted to the window, “Hoseok ah,” he called gently.

The man turned his head slowly. Seokjin gave a small tilt of his chin, a silent invitation. Without a word, Hoseok padded over. He sank to the floor by Seokjin’s legs, his back resting against the couch. Hugo followed him curling into a crescent near his feet. Seokjin reached down and carded his fingers through Hoseok’s hair, slow and rhythmic. The other dom closed his eyes at the touch, the tension in his shoulders starting to melt under the familiar comfort.

Across the room, Yoongi gave Taehyung’s arm a gentle squeeze. Namjoon blinked himself back into the present and shifted slightly, his eyes meeting Seokjin’s.

“So, everyone gets a turn to speak and express their opinions. Without interruptions, we listen and keep an open mind,” said Seokjin. He felt a bit like a teacher sometimes, but if that is what was needed, then so be it.

A beat passed before Namjoon cleared his throat.

“I haven’t met him yet,” he began, fingers steepled in front of his chest. “And I know that means I’m missing a part of the picture. But from what Hoseok and Jimin described—and Tae too—I think it’s safe to say this won’t be easy,” he glanced around at the others. “But difficulty doesn’t scare me. Not if it means we’re doing something meaningful.”

Namjoon’s brow furrowed in thought, eyes flicking toward the floor as he organized his words. “Subs with that level of trauma need a consistent environment—safe, responsive, and low-stimulus. Establishing a structured bond is crucial in the early stages of rehabilitation. I think it will be a lot of work, but we could provide that for him.”

The others smiled fondly at the last part. Typical Namjoon memorising the important bits of his many psychology books. Namjoon seemed to not realise he was doing it, and continued, “I feel secure in my role. As a dom, and as part of this Eros. I think we can do this. I think I can do this. For Jungkook.”

After Namjoon’s words, Hoseok let out a slow breath and shifted slightly, sitting up straighter.

“I…” Hoseok began, then paused. “I had the privilege of meeting Jungkook,” his voice was softer than usual, his usual brightness dimmed to something gentler, reverent almost. His lips were pursed as he tried to find the right words.

“And it’s hard,” he admitted. “It’s really hard not to get attached.”

Jimin let out a small exhale against Seokjin’s shoulder, quiet but listening.

“I don’t know how to explain it. There’s this… pull. Like something inside you just knows he needs care. That he hasn’t had it, not really. And it makes you want to give everything. To protect him and nurture.”

He swallowed hard, eyes blinking a bit too fast. “And gosh—when he smiled,” he said, smiling himself now, albeit sadly. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

There was a pause, the weight of his feelings settling between them. “I agree with Namjoon,” Hoseok continued, steadier now. “I would like to take him in. I want us to. I think… I think we can give him what he hasn’t had in a long time. And I know I—we can provide. For him.”

Seokjin’s fingers tugged gently on Hoseok’s hair, a silent thank you for sharing.

There was a small silence, then, Taehyung sighed audibly.

“Well,” he said, dramatically, “you all already know I get attached to the dogs we meet when we take Hugo to the park and I cry when we have to leave. This… I mean is not similar, but kind of?”

A few chuckles rippled through the room. Even Jimin let out a tiny huff of amusement against Seokjin’s shoulder.

Taehyung smiled faintly, then tilted his head, more serious now. “I don’t usually feel like I need to provide for somebody else. Not as a Four. Usually, I am the one who gets taken care of, not the other way around. But with him…” He trailed off for a second, eyes unfocused.

“I don’t know. I just wanted to sit beside him, brush his hair out of his face, make sure he knew he wasn’t alone anymore. I wanted to stay.”

“I want to hear his voice again,” Taehyung continued. “To see him eat more. To see him out of that godforsaken subdrop and actually meet him. Truly meet him.”

He looked up, face open and vulnerable. “I want to see who Jungkook is… when he’s safe.”

Yoongi cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention on him, “I don’t have much to add, really,” he said, voice low but clear. “Just… I agree.”

He glanced at each of them in turn. “I think we should foster him. I think we can.”

There was a brief silence. Then, from where he still rested in Seokjin’s arms, Jimin’s voice rose—quiet, but certain. “You have all probably already figured out how I feel about fostering Jungkook.”

Nobody interrupted him, and Jimin slowly opened his eyes, feeling a bit fuzzy still, but present in the moment.

“As Jin hyung said,” he began, a little sheepishly, “mistakes are… inevitable.”

Seokjin softly squeezed him closer, “but we’ve always found a way to work through them. We’ve always had each other.”

He shifted slightly, curling his fingers in the fabric of Seokjin’s sweater. “I want Jungkook to be with us. I want him to have that. Us.”

A soft breath. “I feel ready. And I think… I think Jungkook would want to, too.”

One by one, their eyes turned to Seokjin.

The room had quieted, weighted by all the words spoken—and the ones still lingering in the air.

Seokjin took a long, steady breath in. His gaze swept over each of them: Hoseok still seated at his feet, Yoongi and Taehyung curled together, Namjoon with that thoughtful frown tugging between his brows, and Jimin warm and pliant in his arms.

He exhaled slowly.

 

###

 

 

Around midday, Seokjin stood in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear as sunlight crept softly across the tiled floor. The others moved quietly around him, waiting.

“Doctor Jung, hello,” he said once the line picked up, his voice firm, unwavering.

“Seokjin-ssi,” Doctor Jung greeted, polite as always. “Hello. It’s nice hearing from you. I take it you’ve made your decision?”

A pause.

“Yes, we have,” he looked one last time at his partners, checking for the final time that they were sure about their decision. All he received was nods of consent, trepidation clear in the air.

“We’d like to go forward with the fostering process.”

Doctor Jung hummed, not really giving away his true reaction.

“We’re ready to begin all the necessary checks. Documentation, household assessments… everything you need.”

There was a brief pause on the line before Doctor Jung replied, “Very well,” his tone remained measured, but Seokjin could detect a faint thread of warmth beneath it, “I’m glad we’ll be collaborating more closely in the future,” he added. “I’ll begin preparing the necessary paperwork today. A request for the first state-mandated household check will be submitted this afternoon.”

Seokjin nodded to himself, already mentally organizing the next few days.

“I will also need all of you to return to the clinic as soon as your schedules allow,” Doctor Jung continued. “There is a required document we’ll need to complete that can only be filled in the presence of a clinic’s doctor—a Compatibility and Care Aptitude Form. It’s similar to the baseline questionnaires you each filled out at eighteen when you first present, but tailored specifically for potential foster dynamics involving subs in trauma recovery.”

Seokjin hummed. “Understood. I’ll ask when the others will all be available and we’ll come in together.”

“Thank you,” Doctor Jung said, and Seokjin could hear genuine appreciation in it. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

“We will,” Seokjin echoed, “Thank you, Doctor.”

They bid each other goodbye and, as soon as the call ended, the kitchen erupted in a quiet but lively flurry of excitement. Hugs and kisses were exchanged and they immediately pulled their phones out to see when they will next be available to all go into the clinic again.

Taehyung suddenly gasped, eyes wide as he clutched at Yoongi’s sleeve. “Wait—we didn’t ask when we can see Jungkook next!”

“I’ll ask,” Seokjin said, voice steady. “As soon as we figure out when we’re going back to the clinic, I’ll call Doctor Jung again. I’ll ask about the next visit—and if they’ll allow another member of the Eros to meet him, too.”

Taehyung, content with the reply, returned to look at his phone, his calendar pulled up.

Seokjin could see they were all buzzing with barely contained energy, eager to start this new chapter. It shocked him, deeply, how just a couple of weeks ago they were thinking about going to yet another of those boring parties and pretend they would find somebody they could potentially build a life with.

Now, it feels as if they were finally building something real. Concrete.
A home where someone like Jungkook could feel safe.
Where he could stay.

 

 

###

 

 

A week passed in a blur of anticipation and mounting nerves.

The first house check had taken place on Monday, and it had been nothing short of torturous.
The dom sent by the state had been cold and unreadable, his expression fixed in a tight line as he silently stalked through the Eros' home, scribbling notes on a clipboard with unnerving precision.
He didn’t offer a single comment—neither about the house’s safety, nor the dynamic of the Eros themselves. Only the steady scratch of his pen filled the silence, and it was enough to drive Hoseok up the wall as he kept trying to read him.

Namjoon had to settle Taehyung twice—once when he nearly spilled a drink trying to “casually” peek over the dom’s shoulder, and again when he started nervously rearranging the framed photos on the wall for the fifth time.

By the end of the visit, they had been told, without any particular warmth, that they were approved for a second check, to take place just before the sub came to live with them.
Nothing to worry about, technically. But still—the experience had left them all a little on edge.

 

Some warmth had come from elsewhere, though.

They had visited Jungkook again during that same week—this time with Namjoon finally being introduced, after Jungkook pointed at a picture of his, displayed on Hoseok’s phone.
Nothing particularly new had happened—if such a word even applied to any of this—but it had been clear that having two doms in the room made Jungkook nervous. Or better said, more nervous than normal.
Namjoon had kept his posture relaxed, seated quietly near the door, ("Kinda like corner time, hyung," Jimin had whispered with a grin.)

It helped a little bit—Jungkook didn’t seem to feel as crowded, though he kept a wary eye on Namjoon the entire time, and let out frightened little whines whenever he changed position too abruptly.

Still, there had been progress.

He ate a bit more than last time—some rice and a few pieces of steamed vegetables. And when Taehyung and Jimin casually mentioned their habit of singing together to wind down, Jungkook had looked up with wide, curious eyes and asked—barely more than a whisper—if he could hear some.

So they had spent the rest of the visit with music playing softly from Hoseok’s phone, the switches harmonizing together with quiet grace, filling the sterile clinic room with a warmth that no clipboard could measure.

 

 

###

 

 

It was a quiet Thursday night.

It was late already, nearly 11pm. Tomorrow, after work, they would go into the clinic to complete the Compatibility and Care Aptitude Form and, if there was enough time, meet Jungkook for a quick visit.

Namjoon laid stretched across the bed, glasses perched low on his nose as he flipped through the final chapters of a thick paperback. From the ensuite, the faint sound of running water and the gentle hum of Hoseok’s voice drifted through the open door.

Somewhere down the hall, Taehyung was unwinding from a long day on set. The gentle chime of a cozy farming simulator came from the gaming room, its ambient soundtrack accompanied by the occasional muffled laugh when something went wrong on-screen.

Yoongi and Jimin where in the scene room, both needing to enter their respective headspaces for a few hours.

At the vanity in the bedroom, Seokjin dabbed the final touches of serum onto his cheeks, his head wrapped in a fluffy white headband with bear ears. His silk pajamas matched—blue with tiny stars scattered across them—and he admired the glow of his skin in the soft light, giving himself an approving little nod.

The whole house buzzed with a kind of content stillness.

Until Seokjin’s phone rang.

Namjoon looked up instantly from his book, “Who’s that? I swear if that is work I’ll chuck it out the window, hyung,” he murmured, looking back at his book.

Seokjin snorted, “Oh love, us super stars need to be always available, you know that,” he wiped his hands quickly on his trousers, then reached for the phone, eyebrows furrowed.

He looked at the caller, a surge of anxiety enveloping him.

“it’s Doctor Jung,” he said, voice calm but tight with anticipation. Immediately Namjoon put down his book, sitting up and turning his body towards Seokjin seated figure.

“What? At this hour?” he asked, not really sure how to reply.

Seokjin looked at the screen for another second, before answering the call, “good evening Doctor, is everything okay?”

The voice on the other end was tight. Clipped. Rushed.

“Seokjin-ssi, I know it’s late, and I apologize, but this is an emergency.”

Seokjin’s heart dropped. “What happened?”

“Jungkook had a meltdown,” Doctor Jung said, his words tumbling fast now, “A really bad one. He hasn’t had something like this since his intake.”

Seokjin’s breath caught, his fingers tightening around the phone.

“We’ve been working on gently transitioning him to more communal routines—introducing small changes gradually. Nothing reckless, I assure you. Just… the cafeteria. Tonight, we tried serving his dinner there instead of in his room. No other guests were present. Just one nurse and a staff member he’s grown familiar with.”

He paused, just long enough for Seokjin to hear the strain in his exhale.

“The commute from his room to the cafeteria went well. He was responsive, even curious.”

Seokjin’s chest ached at the image, “but then, once he sat down and we placed the tray in front of him—just rice, steamed vegetables, and some meat, nothing he hasn’t eaten before—he started crying. Inconsolably.”

Doctor Jung’s voice cracked slightly, barely. “He begged the staff member not to make him eat. Kept saying it over and over. It’s the most he’s spoken since arriving.”

The doctor inhaled sharply on the other end of the line before continuing, barely pausing between sentences, “he quickly got agitated. His breathing grew shallow—clear signs of a panic attack. Our nurses and staff are trained for these situations; this isn’t unfamiliar territory for us. But then—”

There was a pause, but Doctor Jung managed to continue.

“He suddenly stood up and bolted. Wedged himself between the utensils cabinet and the wall. He began to scratch and claw at his neck.”

Seokjin closed his eyes briefly, gripping the phone tighter.

“It’s not the first time he’s displayed this behaviour,” Doctor Jung said quickly, anticipating the question, “and I’ll go into more detail later, I promise. But this time… it escalated. It almost looked like he was trying to choke himself.”

Seokjin’s blood ran cold.

“A doctor nearby was alerted immediately. He tried speaking to him from a distance. But every time someone so much as shifted forward, Jungkook would scream—hysterically—and the scratching, the choking, would worsen.”

Doctor Jung exhaled shakily, “he started turning blue in the face. He was making himself bleed. We had no choice. We had to intervene.”

Seokjin briefly looked at Namjoon, who stood frozen. He couldn't hear what Doctor Jung was saying, but he understood that something serious happened. From the bathroom, they heard the water shutting off, Hoseok still humming his tune, oblivious of what was going on in the bedroom.

Doctor Jung sighed, as if the adrenaline of what happened was starting to dissipate just now.

His voice, though steadier, carried the weight of the decision he had made, “I was called in immediately. When I saw how far gone he was—how severe the reaction had become—I made the call to sedate him. It’s something we rarely do. We try to avoid taking away any more of his agency than what’s already been stripped from him… but in that moment, he couldn’t make that choice for himself. He was too far under.”

There was a silence then—heavy, loaded.

Seokjin finally found his voice, quiet but firm. “Where is he now?”

“In a room designed for such episodes, We have a separate room, one specifically meant for situations like this. For subs who’ve been sedated, or have gone into shock,” Doctor Jung replied gently. “Sleeping. The sedation has taken full effect. We managed to clean and disinfect the wounds on his neck and put bandages on as well. For safety protocol, we put clinical mittens on him,” he added, voice softer. “We have to leave them on for at least 6 hours, as to avoid the risk of him hurting himself if he panics again.”

Seokjin swallowed, the weight of it all settling deep in his chest. “What can we do?”

Doctor Jung hesitated for a moment, his voice coming quieter now. “Right now… not much. He’s sedated. The medication should wear off in about six hours. However…”

There was a rustle of movement on the other end of the line, as if the doctor was glancing over notes or a clock, “I would like—I would like for the Eros—those he’s already met—to be here when he wakes.”

He cleared his throat lightly. “I know it’s late. But I’d ask you to come in at around 4:30 a.m., just to be safe. He might wake earlier than expected, we don’t know.”

Another pause, then: “Frankly speaking, Seokjin-ssi… I don’t know what’s best for Jungkook at the moment. But he’s responded well to your Eros. Maybe your presence will help him in some way.”

There was a pause on Seokjin’s end. Long enough for Doctor Jung to softly call his name again.

“I…” Seokjin started, then stopped. His voice, usually composed and decisive, caught somewhere in his throat. “I don’t—”

“What’s going on?” Namjoon’s voice cut through the quiet, low but urgent. He had already stood from the bed, book forgotten, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose.

Seokjin lifted a hand, palm half-raised toward the phone. “Doctor, one moment.”

He lowered the device, muting it, and looked at Namjoon. His expression was grave, eyes dark with worry. “It’s Jungkook,” he said quietly. “He had a meltdown. Bad one. They had to sedate him.”

Namjoon’s brows pulled together instantly. “Is he okay now?”

Seokjin nodded faintly. “Sleeping. But Doctor Jung wants us to be there when he wakes. Around 4:30. Says it might help.”

Namjoon didn’t hesitate. “Then we’ll go. Of course we’ll go.”

Seokjin blinked at him. Just for a moment. Then he nodded, clutching the phone a little tighter in his hand. “Jimin and Yoongi…” he murmured, glancing down the hall, “they won’t be able to come. They will still be spacing.”

“We’ll manage without them,” Namjoon said gently but firmly. “They’ll be notified, but they stay home. For their safety.”

Seokjin drew in a breath, slow and deep, then unmuted the phone. “We’ll be there, Doctor Jung. At 4:30.”

 

###

 

 

Jimin hadn’t taken the news well.

He nearly threw a fit, voice trembling with frustration, eyes wide and shining, still deep in subspace, dangerously close to panic. It had taken nearly an hour to convince him to stay home with Yoongi, their whispered reassurances and constant reminders that they will do their best to help Jungkook finally allowed him to relent.

Yoongi had been quieter. He laid on the big bed in the scene room, holding Jimin close to his chest, and simply nodded. “Just… let us know everything. As soon as you can.”

 

Now, five minutes to 4:30 a.m., the four Eros stood in a narrow room, quiet and still, facing the one-way mirror.

On the other side, Jungkook lay curled on a plain bed. The room was bare—just a high window, some folded blankets on a metal chair, and the mattress tucked into the corner. A deliberate lack of stimuli, Doctor Jung had explained. For subs in such states, less was more.

The boy looked so small. From beneath the heavy duvet, only the upper half of his face was visible—pale skin, lashes like faint shadows on his cheeks. His neck was swathed in clean, white bandages, and one hand had slipped free of the covers, resting gently atop the sheets. The soft cream-colored clinical mittens wrapped around it a reminder of what happened just a few hours prior.

The air in the observation room was stifling, filled with drawers full of emergency tools, and the sharp scent of antiseptic. Yet none of the Eros moved. Their gazes were fixed, unwavering, on the figure behind the glass. Namjoon’s arms were crossed, brows pinched in a heavy frown. Hoseok stood next to him, his arm curled around Taehyung’s hip, holding on like a lifeline. Seokjin kept stealing glances between the boy and the doctor, waiting—hoping—for a cue.

“We thought Hoseok-ssi and Taehyung-ssi could go in as soon as he stirs. Even though he has met Namjoon-ssi before, it might be too risky to have two doms in the room with him,” Doctor Jung said quietly, his voice a calm contrast to the tension in the room. “He might not recognise you immediately. Or he might panic. But we’ll be right here.”

No one answered for a second. Seokjin turned to Hoseok and Taehyung, his brows drawn tight, worry flickering in his eyes. “Are you sure about this? I know we want to help Jungkook, but…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Because even as he glanced through the glass at the boy in the bed—so fragile, so still—his heart tugged toward the two men standing beside him.

Hoseok, who’d been humming in the shower less than six hours ago, now radiated tension like a live wire. Taehyung, who had barely spoken since they arrived, looked like a breath would shatter him. And guilt bloomed deep in Seokjin’s chest, shameful and hot. Jungkook needed them. That wasn’t a question. He was hurting, and he needed someone to anchor him back to the world.

But Seokjin had loved these men for years. He had nursed Hoseok through anxiety attacks that left him shaking and silent for days. He had held Taehyung through accidental subdrops, quiet sobs after overstimulation the left his nerves fried and raw. The thought of watching them get pulled under by Jungkook’s pain… It made something in him recoil.

And that—that instinct to protect them first, even now—made his throat tighten. He loved Jungkook, in some way. Maybe not like he loved his partners. Not yet. But the boy was important. His presence had started to take up space in Seokjin’s mind. Still, the idea of seeing Hoseok crack, or Taehyung break inside that room, was almost too much.

“I’m sorry,” Seokjin said suddenly, voice low, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s just—he’s not the only one I worry about.”

Hoseok glanced sideways, his expression softening. “I know, hyung.”

“We’re not going in unprepared,” Taehyung added, finally speaking. “And he doesn’t need us to be perfect. Just to be there.”

Seokjin let out a long breath, nodding slowly, eyes flicking back to the sleeping figure behind the glass.

Maybe it wasn’t about choosing who to protect.

Maybe it was about trusting that they could all hold each other up.

 

 

###

 

 

About half an hour later, the stillness in the observation room shifted.
It was subtle at first—a twitch beneath the thick duvet, a flutter of lashes. But then Jungkook stirred, a small, broken sound leaving his throat as he began to move.

“He’s waking,” one of the nurses whispered. Doctor Jung  turned to Hoseok and Taehyung. “You can go in.”

Without a word, the two Eros stepped through the side door, the click of it barely audible. Inside the room, the air was noticeably cooler, quieter. The low light that illuminated the room cast a warm glow around them. They moved slowly, quietly approaching the bed, stopping in the middle of the room and leaving a respectful distance from the bed.

“Let’s sit on the floor,” Hoseok whispered, glancing at Taehyung. Taehyung nodded right away, already lowering himself. The cold tiles pressed against them through their clothes. Hoseok settled beside him, legs crossed, hands loose in his lap.

And just as they did, Jungkook’s eyes groggily opened. Slow, bleary, unfocused at first—but then sharp with recognition as they landed on the two figures sitting quietly across the room.

He sat up so fast the duvet tumbled off his chest.

“Jungkook—hey, hey—easy,” Hoseok said softly, one hand instinctively lifting but not reaching out. “It’s okay.”

The boy was swaying where he sat, his balance thrown off by the lingering sedative in his system. His hands—mittened, restricted—flinched at his sides as if they wanted to brace him but couldn’t. As soon as he realised his hands were wrapped around the thick padding he let out a panicked wail and started to try and take them off, failing miserably.

“No, no Jungkook, listen. It’s me, Hoseok and Taehyung,” Hoseok fretfully said, trying to stop the sub from trying to take off the mittens and hurt himself even further.

Jungkook stopped for a second and looked back at them, confusion still clear in his eyes.

“I gave you the bracelet. Do you remember? And-and you saw Hugo, our dog. We’re here to help you. You hurt yourself pretty badly and the mittens are there to protect you.” He finished in one breath, trying to not let the panic he was feeling seep in his tone.

The sub seemed to start remembering who they were, but he still looked around the room, not recognising his surroundings. His shoulders hunched as he sat upright, eyes wide, the thin hospital shirt he was changed to slipping off one shoulder. His breath hitched, shaky and fast, and the moment his gaze darted toward the door—then to the one-way mirror—his lips parted.

“W-where…” he mumbled, voice hoarse. His eyes flicked to Hoseok and Taehyung, panicked and not quite seeing.

Hoseok didn’t move, just kept his voice soft and steady. “You’re at the clinic, Jungkook. We are in a… special room. They had to sedate you because you were hurting yourself.” Taehyung replied, trying to keep his voice comforting.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed as he blinked rapidly, eyes filling with a kind of blurry fear. He opened his mouth again but couldn’t seem to find the words.

“You’re safe now,” Hoseok continued, still calm, his posture open and unthreatening. “Nothing’s going to happen here. No one’s going to touch you.”

Taehyung nodded, offering a faint smile, though his heart was thudding loudly in his chest.

“Your body feels a little strange, doesn’t it? It’s because of the sedative. It should wear off in a bit,” assured Hoseok.

Jungkook’s breath caught, and he looked down at his hands, bound in the soft cream-colored mittens. He didn’t try to take them off again, but his shoulders curled inward like a wounded animal. His lips trembled, and he sniffled once, barely audible. He didn't cry—he just sat there, caught between the remnants of panic and the fog of sedation, unable to quite understand how he got from then to now.

“You’re safe,” Taehyung whispered again, like a mantra.

And the three of them stayed like that for a moment—two men on the floor, open-hearted and unmoving, and one trembling boy on a too-white bed, trying to piece himself back together.

Jungkook’s eyes darted around the unfamiliar room, seeming to calm down. His voice was a hoarse whisper, barely formed around the dryness in his throat.

“P-punishment?”

Both Hoseok and Taehyung tensed, something cold sinking in their chests at the question. Hoseok shook his head quickly, his tone gentle but firm.

“No, no, baby. It’s not punishment, I swear.” Hoseok quickly reassured, not even realising the slipping of the pet name.
Taehyung was already echoing the sentiment, his voice barely above a breath, “you got scared. That’s all. These things—” he gestured subtly toward the bandages and mittens, “—they're just here to help you. So you wouldn’t hurt yourself more.”

Jungkook blinked at them, glassy eyes unfocused for a second before lowering to his hands. The bulky cream-colored mittens sat heavy against the stark white sheets. His lips parted, almost like he wanted to ask more—but instead, he said just one word.
A single, quiet, broken word.

“Don't deserve.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even directed at them.

It was a verdict.

Taehyung’s heart cracked at the sound of that word. The way Jungkook said it—small, defeated, like it was carved from the deepest part of him—cut sharper than anything else. He glanced briefly at Hoseok, who looked equally shaken, then shuffled a bit closer, still keeping a careful distance.

His voice came out steady, low and warm, but firm, certain in what he was saying.

“Jungkook,” he said, “listen to me. Please.”

Jungkook’s eyes flickered to him, uncertain and glassy, but he was listening.

“This is in no way your fault.” Taehyung’s tone didn’t leave room for argument—not harsh, just… certain. Soft and certain.

“You felt panic. That happens. You were scared, and that’s okay. Being scared doesn’t make you bad. It doesn’t make you wrong. Nobody is blaming you—not us, not the nurses, not the doctors.”

He reached out just a little, his hand resting on the floor between them, a silent offer of presence.

“They… we,” he corrected, gently, “we want to help you. That’s all. Not punish you. Not judge you. Just help, okay?” He let the words settle between them, slow and careful like you’d place fragile glass.

Jungkook stayed quiet for a moment, gaze lowered, like he was trying to stitch Taehyung’s words together in his mind, to make them hold. His brows knit faintly, and then, almost too softly to hear, he murmured: “Y-you’re… not scared?”

His voice cracked around the edges, thin and fraying. They felt it immediately, the weight of what he meant.

Not scared of what happened.
Scared of me.

Before the silence could grow heavy, Hoseok spoke, his voice wrapping around the moment like silk, “no, Jungkook. No.” He shook his head gently. “We’re not scared of you.”

Jungkook looked at him then, eyes wide.

“What happened… it was scary, yes,” Hoseok admitted softly, “but because we care. Because we don’t want to see you hurt—not like that.” He paused, careful. “Never because of you.”

He let the words land slow, each one chosen like a balm.

“You are not something to be afraid of.”

 

On the other side of the one-way mirror, the room was silent, everyone watching with bated breath.

Jungkook’s faint voice, though muffled by the glass, was just loud enough to be heard. His posture, the trembling of his shoulders, the way he looked directly at Hoseok and Taehyung—it felt like something had shifted.

Doctor Jung was the first to speak, his voice quiet, as if afraid to break the delicate atmosphere.

“I’ve never seen him so… responsive,” he said, a note of awe slipping into his tone. “So conscious of himself.”

Namjoon’s arms were folded, but his posture had softened. His gaze was steady, locked on the boy on the other side of the glass. A slow breath escaped his lips, something almost like pride flickering in his expression.

“They’re getting through to him,” he murmured.

Beside him, Seokjin remained silent. He stood straight, arms tight against his sides, lips parted slightly but not speaking. There was something conflicted in his expression—relief and fear, pride and guilt—all tangled into one unreadable look. He didn’t quite know how to name what he felt, or if there were words big enough to hold it.

So instead, he just watched. Eyes fixed on the fragile progress playing out before them. On the boy who had looked them in the eye and asked if they were afraid.

They weren’t. He wasn’t.

He was sure of it, but he couldn’t help but feel a tiny sense of fear nonetheless. This was a clinic, there were trained people here that knew how to handle these things. They had special rooms and sedatives, safety mittens and bandages.

This, this panicking and getting overwhelmed could happen at home. Will happen, he was bound to feel fear again.

He wondered, not for the first time, if they were truly ready to handle such a fragile situation.

How could he not wonder?

It’s easy to want to help, to want to be good, to care. But when the shaking starts, when the tears fall and words like “punishment” and “deserve” crawl out from a mouth too young to sound so hollow—what then?

He watched Jungkook now, eyes blinking sluggishly, still fogged from the sedative. And yet he’s speaking. Asking questions. Hearing answers. That alone feels like a miracle.

Seokjin swallowed the knot rising in his throat.

I don’t want to fail him.

It shocked him, really. This was the first time he saw, truly saw him. His raven locks slightly falling in his eyes. His big, round eyes that could hold entire galaxies they were that pretty. His too skinny body, screaming at the dom to take care of it, nurture it and bring it back to health.

He could see the trust that was starting to build between his precious darlings and this precious boy.

And maybe—just maybe—it’ll hold.

Seokjin let out a slow breath through his nose, blinking away the sting in his eyes.

Jungkook is fighting, he isn’t giving up.

And that means they have time. Time to show him softness. Time to teach him safety. Time to love him—not with the rush of impulse, but with the patience of those who know just how long healing takes.

Seokjin didn’t know what the road ahead would look like. But for the first time since that call in the middle of the night—he didn’t feel powerless.

He felt hope. Quiet. Steady. Real. And he’d cling to that for both their sakes.

 

 

###

 

 

Hoseok and Taehyung stayed with him until Jungkook got too sleepy to stay awake, his eyes fluttering shut as his head drooped softly onto the pillow. The two Eros members bid him goodbye, promising they will see each other very soon.

Now, all four Eros sat in Doctor Jung’s office, the early morning light bleeding through the slits in the blinds. Everyone looked—and felt—exhausted. The adrenaline had long since worn off, leaving behind a sense of weariness.

Doctor Jung sat across from them, hands loosely clasped in front of him. “I just wanted to thank you,” he said, his voice sincere. “That could’ve gone very differently, and I’m deeply relieved it didn’t. You helped him… more than I honestly expected. He listened. He responded. That’s not nothing.”

He exhaled slowly, then glanced around the room, his expression growing more serious.

“But this slightly complicates things,” he admitted. “Because as I’m sure you all noticed—he isn’t coping well here.” He paused, letting the weight of that truth settle. “He doesn’t eat. The staff can hardly approach him. And these… crises”—his mouth twitched, unsure if that was even the right word—“these meltdowns, episodes… they’re becoming more frequent, more intense.”

No one spoke.

“We don’t know what’s happening inside his mind,” Doctor Jung continued softly. “But what’s becoming clearer by the day is that your presence—your energy, your voices—has a stabilizing effect on him. Things are still hard for him, but they are a little less hard in your presence.”

A beat passed. Doctor Jung leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze distant for a moment as if weighing the next words carefully, “and the subdrop,” he said finally, saying that word as if it had personally offended him.

“Jungkook has been in subdrop for months. Maybe even years.” He shook his head, almost in disbelief, “The signs were there from the beginning, but they are starting to worsen significantly. And after today...”

He finally looked at the Eros, “if we don’t intervene properly—and soon—his system might begin to accept this as his new baseline. And from there...” He didn’t finish the thought, but the silence said enough. Things would only get worse.

“But with the Eros, with you,” Doctor Jung said, his voice lifting slightly, hopeful. “From what I saw back there, from how he looked at you... He was almost there. Grounded. Awake. Listening.”

He paused again, for longer this time, clearly struggling now. “There are rules. There are protocols. Procedures we’re supposed to follow in these cases. To foster a sub, especially one with a trauma profile like his, it can take months for an Eros to be accepted. There are evaluations, background checks, mandatory interviews, home visits. It’s all meant to protect everyone involved.”

A bitter smile touched his lips. “But sitting here now, knowing what we know—seeing what we saw—it feels like waiting for the paperwork to clear is doing more harm than good. And that, frankly, makes me feel like we’re failing him.”

He looked at them again, expression tight, “I don’t want to make reckless decisions. But I also don’t want to watch him slip through our fingers while we wait for stamps and signatures.”

Namjoon leaned forward, brows knitting as he tried to make sense of what was being implied, “are you suggesting…”

Doctor Jung looked torn, fingers threading together atop his desk before he finally nodded, slowly. “I would like to speak with the State Supervisory Board,” he said. “Personally. I want to request a special dispensation to bypass the standard procedures and allow Jungkook to come home with you… as soon as possible. Maybe even tomorrow.”

The air shifted like a vacuum had opened in the room. The Eros stilled, collective breath held in stunned silence.

“Tomorrow?” Seokjin repeated, incredulous.

Hoseok blinked at the doctor, mouth slightly agape as if words failed him for the first time in days.

“I—” Namjoon started, but no sentence formed.

“I know it’s sudden,” Doctor Jung continued, voice softer now. “And believe me, I would never propose this if I hadn’t seen today with my own eyes. But I meant what I said. If we wait… we risk losing what little stability Jungkook has managed to find. What you’ve managed to give him.”

Still, the Eros didn’t respond. Their hearts raced, eyes darting between each other, all silently scrambling to process what had just been laid out before them.

It was Taehyung who finally spoke, voice quiet and uncertain, “this is all… really fast.” He looked up, searching Doctor Jung’s expression for reassurance. “We do want to foster him. We will. But we thought… we thought we’d have more time to prepare.”

He turned to look at his partners now, eyes filled with the same emotion they all shared: concern not for themselves, but for the boy behind the glass, “we haven’t even asked Jungkook,” he continued, gently. “We never wanted to decide this for him. The plan was to ease him into it—invite him. Let him understand what it means. Let him choose it.”

Another silence followed. He exhaled, voice thickening, "we want him to want it too.”

Doctor Jung sighed, leaning back in his chair with weariness, “I understand,” he said quietly. “I do. Believe me, I’ve never done this before. This kind of exception… it goes against everything I’ve spent my career standing for. Taking away the right to choose, especially from someone like Jungkook, who’s already had so much taken from him—” he broke off, lips pressing into a thin line.

He took a breath, “but this situation is… dire.”

The room was still again, “we are not talking about stress or adjustment issues. We are talking about someone who may be falling into perennial subdrop,” he said, his voice heavy with conviction. “This state—sustained and untreated—can start shutting systems down. Emotional, psychological… eventually even physical.”

His gaze flicked briefly all of them in turn, “I’m not saying this to scare you or manipulate your decision. That’s the last thing I’d want to do. But there are… there are registered cases of death, and that would be...” His voice faltered. He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. The unspoken words pressed like a weight on every heart in the room.

Silence hung thick in the air.

Then Seokjin shifted slightly in his seat, his eyes still trained on the surface of the desk. He didn't look at the others just yet. Instead, he let his mind wander for a moment—to Jungkook’s starry eyes, the tremble in his hands, the fragility felt and showed.

“We’ll do it,” Seokjin said quietly. His voice didn’t shake, but there was something raw behind it. He finally lifted his gaze, first to Doctor Jung, then to his partners. “We start fostering. We accept.”

The silence that followed was full of shock.

Hoseok blinked. “Hyung… you—”

Taehyung turned to look at him, stunned. “You were the one who— I mean—”

Even Namjoon looked a little blindsided. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if unsure how to process what he'd just heard.

But Seokjin’s expression was firm now, resolute. “I know what I said before," he exhaled slowly. “But Jungkook doesn’t have the time. And when I saw him, back in that room...” He paused, swallowing down the emotion rising in his throat again. “He needs us. We can provide for him, we can help. We might not be completely ready, but I don’t think we’ll ever truly be. In such cases, I—I believe trial and error is inevitable, but we are strong. We have love and care to give, and that’s a good start.”

Namjoon gazed at Seokjin. Not hard or judgmental, but like he was trying to look through him, past the words, to whatever shift had taken place in his heart. There was something unsaid in his eyes. We’ll talk later.

Then, after a beat, he turned to Doctor Jung.

“I—I think Seokjin hyung is right. We’ll do it,” he said, voice steady. “We’ll take him home.”

Doctor Jung exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time. His shoulders slumped slightly, a weight momentarily lifted, “thank you,” he said softly. “I know how much I’m asking. This isn’t standard nor is it protocol. But it might be the only thing that saves him.”

Namjoon nodded. “Then we’ll make sure it does.”

Hoseok and Taehyung both nodded slowly, silently echoing Namjoon’s words.

Taehyung shifted his weight in the chair, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. “We need to tell Jimin and Yoongi,” he murmured, eyes darting to the floor.

They’re going to freak out.

What they just decided, it’s huge. They might be mad. He would be, if someone made this kind of call without him. So much needs to be discussed, to be processed. There will be arguments, maybe fights. But Jin-hyung was right. Jungkook needs them.

The idea of him stuck in that state, always sick, always scared, always alone. The idea that he could…

Stop.

They will manage, they will do it. They’ll help Jungkook bloom again.

Hoseok reached over and caressed his cheek lovingly, standing up,  “I’ll go call them, okay? Explain everything,” and he stepped out of the door, phone already in hand. 

As the door clicked shut behind Hoseok, the room settled into a quiet hum—thick with uncertainty, but not without direction.

They didn’t have all the answers. They didn’t have a plan. But they had each other. And more importantly, they had a reason now, one fragile boy at the centre of it all.

It would be hard. But they would manage.

For him, they would find a way.

 

###

 

 

Jungkook woke up alone in the room after some time, the mittens now gone. He noticed this first—his hands free—and it stunned him more than it should. This stark room did not scare him like the first time he woke up. Those men, the ones that keep visiting him. Hoseok? Taehyung? Jimin, the blonde petite one was not there today. He wondered where he was?

Thay kept coming back.

They… they were nice. He liked them.

A nurse gently knocked on the door and entered cautiously, as if she was scared of provoking another meltdown. He remained calm, he strangely didn’t feel scared of her and, deep down, he felt like she was not going to hurt him. He didn’t know what changed. He didn’t know why he suddenly trusted her.

But he was tired, he was always tired these days, and it was exhausting trying to understand this place, these people and their antics. Why they didn’t hurt him, why he wasn’t punished, why he wasn’t being useful. There was nothing that was familiar, that resembled the normality he got used to. Everything was so unpredictable.

He just wanted to rest, truly rest, and wake up feeling present in his body and not as if somebody else was controlling it.

He wondered, not  for the first time, if he will feel like himself again.

The nurse enters the room and told him, almost ruefully, that she needed to changed the bandaged on his neck. To her surprise, with an almost-clear gaze, he accepts.

And as she is tending to his wound, being careful to tell him what she was doing  and explaining each step, he could not help himself, and asked, “The men… they will come back?”

The nurse was too stunned to utter a response at first, but quickly scrambled to reply, “They will be back, dear. They, uhm… they want to take care of you.”

He was a bit sceptical about the second part of that statement (okay, maybe also about the first), but he didn’t offer his opinion.

He wanted to believe her, but hope had become a distant, almost unreachable thing to think about.

The nurse seemed to sense he wasn’t really sold on what she told him. On any other day, after what happened a few hours prior, she wouldn’t dare say something so risky, something that would possibly send the sub spiralling. However, she felt that, in that moment, she was talking to Jungkook, the real one. Not just a shell of himself, someone so fragile he could shatter at any moment.

She took a deep breath, and said with confidence, “I believe they made the right decision Jungkook, you know what that is?” she waited until the sub turned his head towards her and gave a tiny shake of his head as a reply.

She smiled then, finishing by saying, “they chose you, and isn’t being chosen a wonderful feeling?”

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Notes:

Hello hello :)
Update time!

I'm a bit uncertain about some parts of this chapter, I am feeling a bit insecure :(
But! I hope you enjoy it nonetheless, and if you have any questions, you know where to find me!

TRIGGER WARNINGS
- talk of eating disorder and food insecurity

As always, I cannot thank you enough for all the love you are showing this fic... I cannot put into words how it makes me feel.

I hope you enjoy, off to therapy now!! 🚀

Kisses and hugs and kisses xxxx

Jungkook was back in his old room. The one where there was a little smiley face drawn on the door on the bottom left corner, nearly faded now. Jungkook often found himself staring at it. It was uneven, crooked. The mouth curled into a wide, innocent grin, and he tried for long periods of time to mimic it. Just to see if it could feel real.

He sometimes wondered why it felt so hard to do so.

It was the day after the… episode.

The tightness in his chest.
The cold of the floor.
The sound of someone shouting his name—not in anger. In fear.

He still felt guilty. At least for the parts he remembered. Memories were quite fuzzy in general.

But even with that guilt pressing down like a second skin, he couldn’t stop thinking about the two men who had sat with him through it all. The dom, Hoseok, with the warm smile and the switch, Taehyung, with the soft voice.

He remembered their faces. Their kindness.
He remembered their eyes—no fear in them. Not even when he had feared himself.

He would like to see them again. Maybe hear the two pretty switches sing another song with their pretty voice. Or get another bracelet from Hoseok, or even see Namjoon’s dimpled smile, even though he looked quite scary, broadness and height taking him back to dark and ugly places. But he was nice still, like a warm hug.

The nurse said they would come back.

But he wanted to believe it. Wanted to see them again, to feel whatever it was he’d felt when they were in the room with him.

 

A quiet knock on the door brought him out of his cloudy thoughts. It was slow, deliberate. Not the kind of entrance meant to surprise.

Doctor Jung stepped inside, his usual warm smile in place, the kind that never seemed forced. He spotted Jungkook lying in bed, wrapped in his blanket.

“Good morning, Jungkook,” he said softly, “may I come in?”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. He just watched from beneath the covers, half-curious, half-suspicious. Something about the doctor was… odd—this man never raised his voice. Never hit. Not even when Jungkook was not being cooperative. He always smiled, like now.

He nodded once, tightening the covers around his shoulders, like it was a shield that could protect him from the outside world.

Doctor Jung took a cautious step in. “Can I sit? Just the chair at your desk.”

A pause. Then, slowly, Jungkook nodded.

He was nice.

His eyes following the man.  He sat down, keeping a respectful distance, then folded his hands over one knee. “How’s your neck feeling? Any soreness?”

That question made Jungkook stiffen slightly. He blinked a couple of times.

This was usually the moment to lie. Back in the dark room, honesty usually meant more hurt. He often lied, or tried to give the answer that would result in the least amount of pain possible. But this one didn't really feel like a trick. The doctor seemed to genuinely worry about his neck.

The doctor’s voice hadn’t sharpened. His eyes were still kind.

So, slowly, Jungkook brought one hand out from under the covers. He raised it to chest height, his thumb and index finger pinching the air, holding invisible space between them.

“A little,” he whispered, eyes not meeting the doctor’s. “Like… this much.”

Doctor Jung smiled again, gentler this time. “Ah, that much, mh? We will try to reduce it to zero much, is that okay?”

Jungkook was a bit confused.

That was a funny question. Was he… okay with it? He believed so? Was that the right answer? What was okay and what wasn’t?

The doctor, almost seeming to sense his distress building, said placidly, “I ask because it would hurt less if we could give you a medicine to alleviate the pain. A painkiller. It’s a tiny pill that you take with some water and it makes the pain go away for a few hours. It that something you would feel comfortable taking?”

Jungkook knew what painkillers were.

His previous owners had given them to him sometimes, when the hurt was really bad, and they needed to go to an auction some hours after. It was so they wouldn't collapse on the stage, that would make the owners look bad.

This pain in his neck… it wasn’t that bad. Just a small ache.

But the doctor had asked so gently. With that smile, that tone. Not like he was giving an order, but like… he genuinely cared. Wanted to make things easier.

Maybe saying yes would make him happy.

Maybe agreeing was the right answer this time.

So, slowly, Jungkook nodded. Not too quickly—he didn’t want to look too eager.

Doctor Jung’s smile grew the tiniest bit. “Thank you, Jungkook. I’ll let the nurse know. We’ll bring it with water in a little while.”

There was a moment of silence and then doctor Jung glanced down at his folded hands for a moment, then looked back at Jungkook. His voice was soft when he asked, “Do you remember what this place is, Jungkook?”

The boy’s eyes shifted toward him, guarded but attentive. He didn’t answer right away. Dr. Jung gave him space.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” he added with a small smile. “I explained it a while ago, when you first got here, so it’s perfectly fine if it’s a little fuzzy.”

Jungkook blinked slowly, trying to reach back into his memory. Everything from those first days felt like fog—heavy and thick—but something surfaced.

“I was…” his voice was thin and unsure, barely above a whisper, “rescued?”

Doctor Jung’s smile warmed. “That’s right. You were rescued. From a place that treated you very badly. And now you’re here, where we’re helping you feel better and healthier.”

Jungkook thought the speech was hard to follow in some parts, but… he believed he understood the most important bit. Here was better.

He wanted to be good, so he nodded.

“I know you’re trying your best,” the doctor said gently. “I can see that. And I’m really proud of you, Jungkook.”

The boy looked at him again, eyes wide, caught between surprise and confusion.

“Sometimes,” the doctor continued, “even when we try really hard, we still need a little more help. And that’s okay. Everyone needs help sometimes.”

Jungkook’s brows pulled together slightly. Now he was even more confused.

Doctor Jung hesitated only a moment before softly continuing, “You remember the two doms and the two switches who came to visit you a couple of times? Hoseok-ssi, Namjoon-ssi, Jimin-ssi and Taehyung-ssi?”

Yes! The nice men, he did remember them. How could he forget?

He nodded a bit more enthusiastically. That seemed to make doctor Jung smile wider.

“Good, they would like to be that little more help that you require. They’ve been thinking about you a lot, and they believe they could offer you the kind of support and care that can’t always be found inside these walls,” he said, his tone calm and encouraging.

“Do you know what fostering is, Jungkook?”

The boy shook his head, slow and unsure.

“It means someone—like the Kim Eros—would take you in and let you live with them for a while. Until you feel better. They would care for you. As someone they want to support,” doctor Jung's expression softened even more. “I know this might feel sudden, especially since you've only met a couple of times, and you still have to meet two of them. I wish we had more time. I really do. But...”

He sighed, concern clear on his face, “you are hurting a lot, Jungkook, aren’t you?”

That question took the sub by surprise. He was, he believes so. He didn’t really remember what not hurt felt like.

He suddenly felt tears well in his eyes. He was hurt, and he didn’t want to be anymore.

Doctor Jung continued, sensing the boy’s heightened emotions, “I believe that maybe… maybe going to live with them could really help. It doesn’t have to be forever. The clinic will always be here. You won’t lose us. But I think we should try. Just give it a go. Maybe it's exactly what you need to start feeling better.”

To start feeling better. Jungkook turned the words over and over in his mind, like a small, fragile object he wasn’t sure how to hold. He didn’t really know what better looked like. He had long stopped imagining such things. But he did know what this felt like—this heaviness, this dull ache in his chest, the constant tremor beneath his skin. And he was tired. So, so tired of feeling like this.

He was terrified. More than he could ever put into words. Trust had become something poisonous in his world—dangerous and sharp-edged. Every time he’d reached for it, it had cut him, left scars. Trusting had always meant losing something. Safety. Dignity. Pieces of himself.

But… the Eros hadn’t taken anything from him.
They hadn’t touched him.
They spoke gently. They listened.
They gave him that bracelet—the soft one with the small charm, now hidden carefully under his pillow, like a secret hope.

He didn’t know if he could ever trust again. But maybe… with them, maybe…
Maybe he wouldn’t feel so bad. Maybe it would hurt less. Maybe that was a kind of better.

So, still curled in bed, voice barely a breath, Jungkook nodded once and said, “…Okay. I’ll try.”

A moment passed in silence.

The doctor didn’t rush him, didn’t fill the quiet with noise or explanations.

Then Doctor Jung nodded slowly, voice warm and steady. “Good… That’s good, Jungkook. I think it’s the right choice.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything, but he kept his eyes on the doctor, his small nod from earlier still echoing in the slight tension of his shoulders.

“All the details will be explained to you very soon,” the doctor continued, his tone careful, respectful. “They’re coming in today—you’ll be able to meet them all. Separately, if that feels more comfortable to you. And then…” He hesitated for a breath, watching Jungkook’s reaction closely. “Either tonight or tomorrow morning, you’ll move into their house.”

Jungkook's body tensed immediately. His hands clutched the blanket, his expression shifting, panic beginning to bloom behind his eyes.

Doctor Jung lifted a calming hand but didn’t reach out. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “It’s completely understandable to feel scared, Jungkook. This is a big change. And I know everything is happening fast.”

He leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice to something even softer, something almost confidential.

“But like I told you… I only want what’s best for you. And I really believe that this—this chance with them—might be what truly helps you feel better. You won’t be alone. You have a support’s net now.”

He gave a reassuring smile. “No one is throwing you away.”

 

 

# # #

 

 

It was late afternoon when the Eros arrived at the clinic. A sense of nervousness was brimming around them. There was excitement, yes, but the couldn’t help but feel on edge.

That morning they were informed that Jungkook had agreed to give fostering a try, which put the Eros’ collective mind more at ease, knowing they weren’t doing anything against his will.

The day before, after they had gone back home to Yoongi and Jimin had been… interesting. The switch had been all over the place, fuming one second because of the choice taken without him and extremely relieved the next, knowing that Jungkook would be finally be with them.

Yoongi, true to form, had remained silent during most of the update. He’d listened to the recounting—the near panic, the quiet breakthroughs, the decision to bring Jungkook home—with a stillness that made even Hoseok nervous. But he hadn’t argued. When everyone had started to get ready to rush to their respective work places Yoongi had stayed behind in the kitchen, wanting to talk to Seokjin who was still there, his phone pressed to his ear as he spoke to his secretary about having to take another day off for tomorrow. His voice was smooth, like nothing in the world could shake him.

The call had barely ended when Yoongi reached out, his hand finding Seokjin’s wrist.

A light squeeze. Quiet—just a question.

“What made you change your mind?”

Seokjin turned, met Yoongi’s gaze with is signature composure, and replied without hesitation. “Having had the privilege to see him.”

It wasn’t an answer. Not exactly. Not one that Yoongi could immediately decode. He rolled his eyes—because of course Jin would be cryptic—but he didn’t ask again. That one sentence had been enough. Somehow.

 

Now, back in the present, the six men stood together outside the quiet hallway that led to Jungkook’s room.

A nurse approached them and offered a small, strained smile. “He’s awake. Doctor Jung is just finishing up with him,” she said softly. “You’ll be able to go in shortly. Only the ones of you who he has already met, Seokjin-ssi and Yoongi-ssi will meet him here afterwards, That’s what he asked.”

Everyone nodded.

After a few minutes, Jungkook's bedroom door opened slightly and doctor's Jung head popped out, beckoning the part of the Eros that was allowed to step in. The two doms and the two switches stepped in with a last glance towards Seokjin and Yoongi, who nodded in support.

They closed the door behind themselves

Jungkook was already sitting up in bed, looking fragile as ever. He was wearing a hoodie, beige-coloured this time, and dark tracksuits. His socked feet were positioned one on top of the other, cutely scrunching his toes. The white bandages were still wrapped around his neck, which made his skin look even paler. But his eyes were open wide, watchful but kind of cloudy. And when they entered, he looked at them.

Not startled. Not afraid, exactly. Just… shy. Hesitant. Like someone who wanted to be brave, even if he didn’t quite know how. It made Hoseok’s breath hitch.

They all greeted him quietly.

“Hi, Jungkook,” Jimin said with a soft smile, his voice like a gentle breeze.

“Hey, darling,” Taehyung added, and Namjoon gave a small wave as he stepped aside to make space for the others.

Hoseok, last to speak, just offered a warm, “It’s good to see you.”

Jungkook’s gaze flickered between them. He didn’t smile—but his shoulders relaxed just the tiniest bit. His fingers tugged at the edge of his hoodie, and he gave the smallest of nods in return.

Cute, Taehyung thought.

Doctor Jung smiled and stepped forward. "It’s good to see you all,” he said, his tone full of genuine warmth. “We had a long talk earlier, didn’t we, Jungkook?”

Jungkook nodded again, eyes still shy but attentive.

Doctor Jung continued, addressing the group now, “He knows that this clinic will always be here for him. If he ever needs us again—no matter what—he can come back. There’s no door that’s closing today. Only new ones that might open.”

He looked down at Jungkook again, voice gentler. “And remember, what we talked about—you are not alone in this, alright?”

Jungkook looked at him quietly. He didn’t respond aloud, but his gaze shifted back to the four men who had come to see him, lingering a little longer on each of them. Finally, he nodded looking back down at his hands. He didn’t see the blinding smiles the four members of the Eros were sporting, nor Doctor Jung proud one.

With time, perhaps.

With time he will see how cherished he would be.

Doctor Jung offered the group a small nod, then turned to Jungkook once more. “Before we get going, there’s just one last thing,” he said gently, crouching a bit so he could speak at eye level. “Because of your weight and how difficult it still is for you to stand for long… it’s required that you leave the clinic today in a wheelchair. Just as a precaution, okay?”

Jungkook’s nose scrunched faintly.vHe didn’t speak, but his mouth turned down a little, and he grimaced, the idea clearly not one he was thrilled about. It wasn’t dramatic or angry—just a flicker of discomfort. Embarrassment, maybe.

But he nodded anyway. A quiet kind of acceptance.

Doctor Jung smiled at him with warmth and understanding. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely. Then he stood and addressed the room, “I’ll go find a nurse to retrieve it and exchange a few words with Seokjin-ssi and Yoongi-ssi before we start the process. I’ll be just a minute.” He offered the Eros members a nod, then stepped out, closing the door behind him.

The room settled into silence.

Jungkook looked down at his hands in his lap. His fingers had found their way to the small friendship bracelet they had given him—thin, blue, and slightly frayed where he had clutched it too tightly in the past days. He was rubbing it slowly between his fingertips, over and over, as if to remind himself it was real.

Hoseok noticed first.

He watched the movement for a moment, silent, then let out a soft chuckle under his breath. “You like it, huh?”

Jungkook’s fingers stilled. His head lifted just a little.

Hoseok hesitated only a moment more, then grinned and reached into the pocket of his trousers. “I was going to wait until we got home, but ah—" he shook his head, “I think you deserve it for being so brave.”

He pulled out a second bracelet—this one a bright, cheerful twist of orange and purple thread, woven neatly together with small, round beads glinting softly between the knots. It looked handmade, lovingly so.

“I made this one for you too,” Hoseok said, stepping just a little closer but keeping his movements slow. “To match. It’s got good energy, you know?”

He held it out carefully, waiting. Jungkook’s eyes lingered on the bracelet. His fingers twitched slightly, brushing over the worn threads of the one already in his hands, and for a long few seconds, he didn’t move.

Then—slowly, hesitantly—his hands began to lift. They shook. Trembled, really. Not from weakness alone, but something far deeper. A fear so ingrained it touched every movement he made. Still, he reached out. Not confidently, but enough that his fingers hovered in the air between them, a silent, uncertain gesture.

A question.
A maybe.

Hoseok stared. For a moment, the entire room went still.

It had never happened before. Jungkook had never initiated closeness, never reached first. It was the smallest of actions—but to them, it felt like watching the faintest star flicker at the far end of a pitch-black tunnel. Like witnessing the first heartbeat after long, terrifying stillness.

A beginning.

The spark of something new—hopeful and slightly terrifying.

This fragile, precious boy, who had been broken down again and again, had found the courage to ask, Hoseok, a dom to come closer.

Hoseok didn’t breathe.

He didn’t move.

Not until he felt Namjoon give him the lightest shove with his shoulder—gentle, wordless encouragement. A reminder to go, because this moment was rare and delicate and real.

Get it together, he told himself. Do this is for him.

Swallowing hard, Hoseok stepped forward, heart beating so loudly it almost drowned out everything else.

He was in front of Jungkook now, and he gently laid the bracelet on his open palms.

“I hope you like it.”

Jungkook looked from the bracelet, starting to fiddle with this one was well.

“Thank you.”

What a wonderful way to start this new chapter.

 

 

# # #

 

 

The wheelchair arrived with a soft knock at the door, a nurse gently guiding it into the room. Jungkook didn’t say anything, but his eyes darted to it immediately, his lips pulling into a subtle frown.

His movements were small. Without any help, he lowered himself into the seat.

The wheels creaked softly as they moved out the room. And then— just outside—two unfamiliar figures.

He saw them before they were fully introduced. His eyes widened slightly, breath catching. His hands instinctively reached down, gripping the sides of the wheels in an effort to halt the chair's advance. A tiny whimper slipped out of him.

Jimin noticed right away. Without hesitation, he crouched down beside him, mindful to keep a certain distance.

“Hey,” he whispered, gently touching the armrest without ever touching Jungkook himself. “These are the other two doms of our Eros. Yoongi-hyung and Seokjin-hyung. The nurse told uou you wanted to meet them outside your room.”

Jungkook’s eyes were wide, glued to the two figures standing only a few steps away.

“They can look a bit scary, I know,” Jimin continued, his voice kind, “but I promise—really promise—you, Jungkook, they’re not. They’ve got so much love to give. And you’ll see it, I promise you will. You’ll find out soon.”

Jungkook’s whimpering softened into just breath.

He didn’t speak, his gaze still fixed on the two doms.

One of them, the taller one, was smiling gently. He held a folder against his side and his full attention was here now.

The other—smaller in build, hair dark and eyes focused—wasn’t smiling. But his expression wasn’t cold either. It was calm and steady. The kind of stillness that didn't demand anything. Just existed there, unshaken.

“Hi Jungkook,” the taller one said softly, voice smooth and measured. “My name is Seokjin. I’m the head of the Eros.”

He bowed his head slightly, polite and respectful.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. My partners have talked a lot about you, all good things, I can assure you.”

Jungkook’s gaze didn’t move at first.

He just stared at the two doms in front of him, heart thudding against his ribs. His fingers, still tight around the wheelchair’s wheels, trembled slightly. The air felt heavier, pressing down on him.

Then—he turned his head slowly toward Jimin. Like he was searching for something. A sign. A way out perhaps.

Jimin met his gaze instantly, offering a soft, encouraging smile. He gave a reassuring nod, the kind that told him: You’re not alone.

So Jungkook turned back, chest tight, to face the two doms again.

Yoongi was the next to speak, his voice as calm and low, “I am Yoongi. It’s good to have you in our house, Jungkook,” he said. Simple. Steady. Like he meant it.

Jungkook’s response was barely a nod, if he could’ve called it that.

Yoongi was… fine. Kind of.

Still intimidating, sure. Still someone his instincts told him to watch carefully. But for now, there were no alarm bells screaming in his mind, no red flags waving themselves in his face. Just cautious quiet.

It was the other one.

Seokjin.

The head of the Eros.

He decided. He ruled. What he said, the others would follow—without question. If Seokjin ever decided that Jungkook wasn’t good enough to stay in their house, if one day he woke up and deemed him unworthy, there would be no debate. Just consequences. He could be thrown away, locked up, hurt, silenced. And the others—Jimin, Hoseok, even Yoongi—would just nod and agree. Because he was the one in charge.

He was terrifying.

Too powerful, too polite, too calm.

That kind of calm scared Jungkook the most.

So in that moment, Jungkook made a decision—clear and sharp in his head despite the fog of fear.

He would spend all his time in their house doing everything in his power to please Seokjin.

To stay out of trouble. To stay small. To avoid the chains and the darkness and the pain.

Because maybe—just maybe—if he was careful enough, perfect enough, they wouldn’t throw him away.

 

# # #

 

Ather the tense introduction, the whole Eros, Jungkook and the doctor approached the clinic's exit.

The wheels of the chair rolled softly across the clinic’s pale floors, the rhythmic sound oddly soothing in the silence. They passed through hallways Jungkook barely remembered. The walls had watched him be wheeled in unconscious, barely breathing, wrapped in panic and blood.

Now they watched him leave.

It felt like a lifetime had passed in between. So much had changed. And yet… everything still felt so fragile.

Before they reached the exit, Doctor Jung came to a halt and gently pressed his hand on the wheelchair handles, stopping the group in their tracks.

He took a breath, then turned to Jungkook with a small, kind smile.

“This is it.”

The quiet words settled in the air like snowfall.

“I know this feels fast. I know it’s scary. But I want you to remind you again, Jungkook.” His voice softened even more, “You’re not alone. Not anymore. And if at any point you feel unsure, if you need anything at all—you can come back. You always have this place.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything. But his fingers twitched on the armrest, just slightly.

Doctor Jung then looked up at the group. “Have you all signed the final fostering form?”

A round of nods followed.

“I will see you in two weeks then, for Jungkook’s check-up.”

Everyone bid him goodbye, turning towards the doors.

And with that, the doctor turned one last time toward the boy in the chair. Everyone else was watching the door. No one else saw it—only Jungkook.

A quick thumbs up. Quiet. Just for him.

Then the doors opened.

The cold winter air rushed in, sharp against flushed cheeks and warm breath. Jungkook blinked as the timid rays of sunlight filtered through the clouds, catching the side of his face.

The light was weak—but it was there.

For the first time in what felt like forever… something gentle touched him without hurting.

 

 

# # #

 

 

The car ride stretched long and quiet, the hum of the engine a low constant beneath the soft murmurs from the front seat. Two cars had been taken—one ahead, one trailing—and Jungkook sat in the back of the one carrying Jimin and Hoseok.

He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the clinic.

His hands, though, hadn’t stopped moving. Tugging at the sleeves of his shirt, brushing over the bracelet Hoseok had given him, fingers trembling with every passing mile. It was too much—this quiet, this unknown, the growing ache in his chest from staying so alert, so hyper-aware, for so long.

He could feel the exhaustion clawing at his limbs, his body begging for rest, even if his mind refused.

Jimin turned slightly in his seat to glance at him, his voice soft, almost a whisper, “you can sleep if you want, Jungkook. We’ve still got forty minutes to go.”

Jungkook gave a tiny nod. He wasn’t going to take that advice, obviously. They were nice, true, but he had to stay alert in case that changed.

He didn’t speak, didn’t close his eyes right away—but slowly, subtly, his head tilted back against the seat, and the weight of his exhaustion dragged him under.

 

It was the sound of car doors opening that pulled him out of the dark.

A jolt ran through him. His breath hitched.

His hands scrambled for something, anything. He fell asleep. That was bad. Because bad things can happen. They could’ve touched him, moved him, hurt him—and he wouldn't even know why his body ached when he woke.

His panic started to rise, breath quickening, chest tightening.

But then—
The door on his side opened.

Light poured in, and with it, Jimin’s face, framed by the late afternoon sun and a smile so warm it melted the fear for just a moment.

“We have arrived!” Jimin said cheerfully.

Jungkook blinked rapidly, still trying to ground himself, his heart thudding fast. But the panic didn’t spiral—Jimin’s tone didn’t leave space for fear. His smile didn’t demand anything. It was just… there.

Reassuring.

Jungkook managed to calm himself, even if just slightly.

“Let’s get out of the cold,” Namjoon said gently, his breath visible in the crisp winter air, but everyone waited for Jungkook to step out of the car.

Jungkook blinked slowly, trying to gather himself. The wind was biting now that the car door was open, and the rays of sunlight that had warmed his cheek felt distant again.

Hoseok was next to Jimin now. “I think you should use the wheelchair again, darling,” his voice cut softly through the air, careful, kind, “I know it’s just a few steps to the door, but you look really tired—and we don’t want you to risk slipping and falling,” his tone was light, not pressing, not pitying. Still, Jungkook’s jaw tightened a little. He didn’t like the thought. The wheelchair meant vulnerability. It meant being slower, less able to react, defend himself, run.

It meant being exposed.

But Hoseok wasn’t wrong. He was too weak to walk properly, and if something were to happen—if he needed to dodge, to escape—it would probably be hopeless either way.

So Jungkook nodded, resigned.

Hoseok and Jimin gave him the space needed, and with great effort, Jungkook settled into the wheelchair once again, his body aching from even that small movement. He drew in a breath, and for the first time, allowed himself to really look at the house.

Where he would live.

For how long?

He didn’t let himself think about that. Not now. Not yet.

 

Jungkook’s eyes drifted over the building in front of him, trying to take it all in.

The house was big—three stories tall—but it didn’t scream wealth or intimidation. It wasn’t cold and glass. No, this one felt… different. Welcoming, somehow.

The structure was modern, but softened by warm, earthy tones. Deep terracotta, muted olive, warm whites, and honeyed wood accents made the exterior feel alive rather than sterile.

They were parked on a broad stretch of garden, the grass still kissed by frost, with winding stone paths leading to the entrance.

To the left, three wide garage doors sat closed, subtly blending into the design with panelling in soft matte white and hints of brushed steel. The front door stood tall and wide—a striking combination of white lacquer and deep walnut wood, smooth and clean but grounded by the natural grain of the timber.

Windows, large and inviting, lined the house on every level. Some reached from floor to ceiling, their thick black frames offering glimpses into softly lit rooms. Despite their size, nothing about them felt exposing—there was enough distance and space around the property that the Eros could enjoy the light and openness without sacrificing privacy.

Above them, on the second floor, Jungkook spotted a wide balcony overlooking the garden. From his seat, he could make out a long wooden table surrounded by outdoor chairs, a standing barbeque set neatly to one side, and a countertop running along the back wall—probably where they cut and prepared their meals during warmer seasons.

It's huge.

The kind of huge that made his chest feel tight.
Maybe… maybe that meant there were a lot of places to hide. If things ever got bad — when they got bad — he could slip away, find a corner to disappear into. Somewhere small and quiet, where they wouldn’t see him. Where he could make himself so still they might forget he was even there. The thought, as sad as it was, brought a flicker of comfort.

But then he looked up at the wide balcony, at the table set for more than just a couple of people, at the floor-to-ceiling windows that let the light in — and a different thought, much smaller and shakier, bloomed quietly in his chest.
Maybe it was a huge house because it had room.
Room for laughter and noise. Room for all of them.
Room for… him.

He wasn’t sure he believed that. Not yet.
But for the first time, he wanted to try.

 

The group moved slowly toward the front door. Taehyung stayed closer to his side, voice bright and playful, “you know, once we were repainting the living room," he said, grinning wide, "and I completely forgot — I just leaned right into a freshly done wall. Got paint everywhere." He laughed at himself, shaking his head dramatically. "And let me tell you, Jungkook ah, paint is a bitch to wash off—”

Jungkook found himself blinking up at him, startled by the casual way Taehyung shared the story. He didn’t really know what to do with that kind of honesty, but it made his chest ache in a strange, unfamiliar way.

Namjoon, standing by the door, chuckled under his breath as he turned the key and pushed it open. He gestured grandly toward the entrance, his voice warm and sure.
“Welcome home, Jungkook.”

Home.

Jungkook's mind stuttered at the word, the weight of it heavy and unfamiliar.

He rolled slowly forward, Hoseok’s hands gentle on the wheelchair handles, and crossed the threshold.

The inside was breathtaking in its own way: polished hardwood floors that gleamed under soft, natural light; colourful paintings hung lovingly on the walls, some abstract, some more classic, all of them bright and full of life.

And then he froze.
At the top of a wide staircase, standing tall and curious, was a dog — a big, skinny grey creature with soulful eyes and a tail that gave a single, hesitant wag.

“I think a tour is much–” Seokjin started, voice light, but then he stopped mid-sentence when he turned to check on Jungkook.

The sub was still, his body tense but not in fear. His wide eyes were locked on the dog at the top of the stairs, staring with an intensity that made Seokjin falter.

For a split second, worry bloomed in the dom’s chest — they should have put Hugo in his crate, what if Jungkook was scared?

But... no. Seokjin watched closer. The sub’s small hands weren’t gripping the wheelchair’s arms in fear. His body wasn't shrinking away.

If anything... he looked fascinated.

Seokjin seized the opportunity, casting a quick glance toward the dog, who stood poised and eager, waiting like he needed permission to move.

“That’s our big baby, Hugo," Seokjin said warmly. "He’s very gentle, though when he gets the zoomies he’s almost unrecognizable.”

He turned his attention back to Jungkook, softening his voice even further, "would you like to meet him? He seems very curious about you."

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to Seokjin for a heartbeat, a searching look, before drifting back to the dog. His mouth was slightly open, wonder flickering across his features.

Slowly, tentatively, he gave a tiny nod.

Seokjin smiled, heart squeezing. “Come, Hugo,” he called.

The dog immediately perked up, his paws scrabbling on the hardwood as he practically tumbled down the stairs, all long limbs and excited wiggling. But as he neared the wheelchair, something in him shifted — he slowed down, his steps careful, his head dipping low. Hugo crept closer, tail wagging gently, and gave a soft, inquisitive sniff at Jungkook’s hand.

Jungkook’s fingers twitched, then turned, palm up — a clear offer.

Hugo gave an excited little snuff and began to lick his hand, little content noises escaping him.

And then it happened.

Jungkook giggled.

It was tiny, shy, almost as if it startled him as much as it did everyone else. The whole room froze for a second, the sound so precious and unexpected it stole the air from their lungs.

They all watched, completely still, as Jungkook's shy giggle floated in the air.

At first, there was only stunned silence — like none of them dared move, afraid they might scare the moment away. But slowly, almost at the same time, their frozen expressions softened into something else: pure, overflowing fondness.

"He really likes you," Jimin said, his voice a gentle lilt, a bright smile spreading across his face as he crouched a little closer. His eyes were practically shining.

Yoongi, who had been standing quietly nearby, finally spoke, his tone calm and low, "if you scratch under his chin," he said, "his leg starts thumping."

Jungkook glanced up at him briefly, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, before looking back at Hugo. After a second’s hesitation, he raised his hand again and, very carefully, scratched under the dog's chin.

True to Yoongi's words, Hugo's hind leg started thumping excitedly against the floor almost immediately, his tail wagging so hard his whole back end wiggled.

That earned another giggle from Jungkook — louder this time. It was still shy, like he almost couldn’t believe it was allowed to exist, but it was there.

"He’s funny," Jungkook whispered, voice small but full of wonder, his eyes wide with a blooming light that hadn't been there before.

For a long moment, it was as if time itself held its breath. Jungkook’s small, wonder-filled voice lingered in the air, bright and delicate, and it hit all of them with the force of something almost sacred.

Jimin and Hoseok, standing closest, were the first to react. They stared, utterly stunned, eyes wide and mouths parted in pure disbelief.

They had heard Jungkook’s voice before — soft, halting, full of fear — but never like this. Never bubbling up from a place of joy, paired with a shy giggle so genuine it made their chests ache. They exchanged a glance, something glassy and fragile building behind their eyes. It was elation, amazement, and a deep, grateful awe that something so simple had gifted them this miracle.

Further back, Taehyung was visibly trembling, his lip wobbling as he blinked rapidly. He let out a shaky breath and gripped Namjoon’s hand with desperate strength, like he needed something solid to anchor him.

Namjoon squeezed back just as tightly, his own heart hammering against his ribs. He couldn’t stop staring at Jungkook, at the tiny smile still playing on his lips, the bright glimmer in his wide eyes.

God, Namjoon thought, I want to hear him laugh like that again. And again. Until his cheeks are wet with happy tears.

The hope blooming inside him was so fierce it almost hurt — hope for a future filled with moments just like this.

Yoongi, still standing quietly off to the side, felt an unfamiliar swell of pride rise in his chest. It was dizzying, almost surreal.

It was because of me, he thought, a little dazed, because I told him to scratch under Hugo’s chin.

He wasn’t a man prone to selfishness, but for once, he allowed himself to feel it — the pride of having helped create something so monumental. And more than that, he was proud of Jungkook. Proud of the raw bravery it must have taken to giggle, to trust them with something so delicate.

And Seokjin felt yearning. A need so profound it threatened to choke him.

Everyone in this household had needs. Every dom liked to take care, to provide for someone. But him, as a 9, had needs sharper than most. He felt more, and already, Jungkook had become the centre of them all.

Protect. Cherish. Love.

He would fight tooth and nail to show Jungkook how deeply lovable he was. How worthy he was. And he promised, silently and fiercely, that he would never, ever let him doubt it again.

After a few more moments, where no one dared to break the fragile magic of the moment, it was Seokjin who finally spoke, his voice impossibly gentle.

“Maybe the tour can wait,” he said, a soft smile playing on his lips.

The words were almost a whisper, carrying with them the promise of patience, of warmth, of a new beginning.

The first precious memory of many yet to come.

 

 

# # #

 

 

After a thorough petting session, they all found themselves gathered in the living room. Jungkook sat curled up in an armchair by himself, looking utterly exhausted, while the others were spread out across the two couches.

Fatigue was starting to settle heavily over all of them. It had been a long, emotional day.

Dinner still needed to be taken care of, though, and there was a nervous sort of tension floating in the air. They all worried about how Jungkook would react — because as much as they wanted him to feel safe and comfortable here, part of that meant eating his meals regularly too, even if the thought scared him.

Yoongi and Seokjin, the two who usually handled cooking, exchanged a look. After a moment, Yoongi gave a slight nod and murmured that he would start preparing something simple, like Dak Gomtang.

The effect on Jungkook was immediate.

His sleepy, dazed gaze turned terrified in a split second. His small body tensed up, frozen, and a soft, broken whimper escaped his throat. Tears welled up in his wide eyes as he started to shake his head, panicked. He gripped the armrests of his chair, his gaze darting anxiously to the living room door — desperate, almost, like he was looking for an escape.

Without hesitation, Hoseok stood up and crouched down in front of him, voice soft and soothing.

"Okay, Jungkook. Okay," he said, trying to ground him. "Take a deep breath for me, love. You’re safe here. We want to take care of you, but to do that, we need to start with tiny steps. Meals don’t have to be big, just enough to keep your strength up. We’ll move forward together."

Jungkook’s whimpers softened just a fraction at Hoseok’s gentle words, but he still looked overwhelmed — still eyeing the door, like the instinct to run was battling hard against everything else.

And then Seokjin stepped in.

Seokjin didn’t move from where he was seated, careful not to add to Jungkook’s already overwhelming panic. His voice was soft when he spoke, laced with patience.

"Jungkook, could you look at me, please?"

It wasn’t an order. It was a gentle request, one that gave Jungkook the choice to say no if he wanted to.

Still, the sub flinched, darting his gaze toward the dom with wide, terrified eyes. Being directly addressed by the head of the Eros — by the dom who could, in Jungkook’s mind, decide his entire fate — was overwhelming.

But Seokjin’s expression didn’t waver. Calm, steady. Safe, "would it help if you told us why you feel scared to eat?" Seokjin continued, his tone never sharpening, never pressuring. "Maybe it’s something we can help with."

The words seemed to trip Jungkook up entirely. He blinked, confused, almost as if the idea had never even crossed his mind — that someone could hear his fears, understand them, and fix them instead of punishing him for having them.

They could almost see the gears in his head turning frantically.

And then, like a silent guardian, Hugo trotted into the room. Without hesitation, the big dog made his way over to Jungkook, planting himself right in front of the armchair and plopping his heavy head directly into the boy’s lap.

Jungkook froze at first, shocked at the sudden affection. But slowly, tentatively, his small hands lifted to start petting the dog’s silky ears, the repetitive motion grounding him like nothing else could.

A visible breath shuddered out of him. His shoulders, tense to the point of trembling, dropped just a little.

Seokjin waited a few moments longer, and then, in that same soft tone, he said, "Take your time. We don't want to rush you."

It was a long pause — heavy, uncertain — and then, without lifting his gaze from Hugo, Jungkook whispered. His voice so quiet it was almost carried away by the air.

"Wasn’t allowed."

It was said more to Hugo than to the doms gathered around him, but they all heard it.

At first, there was only silence, thick and heavy, after Jungkook’s quiet admission.

Namjoon leaned forward a little, his voice careful, filled with confusion and worry, “but... is that why you’re scared, dear? Because you’re allowed now. You don’t have to ask permission to eat here.”

Jungkook’s hands tightened around the arms of the chair. He opened his mouth once, then closed it, frustration clear in the way his brows furrowed. He tried again, lips parting slightly, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. A tiny huff escaped him, sharp with the weight of everything he was struggling to say.

At the sound, Hugo whined softly and lifted his head, as if offering silent encouragement. It tugged at Jungkook's heart — and maybe helped nudge the words free.

In a voice barely above a whisper, trembling but determined, Jungkook finally said, “doms... like skinny.” He paused, breathing shaky. “We needed to... to look our best to be p-purchased.”

The words stumbled out clumsily but they were said as if he was repeating something that was ingrained in him. But he got them out — the most he'd spoken yet. And it hit the room like a physical blow.

For a moment, none of the Eros moved. They just stared at him, horror dawning slowly in their eyes. It wasn’t just the fact that Jungkook had managed to speak so much — which was already a monumental feat. It was the meaning behind the words. The life he had lived. The rules he had learned, the ones carved so deep into him they were now indistinguishable from fear itself.

He hadn’t been scared of eating because it was forbidden. He had been terrified because survival itself had been used as a weapon against him.

A sick, twisting feeling settled in all their chests.

Of course he resisted food. Of course he was so hesitant. In his world, hunger wasn’t just suffering — it was survival. A twisted currency of pain and worth.

Yoongi’s fists were clenched tightly in his lap, jaw taut. Hoseok looked like he was physically restraining himself from wrapping Jungkook up in his arms. Jimin’s gaze was glassy, full of heartbreak. Namjoon and Taehyung sat frozen, hands curled into fists on their knees. And Seokjin — Seokjin’s whole body was trembling with the force of the rage he was trying to contain, his hand gripping the fabric of the couch so tightly the knuckles turned white.

But none of that showed on their faces when they turned back to Jungkook.

Unexpectedly, it was Taehyung who spoke. His voice wasn’t soft. It wasn’t coaxing, the way Jungkook might have expected. It was low, firm — vibrating with something fierce and unwavering.

“That’s wrong,” Taehyung said, his dark eyes burning with intensity. “It’s wrong for any dom to demand that from a sub. You’re not meant to starve yourself to be ‘wanted.’ You don’t have to be anything other than yourself to deserve care, Jungkook.”

Everyone turned toward him, startled — even Seokjin, whose role as the primary caretaker usually meant he was the one to speak in moments like this. But Taehyung barely seemed to notice their surprise. His whole focus was on Jungkook, like he needed to make sure the younger heard every word, deep down where those twisted beliefs still festered.

“As a switch —” Taehyung’s voice broke for a second, then strengthened again. “—I choose when I submit. It’s not something doms are entitled to. It’s not something they can force or buy.”
He leaned forward slightly, tone unwavering. “And it’s the same for you. Submission isn’t a thing you owe because you look a certain way. It's something you offer — freely, because you trust someone enough to give it.”

Jungkook’s breath caught, wide eyes locked onto Taehyung like he couldn’t look away.

"And any dom who tries to take without your real consent?" Taehyung’s voice dropped lower, the heat of anger barely contained. "That’s not dominance. That’s abuse. It’s a violation, not a bond."

For a beat, silence stretched again — but this time it was different. The air was heavier, yes, but also somehow steadier, stronger, like Taehyung had planted something solid in the ground between them all.

Across the room, Hoseok exhaled shakily. Namjoon gave a single, quiet nod, as if to say: Yes. Exactly that.
Even Seokjin’s tense grip on the couch loosened, just a little, pride flickering in his gaze.

Taehyung softened only then, his voice dropping into something gentler but no less certain, “you are not here to be bought,” he said, quieter but fierce as ever. “You are here to be loved.”

Jungkook still looked uncertain, as expected, but it seemed that Taehyung’s words had planted a fragile seed somewhere inside him — a tiny shift, almost imperceptible, in the way he held himself, in the way his eyes no longer darted immediately toward the door as if planning escape.

Sensing it, Yoongi leaned forward just a little, a small, encouraging smile curving his lips, “so,” he said gently, voice warm and easy, as if they were simply discussing something casual, something safe. “Let’s eat some soup?”

For a second, Jungkook didn’t move — caught between instinct and hope, both warring just beneath the surface. His gaze flickered to Yoongi, wide and glassy, a storm of fear still churning there... but threaded through it now was something else. Something quieter. Something brave.

Slowly, hesitantly, Jungkook gave a small nod.

And in that simple, trembling movement, the whole room seemed to breathe out at once.

 

 

# # #

 

 

Dinner was quiet after that — more of a symbolic gesture than a real meal. Jungkook managed a few careful spoonfuls of broth under Yoongi’s steady, non-judgmental gaze, and though his hands trembled, no one rushed him. No one praised or pushed. They simply existed alongside him, patient and steady.

But exhaustion soon began to weigh heavier than hunger. It pulled at Jungkook’s small frame, dragging his shoulders down, making his already-shaky limbs weaker with each passing minute.

“Let’s get you to your room,” Hoseok said softly after a while, rising to his feet. “Tomorrow we’ll show you the whole house, okay?”

Jungkook stared at the staircase with panicked eyes. The thought of moving, of climbing those steps with his trembling legs, seemed impossible.

When Hoseok and Jimin gently approached to help him, he stiffened immediately, pulling away with a terrified jerk.

“Okay, okay,” Jimin soothed quickly, both of them backing off without hesitation. “No touching unless you want it. We’ll just walk with you, alright? You can lean on the railing.”

It was slow. Painfully slow. Jimin and Hoseok flanked him carefully, arms ready but never reaching, offering support only through presence.

Somehow, they made it to the top. Jungkook panted softly, overwhelmed and clinging stubbornly to the railing even after reaching the landing, but he was upright. Victorious, in his own quiet way.

They led him a short distance down a softly lit hallway, their footsteps soft on the light wood. Finally, Jimin stopped before a door and pushed it open, glancing back at Jungkook with a small, hopeful smile.

“We hope you like it,” he said, his voice light. “It’s quite simple for now, but you can decorate it however you want. Anything that makes it feel yours.”

Inside, the room was modest but warm, clearly prepared with deep care. The walls were painted a gentle, creamy white, soothing rather than stark. A large window stretched across one side, framed by pale curtains that could easily be drawn closed for privacy. The bed was low and wide, made up with soft, inviting linens in muted earth tones — cozy and welcoming.

A plush armchair sat tucked in one corner, beside a small bookshelf already lined with a few carefully chosen books and a few trinkets. A sleek dresser stood against the opposite wall, empty and waiting to be filled. On the nightstand, a small lamp cast a pool of golden light, and beside it — almost shyly placed — was a tiny potted plant, its green leaves bright against the soft tones of the room. A simple offering of life.

The space was neither grand nor clinical.
It was lived-in. Gentle. Waiting.

Waiting for him.

Jungkook stood frozen in the doorway for a long moment, as if unsure whether he was even allowed to cross the threshold. Slowly, he took a few hesitant steps inside, his mouth slack, eyes darting around the room like he expected it all to vanish if he looked too long.

He turned back toward Hoseok and Jimin, disbelief written across every line of his small, trembling frame. His voice, when it came, was so soft it was barely more than a whisper, cracked at the edges by fear and something deeper, rawer.

“F-for me?” he asked, as if the idea itself was too big, too dangerous to fully believe.

Hoseok felt his chest tighten painfully, but he kept his expression smooth and open. He had expected this — they all had.

How could they not? Jungkook, who had spent years trapped underground, in a place without windows, without kindness, without choice. How could he not hesitate when offered freedom in the form of four simple walls and a bed?

Still, seeing it — seeing the disbelief, the smallness in Jungkook’s posture — it hurt more than either of them had been prepared for.

Jimin stepped forward first, his smile warm, steady, without even a hint of pity.

“Of course it’s yours, Jungkook,” he said gently. He glanced around the room, then back at him, adding with a playful little tilt of his head, “And it’ll be even more yours once you decorate it. Posters, plants, stuffed animals, paint — anything. We’ll help if you want.”

Hoseok chuckled quietly, a low, soothing sound, and added, “Or you can keep it just like this. It’s all up to you. No rush.”

They left the words hanging there carefully — an open invitation, not a demand. A new world, waiting for Jungkook to claim at his own pace.

For a moment, Jungkook didn’t move. Then, almost like he was caught in a dream, he reached out one tentative hand and brushed his fingers across the duvet.

The fabric was impossibly soft, like something precious, something meant to comfort. His touch was featherlight at first, barely skimming the surface. He let his fingers linger, clutching a small handful of the material in his hand as if anchoring himself to reality — as if trying to confirm that it wasn’t going to be ripped away.

Jimin and Hoseok shared a glance.

“We’ll let you have some time to settle in,” Jimin said softly, careful not to startle him. He pointed to a door on the left side of the room. “There’s an ensuite bathroom through there. We left a pajama set for you on the counter. We will be just down the hall if you need us, okay? Don’t hesitate to call for us if you need it.”

Jungkook turned toward them, still moving slowly, still looking utterly stunned. His wide eyes were glassy in the warm lamplight, his hand unconsciously tightening on the duvet.

He gave a small, jerky nod, not trusting his voice.

Hoseok’s smile was gentle as he stepped back toward the hallway.

“Goodnight, Jungkook,” he said, his voice rich with quiet sincerity. “We hope you sleep well.”

Then, he gently pulled the door closed behind them — leaving Jungkook standing there alone, in his room.

 

 

# # #

 

 

Downstairs, the house was quieter now. The leftover warmth of dinner still lingered, soft light pooling around the dining table where the rest of the Eros members had gathered. Jungkook’s file lay closed in front of Seokjin, untouched for the past hour, a silent reminder of the weight they all carried.

When Jimin and Hoseok reappeared, the others looked up, their gazes filled with unspoken questions.

“Did he like the room?” Namjoon asked first, voice low and hopeful.

Jimin let out a small, breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. “That’s an understatement.”

“He was quite shocked,” Hoseok added, moving to sit down. “We didn’t push. I think it’ll take time for him to process… everything in this house. The space. The safety. Even the quiet.”

Everyone nodded, the mood around the table settling into something deeper — more serious.

Seokjin finally spoke, his voice calm but purposeful. “So, back at the clinic… while you were in Jungkook’s room, Yoongi and I had a talk with Doctor Jung.”

At that, the room seemed to still even more.

He continued, fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the file. “By law we’ll all be able to work from home at least three out of five days each week for the next month.”

Taehyung let out a small breath of relief. Jimin blinked in surprise.

“That way,” Seokjin went on, “we can rotate schedules and make sure there’s always at least three of us home with him at any given time. He won’t ever be alone.”

They began discussing logistics — which days each of them would take, who could cover mornings or evenings. Yoongi offered to take the early slots, given how his music schedule was more flexible. Namjoon volunteered for midweek. Hoseok and Jimin worked together to patch weekends and late evenings. Taehyung, always quick to adapt, filled in the gaps.

They moved quickly, efficiently.

Once the rough framework was laid out, Seokjin leaned back in his chair and let out a long, tired sigh. He tapped the folder with two fingers, the sound soft but sharp in the stillness.

“Then,” he said, more gravely now, “we talked about some more pressing matters.”

The others quieted instantly.

“The doctor is happy with his progress. The fact that he’s talking at all, making eye contact, accepting even small comforts — those are huge steps. But…”

He paused, thumb brushing the edge of the folder, “…that doesn’t mean he’s not still in subdrop.”

Jimin’s smile faded. Hoseok’s brows furrowed.

“He’s somewhat stable,” Seokjin added. “But emotionally, he’s still deeply dysregulated. The body remembers trauma. You saw, everything gets... frayed. His fear, his confusion, the shutdowns — they’re all symptoms.”

“So he’s still dropping,” Namjoon murmured, saying what everyone else already knew, but having to organise his thoughts out loud . “Even if it looks like he’s getting better.”

Seokjin nodded. “Exactly. He’s climbing, but it’s slow, and fragile. He still doesn’t know he’s safe. Not really. We need to support him like he's in an extended subdrop phase — consistent care, presence, calm energy. Doctor Jung also said that he had never seen a case like this, so following our instincts as doms and switches might be our best bet.”

“That’s not really reassuring, is it?” said Jimin and, even if the comment was supposed to be snarky, he looked fragile, a bit unsure in the direction to take.

Seokjin turned toward Jimin, his expression softening immediately at the sight of the switch’s creased brow and flickering doubt.

“It’s normal to feel a bit lost right now,” he said gently. “This isn’t something any of us have done before. Mistakes will happen — that’s inevitable. But we’ve talked about this.”

He glanced around the table, letting his gaze settle briefly on each of them, “we have what matters most: patience, love, and the will to keep showing up. Every single day. We’ve already made progress with Jungkook — just look at what happened tonight. He spoke. He accepted comfort. He walked into a room meant for him.”

Jimin’s mouth tugged downward, lips pressing together. Hoseok nudged his knee gently under the table, a silent reassurance.

Seokjin’s voice dropped, warm and steady. “It’s going to take time. Maybe a lot of it. But Jungkook will come out of subdrop. He will start to believe he’s safe. We just have to meet him exactly where he is, and take it one step at a time.”

There was a beat of quiet after that — not heavy, but reflective. Grounding.

And then Taehyung murmured, voice quiet but resolute, “We can do that.”

Namjoon nodded. “Yeah. One step at a time.”

Jimin let out a quiet sigh, the tension easing from his shoulders now that the planning was done. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs beneath the table, and tilted his head toward the kitchen with a groan.

“Well,” he said, voice dry but playful, “since we’re all stay-at-home doms and switches now… who’s making breakfast tomorrow?”

Taehyung blinked dramatically. “You mean we can’t just manifest kimchi jjigae through sheer emotional commitment?”

Namjoon snorted. “If that worked, Yoongi hyung would’ve cooked us a five-course meal just by breathing near the stove.”

“I vote Seokjin-hyung and Yoongi-hyung, as always,” Jimin added, nudging Hoseok with his foot. “You two are the ones who can make something that Jungkook will not think it’s… a little sad.”

Yoongi raised a brow but didn’t argue, while Seokjin smirked like a king being rightfully acknowledged. “Imagine what you’d do without us,” he said, already mentally sorting ingredients. “You’d probably be eating instant ramyeon and dejection.”

A ripple of quiet laughter moved around the table — small, tired, but genuine. It didn’t erase the weight of the day, but it softened it. A reminder that they were still themselves, even in the middle of something so fragile and uncertain.

For a moment, the room glowed — not from the overhead light, but from the quiet presence of people who knew how to hold each other up.

One step at a time.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Notes:

Hello hello :)
I got into a car accident yesterday, But I am fine! I am alive! I have a fic to update ihih

I always say to myself, I don't think I am going to write much, and then I cannot seem to stop. I just have too much to say!

PLEASE READ
This chapter is another heavy one, please note I have updated the tags!!!!
For a good part of the chapter, Jungkook is dissociating, so please please please take care of yourself and ask me if you need me to summarise the chapter for you. I do not want to trigger anyone.
Also, even if I have experienced dissociation in the past, I am not 100% certain this is the way everyone feels when experiencing it. I based myself on my experience and then modified it to make sense with the story.
THIS IS ALL FICTION!

I have also added medical inaccuracies because I am talking out of my ass about most of the medical stuff present in this story. I am not a doctor, I see a tiny cut and I faint. Please, do not take my words for medical advices.

TRIGGER WARNINGS
Eating disorder and mentions of food being denied
Dissociation
Panic attack

I swear I am not trying to make Jungkook as miserable as possible, that is not my goal. As a psychology student, I am just truly interested in recovery and what that can look like. I also go crazy for angst.

With that said, I thank you all as always for sticking with this story and they love you are showing it.
I hope you enjoy, and I'm sending hugs and kisses to everyone xxx

Namjoon woke first.

He wasn’t sure what had roused him: maybe the early blue light seeping around the curtains, maybe the unfamiliar pressure in his chest, maybe the echo of Jimin’s breathing, slow and even, curled up beside him in the sprawling bed. He lay there for a moment, blinking at the ceiling, running through his mental checklist — Jungkook is here, the house is calm, the schedule is pinned to the fridge, today is Wednesday and Yoongi is making breakfast.

It was a detail, small and inconsequential, but it made him smile: Yoongi, most steadfast of them all, padding sleepily to the kitchen at six sharp, hair a disaster, still in pajamas, just to start the water boiling for everyone else. You could set your life to his rhythm.

The dom thought of Jungkook, on his first night in the house. He had expected a call, maybe a late-night thump, a whisper through the hallway asking for water, or clarity. But the night had been still. No footsteps. No door creaking open. Just silence.

It didn’t feel like peace. It felt like someone holding their breath.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then gently pushed himself up, careful not to wake Jimin. The switch shifted slightly, curling tighter under the covers, but didn’t stir. Namjoon padded barefoot through the house, past the quiet thrum of Hoseok’s sound machine in the guest room, down the stairs that creaked only slightly at the third step.

He found Yoongi exactly where he expected him: in front of the stove, sleeves pushed up, a pan already hissing quietly. The scent of warm broth and garlic wrapped around the kitchen like a blanket.

Yoongi didn’t look up. “You're early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Namjoon leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Dreamt we forgot to set the heating in Jungkook’s room and he froze overnight.”

Yoongi snorted. “That’s grim.”

“Yeah, well. Welcome to my subconscious.”

There was a comfortable pause as Yoongi stirred the pot with slow, steady movements. “I checked on him once,” he said quietly. “Middle of the night. Just cracked the door open.”

Namjoon glanced up, surprised. “You did?”

“He was asleep. I think. Curled in the corner of the bed, not even under the covers.”

Something in Namjoon’s chest twisted, “God.”

“I left the door open just a bit,” Yoongi continued. “Just enough so he’d hear the hallway. So he’d know he wasn’t alone.”

Namjoon didn’t say anything right away. He looked toward the ceiling, in the direction of Jungkook’s room, as if he could see the boy through the beams and wood. And maybe he could, in a way — a small figure in a wide bed, in a home that wasn’t yet home.

“I hope today is gentle on him,” he murmured.

Yoongi nodded. “I hope so too.”

There was a long pause between them — the kind that didn’t feel empty but companionable, like two pieces of a puzzle resting side by side. The kitchen filled with the quiet simmer of broth and the soft tap of Namjoon’s fingers against the counter. Morning light edged in through the windows, cool and blue.

Namjoon watched Yoongi stir the pot with practiced ease, movements steady and thoughtful.

He hesitated for a moment, then spoke.

“You’re good with him.”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away, just blinked once and adjusted the heat beneath the pan.

“I mean it,” Namjoon continued, voice softer now. “You’re not just careful. You’re intuitive. That thing about leaving the door open last night — that was smart.”

A faint blush crept up the back of Yoongi’s neck, just barely visible beneath the tousled mess of black hair. He scowled down at the pot as if it had personally betrayed him.

“It wasn’t that deep,” he muttered. “I just... didn’t want him to wake up and think he was alone.”

Namjoon smiled, slow and knowing. “Right. Not deep at all.”

Yoongi shot him a sideways look, a mix of warning and embarrassment. “Shut up.”

But there was no real heat in it. They both knew the truth: Yoongi, with all his quiet walls and deadpan expressions, had already started to fold. Had already tucked the boy somewhere deep in that slow-beating, fiercely loyal heart of his.

And Namjoon found comfort in that. In Yoongi’s blush, in Seokjin’s structure, in Jimin’s sweetness, in Hoseok’s light, in Taehyung's excitement. They were all already tethering themselves to Jungkook in different ways — whether they admitted it aloud or not.

“Whatever you say, hyung,” Namjoon said lightly, nudging his shoulder before turning to pull bowls down from the cupboard. “But I saw the way you made five kinds of banchan. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Yoongi groaned. “Three are mild. He just— he looks like he doesn’t do spicy.”

Namjoon’s grin widened. “Mm-hmm. Sure.”

Yoongi didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to. The blush lingered on his cheeks, and that alone was enough of an answer.

 

###

 

 

Jungkook woke to quiet.

For a few long seconds, he didn’t move — his eyes wide open, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, breathing shallow and tense.

Something was wrong. The light was soft, not harsh and clinical. The air smelled faintly of laundry and herbs, it wasn't sterile. There was no hum of fluorescent bulbs, no shuffle of footsteps behind locked doors. The walls were pale and warm-toned.

His fingers twitched against soft cotton sheets.

Panic bloomed in his chest, sharp and immediate.

Where—?

Then, like a wave breaking against the shore, it hit him.

The living room. The soup. The way the switch had spoken — fierce. The room. The impossibly soft duvet. The smile on the other switch’s face. The dom’s voice telling him gently where the bathroom was. The door closing behind them, the click as it latched. The silence that had followed — full of space. Space that belonged to him.

This was his room. He wasn’t at the clinic.

But even knowing that — even remembering — didn’t stop the instinctual fear that crept in like fog under a doorframe.

Because nothing about this felt safe. Because the last time something felt soft, it had been a trick. The last time a door closed behind him, it had locked and not opened for days. The last time someone spoke kindly, it was to get something in return. Everything inside him screamed to retreat, to shrink, to brace.

And yet…

The room was still quiet. Still warm. Still his.

He curled his fingers into the duvet, needing the texture, the grounding. He hadn’t dared slip under the covers the night before, not knowing if that was allowed. He didn’t know whether to cry or exhale. There was no logic in the way his body trembled on top of the sheets, or how his throat ached with the pressure of unspoken panic. He just… didn’t know how to feel.

Safe?

It felt too dangerous to believe in.

But maybe — maybe — he could just exist here for now. Not safe, not unsafe. Just… here.

He sat up slowly, joints creaking, and pulled his knees close to his chest, burying his face in them. The world was moving too fast around him — he needed it to slow down, to wait until his brain caught up. There was no clock on the nightstand, no blinking red numbers to orient him, but that felt like a mercy. He could pretend, just for a moment, that time had stopped, that the whole house was holding its breath with him.

He should get up. He should—what? He didn’t know. Wait to be called? Make himself useful? The routines from the old world nipped at him, sharp and constant, but nothing here made sense.

Nothing had rules.

He tried to imagine how the morning would go. Would someone come to check on him? Did he leave the room? Was he supposed to?

His eyes caught on something: the door.

It was open — not wide, but just enough. A soft sliver of the hallway beyond peeked through, light trickling in at the edges.

He froze.

Had he done that?

No, he couldn’t have. He remembered the click last night, remembered Hoseok gently pulling it closed. He would’ve noticed if he’d gotten up in the middle of the night — wouldn’t he?

Unless he had. Unless he’d been too disoriented, too wrapped in whatever dreams had clung to him in sleep. But no, no — that didn’t feel right. His stomach curled inward.

An open door wasn’t safe. An open door was an invitation — or a mistake. Either way, it was dangerous. But the longer he stared at it, the more… ordinary it seemed. Nothing stirred behind it. No one stood watching. No footsteps. No voices. Just a quiet hall and a door left ajar, like someone wanted to leave it open just enough — not enough to invade, but enough to say: you can come out when you’re ready.

Still, his thoughts whirled.

Was it a test?

Another game in disguise?

He clutched the blankets underneath him tighter.

But the spiral had paused, hadn’t it? For a brief second, the endless tumble of what ifs had stilled as he studied that sliver of space. That quiet invitation.

He didn’t move.

 

A soft sound — barely a huff — broke the silence.

Jungkook's stared intently at the door, breath catching in his throat.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then, slowly, a snout appeared through the gap. Black and velvety, twitching with curiosity.

Hugo.

Jungkook blinked, stunned into stillness as the dog inched further into view, paws padding softly on the hardwood floor. They stared at each other — man and animal — locked in some quiet understanding. Hugo tilted his head, ears perking ever so slightly, like he was asking permission without words.

Then, with a gentle nudge of his nose, the door creaked wider.

Jungkook flinched. The instinct was sharp, automatic — but this was... Hugo. Not a person. Not a dom. Not a voice or an order or an outstretched hand.

Just a dog. The one who had pressed a wet kiss to his hand yesterday.

Hugo hesitated in the doorway for only a second longer before stepping fully into the room, moving with quiet confidence. His body language was relaxed, tail giving a slow, lazy wag as he approached the bed.

Jungkook didn’t move. His muscles were still coiled, tight with the uncertainty of the moment — but his heart beat a little slower than before. The room didn’t feel as wide, as sharp or daunting.

Hugo reached the edge of the bed and paused, nose lifting, sniffing the air like he was trying to read Jungkook’s mood. Then, delicately, he pressed his snout forward and gave the blanket a soft nudge. A greeting. The sub exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He let his head sink, face hiding behind the curtain of his hair, and waited for the trembling to stop. It didn’t, but it softened.

He reached out hesitantly, hand hovering above Hugo’s head, and waited. The dog nuzzled closer, warm and insistent, so Jungkook let his palm land gently atop the silky fur. He let it stay there. Let the dog press into him, let the moment pass with nothing but the quiet click of claws on wood, and the slow, deliberate thump of Hugo’s tail against the side of the bed.

Someone, in some other room, laughed. Not a sharp sound, but a bubble of amusement, muffled.

Jungkook didn’t move at first. Just kept his hand there, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Hugo’s breathing beneath his palm. The warmth. The weight. The quiet trust of a creature that asked for nothing except to be near. His fingers curled slightly, brushing through the soft fur with slow, unsure strokes.

he leaned in, face close to Hugo’s snout.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered.

It was barely a sound — more breath than voice — but the words startled him nonetheless. They hung in the air like a confession, fragile and echoing.

He had never said them aloud. Not to himself. Not to anyone.

He was afraid.

Of the house, with its soft sheets and quiet hallways. Of the people who looked at him with eyes full of gentleness instead of hunger. Of the stillness. Of kindness. Of change. Of the past and of the future. Of the way his own thoughts chased each other in circles until he couldn’t tell where the fear ended and he began. Even now, with the safety of blankets and a dog pressed close, the alertness hummed under his skin like static — a constant thrum in his bones, warning him not to settle too deeply. Never to trust too quickly. Not even himself.

His fingers stilled.

How can you rest when it never stops?

Hugo he gave a low huff, soft and warm, and nudged closer still, resting his chin lightly on Jungkook’s knee.

His gaze drifted slowly around the room. The desk came first — clean lines, pale wood, a neatly placed chair tucked beneath it. Across the room, in the far corner, there was the armchair that was sat facing the window. It was soft-looking, plush, a dusky blue that reminded him of early morning skies. He imagined sinking into it, pulling his knees up, maybe watching the wind through the glass. He tilted his head slightly.

What would it feel like, to sit there?

His eyes drifted again, landing on the bookshelf tucked against the opposite wall, half-full. Some books lined up in neat rows, others stacked sideways. It made the room feel alive — like someone lived here. Like someone could. Jungkook couldn’t remember the last book he read. Or maybe he could, but it felt too far away, locked behind too many days of silence and survival. Reading had become… pointless. Trivial. Something you were allowed to do only if your owner decided you’d earned it.

Another nudge to his palm broke the thought. Hugo was watching him, tail thudding gently against the floor, head tilted in question.

He whined softly, ears twitching.

Jungkook blinked.

Is he hungry?

The dog gave a small, expectant huff, and for a moment, Jungkook stared at him blankly.

Me too.

The realization creeping in like sunlight under a door.

His stomach clenched faintly, not yet in pain, but hollow. A whisper of need. But eating meant danger. Eating meant hands and belts and the Box. It meant being inspected and told he was too much, too heavy, too slow. That no one would want a sub who looked like that.

His breath stuttered. He curled in slightly, instinctively protecting his core.

But… the switch had said…

“You’re allowed,”

“What they did was abuse.”

That word. Abuse.

It echoed now, bouncing around his skull like a marble in a jar.

Was that what it had been?

He couldn’t say for certain. He didn’t have the language. He didn’t know the threshold, the measurement of pain that made something wrong. But Taehyung had said it. And the others hadn’t disagreed. And Hoseok hadn’t punished him when he only ate a little at dinner. No one had shouted. No one had hurt him.

And that...

That was new.

He moved like he was underwater, as if he was following Hugo’s lead.

Slow. Dragged. Uncertain.

His feet found the floor one at a time, the pads of them cold against the polished wood. The tremble started in his ankles — thin and traitorous — and crept up to his knees, jittering them like loose wires. His spine curved inward instinctively, as if to shield the soft parts of himself, the ones always hurt first.

Stand up, he told himself.

He hated this part. The shaking. The visible proof of his weakness. It was like blood in the water. It invited eyes. It made him an easier target. And even here, in this quiet room with the warm dog and books and grey armchair, his body didn't believe he was safe.

But he stood anyway.

It felt monumental. Like lifting a boulder with his ribs. His head spun the moment he was fully upright. Black dots scattered across his vision. He blinked rapidly and fixed his gaze on Hugo, who had padded a little ahead, then turned and waited, ears perked, expectant.

I can do this, Jungkook told himself.

He could walk. To where, he was not sure, but he decided he could and he was going to.

One step.

Then another.

The third made his breath catch, and the fourth made his thighs burn. The fifth brought that dull, echoing ache in his left ankle screaming back to life — and just as his heel landed—

—it gave out.

His leg crumpled beneath him with a sickening familiarity. His body twisted as he fell, arms half-reaching, not fast enough to catch himself. He hit the floor hard, the jolt of impact stealing the air from his lungs. A loud, startled whine broke from Hugo as the dog rushed back to him, tail wagging wildly in confusion and distress. He circled Jungkook twice, letting out sharp little yelps of concern, before settling beside him, pressing his weight against Jungkook’s side like an anchor.

Jungkook felt the burn start behind his eyes.

I can’t even walk.

The frustration was molten — thick and sharp, oozing into every crack of his fragile control. He wanted to scream. To break something. To disappear.

Instead, he curled into himself, pressing his forehead to the floor, fists tight against his chest, breath ragged.

“I hate this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I hate this, I hate this, I—”

Hugo let out another soft whine, a gentle push of his snout against Jungkook’s temple, and the rhythmic thump of his tail on the floor.

They stayed like that for a long minute.

“I hate this,” Jungkook whispered again, voice muffled against the floor.

The heat behind his eyes didn’t fade. It bloomed, spread, tipped into the curve of his throat and burned its way down to his chest.

“I hate this,” he said louder, as if volume could make it more true.
“I hate this.”

The words cracked out of him, brittle and sharp.

“I hate—” he choked on it. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this, I hate this—”

He slammed his fist into the ground once, twice, pain flaring and forgotten.

Everything inside him was too loud.

The rage didn’t feel like anger anymore — it felt like drowning. Like clawing at his own skin to find an exit. The screaming started somewhere deep in his chest, then tore its way out.

“I HATE THIS—!”

His voice broke, raw and shrieking. The room spun, breath stuck in his throat like glue, like hands, like the Box. He couldn’t breathe right — too shallow, too fast, too much.

And then—

Footsteps.

Heavy, fast.

“Jungkook!”

Someone was calling him.

His name hit him like a whip. The door slammed open. Wood against wall.

Too loud. Too much.

He flinched hard, arms flying up to cover his head as he curled tighter into himself, trembling violently. But the screaming didn’t stop. It had its own rhythm now. A mantra, a purge.

“I hate this—I hate this—I hate—”

He didn’t see who entered the room. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t.

Tears blurred everything. He couldn’t remember when they had started falling. His face was soaked, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

He was so tired.

He wanted out. Out of this feeling. Out of this skin. Out of this loop that wouldn’t let him rest.

Was it too much to ask? Just one moment — one — without this terror in his chest?

The voice came again, closer now, a presence on the floor beside him, hands not touching but near. Jungkook couldn’t understand what it was saying. It was too fast, too choked with worry — it sounded just as panicked as he felt. He tried to press further into the floor, as if the wood would open and take him in. Instead, it stayed solid beneath him. And the voice stayed too, close and breathless, trying to reach him.

“Jungkook,” it said, “I’m here. I’m here.”

He didn’t know who it was. Didn’t care. The blood roared in his ears, drowning every attempt at calm, every breath.

But someone was there. Watching. Too close. The shame seared through him, hot and relentless, mixing with the helplessness, the fury, the panic, until it became something else — something he couldn’t bear, something that shattered out of him in a final, desperate scream.

“Please!” It came out like a sob.

Like mercy. Like a plea for the world to stop moving so fast, so sharp, so endless.

And then— Everything went black.

 

###

 

 

Jungkook woke to quiet. For a moment, he didn’t know if he had really woken up, if he had left the spinning dark or just found a different shade of it. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. The air was still.

The first thing he noticed was his breath. It moved slow — in, out, in again — deeper than before, no longer caught in the desperate trap of his ribs.

Then came the rest. The throb behind his eyes. The ache in his spine. His limbs, stiff and cold against the hardwood floor, the skin on his cheek numb where it had pressed too long against the ground. His fingers twitched beneath the weight of something soft — a blanket. Someone had covered him.

He didn’t know how long it had been. The world was muffled, not with panic now, but like cotton stuffed in his ears. A blanket over his senses. He didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. He stayed still, barely breathing, as if the floor might swallow him whole if he made a sound.

Then, slowly, the voices around him began to sharpen.

“I tried to calm him down,” someone said, voice rough, quiet with strain. Jimin. “But he was screaming too loudly, I don’t think he could hear me.”

A pause. A breath.

“Should we call Doctor Jung?” That was Namjoon— tight and anxious. “Should we call an ambulance?”

Another voice, firmer, clearer. “Hoseok-ah, go to the kitchen and get my phone, please.”

Seokjin. The authority in his tone wasn’t harsh — it was a tether. Something to hold on to.

“I’ll go prepare a hot water bottle, I don’t want him to go into shock because of the cold,” that was Yoongi’s voice, smooth if not slightly strained.

Footsteps moved away, socks brushing wood. Jungkook didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t think he could. But he listened — as if the act of hearing might ground him and keep him from disappearing entirely.

His hand shifted minutely beneath the blanket, brushing something warm. Fur.

Hugo. Still here. Still with him.

The weight of that presence pressed into his chest, unfamiliar and soothing all at once, telling him he wasn’t alone.

He opened his eyes slowly. The light didn’t hurt, but it felt strange — it was too soft, like the world had been padded overnight. It took a moment for his vision to clear, and when it did, the first thing he saw was Hugo. The dog was curled up beside him, head resting gently near his ribs, watching him with the quiet intensity only animals seemed to possess. As if he’d known something was wrong before anyone else had.

Jungkook blinked. Once. Twice. Then shifted his gaze. A few feet away, Jimin was pressed tightly against Namjoon’s chest, both of them seated on the floor. Jimin’s shoulders trembled faintly, his face hidden in the folds of Namjoon’s shirt, while the dom held him tightly — one hand stroking slowly down his back, the other wrapped protectively around him, rocking him.

Beside them, Taehyung sat cross-legged, holding a big stuffed giraffe to his chest. His eyes were wide and dry, but locked onto Jungkook, unmoving. He looked like he’d said a hundred things in his head and hadn’t let a single one reach his mouth.

And directly in front of him — Seokjin. Kneeling now. Still. His hands rested loosely on his thighs, his expression quiet but unreadable.

Concern was there, clear as day. But there was something else in his eyes, too. Something Jungkook didn’t know how to name, and his head was too fuzzy at the moment to try and analyse it.

They didn’t speak. None of them. The only sound was Hugo’s slow, even breathing and the subtle creak of the house settling. Jungkook didn’t dare move, didn’t know what to do with the fact that they were all here.

What has he done?

He was definitely getting punished now, there was no way around it. He caused an absolute scene, broke oh so many rules he couldn’t even start counting them and upset them all.

And now. Now he was being bothersome. A nuisance. He could not even get up, perhaps say he was fine, anything to make them understand he was not as much of a liability as he was currently showing. He wanted to say sorry, to apologize for the screaming, the ruined morning, for being weak and messy and not easy. He opened his mouth — but nothing came out. Even the desire for apology crumpled under the exhaustion.

Seokjin spoke first, voice softened into velvet.

“Jungkook? Can you hear me?”

Jungkook’s throat worked around nothing, but he managed to nod, a shiver running from the base of his skull down to his feet.

“Just stay where you are for a bit,” Seokjin continued, the words even and measured, “you had a panic attack. Jimin-ah was the first to hear you, and we all came running. No one is angry.”

Jungkook pressed his lips together. It didn’t matter; his jaw was locked, his thoughts splintered. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have words for this kind of shame.

Seokjin’s voice came again, gentle but gounding, “can you feel the floor under you?” he asked, the words slow, deliberate. “And Hugo beside you?”

Jungkook didn’t nod this time, didn’t trust his head not to come loose from his body with the motion. But his eyes drifted — downward, toward the warm pressure at his side. Hugo hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as flinched. The dog’s body was curled protectively against his own, the line of his back pressed to Jungkook’s ribs, one broad paw slung across the blanket like an anchor.

Jungkook’s hand, rigid at first and splayed across the floor, twitched. It was like watching someone learn how to move again — every inch was a negotiation, a decision. Slowly, carefully, he allowed his fingers to creep forward, hesitant and shaking, until they were mere inches away from Hugo’s broad, familiar head. He paused there, breath catching, uncertain if he was allowed even this small moment of contact.

As if sensing his thoughts, Hugo let out a low, groaning sound — somewhere between a hum and a sigh — and shifted minutely closer, nudging his snout into the empty space Jungkook had made.

Seokjin’s voice carried a trace of warmth then, soft amusement tucked carefully into the corners of it, not to tease but to soothe, “what a chatty dog we have,” he murmured, his tone light as a feather on water.

Jungkook didn’t answer, but his hand moved at last, the tips of his fingers brushing through the dog’s fur, tentative at first, then a little more firmly, as though each stroke gave him back a piece of himself. The simple act steadied him — the feeling of something real, something alive under his touch.

For a long moment, that was all there was. Breathing. Fur. Silence thick with meaning.

Then Jungkook’s gaze drifted again, involuntarily, catching on the quiet figures still huddled a few feet away. Jimin hadn’t moved from Namjoon’s arms, his shoulders trembling faintly even now. His face was buried in the dom’s chest, and Namjoon was murmuring something low, inaudible, stroking up and down Jimin’s spine in slow, calming motions. Tae, close beside them, clutched the stuffed giraffe with white-knuckled hands, his brows drawn tight with worry.

A fresh pang of shame coiled low in Jungkook’s stomach.

This — this mess, this spectacle — it had been his. Again. Of course it had.

His throat burned with the words he still couldn’t say: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare anyone. I just—

But the thoughts broke apart before they could finish. His hand stilled on Hugo’s head.

As if in answer, Seokjin leaned a little closer, his voice still wrapped in gentleness but now lined with something steadier, something that didn’t waver.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said quietly, as though he had plucked the thought straight from Jungkook’s mind. “Everyone’s okay. You’re okay. No one here is scared of you.”

There was a quiet stillness that followed Seokjin’s words — not heavy, but present.

Then, a voice cut through, small but firm, determined in a way that didn’t quite match its softness.

“This is Misun,” Taehyung said suddenly, leaning as forward as he could whilst sitting crossed legged a few feet away from the sub. He held the stuffed giraffe out in front of him like an offering, both hands wrapped tightly around its round middle. “My giraffe. I love her.”

The shift in tone startled Jungkook. Not jarring, exactly — more like someone opening a window in a too-warm room. Taehyung’s eyes were wide and focused, the way a child might look before saying something very important.

He didn’t wait for a response. Just kept holding the plush toy out, its long neck and bright fabric tilting slightly to one side.

“I always cuddle with her after scenes,” he continued, voice picking up pace now like he was trying to fit all the words in before they got too big to say. “Or when everything feels like too much. I can hug her super tight, and she doesn’t mind. She loves it, actually.”

There was a pause then — a flicker of hesitation passed across his features. His eyes darted between the giraffe and Jungkook’s face, uncertain now, as though maybe he’d misjudged the moment.

But then he leaned even closer, nearly stumbling down, “she helps me a lot,” he said, and this time the words came out quiet again. Not small, but sure. “I think she could help you too.”

He lowered the giraffe — Misun — gently toward where Jungkook still lay half-curled on the floor, not quite pushing her into his arms, but offering her.

Jungkook blinked slowly, dazed by the sudden shift in pace. His hand was still resting on Hugo’s head, his whole body too heavy to move quickly, but he looked at Misun — the ridiculous giraffe with bright brown patches and big, content eyes — and felt something soften inside him.

He didn’t try to take the toy right away, but his body sagged a little looser against the floor, eyes wide and searching. Taehyung’s expression shifted at that — a flicker of surprise, then something brighter. He nudged Misun closer, tucking her close against Hugo’s side, right within reach.

“I’ll leave her here, she is a very patient girl.” The switch concluded, leaning back and scurrying close to Namjoon, like a foal going back to their mother after getting scared. The dom smiled warmly at his antics and tuck him close to his side, now cuddling both switches. Good boy, was whispered in Taehyung’s ear, making him wiggle proudly.

Jungkook’s fingers, slightly trembling still, reached out — not to grab, but to rest beside Misun’s soft fur. A breath hitched in his throat, but it didn’t become a sob. Just a slow exhale. His hand crept forward until it brushed the spot between the stuffed giraffe’s eyes, and then, delicately, began to stroke.

Seokjin watched in silence for a few moments.

“I’m sure Misun feels so much better tucked against you, Jungkook-ah,” he said, voice like warm and encouraging.

Jungkook didn’t speak, but his eyes remained fixed on the toy. His hand never stopped moving. The silence that followed was full, reverent in a way. A stillness that everyone honored by staying exactly where they were.

Then: fast footsteps on the hall floor, then the breathless appearance of Hoseok in the doorway. “Hyung, I got your—”

He stopped, mid-sentence, eyes landing on the shape of Jungkook curled up on the floor, on Misun, on Hugo still pressed close, tail slowly wagging. His chest rose and fell quickly, as if the remnants of a sprint hadn’t quite left him.

Seokjin turned to him and held out his hand, beckoning. The smile he gave was soft, tired, but deeply grateful. “Jungkook-ah made a new friend,” he said, as he gently took the phone from Hoseok’s hand. He jerked his head slightly, gesturing for Hoseok to come closer. Sit beside him. And Hoseok did — dropping cross-legged next to Seokjin with only the faint creak of the floor under his knees. He didn’t say anything right away. Just glanced at Jungkook, then at the giraffe, then back again. A smile grazed his features.

It matched Seokjin’s — quiet, full of something close to awe.

Jungkook didn’t look at them, but he didn’t flinch either. He just kept stroking the fur between Misun’s eyes.

Someone else entered the room. Jungkook didn’t lift his head to see who, but he felt the subtle shift in air, the murmur of another voice folding into the mix. Footsteps, slower than the others. Familiar. There was the gentle slosh of water. It's not super hot, was said to the room.

Yoongi. It had to be. He didn’t speak to Jungkook directly, didn’t crouch or hover, but the quiet of his presence was like an anchor laid down next to him, solid and undemanding.

Jungkook barely blinked as Seokjin’s voice rose a little above the hush. He was saying something about breakfast — his tone lighter now, like brushing dust off a heavy moment. Something about rice already cooking, soft words stacked in reassurance. Jungkook didn’t catch the details and he didn’t try to.

Someone might have asked him a question, he couldn’t be sure. He nodded anyway. Just once, a signal that he heard, that he understood… or that he’d pretend to, if that helped things move forward. People began to shift around him — bodies rising, brushing past one another, quiet footsteps creaking against the old floorboards. There was more talking, soft and meandering, like the world was gently stretching back into motion.

But Jungkook stayed still. His body, still pressed to the ground, felt distant and uncooperative. Too heavy and too fragile all at once. The blanket was warm over his back now, but a thin, unsettled chill curled underneath his skin. Everything inside him felt out of sync — like two lives pressed up against each other: one shattered and raw, the other impossibly soft and undeserved.

Under his fingertips, Misun’s fur was warm. Soft. Plush. The stitching on her ear was slightly uneven, the fabric yielding beneath his touch. He didn’t hold her tightly, but he didn’t let go either.

Inside him, everything still felt jagged — every thought a splinter, every emotion too sharp or too slippery to hold. But outside, under his palm, was this tiny thing that didn’t match the hard edges. A small contradiction.

He didn’t know what to do with that. So he just lay there, one hand curled loosely around the giraffe’s neck, breathing in the quiet — caught somewhere between the place where things hurt, and the place where they might, just maybe, start to heal.

 

 

###

 

 

He blinked — once, twice — and the world was different.

The floor was gone.

Everything had shifted sideways, and now—

He was on the couch.

The living room.

His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped losely around them, the fabric of yet another blanket soft against his arms. It smelled like cedar and something faintly floral — it was nice. His breath hitched, shallow. The seams of reality were too smooth — like he'd been carefully lifted and set down here without a ripple. Like time had gone on without him.

He didn’t remember standing. Or moving. Maybe someone had touched him, helped him or carried him. Maybe he’d walked like a sleepwalker, guided by voices or arms or instinct.

He didn’t know.

It was quiet now, though. Still. And through the tall windows that lined one wall of the living room, light spilled in — golden and gentle, the kind that wrapped around edges and made everything soft.

Midafternoon. The sun was tilted low, not quite evening, but no longer morning either. It painted the hardwood floors in wide strokes of amber, pooling in warm puddles beneath the coffee table and stretching long across the rug. Outside, the trees shimmered with motion — green and dappled, each leaf catching a different piece of the sun. The sky beyond was a dusky blue, fading toward violet at the corners, as if the day was beginning to exhale.

He stared at it — the color, the hush, the vast open glass — and felt untethered.

A soft sound pulled at the edge of his awareness.

Jungkook’s head whipped toward it, heart leaping into his throat. Two shapes came into focus near the entrance of the room, half-lit by the buttery midafternoon glow: Jimin and Hoseok, seated cross-legged on the floor, a small deck of cards spread between them.

They were quietly talking, but the words didn’t reach him. Just the warm murmur of voices, soft and rhythmic, like a current in the background. Neither of them had noticed him. Their heads were tilted toward each other, shoulders nearly touching. Jimin’s hand hovered above the cards for a beat before he placed one down with a satisfied flick of his wrist. Whatever it was, it must’ve been good — maybe even a winning card — because Hoseok groaned, a low, exaggerated sound that was more dramatic than upset. He let his own hand fall with mock defeat, scattering the cards across the floor in surrender.

Jimin grinned, small and bright, eyes crinkling. Hoseok shook his head, still smiling as he began to gather the cards again, already reshuffling.

The whole thing was so… normal.

So quiet and safe. He stared, unblinking, the pressure behind his eyes mounting. Not from tears — not exactly — but from something bigger. Something that pressed at his chest from the inside, clawing its way through the confusion and awe.

He’d drifted.

Again.

That floating sensation — the way his body had vanished from his own awareness, left hollow and distant — it had happened before. So many times. And before, it had always come with consequences. Sharp, immediate ones. The moment he slipped away, someone noticed. Someone punished. A hand across his face. A collar yanked too tight. Cold tiles. A Lesson, they’d called it.

Disappearing was not allowed.

But now…

He had vanished. Lost time. Blacked out. Whatever it was. And when he returned — this. A couch. A blanket. A golden afternoon. The quiet click of cards. The sound of someone laughing softly.

No one was shouting.

No one was angry.

He blinked, long and slow, as if trying to clear a fog from behind his eyes. His fingers curled into the blanket, gripping tight, grounding himself in the soft material, the nice scent.

What… was happening?

He tried to breathe, to let it settle, to convince himself that this — this — was real.

“Jungkook?”

Both faces turned toward him, their expressions calm and open. He froze, understanding nothing, the world moving at a different speed around him.

“Hey,” Hoseok said, a smile spreading slowly across his face.

“How are you feeling? Is the blanket warm enough?” Jimin’s voice followed, light and soft, carrying warmth with it.

Jungkook didn’t know what to say. How was he feeling? Was the blanket warm enough? His mind spun, unable to grasp the questions, to understand how these were the questions. When he didn’t respond right away, Jimin’s expression shifted.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes warm but steady.

“We’re playing Hwatu,” he said gently, as if offering a hand without reaching. “Do you know how to play?”

Jungkook blinked at him, slow and unsure. He gave the tiniest shake of his head.

Jimin’s smile didn’t falter.

“Why don’t you come here so we can show you how it’s played?” he asked, voice as light as a breeze. His fingers tapped the floor beside him in invitation.

Beside him, Hoseok chimed in with a groan, theatrical and exaggerated, “Yes, come help me, Jungkook. I don’t know how he does it, but I can’t seem to ever win against Jimin-ah.”

He huffed like a man defeated and shot Jungkook a grin, bright and a bit conspiratorial.

“Maybe you’ll be my good luck.”

The afternoon unfolded in gentle, uneven waves. Jungkook never quite remembered crossing the room, only that at some point he had — that Jimin’s smile had steadied him, that Hoseok’s exaggerated sighs had pulled a reluctant, shaky breath from his lungs that might have been the beginning of laughter. They played slowly, patiently, with no stakes and no pressure. Jimin explained the rules with a soft voice and animated gestures; Hoseok kept misreading his cards on purpose just to make Jungkook smile.

No one else came into the room.

The house, otherwise, was quiet — like the others had conspired to leave this space untouched, undisturbed. As if the living room itself had been turned into a sanctuary for three.

 

Little did Jungkook know that a very concerned, very fretful Seokjin had been on the phone for over forty minutes with Doctor Jung a few hours prior.

“…and he just collapsed,” Seokjin said, voice tight with residual panic. “One minute he was screaming, and then—his eyes rolled back and he fainted.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“I understand,” came Doctor Jung’s measured response, his voice as calm and precise as ever. “What you’re describing, Seokjin-ssi, is quite similar to Jungkook’s responses during his first days at the clinic. It’s a trauma shutdown. His system is overloaded, and his mind simply… disconnects to survive.”

Seokjin nodded, even though he couldn’t see him. He paced slowly across the floor of his office, a soft rug muffling his footsteps, the walls lined with books and framed photographs — all of them foreign to this moment. In one hand, he clutched a small, red stress ball, his fingers tightening and releasing in restless rhythm.

“He’s in a new environment,” Doctor Jung continued, “where he doesn’t know what’s safe and what isn’t. That uncertainty can be paralyzing. You said you found him on the floor, correct?”

“Yes,” Seokjin said quickly. “He was trying to walk, we think — Jimin said he found him on the floor with the dog next to him.”

“His ankle might be acting up,” he said gently. “We’d been considering starting physiotherapy for that leg but—well, as you’ve probably already deduced, the pain response is wrapped up in trauma. It was too overwhelming to proceed at the clinic.”

Seokjin sighed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He stopped pacing for a moment, staring at the shelf in front of him without really seeing it.

“And he… I don’t know how to describe it. After the fainting. He just shut down completely.” Seokjin’s voice lowered, almost guilty. “He wouldn’t respond to any of us. His eyes were completely glassed over. I don’t even know how he managed to come downstairs and sit at the dining table. He just stood up and started walking.”

He swallowed thickly, the weight of helplessness sharp in his throat, “he didn’t even protest when food was placed in front of him,” he added, shaking his head. “When we asked if he could eat some of it, he just picked up the chopsticks and ate it. Almost all of it. But you could tell he wasn’t tasting anything. He was just… going through the motions.”

There was a beat of silence. His hand clenched around the stress ball.

“Then we suggested moving to the living room. Maybe watch something together. And he did — he sat on the sofa, curled up, and… he hasn’t moved since. It’s been two hours, Doctor. I’m starting to become extremely concerned.”

Doctor Jung’s voice came softly through the speaker, no less firm for its gentleness. “What you are describing sounds like dissociation. It involves a disconnection from oneself or the world — a psychological defense mechanism. It can manifest in many ways: memory loss, a feeling of unreality, emotional numbness, even physical stillness. When an emotion is experienced with overwhelming intensity — especially fear, shame, or sadness — the brain protects itself by shutting down. It’s not voluntary. It’s survival.”

Seokjin didn’t speak. Just resumed pacing, slower this time. The stress ball made a soft, rubbery creak in his palm.

“And,” Doctor Jung continued, “this kind of episode is also a common symptom of prolonged subdrop.”

Seokjin exhaled slowly. “Right.”

Doctor Jung paused for a beat, then elaborated, tone dipping into something more instructional. “For someone like Jungkook — a high-intensity sub who’s endured years of non-consensual power dynamics — drop is less of a dip and more of a cliff. His neurochemical balance is still destabilized. Cortisol, adrenaline, dopamine, oxytocin — all out of sync.”

Another pause. Seokjin could hear the faint rustling of papers on the other end of the line.

“This creates a state of internal chaos,” Doctor Jung went on. “Fatigue, hypersensitivity, crying spells, anxiety, numbness, and yes — dissociation. The body and brain don’t know what’s safe, so they brace for danger, even in safety.”

Seokjin sank slowly into the chair behind his desk, the first moment of stillness in nearly an hour. His hand stopped squeezing the stress ball, resting limp in his lap.

“But, when it happens, what can we do? I can only speak for myself, but I am sure all the other will agree that their doms' instincts were going crazy because we just couldn’t understand what he needed.”

“Above all, do not force interaction,” Doctor Jung said gently. “The most important thing right now is letting Jungkook know that agency is his, and his alone. Let him drift, if he needs to, but always ensure that you are near—visible, available, but not imposing.”

“That feels… counterintuitive,” Seokjin admitted. He stared at the neat line of framed certificates on the far wall, the way they caught the fading afternoon light. “It feels like abandonment, to just let him fade out. It feels wrong.”

“It isn’t abandonment if your care is evident. Narrate your actions, even if he doesn’t respond—‘I’m sitting at the table with you.’ ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’ ‘I’m going to read now.’ Normalcy and predictability. He was denied both for so long. It will help anchor him.”

“And afterwards?” Seokjin asked quietly. His voice had dropped. The uncertainty of not knowing how to lead when all he wanted was to protect was heavy in his heart.

Doctor Jung’s response came after a moment of careful silence, “do not crowd him,” he said gently. “I know it’s hard — especially for doms higher on the scale — to resist the urge to step in, to direct, to fix. But Jungkook’s healing won’t come from pressure.”

Seokjin nodded slowly, his jaw tight. His thumb resumed circling the soft seam of the stress ball in his hand.

“Just ask how he’s feeling. Once. If he replies, good. If he doesn’t, we accept that. Confusion is a very common symptom of dissociation — he might not know how he feels himself.”

Seokjin pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, exhaling quietly.

“Then,” Doctor Jung continued, “invite him to take part in something simple. An activity. Preferably with only one or two members of your Eros — the people he’s connected to most so far. Too many of you at once might overwhelm him, or make him feel guilty, like he’s responsible for all your attention.”

Another pause, this one more thoughtful.

“Playing cards, composing a puzzle, even coloring,” he said, “These are all grounding tasks. Gentle, sensory, no pressure. They help stabilize the nervous system and bring the body back into the moment.”

Silence settled between them. It wasn't uncomfortable, just heavy, stretched too thin across the ache in Seokjin’s chest. He stared at a patch of sunlight crawling slowly across the floor, the warmth of it so at odds with the weight inside him.

Doctor Jung seemed to sense it. His voice returned, quiet but sure.

“I’ve worked with high-needs doms before,” he said. “I know how hopeless you can feel in situations like this. Especially when the instincts that usually serve you feel powerless here.”

Seokjin closed his eyes.

“Don’t confuse your inability to solve this with failure,” Doctor Jung continued gently. “This isn’t a problem to be fixed. It’s a wound. And wounds like these need presence, not pressure.”

There was a pause. The words settled in Seokjin’s chest like warm stone.

“Your steadiness is the medicine,” Doctor Jung said. “Not your certainty nor your control. Just your presence. That’s what will teach him he’s safe, Seokjin-ssi.”

 

###

 

 

The sky outside had darkened to a soft indigo, and the corners of the living room glowed with warm light. The card game lay scattered on the floor between them, its vivid designs now familiar, the air tinged with the quiet hum of comfort.

Jimin stretched with a dramatic groan, arms over his head and shoulders arching like a cat. “Ugh, I’m so tired of losing,” he whined, flopping sideways onto the rug. “How are you this good already?”

Jungkook blinked, startled. His fingers twitched at the edge of a card, and his gaze dropped quickly to the floor. A flush crept across his cheeks — soft and unmissable.

Hoseok grinned but didn’t press the moment. “Alright, I’m surrendering for the evening,” he said as he began to gather the cards back into a neat pile. “Gonna go take a shower before dinner.”

He rose to his feet and stretched, then turned toward Jungkook with a smile. “By the way — is the water pressure okay in your bathroom? Everything work alright?”

Jungkook froze. His hands stopped moving. The blush on his face deepened sharply — this time, unmistakably laced with something closer to mortification. He shook his head. Both Hoseok and Jimin paused, thrown off for a moment.

Maybe the pressure was not enough?

Jimin thought.

Or was the water too hot?

Maybe he didn’t like the bathroom?

But then Hoseok’s eyes widened just slightly, something clicking into place. His tone softened even further. He crouched a little again to meet him at eye level. “Do you… want me to show you how it works?”

Jungkook hesitated. His hand crept toward the bracelets on his wrist — the ones gifted to him — and began to fiddle with the beads, his fingers trembling faintly.

Jimin’s breath caught in his throat. Of course. Of course.

Their showers were practically over-designed — sleek, luxurious panels with too many buttons and water modes, the kind of thing you needed a manual for. It was easy to forget, in the luxury they’d grown used to, that someone like Jungkook might not have even seen a modern shower before. Might have not been allowed to use one alone in many years.

Might not have been allowed to feel clean.

The sub peeked up at them, gauging — measuring — waiting for shame, for mockery, for disappointment. All he saw were two soft, steady smiles.

After a beat, Jungkook gave the tiniest of nods, and stood on wobbly legs, still fiddling with the bracelet.

 

The hallway was dim and hushed, the kind of quiet that felt intentional.

Hoseok walked slowly, a step ahead of Jungkook, not rushing him, not looking back too often — just letting the silence stretch easy between them. The en suite was connected to Jungkook’s room — he remembered that much. But he hadn’t dared explore it. He had just changed into pajamas the night before and quickly squirreled away. The lights clicked on with a low hum. Soft, recessed lighting bathed the sleek space in golden warmth. The floor tiles were cool and smooth, the walls a calming shade of foggy grey, broken only by the wide mirror above the sink and the glass-paneled shower tucked neatly in the corner.

“See?” Hoseok said gently, stepping into the bathroom with casual ease. “Not too scary.”

Jungkook lingered in the doorway, shoulders tense, fingers still curled around the band of his bracelet.

Hoseok didn’t reach for him, he just walked to the shower panel and gestured at the maze of buttons with an exaggerated sigh. “Ridiculous, right? I don’t know why we thought anyone needed twelve water settings.”

He pressed one — a soft beep answered — and water began to cascade from the rainfall head above, a wide sheet of liquid light spilling into the tiled stall. Steam bloomed almost instantly, curling around the edges of the glass like breath on a winter window.

“Come here,” Hoseok said quietly, turning halfway. “I won’t touch you, promise. Just wanna show you.”

Jungkook inched forward. Each step felt like walking into fog. When he reached Hoseok’s side, he stood rigid, his gaze fixed on the falling water like it was something alive.

It looked... beautiful.

Not sharp or punishing. Just warm.

Gentle.

“The middle button adjusts temperature,” Hoseok explained, his voice soft beside him. “It’s already set to warm, but you can turn it up or down here.”

Jungkook’s eyes tracked every movement, wide and unblinking.

“This one here switches between modes — rainfall, massage jets, handheld.” He pressed a different button and the stream changed, shifting into a more focused cascade with a soft hiss. “You can always use the handheld if this feels like too much.”

Another button, another change. Steam thickened around them.

Hoseok glanced at him. “We’ve got some bath stuff here, too — body wash, shampoo, all that. And this—” he reached into a drawer and pulled out a small sphere, pale pink with a swirl of white, “—is a bath bomb. We usually use them for the tub, but you can break a little piece off and rub it under the water for scent.”

He handed it to Jungkook without touching him — just held it out until the sub reached up with slow fingers and took it.

It was soft. Crumbly. It smelled like flowers and sugar and something rounder — cream? Vanilla? He didn’t know. He only knew it was... nice.

“Take your time,” Hoseok said, stepping back. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in the shower myself, but once you are done you can go in the kitchen. I am sure Yoongi hyung or Seokjin Hyung will be there preparing dinner, okay?”

Jungkook nodded, barely.

Hoseok smiled gently from the doorway. “There are towels in the drawer. I’ll find another pair of pajamas you can wear for tonight and leave them on the bed.”

He didn’t wait for him to say anything. Just left — quiet as they'd come.

And then he was alone.

The door clicked softly shut. The steam whispered around him.

He stared at the water. Slowly — like he was moving through a dream — he reached out.

The spray hit his hand.

He flinched, but didn’t pull back. He moved his fingers beneath the stream, watched the way the droplets slid down his knuckles. It wasn’t hard. Wasn’t icy. Wasn’t punishment.

It felt like something he forgot.

His chest tightened. His throat burned.

He pressed his palm into the stream, just to feel it. Just to be sure. The water hit his skin in soft, even pulses — not too fast, not too loud. It wasn’t anything like the hoses or the freezing, timed showers from before. This wasn’t control. It wasn’t discipline.

It was... his.

The sub slowly undressed, making sure not to look at his reflection in the mirror nor down at his own body. He didn’t know exactly why. Why he was not able to look at his body, but it felt like it was too soon, a line he was not ready to cross yet.

He stepped forward slowly, one foot in, then the other. The water kissed his ankles, then his calves. He stepped fully under the spray. Warmth poured over him. His hair flattened. The water curled down his shoulders, his spine, his arms, like fingers tracing him gently.

He closed his eyes. Steam rose up around him, thick and scented. He looked at the bath both that was placed on the little shelf next to him. He took it and brought it closer to his body, under the water. He rubbed it between his hands until it foamed, the scent even richer now — sweet and strange and new. It didn’t even look like it belonged on this world. It looked magical, like fairy dust.

His breathing slowed. For the first time in what felt like years, Jungkook stood beneath falling water and did not brace for pain.

He stood still.

And the water kept falling.

He stayed under until his skin flushed pink and his breath fogged the glass. At some point, he realized he was just standing there, letting the water pelt his back, not moving, not thinking, not anything. He didn’t want to move—didn’t want to break whatever fragile spell had fallen over him in this moment.

If he stepped out, would it all vanish? Would he wake in a cage? Would the skin on his arms revert to stinging, memory-hot, or would it stay like this, feverish and new?

He let his last exhale go, slow. Then, clumsy with unfamiliar limbs, turned the water off and stepped out onto the bathmat. He shivered—the air was cooler out here, even with thick steam blurring the mirror. He found a towel in the shelf and pulled it close, wrapping himself up tight, burying his face in the fleece.

For a second, he stayed like that. Hidden from the world — wrapped in fleece, steam curling around his ankles, the sound of the water still echoing faintly in his ears. The silence wasn’t sharp. It didn’t claw. It felt soft, almost sweet, like the smell of the shampoo in the shower.

His eyes drifted to the mirror, still fogged over. No reflection stared back at him — just a blur of warmth and breath and mist. He felt distant from himself. Not in a frightening way, but in a way that made it easier to exist. Like the heat had melted something tight inside him, loosened the knots so he could simply be for a moment. No words. No rules. No weight.

He didn’t want to leave, but eventually, the air began to cool, the steam thinned, and the towel clung damply to his skin.

He dried off, each movement deliberate. Familiar in action, foreign in intent — he wasn’t rushing, wasn’t scrubbing, wasn’t obeying. He was just… trying to take care of his body.

When he was mostly dry, he stepped out into the bedroom, the towel still slung around his shoulders like a shield. The lights were low. The duvet had been pulled back slightly, like someone had turned it down for him.

On the edge of the bed, a folded set of pajamas waited.

He hesitated for a moment, then moved towards it. The fabric was soft when he picked it up, smooth with that just-washed feel. He dressed slowly, still damp in places, the cotton clinging slightly as he moved. The pajamas were quite big — sleeves slipping over his wrists, pant legs puddling around his ankles — but they smelled like the rest of the house: clean, warm, faintly sweet. A scent that hadn’t yet found a name in his memory, but was beginning to carve one.

The room was quiet, as if holding its breath with him.

Jungkook stood in the middle of it, the hem of the oversized pajama shirt clenched tightly between his fingers, knuckles pale with the pressure. He had been warm, moments ago, wrapped in steam and fleece and the dizzy hum of hot water. But now, standing barefoot on the cool floor, staring at the closed door across from him, he felt that warmth recede — not entirely gone, but distant. Fragile.

Go to the kitchen, Hoseok had said. Like it was nothing. Like it was safe.

Dinner.

Again.

His stomach didn’t growl. It twisted. Pulled back. He had already eaten today — twice. That was more than enough. More than allowed. His body remembered the rules long before his mind did. Hunger was meant to be swallowed down, to be ignored, to be punished. Eating too much meant taking up too much space. And too much space meant you became noticeable. Visible. Wrong.

What was the point of feeding him again?

It almost felt cruel. No — it had been cruel, before. They had done it to him already — let him eat just enough to feel full, to feel hope, only to rip it away the next day. They called it training. Some of them smiled while they did it, as if watching him starve again after being fed was part of the pleasure. It had hurt more than the chains. More than the silence. Because it felt like kindness at first. And then it didn’t.

What if this was the same?

What if this was just another pattern in disguise?

His knees wobbled, the room tilting slightly beneath him. He reached for the edge of the desk, grounding himself with one hand as his breathing turned sharp, uneven. His chest ached from the weight of mistrust — from the terrible, suffocating need to believe something that still felt impossible. He tried to remember what they’d said — the switch, Taehyung, whose name still hovered like a fragile thing on the edge of his mind, too sacred, too personal to hold fully. He remembered the words, though. Fierce, quiet truths planted like seeds in the middle of all the noise.

Doctor Jung’s voice, too,— not soft, but steady, grounding, a voice used to calming storms, when the nurses gave him that godforsaken rice.

“Food is not a reward or a threat. It’s a right.”

A right.

That word felt strange in his mouth, even when he only said it in his head.

He let go of the desk. The door was still there, unlocked and waiting.

His legs moved without real permission — more memory than decision — and carried him toward the hallway. The lights were dim, the soft glow of sconces lining the corridor like the gentle pulse of a heart. The air smelled of food, it wasn't sharp or greasy or stale, but something rounder. A little sweet, vegetables, maybe. Something green and leafy and fresh.

His stomach clenched, hunger and panic fighting against each other.

But still — he walked. Some small, flickering part of him wondered if maybe they were telling the truth. And because if they weren’t — if this was just another lie, another trick — then at least he would know.

At least he would be able to say he tried.

 

The kitchen glowed with a lit overhead lamp and a few lights scattered across the room. The warmth of it pressed against Jungkook’s skin as he stood in the doorway, bare feet silent, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat.

They hadn’t seen him yet. Yoongi stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stirring something in a deep pot with the kind of steady, absent care that spoke of long practice. Steam curled around his wrist as he leaned in to taste, expression calm and thoughtful. Across from him, Taehyung stood at the island, cutting radishes into neat, paper-thin slices. His fingers moved quickly, rhythmically, his hips swaying slightly to a beat Jungkook couldn’t place. There was music, low and mellow, playing from somewhere — a speaker tucked into some hidden corner, maybe — just loud enough to ripple through the room like a breeze. Namjoon sat at the counter, elbow propped on the marble, chin resting on his hand as he watched Taehyung with a fond smile. His eyes crinkled a little at the corners every time the switch wiggled or mouthed along with the lyrics, and once he reached out to adjust the collar of Taehyung’s shirt where it had slipped to the side, before returning to his own stillness.

Jungkook didn’t move. He just stood there, one hand curled loosely at his side, the other still tugging slightly at the edge of his sleeve. Watching.

It was such an ordinary scene. Utterly, almost aggressively normal. The warmth. The casual touches. The rhythm of knives against the cutting board. The sound of bubbling broth. It all looked so soft. So mundane. So impossibly safe.

He was invited into this.

That thought landed like a stone in his chest, startling in its stillness. He was allowed to walk into this room. To sit at that table. To eat the food they were making. He wasn’t being told to wait outside, or to stay out of the way, or to kneel and keep quiet. There was a chair for him. A place set. A bowl already waiting.

And yet he still felt like an intruder. Like everything about him was too loud, too stained, too wrong to belong in this kind of peace.

He didn’t understand the rules here — didn’t know what they were building, or what they expected in return. But as he looked at the way Yoongi carefully wiped the edge of a spoon before setting it down, or the way Namjoon’s gaze softened each time Taehyung danced to the music, a thought settled slowly into place — quieter than fear, smaller than trust, but there.

Maybe…

This wasn’t a test. Maybe they weren’t waiting for him to fail.

Yoongi turned first. His eyes landed on Jungkook without surprise. He smiled — small, easy, real.

“Ah, Jungkook-ah,” he said gently. “We were just about to set the table. Good timing.”

At the sound of his name, Taehyung turned too, his whole face lighting up like the flick of a switch. His grin was immediate, wide and warm and utterly without hesitation.

“Jungkook! Come, come. I need to show you something!”

Jungkook stepped inside the kitchen.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Notes:

Hello hello :)
I hope everyone is doing well!

This chapter could be seen as a bit of filler one, I suppose? I need what I describe here for the build-up and what will come next (no spoilers ihih)
I hope it is still okay and not too boring or disjointed!
It is still on the heavier side, like most of these first few chapters are, so please let me know if there is anything I can summarise in order to not trigger anyone!

As always, I want to thank you for the love and support you're showing to this story, it fills my heart with joy <3
ALSO - I realised I haven't replied to some of the comments from previous chapters!! I am so sorry!! I will get to it as soon as I can, I promise!!

Please look at the trigger warnings before proceeding!!

TRIGGER WARNINGS
- Mention of panic attacks
- Eating disorders and mention of food insecurity
- Mention of dissociation
- Self-harm in the form of scratching and squeezing too tightly
- one scene in which rape is vaguely mentioned, and also some actions could be seen as sexual without proper consent given

Enjoy!!! See you soon xxxx

The days that followed blurred in a rhythm that none of them could name. It wasn't quite routine, not yet peace, but something that hovered between tension and stillness, like breath held for too long.

There were good moments — even great ones, when viewed through the narrow lens of progress. He had grown a quiet, fierce bond with Hugo, who now followed him like a shadow, always at a respectful distance until invited closer, always curling up somewhere nearby, a constant weight of presence that seemed to ground Jungkook when nothing else could. There were nights when they would find him on the floor beside the dog, one hand resting on the sleek fur, eyes open and distant, but body relaxed.

He had taken to card games with unexpected sharpness; memory sharp, fingers deft, expression unreadable except for the rare flicker of something like pride when he won.

Jimin and Taehyung had introduced him to their favorite comfort shows, and while Jungkook never laughed outright, he watched. He watched with the kind of intensity that made them wonder if he was memorizing every frame, not because he was entertained, but because he had never seen the world presented like that before.

But not everything was forward motion.

There had been other meltdowns — more than a few. Some made sense in hindsight: a metal spoon dropped too loudly on tiles, a door opening too quickly, Namjoon standing from a chair with just a little too much force. Other times, they came out of nowhere, quiet at first, a blink too long, a shiver in his shoulders, then loud and fast, like his body remembered something he hadn’t even seen. There were moments when all they could do was lower themselves to the ground nearby, speak softly, wait for the storm to pass.

They were trying. God, they were trying. But trying wasn’t always enough.

And as much as they wanted to believe in the first week and their small victories, the weight of reality settled heavy: Jungkook’s progress wasn’t straightforward. It was a tangled thread, sometimes impossibly fragile, almost invisible. And sometimes it snapped.

They had handled these moments differently, each time trying to do better, to be gentler, but always with the ache of uncertainty beneath it. They had begun adapting in quiet, unspoken ways — not through formal discussion at first, but through the subtle reshaping of their daily patterns, each of them folding around the edges of Jungkook’s trauma with an attentiveness that felt almost instinctive.

Seokjin, ever the anchor among them, had responded by trying to impose somewhat of a structure. It wasn’t the rigid kind that constricted, but the kind that steadied and that offered consistency without demand. He redrew their house schedule with color-coded notes and meal plans, made sure the fridge was always stocked with calming teas and bland snacks Jungkook might reach for if hunger came quietly.

Namjoon had taken to moving slower — a deliberate kind of slowness that felt at odds with his size, with his natural presence in a room. But he adjusted. No more sharp turns or sudden entrances, no loud chair scrapes or booming laughter. He’d lowered the register of his voice when he entered shared spaces and always paused just before speaking Jungkook’s name, like giving the boy a moment to brace, or to flee if he needed to. There were times it made him feel like he was performing his own gentleness, like he was pretending to be smaller than he was, and still, he never hesitated. If that’s what it took, he would do it.

Yoongi had retreated into quiet attentiveness. He made tea and left it outside Jungkook’s door with a soft knock, before reatreating to his own office. Sometimes, he passed him in the hallway and offered nothing but a nod and a tiny smile. Other times he sat near but not with him and filled the silence with aimless monologues about nothing important: the texture of a new dishcloth, the way Hoseok organized the spice rack wrong again, the latest show Taehyung wanted him to watch and how he probably wouldn’t. It was grounding, somehow — for all of them, not just Jungkook. A reminder that connection didn’t always require forceful presence.

Taehyung remained his flamboyant self, feeling that his way of seeing the world could brighten the sub’s days, even if just a little. He narrated Hugo’s daily thoughts in dramatic voices, performed wordless dances with spatulas while making toast, and once spent twenty minutes trying to teach Jungkook the difference between “a good hat” and “a great hat” using nothing but cutlery and sock puppets. There were moments — rare and fleeting, but real — when Jungkook’s lips would twitch, or his eyes would follow Taehyung’s movements with something warmer than fear. And Taehyung, in turn, would catch it, lock eyes with one of the others, and grin like he’d won the lottery.

And Hoseok — he had become a master of body language. He stopped reaching first and started asking before every gesture, even the smallest ones: “Can I sit here?” “Is this okay?” “Would you like me to help?” He made his movements softer, rounder, careful not to hover but always close enough to catch Jungkook if something gave way. He became the architect of transition, the one who shifted conversations, who poured water when no one else could speak, who noticed when Jungkook’s breathing changed before anyone else did. He bore it all with a light that didn’t dim, not out of denial, but out of stubborn hope.

Jimin offered softness in its purest form, the kind that asked nothing in return. He would sit nearby when Jungkook watched shows and pretend not to notice when the boy leaned imperceptibly toward him when a scene was more touching than others. He kept his voice warm, his hands busy with quiet things like folding laundry or reorganizing the living room with uneven tension, just to be near without being too near. At night, he sometimes left little things on Jungkook’s desk — a folded origami fox, a square of chocolate, a sticky note with a quote from a show they’d watched. Just… tokens. Proof that kindness didn’t have to ask for anything back. He was the one who cried the most, though never in front of Jungkook. He cried in bathrooms and closets and once in the pantry, sitting between jars of pickled garlic and bags of rice, his back pressed to the shelves as the weight of it all cracked open behind his ribs.

And still, he always came back. Because if there was even the smallest chance that his gentleness could become a place for Jungkook to land — even for a moment — then he would offer it again and again, until it rooted.

They didn’t always talk about how hard it was — not directly. But the weight of it lived in the quiet between them, in the way they passed each other coffee without asking, in the way they took turns being strong. Because trying wasn’t always enough. But love, in all its strange and fractured forms, was still being built.

 

 

###

 

 

The house was quiet in the late morning light, sun filtering through tall windows and pooling soft and golden on the floors. Somewhere upstairs, someone was playing music faintly — a mellow guitar piece, probably something from Yoongi’s "safe playlist." Downstairs, in the laundry room tucked behind the kitchen, Jimin sat cross-legged on the floor, folding a mountain of clean clothes into neat stacks.

He hummed quietly to himself as he worked, the repetitive motion calming. The room smelled of lavender and warm cotton, the dryer still ticking softly as it cooled.

Then — movement. A flicker in his peripheral vision.

Jimin looked up, and froze for a second before schooling his expression into something soft and open. Jungkook had just turned the corner and stood now in the threshold of the hallway, his small frame silhouetted in the doorway. He was barefoot, wearing the loose pajama bottoms and hoodie Taehyung had picked out for him. He looked startled, like he hadn’t meant to be seen, like he’d stumbled into somewhere forbidden.

Jimin smiled, easy and warm. “Jungkook-ah,” he said gently, not rising, just lifting a hand in greeting. “On to another adventure?”

The boy had taken to mindlessly walking around the house. They couldn't really tell why he would do it, if he was looking for something, or if he was simply exploring. They did not tell him to stop though, feeling as if he had taken this small liberty for himself. When Seokjin had explained the sub's behaviour to Doctor's Jung, he quietly scolded the head dom, telling him it was certainly not the time to let him walk around for hours due to his current health. But how could they deny him, when he never took initiative to do about anything except for this? 

So off he went, most of the times with Hugo by his side. A silent companion that guided Jungkook in his endevours. 

Jungkook looked down immediately, cheeks flushing faintly. His fingers twitched at his sides, and he shifted from foot to foot, the picture of someone who felt caught red-handed.

Jimin chuckled softly — not at him, but in a way that made the moment lighter, gentler.

“No monsters hiding in the laundry room,” he said, tilting his head. “Though I won’t lie, folding all this is a bit of a beast.”

He patted the floor beside him. “Want to help?”

Jungkook hesitated for a second, then his gaze flicked to the pile of clothes, then back to Jimin. Wordlessly, he padded into the room on quiet feet and lowered himself carefully to the floor across from the switch, mirroring his position. Cross-legged, his hands folded in his lap, not really sure what to do with himself.

Jimin didn’t say anything else right away. He just smiled to himself and reached for the next towel, moving slowly, letting the silence stretch, warm and companionable.

And Jungkook reached for a t-shirt. He felt it in between his fingers first, seemingly astounded by the soft texture. Jimin let him be, feeling like giving the sub the ability to explore things at his pace was fundamental to make him feel safe. Then he put it on the floor, mimicking Jimin’s actions. His shaky fingers flattened out any little crease visible and then he started folding it.

Jimin smiled, starting to fold his own shirt. “That one belongs to Namjoon,” he said softly, as if sharing a secret.

Jungkook’s gaze flicked up, surprised but not wary.

“If you look closely, right there at the bottom hem — right side…” Jimin leaned forward just a bit, pointing without touching. “See that little hole?”

Jungkook leaned closer, fingers hovering over the spot. And there it was — a tiny worn circle in the fabric, barely visible unless you were looking for it.

“He does that to almost all his shirts,” Jimin said, fond amusement in his voice. “Has this habit — he rubs that same spot with his thumb and index whenever he’s thinking. Drives Seokjin crazy. He’s scolded him about it a hundred times. Doesn’t help.”

Jungkook didn’t speak, but his eyes stayed fixed on the hole. He reached out and ghosted his fingertips across it, not quite pressing, just tracing the frayed edges reverently.

Jimin didn’t say anything more. He just kept folding. And across from him, Jungkook started folding another shirt, checking if that little hole was present in this one as well, and the next, and the next.

They folded in silence for a while, the quiet companionable, broken only by the soft rustle of cotton and the occasional distant sound of the house breathing around them. Jungkook’s hands moved slowly, a little shakily, as he smoothed out another shirt. He held it between his fingers for a moment longer than necessary, as if feeling for something invisible in the weave.

Then, very softly, he asked, “w-when do I get p-punished?”

The words hung there, thin and sharp. They sliced the air like a paper cut — small, but deep enough to sting.

Jimin froze. The shirt in his own lap forgotten.

“What?”

He blinked, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard. “Punished?” he echoed, his voice careful, not really making sense of what the sub was implying. “Why would you get punished?”

That was the wrong thing to say. The change in Jungkook was immediate. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even move, but the way his eyes lifted to meet Jimin’s felt like a slap. Gone was the tentative softness of a moment ago. In its place: suspicion. Deep, cold, bone-deep distrust. The kind Jimin hadn’t seen since the first day they met.

Jimin’s heart plummeted. He opened his mouth, scrambling for something to pull them back to the quiet safety they’d shared.

But before he could speak, Jungkook’s voice came again, cracked and desperate.

“Please t-tell me. P-please.”

His hands were shaking harder now, the shirt in his lap wrinkled and forgotten. His eyes darted, first to the door, then to the floor, to the corner of the room like he might need to run but didn’t know where to go.

Jimin didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. The shift in Jungkook’s mood was lightening fast, and it was clearly because he said something wrong. He needed to get it together though, because Jungkook’s breathing was getting shorter and shorter by the second and he could see an imminent panic attack. He took a big breath in and went for it.

Jimin didn’t reach for him. He didn’t shush or soothe or shift too quickly. He made sure his own hands stayed soft on the fabric in his lap, not clenched or startled.

“Okay,” Jimin said gently. “Okay, Jungkook-ah.”

The boy’s chest was rising too fast. His fingers were clenched in the shirt now, creasing it as if to anchor himself to something.

“I’m not going to punish you,” Jimin continued, voice quiet but sure. “No one here is. That’s not what this is, it is not how we do things here.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. His gaze dropped again, but this time it wasn’t shy — it was evasive. Defensive.

“You think you did something wrong?” Jimin asked, trying not to sound pressing, but rather showing a gentle curiosity.

Jungkook’s mouth moved, but nothing came out. His throat worked like he was swallowing down words he didn’t trust to be safe. He gave a tiny nod.

Jimin leaned forward just a little, mindful of giving the sub his space.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me, if you can.”

Slowly, Jungkook did. There was no heat in his eyes now, just trembling confusion, or perhaps shame. And also fear, tangled up in old knots.

“Sometimes,” Jimin said, his voice threading calm, “when your body is used to danger… even safety can feel like a trick.”

He smiled, small but steady.

“But I’m — we are not trying to trick you. I promise.”

Jungkook blinked fast, eyes glassy, but no tears fell. His hands had stopped clenching the shirt and were hovering on top of it, like he was unsure what came next.

“You don’t need to earn gentleness,” Jimin said after a moment. “And you don’t get punished for struggling or needing help.”

Jungkook stared at him in silence, but there was something in his expression, some sort of pause in the panic. A breath caught instead of spiraling out.

“Punishments do happen between us, I don’t want to lie to you,” Jimin added, quieter now. Before he could erase all progress he made with the sub, he quickly said, “but it is always discussed first, between all parties involved. There needs to be consent in punishments as well, and there also needs to be trust between everyone: trust to be taken care of, to never go too far, to not do it out of frustration or anger and to always listen when someone safewords.”

Jimin felt winded aftet that little explanation, like it took all his efforts to explain in a clear, simple way how things should work in a relationship, and how anything else could and was considered wrong.There was so much more to add, so much to talk about and discuss in details. And so much was left unsaid by Jungkook, that look of betrayal alone held so much hurt and anguish. But for now, he didn’t want to overwhelm the poor boy, and left it at that.

Jungkook looked down at the shirt in his lap — twisted, wrinkled, forgotten. Slowly, shakily, he laid it flat again, fingers brushing over the creases. He did not seem completely convinced, there seemed to be a lot of confusion in his eyes. But at least he had stopped shaking so much, and his breathing calmed down.

I did that.

Jimin couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit proud of himself, of having handled a potential crisis all on his own.

Jungkook was still looking at the shirt on the floor. He didn’t seem to be wanting to add anything to that topic. Then, “I ruined it,” he whispered.

Jimin gave a soft breath of laughter — not mocking, but gentle, fond.

“That shirt’s already ruined,” he said. “It’s Namjoon’s. He puts holes in all of them.”

That earned the tiniest twitch of Jungkook’s mouth. Not quite a smile — but something close.

Jimin didn’t reach for it. He just picked up another shirt and started folding again, his motions easy, rhythmic, normal.

“Want to try this one?” he asked.

And after a beat, Jungkook shily nodded.

 

 

###

 

 

The table was nearly set. Bowls and chopsticks laid out in gentle symmetry, the banchans glinting under the warm overhead light. The soft scent of bubbling tofu stew lingered in the air — light, nourishing, exactly the kind of meal Doctor Jung had recommended. Comfort food with purpose.

Namjoon, drying his hands on a kitchen towel, glanced over at Seokjin, who was carefully ladling the stew into ceramic bowls.

“Should I go call Jungkook?”

Seokjin didn’t look up, but his voice was fond when he answered. “Yes, darling. Thank you.”

Namjoon nodded and made his way toward the stairs, his steps slow and steady out of habit now.

The second floor was quiet. When he reached Jungkook’s door, he noticed it was slightly ajar, which was a rare sight. He raised a hand to knock, but something made him pause.

The lights were off. The room was completely dark, except the pale spill of light seeping through the window from outside. The garden lights cast long shadows through the glass.

And Jungkook was standing in front of the window. Still as stone. Arms behind his back, fingers wrapped tightly around one wrist in a rigid grip that immediately sent a ripple of discomfort through Namjoon’s chest. He couldn’t see very well, but the posture resembled one he had read about a few weeks ago, late at night in a trauma dynamics forum meant for caregivers. The article had explained it was common among neglected or chronically punished subs — a form of self-restraint, a subconscious mechanism. There wasn’t much research on it, but it was theorized it was a way to stop oneself from slipping into subspace. A desperate tether to the present. The body’s own warning: don’t go there, it’s not safe. Don’t drift, stay alert and contained.

Gripping, pinching, hitting were very common ways of impeding oneself to fall into subspace.

Namjoon exhaled slowly at the memory, lips pressed together. He didn’t know if Jungkook even understood the gesture he made, the implications of it, but he didn’t want to confront it now. Not while they were finally finding a thread of stillness.

But he would bring it up later. Quietly, with the others. Maybe ask Doctor Jung as well.

For now, he moved away from the door, so Jungkook wouldn’t notice he had been standing there looking at him, and gently knocked on the door frame.

“Jungkook? Dinner’s ready. Let’s go downstairs.”

There was no response at first, but the dom could hear shuffling inside the room. Then, the door slowly open and Jungkook peeked out, eyes darting upward in a way that said he was bracing for something. Namjoon stood a few feet back from the threshold, hands loose at his sides, posture as relaxed as he could manage.

“Hey,” he offered, voice gentle but certain, “tofu stew tonight.”

Jungkook fixed him with a look—just a flicker, then away and nodded. He stepped out, silent on the hallway floor.

It was notable, Namjoon thought, the way Jungkook didn’t wait for him to walk first. He trailed behind at a safe distance, not quite trusting. It was a familiar dance by now; if Namjoon moved too quickly, too close, the boy flinched, so he kept his movements casual and small, letting the corridor become a buffer.

By the time they reached the dining room, the air was filled with warmth. The scent of soft tofu stew had settled into the space, homey and anchoring. The table was almost entirely set, bowls and chopsticks in place, banchans placed in small dishes, and the low murmur of voices floating between the kitchen and dining area.

Hoseok was placing down two bowls, sleeves rolled up, eyes warm when he glanced up and spotted Jungkook.

“There you are,” he said, with a bright smile. “I think Seokjin hyung put coriander in it this time.”

Jungkook didn’t answer, but he stepped closer, the familiar fidgeting of his fingers giving him away. He hovered by the edge of the table, shoulders tucked in, as if gauging where — or if — he should sit.

Taehyung entered from the kitchen next, balancing three bowls with practiced ease. His expression, however, wasn’t as easy as usual. He placed the bowls down carefully, but instead of dropping into his seat — which he always did, ever the hungry puppy — he lingered. His gaze moved slowly around the table, his gaze lingering on the doms present in the room.

Namjoon frowned lightly, instinct flickering. “Tae?” he started to ask, voice low.

Before he could finish, Seokjin emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. Without a word, he walked up behind Taehyung and placed a warm hand on the back of his neck. He leaned in, murmured something too quiet to catch, and whatever he said worked. Taehyung’s shoulders eased just slightly, enough to show the tension had been seen and soothed.

Seokjin straightened, caught Namjoon’s eyes across the table, and gave the tiniest nod. A silent message: Later. I’ll tell you.

Namjoon returned it with one of his own, then shifted slightly, angling toward Jungkook again.

The sub was still standing, eyes now darting between the chair nearest him and the full table. He was watching, measuring, trying not to be seen doing it. It was still risky trying to coax him to sit at the table, never really knowing which reaction would be elicited. They didn’t want to push him to join them, but at the same time they knew that hovering near the sit, food placed in front of his chair and the rest of them sat at the table wasn’t helping. If anything, it made things ten time worse, allowing his mind to spiral into negative thoughts.

They tried to come up with funny, playful ways to entice him to join them, to make meal time less stressful. Tonight, Hoseok beat everyone else to it.

“Come sit next to me, Jungkook-ah. We can team up on the bean sprouts.”

Slowly, Jungkook moved, and picked up his spoon, gaging what the others were doing. When he took notice that everyone else had started eating and chatting, he too began to sip his soup.

The sounds of dinner filled the room — spoons against bowls, soft laughter, small conversations weaving together in the easy way they did.

Seokjin looked at the occupants of the table, at his lovers, at the new darling boy, taking it all in and appreciating what he had. It has been a couple of very difficult days, but he wanted to remain optimisitic and focus on the positives. It wasn’t perfect, but something was still being built.

 

 

###

 

 

Later that night, the house had quieted. The lights were dim, the dishwasher was humming low in the background, and the scent of coriander still lingered faintly in the air.

Seokjin stood by the fridge, putting away the leftovers while Namjoon wiped down the counters, sleeves pushed up, moving in unhurried rhythm beside him. For a while, they worked in silence, but something hung in the air, unspoken.

Until Seokjin finally said, voice quiet, “Tae-ah was very nervous tonight.”

Namjoon paused mid-swipe, then nodded once. “I was about to ask him. You got to him first.”

“I did,” Seokjin replied, placing the last container in the fridge and closing it, turning to Namjoon. “I think he wanted to kneel.”

“Ah.”

It explained the way Taehyung had hovered, restless, uncertain. How his eyes had flicked from dom to dom like he was searching for permission he didn’t quite believe he deserved. With Jungkook coming to live with them, their time spent in either dom or subspace had been cut down drastically. At first, no one said anything. It was worth it, of course it was — worth every strain and sacrifice if it meant Jungkook felt a little safer. But still, the effects were starting to show, some more than others.

Hoseok had scened with Jimin the night before, but it was a quiet thing, short and soft. Jimin had been too shaken to go deep, still thinking about how Jungkook had folded in on himself after spilling a few drops of water from his glass — how he had prostrated on the floor before anyone could stop him. Yoongi and Namjoon, ever the steady ones, had offered themselves for play, available and willing, but neither could let themselves drop fully into the space they needed, not when just a few doors down was a boy who trembled at his own shadow, who hadn’t yet learned he wouldn’t be punished for breathing wrong.

And Taehyung had gone quiet. He had tamped down his instincts so hard they barely surfaced anymore, the guilt written plainly across his body whenever Jungkook was near. He hadn’t said it out loud, but they all knew what he was thinking: someone else needs more than I do. How could I ask for anything?

Seokjin sighed. “You know how he gets. He thinks he comes last, no matter how many times we tell him it’s harmful to deny his instincts.”

Namjoon ran a hand down his face, then pressed his fingers to his eyes, holding them there. His voice was rough with fatigue. “So what did you tell him?”

Seokjin smiled, small and sure. “I told him I’d remind him what it feels like to come first.”

Namjoon dropped his hand and looked at him. That smile — calm, just a little warm — held weight behind it, quiet promise. It had been a long time since any of them had properly let go. Since Tae had.

“I’ll take care of him tonight,” Seokjin added, voice softer now. “Properly. He won’t have to ask.”

A couple minutes passed in comfortable silence.

Eventually, Namjoon said, “I noticed something, when I went to get Jungkook for dinner.”

Seokjin didn’t answer, he just turned slightly, giving his full attention without pressing. Namjoon’s eyes were fixed on the cloth in his hand, the one he’d used to wipe down the counters earlier. He began rubbing one of the corners between his fingers, absently.

“He was standing in front of the window,” he continued. “Stock still and all the lights were off… That alone concerned me for some reason. But there was something else.”

Seokjin’s gaze sharpened. He didn’t interrupt.

Namjoon swallowed, thumb smoothing along the worn edge of the cloth. “He was… I read on a forum a few weeks ago, about this posture neglected subs sometimes adopt. Where they grip themselves tightly — wrists, sides, thighs — to stay grounded. To keep themselves from slipping.”

He hesitated. “It’s a way of not falling into subspace. Like they’re afraid of what might happen if they do.”

Seokjin was still, quiet.

“I don’t know if Jungkook even realizes he’s doing it,” Namjoon added, more quietly now, “but I think it’s something we need to watch out for.”

He kept rubbing the cloth, fingers slightly tighter now. Seokjin finally stepped forward. Gently, he reached out, took the rag from Namjoon’s hands, and set it aside on the counter. Then he took Namjoon’s hands in his own, warm and steady, and began rubbing soothing circles into the dom’s knuckles with his thumbs.

Namjoon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. They stood like that, hands clasped, the weight of care passing silently between them.

When Seokjin let go, it was only to pull Namjoon gently forward, until the taller man rested his forehead against the curve of Seokjin’s neck. The rhythm of their bodies, the familiar warmth of skin and muscle, said what language couldn’t.

“We’ll figure it out,” Seokjin murmured, and Namjoon nodded, quiet and easy, letting himself be held.

“I will phone Doctor Jung tomorrow, ask if he knows anything more in regards or if we should confront Jungkook about it.” Namjoon sighed, relieved he was able to let out his worries.

The tension in Namjoon’s jaw drained slowly, and the silence between them shifted from heavy to something almost comfortable.

Namjoon felt his lover squeeze his middle. He smiled and returned the squeeze. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” Seokjin murmured. “We’re all learning. Together.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for a witness, and then leaned in to press a quick, sweet kiss to Namjoon’s lips.

It made Namjoon snort, pulling Seokjin closer to his body. “What are you checking for, I am sure the two pests would be hooting and whistling at the sight.”

Seojin smiled fondly at the other, nuzzling at his neck, “Mmh, you got me there.” A quick pause, before he added, “we should do a bonding scene sometime soon. You always feel so relaxed after".”

A shiver trailed down Namjoon’s spine. He knew exactly what Seokjin meant. Knew it in the way his body responded immediately, heat curling in his belly, breath catching just slightly in his throat. He loved bonding scenes—loved the way they stripped him down to instinct, let him take and claim without the quiet restraint he wore so naturally. Despite being an 8, Namjoon’s dominance leaned gentle, nurturing. He led with softness, with steadiness. He coaxed, didn’t demand.

Unlike Seokjin and Hoseok, for whom cheekiness never went unpunished. Especially Seokjin, a solid 9, whose expectations for respect and obedience ran deep, both in and out of scene. Discipline wasn’t cruelty in their dynamic—it was structure. A scaffold of safety, especially for switches like Jimin and Taehyung who thrived under clear boundaries. When they bratted, when they pushed, it wasn’t met with exasperation but with calm certainty—a firm hand that said you’re safe to unravel here.

Namjoon didn’t usually take that role. He preferred play, a slow unraveling, letting the switches squirm through their sass until they laughed themselves out. A few warning taps, a gentle rebuke, his dimple flashing fondly—that was his rhythm. Discipline? He often left that to Seokjin, Hoseok, or even Yoongi at times—despite the latter’s reputation for being a softie in private.

But sometimes…

Sometimes, the need to take surged like a wave, dark and irresistible. His more sadistic streak, usually quiet and coiled, would unspool all at once, and he'd crave the sight of flushed skin under his palms. Of red marks blooming like roses—fading into dusky bruises by morning. He didn’t indulge that side often. But when he did, he let it sing. During those scenes, Namjoon was in complete control, and the other doms never participated directly. Instead, Seokjin, Hoseok, and Yoongi remained on the sidelines by Namjoon’s explicit request. However, their presence was non-negotiable. It wasn’t that Namjoon doubted his ability to read the switches, or his own body. He knew their tells, knew how to pace his pressure, his rhythm, his words. He knew when a brat’s sharp tongue was begging for correction and when it was hiding something more fragile underneath. He knew his own signs too—when the pleasure twisted too sharp, when dominance veered close to edge.

But still, having those extra eyes—trusted, focused, ready—gave him something invaluable: freedom. Freedom to sink deeper into that darker space, to unspool the leash he kept on himself so tightly. To lean into the weight of command, of sadism, knowing that if anything—anything—began to slide sideways, there would be hands reaching in to steady the scene. Even him.

Because that trust? That net beneath him?

It didn’t weaken his dominance. It fortified it.

Seokjin chuckled at the visible shiver that ran down Namjoon’s spine, his fingers slipping into the taller man's hair to offer a few slow, affectionate pets.

“Soon, darling,” he murmured, low and fond. “I promise.”

Namjoon hummed in acceptance, but Seokjin was already pulling back, catching his gaze with one of those looks—steady, sincere, edged with something teasing.

“Tonight, I need a one-on-one with Tae,” he said. “Will you be okay to wait a tiny bit longer?”

Namjoon nodded, already more than content with the promise hanging between them. “Go get your puppy, hyung. I’m sure he’s getting impatient.”

Seokjin grinned, leaning in for one final kiss, firm and unapologetic, before turning on his heel.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s already in the play room,” he called over his shoulder, voice lilting with amusement. “Even though I explicitly told him to wait in our bedroom, eager little thing.”

His laughter echoed lightly as he ascended the stairs, and Namjoon shook his head, lips curled in something small and private. Left alone in the quiet kitchen, he turned back to his task, wiping down the last bit of the counter, fingers lingering thoughtfully over the clean surface.

There was a promise in the air now—of release, of control, of being seen. It wasn’t immediate. But it was coming.

 

 

###

 

 

The house was cloaked in the hush of deep night, all the edges softened by sleep.

Seokjin padded barefoot through the upstairs corridor, the residual warmth of domspace still thrumming low in his spine. His body was loose, his mind pleasantly quiet after hours spent guiding Taehyung through their scene and holding him steady in the calm that followed. The boy had curled into him like a vine once it was over, soft with release and utterly pliant. Seokjin had tucked a blanket around them and thought he’d stay down for the count too—but thirst had a way of breaking even the heaviest post-scene haze.

(That, and the faint marks blooming over Tae’s bum would need a layer of aloe before morning. Nothing serious, nothing more than what had been asked for, but he didn’t like leaving things half-done.)

He moved silently, used to the creaks of the floor and the rhythm of the night in this house. The bathroom near Jungkook’s room was closest, and he made his way there with quiet efficiency, not even considering a detour—at first. But his body always knew things before his mind caught up. The moment he neared the closed door of Jungkook’s bedroom, his steps slowed.

He hadn’t meant to check. He wouldn’t check. They had all agreed: Jungkook needed space. He needed to know his room was his own, not a place they would enter just because they could. If trust was going to grow, it had to have roots in privacy, in boundaries they wouldn’t cross no matter how strong their instincts screamed.

And Seokjin’s instincts were screaming. He paused just outside the door, the hairs on his arms standing on end—not from fear, but recognition. A dom knew when something was off.

At first, it was silent. Then, the softest of sounds—a faint thud, like a footfall. Another. Slow, uneven. Seokjin’s brows drew together, muscles tightening. It was almost two in the morning. No one should be walking around.

Then—clearer now—a voice. Low. Ragged.

Jungkook’s.

Seokjin stilled completely, every nerve on high alert, the weight of the door in front of him suddenly monumental.

“And I don’t know why they lie!” The words were muffled, dissolving into a raw little gasp at the end. Then silence. A beat later: a sharper, hollow thud.

Seokjin tensed, and every battle between logic and instinct collapsed into one clear, direct line: Go. He knocked twice. No reply; only a quick retreating breath, the shuffling of feet.

“Jungkook-ah, are you okay?”

He wasn’t met with an answer, just some more shuffling and another tiny whimper.

Seokjin cursed lightly under his breath, his instincts going haywire, “Jungkook, darling. Can I come in?”

He could hear sobs now, some more erratic movements, a very soft and frusrated “W-why can’t I do it?”

It was against everything he believed in, but with certainty he said, “I am opening the door.”

Jungkook was standing near the bed, hair falling in loose, uneven waves around his face. He was wearing his too-large pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt. His arms were wrapped tight around himself, nails digging into his own skin, and his left ankle was braced awkwardly, weight uneven to compensate. Tears streaked Jungkook’s face in thin, wet trails, glinting faintly in the dark. He looked like he was collapsing inward—arms cinched tight across his body, spine curved protectively.

So many questions slammed into Seokjin’s mind at once, it was hard to separate one from the next.

Was he sleepwalking? Had he been triggered by something? Was he having a flashback, a panic episode?

Was this something that had happened before, or something entirely new? Had Namjoon’s theory been right? Was Jungkook trying to stop himself from slipping?

He didn’t know where to focus. All he knew—bone-deep and rising like a tide—was that everything about this moment felt wrong. The wrong hour, the wrong posture, the wrong kind of silence coming from the boy. Too many puzzle pieces missing, too many shadows he couldn’t name.

But he had to start somewhere.

“Jungkook…” Seokjin’s voice was soft, low. He stepped only as far as the threshold, anchoring his weight deliberately, letting the boy see he wasn’t rushing in. “What are you doing up, dear? Do you need help with anything?”

Jungkook shook his head at once, quick and tight. His cheeks glistened, but his expression was stuck—trembling and stiff, like it hurt to move his face. The tears kept falling anyway.

Seokjin’s gaze flicked down, and his chest clenched. The sub’s fingers were clawed into his biceps, skin pinched and reddening beneath the pressure. The kind of grip that left bruises if kept long enough.

“Oh—no, hey,” Seokjin breathed, taking a half step forward, hand instinctively lifting. “We don’t harm ourselves, it’s—”

Before he could finish, Jungkook let out a small, wounded sound—a keening little wail, thin and high like something had cracked inside him, and his arms locked tighter on his arms, nails scraping as if to hold himself in.

Seokjin stopped cold.

Don’t rush. Don’t escalate. Assess. Re-center.

He took in the boy’s posture again: the way he rocked ever so slightly, how his jaw was clenched hard enough to ache.

He’s overwhelmed. Overstimulated.

Very slowly, Seokjin lowered his hand, voice a notch softer now—like a lullaby spoken instead of sung. “Okay, honey. No touching, I hear you,” he murmured. “I’m not going to come closer unless you want me to.”

Jungkook’s breath had slowed—minutely, but the scratching hadn’t stopped. His nails dragged rhythmically over his arms now, small, repetitive strokes that looked more like compulsion than intention. His fingers twitched each time they passed over already-reddened skin, but he didn’t stop. Maybe couldn’t. Seokjin’s heart thudded behind his ribs, loud enough it felt like it might echo into the quiet room. He had to do something—but what? Every instinct screamed to move closer, to reach out, to take those trembling hands and anchor them with warmth, with skin, with presence.

That was what he always did. What he knew how to do. Physical touch was a balm in their house. It soothed and softened and sometimes undid whole knots of tension with nothing but a palm pressed to a cheek, or fingers threading through hair. For Jimin, a hand on his nape could ground him instantly. For Taehyung, curling into someone’s chest could stave off a storm before it even started. For Yoongi, a few quick and firm kisses was almost always enough.

But Jungkook wasn’t them. Not yet. Not tonight. Seokjin couldn’t risk it—not when every fiber of the boy’s posture still screamed tension, not when a single misstep might unravel what little calm had returned.

So he stayed rooted, hands down at his sides, and searched for steadiness in his own breath.

Words. That’s all I have.

His voice came out low and even, coaxing rather than commanding.

“Can I ask you a couple of questions, Jungkook?” he said gently, as if the words themselves might shatter on impact. “So I can know how to help you?”

He watched carefully as Jungkook’s head shifted a fraction, not quite a nod but not a refusal either. His hands twitched again, the scratching paused for half a breath.

Seokjin inhaled through his nose, slow and steady.

“Are you hurt?” he asked first, simple and practical. “Did anything happen to your body tonight?”

Jungkook didn’t answer aloud, but he gave a tiny shake of his head—uncertain, but clear enough.

“Okay. That’s good, thank you.” Seokjin’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “Are you scared right now?”

This time, a longer pause. Then… a small sound. A whimper, almost a yes, but not formed into any clear syllable.

“Alright.” Another soft breath. “That’s okay. We can understand why together.”

He kept his voice low, smooth, giving the boy time to sit with each question.

“You’re scratching. Is it because something’s hurting inside your chest? Your thoughts?”

Jungkook’s lips parted, trembling with some emotion he couldn’t name. The scratching didn’t stop, but his breathing hitched, and his eyes—wide and glassy—finally lifted toward Seokjin, just for a second.

That was enough. Seokjin’s throat tightened. He wanted so badly to cross the space between them. To wrap the boy up in warmth and let him feel he was safe, protected, wanted.

But he stayed put.

“Would you like help stopping?” he asked carefully.

His own fingers twitched at his sides, aching to be used. But he waited—silent and still, heart open—ready to follow the boy’s lead.

The sub gave a tiny nod.

Seokjin exhaled, relieved. "Thank you, honey. You are doing well, good boy."

Jungkook swayed on the spot, eyes fluttering closed, his hands still working anxiously over the same reddening stretch of skin. Seokjin watched, alarm tightening low in his gut.

Not good. Not terrible yet… but not good either.

The praise had landed—too well. Like a match to dry kindling. Seokjin had seen it before, though never quite like this: a sub too deep in drop to parse nuance, praise hitting the bloodstream like a drug. He’d seen Jimin slump boneless after a well-timed “good boy,” Taehyung melt to his knees with a single approving hum. But this—this was something else. Jungkook was trembling, still upright but barely. The praise hadn’t grounded him—it had unmoored him further.

Too much. Too soon.

Seokjin stilled his breath, forcing his voice to stay steady. Think. There had to be a way to reroute him, to shift his attention to something solid and tangible.

And then—he remembered. The switches. The little game. When Jimin got loopy. When Taehyung’s brain started floating away before aftercare could even begin. A focus tool. A self-regulating activity, which might have looked silly and childhish, but that was a life saver. Something deceptively simple that pulled them back into the now.

He softened his tone, dipped it just a hair into the playful register he used when things needed lightness. “Jungkook-ah,” he said, just loud enough to pull the boy’s gaze back to him, “can I play a quick game with you? It’s one I use with Jimin and Tae sometimes.”

Jungkook blinked, slow and dazed, but something flickered in his eyes. Not understanding—just, what looked like awareness.

“It is called Dragon breath, we can try it together. It’s easy. I’ll do it with you, okay?”

Another pause—then a small nod.

Seokjin smiled gently, not moving closer yet. “Okay, listen carefully. When I say big, the dragon takes a big breath in, stretches its wings up—arms up, like this—” He lifted his arms over his head in a sweeping motion, fingers reaching for the ceiling. “Even go on your toes if you can.”

He watched Jungkook blink slowly, absorbing.

“And when I say small, the dragon breathes out—all the fire’s gone—and it shrinks down, like this.” He crouched, knees bent, hands touching the floor as he folded down with an exaggerated exhale. “Got it?”

Jungkook hesitated again, but this time, his fingers loosened slightly. Another nod.

“Alright, ready?” Seokjin asked, voice light and gentle.

He began.

“Big.”

Jungkook’s arms rose, wobbly but obedient. His breath came in, a little shuddery, but deep. He rose onto the balls of his feet, chest rising.

“Small.”

He crouched, arms dropping, a tiny exhale leaving his lips. Not much, but enough.

Seokjin smiled wider, something uncoiling in his chest. “Again. Big”

Another breath, this one steadier. Arms lifted. Eyes blinking a bit clearer.

“Small.”

He folded again. Hands brushed the floor.

“That’s good, Jungkook-ah. Let’s do two more, just like that, alright?”

“Big.”

He rose again. A shaky, but focused breath. The scratching had stopped entirely now.

“Small.”

Fold. Exhale. The trembling hadn’t gone, but it had softened.

“Last one, darling. Biggest dragon breath yet.”

Seokjin watched as Jungkook reached, breath hitching but deepening, standing tall despite the tremor in his knees.

“And small.”

He dropped again, slower this time. Like his body was remembering how to move without panic.

When he stayed crouched there, quiet and breathing—finally breathing—Seokjin let out a breath of his own.

“Good job, Jungkook-ah,” he said softly, his own knees bending just slightly, “is it okay if I sit on the floor with you for a bit?”

Jungkook didn’t speak. But his hands didn’t rise again. And after a moment, he nodded.

Seokjin lowered himself with care, keeping a respectful distance, just enough to be present. And together, in the quiet hum of the late night, they sat. A vigilant dom and his tiny dragon. Breathing.

 

 

###

 

 

 

It was still early morning, the kitchen hushed save for the soft clink of ceramic and the whisper of Seokjin’s voice as he recounted the events of the night before to Yoongi, whilst Taehyung was sleepily sipping his tea at the counter, looking blearily at them.

“It was all good in the end,” he murmured, arms crossed over his chest. “But gosh, it still left me... unsettled.”

Yoongi was about to reply when Hoseok padded into the room, still in loose pajama bottoms and a tank top, hair sleep-tousled but eyes alert.

“Good morning. Was it one of you that tidied the laundry room?” he asked casually, making a beeline for the coffee pot. “Because wow… it looks spotless. And the clothes? It’s kinda creepy the way they’re folded.”

He let out a soft chuckle, pouring himself a generous cup. Seokjin and Yoongi both turned to look at him.

“What do you mean creepy?” Yoongi asked, lowering his own mug slightly.

Hoseok shrugged, stirring in a spoon of sugar. “Not in a bad way, just… You know how laundromats arrange clothes for display? Like mannequins would wear them if mannequins folded things?” He turned back toward them. “Everything’s color-coded. The towels are sorted by size and thread count. Even the socks are paired by brand.”

There was a beat of silence.

Seokjin straightened slightly from his lean against the counter. “Yoongi,” he said quietly, “did you—?”

“No,” Yoongi cut in, already shaking his head. 

They both looked at Taehyung , who raised his hands defensively. “Hey. You know me. If I fold anything, it looks like a sad tortilla.”

Yoongi gave a quiet huff of amusement, but tension hung in the air nonetheless. Seokjin’s thoughts raced. “Tae was with me. And you were all sleeping in the master bedroom.”

Seokjin stopped for a second, “now that I think about it, Jimin did laundry with Jungkook yesterday, and said he left the last load of clothes in the dryer and that he would deal with it today… But he’s still asleep, and we are the only ones awake and we haven’t done it yet.”

A moment of silence passed, realisation of who might have been hitting them all. 

Jungkook.

Hoseok furrowed his eyebrows, “why is he doing chores no one asked of him? The doctor told him to rest, that he needs to gain strength before he can start doing… basically anything.”

Yoongi went back to cutting the radishes, an unreadable look on his face. “Then we ask him. We don’t need to be harsh about it, no need to spook him. But we need to make this thing clear because there has clearly been some miscommunication.”

And that’s exactly what they did.

Later, once the house began to stir and the rest of the Eros had gathered in the dining room, Seokjin excused himself to go retrieve Jungkook for breakfast. The hallway was quiet, filtered light from the east-facing windows spilling warm and soft across the floor. When he reached the closed door, he raised his hand and knocked twice, gentle but firm.

“Jungkook-ah, it’s time for breakfast.”

A few seconds passed. Then the door cracked open, and a timid Jungkook peeked out. He was dressed in soft grey sweats and a faded blue jumper—likely Jimin’s, judging by the oversized collar and the faint glittering thread embroidered near the sleeve.

We’ll need to get him his own clothes soon, Seokjin thought absently, though the idea of dragging him through a store seemed far too overwhelming. Letting him borrow ours might be the best option for now.

“Hi honey,” he said softly. “How do you feel? I hope you managed to sleep a bit better after our late-night encounter.”

Jungkook glanced down at his socked feet, hands coming up to fidget with his bracelets. Still, he nodded.

“Great, that’s a relief.” Seokjin offered a kind smile, tilting his head just slightly. “Before going down for breakfast, could I talk to you about something?”

Jungkook’s head shot up immediately, panic flashing clear as day in his wide, dark eyes.

Seokjin was quick to intervene, holding out a hand in a calming gesture. “There’s nothing wrong,” he said gently. “It’s just a little chat. Some things might be a bit confusing, but we might figure it out if we talk about it, yeah?”

Jungkook blinked rapidly and nodded again, his gaze dropping to the bracelets around his wrist like they were a lifeline.

“Can I come in? So we have a bit more privacy?”

There was a pause. Something passed over Jungkook’s face—resignation, maybe, or something adjacent to it—and though he looked vaguely defeated, about what he didn’t seem quite sure, he shifted to the side and opened the door wider. Seokjin stepped in with practiced ease and walked over to the armchair by the window, settling in slowly, giving the boy time to adjust. Jungkook remained where he was, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, his fingers now worrying at the drawstrings of his sweatpants.

“If you want to be more comf—”

He didn’t even get the full sentence out.

Jungkook’s hands moved to undo the strings with shaky fingers, the bottoms starting to fall due to being three sizes too big, his bottom lip wobbling as if he were holding back a storm. A swell of emotion shimmered just beneath his skin.

“Jungkook, no, stop!”

The sub flinched violently at the sound of Seokjin’s voice, a sharp sob breaking free before he could stop it. He slapped a hand over his mouth, as if to shove the sound back in, shoulders curling inward. His sweatpants had slipped to the floor in the process, pooling around his ankles, exposing pale skin Seokjin pointedly refused to look at. Not out of indifference, but out of respect — out of a sudden, gut-deep understanding of just how badly this moment had gone awry.

A wave of nausea surged in Seokjin’s chest. How had he let this spiral so fast?

He averted his gaze, voice firm but steady. “Jungkook, I’m sorry I shouted,” he said, heart hammering. “But please pull your sweat back up. I don’t want to do anything like that with you.”

He waited, giving the boy time, refusing to move an inch until Jungkook had gathered himself. It only took a moment — shaky fingers tugging the fabric back up, fumbling with the drawstring once again, tighter this time. The air between them was unbearably still.

Seokjin risked a glance only once Jungkook had finished. He kept his voice low and steady, like calming a wild bird.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Now… I need to apologise. I didn’t make my intentions clear, and I caused a misunderstanding between us. That’s on me.”

Jungkook looked shocked. His face was a storyboard of disbelief, shame and fresh confusion, all at once. He swayed slightly where he stood, as if the apology had briefly short-circuited something inside him.

Seokjin pressed forward with certainty. “You don’t ever have to undress for me. Or anyone, unless you want to, unless you give us explicit consent.”

Jungkook’s hands hovered at his waistband, frozen. His breathing went shallow, like he was waiting for the punchline. Like there must be another test hidden deeper down.

Seokjin tried again, voice warm and patient, each word a single brick carefully laid. “Do you want to sit on the bed? Or maybe the desk chair?”

Jungkook looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. Slowly, he made his way to the desk chair, pulled it out and gingerly sitting on it, back straight and hands on his lap.

Seokjin nodded once, avoiding the massive misanderstanding for the moment being, before continuing, “I actually came here to thank you.”

Jungkook looked stunned all over again, mouth parting as though to speak — but no sound came. He opened and closed it twice before giving up entirely, eyes wide and confused. Seokjin smiled gently, not unkindly, allowing him the space to process.

“Hoseok told me you tidied the laundry room,” he said, voice soft. “And folded all the clothes that were in the dryer. That was very kind of you.”

A faint blush crept up Jungkook’s cheeks. He ducked his head, gaze fixed on his lap, but a small, involuntary wiggle went through his body — a telltale sign that the praise had it's rightful effect, though it didn't affect him as much as last night. It made Seokjin’s chest ache a little.

“But Jungkook,” he continued, letting the warmth in his voice remain while his tone grew more serious, “as kind as that was… you’re not supposed to be doing anything physically strenuous yet.”

Jungkook’s fingers tensed slightly.

“Doctor Jung was very clear,” Seokjin added gently. “Your body needs time to rest and heal. Doing too much, too fast, even if it’s just chores, it could set you back. We’re not asking you to prove anything, honey, we are the ones that need to provide for you, especially in such a delicate moment as this one.”

Jungkook opened his mouth, soundless, lips moving as if testing out words before they were safe to speak. He seemed to hesitate, his fingers twitching slightly in his lap. Then, as though summoning courage from somewhere brittle and buried, he whispered,

“M-made a mess. Needed to f-fix it.”

Seokjin blinked, startled. “In the laundry room?” he asked gently, “that’s okay, messes happen. You can come and get one of us next time, yeah? We can fix it together.”

But Jungkook shook his head immediately, almost violently. “I’m m-messy,” he mumbled, eyes fixed somewhere just over Seokjin’s shoulder. “I need to make it better. N-need to earn it.”

Seokjin froze.

The words hit like ice down his spine, and it took every ounce of control not to let his heartbreak show too plainly.

Earn it.

He didn’t ask what “it” was — he had a sinking feeling he already knew. The safety. The room. The kindness. The affection they offered without demand. This wasn’t about chores. This was self-erasure masquerading as helpfulness. A quiet, desperate way of saying, “I am the mistake, I need to clean myself up, make myself invisible, perfect, so I don’t get sent away.”

It made Seokjin furious. Furious of the ghosts in his mind that had put that belief there in the first place.

He inhaled carefully, drawing strength from the deep well he’d built over years of care. “No, Jungkook,” he said softly, firmly. “You don’t have to earn a place here. Not with chores. Not with perfection. Not with anything.”

He waited for the words to land. Then, more gently still: “You’re already enough. Messy or not. Quiet or not. You're allowed to be here.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked up at Seokjin, as if trying to gauge the truth behind the words. His lips parted, then closed again. He blinked several times, breathing unevenly, short inhales, like his lungs couldn’t quite expand all the way. He had struck something, something raw. he could see his words didn’t nestle in comfortably, but they lodged somewhere tight and unfamiliar, poking at raw places.

“It’s okay to take up space.”

Jungkook’s shoulders gave a minute tremble. A second passed. Jungkook started to shake his head. His hand gripped the hem of the borrowed jumper, twisting the fabric until his knuckles went white. Seokjin’s chest ached at the confession — because the gesture wasn’t defiance. It was honest, bewildered grief. Not knowing how to exist without the constant effort to deserve.

“Okay, that’s okay,” Seokjin said quietly, his voice warm, anchoring. “You don’t have to know yet. You don’t have to know how. We can help you figure it out, do it together.”

A flash of something passed through the sub’s eyes, something that Seokjin could not identify.

Let’s leave it at that for the moment.

He heaved a dramatic sigh, trying to lighten the mood after such a heavy conversation, “now, I believe the others are waiting for us. What do you say, should we go fill our tummies? Mine is screaming at me.”

Jungkook didn’t answer at first. He stood there, gaze flicking between Seokjin and the door, fingers twisting in the hem of the borrowed jumper. His throat bobbed with a swallow, like the decision cost him something, or maybe like it gave him something back.

Then, with a tiny breath, he gave a small nod.

Seokjin didn’t rush him. He simply turned toward the door and said, “I’ll walk with you.”

 

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Notes:

Hello hello :)
This fic is officially longer than my thesis, which is insane.
This is probably the last chapter in which there will be more hurt than comfort, I promise (I think oops). Jungkookie will make it through, trust me.

Some not so good news :(
My best friend is coming to visit me (yayy). She'll land on Thursday and will stay for a week. The day after her departure, I will start my job as a coordinator of a summer camp, which will run until the beginning of August. As if that wasn't enough, I have an exam around the middle of July which I am studying for.
All of this to say, I am afraid I will not be able to update for a bit, at least until I have completed my exam :(((

I am so sorry, I don't want to let you all down, but I also don't want to upload something that I didn't put my whole heart in. I hope you can understand, I truly appreciate the support you are giving this story and I don't want to disappoint you.

I also have not replied to last chapter's comments because I've been so busy!! But I promise I will do it ASAP!!! Just know I read every single one of them, and I squeal and scream into my pillow every time I get the notification of a new one.

This is a heavy one, the peak of pain and hurt, so please as always take care of yourself.

TRIGGER WARNINGS
- eating disorder and mention of disordered eating
- panic attack
- mental breakdown
- general anxiety and stress
- self-harm in the form of scratching, pinching and hitting against the wall
- hospitalisation
- mention of sexual abuse

Again, please if it gets too heavy ask me to summarise it and I will happily do it for you. And if I missed any trigger warning do not hesitate to tell me!!

Please enjoy <3
I will see you soon!!!

The morning light slanted through the kitchen windows, soft and golden, warming the marble countertops and polished floors. The house was quiet in the way only early mornings are, with no music, no idle conversation, just the faint clink of dishes and the soft rustle of clothes.

Yesterday had been a quiet day, with Jungkook mostly staying in his room, being as quiet as a mouse.

Now, he sat at the far end of the long wooden table, shoulders hunched and back rigid despite the oversized hoodie he was wearing. It's not his—Yoongi’s, probably, judging by the dark grey colour and faint scent of clove and cedar.

He hadn’t touched the food in front of him. He had cut up all of it in small, little bites: the scrambled eggs sectioned off like a grid. The strawberries had been halved, then quartered then rearranged and placed on the furthest end of the place, as far away from himself as possible. However, none of it had actually made its way into his mouth.

The Eros had not commented on it yet, knowing that, during certain meal times, he struggled more than others. But soon they would need to start encouraging him to at least take a few bites, finish his protein portion, and maybe drink a few sips of juice. In the last phone call, doctor Jung had made a comment about his bloodwork and how it had shown slight anemia and the kind of slow metabolic collapse that came from too many years without enough food. They couldn’t allow for him to skip even one meal, even if it pained them to see him struggle so much.

Yoongi and Hoseok had already left for work. So that left the switches lined up on the other side of the table—Jimin, pale-haired and sleepy-eyes, and Taehyung beside him, all morning softness and rumpled energy. Namjoon stood at the kitchen island, reading something on a tablet (most likely the day’s headlines, possibly a new research paper he found the night before on how touch could heal, or harm, or both).

Seokjin, at the far end, was keeping a careful eye on the sub. There is something particularly off about his behaviour that morning. Not just hesitation, but a kind of static, a tension that had nowhere to go. Jungkook’s fingers kept moving—tapping, then still, then twitching toward the hem of his sleeve, where the fabric had begun to unravel into a delicate curl of thread or to fiddle with his bracelets. Just rubbing them between two fingers, over and over, like a ritual. Occasionally, he would pause mid-motion, his entire body going very still, as if he’d heard something no one else had. His gaze would flick toward the hallway, then toward the ceiling, then back to the table, but never toward any of them. His eyes were wide, a little too bright, and distant in the way people look when they’re not entirely in the present.

Seokjin’s chest tightened, but he didn’t speak. Not yet. Pushing too soon would only send Jungkook further inward, and the last thing they wanted was to make him retreat from the little trust he’d begun to offer.

Instead, he picked up his coffee mug and took a sip.

The hush lingered for another few moments—soft rustles, the clink of Jimin’s spoon against porcelain, a bird outside somewhere calling into the pale light of morning.

Then Jimin shifted, gently setting down his cup.
“Jungkook-ah,” he said quietly, his voice threaded with the same tenderness he always used, the one that made his words feel like a soft hand brushing through hair. “How about just the eggs? Maybe a strawberry as well?”

His smile was warm, not pressing, an invitation, not a command.

But Jungkook froze like he’d been touched by something too sharp. His hand tightened around the thread of his sleeve, lips parting slightly. For a moment, he didn’t move, barely breathed, but when he saw Jimin move his hand encouragingly towards his plate, without warning, he scraped back his chair, the sound sudden and too loud against the hardwood floor.

It startled everyone, not because it was aggressive, but because it was so unlike him. He whined under his breath, a soft, high sound of distress. It wasn’t lound, just raw. He looked like he wanted to stand up, maybe leave the room, but stopped himself at the last second. His arms crossed tight over his chest, one hand gripping his opposite sleeve. His eyes darted toward the hallway, the door, the floor. Anywhere but at them.

Seokjin straightened his back, slow and cautious, but didn’t intervene yet.

Silence pressed down like a weight in the kitchen. They knew this wasn’t the first time he had struggled at breakfast. They were used to slow starts, to soft refusals, to the quiet panic that sometimes lived in his shoulders. There had even been mornings with trembling hands or unshed tears.

But this was different, it was sharper and frightened.

Jungkook was still sitting, gripping his forearms way too tightly, however any noise he was previously making stopped abruptly.

Namjoon set down his tablet, cautious as ever. His expression was stupefied, his posture had shifted, now uncertain on how to react. Across the table, Jimin sat very still, his hands folded in his lap now. Under the table, Taehyung grapped one of his hands and squeezed tightly. The switch knew he was going to blame himself, think all of those negative thoughts that he wishes he could make disappear with a snap of a finger.

They were trying. God, they were trying.

Endless patience, steady hands, a lot of research and gentle routines—still, moments like this made it feel like they were standing at the bottom of the same steep hill, all over again. Still square one. They knew it was only the beginning, that the road towards recovery was a bumpy one and one step forward could mean three steps backwards. And they didn’t want to give up. That was the last thing any of them would ever do.

But hope, too, could get tired. And in that moment, all they felt they could do was sit with the ache of helplessness and wonder how much deeper Jungkook’s fear went than they had realized, at a loss on how to progress.

He hovered at the edge of the table, trembling faintly, hands still locked in a white-knuckled grip across his chest. And then he quickly began to lower himself to the floor.

The movement was unmistakable. A gesture, one they have started to all recognized too well. He was going to kneel. Not out of comfort or relaxation, but in the way a sub kneels when they believe they’ve failed something vital. His spine bent further, forehead already beginning to bow toward the ground in a silent plea for forgiveness. No words left his mouth, but they didn’t need them—his body said everything.

I’m sorry. Please. I’ll make it better. Punish me.

“Jungkook—no,” Seokjin said, his voice catching in his throat before he could soften it fully. He stayed seated, not allowing to lean into his instinct to approach the sub and comfort him. “There’s no need, please.”

The boy froze instantly, his weight half-lowered, arms trembling from how tense he’d gone. His chest rose and fell fast.

Seokjin glanced at Namjoon, whose expression had gone tight, he too wanting to get closer to the boy. Namjoon nodded, a subtle go-ahead. Seokjin turned back, eyes warm despite the sudden urgency in the room.

“It’s okay, yeah?” he said softly. “This morning is a bit of a difficult one.”

Jungkook briefly looked at him. His gaze flickered like a match, barely there before darting away. He gave a small nod, but it was taut and uneasy, as if he wasn’t really in control of his movements. He was still poised to kneel fully, muscles rigid, as if waiting for permission to go ahead with the punishment he’d decided he deserved.

There was fear in his face, a familiar one. But there was something else in it this time. Something unstable, an edge to the fear. A tilt toward desperation that made Seokjin’s stomach twist.

He took a slow breath, then said, as gently as he could:
“How about this… what if we eat in the solarium? All open and sunny. That’s also Hugo’s favourite spot to nap in.”

The offer wasn’t a bribe, nor an escape. Just a shift, a way to change the frame without abandoning the goal.

At the mention of the dog’s name, something in Jungkook’s shoulders flickered, still stiff, but uncertain now, wavering like a startled animal trying to decide whether it was safe to stay. And then, after a long pause, he gave another nod. This one was slower. The tension hadn’t left his body, but something in it had loosened, just a little.

Seokjin let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Okay,” he said, his smile softening. “Let’s go tell Hugo he’s about to have some company.”

Seokjin stood up and reached out, gathering Jungkook’s plate, the fork and spoon (chopsticks being still too difficult to handle) clinking gently against the ceramic. He moved with deliberate care—no sudden shifts, no harsh clatter—just a quiet, steady rhythm as he stacked the boy’s untouched breakfast and folded the napkin beside it. His fingers brushed briefly against the table’s surface, grounding himself before turning.

“Come on, honey,” he said gently, not expecting a response. He smiled triumphantly when he sensed the small shift in Jungkook’s weight behind him, the faint scuff of his socked feet on the wood floor, was enough.

He paused after a few steps and glanced back toward the table.

“Tae, darling,” Seokjin said softly, voice warm but careful. “How do you feel about joining us? We can show Jungkook-ah how Hugo goes crazy for the neon green ball, yeah?”

He knew what he was asking. And he knew the risk of asking it. Taehyung had a heart like an open door. People stepped through it constantly, some with care, most without. He’d been burned before, repeatedly, by those who confused his gentleness for servitude, and time after time, he’d returned to them with arms still open, bruises still healing, believing that maybe this time would be different.

They’d talked about it more than once. Dozens of late-night arguments, hushed moments in the hallway, full-circle conversations about boundaries and balance and the dangerous illusion that love had to mean sacrifice. Seokjin, everyone in the Eros really, had fought with him, for him, just to make him understand that giving everything wasn’t the same as giving love. That he didn’t owe the world his ruin just because he could feel it bleeding.

And yet… Seokjin also knew he wasn’t manipulating him now. He wasn’t trying to place Taehyung in a position of silent martyrdom, to leverage that sweetness for convenience. He was offering him a role, yes, but one with an out. One he could refuse, freely, if needed. Because Jungkook needed gentleness. And, this morning, Seokjin couldn’t give it alone. Not after the echo of last night still humming so loud in his chest. The bruising weight of it hadn’t faded. He was afraid that being alone with the boy would twist the moment, make it feel like ne needed to service the dom or receive an unspoken punishment. Make it dangerous in ways neither of them intended.

But Taehyung… Taehyung could soften that edge, like he always did.

And blessedly, he understood. He gave Jimin’s hand a final, firm squeeze before rising from his seat, his smile as radiant and easy as sunlight cutting through fog.

“Of course, hyung,” he said brightly. “It’s been a while since I played ball with Hugo. He’ll be ecstatic!”

He stood and stretched a little, shaking the tension from his limbs as if the morning hadn’t just seen a near-breakdown in front of them. He stepped forward, already exuding warmth, and fell into pace beside Seokjin and Jungkook with the grace of someone who had decided, quietly and with certainty, to be the light that morning.

And Seokjin let himself breathe again.

 

 

###

 

 

Breakfast had gone a bit easier after that.

Jungkook had eaten almost all of the eggs, and even one neatly cut strawberry—small victories that didn’t go unnoticed. He seemed quietly mesmerized by the way Hugo darted across the sun-warmed tiles of the solarium, ears flopping, tail a blur, as he chased the violently neon ball with single-minded delight. For a few moments, Jungkook had even smiled, just the ghost of one, a small little thing, but it had been real. And Taehyung, patient and playful as ever, had shown him how to toss the ball in just the right way, praising every attempt like it meant something. In times like these, being a steady presence was no small thing, and Taehyung carried it with a kind of graceful softness that couldn’t be taught.

Still, Seokjin had noticed.

The tremor in Jungkook’s fingers had become more pronounced than it had been in the dining room. More than the night before, even. And there was something else: a tension in the way he held himself, like a string pulled taut inside his chest. Seokjin couldn’t name it yet. Couldn’t place what had shifted in the span of a few hours, or why it made the air feel ever so slightly off-kilter.

He let it go, just for now, telling himself that maybe by lunchtime, the sub would feel even a little steadier.

 

 

###

 

 

Namjoon had been in the gym for a little under twenty minutes, long enough to work up a light sweat, not long enough to quiet the part of his brain that kept looping back to the kitchen.

After the avoided panic in the dining room, he stayed behind with Jimin to comfort him, the switch’s voice soft and its edges frayed, blaming himself for pushing too soon, for reaching out in the wrong way. It had taken time (gentle words and steady touches were usually what was needed, but he couldn’t help but notice how it was getting harder to settle the switches, always feeling on the verge of too insecure or worn thin) but eventually, Jimin had exhaled. He’d nodded, said he felt grounded enough to go run lines in the studio. Namjoon had let him go, trusting that space would do its quiet magic.

Still, not being able to help during breakfast had gnawed at him.

He knew too many bodies would’ve overwhelmed Jungkook. He knew. And yet the impulse to show up, to provide and do something had lodged itself in his core and refused to ease. So, he’d come here instead, to sweat it out in solitude, to channel that excess into something his body could carry. Movement had always helped when his mind refused to still.

He was just about to start another set when he noticed the missing dumbbell. The one Hoseok had broken a few weeks ago, the handle bent slightly from a dropped rep. He’d said he would repair it when he had time, and Namjoon figured it was probably in the utility room with the rest of their tools.

He took a break, towelled off, and drank deeply from his water bottle before heading down the hallway.

The house was quiet, it always was around mid-morning and lunch time. A certain hush settled over the rooms and he liked this time of day, subdued and sunlit, the edges of things bright with light.

But as he neared the storage room, something made him slow. There were sounds—faint and irregular—just audible behind the closed door. Not loud enough to be alarming, not out of place either, but… there. A gentle scrape. The shuffle of fabric. The dull click of something being moved, placed, rearranged.

Namjoon paused, his hand hovering just beside the doorframe.

There was a heavy pause, then one more sound, like something heave was dropped on the floor. A bit worried, he wondered who was inside, and quickly tapped the door twice, soft but distinct. “Hey, it’s just me. I wanted to grab something.”

However, it was as if the person inside hadn’t heard him. Furrowing his brows, he opened the door, and proptly froze.

There, in the subtly lit storage room, was Jungkook, looming small in the wide rectangle of light from the window behind him. He was meticulously, almost franticly rearranging what looked like every lightbulb they had stored in the room over the years. He was mumbling something under his breath, too quiet to pick up, but that too sounded panic-stricken. His hands were shaking quite a lot, worrying Namjoon that he could drop one at any moment and hurt himself.

Why was he there?

He knew the conversation between Seokjin and Jungkook the day before had been quite a jarring one, but he had hoped the message came across clearly. That he wasn’t supposed to organise or tidy or anything of that sense at the present moment, or ever really. It wasn’t expected of him, he did not need to earn his right to fill this space, to be with them. And he wasn’t in the conditions to do these type of things either, too physically weak and fragile.

Then, it dawned on Namjoon.

Is he doing all of this because he wants to burn the food he ate?

It made an awful kind of sense.

He thought back at how Jungkook never truly sat still. How his footsteps wandered soft but persistent down the hallway floors, how often they'd find him standing in some corner of the house, unmoving but upright, as if resting was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Even the tidying, the rearranging, the quiet, compulsive need to do, they could not only function as his contorted way to earn his stay, but it could also be another mean to frantically keep the weight off.

To please them, he would eat. Not much, but just enough. And then, he would walk. Clean. Sort. Stand for hours. Burn it all away, down to the last trembling calorie.

A sick kind of economy.

Namjoon’s chest tightened as he watched Jungkook shift another bulb, his fingers twitching on the glass. It was barely noon, and he already looked so drained. As if his body hadn’t truly retained a single thing he’d eaten. And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe all of it had already been claimed by the anxiety coiled tight in his muscles.

Did he not see it?

The jut of bone under skin, the way his wrists looked like they’d shatter under the weight of anything too sudden? Or did he know, and simply believe that starving was necessary? That to survive here—to stay—he had to shrink himself. To take up less space and not be a burden, even in the biology of his own flesh.

Namjoon exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, though his pulse had begun to climb. The worst part wasn’t even the physical toll. It was the fact that Jungkook hadn’t truly believed them. Still didn’t. Not after all the hours spent whispering reassurance. Not after all the gentle insistence that his worth wasn’t dependent on his usefulness, his silence, or the size of his body.

Trust wasn’t just fragile, it was distant. And harder earned than they’d wanted to admit.

Namjoon looked at the mess of glass and cardboard around Jungkook. The way the sub was still mumbling under his breath, like some prayer he couldn’t stop reciting.

And the message had never landed, had it?

You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to make yourself small to be loved.

He was going to have to try again. They all were.

But first, he had to stop Jungkook from accidentally cutting his hands open on a shattered bulb. He stepped fully into the room, leaving the door open and softly cleared his throat.

“Jungkook-ah? Can you look at me for a second?”

The sub startled, nearly losing grip on the bulb he was holding. He set it back in the open box with excessive care, then whipped his head around to face Namjoon, eyes wide, already flinching. No anger, only fear, but Namjoon hated it anyway. Hated how Jungkook’s gaze refused to linger, how it darted away immediately, as if the sight of Namjoon induced pain.

He kept his voice low, warm, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I should’ve knocked louder.”

Jungkook jerked his head in a quick shake, as if to say ‘No, it’s not your fault’, and then resumed fiddling silently with the box on the shelf. Hands moving fast, shoulders tense.

Namjoon held his ground, watching for a beat. He stepped further in, slow and deliberate. He bent slightly to see Jungkook’s face more clearly, but didn’t close the distance too much—he could feel how fragile the line was, how close the boy stood to unraveling entirely.

“Hey,” he said gently, nodding toward the shelves. “Can I ask what you're working on?”

Jungkook paused. His fingers hovered over one of the bulbs, trembling slightly. For a moment, Namjoon thought he wouldn’t respond. But then, so faint it was almost lost to the quiet hum of the house, he heard it.

“M-make it r-right.”

The words were breathless, barely sound. More exhale than sentence. Namjoon felt the ache rise instantly. There it is. That invisible, merciless rulebook Jungkook must be carrying in his head, where love was conditional and presence had to be purchased with obedience. The phrasing—make it right—echoed too clearly the earlier conversation.

Earn it. Deserve it. Apologize without ever being told you were wrong.

“Right,” Namjoon echoed, slowly, “why is it not right right now?”

There was no answer this time, just the tiniest hitch in the sub’s breath, the subtle way his shoulders bunched further around his ears.

“You’re not in trouble,” Namjoon said softly. “And you don’t need to make anything right, remember what Seokjin hyung said? there’s nothing wrong.”

He flinched. Something painful, as if the words themselves caused discomfort.

There’s nothing wrong.

As if that couldn’t possibly be true. As if the contradiction itself scraped against some buried truth that Jungkook clung to in order to survive.

Namjoon let a quiet breath slip past his lips. He glanced toward the open door, then back at the boy who looked so achingly small, clutching the edge of the shelving unit like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“Would you like to go and play with Hugo some more?” he tried gently. “Or maybe keep Jimin company while he runs through his lines?”

Jungkook didn’t move. His eyes were fixed somewhere near Namjoon’s shoulder, but not really on him. Not focused at all. His hands remained on the shelf, trembling slightly, knuckles taut against the metal. Namjoon’s brow furrowed. Normally, gentle redirection worked. Jungkook rarely resisted when offered a way out of a tense moment—he might hesitate, but he’d comply, even if he looked pained to do so. He was a bit at a loss, because he could tell he wasn't bratting on purpose, but it entailed something more visceral.

This stillness wasn’t compliance. It was paralysis.

Namjoon took another small step back, coaxing his voice to stay even. “Come on, Jungkook-ah. Let’s do something else, yeah?”

He took a slow step outside the doorway, reaching for the light switch. The moment his fingers brushed it, the reaction was immediate.

A sharp, broken sound escaped Jungkook’s throat—raw and wavering, almost a scream but not quite. Namjoon froze in place, the switch left untouched. The sound echoed in the small utility room, something desperate and primal. It wasn’t meant to manipulate or defy. It was the sound of someone pushed to the very edge of something they didn’t know how to explain. Someone begging not to be taken out of the little structure they had built around themselves, however frantic or unsound.

Namjoon’s heart twisted. His inner Dom rose instantly, roaring, Do something. Fix it. Comfort him. Touch him. But his hands remained at his sides. That boundary was still unmovable. And without touch, without the grounding pressure of hands and arms and steady warmth, he was losing one of the most essential tools he had to help someone through distress, and words alone weren’t enough.

Jungkook’s chest was starting to heave now, shallow and quick. His fingers had gone white on the shelving unit, his entire posture tight like a wire about to snap.

Namjoon swallowed down the helplessness clawing at his throat and, feeling extremely defeated and disappointed, he did the only thing he could think that would contain an imminent panic attack.

“Okay, Jungkook-ah,” he said softly. “I hear you. I’ll leave you to it.”

The boy didn’t move, but the trembling seemed to lessen.

Namjoon kept his tone gentle, steady. “I’ll come and check on you in about fifteen minutes. Just to see how you’re doing. And you know you can always come to me, right? I’ll be in the gym.”

Still nothing.

“Jungkook-ah,” Namjoon said, a little firmer now, “I need an answer to that, please. You’ll let me know if you need me?”

Before he even finished speaking, Jungkook was nodding. Tiny, fast movements. His eyes never left the shelves.

He wants me gone.

The realization stung more than he expected.

“Okay,” he said softly, forcing a breath past the tightness in his chest. “I’ll see you soon.”

And with one last glance, he stepped out, leaving the door open behind him, and made his way slowly back to the gym.

He didn’t realise he hadn’t even picked up the dumbbell.

 

 

###

 

 

It was late evening, right after dinner time. In the living room, distant laughter could be heard—Hoseok and the switches in warm negotiation over which film to watch, with Jungkook seated quietly among them. It was a rare victory, coaxing him to linger after dinner, to remain in the company of others instead of retreating behind his bedroom door.

Dinner itself had been marginally easier than breakfast. Seokjin had intervened early, guiding Jungkook and Taehyung toward the solarium before the tension in Jungkook’s body had time to fully mount. It hadn’t been a seamless meal, but Jungkook had eaten just over half his portion, before gently, almost anxiously, pushing the plate away. His eyes had gone wide again, startled, as if he’d only just realized what he had done. Taehyung had been on the floor by Hugo, making exaggerated throwing gestures and babbling nonsense to the pup, which seemed to help distract the sub just long enough for the Seokjin to pretend everything was fine.

Now, in the dim calm of Yoongi’s studio, the weight returned. The room, all deep woods and low lighting, felt both sheltering and heavy. Yoongi sat on his office chair, arms resting on his knees. Seokjin stood near the bookshelf, back straight, looking out of the window and Namjoon paced, barefoot on the thick carpet, one hand running through his hair again and again.

“I don’t know what to do,” Namjoon muttered, the words low and frayed. “I know—I know it hasn’t been long, and I know this isn’t linear, but it feels like we’re running out of time, for some reason.”

He stopped, hands on his hips, then turned to face them again. “In the storage room, he was just… gone. Like he was somewhere else entirely. I’ve never seen him that—”

He cut himself off, jaw clenched. Seokjin’s voice was quiet, measured.

“We could always sit him down. Ask him—”

Namjoon’s reaction was immediate. “You know better than me that that’s not going to work, hyung.” His voice cracked slightly. “Talking alone isn’t working. It’s not getting through. We’ve been so careful, and still—look at him.”

He resumed his pacing. “He’s doing all the things he thinks we want him to do, and none of the things we actually ask. Because he doesn’t believe us when we say there’s no price. Something’s off.”

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Then Yoongi spoke, voice low but decisive. “Let’s call Doctor Jung.”

Namjoon stopped his pacing, a resigned look on his face. Seokjin too did not look particularly please and turned toward the office chair, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I mean,” Yoongi shrugged one shoulder, “we’ve called him what, four times in the span of five days? One more won’t kill anyone. Better now than waiting.”

They weren’t acknowledging the elephant in the room, which was that, after every call, they could not help but feel dejected, disappointed in the fact that, even if they were doms and were wired to take care of subs and switches in need, they weren’t able to do so without help from an outsider. Parts of them knew it was irrational, that Doctor Jung himself said that Jungkook’s case wasn’t an easy one. However, there was always a thread of loss in the way they dialled his number. As if every call was another admission of failure, another acknowledgment that something in them was missing — or worse, broken — because they couldn’t fix this on their own.

Seokjin picked up his phone and put it on speaker. One, two, three rings.

“Hello, this is Doctor Jung.”

“Doctor Jung, good evening. I hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Seokjin began, voice threading careful hope through the words. “Ah Seokjin-ssi, Not at all,” the doctor replied, immediately present. “We called each other two days ago, correct? How are things going?” Seokjin let out a slow breath, as if pulling the words from somewhere deep inside his chest.

“Well. It’s been… a bit of a backslide since last night.”

His tone was measured but brisk, not sharp exactly, just sharpened by worry.

“After our call me and Jungkook-ah had a talk about chores and earning his stay here with us. However… it went south pretty quickly.” Seokjin started to fidged with his fingers and Yoongi quickly gave him a stress ball he kept in the office especially for him. Seokjin took it and gave the other dom a tight smile.

“I understand it was my mistake and I phrased it completely wrong, but one moment he was standing in the middle of the room looking relatively normal, and the next he was indressing himself, believing he needed to… to offer himself sexually to me. ” Seokjin broke off, collecting himself. “I explained to him he did not need to do that, that consent comes before anything else and he seemed to believe me. We had breakfast and the day was relatively normal. That was good.”

He paused only briefly before continuing.

“But… the compulsions are getting worse. There’s a kind of urgency to them now. Breakfast was a disaster, he cut up his food into extremely little pieces but would not eat it. I proposed to move to another room with the dog and that seemed to do the trick, even though he was feeling overwhelmed. This afternoon he was reorganising the lightbulbs in the storage room, even though we had told him he shouldn’t do any physical labour, especially if he thinks he needs to do it to please us.”

Yoongi and Namjoon remained silent, letting Seokjin speak, each of them steeped in their own weight of memory.

“Namjoon tried to intervene. Offered him alternatives. A distraction.” A glance toward the younger dom, who only nodded, jaw tight. “But Jungkook wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t even look at him properly. And when Namjoon tried to turn the light off to gently redirect him out… he panicked and screamed, refusing to leave the room.”

He sighed.

“And at dinner… it was better, barely. Only because we preemptively moved to the solarium before his panic could spike. He ate more than breakfast, but then seemed immediately horrified by it. He watched Taehyung playing with the dog the whole time, probably the only reason he got through it. And now he’s in the living room with the others., which is good. But the restlessness hasn’t eased.”

He exhaled again, slower this time, voice lowering, “we’re doing what we can, but—he’s slipping through cracks I didn’t even know were there. He’s not defiant, he’s just… terrified. Constantly. Like we’re missing something. Or he is.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. The doctor hummed softly, a sound of acknowledgement. Then his voice came through, clear and measured.

“Thank you for walking me through all that, Seokjin-ssi. I can hear how much thought and care you’re all putting into this, and I want to start by saying that I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong. In fact, I think you’re doing an extraordinary amount of good. But given the way Jungkook is presenting right now, there are some things we need to be very mindful of.”

Seokijn waited for the doctor to continue, “first and foremost,” the doctor continued, “as you know Jungkook is a level 9 sub. That means his nervous system is, quite literally, wired for extreme sensitivity. To touch, tone, energy, to the presence and absence of control. When you combine that kind of innate sensitivity with the trauma history he’s carrying, especially the chronic neglect and deprivation, you get a system that’s constantly scanning for danger, even in safety. And often, especially in safety.”

Namjoon had stopped pacing. Seokjin’s hands were squeezing the stress ball in his lap, white-knuckled. Yoongi stayed still, gaze fixed on the speakerphone.

“The compulsive behaviours you’re describing — the excessive cleaning, the rearranging, the prolonged standing — those are coping strategies. They may not look that way, but to him, they’re attempts at control. At soothing. At doing something when everything inside feels too much. We often see this in subs who’ve been punished or corrected for existing outside their use — they self-police. They overperform and they try to manage their environment to prevent perceived rejection, because it’s the only way they’ve learned to feel safe.”

He let that sink in for a moment before continuing, voice gentling further.

“However... the shift you described today, from simply being restless to becoming visibly distressed when redirected, especially when Namjoon-ssi tried to put a firmer stop to what was doing — that worries me. It suggests that cleaning in no longer a way to soothe himself in times of danger, even supposed one, but he is anticipating harm, even in a neutral or gentle correction.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Namjoon was staring down at the floor.

“And when that internal tension builds too much without an outlet, when the rituals or the avoidance stop being enough, it can lead to more direct forms of harm. Physical self-harm, or in some cases, severe regression.”

“Fuck,” Namjoon murmured, barely audible.

“That doesn’t mean it’s inevitable,” Doctor Jung added quickly. “But it does mean we need to treat these behaviours seriously. Not as misbehaviour or conscious choices, necessarily. But as symptoms of a system in distress.”

“Then what do we do?” Seokjin asked, voice strained.

“You stay the course — and you prepare to adjust it slightly.”

He sounded calm, but there was urgency in his words, “I would suggest to continue to give him consistency. Gentle structure. Don’t remove all boundaries, but stay flexible. If redirecting him causes distress, try inviting rather than insisting. And don’t engage in power negotiations — even soft ones — when he’s spiralling. That will only reinforce his belief that your attention is conditional.”

“He needs to believe we’ll stay,” Yoongi said softly.

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed. “Even when he’s not doing well. Especially then.”

Silence settled for a beat, then the doctor went on, “keep tracking patterns. If the compulsions worsen, or if he stops eating again entirely, or if you notice bruises or signs of self-harm, I need to know immediately. Early intervention is key, and I can help with that. But I also want you to understand: what you’re dealing with isn’t a failure on your part and you’re not failing him. His body just hasn’t learned yet that it’s allowed to rest.”

Another beat of silence. The three doms sat with the weight of it, and the hope underneath.

“I’ll be here whenever you need,” the doctor said. “Even if nothing changes. Call me anyway. We’re in this for the long game.”

After they hung up with the doctor, the three doms emerged from Yoongi’s office. Distant laughter filtered in from the living room where Hoseok and the others were still engaged in a gentle debate over what movie to watch. As they entered, Namjoon could not help but glance fondly at his lovers. Jimin and Taehyung were talking over each other, jokingly mocking each other’s film choices, and Hoseok was sat on the floor near the tv, remote in his hand even if the tv screen was long forgotten, instead opting to admire the bickering switches, laughing his lovely laugh.

Jungkook was sat on one of the couches, Hugo next to him, resting his head on the sub’s lap, enjoying the pets he was being given.

Namjoon sat on the floor, back leaned against the opposite side of the couch the sub was sat on.

The sub’s gaze tracked something beyond the window glass to his left—trees stirring in the dusk wind, maybe, or just the nothingness that sometimes wrapped itself around you when thoughts became too loud.

“Hey Jungkook-ah,” Namjoon said softly, after a long stretch of quiet. “I am sorry for… all of this, choosing a movie is apparently so hard it takes hours to decide.”

No reaction, but no flinch either. That, at least, was something.

Namjoon tilted his head a little, studying the boy.

“You are good with Hugo,” he offered, voice laced with a warm smile. “He really likes you, you know.”

Jungkook’s lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smile, but couldn’t quite manage the shape of it. Instead, his shoulders gave a tiny lift, and he blinked hard, once, twice, as if fending off something nameless, giving Hugo a particularly good scratch under his chin, making the dog sigh contently.

Namjoon then blurted out, “we want you here,” almost as if it was out of his control as if he needed to tell Jungkook this, because he felt they weren’t doing a good enough job at demonstrating it.

A small breath, sharp, like a tiny inhale he hadn’t meant to make, left Jungkook’s chest. H estopped petting Hugo for a few seconds, before resuming. When he lifted his eyes again, there was something wild in them. Not defiance, but something more frightened than that, like he was choking on a truth he didn’t know how to let out. Namjoon didn’t add anything else, afraid it was going to be too much, what he said was already too much. He simply gave the other a small smile and turned towards the bickering switches, who seemed to have finally decided on a movie to watch.

“Okay, Ratatoille it is, but we have to watch Toy Story next time.” Jimin whined, coming to sit on the armchair, Taehyung following suit and plopping himself on top of the other, cuddling him.

“Of course, Jiminie… Sometimes I just like to win, you know that.”

As Hoseok was setting up the movie, Soekjin and Yoongi entered the room with drinks and snacks, before sitting themselves on the other couch.

“Babies, I could hear your cheekiness all the way from the kitchen. Did you give your Hoseokie a hard time?”

Jimin and taehuyng’s head whipped towards Seokjin, saying in unison, “we were angels!”

Before Seokjin could retaliate the opening credits flickered to life across the screen.

Yoongi stacked a small tower of popcorn bowls on the coffee table, making the rounds with chopsticks and napkins. Jimin accepted his with a giddy look, immediately using the chopsticks to pluck a single kernel from the bowl and toss it directly into Taehyung’s mouth. The switch caught it easily, then winked, which set Jimin off in a fit of muted giggles. Yoongi gave Seokjin a look that said, ‘They’re never going to grow up, are they?’ Seokjin, in turn, gave him a look that said, ‘Thank god’.

And so the night progressed. Jungkook didn’t uncurl, but his breathing slowed, and Namjoon stayed close, a quiet sentinel in the soft, failing light.

The credits were still rolling, the soft instrumental soundtrack floating lazily through the living room. Someone had turned the lights back on, but most of the Eros were still sprawled on the couch, drowsy and quiet. It had been a decent night. Better than most, Hoseok thought, watching Jungkook from the corner of his eye.

The sub hadn’t said a word, not unusual, but he had stayed. That was the miracle in itself.

Curled up on the armchair across from the couch, blanket tucked around him like armor, Jungkook had watched the film with wide eyes and tense shoulders. Every once in a while, Taehyung would whisper something to Jimin, and they’d giggle, pressing into each other like overgrown kids. Hoseok had let it slide. They weren’t trying to be disrespectful—they were just… off-kilter. Restless.

He knew that feeling.

By the end of the movie, Taehyung had migrated to the rug on the floor, his head in Jimin’s lap. Their energy was still fidgety—too much movement, soft teasing murmurs, fingers tangled in hair. Jimin grinned at something Taehyung whispered and flicked him on the forehead. Taehyung retaliated by pinching his arm. A soft squawk followed.

“Hey,” Hoseok warned lightly, but it went ignored. Jimin shushed Taehyung, only to snort a second later.

He didn’t want to snap. He knew they were still recovering from the weight of this week—their failed attempts to help Jungkook, the quiet tension that lingered between every interaction. But still, they needed grounding.

He stood and stepped around the coffee table, coming up behind them. He reached forward and grabbed their napes, not tight, just firm enough to redirect.

“That’s enough, babies,” he said, low and steady. “Behave.”

They both yelped, startled. Jimin’s eyes shot up to his, wide and immediately softening. Taehyung grumbled something under his breath but didn’t resist. It worked—within seconds, they were still, glancing at him with sheepish half-smiles. It was the kind of correction they both craved, that kept them tethered when they began to spiral.

It was instinct.

It was normal.

Or it should have been.

A sharp crash exploded behind them.

Glass. Definitely glass.

Everyone turned at once.

Jungkook was standing across the room, one foot tangled in the edge of the rug by the low side table. The vase that had been perched there—a delicate ceramic thing Namjoon had brought back from Jeju—lay in a shattered arc at his feet. Water bled across the floor like ink. Flower stems floated in the puddle.

He looked frozen, breathless. His eyes were impossibly wide, his chest rising too fast, too shallow. One hand clutched the back of the armchair as if he might fall.

“Jungkook—” Hoseok stepped forward.

But the boy flinched so hard he nearly lost his footing again, stepping on the glass shards by the sound of it.

And then he ran.

Out of the room, down the hallway. They heard the sound of a door slamming shut, and after a few seconds, a lock clicking into place.

Silence fell over the living room like a blanket soaked in ice.

Taehyung sat up slowly. Jimin’s hand hovered over the spot where Hoseok had touched his nape.

Hoseok couldn’t move. His hand was still suspended in midair, as if part of him was still bracing them in place. His heartbeat thrummed in his throat.

He hadn’t even realised—

The sound. The tone. The position. His grip.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

It hadn’t been meant for Jungkook. But of course it didn’t matter.

The next minute was a blur. Jimin and Taehyung instinctively moved after Jungkook, but Yoongi was already across the room, an arm extended to block them both. “Let me,” he said simply, and was gone—silent, purposeful steps down the length of the hallway, the others left blinking in shock at the sudden shockwave they’d set off.

The rest of the Eros sat in silence. Jimin and Taehyung had collapsed back onto the armchair, shoulder to shoulder, both blinking hard against the light of the paused TV screen. Neither looked at each other, nor at anyone else. The realization was slowly sinking in like cold water seeping under skin.

Hoseok stood a few paces away from them, still near the coffee table. His hands hung uselessly by his sides, a slight tremor in his fingers. His gaze was distant, pinned to a spot on the rug where the vase had broken, as if it might somehow explain what had just happened.

Then, a sob cracked through the silence.

Jimin. Small, sudden, muffled—ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. Taehyung turned toward him, eyes wide, and then curled in on himself with a hiccup of his own. He covered his mouth with both hands, rocking forward slightly.

It was Seokjin who moved first. Crossing the space in seconds, he crouched in front of them and placed one large, grounding palm on each of their cheeks. His thumbs stroked gently over damp skin.

“Listen to me,” he said, low but firm. “This is not your fault. You needed to be settled. You were calling out for our help, and you received it. That’s all. I’m saying this again, so you hear it properly: It is not your fault.”

Neither switch answered, but their foreheads slowly leaned forward, until they were resting together—forehead to forehead, soft sobs shared between them, no longer trying to hold it in.

Meanwhile, Namjoon had crossed the room toward Hoseok. He said nothing at first, just stepped into his orbit and reached out, laying a hand on the other dom’s forearm.

Hoseok looked up.

His face was wrecked. Not in the obvious way—there were no tears yet, no visible breakdown—but the edges of him looked fractured, like a porcelain cup dropped once too many times.

Namjoon didn’t wait. He stepped forward and wrapped both arms around him, pulling Hoseok into a firm, anchoring embrace.

“Seok,” he murmured against his shoulder, “please don’t blame yourself. You did what came natural. We’ve said it over and over, we can’t restrict our instincts to the point of hurting ourselves. You weren’t wrong.”

Hoseok nodded, slowly. But Namjoon felt the tension coiled tight beneath the motion, the effort it took just to agree. His breath hitched, just once, and Namjoon felt the damp warmth of tears against his shirt.

So he held him tighter.

“It was instinct,” Namjoon said again, gentler now, rocking them slightly. “You were helping them. You didn’t forget Jungkook—none of us did. This wasn’t your fault.”

A few minutes passed in strained silence, the kind that seemed to press against their ribs. Seokjin remained crouched in front of Jimin and Taehyung, his thumbs stroking gently along their tear-streaked cheeks. Namjoon held Hoseok against his chest, the other Dom’s breathing finally beginning to slow, though his eyes still shimmered with unshed tears.

It was Seokjin who broke the silence, voice quiet but firm. “We should probably go and—”

A loud crash cut through the stillness like a blade. It echoed violently through the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of something else toppling, and then—

“Come, I need help. Quickly!” Yoongi’s voice rang out, sharp and uncharacteristically loud.

Everyone in the living room jumped.

Seokjin immediately turned, gaze sweeping over his partners with swift calculation. “Okay,” he said, already rising. “Namjoon and I will go help Yoongi. Hoseok—you stay here with the boys, alright? I’m afraid you’re too fragile at the moment to help us.”

Hoseok became rigid, Jimin sat up straighter, eyes wide and wet. “Hyung—”

“No,” Seokjin said, firm. He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone left no room for argument. “I am giving you this order. No buts.” He looked between them, gaze steady even as his heart pounded. “I want to look after everyone. And that means keeping you out of this.”

There was a pause. A brief flicker of resistance passed between Hoseok and Jimin, but they knew better. The switch in Seokjin’s demeanor, the protective Dom energy laced through every word, was not one to challenge. Taehyung ducked his head, sniffled softly.

With one last stroke to each of the switches’ cheeks, Seokjin stood, already shifting into motion. He looked toward Namjoon.

“Namjoon-ah, with me.”

Namjoon gave Hoseok’s shoulder one final squeeze before following him, footsteps brisk as they left the room. Another crash came from the direction of the kitchen, closer this time, louder.

“It’s near the kitchen,” Namjoon said, breath catching slightly. “But the bathroom’s too far.”

Seokjin nodded tightly. “That leaves the mudroom.”

The narrow space off the back of the house where they kept boots and coats, where the garden door opened to the night. A cramped, cold little room not meant for panic or pain. But still, somehow, it made sense. A space to disappear in.

They quickened their pace.

Yoongi was in front of the mudroom door, knuckle striking against it in rapid succession. “Jungkook-ah! Can you hear me? Please—open the door,” he called, voice edged with panic, breath uneven from the run there.

Seokjin and Namjoon rounded the corner just in time to hear it, and what followed made them both go cold.

It wasn’t just crashes anymore. There were screams—raw, unrestrained. Wails torn from the chest, thick with terror and desperation. The kind of screaming that bypassed language entirely, falling into pure sensation. Mixed into it, barely distinguishable, were splintered fragments of words. “Please… please… I—I’m sorry—please…”

“He locked himself in there,” Yoongi said as they reached him, face pale, body tense. “I don’t know what he’s doing, he just keeps screaming and it sounds like he’s slamming into the wall. I think he’s hurting himself, Hyung. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Seokjin didn’t wait. He stepped forward, replacing Yoongi at the door, and rapped twice—sharp, controlled. “Jungkook. It’s Seokjin. Open the door, and we can explain the situation. No one is in trouble. Neither are you.”

The wails continued, but the thudding halted.

There was a pause.

Then,

“Please… I w-want it to end. S-Stop lying!”

The crash returned, louder this time, and with it, a choked sound of pain.

The three Doms exchanged a look—brief but charged.

“Namjoon-ah,” Seokjin said quickly, already moving closer to the doorframe. “Go into the kitchen, get the mudroom's key in the keys' drawer. Be quick.”

Namjoon nodded and bolted.

Seokjin pressed his palm flat to the door, trying to soften his voice without losing clarity. “Jungkook-ah. I promise, no one is lying to you. There’s been a misunderstanding, but we can fix this. We want to fix this.”

The slamming didn’t stop. If anything, it sounded more erratic—wild and hopeless.

“If you don’t stop hurting yourself,” Seokjin continued, a thread of grief in his otherwise steady tone, “we’ll have no choice but to use the key to come in.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“No—!” The scream tore through the door like a whipcrack. Something fragile shattered on the other side, followed by the high metallic creak of the backdoor’s hinges.

All three of them froze.

“He opened the door to the garden,” Yoongi said, voice hoarse.

He’s going to run.

Seokjin felt a pulse of panic flooding through his chest. Namjoon thundered back down the hallway, tossing the key to Yoongi, who promptly wrenched it open.

Seokjin didn’t remember running outside. One second he was upright in the corridor, the next his feet were in wet grass and the air was bracing against his skin, autumn-cold and sharp in his lungs. Breath visible, in-and-out, like cartoon ghosts in the porch light.

He heard the slamming of the backdoor behind them as Yoongi and Namjoon followed suit, but he kept his eyes forward. There was no sign of movement on the stone path.

For a moment, the night was so empty, so utterly silent, he thought perhaps they’d been wrong—that Jungkook had slipped right past them, doubled back, was already burrowed somewhere in the house. But then he heard it, faint but undeniable: footsteps, wild and slapping, running barefoot through the dark. He pivoted, instincts dialled up to a screaming pitch, and sprinted down the side yard, where the grass was sodden and the stepping stones slick with frost.

He was going to make it around the corner.

Seokjin’s breath hitched.

Jungkook’s figure came into view—barefoot and trembling, his thin body a blur of frantic motion under the porch light. He was sprinting toward the front of the house, wild and uneven, like every step might be his last. His limbs moved too fast for how little control he had, his gait jagged, staggered, like he was running on muscle memory alone.

Seokjin didn’t think. He launched forward.

The moment he reached him, he hooked an arm around Jungkook’s waist and lifted, momentum nearly toppling them both. The boy’s body was burning, taut with fear and sweat-slicked despite the chill. Seokjin held tight, locking him in place against his chest.

Jungkook shrieked.

“No—no, let me go!” he screamed, raw and terrified, voice breaking directly into Seokjin’s ear as he twisted with every ounce of his strength. But Seokjin didn’t flinch, didn’t budge. He just gritted his teeth and held on tighter.

The world slowed. The wind, the sound of steps behind them—Yoongi’s harsh breathing, Namjoon’s quick instructions—everything blurred into a white haze of motion and muffled sound. The only thing Seokjin could focus on was the frantic rhythm of the body in his arms.

Still, the boy writhed.

“L-let me go…” the words were quieter now, tremulous and broken.

“…p-please.”

Seokjin sank to his knees. He hadn’t even realized he was falling until the ground scraped against him—cold gravel digging into his skin, the full weight of Jungkook clinging to his chest. His arms tightened again, unconsciously. A hand went to Jungkook’s head, cradling it, shielding it, soothe, soothe, soothe, even as panic curdled in his veins.

Namjoon came into frame, a blanket in his hands, face drawn tight with worry. He dropped to his knees beside them and wrapped the fabric over Jungkook’s shaking frame, arms helping Seokjin anchor him.

The boy sagged suddenly, like a flame snuffed. The fight drained all at once, replaced by wet, rattling sobs. Small fists balled into Seokjin’s hoodie.

“We need to call an ambulance, Hyung is dropping,” Namjoon’s voice cut through, strained and worried.

Seokjin blinked.

Am I?

His heart thundered in his chest, but the rest of him felt far away. Like he was watching the scene unfold from somewhere just above his own body.

He felt Yoongi’s hand on his shoulder, grounding. Namjoon was saying something—about the ambulance, about shock—but the words came distant, disjointed.

Seokjin looked down at Jungkook in his arms, small and crumpled and clinging.

I’ve got you, he tried to say. But it didn’t come out.

Everything after that blurred into black.

 

 

###

 

 

It started with the scent of antiseptic.

Faint, sharp, and oddly familiar—it hovered beneath his nose, just noticeable enough to pull him up from the dark. Next came the weight. Of his body, of the blanket draped over him, of the ache behind his eyes like he’d been crying in his sleep. His limbs felt leaden, as if they didn’t quite belong to him yet.

A heartbeat, slow and steady, thudded somewhere in his chest. Then another.

He blinked against the harsh hospital lighting, white and clinical and too still. For a long moment, all he could do was breathe.

“Hi darling.”

The voice was quiet, careful. Yoongi.

Seokjin turned his slowly head and found Yoongi in the chair beside his bed, still in the hoodie he’d thrown on before the movie. His hair was tousled and his eyes were ringed dark with worry, but there was relief in his expression, in the soft curve of his mouth.

Seokjin’s voice came hoarse. “What happened?”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. He reached forward, resting a hand lightly over Seokjin’s wrist. It was grounding, something to hold onto.

“You had a massive drop,” he said gently. “You held him through the whole thing, and then your system shut down. Ambulance brought both of you in. You’ve been out since last night.”

Seokjin’s eyes fluttered shut again. The memories came in slow waves—Jungkook in his arms, the screaming, the cold, the porch light. The feeling of gravel under his knees.

“Is he—” His throat tightened. “Jungkook?”

Yoongi nodded. “He’s okay. Asleep. Hoseok’s with him.”

Seokjin closed his eyes again.

“Where are the others?”

Yoongi gave him a soft smile, even if he could not see him.

Ever the mother hen.

“Namjoon’s is just outside the sub’s unit, waiting for the doctor to update him. Hoseok is keeping the switches occupied in the waiting room, which is turning out to be a great fit because they either want to come and see you or barge into the sub’s unit to go to Jungkook.”

“Mmh, and you?”

“Me? What about me?” Yoongi said with a fond laugh.

“Yoongi.” said Seokjin in his no-bullshit tone.

Yoongi swallowed, sighing deeply, “hyung, I am okay. We all got very scared, but right now I should be the one looking after you and the others. The doctor said you got lucky.”

Seokjin opened his eyes once again, but didn’t say anything.

Yoongi continued, “most doms with high designations don’t tolerate… things like that very well. The combination of proximity to a distressed sub in full meltdown and days of being on edge and not scening properly can trigger a kind of systemic overload.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The hospital buzzed gently around them, machines, murmurs, the occasional beep from another room. It felt very far away.

Seokjin’s voice was a whisper. “But Jungkook?”

“He’s stable now. But the doctor are quite worried…” Yoongi hesitated, then continued, “they found all kinds of hormonal imbalances, his heart rate is quite high, too high for someone so malnourished, entailing that his levels of anxiety and distress are through the roof. They said those are all signs of sub’s neglect.”

Seokjin exhaled, long and low. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but he knew Yoongi couldn’t have all the answers. He hoped he could talk to a doctor soon, see where things had gone so miserably bad.

"He doesn't trust us, Yoongi. Not one single bit." 

Yoongi squeezed the other dom's wrist, brought it to his lips and gave his palm a kiss.

"He will hyung... we will show him it is possible."

They basked in the quiet comfort those words brought, before Yoongi continued. 

“Doctor Jung is coming in this afternoon.” Yoongi added, reaching out to adjust the blanket where it had slipped from Seokjin’s shoulder. “As he is Jungkook’s primary doctor and he is in the fostering system, he needs to do a complete evaluation. Said he also want to talk to us, something about his care plan.”

Seokjin nodded faintly, already thinking about new strategies to take care of him. Yoongi seemed to have other plans for him.

“None of that now, I can see you thinking about everything and anything and that’s not good for you at the moment. You need to rest, you are still dropping, even if marginally.”

But Seokjin’s mind, even slowed by the aftermath of collapse, wouldn’t let go. The image replayed and replayed: Jungkook’s small body wrenching in his grip, the desperate, shocked fight, the way the sub’s fear had cut through everything—logic, instinct, even the discipline of years.

He wanted to ask Yoongi if they had ever truly been equipped to handle this, if their whole project of loving the boy into security had been a fantasy from the start. Instead, he closed his hand over Yoongi’s on the blanket, let the comfort in that simple touch hold him together just a little longer.

Yoongi, for all his quiet, seemed to sense the storm underneath. He leaned closer, words soft and bone-deep. “You did the right thing, hyung. Even if it didn’t fix anything. Even if it all went sideways.” His thumb traced a slow line along Seokjin’s wrist.

Seokjin let his eyes drift shut again, the warmth of Yoongi’s hand grounding him. There was so much to face still—conversations, decisions, grief—but for now, he allowed himself one breath, and then another.

The storm hadn’t passed, but they weren’t facing it alone.

 

 

###

 

 

Soekjin’s room was fuller now, a quiet collection of warmth and unease. Hoseok had brought Jimin and Taehyung in after they’d begged to see Seokjin, both switches subdued and clingy, demanding to cuddle with the head dom, were now curled together on Seokjin’s sides. Hoseok sat nearby, eyes flicking between Seokjin’s still face and the door, ever-vigilant.

Namjoon had only just come in, soft-stepping into the room with a kind of gravity that made everyone look up. His gaze met Yoongi’s first, then dropped to Seokjin’s. A tired smile crossed his face.

“So the doctor had some news, he’s still sleeping,” Namjoon said gently, closing the door behind him. “Vitals are steady. They’ve given him something light to keep him calm—his body’s too tense, they didn’t want him waking in that state again.”

Seokjin’s eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded but alert. “No change?”

“No worsening either,” Namjoon said. “The doctors are watching closely, say that he will sleep for a little while longer, but he might start to wake up in a couple of hours. I am not allowed to go in— subs’ unit and all— but they said they will tell me when he wakes up.” He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly. “But mmh, I might go back, you know… just in case.”

Everyone nodded, thanking him and bidding him sweets goodbye. The silence wrapped around them again like gauze. Seokjin reached out for Yoongi’s hand without looking, and Yoongi caught it easily, grounding him. No one said much after that—just the occasional shuffle of limbs or soft exhale from the switches, a low murmur from the hallway outside.

It was Yoongi who broke the silence first.

“Hyung,” he said, voice pitched low. Seokjin turned to him slowly, catching the faint strain in Yoongi’s tone. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet.”

Seokjin’s brows drew together. “What is it?”

Yoongi hesitated, looking at everyone else in the room—at Hoseok, who met his gaze solemnly, and then at the switches, who were now fully alert, sensing the change in atmosphere.

“I didn’t want to say anything until you were a little more grounded,” Yoongi said. “You were still dropping earlier, and I didn’t want to—” he paused. “But you should know before Doctor Jung gets here.”

Seokjin sat up straighter, his grip on Yoongi’s hand tightening. “Tell me.”

Yoongi exhaled. “When they dressed Jungkook in his hospital gown… they found more injuries than expected. A lot of them self-inflicted. Scratches. Bruises from repeatedly hitting the wall. He’d been pinching his own skin, probably for hours before the mudroom.”

The words hit like a blow to the chest. Seokjin went completely still.

“They’re not dangerous,” Yoongi added quickly. “Nothing that won’t heal. But… there were a lot. When the ambulance reached the hospital they dressed his scratches immediately and gave him painkillers for the pain.”

Seokjin was already shifting, sheets rustling, swinging his legs off the bed.

“Hyung—” Yoongi said, reaching for him.

“I need to see him.” Seokjin’s voice was iron.

“Seokjin, wait,” Hoseok chimed in, pushing up from his chair. “You’re still not steady, you just collapsed a few hours ago—”

“I don’t care.” Seokjin stood on trembling legs, shrugging off Yoongi’s hold. “He was in that room, screaming for it to stop. I need to see him.”

The switches tried to bring him back to the bed, Jimin let out a soft sound and Taehyung managed to grab one of the dom’s sleeves, pulling lightly.

Yoongi rose too, instinctively preparing to catch him if needed, but Seokjin wasn’t listening anymore, he gently pried Taehyung’s fingers away and, in an instant, he was already halfway to the door, feet unsteady but determined.

And then: a knock.

Three gentle raps, followed by the soft sound of the door opening.

Doctor Jung.

He looked tired, even if he smiled warmly at them. It was weird to see him without a doctor’s coat and dressed casually, like this might have just been a visit from a friend.

“Good afternoon,” he said calmly, eyes sweeping the room before settling on Seokjin. “Already standing Soekjin-ssi? I would not advise doing that.”

He was trying to use a lighter tone, but it came out slightly strained, like he too was feeling the heaviness of the situation.

Seokjin froze in place. The room held its breath.

“Please get back on the bed, you need all the rest you can get, your drop was quite extensive and your hormones are still trying to balance themselves out. Once you feel a bit more steady you can go see Jungkook, I promise.”

Which wasn’t necessarily true because hospital subs’ unit were intended for only subs to be treated, with the staff being mainly submissives as well. Therefore, Soekjin looked at doctor Jung a bit sceptically, but turned towards the bed, finally allowing Yoongi to help him, and went back to cuddle Jimin and Taehyung.

There were no more chairs available, but doctor Jung didn’t seem to mind having to stand up. He crossed his hands in front of himself and gave a sweeping look across the room. He took a deep breath.

“I imagine you already know, but let’s go over Jungkook’s current health situation, so that it is all clear.”

When the Eros nodded, the doctor continued.

“I spoke with the doctor who is currently monitoring Jungkook. I’ve seen his blood work, hormonal panels, sleep data, even his neural responsiveness scans.” Doctor Jung’s expression tightened. “And I won’t lie to you—what we’re seeing paints a very painful picture.”

He paused, giving the group a moment to absorb his words, “internally, and as a sub… Jungkook has been suffering. For a very long time, we know, but things seems to have gotten exponentially worse since he came to stay with you. His body has been in a near-constant state of panic. His hormone levels are volatile, cortisol is through the roof, and his oxytocin response is blunted to the point where even bonding attempts don’t register as soothing. From how you’ve recounted the last night’s event, it wasn’t the single episode that cause the outburst. The constant pinching, the compulsions, obsessive organization… it was bound to happen.”

The silence in the room turned heavier, as if the air had thickened.

“Externally, Jungkook’s weight has not improved. If anything, he has lost weight. I don’t say this to accuse you, but from what you’ve told me he hasn’t stopped moving for the past 5 days, which takes a massive toll on the body. That, and the injuries… I keep trying to understand why he would harm himself in that way. Hitting the wall, furiously scratching to the point of bleeding and pinching all at the same time is quite extreme, and he seems to believe that, because he was fearing to be punished by you for having reacted that way, he beat you to it and did it himself.”

Jimin let out a sob, covering his face with his hands. Immediately Hoseok was by his side, gently rocking him from side to side, trying to comfort him, even marginally.

“And…” doctor Jung hesitated now, visibly uncomfortable. “I need to be honest with you. Based on the injuries and the bloodwork alone, the attending physician believed he was being mistreated, potentially even abused. He was preparing a formal report. A mandatory one.”

Several of them visibly flinched. Seokjin’s breath stuttered out of him.

“I intervened as soon as I was informed,” the doctor said quickly, his voice firm. “I provided Jungkook’s full file, explained his clinical history, and made it clear that his current state is the result of prolonged trauma and complex bonding issues—not current maltreatment.”

He met each of their eyes in turn, gaze steady.

“I told him what I believe to be true. That this isn’t negligence. It’s a very fragile sub with high needs that are currently difficult to be met, who is being cared for by a group of doms and switches trying desperately to do right by him. And I’ll keep standing by that—I managed to stop the report to be put through, but they will want constant updates from him, on top on the ones you need to provide to me and the clinic.”

Yoongi’s jaw flexed. Hoseok reached over, touching Taehyung’s knee, grounding him. Jimin had gone very still, his fingers curled around the hem of Seokjin’s blanket. Seokjin didn’t speak. Not yet. Just nodded once, slowly, absorbing the weight of it.

Doctor Jung’s shoulders rose and fell with a careful breath. “I’ve told you this before, and it still pains me to say it, but I don’t have a clear roadmap for this, however something needs to change,” he swallowed. “Jungkook’s case is one of the most complex I’ve encountered in over a decade. Every time we think we understand the pattern of his distress, something shifts. He doesn’t respond to bonding stimuli the way we’d expect. He doesn’t regulate with traditional dom-sub interactions. Even his physiological responses seem contradictory—his body is desperate for care, but his system rejects it like a threat.”

He looked down briefly, then back up.

“What you’ve been doing is good, I want to believe is good. But perhaps is not enough, or is not what he needs. I can see him, underneath the subdrop and the confusion and the fear. He's there and he has shown to be present, especially with you. However, I feel stuck… as if we are taking the wrong path and we need to turn around and change everything.”

They had never seen doctor Jung so vulnerable, so openly showing his doubts and, in some distorted way, it was comforting. But at the same time, the unknown was excruciating.

A tense silence followed.

Then, Seokjin spoke—quiet, but with the kind of steel that left no room for doubt.

“Then we change everything.”

Everyone looked at him.

“If this isn’t working,” he said, straighter, “then we shift. We try again, however many times it takes.”

His words left no room for retreat. He felt them land, heavy and sharp, even in his own body: the truth of failure, the ache of not knowing, and the stubborn refusal to let either become the end of the story.

Doctor Jung seemed torn. He looked at the floor, furrowing his brows, as if in deep thought, “I’ve been doing this for more than two decades and there are protocols, care plans, structured systems that have always worked. I know I sound like I’m contradicting myself, but I cannot help but think that overturning everything might cause even more pain in him.”

Soekjin looked at the doctor, an adamant look on his face, “as you said yourself, this isn’t working. We need to find new strategies to help Jungkook and if that means going off the script then so be it. Me and my partners have been suppressing our instincts since he got home and I think that was the worst thing we could have done.”

He took a deep breath, “so why not lean into them, show him that it is not scary to follow and listen to one’s designation. Nothing extreme, we still need to take into consideration the fact that he has been severely traumatised, but still… he’s a 9, I am a 9 and, if I were to be in a similar situation as Jungkook’s, I feel like having people constantly walking on egg shells around me would drive me insane.”

Seokjin took a deep breath, feeling winded and exhausted after what he had said. He believed everything though, and he was ready to fight for it if the doctor, the hospital, whoever was going to try to take Jungkook away from him, from them.

He could see from the corner of his eye that Yoongi was slowly nodding, agreeing with what Soekjin had said. He turned to the doctor, “I believe Seokjin hyung is right. Let’s show him we can care for him and listen to ourselves. That one does not exclude the other and that, especially, showing one’s designation should be celebrated and encouraged, thriving under its guide.”

Taehyung sniffles filled the room, making everyone turn towards him.

His lips wobbled, “I just want our Jungkookie to be healthy again,” before promptly bursting into tears.

Seokjin huffen lightly, tucking the switch’s head into his neck, doing the same with Jimin. Hosoek watched the scene fondly, a brief respite despite the heavy situation. He turned towards the doctor, who looked pensive, “I agree with Tae, we only want the best for him, and if that means not following a certain protocol then so be it. Jungkook’s a person with real feelings, treating his as a test subject seems a bit impersonal.”

Doctor Jung looked at the dom, then out of the window. He still looked torn, and for a split, terrifying second they all thought he wasn’t going to agree.

Then, “okay, we can try… I am sceptical, and the risk in trying is big... but if this is what it takes to help Jungkook then I am willing to bypass all the procedures followed until now.”

They all exhaled, feeling suddenly relieved that their plan was accepted.

Doctor Jung folded his arms, still frowning slightly. “If we do this, I need structure. Improvisation won’t cut it. Jungkook needs consistency more than anything.”

Seokjin nodded, already drawing from the threads in his mind that had refused to stop weaving ideas since he’d woken up.

“Then let’s start with that,” he said. “Routine.”

Everyone turned to him again, the quiet authority in his voice unmistakable.

“He needs something predictable. Not rigid, but clear. We’ll build days that balance rest and activity. We’ll keep meals at consistent times and make space for him if he wants to stay alone, but also gently encourage small engagement when he can manage it.”

Doctor Jung nodded slowly.

“And expectations,” Seokjin continued. “He needs to know what’s expected of him and what he can expect from us. Clear boundaries, communicated in simple terms. No ambiguity—he’s already living in a constant state of uncertainty. We can’t add to that.”

Yoongi hummed in agreement. “Stability is safety. Even if he doesn’t respond to it right away, his internal sub will start to learn it’s okay to settle.”

“And check-ins,” Seokjin added. “Daily, more than once, brief but intentional. He can choose how much he wants to tell us, but we’ll always ask. Someone will be responsible each day to sit with him, to listen if he wants to talk, or just to be there if he doesn’t.”

“Rotating schedule,” Doctor Jung said.

Seokjin looked to the others, then nodded. “Rotating, but with consistency. Maybe Yoongi in the mornings, Namjoon in the evenings. Hoseok on tougher days. Jimin and Taehyung could partecipate and perhaps give their inputs, and I will step in when necessary, building trust until he will be comfortable to talk to me as well.”

“What about safety?” asked Hoseok.

There was a heavier pause before Seokjin answered.

“We need to be honest,” he said. “The self-inflicted injuries can’t be dismissed. I want someone with him as often as possible, but not in a way that makes him feel surveilled. We’ll secure his space without making it feel like a cage. Sleeping will need to be arranged differetly, and eating as well.”

The room was quiet again.

“And finally…” Seokjin’s voice grew quieter. “He needs bonding. Not scenes. But moments, care that’s safe and intentional—reading to him, quiet time in the same room, playing board games. We rebuild trust through connection, not through control.”

“And we will slowly introduce touch. I believe he requires touch to heal. Without, progress will be extremely slow. I still don’t know how, I have to think about it, but we need to show him that contant physical touch is fundamental, especially as a 9.”

Seokjin looked resolute now, determined in putting this plan into place.

“I want him to know that doms aren’t something to fear. That being held isn’t dangerous. That he’s not alone anymore, no matter what his instincts tell him.”

Jimin broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper, “what if he doesn’t want it?” His eyes were rimmed with red. The question tumbled out softly, as if speaking it out loud was making it even scarier.

“What if he never wants… any of us?” In the hush that followed, even the fluorescent lights seemed to pause. Doctor Jung’s lips pressed together, the rare furrow in his brow returning.

“Then we love him anyway,” Yoongi said, gentle but sure, “recovery isn’t about getting the result we hope for. It’s about making sure someone can live, even if it’s not the story we pictured.”

Jimin nodded. It wasn’t the answer he had hoped for, but he needed to accept that, sometimes, the art of loving someone lies in allowing them to walk away from you.

Doctor Jung watched them for a moment, his features softening, and then took a deep, centering breath of his own. “Thank you for your honesty, you know I am always available. If you need me, I am a call away.”

The eros thanked the doctor softly, feeling suddently drained by the conversation they just had.

“I will go for now, they told me Jungkook needs his rest and will probably be monitored for the next 24 hours. Let the staff in the sub unit handle his primary care for now, I will talk to Jungkook’s doctor and ask him when you’ll be able to see him, and we will go from there.”

“Thank you doctor Jung, and thank you for putting your trust in us,” said Hoseok, feeling grateful and hopeful for the first time in nearly a day.

The door clicked shut behind doctor Jung, leaving a hush in his wake. The room felt heavier somehow, not with despair, but with the weight of what came next. No one spoke for a while. There were no more declarations to make, no sudden revelations to offer, only the slow, quiet burn of commitment.

Jimin reached for Taehyung’s hand over Seokjin’s tummy, cuddling close to the dom. Yoongi leaned his shoulder against Hoseok’s. Hoseok rested his head on the other dom’s shoulder, exhaling like he hadn’t in hours.

They didn’t know when Jungkook would wake, or how he would feel when he did. But they would be there. When the pain surged again, when it dulled, when he fought and when he didn’t. They would be there.

Junkook will return to savor and devour his life, without guilt and without fear.

Outside, the sky was beginning to shift. The sun peeked out the heavy clouds, the promise of light holding steady.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Notes:

Hello hello :)
I am back! Yayy
I am so sorry it took so long, the exam was super hard, and this summer camp will be my demise. But the exam is done, and I only have two weeks left of having to wipe children's noses, thank fück.
I hope every single one of you is good and healthy!

So, back to the chapter. I don't want to call this a filler chapter, because so much happens, but we will truly start to see Jungkook's healing process from the next chapter. Pls don't kill me, I still hope you'll like it :)

Just a reminder that I am not a doctor, and I am literally inventing every single thing that these doctors are saying. I just like to use fancy words, what can I say.

TRIGGER WARNINGS
- panic attack
- mention of torture
- medical check-up (nothing graphic)
- mention of eating disorder

That should be all, but please tell me if I forgot anything.
I will reply to all your lovely comments (which I am always so grateful for) tomorrow afternoon! I wanted to post this chapter as soon as possible so you guys had something to read, but I am exhausted, and I need to be horizontal right now.

I love you all, thank you so much for giving all this love to this story <3

See you soon :)

The first thing he noticed was the sound. A distant hum, steady and low, like a soft electrical purr nestled beneath the silence. Somewhere close by, a monitor beeped in a slow, rhythmic pattern, calm and consistent. Further away, muffled voices drifted in and out, distorted by walls and distance. They didn’t seem urgent, and for that, he was grateful.

Then came the smell. Sharp and sterile, like alcohol wipes and overwashed linens. Antiseptic. His nose scrunched instinctively, the scent tugging at something uncomfortable in his chest. Too clean and too clinical.

He noticed the tremor in his hands next—subtle, but constant. A quiet quake beneath the skin, as familiar as it was exhausting. His fingertips brushed against rough cotton sheets, coarse and tightly tucked, the sensation grounded him, but it didn’t soothe.

There was also pressure across his body, which was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Heavy, like something had been laid over him, but instead of suffocating, it felt… safe. Like being pinned into place on purpose. The weight cradled him, anchoring him inside something warm, something still, like a cocoon.

He stayed there, eyes closed, breathing in shallow, tentative pulls of air. Morning light filtered through the blinds in soft strips, touching his face but not quite coaxing him awake. His eyelids were too heavy to lift, and maybe that was okay.

Time didn’t feel real inside his body. Everything beyond his skin moved as if underwater—slow, distorted, distant. He lay somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, awareness ebbing and flowing like the tide. He felt like he was floating in a bubble just under the surface, where no one could reach him and he couldn’t reach back, and the world outside whispered and shifted, but none of it touched him.

He wasn’t sure if it was peaceful or terrifying.

Even with his eyes closed, it all felt too bright, too loud, too much. Sounds blurred into a haze of noise, the edges of thought were soft and unfocused, like cotton stuffed into his brain. Nothing settled. Everything felt fuzzy. It was all too close and too far away at once.

And yet, that fragile stillness inside him trembled, as if something was coming. He could feel it—the bubble thinning, ready to burst. Pressure was building, slow and certain, as if the quiet he’d curled into wasn’t allowed to last.

Soon, the world would break in, or worse, he’d be pushed out. Pushed into a space that didn’t fit, too sharp in places, too wide in others, where nothing felt safe or right, and the ground kept tilting just enough to make him stumble.

He didn’t want to go there. Didn’t know where there even was.

He stayed still, tucked deep under the weight pressing gently down on him, waiting, hoping the moment of rupture could be delayed just a little longer.

His body ached. Not in one place, but everywhere, as if he’d been dropped from a great height and left to shatter across cold tile. His limbs felt like they had been pieced back together by someone who didn’t quite know where everything went—stitched together just enough to move, but still fragile in the seams. Every joint was stiff, like his muscles had locked up for days and now refused to let go.

His fingers twitched against the sheet, the movement scraped painfully, the skin on his palms rubbed raw. A dull throb settled in his fingertips, and he realized, distantly, that his fingernails ached, like they had been dug deep into flesh, like he had clung to something too tightly, or maybe tried to claw his way out of himself.

His throat burned, dry and hoarse, like when he screamed himself silent. It was a feeling he knew too well, sharp and hollow, echoing with memories of steel cuffs and punishments he no longer bothered to count. He swallowed, but the motion only made it worse.

Then his arm shifted, brushing against the weight that pressed down over him. At first, it felt comforting and warm, but the softness didn’t meet his skin directly. There was something in between. Fabric. Gauze. Bandages.

The rough texture caught as he moved and pulled at him, tight and secure.

And that’s when his eyes snapped open.

Panic surged, swift and dizzying. His breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat. Why were there bandages on his arms? Why did his skin feel so tight, so exposed beneath layers of protection? Why couldn’t he remember?

Where was he?

What had happened?

Why did everything feel like it was crawling back to him too slowly—like fragments of glass drifting in water, too sharp to catch, too scattered to see clearly?

His heart pounded against his chest like it was trying to outrun the rest of him.

The steady beeping beside him stuttered, then quickened. Each sharp chirp from the monitor sliced through the room, growing louder with every erratic thud of his heart. It only made things worse. The sound fed the panic clawing at his chest, breath snagging in his throat like barbed wire. His fingers twitched under the blanket, curling tight against the bandaged skin. His eyes flicked wildly, scanning the ceiling, the walls, the blurry edges of a world he couldn’t place.

Hospital, his mind offered.

He had to be in a hospital.

But why?

Why would he need medical care?

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t pull together a single clean thought from the storm surging inside him. His head felt stuffed with static, memories swirling just beyond reach, taunting him with their absence. His mouth opened, but no sound came, just that burning, torn feeling in his throat, and the pounding noise in his ears.

Then, like puzzle pieces being shoved into place by a trembling hand, fragments of memory began to return.

A voice. A hand reaching.

The switches.

One of the doms looming above them.

The scratches he inflicted to himself because he needed to punish his stupid self.

The sudden panic that they’d finally dropped the mask, and the horror of realizing he’d believed them, if only for a moment. Believed their soft words, their gentle ways of approaching him, their strange, impossible kindness. Tricked into believing this Eros— the same one the clinic had sung praises about—might truly be different.

But it wasn’t.

Of course it wasn’t.

They were just like the others, every single one of them. The Sirs and the Masters and the Lords who smiled when you bowed perfectly and lashed out when you didn’t. Who dressed cruelty in ritual and discipline in ceremony and who told you pain meant obedience, and obedience meant survival.

He had known something was wrong from the start. No one was that soft, that patient, that warm. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. It was a test, a trap, and when he would inevitably fail, lower his defences and accept the help they promised, they would punish him, just like the rest.

The panic doubled, thick and suffocating. His chest heaved beneath the pressure of the blanket, bandages tugging tight as he tried to curl inward. The monitor shrieked now, beeping faster and faster.

He remembered running. He didn’t know how or when or where, but he remembered the urge—full-body and primal. He remembered thinking he wasn’t going to make it, but still, he had to try, even if it meant more chains, even if it cost his life.

Escaping was seen almost as a sin. He had seen what happened to subs who tried, or rather—he hadn’t, because they never came back.

He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to slow his breathing, to stop listening to the beeping machine keeping furious count of his terror. He focused on the weight over his body, the pressure, the warmth that bled into him, and tried to find a solution, to make this mess right.

What now?

They were surely furious. He didn’t even understand why they’d brought him to a hospital. For some scratches and a fainting spell? What game were they playing?

Running again wasn’t an option. Slipping out of a hospital room would alert staff, and the staff would report his unacceptable, abhorrent behaviour to the Eros. He was in trouble.

He still didn’t know how they punished subs, seeing as there were none in the house. He’d nearly witnessed a punishment being delivered to the switches, but even that, whatever it would’ve been, was bound to be mild compared to what awaited him.

He knew how it worked. In the past, when switches needed correction, it was barely more than a slap on the wrist, but when a sub stepped out of line—

That was a whole different category, a different set of rules. It was almost laughable, how light the switches had it. It was deliberate, too, another clever tactic used by the doms he had to serve who needed to instil fear and meekness into the Obedience stock.

He kept his eyes shut. The panic still thrummed in his chest, but it was starting to be duller now, like an echo bouncing back from too far away to reach him properly. The beeping hadn’t stopped, but it was losing its urgency, settling into a pace that didn’t match the chaos inside him. It almost felt ironic, how his body tried to soothe itself even as his mind refused to believe it was safe.

He didn't know what to do. There was no use in running, no point in begging, no strength left for pretending. He just lay there, silent and still, letting the weight press down on him—not just the one over his chest, but the one inside it too.

Let it come, he thought. Let the punishment come. Let the shouting, the discipline, the pain happen. It would end eventually, everything always did.

And if it didn’t?

Then maybe this would be it, maybe this was the final lesson. He didn’t want to die, not really. That want had never burned in him, not even at the worst. He had always wanted to live, somewhere in his chest, that stubborn flicker of survival had clung on, even when it made no sense. But he couldn’t keep doing this. Not like this. Not with the constant fear clinging to him like sweat, not with the shadows of hands he couldn’t forget, not with the crushing pressure of never being good enough, clean enough, safe enough to be allowed peace.

So if this was the end—if this was where it all led—then maybe it wasn’t punishment.

Maybe it was mercy.

He breathed in slowly, shallowly, barely filling his lungs. He waited for the beeping to slow, to catch up to the numbness spreading through him.

He waited.

The knock was soft, barely there.

Jungkook didn’t react, not outwardly, but his ears caught the faint click of the door, the sound of soft shoes across the floor, the quiet rustle of fabric and paper. He finally opened his eyes. The room around him did not look like he expected it to look. It wasn’t sterile or cold, like the clinics or cells he’d known before. The walls were painted a warm, buttery yellow, softly reflecting the light that filtered through the half-closed blinds. It gave the space a surprising brightness, a warmth that felt foreign on his skin.

The bed he laid on was in the centre of the room, facing the door. It didn’t have those harsh plastic railings he had come to associate with hospitals. Instead, the sides were cushioned, padded fabric with rounded edges, soft enough that even bumping into them wouldn’t bruise.

And the pressure anchoring him? He shifted minutely, glancing down.

A blanket, light blue and heavily weighted. That explained the comforting weight he'd been clinging to, something in him had known it was keeping him grounded, even before he could name it.

To his left, something else caught his eye. In the corner, instead of cold linoleum, the flooring changed, giving way to a soft, thick mattress-like platform, laid flush against the ground. It looked like the sort of space you’d lower yourself onto with a sigh rather than brace yourself to sleep on. Two oversized beanbags rested on top, a few fluffy blankets were draped over the sides, spilling onto the padded floor. Books were tucked into the corner, stacked neatly.

To his right, a wide window stretched across most of the wall. He could see they were high up, at least several floors above ground, as from his angle, he could only make out the tops of trees, their branches waving gently in the cold, winter breeze, and the rooftops of other high-rises reaching for the sky.

The room didn’t feel like a hospital. It didn’t feel strict or impersonal. But it didn’t feel safe, either.

Then, the person that knocked entered the room.

“Good afternoon, Jungkook.”

The voice was warm, bright but not too loud, floating gently across the quiet room. A nurse. She stepped into the room, clicking the door behing herself shut. She was tall, dressed in pale blue scrubs, a clipboard resting lightly in her hands.

And then—she bowed.

Bowed.

Jungkook blinked, startled. His breath caught for a second, the automatic fear response flaring, confused.

He didn’t know what to do with it, his fingers twitching against the sheets.

But she didn’t pause, and she didn’t seem to expect a response. She straightened smoothly and spoke again, gently.

“My name is Eunji, and I’ll be assisting you during your stay at Severance Hospital.”

She glanced down at the clipboard as she spoke, scanning something with a small, thoughtful crease between her brows. Then, she looked up again and smiled.

“I noticed abnormal activity from the heart monitor and wanted to see if everything was okay. I figured you woke up! So I came to check on you, and indeed I was right.”

She remained next to the door, not approaching the fearful sub. That allowed Jungkook to calm down minutely, still not trusting what could come next.

“I won’t overwhelm you with all the specific terms and medical jargon. Doctor Kim will be here shortly and will guide you through your current physical state.”

Her eyes were kind, her voice clear but low, “for now,” she said, tilting her head just slightly, “may I check your vitals? I would need to come closer, I will try to touch you the least amount necessary.”

Permission.

She had asked for permission.

Jungkook blinked once, twice, unsure if he’d misheard her. But no, her expression remained expectant, her posture nonthreatening, her tone untouched by sarcasm or mockery, as if the question were genuin, as if he was the one who had the right to decide.

It didn’t make sense. He didn’t even know what was real anymore, but this? This was absurd. Dangerous.

Why would a nurse—clearly trained, clearly someone with rank and knowledge and power over his wellbeing—ask to do her own job?

Because she wasn’t really asking.

Of course.

Of course.

Jungkook’s breath stuck behind his ribs, trembling with the weight of realization. This was a test. A trick question laced in gentle words, just like the Doms, with their quiet voice, just like the house that pretended to be a home, just like the way they looked at him like he wasn’t being a messy pitiful thing most of the time.

This nurse was no different. She had to be working with them—with the Eros. She must have been informed about his attempted escape and his meltdown (or better yet, meltdowns). All of it. She probably had a file somewhere full of shameful details: how he lost control, how pathetic he looked curled up in a corner, how he’d screamed and scratched and trembled and cried.

They all knew. This wasn't care, nor concern. It was strategy. Cruelty masked as kindness hurt more than straight hurt. What punished more than a blow was being told you were safe while they guided your own hand to the blade.

It was all a trap, a way to see if he’d cooperate, if he’d submit willingly to whatever came next. So, in the end, it would be him that would punish himself.

And wasn’t that clever?

He knew better. Trusting even a fragment of this would be the end of him. He couldn’t fall for it, not again, not here, not when everything he’d endured had taught him that safety was always a lie and kindness, when not earned, was always a weapon.

Still, his body betrayed him. Because even if he didn’t want to give them what they wanted, he didn’t want to fight anymore either. So he looked at her one last time, memorizing the line of her jaw, the slight crease in her brow, the color of her lips. He stared long enough to see if her smile would crack, if the malice would bleed through.

It didn’t.

So he averted his eyes, and nodded. A small gesture of assent that might as well have been the heaviest surrender of all. Nurse Eunji gave a small nod in return, then stepped forward, her movements deliberate and slow, as if she knew she was approaching a skittish animal that might bolt if startled.

“I’m just going to check a few things, alright?” she said gently, her voice warm but never patronizing, “I’ll start with your temperature, then your blood pressure and heart rate. After that, I’ll take a quick look at your IV line.”

Jungkook didn’t reply. He didn’t move either, he simply watched her from under lowered lashes, muscles tensing reflexively each time she came close. Her presence didn’t feel threatening, but that meant nothing. He’d learned that danger didn’t always come with shouting or brute force.

She picked up a small device from the counter and reached slowly toward his ear, “temperature first,” she said, pausing just enough for him to brace himself before the cool plastic touched his skin. He flinched anyway, barely, but she pretended not to notice. The device beeped once. She read the number silently, then recorded it on her clipboard.

Next came the blood pressure cuff.

“May I have your arm?” she asked, her hand already halfway to his left wrist.

He offered it with stiff reluctance, and as the cuff tightened around his bicep, he tried not to wince at the pressure—or at the fact that her fingers had brushed his skin, however briefly. However, she didn’t linger. She adjusted the velcro, pressed a button, and waited as the machine hummed and clicked.

“Good,” she murmured once it deflated.

Then came the stethoscope. She pulled it from around her neck, warming it between her palms, “I’m going to listen to your heart now, just a few breaths. I’ll be quick.”

He tensed as she leaned in, head angled, the metal circle pressing softly against his chest just below the collar of the hospital gown. His breath caught, he couldn’t help it, but she said nothing, simply nodded again as if to herself, then stepped back.

Finally, she checked the IV line in the crook of his other arm. It was already in place when he woke, a thin tube secured with translucent tape. He hadn’t noticed it until now.

“No swelling,” she said, more to herself than him. “Fluids are running fine.”

Jungkook didn’t speak, just watched and waited. Waited for her to change, for her expression to shift, or for the real game to begin. But all she did was offer another small bow, no deeper than the last.

“All done,” she said, her voice still quiet, almost fond. “Doctor Kim will be here soon.”

She gave one last glance to the monitor beside his bed, wrote something else on the clipboard, and then turned toward the door. With a gentle click, she was gone. Jungkook’s eyes remained fixed on the closed door, the sounds of her footsteps receded, replaced by distant hums and the steady kept-beating of the monitor.

It was almost disappointing, how quickly the encounter had passed—with no punishment, no further questioning, nothing but the memory of a soft hand and that inconceivable, persistent gentleness. He released a shaky breath, tension ebbing from muscles he’d forgotten were coiled.

The weighted blanket had shifted with the nurse’s exam and now sat askew, one side bunching near his hip. He didn’t reach for it, instead, he let his hands rest on the rough hospital sheets, unsteady, and tried to focus on the sensation of fabric against his fingertips. It was easier than looking at the world directly.

Maybe they were testing him in a new way. Maybe kindness was just another tool, polished to reflect guilt back at him until it sank in, permanent and inescapable.

Or maybe they truly didn’t care, maybe he wasn’t even worth punishing. The thought sat heavy in his chest, dull and sharp all at once. He let it settle there, unmoving.

Time passed in soft fragments—drips from the IV, quiet clicks beyond the door, the occasional static hum from the monitor. And then, another knock, quiet like the last one. The door opened, and a man stepped in: tall, composed, somewhere in his forties. His lab coat sat open over soft, civilian layers, and a gentle smile curved his lips before he even fully entered the room.

“Good morning, Jungkook,” he said, warm and steady, “I am doctor Kim. I am glad to see you awake and nurse Eunji told me your vitals are mostly stable, which is a good sign.”

He stood a respectful distance away, hands gently clasped around the tablet he was holding.

His voice softened even further, “would it be alright if we talked for a bit?”

There it was again, that careful, tricky language. As if he had a choice. As if any of this wasn’t already decided for him.

Jungkook’s jaw twitched, his fingers curled slightly against the hospital sheet. He hated this question more than if they’d just barked commands: this fake softness, this illusion of choice, it was worse than control, because at least control was honest.

Still, he hesitantly nodded. An automatic response more than actual consent., because that’s what you did when the game was rigged and you still needed to survive. Consent wasn’t real here; it was performance, and he was so tired of performing.

Doctor Kim watched him for a beat longer than necessary, and something subtle shifted in his expression. He didn’t call him out on it, didn’t scold him, but his lips pressed together faintly, and he glanced down at the tablet in his hands, thumb brushing against the edge in silence.

He knew, and that, somehow, made it worse.

Doctor Kim lifted his head again, the movement smooth and deliberate. His expression remained composed, his eyes clear and unwavering as they met Jungkook’s.

“I’d like to talk to you about what we found, medically,” he said gently, “Just so you understand what your body has been through.”

He took a small step closer, still careful not to encroach too far. He glanced down at his tablet briefly, then back up.

“You have a series of shallow scratches across your arms, nothing that will scar,” he reassured, “we’ve cleaned and dressed them, so that’s why your forearms are bandaged. There’s deeper bruising around your elbows and legs, most likely from impact or strain. We’re keeping an eye on them, but no fractures showed up on imaging.”

Jungkook didn’t react outwardly, though he could feel the dull ache in his limbs pulse in time with the words. None of it surprised him. It was just… confirming what he already knew, what he could feel.

Doctor Kim’s tone didn’t change, but it softened a shade further, as if he were approaching a more delicate topic, “there’s also evidence of what we call an adrenal spike, an extreme hormonal surge triggered by panic, pain, or prolonged stress.” He paused. “In high-level Subs, this kind of overload can be very dangerous. When the body senses threat, it floods the system with hormones to prepare for survival, but in someone like you, Jungkook… that cascade is amplified.”

He gave him a moment, then continued, still plain-spoken but without being clinical, “tt means your heart rate spiked too high, your muscles locked up, and your nervous system went into a kind of sustained red alert. Think of it like a car engine pushed to the limit for too long. Eventually, it overheats. It starts shutting down parts that aren’t necessary to keep the core alive.”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched against the sheet.

“And that’s what we saw with your body temperature. You dropped into a near-hypothermic state, dangerously low. That’s why we’ve kept the weighted blanket on you, and why you may still feel cold or slow.”

Doctor Kim didn’t raise his voice, nor did he dramatize or diminish. He was just… explaining. Like he trusted Jungkook to hear him and to understand.

“We’re monitoring everything now, and the levels are starting to stabilize,” he added. “But it’s important you know what your body went through, even if your mind is still catching up.”

He paused there, not expecting a reply. Just letting the facts settle, like dust gently resettling after a storm. Jungkook didn’t respond. His eyes drifted away from the doctor’s, sliding down to his own hands where they trembled faintly atop the rumpled sheet. The blue hadn't faded from his fingertips, not entirely, and for a second he stared, transfixed. He hadn’t even realized.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with all this information. What was he meant to take from it, that his body had failed him? Or that it had tried too hard to survive something he hadn’t even consciously chosen to escape? Why did he need to know these things?

Was this part of the punishment?

Was he being made to account for the costs?

Doctor Kim tapped twice against the surface of his tablet. Not impatiently, just a shift in rhythm. Then, without prompting, his voice returned, steady and close even though Jungkook no longer looked at him.

“…Jungkook,” he said, calm but clear, “Are you in danger right now? Is your placement Eros hurting you?”

The world dropped away for a moment. Jungkook’s breath caught, eyes fixed now on the sheets, on the blue of his knuckles. He didn’t lift his gaze. His body tensed beneath the blanket, spine locked in a silent recoil.

This was another trap; if he said yes, they'd punish him for lying, or for betrayal, or for knowing things he wasn’t supposed to name. If he said no, they’d know he was lying, and maybe the punishment would be worse for pretending.

There was no correct answer—just different ways to be caught.

Still, after a long beat, his head moved, a small, slow shake. Not because it was true, but because it was safer.

Doctor Kim didn’t comment on it, he didn’t question the delay or the hesitation. Instead, he shifted the question.

“…Alright,” he murmured. Then raised a hand and tapped two fingers lightly against his own temple.

“And what about in here?”

His tone was softer now, lower, but no less direct.

“Maybe your thoughts have been a bit too loud lately?”

The question startled Jungkook more than the first. He flinched, just slightly, as if the words had touched a bruise he didn’t know he was hiding. Maybe his body was so used to pain as a marker of care that he expected every question to carry a barb. He blinked a few times, then squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the ghost of a headache rise and fade at his temples. There was no right answer, but there also wasn’t a reason to lie, not about this, not here. He didn’t owe this doctor anything, didn’t have to please him or fail him or anticipate the shape of his next word, but still, the instinct to soothe, to agree, to minimize, twitched inside him.

He stayed silent for a long time.

Finally, he nodded. Small, quick, sharp, as if punctuating the air with a pinprick. Doctor Kim’s lips pressed together, then relaxed. He watched him in silence, his gaze present. After a moment, he let out a quiet breath, then spoke again, voice still calm.

“Doctor Jung briefed me,” he said, tone gentle but neutral. “He said it’s been a rough week for you since arriving at the Kim Eros’ house.”

Not accusatory, not even curious. Just acknowledging, like someone offering a flashlight rather than shining it directly in your eyes, “that is the reason I am asking you these questions, to understand how to help you feel better and make your thoughts feel less heavy,” the doctor moved closer to the window, opening the blinds a bit more, letting the mid-morning light warm the room further.

“Maybe you have felt like you weren’t in control of your actions or emotions? You felt unsafe because everything was so different from where you had to live for a long time?”

They were posed as questions, but Jungkook understood immediately that doctor Kim knew what he was talking about, and the sub couldn’t disagree with what he was saying. Because that is exactly how he felt, unsafe and in danger, ready for the other shoe to drop, for them to finally, finally show mercy by behaving like any other dom or switch had behaved towards subs before.

The doctor watched Jungkook for a few beats, looking at the way he was staring at his trembling fingers, tremors that engulfed his whole upper body.

“I don’t mean to overstep, Jungkook, but I believe you deserve to rest, because you’ve been tired for a very long time. I think it is time to allow yourself to be cared for in a way that doesn’t require you to be on guard every second. Can we try that together?”

He didn’t smile as he said it, didn’t add false sweetness, the words had their own quiet warmth.

“Your body is trying to protect you the only way it knows how. We’re just trying to help it remember what safe feels like.”

The room felt oddly bright then, all that yellow paint and the sunlight on the trees beyond the window. Jungkook couldn’t remember ever being told to rest without a threat lurking under the offer, no implied countdown to when rest would be stripped away. He kept staring at his hands and tried to imagine what it would be like to believe him, to think that he might mean it.

His heart fluttered behind his ribs, confused and restless, half-wanting to believe and half-scared to want anything at all. His mouth had gone dry again, and he didn’t know how to shape the words anyway. What could he possibly say? That none of this felt real, that even the hope hurt more than the pain itself?

Doctor Kim’s gaze remained steady on him, like the light now streaming gently across the bed.

“Your life has been narrated by others for a very long time,” he said softly. “Their words have been loud, absolute, as if there was no room for your own. But I believe your voice might be just as strong as theirs.”

The words settled over Jungkook like featherly light, barely there, but somehow still too much. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, blinking fast.

“I wanted you to know,” Doctor Kim continued, “that Doctor Jung and I have been in close contact with the Eros about everything. We’ve spoken at length, and not just once. Everyone involved has been putting your needs at the forefront, what you need, what might hurt, what has already hurt. Not to explain you away, but to understand how to show up for you the right way.”

He shifted the clipboard in his hands, but his tone didn’t waver, “we’re very carefully building a care plan, with the intention that it will fit you, not just treat symptoms. Every choice is being checked and rechecked, and it’s not something we’re doing to you, Jungkook. It’s something we’re building for you and your needs.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes kind but still serious.

“You will of course have access to it and we will respect your boundaries if anything seems too extreme. But I want you to remember that, at times, you will be uncomfortable and it will feel like this care plan is just another way to punish you. I want to reassure you it is not.”

Jungkook finally lifted his gaze, peering into the doctor’s eyes, to see his expression and if he could detect a lie. Instead, what met him was a resolute and honest look, made to be believed and listened to. He still did not know what designation doctor Kim was; he might have been a dom, with his confidence and self-assured words, but it was not despotical. He also had a less strict way of saying and showing things, like a switch might behave. This lack of knowledge confused Jungkook further, making him even more nervous.

However, his dilemmas were quickly solved.

Almost conspirationally, with a tiny smile on his face, doctor Kim said, “you know, as a sub with higher needs myself, sometimes my Eros and their ways of caring for me can feel overbearing. Sometimes I just want to… to do things my own way and scrap the instructions altogether, but apparently, being a doctor doesn’t mean you’re immune to subdrop into a weeklong nap just because you tried to white-knuckle your way through things.” The grin flashed, then softened. “So when I say I get it, even a little, I mean it. You’re allowed to not want help. That doesn’t mean you don’t need it. And it absolutely doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to change your mind about it later.”

Jungkook absorbed that in silence, stunned.

A sub?

Junkook’s mouth opened to his own accord, making it clear he was shocked by the new information. He knew subs could have jobs and could pursue higher education. But still, he was made to believe that they could only work entry-level positions, that they were not allowed to progress in their careers because they were the ones that needed to be cared for and be provided for by their doms and switches, certaintly not the other way around. That would only undermine the other designations’ positions and values, creating unnecessary inconsistencies. Not only that, but submissives were too fragile to work higher ranking jobs.

Subs can’t be doctors. Subs can’t be nurses—they’re too sensitive. Subs can’t even be managers at the grocery, unless there’s a Dom supervisor to keep them in check.

Doms make rules, switches bend them, Subs execute. That was the order of things. And yet, here was a submissive, competent enough to sit at his bedside and call up words that cut through every lie. Jungkook didn’t know whether to feel cheated or shattered or hopeful at the idea. He considered, for a dizzy second, the possibility that the world had never been the one he learned to survive in.

A few beats passed in which they both remained silent, but this time the doctor’s words didn’t slide unheeded over the surface of him. Something in them stuck, the possibility of a life where he could refuse, then accept, then refuse again, and still be ultimately seen. It pressed against the inside of his chest, so foreign it almost hurt.

Doctor Kim waited a few beats, then gestured to the weighted blanket and the soft mat space in the corner.

“If you need to move, to fold yourself inside a softer space, you’re not bed bound. The mats are there for comfort, and the blankets are specifically made for dropped subs, who need softer yet heavier materials,” he turned to the window, then back to Jungkook, “and when you’re ready, your Eros would like to see you. They’re waiting, but I made it very clear that your consent is required. You are in the sub unit as of right now, which means no other designation can enter without specific permission and even then, they are only allowed in a specific visiting room.”

Something in Jungkook’s chest stuttered. Not quite a spasm, but not stillness either. The mention of the Eros waiting nearby made the air around him thin, brittle. His breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t gasp. Instead, he froze, as if movement might trigger something catastrophic.

The idea of seeing them—of being seen by them—terrified him, because he didn’t know what they would do, and that was worse. The unknown had teeth, where punishments lived. And maybe, if he saw their faces now, he’d finally understand what shape his punishment would take. Maybe he could stop bracing and just receive it. At least then he’d know. At least then the waiting would be over.

His throat ached. Something inside him whispered, better to take it now than let it fester. He was tired of holding his breath.

So he nodded. A tear slid down his cheek.

He hadn’t meant to cry, not again, not now, not in front of him. The betrayal of it made him go cold all over. He cursed himself silently, cursed the way his body kept announcing his weakness even after everything. And even if Doctor Kim seemed kind, he was still aligned with the Eros, still building a care plan and gathering information—tracking fragility like symptoms on a chart. Maybe this tear would be recorded and used to shape his punishment around it, not just because he cried, but because he had let himself be seen doing it.

He didn’t wipe the tear away, not wanting to even acknowledge it. Better to pretend it wasn’t there at all, hoping that by staying perfectly still, he could keep it from mattering.

Doctor Kim didn’t look away. He didn’t speak, either. For a long moment, he just watched Jungkook, not with pity, but with something steadier, deeper, as if he could see the crack running through him but didn’t fear touching it. He started fiddling with one of the curtains, looking down at it for a moment, before picking his head up once again.

“I’ve talked extensively with Doctor Jung,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less steady. “We’re trained to be particularly cautious in situations like this, especially with high-level submissives who arrive in critical condition.”

He didn’t say it to frighten Jungkook, he said it like a fact, like something built into the walls of the hospital.

“When there’s even the possibility of mistreatment, we are obligated to act. Not based on rumors nor feelings, but on evidence. Submissives, especially ones in as such critical conditions as you, are extremely vulnerable during medical emergencies. If a doctor ignores the signs—if we fail to intervene, and a sub is sent back into harm’s way, yes we can lose our license, and we will know we have failed as doctors, but as people as well.”

Jungkook didn’t move, his fingers remaining tight around the edge of the blanket.

The doctor didn’t expect a reaction, he simply continued, “I asked you if you were in danger,” he said, “because it is a necessary question we need to ask. It’s a legal and ethical mandate when a sub is brought in unconscious, with injuries that could stem from emotional or physical distress, especially if the cause is unclear.”

He held Jungkook’s gaze, not pushing, but not shying away either.

“You told me you aren’t being hurt,” he said, “and I believe you. But, I can’t help but feel like you’re still extremely afraid of them.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with something unsaid. Jungkook stared at him. The doctor’s words didn’t accuse, but they sat in the room like a hand held open, offering the chance for it.

Jungkook’s tongue felt dry and heavy, like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to say something, somehow clarify, defend them? Or excuse himself? Or just explain. But no words made it past the tight seam of his lips.

He shook his head again, rough and small. His eyes stung.

A long moment passed, and the only thing between them was the humming of the fluorescent lights, the steady whir of airflow, and the soft mechanical sigh of the heart monitor.

“I want you to know,” doctor Kim said gently, “that if you ever feel unsafe… you always have options. Even if you never speak it out loud.”

He let the words settle before going on.

“You don’t have to tell me, you don’t have to tell Doctor Jung, it doesn’t even have to be a nurse. If you ever feel that something’s wrong, if you’re too afraid to say it in a room like this, you can speak to anyone. Even someone from the cleaning staff, or cafeteria. Anyone with a badge will know what to do. They’ll make sure it reaches the right ears, and quietly. You don’t have to carry the fear alone, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. He didn’t nod. He didn’t blink. But something inside him eased—barely, like a knot loosening by a thread.

Doctor Kim gave him a moment, then looked down at the tablet, back up again. His voice stayed quiet.

“So… should I tell them you want to meet them?”

The pause that followed was not full of dread this time. Jungkook met his eyes. He nodded once, this time slower, more certain. Whether it was because of the doctor’s words or something deeper, he couldn’t have said, but his decision held.

Doctor Kim simply dipped his head in return.

“All right,” he said.

And he stepped back toward the door, “I will come to check on you in a couple of hours, and I will arrange for you to meet a couple members of the Eros, see how that goes.”

He quetly opened the door, looking back one more time with a warm smile on his face, “close your eyes for a bit, your body really needs it, and I am sure I exhausted you with all my questions. See you later Jungkook.”

And with that he was out of the door, which he closed behind himself with a soft click.

Jungkook indeed felt bone tired. He shuffled on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position, before closing his eyes, praying that sleep could come easily.

He didn’t know if he was making the right decision, he didn’t know whether to trust anything of that the doctor had said and he had no clue as to why he agreed to meet the Eros. Because he was terrified, that was true. However, as doctor Kim said, his thoughts were extremely heavy, they have been for a very long time, and thinking right now felt like such a unbearable chore, just for this one time he decided to ignore them and seek a moment of respite.

Perhaps, the yellow walls will not feel like a mockery once he wakes up from his nap.

 

 

###

 

 

The visitor room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the ventilation and the occasional creak of the chairs as one of them shifted. It was softly lit, all warm, indirect light, like the sun filtered through linen. The walls were a pale, restful cream, and a faint lavender scent hung in the air, grounding and delicate. A soft mat lay in the corner, untouched. Everything about the room was designed to soothe, not stimulate.

Namjoon and Taehyung sat near the wide window, though neither of them was looking outside. Taehyung’s hand gripped Namjoon’s tightly, squeezing his fingers intermittently.

“I hope he’s staying in a comfortable room,” Taehyung murmured. His leg bounced under the low chair, jostling slightly with each movement. “And it wasn’t too much of a hassle… having to move all the way here.”

Namjoon turned slightly, curling his hand around Taehyung’s and running his thumb across the lines of his palm in slow, steady strokes. His voice was gentle when he replied, “I’m sure he’s well taken care of, my love. The doctors and the staff here know what they’re doing.”

Taehyung nodded, but didn’t speak again. His mouth was pressed into a tight line, his jaw shifting like he was holding back words.

Before he could find a reply, though, a soft sound interrupted them, squeaky wheels echoing faintly from the hallway beyond the closed door.

They didn’t get up, but they both fell still. The air changed, expectant, weighted.

Then the door opened. Jungkook entered, seated in a wheelchair, pushed by a nurse who smiled at them kindly. He looked smaller than Namjoon remembered—not in size, but in presence. He was wrapped in hospital-issued soft gray clothes, sleeves bunched near the bandages that covered his forearms. A warm blanket was tucked around his legs. He didn’t look at them.

The nurse positioned the wheelchair near where Namjoon and Taehyung were sitting, leaving a low table between them. She checked the brakes and gave Jungkook a kind smile.

“I’ll come and collect Jungkook in twenty minutes,” she said aloud.

Then, lower, softer, just for him, she leaned in slightly and added, “You know where the button is if you need a break a little sooner.”

Jungkook nodded, his hand paused for half a second at the edge of the blanket. She gave one more glance to Namjoon and Taehyung, polite, but unreadable, and then turned and left, closing the door behind her with the same hush with which she had arrived.

Silence bloomed, thick and trembling. No one spoke. Neither Taehyung nor Namjoon could find the shape of a word, and Jungkook didn’t look at them. His hands were hidden under the blanket, but the movement betrayed him; he was fidgeting with the threads in the fabric, thumb rubbing over a fraying seam near the hem. His gaze was fixed downward, locked in on the tiny design sewn into the material. He looked like he was bracing for something, though it wasn’t clear whether it was words or silence that he feared more.

Taehyung finally inhaled, audibly. It broke the spell just enough for him to speak, though his voice came out tight, slightly too high and slightly too careful.

“H-hi, Jungkook-ah,” he said. “We’re really glad to see you.”

The attempt at warmth made the words wobble, stretched between too many conflicting emotions—relief, fear, guilt, affection, all jostling for space in a single line.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked up, and then dropped back down again as if the contact had been too much.

Taehyung’s fingers twitched in Namjoon’s lap, and Namjoon reached up to curl his palm over them again, anchoring him with steady warmth.

Namjoon’s voice entered the space like a low current, carefully placed after Taehyung’s wavering words. It held no tremble, no hesitation, only warmth steady enough to lean against.

“Doctor Kim said you were really brave,” he said, his gaze resting softly on Jungkook. “That you let the nurses visit you. We’re proud of you.”

The words didn’t hang in the air so much as settle into it, like something gently laid down in offering.

Jungkook twitched. His shoulders tensed, and then his whole body gave a small, involuntary shiver. He tried to hide it, curling his fingers tighter beneath the blanket and ducking his head a little lower, but the motion had already given him away.

Namjoon’s lips tilted into a quiet smile, a private kind of joy flickering through his chest. It was nothing dramatic, but it was there. That shiver had meant something. They’d spoken at length about it, he, the others, the doctors. Praise was a foundational element in the proposed care plan, gentle affirmation, consistent and sincere. It wasn’t a reward or a lure; it was a tool of safety, of softening the inner walls built from fear.

They had all agreed not to start everything at once, not to overwhelm Jungkook with structure or pressure, but there were small pieces they could begin to implement immediately, just to feel the edges, to see what made him flinch and what helped him heal.

Namjoon didn’t speak again, he just kept his gaze where it was, steady and kind.

Beside him, Taehyung’s fingers clenched suddenly, tighter than before. Namjoon looked down and saw the flicker of understanding in his partner’s eyes, watery but sharp. Namjoon pressed his thumb into Taehyung’s palm in return, slow and rhythmic.

The switch looked like he was vibrating in place. His legs had stopped bouncing, but only because every muscle in his body now seemed involved in the effort of restraint. His lips parted once, then closed again. His hand tightened on Namjoon’s. Then finally—

“We’ve got something for you.”

The words burst out like a held breath. Taehyung blinked wide, hopeful eyes at Jungkook.

The sub’s gaze, which had dropped again after Namjoon’s praise, flicked back up. His shoulders tensed, not with fear this time, but something almost… cautious. Wary curiosity. He didn’t speak, but he did lean forward slightly, just a fraction, his chin ducked and his eyes peeking through his lashes, like he could somehow see better without fully showing his interest.

Namjoon chuckled, elbowing Taehyung lightly. “Don’t keep him waiting, puppy. I’d be super curious too.”

Taehyung jolted, then scrambled with a flustered little sound, one hand diving into his trouser pocket. He fished out something small, carefully cradled in his palm. His voice softened with the offering.

“Mmh, I—I mean we hope you like it. Hoseok-hyung taught us how to weave, so he did the beginning and then we all contributed.”

He opened his hand, revealing a bracelet.

It was bright and colorful, a little explosion of mismatched hues that somehow still looked harmonious. The threads wound in tightly woven knots, every pattern a little different from the last. At the beginning and end of the loop, two beads had been worked in, one a soft, sky blue and the other a warm, earthy brown. The knots were neat, the weaving secure, a sign of deliberate care. 

“It’s… it’s an anklet,” Taehyung explained, his voice a little rushed, like he was afraid of ruining the moment by saying too much. “We thought we’d do something different for your next one. So you can have one on each arm, and one on your ankle too. If you’d like.”

He took a breath, then added, “and—and you could match with me and Jimin-ah! We have anklets as well. So we’d all look super cool together.”

The words rang out with the softest thread of longing beneath the lightness. Not a demand nor a plea. Just… a hope.

Jungkook stared at the anklet, his fingers, still clutching the blanket, moved slightly, as if unconsciously reacting to the sight of it. His eyes didn’t lift, but they didn’t turn away either.

Taehyung didn’t move to hand it to him yet, just held it between them, in case Jungkook wanted to reach. He had been clutching the anklet like it was a piece of his own heart, vibrating with the need to give it, to offer something of comfort and closeness. But when Jungkook slowly, quietly opened his palm, small fingers unfurling like a flower blooming in dayligght, he froze for half a second, wide eyes darting to Namjoon, then back to the sub.

With deliberate care, Taehyung leaned forward and deposited the bracelet into Jungkook’s hand, without letting their skin touch, but his breath caught as he let go, as if offering that small woven object meant offering a part of himself.

Jungkook immediately drew the anklet toward his chest, cradling it in both palms, inspecting the mismatched colors with all the focus of someone handling something precious. His fingers skimmed the ridges of the knots, the texture of the thread, the tiny imperfections that made it unique.

Then he brushed over the two beads.

Namjoon, watching the subtle shiver of emotion build across Jungkook’s frame, spoke gently, “We didn’t know whether you liked the sea or the mountains more, so we went with both.”

Jungkook’s shoulders shook ever so slightly. Upon closer inspection, they could see tears welling up in his eyes, clinging to his lashes like dew. He didn’t blink them away or wipe them, just let them gather, soft and glistening, as he continued to hold the bracelet close.

Taehyung’s throat worked around a lump, and Namjoon shifted only enough to squeeze his hand yet again.

Then Jungkook moved. His expression was uncertain, caught somewhere between shy and deliberate. He looked down at the beads again, then up at them. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised one hand and extended a finger toward the blue bead. He tapped it once, then looked up at them through wet lashes.

Taehyung let out a small, broken sound—half-laugh, half-sob—and Namjoon smiled, warm and full of quiet pride.

“The sea?” Namjoon asked gently, voice steady but reverent.

Jungkook gave the smallest nod.

Taehyung let out a giggle, trying to clap his free hand with the one that still clutched Namjoon’s one, “oh that is wonderful! You know, we have a house by the sea, right along the beach line. We could go some-”

“Okay darling, let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, yeah?” said Namjoon, a fond expression on his face as he moved a strand of Taehyung’s hair away from his face.

Taehyung nodded and blushed, chastened, but his eyes were luminous, and he leaned closer over the table, the urge to bridge the space between him and the sub visible in every line of his body. He caught himself just in time, pulled back, and instead busied his hands by fidgeting with his own beaded bracelet.

Jungkook was still staring at the anklet, the pads of his thumbs worrying the knots. His breathing, though shallow, had steadied, it no longer hitched or stuttered, but came and went in gentle ebbs, like the tide he’d quietly chosen for himself. He rested the anklet on the blanket in his lap, lining it up with the edge, and let his gaze linger on it for a long moment.

Namjoon watched as Jungkook carefully aligned the anklet along the blanket’s edge, his skinny fingers smoothing it flat, like he was anchoring himself with its presence. His posture had eased, if only slightly, and Namjoon recognized it for the quiet triumph it was.

“We’re really delighted to see you, Jungkook,” he said softly, speaking with that steady, grounded tone of his, “we’ll make sure to tell the others that you liked the gift. That you chose the sea.”

He paused, giving space for the sub’s reaction, but Jungkook didn’t move, simply kept his gaze on the anklet.

Namjoon smiled gently.

He couldn’t wait to tell Jungkook about how they can see dolphins from their beach house.

 

 

###

 

 

The air in Doctor Kim’s office was noticeably more grounded than the warm buzz that had filled the halls earlier, when Namjoon and Taehyung returned from their visit and shared, with glowing faces and hands full of energy, how Jungkook had accepted the bracelet and engaged with them.

Now, all six members of the Eros sat clustered around the oval table and doctor Jung sat at one end of the table, a tablet in his hands, while doctor Kim reviewed something silently on his clipboard.

“Let’s begin with a summary of the last thirty-six hours,” started doctor Jung.

His voice was calm, measured, but heavy with clinical weight.

“Jungkook’s episode was triggered by a cluster of environmental and psychological stressors. The primary catalyst appears to have been prolonged sensory overstimulation followed by ambiguous dom behavior, which caused internalized guilt and confusion. This was followed by a visible escalation: dissociation, severe non-verbal distress, muscle tension, and breath irregularities. As you all witnessed, this led to a full somatic shutdown and autonomic dysregulation. His vitals dropped sharply, and his body entered a crisis state that required pharmacological sedation.”

He paused, eyes flicking across the table before continuing.

“But we must also consider the events of the past week in their totality. His body didn’t arrive at yesterday’s state from nowhere. The signs were there.”

He tapped his screen once, then spoke more slowly.

“Increased paranoia, general emotional distress, heightened sensitivity to social dynamics, skittish behavior even in safe environments, panic responses to certain tones of voice, avoidance of food, of comfort, of contact. His dysregulation wasn’t sudden, but it’s been building, quietly, over the course of days.”

His tone softened, slightly, “but we need to remember that this is not a regression.”

He looked up at them now, gaze direct, voice quieter.

“This is what trauma recovery looks like. Peaks and valleys. Sometimes a drop so steep it knocks the wind out of all of us. But he is not worse, his system is trying to reorganize itself, and sometimes that process looks like collapse. What matters now is what we do next.”

Doctor Kim shifted forward slightly in his seat, tapping his stylus once against his clipboard before speaking.

“Building on Doctor Jung’s overview, I’d like to share some updated medical data from the last twenty-four hours.”

He flicked through a few pages, angling the clipboard just enough for those closest—Seokjin and Yoongi—to catch a glimpse of the graphs and numbers, “Jungkook’s vitals have stabilized. His oxygen saturation and pulse are back within baseline, though still fragile. He remains mildly dehydrated, we’re managing it with fluids, but he responded well to the sedative protocol. His system was overwhelmed but receptive to intervention, which is promising.”

He let that sink in a moment before continuing, his tone steady.

“From a psychiatric standpoint, we’ve begun compiling more long-term assessments. The patterns are becoming clearer.”

He met each of their gazes briefly, making sure they were following.

“His hypervigilance remains high, nearly constant. He’s scanning, anticipating, bracing, even when he appears calm. This isn’t resistance, it’s exhaustion from persistent fear.”

He tapped to another note and kept going.

“We’re also seeing signs of internalized distress specific to his relationship with doms. There’s a noticeable pattern of shame responses—he interprets neutral or ambiguous dom behavior as proof he’s done something wrong. There’s guilt where there should be reassurance: silence feels like disapproval. Softness feels like a trap.”

Yoongi inhaled sharply at that, then dropped his gaze. Doctor Kim noticed, but didn’t linger.

“Additionally,” he went on, “we’ve identified possible patterns of learned helplessness. When overstimulated or confused, he sometimes defaults to passivity. Not because he doesn’t care—but because he has no internal script for safe correction. He gives up control because no one ever showed him what it means to give it, instead of having it taken.”

He let the last sentence sit in the room for a beat longer before softening his voice.

“This is not unwillingness. Jungkook wants to belong, he wants to do well and connection. But he is profoundly dysregulated. At times, he doesn’t have the words, or even the internal clarity, to articulate his needs.”

He paused again, folding his hands gently on the table.

“We’re seeing a concerning pattern in how Jungkook tries to manage his presence in the house. He’s hyper-aware of his impact, of being a burden. Cleaning beyond what’s necessary, fixating on tasks, refusing rest unless explicitly told it’s allowed. This isn’t about chores—it’s about survival logic. Somewhere along the way, Jungkook internalized the belief that usefulness is the only thing that keeps him safe.”

He looked at all of them now, steady and serious.

“That’s why your communication, your follow-through, your tone need to be deliberate. He won’t always ask if he’s safe. He’ll assume he isn’t, unless you tell him otherwise. That’s why our job is to make sure of that.”

Seokjin gave a small, firm nod, his brows drawn together in quiet concentration. He had already opened a slim notebook on his lap, his pen poised and ready. It was clear from the careful way he wrote that he had no intention of letting anything slip past him.

Doctor Kim met the eyes of each Eros member in turn, steady, and unwavering.

“I know this is a lot,” he said, voice level, “and I want to make one thing clear before we move forward: this is not a conversation about blame, it's about commitment. Jungkook has made it clear in the smallest, most fragile of ways that he’s still reaching for something. For you. And that means we have to meet him there, with clarity, and with consistency.”

He set the clipboard down and leaned forward slightly, folding his hands.

“I’m not asking for perfection, but I am asking for precision. No more vague softness, no more guessing whether he’s ready or not. You’re his anchors, he needs you to act like it, even when he can’t say so out loud.”

The silence that followed was full of agreement.

Doctor Jung picked up the thread seamlessly. “To support that, here is the restructured care plan we have been drafting together. It’s built around predictability and safety. Small inputs, consistent rhythms.”

He swiped to a new tab, glancing toward Seokjin’s notebook as if silently encouraging him to take this down.

“First, daily routine. There will be gentle structure throughout his day. Low-pressure check-ins with one of you, spread out in intervals, scheduled activities with times to relax as well, so as not to overwhelm him. No surprises unless medically necessary.”

Namjoon nodded, and Hoseok reached subtly to squeeze his knee under the table.

“Second, intentional positive reinforcement. Jungkook is really sensitive to praise, he doesn’t expect it, which means he feels it deeply when it’s genuine. Be mindful of that. Affirm effort, not just outcome. Third, anchor points. Specific doms, specific moments of care, repeated consistently. These are nervous system stabilizers. For example: Hoseok, your breathing routines. Yoongi, quiet time with your music. Namjoon, your voice when you read aloud. Seokjin, your meals, especially when he’s present during the preparation.”

He looked toward Taehyung and Jimin next, a small smile at the edge of his expression.

“As for you two, being your playful selves will be essential. He needs lightness as well, and to understand that having fun is necessary and welcomed. What matters is that each offering feels natural to you.”

He looked between them all, “and last, reintroduction of physical rituals of care. Nothing sudden, we’ll start with brushing his hair, assisting with dressing if he permits it, and incorporating weighted touch, like hands over his shoulders or lap blankets, only if he tolerates it. You’ll follow his cues, not his silences. I am the most reluctant about this one, as we usually wait for the submissive to reintroduce touch in any kind of relationship. However, upon further review, touch could be the most effective way to bring him out of subdrop.”

He didn’t add anything else, knowing that they were aware of the risk they were running by implementing such thing. They did not want to force anything onto the sub, but it could really aid in the healing process, slowly introducing gentle touches that will allow for trust to be built between them and Jungkook.

“This plan is flexible, but not optional. We’ll review and adjust together as we go.”

Doctor Kim leaned back slightly, “what matters now is consistency, and that you remember, he is not broken, he’s injured, and he is healing. Every one of you has a role in that.”

There was quiet around the table as the words settled. No one leapt to answer, not right away. Seokjin could feel the motors turning in each of their minds: Yoongi’s measured, meticulous processing; Namjoon’s reflexive empathy, tinged with the urge to fix, to act, to move; the subtle, uncontainable energy in Taehyung and Jimin, so prone to vibration, so desperate to do right by their friend. Hoseok, meanwhile, absorbed everything with open eyes, unflinching even in discomfort.

What surprised Seokjin most, in that moment, was the absence of shame. In another place, on another day, he’d have expected to be called out for failing a charge, to be found wanting as a dom, to be told he’d mishandled a situation and placed someone at risk. Instead, the care team had met their fumbling with patience and generosity, as though error was not only inevitable but as though error was not only inevitable but expected. And more importantly, repairable.

Seokjin took a breath, then another, and when he spoke, his voice was calm, low, and certain.

“We want to do right by him,” he said. “That’s not a question, but wanting isn’t enough. I think we’ve all been waiting—hoping—he’d show us what he needs, instead of realizing he might not know how. Or might be too scared to try.”

He glanced around the circle—at Yoongi’s stillness, Hoseok’s unwavering gaze, Namjoon’s tensed hands resting atop his knees. Then at Taehyung and Jimin, seated side by side, their postures slanted toward each other like the inside of a fold.

“So we’ll do better,” Seokjin said. “We’ll follow the plan, every piece of it, we’ll build in clarity. If something’s a choice, we’ll say it, and if something isn’t, we’ll say that too. No more room for guessing.”

Jimin straightened in his seat, nodding once. His lips pressed into a line before he added, “We’ll show him he’s not a burden, that it’s his right to take up space and that… that life is good, and that he’s good too!”

Taehyung nodded vigorously at Jimin’s side, but didn’t speak, his eyes were glassy with emotion.

Doctor Kim let out a small fond laugh, “that’s what we like to hear.”

His gaze swept across the circle of doms and switches, taking in their tired eyes, their straightened backs.

“I believe Jungkook will benefit more from being at home than staying here,” he said, voice steady but warm, “he’s stable. His vitals have been consistent for the last eighteen hours, and we’re on track to remove the IV by this evening.”

The room stilled again, but this time it was a different kind of quiet, one laced with readiness, like the air before movement.

“We’ll send you home with a clear care protocol as well as a dietary plan,” Doctor Kim added gently. “And we’ll be checking in closely, especially over the first seventy-two hours.”

Namjoon and Yoongi nodded at the same time, small, firm movements, mirrored without hesitation.

Seokjin nodded, “we’re ready to take our boy home.”

 

 

###

 

 

It was late evening, and the sky outside had already begun to darken, casting a soft indigo hue across the quiet hospital corridors. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their glow reflected in long, sterile stretches of polished floor. The Eros waited in the front wing, gathered in a cluster near the entrance, calm and

alert. Doctor Jung had left not long ago, offering his final words of encouragement and assuring them of his continued support, should they need him.

At the reception desk, Seokjin was signing the final discharge papers. A nurse handed him a thick folder, Jungkook’s discharge packet. It included updated medical summaries, a printed copy of the care plan, emergency contacts, and detailed post-discharge instructions. On top of the folder, nestled in a clear zippered pouch, was a small, labeled pillbox with the evening’s sedative dose—meant only for emergencies, and only if absolutely necessary.

Jungkook was wheeled in slowly by a nurse, Doctor Kim walking alongside with a quiet, steady presence.

The Eros collectively held their breath. For most of them, this was the first time seeing him since that terrible moment, his body collapsed on the backyard floor, unresponsive as the ambulance lights painted the house in flashes of red and white. Only Namjoon and Taehyung had seen him since, and even they tensed instinctively at the sight.

He looked small, dressed in loose, warm hospital clothes and bundled in another soft blanket, Jungkook seemed even more fragile than before, his slight frame swallowed by fabric and fleece. Yoongi’s eyes flicked over him, automatically scanning for signs: tension in the jaw, tremors in the hands, the set of his shoulders. But he only looked tired.

They came to a gentle stop in front of the group.

“Hello, Jungkook-ah,” Seokjin greeted, his voice warm, a smile lifting his features. “The car’s waiting out front. Let’s get you home.”

Jungkook’s eyes rose to meet his, hesitant, searching. He didn’t look terrified, not like he had when they’d first brought him home at the beginnig of the week, all flinches and silent dread. The fear was still there, swimming quiet in his gaze, but... there was something else now. Something softer, unformed.

“Fantastic,” said Doctor Kim, “Jungkook is all ready to go. I hope your drive home is uneventful.” He turned to the rest of the Eros. “You have everything you need in the packet, but should you require additional support, my number is listed on the contact sheet. He’s already had a light dinner, and I’m sure he’s still quite tired, so I’d recommend an early night. It’ll do wonders.”

His eyes settled on Jungkook with professional fondness. The sub hadn’t spoken. His head was lowered again, hands in his lap. But now the Eros could see he was softly running his fingers along the anklet they had given him, brushing over the knots with delicate, repetitive motion.

Hoseok exhaled slowly, surprise flickering across his face. He knew, of course, that Namjoon and Taehyung had given Jungkook the anklet. Knew it had been made together, each of them tying a knot with careful intention, whispering silent promises into the weave. Still, he hadn’t expected Jungkook to keep it so close. Not after everything. The sight of his fingers tracing the familiar cord stirred something in him. Pride wasn’t quite the word, it felt too self-assured, too clean. But it was close. A tight, warm ache in his chest, a quiet swell of something gentle and terribly fond.

He still wasn’t sure he deserved it, not the trust, not the silent acceptance, not even the shared creation wapped around his fingers. But it was there, undeniable. And Hoseok couldn’t help but wiggle just slightly in place, a minute shift of his weight, as if his body had to express what his words couldn’t: he was glad.

He was grateful.

Doctor Kim gave Jungkook a small nod and stepped back. “Goodbye, Jungkook,” he said, his voice low and kind. “It was a pleasure meeting you. We will always be here, should you need it.”

Jungkook looked up at him then, just for a second, just long enough to catch the sincerity in the man’s eyes, to hold it, let it register. Then his gaze dropped again, back to the anklet in his lap, fingers resuming their slow, absent strokes along the braid.

The Eros offered quiet thanks to Doctor Kim and the nurses, who responded with warm smiles and well-wishes. Then, gently, Yoongi stepped behind the wheelchair and began to guide them toward the exit.

The hospital doors slid open with a soft hiss, the night air waited on the other side, cool, dark, and filled with the faint promise of home.

 

 

###

 

 

The front door clicked open with a low creak, letting in the stillness of the house beyond.

No one spoke as they stepped inside. The air felt cooler after the warmth of the hospital, shadows long against the floor. Shoes were slipped off, coats shrugged from shoulders. There was a heaviness in their movements, not dread, just the weariness of a long, long day slowly drawing to a close.

Namjoon moved first, slipping out of his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. “Alright, honey,” he said gently, turning toward Jungkook, “I’ll accompany you up to your bathroom so you can take a shower, and then it’s bedtime, yeah?”

His voice was soft and even. There’d been an agreement earlier—Namjoon would assist him tonight, just one dom as not to crowding him.

Jungkook looked up at him for a moment, gaze flickering to Namjoon’s face, and then he nodded, before looking back toward the corridor. His neck craned slightly, eyes narrowing as if trying to see around the corner, deeper into the house.

Hoseok noticed the gesture and let out a soft huff, amused. “What are you looking for, mh?” he asked, fond curiosity dancing in his voice.

But then came the sound—pit-pat, pit-pat, a rhythmic shuffle that was unmistakable.

A beat later, Hugo rounded the corner at full speed, paws skittering slightly on the wood as he zeroed in on them. His face lit up in the unmistakable way only dogs can manage, tail wagging in full, happy arcs as he made a beeline for the wheelchai

With a loud snuff, Hugo nuzzled into Jungkook’s lap, pushing his damp nose into the blanket before headbutting the hand that rested atop it, demanding what was rightfully his: attention, affection, pets.

Everyone paused, watching, waiting.

Jungkook’s hand moved almost instinctively, fingers threading through the familiar fur. He patted gently, then scratched behind Hugo’s ears as the dog leaned into the touch with a satisfied grunt.

That small, quiet smile. A stretch of soft lips, not wide, but real. The tiniest scrunch of his nose, a flicker of something easy and warm sparking behind his eyes.

The Eros didn’t say a word, but the breath they all exhaled, slow and relieved, spoke volumes.

“He’s happy to see you,” said Jimin softly, a content smile grazing his lips as he watched Hugo melt into Jungkook’s lap.

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

Later that evening, after the gentle bustle of showers and pajamas, the house had settled into a hush again. Namjoon was waiting by the bed as Jungkook emerged from the bathroom, hair damp, skin freshly washed, dressed in soft cotton sleepwear that looked just a little too big on him.

He didn’t say anything, but he moved towards the bed with purpose, slow but steady. Namjoon watched as Jungkook climbed up, and just like he suspected, the younger didn’t pull back the covers, choosing instead to lie carefully on top of them.

It was something they’d noticed since the first night, he knew. They had talked about addressing it, gently, but always backed off at the last minute.

But tonight was different.

“No, Jungkook,” Namjoon said, voice quiet but firm. “Let’s sleep under the covers. It’s much cozier, and you’ll be all nice and warm. I promise it’s alright.”

For a split second, he worried. Was it too much? Too direct? His heart kicked up in his chest as he braced himself for a flinch, for wide eyes or freezing stillness.

But instead, something else. Jungkook paused. Looked at him, then, slowly, he stepped off the bed, turned back, and carefully pulled the covers down. When he was done, he turned to Namjoon again, as if waiting for approval, checking to see if he had done it right.

Namjoon felt his surprise catch in his throat, but he didn’t let it show. He smiled instead, easy and encouraging.

“Exactly like that, Jungkook-ah. Good job.”

A tiny shudder ran through Jungkook’s shoulders, almost imperceptible, but there. He seemed pleased, like the praise had landed just where it needed to. He climbed back into bed, slipping beneath the covers this time, drawing them up to his chest.

“Look at that,” Namjoon murmured, crouching beside the bed, voice warm. “Nice and warm, yeah?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer, but against the pillow, Jungkook gave the smallest of nods, eyes already fluttering closed.

Namjoon’s chest swelled. He couldn’t wait to tell the others all about it, about all these amazing achievements.

“Good night, honey,” he whispered, “sleep tight.”

He stepped back, leaving the door ajar, a sliver of space in the quiet hallway. Just in case.

Namjoon lingered in the doorway for a moment, hand resting on the frame. Inside the room, the only sound was the soft rise and fall of Jungkook’s breath, already deepening into sleep. The blankets shifted faintly as he curled into himself, one hand still tucked close to his chest, like he was holding something invisible but precious.

He then began to pad quietly down the hallway, ready to tell the others, ready to hold onto this one good thing.

Hope tasted sweet on his tongue.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Notes:

Hello hello :)
I am back! Sorry for yet another delay D: my phone company decided to surprise me and cancel my plan! So I've not been having neither wifi nor data for a week. As a self-proclaimed iPad kid, it was and is very awful.
I am currently posting this with what I have left of my data, that's also why I haven't replied to comments yet ): I will do it as soon as I will have my internet back, super duper promise!

I struggled a little bit with this chapter for some reason, but I think I like the end result. It's a monster of a chapter, but it's filled with a lot of comfort and a bit of hurt (because I cannot not add angst every chance I get).

ALSO, I realise Jungkook's thoughts and way of thinking can be confusing at times, but I want it to be that way. Recovery is confusing and messy, and one's way of thinking can truly be black one moment and white the next. I hope it's okay if sometimes it doesn't really make sense.
But, as always, ask away if you have any questions, and I will reply ASAP (when and if internet is in my favour).
Moreover, the way I narrate and describe anything that concerns Jungkook's eating disorder is heavily inspired by my own struggle with it. Eating disorders can vary extremely from person to person, so please, don't take my word as THE truth, just mine and how I like to portray it.

TRIGGER WARNINGS
Mention of eating disorder and disordered eating
Mention of torture
Mention of panic attacks
Anxiety in general

Another thing, I noticed the animals in this story behave very bambi-like... don't question their behaviour too much, ihih <3

As always, I love you and I hope, hope, hope you enjoy this chapter :)
Kisses and double kisses!! xxxx

After waking up and quietly getting ready for the day, and before anyone had touched their breakfast, the Eros—all six of them—gathered around the large kitchen table with Jungkook seated among them. The morning light poured in through the tall windows, soft and gold against the warm tones of the room, but it did little to ease the tension in Jungkook’s shoulders. He looked nervous, almost wary, his gaze flickering from one person to the next without ever quite settling, fingers restlessly fidgeting with the slim anklet giften by them, (Namjoon had noticed the two other bracelets that had been gifted to him the night before, carefully placed side by side on his night table, as though Jungkook had been making sure they were still there, still safe, not missing).

Seokjin, seated at the head of the table, had spread out in front of him the printed documents and handwritten notes they had received from Doctor Kim and Doctor Jung at the hospital, pages that had been read and re-read the night before, discussed in low voices as the others gathered around him, making sure every word was understood. His expression now was warm, composed, but with a thread of quiet purpose woven through it as he looked to Jungkook.

“Good morning, Jungkook-ah. I hope you slept well,” he said, his voice gentle, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes.

The others echoed the sentiment with murmured agreements or small nods, but no one else spoke, each of them allowing Seokjin the space to guide the moment and to lay the first stone of what they hoped would become a steadier path forward.

“We’re glad you’re home.”

Seokjin’s voice remained soft, deliberate, as he glanced briefly at the papers before him, then returned his gaze to Jungkook, who met his eyes briefly, before looing back down.

“We spoke with Doctor Kim before you left the hospital,” he said, tone steady but kind. “And Doctor Jung helped us a lot too. They both gave us some guidelines, things that can help make sure this next part feels safe and predictable.”

He paused just long enough for the words to land, simply offering space.

“You don’t need to worry about remembering everything,” he added gently. “We’ll go through it together. Slowly and as many times as you need. And you will be able to have a say in eveything discussed during this morning, or whenever you feel like things don’t sit right with you anymore.”

Namjoon shifted in his seat, resting an elbow on the table, but keeping his posture relaxed. Jungkook’s fingers curled tighter around his anklet, but he didn’t flinch.

“So,” Seokjin continued, tapping once on the document with the back of his pen, “we’re going to have some gentle structure to the days, things that help your body feel more at ease. Meals at regular times. Time to rest, time for quiet, some safe activities like card games or colouring.”

He watched Jungkook then, and was surprised to see that the boy did not seem to register ‘card games’ or ‘colouring’ as childish or demeaning, but instead looked at the table, a small crease of concentration forming as if he were very carefully remembering that these were things he liked, things he wanted.

“And every day, before lunch and after dinner,” Seokjin went on, “we’ll have a short check-in. Not an interrogation! Just a few minutes where you can tell us if there’s anything you want to adjust. Or, if you’d rather, you can write it in a notebook.” Jungkook nodded, barely visible, but there. A ripple of relief moved through the table.

Namjoon cleared his throat softly, resting his forearms on the table, the gesture open and relaxed. “I’d like to talk a little bit about expectations,” he said, his voice low and steady, a slight warmth threading through each word, “from now on, they’ll be clear. You won’t have to guess what’s okay and what isn’t, and you definitely don’t have to earn your place here.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked up, quick and sharp, and then dropped again just as fast, but he didn’t curl inward the way he sometimes did when startled. 

Namjoon continued, his tone never wavering, “this is your home, Jungkook-ah, not a test nor a condition. You don’t need to perform to stay, and you don’t need to repay us for kindness with work. That’s not how this works. If it feels important to you, we can talk about some very small chores later; little things, like watering the plants or helping one of us sort laundry, but right now you need to focus on yourself and healing.”

Next to him, Seokjin gave a soft hum of agreement, his eyes not leaving Jungkook’s face. He nodded slowly, watching for the tiniest signs of discomfort, but instead, what he noticed was a subtle shift. The tight line of Jungkook’s shoulders began to loosen, and the hand that wasn’t holding th anklet, which had been pressed into a tight fist on the table, opened.

Namjoon pressed on, quietly, “and if something’s not okay, if you’re doing something that’s hurting you, or could hurt you, or if something might be confusing, we won’t leave you guessing. We’ll step in, and we’ll tell you clearly. We’ll redirect you if we need to.”

There was no reaction at first. Then Jungkook’s lips parted slightly, just a sliver of breath slipping out, like the beginning of an exhale held for too long. No words, but a signal nonetheless.

Hoseok picked it up from there, his voice a soft counterpoint to Namjoon’s, “and if that happens, if we tell you, it’s not a punishment, Jungkook-ah. It’s not a failure, It’s just a signal that we care, that we want you safe,” he smiled, a little lopsided, “stumbling here and there is normal, for all of us.” There was a hum of agreement.

Seokjin continued on, “there are also a few safety things we wanted to let you know about,” he said, hands folded neatly on the table, “just small changes around the house, not because we don’t trust you, but because we care, and we want you to feel safe. Keys have been removed from their keyholes, so locking oneself in a room is not possible. If a door is closed, we will always knock and wait for the person inside to grant permission to enter,” he paused, looking down at the papers in front of him, “doctor Kim also gave us some pills for you, just to help you sleep and manage anxiety, only when needed. We will keep them from now, and when we will suggest it might help you to take one, you can always say no, and we will respect that.”

The head dom hesitated a moment before continuing, “there is one last thing, which takes me to the next point, psysical activity and hyperactivity.”

Jungkook’s shoulders immediately lifted, signalling he did not like where this conversation was going. Seokjin sighed softly, deciding to bite the bullet and be as clear as possible, trying not to instil fear in the boy.

“Doctor Kim explained to us that there were certain habits you did before going to the hospital, that you felt like you needed to do, in order to burn calories. Walking and wandering around the house for hours, standing for long periods of time, cleaning and doing physically tasking chores… these things helped you cope,” Seokjin continued, his voice careful, calm, “we’re not here to take coping away from you, Jungkook-ah, but Doctor Kim also explained that right now, your body is still healing, and if we want it to stay safe, we need to help it rest. That is why, as a last precaution, we locked the storage closet on the second floor, where cleaning supplies are placed.”

He let the words settle for a moment, watching the boy’s tense posture, the way Jungkook’s fingers had curled slightly inwards on his lap.

Then, more softly, “It doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to move. We’re not going to stop you from getting up or walking around. But we will step in if it becomes too much, if it looks like you're hurting yourself without meaning to.”

Namjoon, seated nearby, added, “we’ll check in with you if we see patterns that feel unsafe, because perhaps your mind is telling you to do some things that you feel compelled to complete that are actually harming you. Your health is our priority, and we will help you every step of the way.”

For a long time, Jungkook didn’t move. Then slowly his shoulders dipped again, some of the held tension dissolving back into stillness. His hand drifted to the edge of the table, brushing against the grain with his fingertips. He didn’t speak, but there was no alarm in his eyes.

Seokjin smiled faintly, “thank you for listening, sweetheart. We know this conversation is very hard, but you are doing a fantastic job.”

The praise was instinctual, he couldn’t help not rewarding him, and for a moment he worried that it would not be received well. However, Jungkook briefly looked up at him, and for a moment, the fuzziness around the edges of his eyes decreased, if only slightly. His posture relaxed a bit more, and a faint blush could be seen on his cheeks. He knew praise was a balm for subs, especially high-ranking ones, and he had been told by Hoseok, Taehyung and even Namjoon that Jungkook responded wonderfully to the praise he had received so far. But seeing his response first hand was truly a gift, something so precious he will keep cradled inside his heart for a very, very long time.

Jungkook’s ears were red, but he nodded, a jerky little motion, then surprised himself by keeping his eyes on Seokjin for a full second after the nod, as though needing to confirm—was that really it? Was he really okay?

The answer was written across Seokjin’s face, the lines soft with certainty, as if to say ‘you’re good, you’re really good’.

As they approached the final two items on the agenda, Seokjin felt a familiar tightness gather at the base of his throat. This next part, he dreaded it. He had rehearsed it the night before, again that morning, and yet no amount of preparation made the words feel easier to say aloud.

He reached for calm, schooling his features into something open and safe.

“Now…” he began gently, his hands folded on the table in front of him, “Doctor Kim and Doctor Jung also provided us with a nutritional plan that—”

But he didn’t get the chance to finish.

A distressed whine tore from Jungkook’s throat, sharp and sudden. The boy’s whole body jerked, as though the words themselves had struck him, and his hands flew up to his ears, trembling fingers hovering there like he meant to block out the world, but he stopped, frozen. His palms never made contact.

And then he looked around, wide-eyed and rigid, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. As if he'd just broken a rule he didn't fully understand.

Seokjin’s breath caught. Oh, Jungkook…

The moment was electric, not in fear, but in something delicate and utterly vital. He had shown them his discomfort, raw and unfiltered, even if his eyes darted to the others a second later, as though worried he’d done something unforgivable.

Seokjin’s heart twisted, and not from pity. He felt something closer to pride. Because that was a step. A flicker of resistance, yes, but a real, tangible signal that Jungkook was still fighting, trying to find his own edges again. It wasn’t healthy dissent yet, not conscious choice. It was fear, but it was expressed, and that meant it could be heard, shaped, and gently praised into something stronger, and he would be damned if they didn’t honour that effort like it was sacred.

“I know this is hard to hear,” Seokjin said, his voice soft but unwavering, “thank you for telling us, Jungkook-ah. That’s important. Even if it’s scary, we want to know.”

He leaned slightly forward to let the warmth of his voice bridge the space between them.

“You didn’t get in trouble. Showing us when something hurts… it’s good. It helps us understand.”

There was a long pause. Jungkook’s fingers were trembling where they hovered by his ears, and his eyes were watery now, but they stayed open. Slowly, he lowered his hands, hiding them under the table and hanging his head, embarassment obvious on his feature. However, he nodded, seeming almost relieved at the prospect of not being punished.

Seokjin decided to not give it further attention, knowing that many more opportunities to show him that he could express himself freely will occur.

Instead, he continued explaining the nutritional plan, maintaining a gentle tone, “so, the portions you’ll be given will be small, at first. They’ve been carefully measured, not to overwhelm you, but they’ll be rich in the nutrients your body needs. That’s the first step. As your body gets used to eating more, the portions will slowly increase.”

Jungkook’s eyes flickered toward the table again, unfocused, like he was tracking something only he could see. Seokjin pressed on, his voice never losing its calm.

“We know that, right now, even the smallest amount might feel… excessive. That’s okay. Your mind is doing its best to protect you the only way it knows how, but we’ll help retrain those signals, one step at a time.”

There was a pause, then Seokjin’s expression shifted, still kind, but firmer now, more grounded.

“But there is one thing that’s not negotiable. Meals can’t be skipped.”

Jungkook looked up again, something wary and taut in his gaze. Seokjin met it with steady warmth, “even if you’re scared, even if you’re angry, or overwhelmed, we’ll be right there, every step of the way. But your body can’t afford to lose any more weight, Jungkook-ah, and food is the only way forward now. This is the one area where we’ll be strict, not because we want to hurt you, but because this is where the healing starts.”

Then his tone softened a little, and he whispered conspiratorially towards the sub, “we want out Jungkook to be nice and healthy, so he can run even faster than Hugo when he wants to.”

He let the joke hang, gentle and unthreatening, and was rewarded with the barest puff of a laugh, just a softened exhale, brief and startled, but unmistakably real. That tiny joy rippled around the table: Jimin beamed, visibly restraining the urge to clap his hands. Taehyung did no such thing, and clapped once, very quietly.

Seokjin turned to look at them fondly, before focusing his attention back to Jungkook.

“We’ll do it together, okay?”

Jungkook looked up again, his gaze flickering toward Seokjin’s face. There was something raw in it now, uncertain and wide, a question lodged somewhere behind his eyes, not quite spoken, but so loud it echoed across the table.

I’m scared.
I don’t know if I can.

Yoongi, who had been quiet until now, leaned forward slightly in his chair, his voice a low murmur meant only for the boy, “we won’t send you back if you have days where you’ll struggle more than others, we won’t punish you, and we won’t ask for anything in return for looking after you.”

His tone was even, but there was no mistaking the quiet conviction beneath the words.

“Think of this as a marathon,” Yoongi continued, “and us with huge and colourful banners cheering you on by the sideline. Maybe in the moment you’ll feel fatigued, like you can’t run any further, but always remember that all six of us will be there, handing you water and… blister plasters.”

He grimaced at his own awkward metaphor, but gave a little shrug and a resolute nod to seal it. A ripple of soft laughter floated through the room. Namjoon’s smile curled gently at the edges, Hoseok’s shoulders bounced in quiet amusement, and Taehyung huffed a fond little sound through his nose.

Jungkook’s expression had shifted, still wary, still tentative, but something new shimmered beneath the surface, a sort of shy curiosity. He looked almost entranced by what he said, like a child when they discover a new, very basic but very important information.

And, not for the first time, Yoongi thought about all the things this boy had missed throughout his captivity. He had been taken when he had barely turned 20, he was now 25. Five years filled with hurt and deprivation of every simple joy or moment of gentleness he should have had but didn’t. Five years in which he’d been starved of everything good, until even hope itself had been rationed down to the thinnest, meanest threads. Brutality and chaos had entablished themselves as a new normal, depriving him of experiencing what becoming an adult should look like. Barely formed bones shattered by the weight of injustice, of having to grow too quickly, or else who knows what would have happened to him if he didn’t keep up with what he was required to do to survive.

He was suppose to be having the time of his life. He wasn’t supposed to be trapped in cycles of vigilance and collapse, wasn’t supposed to be dissected and reassembled every few months by strangers in white coats. He was supposed to learn how to love and to be loved, how to fight for what it’s right and challenge those who didn’t treat him right.

He had been too young to have known what death tasted like.

The small piece of that realization dug into Yoongi’s chest and didn’t let go. He looked directly at Jungkook, speaking with the unsparing honesty he’d have wanted himself, if he’d been the one on the other side of the table.

“We’ll help with things you might not remember how to do, and we’ll be delighted to show you things you might have not yet experienced.”

A silence thoughtful followed, like the room itself was giving Jungkook space to feel whatever he needed to feel. The younger’s gaze dropped to his lap, lashes trembling where they brushed the tops of his cheeks. One hand curled loosely around the anklet, grounding himself in the fabric, and for a long moment, he just sat there.

Then, ever so slightly, he nodded. It wasn’t surrender, it was something far more fragile than either of those, a cautious agreement, as if to say: Okay. I’ll try.

Seokjin gently knocked his foot against Yoongi’s, a ‘good job’ covertly spoken, a praise that will be further ladened in the privacy of their room.

“Thank you, honey. Now, there is one last thing to talk about that we would like to implement in our new routine, and that is physical touch.”

Jungkook tensed yet again, but his expression remained even, as if waiting for what would be said next before reacting.

Progress, Seokjin marvelled, this looks like progress already.

Namjoon steeped in, “we and the doctors believe that it would be extremely beneficial to reintroduce touch in our new daily routine. Something light, that won’t be overwhelming, of course. Mmmh, I’ve read that touch can help rebuild the brain’s tolerance for closeness in subs, giving one’s submissive instincts the go-ahead to release calming effects once they are reintroduced to touch, so… yeah.”

He gave an awkward pause, rubbing his neck self-consciously.

Seokjin watched his lover fondly, before continuing, “sometimes, when the world feels a little fuzzy, a little wrong, touch can help bring you back into your body, in a way that lets you feel... here. Present.”

He held Jungkook’s gaze for a second longer before continuing, choosing his words with care, “and just to be absolutely clear, there will be no sexual expectations between you and anyone in this house. Nothing will ever be asked or implied, not now, not ever. That’s not what this is about. But things like holding hands or sitting close, those could be really good starting points.”

“If it ever feels like too much,” he added, “you can tap out at any moment. No questions asked.”

Across the table, Hoseok leaned forward slightly, his voice casual but kind, “or we could ask you your colour,” he offered, “maybe come up with signals, if you don’t feel like talking.”

At that, Jungkook’s brow furrowed. His gaze dropped to his anklet, fingers twitching faintly at his side, and he looked up again, eyes flicking toward Hoseok’s. There was something like confusion there, but also interest, like a tiny bell had been rung somewhere deep inside.

Hoseok caught the shift and tilted his head, “do you know what the colour system is, Jungkook-ah?” he asked gently—without any judgement in his tone, just genuinely needing to know.

A faint pink rose to Jungkook’s cheeks, and after a beat, he gave a small nod.

Hoseok pressed on, “okay, that’s good. And… have you ever used it?”

Jungkook turned even more red, looking mortified, and shook his head. Hoseok had to swallow the sharp twist of rage that curled in his chest. The thought that Jungkook had never been given the right to say no, to signal his discomfort, to step back when something became too much, left him reeling. The idea that he might’ve endured entire scenes, even ones that may have started out light-hearted (though Hoseok deeply doubted they ever truly had), without a way to tap out, was sickening.

And punishments... Hoseok’s jaw clenched. How many times had Jungkook’s quiet resistance gone unheard? How many no’s had been dismissed, how many stop’s had simply vanished into the void, unacknowledged?

Now, even the idea of objecting—of saying that something wasn’t okay—seemed foreign to him. As if permission had to be granted first before his feelings could exist.

It made his next words feel heavier, like holding a crystal sculpture in shaking hands. He wanted nothing more than to set it down gently in front of Jungkook and step away, to show he would never, ever let it shatter.

“Okay, then we’ll make it really easy. We’ll use like it is normally used, so green if you’re fine and we can continue, yellow if you think maybe things are a little too much but you’re not sure, and red if you need it to stop right away. If you feel like you want to try saying yellow or red, just do it. Nobody will be angry. In fact, I’ll be so happy if you did, because it shows us what not to do in the future if it makes you uncomfortable, or you simply don’t like it,” he smiled, lopsided and gentle.

Seokjin leaned forward slightly, the warmth in his eyes grounding the weight of everything that had just been said.

“If you ever have questions, anything at all, about what we’ve talked about or anything you’re unsure of, you can come to any of us. Or you can write it down, or draw, or even just leave a note somewhere we’ll find. We’ll always listen, Jungkook-ah.”

There was a lull then, not quite silence, but a gentle settling of air as the conversation softened.

Taehyung glanced at Jimin, who was already looking at him, eyes sparkling. Then, as if out of thin air, Taehyung reached beneath the table and produced a small whiteboard, the surface filled with soft hues and scribbles.

“Ta-da!” he beamed, sliding it toward Jungkook, “me and Jiminie made a calendar! It’s colour-coded, so whenever you’re not sure what’s happening, you can just look at this!”

Jungkook blinked at it, startled by the sudden appearance, but his gaze was quickly drawn to the board. Rows of neat boxes filled with colours—each one a different tone, soft and inviting. He tilted his head slightly, curious, his fingers brushing the frame.

Namjoon opened his mouth, part of him ready to gently remind the switches that any official part of Jungkook’s routine should be made together first, especially with his recovery at stake, but before he could say a word, Jungkook’s hand wrapped around the board.

He pulled it toward him, clutching it like it was something precious. His eyes didn’t leave it, even as he spoke.

“...Thank you,” he whispered, barely audible.

Namjoon turned to Seokjin. They exchanged a glance, equal parts relief, surprise, and the profound tenderness of watching a moment unfold that hadn’t been planned for, but was clearly exactly what was needed.

Jimin beamed, practically bouncing in place, “oh, honey, you are very welcome!”

He scooted closer to explain, pointing to different colours as he spoke, “see, we put quiet time in blue, because blue is calming. And activity time is orange, because red just felt too harsh. And then pink is for you and me and Taetae time! Because it’s our favourite colour… and maybe it’s yours too?”

Seokjin furrowed his brows, glancing again at Namjoon with a silent, exasperated fondness that clearly said: I want to kiss and spank them at the same time.

But he held his tongue, letting the moment breathe, giving Jungkook space to process, to feel it, whatever it was, without rushing him forward. Jungkook’s fingers trailed gently over the calendar’s lacquered surface. He traced the colours, slow, deliberate, until the pad of his thumb found a tiny, raised groove near the bottom. He pressed there, maybe to make sure the world stayed still, or maybe just to prove that touch could anchor him in the moment and not send him reeling.

“Pretty,” he whispered.

And Seokjin couldn’t really talk about love, not in the way he felt it with his lovers. Yet, there was something, deep inside him that yerned to lean forward and caress his rosy cheek, to praise and cuddle, like he would with any other of his partners.

With time, everything will come with time.

“Pretty,” Jimin whispered back, though he was not looking at the calendar.

Jungkook did not seem to notice Jimin besotted look, completely focused on the sweet swirls and vibrant colours. The others did not comment either, allowing the sub to soak in this moment.

“I am glad you like it, honey. And I am very proud of you for being so brave. It wasn’t an easy talk, but you listened well and showed us your feeling and limits.”

Jungkook did seem to register that, and looked at Seokjin for a moment, before looking back down at the calendar, bashful.

“Great, now… should we start on breakfast?”

 

 

###

 

 

Finishing breakfast had been an ordeal.

They’d known it would be, no one had expected Jungkook to eat easily right after the conversation about food. But even so, it hurt to watch him struggle. A simple dish of rice and braised meat might as well have been a mountain.

At first, he just stared at it, shoulders tense, mouth set in a thin line. Then his hand moved—hesitant, robotic—bringing small forkfuls to his mouth like he was trying not to breathe. The breaking point came quietly. No warning, no sound, just a slow overflow of tears that began trailing down his cheeks as he continued chewing, as if his body had chosen to cry without asking permission.

Seokjin had been gentle, but firm. He hadn’t raised his voice, nor rushed him, but he’d made it clear that Jungkook needed to finish at least two-thirds of the plate.

And somehow, Jungkook had kept going, silent, weeping, his hand trembling around the fork. Hugo had pressed himself right up against Jungkook’s side, warm and steady. His big head nudged at Jungkook’s ribs now and then, soft and encouraging, as if to say You’re doing it. You’re okay.

Eventually, when Seokjin decided the portion left was acceptable, he let him leave the table. Jungkook pushed his chair back with watery eyes, then stood with slow, aching movements. Seokjin had wanted to stop him from going, wanted to keep him close, make sure he didn’t spiral further, but he also knew that forcing presence could sometimes feel like another kind of pain. So with a heavy heart, he let him retreat to his room.

After giving him some time to breathe, Taehyung and Hoseok quietly padded upstairs to retrieve him. They knocked gently, waiting until they heard a faint rustle from inside, and peeked their heads in with soft smiles.

“We were thinking of showing you the garden,” Taehyung said, voice light like a promise, “that’s what we planned for this morning.”

It wasn’t magic, but it worked. Something in Jungkook’s expression shifted, like a breeze rippling through still water. Just the mention of it seemed to lift him a little. He slowly uncurled from where he’d been nestled on the bed, rubbing at his eyes, and followed them without a word.

They stopped in the mud room to bundle up, the air outside still biting despite the sun. Thick coats, fluffy scarves, warm gloves, Taehyung and Hoseok made sure Jungkook was especially well-covered, wrapping the scarf around his neck like it was spun from clouds. His body was still too fragile, and neither of them liked the way the wind might try to slip through his bones.

Then, together, they stepped out into the cold and followed the short trail that led to the garden. The frost kissed the grass and the leaves of the trees that surrounded the path. A faint scent of greenery lingered despite the chill, a sleepy breath of spring buried under frost.

“So,” Hoseok said, stopping in front of the kale garden bed, “Namjoon’s technically the one in charge of this place. The plants are supposed to love all of us equally, but for some reason he swears they literally glow when he waters them. Like, he’s convinced they vibe with his life energy or something.”

Taehyung snorted softly beside him.

“He once tried to convince me that the rosemary whispered his name,” he added, stage-whispering behind his glove.

Jungkook blinked, and then, just barely, his lips curved.

The air seemed to warm just a little.

They guided him down one of the mulch-lined aisles, stopping now and then to point out oddities: stubbled nubs of overwintered garlic, a row of slumped, sleepy violets crowding the roots of an old pear sapling, a birdhouse shaped like a mailbox. Jungkook followed their gestures, silent but watching, his head turning whenever Taehyung made a show of kneeling to examine a bug, or when Hoseok knelt to show him the fuzzy buds on a black currant bush.

The wind bit at Hoseok’s ears, but he ignored it. He had worried about coaxing Jungkook outside so soon, about the exposure and the risk of him freezing up, but instead, the air seemed to loosen the boy’s posture. His hands stayed tucked by his sides, never touching, and his nose hidden behihd his scarf, but his curious expression and semi-clear eyes seemed to brighten even the withering and sad-looking philodendron (a plant Namjoon has been trying to grow for years, but has never quite understood how to, claiming it was due to its snobby personality).

But then, as if out of a fairy tale, a butterfly landed near where Taehyung and Jungkook were observing the slowly-growing beets, fluttering its white wings a couple of times, as if to beckon them over.

Taehyung gasped, immediately crouching down, careful to not get too close in fear of spooking the tiny creature.

“Look Jungkook-ah! A butterfly! I guess she’s in search for some yummy food, maybe she can smell the camellias that are over there.”

Taehyung, still crouched, turned slightly toward Jungkook, voice lowered to a serious hush, as to not disturb the tiny creature, “come here with me,” he whispered. “Let’s try and extend our hands—maybe she’ll fly on it.”

Jungkook lingered where he stood, eyes flicking from Taehyung to the butterfly. Then, gingerly, he lowered himself to crouch beside the switch.

“Like me, see?” Taehyung demonstrated, holding out one gloved hand, palm up, slow and steady. Jungkook mirrored him, his gloveless hand hovering just beside Taehyung’s, fingers trembling faintly.

They waited.

Behind them, Hoseok barely breathed. Quietly, he mouthed a silent little prayer, not to anything in particular, just to the universe, maybe, or to whatever force kept nudging Jungkook toward these small miracles.

And maybe that was all it took.

The butterfly stirred, wings fluttering once, twice, it rose from the mulch and coasted lazily through the air before settling on Jungkook’s palm.

Taehyung gasped, eyes wide, “you did it, Jungkookie,” he said, reverent, “she loves you.”

Jungkook didn’t respond, not with words at least. He didn’t look away, didn’t move, as if the weight of that tiny life on his skin had stilled the whole world, but his expression shifted, slowly. A smile broke across his face, wobbly at first, uncertain, like it wasn’t sure it belonged there. But it grew, reaching his eyes, genuine and secure.

Behind them, Hoseok stayed quiet, his own breath catching in his throat as he watched the butterfly settle in Jungkook’s open palm. Such a tiny thing. So light, so delicate, and yet, Jungkook had let it land. Hoseok’s hands curled into fists inside his coat pockets, not from tension, but from the ache blooming quietly in his chest.

Let touch always feel like that.

Soft, weightless, free of harm. Let him learn, slowly, in his own time, that there’s touch that doesn’t take, doesn’t bruise, doesn’t burn. That there’s touch meant to soothe, to reassure, to anchor. That some kinds of closeness aren’t a threat, but a shelter.

Hugo had known it first, and now this butterfly had chosen him too. Hoseok wanted to believe it meant something, that animals could sense what people often overlooked. That maybe, beneath all the pain, beneath the trauma that still kept Jungkook’s body rigid and small, lived a boy with a soul too soft to scare even the skittish. There was no other explanation. He had to be gentle. He had to be good. He had to be made of something quiet and kind.

Hoseok hoped, deep in the part of his heart that never stopped praying for him, that one day, Jungkook would understand it too. That the worst had already happened, and the pain, the confusion, the helplessness, it all belonged to a past that couldn’t touch him anymore.

That no one, not ever again, would lay a hand on him without his consent.

He deserved more. He deserved better. And Hoseok would wait as long as it took for him to believe it.

Hoseok glanced skyward, where the sun diffused gently through the haze. He reached behind him, pulled the hood from his jacket up over his ears, and then sat down on the edge of a wooden garden box. He didn’t want to crowd them, wanting to give the moment its due. For a minute, Taehyung and Jungkook crouched together, the butterfly perfectly content to stay put, fanning its tiny wings on Jungkook’s hand as if it belonged there.

Taehyung whispered a steady commentary of encouragement—You’re so brave, she’s so beautiful, let’s give her a name—and Jungkook let out breaths in small, awed puffs, watching the insect with a reverence that bordered on holy.

After a while, the butterfly took off, flitting gently away. Jungkook tracked its flight, head tilted, eyes going soft. Then he released a breath, slow and measured, and the smile softening.

After a few more moments of quiet, Hoseok rose from where he sat, brushing the back of his pants absently, “shall we go see the flowers, pretties?” he asked, his voice soft and inviting.

Taehyung lit up immediately, “oh yes, please!—come on, Jungkookie, they’re just over there! I think the Iris bloomed early this year.”

Together, they meandered toward the far end of the garden, where it seemed the earth had spilled into riotous color: blooms of every hue arranged in clusters and vases, tumbling from raised beds and weathered pots, filling the space with bursts of life even in the lingering cold. Jungkook’s gaze swept across the patchwork of petals, his eyes going wide again, drinking it in like something half-remembered.

Taehyung spoke as they walked, gesturing at tulips and daffodils and the blue hyacinths crowding the edge of a stone path.

“Those over there? Namjoon hyung let me plant them last spring. He says I overwater, but honestly? I think they like the attention.”

Jungkook followed along, listening, not speaking, but nodding occasionally, slowly, as if trying the rhythm of agreement on for size. Then he stopped in front of a small clump of snow crocuses, their petals delicately veined in shades of ivory and lavender. Jungkook tilted his head, studying them, his expression almost solemn. Then, with the tiniest lean forward, he dipped his face toward the flowers, his nose twitching softly above the blossoms as if trying to catch a scent.

Behind him, Hoseok and Taehyung stilled, watching in silence. There was something achingly sweet in the boy’s stillness, how careful he was, how reverent. Then, they both say the slow lift of one hand, uncertain and hesitant, reaching toward the flowers. But just before contact, it dropped back down again, folding against his side.

Hoseok stepped forward, keeping his voice low and warm.

“It’s okay, honey,” he said, smiling softly, “you can touch them. I’m sure you’ll be extra gentle.”

He hoped the boy would try again. Hoped he’d believe that gentleness lived inside him too, that he could offer it just as much as he deserved to receive it.

Jungkook didn’t move right away, instead, he turned his head toward Hoseok, eyes searching, his brows drawn just slightly together in a frown so faint it could’ve passed for concentration. But it wasn’t. He was looking for something, some trace of dishonesty, some flicker of false encouragement behind the dom’s gentle tone. Like he wasn’t sure whether kindness came with a catch.

Hoseok didn’t flinch beneath the scrutiny. He held Jungkook’s gaze with the same soft patience he’d spoken with. Calm and steady. He didn’t push, didn’t rush. He just let himself be seen.

After a moment, Jungkook looked away again, back to the flowers. His hands came up to fiddle with the zipper of his coat, fingers tugging the metal up and down in slow, anxious movements.

Taehyung, still hovering just behind, caught the gesture, and the hesitation.

He stepped in lightly, “I’ll touch them with you, so I can introduce my new friend to them.”

It had been meant simply, something light to coax the boy forward, to keep the moment warm, but Jungkook’s head snapped up, eyes wide.

“...Friend?” he whispered, the word so tentative it barely made it into the space between them.

Taehyung blinked. His heart jumped unexpectedly, and for a split second, he faltered, surprised by the depth of Jungkook’s response, by the rawness in his voice. But he recovered quickly, grounding himself. He looked at Jungkook with a gentle kind of seriousness, his voice steady as he nodded once, slow and sure.

“Friend,” he repeated, as if there was nothing simpler or more certain in the world.

Jungkook stared at Taehyung for a few long seconds, eyes wide and searching, his head tilted just slightly like he was trying to listen for something unspoken. And maybe he found it, because after another breath, Jungkook turned slowly back toward the flowers, letting a trembling hand hover over the flowers. Hesitation clung to him like mist, but he didn’t pull away. Taehyung followed his lead. He bent down a little lower, careful not to brush against Jungkook, and extended a hand toward the petals. With a gentleness the Eros rarely saw (being the overly energetic puppy that he was) he grazed the surface of a blossom, fingertips tracing along its delicate edge before gliding down the stem and over the dewy leaves.

“Hello flowers,” he murmured in a lilting whisper, voice mostly serious, “this is my friend Jungkook. You must be on your best behaviour. First impressions are very important.”

There was a beat of quiet, and then Jungkook moved, still cautious, still trembling, but undeniably there. He reached out, almost like he was copying the gesture from memory, and let his fingers brush against a petal. Then he gently pinched it between his thumb and index finger, rubbing the soft, fuzzy texture in slow, thoughtful motions.

Hoseok moved closer, flanking Jungkook’s other side, though he kept a deliberate distance, more than what lay between the sub and Taehyung. Careful not to intrude, his voice was warm and low as he said, “It looks like they really like you, Jungkook-ah. You’re introducing yourself very well.”

Jungkook didn’t answer, but his ears turned a delicate pink, and the tiniest blush crept up his cheeks, almost the same shade as the camellias just behind him.

They lingered like that for a long while, moving from flowerbed to flowerbed. Jungkook walked a little ahead, pausing when something caught his eye, reaching out to touch and explore without being told it was okay. Hoseok and Taehyung followed without directing, letting him lead. Maybe Jungkook hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t trailing behind anymore. Maybe he didn’t realise they were letting him guide them.

Now and then, one of them would speak—Taehyung teasing a tulip for looking too smug, Hoseok pointing out a leaf that looked like a tiny heart—but most of the time they stayed quiet, watching with soft eyes as Jungkook wandered. It was his moment, and they were just lucky enough to be invited in.

After more than an hour of wandering, brushing petals and whispering to blooms, the air had grown crisper, the sun hiding behing thick clouds. The cold crept in steadily, nipping at ears and the tips of fingers.

Hoseok glanced up, then over to Jungkook, who was now crouched low before a bed of violas, his nose just above their clustered blossoms.

“I think it’s time we head back,” he said gently, not wanting to break the spell but knowing they’d already stayed longer than planned, “it’s getting chilly, and Jungkookie needs his rest.”

Taehyung stretched, letting out a contented little sigh before nodding, “yeah, and we can always come back. Or, there is Namjoon’s indoor garden we can also show you, and—”

But his words cut off mid-sentence. He’d turned, expecting Jungkook to be just behind them, but instead he found him standing a little way back, small and quiet in the middle of the garden path.

The sub was holding something. Taehyung stilled. Hoseok turned too, confused by the sudden pause in his companion’s voice, and then saw what had stopped him.

Jungkook stood with both hands wrapped shyly around a single flower, one they hadn't even noticed him pick. He held it out in their direction, though his eyes were fixed on the ground, lashes lowered. His cheeks were as red as cherries, blooming with color that had nothing to do with the cold. Taehyung’s heart twisted, blooming with a warmth unfamiliar and sharp. He held out his palm, even though the flower might have not been for him, even though the gesture wasn’t clear.

He said nothing, just let time spool out, waiting for Jungkook to decide what to do. After a long hesitation, Jungkook shuffled forward, eyes never lifting, and gently put the flower into Taehyung’s outstretched hand.

It was a pansy, purple-gold and radiant against the gray of the sky.

Hoseok watched Taehyung’s throat work as he swallowed around the sudden storm of emotion, as if accepting this small violet was the most important act of his life. He wanted to laugh, wanted to whoop and swing Jungkook in circles, but he knew that gentleness was all that mattered now.

Taehyung looked down at the pansy and cradled it in both hands. He smiled, slow and unguarded.

“F-friend,” Jungkook whispered.

And there, among flowers and flushed cheeks, Hoseok stood and thought, to love and to be loved, what a gentle balm for the soul.

 

 

###

 

 

After the garden walk, Jungkook had struggled to stay awake for long. His eyelids drooped halfway through lunch prep, and Seokjin (having listened to Taehyung’s animated retelling of the outing before and then a quieter, teary version once the boy had fallen asleep) gently encouraged him to lie down for a nap. Jungkook had just finished yawning when the suggestion came, and with a sleepy nod, he agreed, retreating to his room without protest.

Later, once Seokjin had woken him, Jungkook had sat down with Hoseok and had their mid-day check-in. Jungkook didn’t talk, even if at times he seemed to want to respond verbally to Hoseok’s questions. He sleepily nodded his head when asked if he had enjoyed their morning together and shook it when he asked if there was anything that made him uncomfrotable, and Hoseok decided to leave it at that, not wanting to push the boy too much.

Lunch passed much like breakfast had, not too bad, but not weel either. So for the afternoon, Jimin together with Namjoon decided to put on a movie, and Jungkook, still a bit teary-eyed, nestled himself with Hugo by his side on the armchair, eyes flicking up to the dog more than to the screen, but clearly at ease. They watched two films back-to-back, half-talking, half-lounging, the afternoon stretching long and peaceful.

Dinner had come early, and everyone had turned in not long after, not before Jungkook’s check-in, in which Jimin has asked him how he felt about having had three meals in one day, and he confessed in a tiny whisper that he was really scared. He did not want to elaborate any further, even with Jimin’s gentle coaxing to vent to him, so the switch just reassured him he was doing the right thing, that they were extremely proud of him and all the effort he was showing in putting his health first, even if it was extremely frightening.

Now it was nighttime, nearly one in the morning. Namjoon had fallen asleep tangled between Jimin and Hoseok, one arm draped loosely over each of them, their breathing steady and warm.

Until a scream—raw and choked—shattered the quiet.

Namjoon bolted upright. For a second, confusion clouded his senses, because all of his lovers seemed fine, none of them seemed to be dreaming, let alone in distress.

And then, it hit him.

Jungkook.

He scrambled out of bed with a speed he didn’t know he had, feet hitting the cold floor with a jolt. Jimin stirred beside him, blinking awake, but before he could speak, Namjoon was already out the door and down the hall.

Hugo was outside the sub’s room, pawing at the closed door and whining softly, clearly in distress and wanting to comfort Jungkook as much as Namjoon did.

The dom didn’t hesitate. He opened the door, letting the light from the hall pool inside before he stepped through. Inside, the room was awash in the soft blue glow from the nightlight. Sheets lay tangled on the floor, and Jungkook was next to them, clutching at himself, chest heaving, tears streaking down his cheeks in a silent torrent.

He could hear the others approaching, footsteps soft but urgent, hushed voices barely audible down the hall, the household roused into motion by the scream. But as soon as their shadows filled the doorway, Namjoon lifted a hand, palm out, a silent command. Stay back, don’t crowd him.

They froze instantly, trusting him.

Hugo scurried past their legs and into the room, nails clicking quietly against the floor. The dog padded up to Jungkook without hesitation, circling once before lying down beside him, pressing close. He nosed gently at one of Jungkook’s white-knuckled fists, a soft whine curling in his throat. Namjoon moved in too, though slower. He lowered himself to the floor with deliberate ease, mirroring Jungkook’s curled position but keeping a careful distance.

The boy’s eyes were wide and glassy, staring past everything, his breaths coming fast and shallow. It wasn’t just a nightmare. He was caught in a flashback, locked in a memory that had nothing to do with the room around him.

Namjoon raised one hand, open and steady between them.

“Hey, Jungkook-ah,” he said, voice low and sure, “can you try to look at my hand, please?”

No response at first, just the frantic hitch of breath, the distant gaze. But then, slowly, Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward him, toward his hand. They didn’t focus right away, but they moved.

“Good boy,” Namjoon murmured, “now watch my hand, yeah? When I close it, we’re going to inhale. When I open it again, we exhale. Follow me.”

He demonstrated once, slow and steady. Jungkook missed the rhythm at first, his breathing staggered and caught in his throat, but Namjoon kept going, unshaken. By the third try, the boy was trying, by the fourth, he managed to follow. They breathed like that, quiet and slow, until the sharp edges of panic began to dull.

It was then that Jungkook seemed to notice Hugo beside him, his dazed eyes drifting down to the dog's familiar shape. Tentatively, his hand moved, trembling as it reached out to rest on Hugo’s head. The pup stilled under the touch, letting the boy find him, lean into him, while Jungkook’s fingers curled into the fur, slow strokes gaining rhythm as if searching for an anchoring touch.

At the door, Seokjin let out a long, quiet breath, one he hadn’t realized he was holding. His shoulders softened, and he gently tugged Jimin closer, who leaned in without hesitation, burying his face into Seokjin’s chest, grateful for the steady warmth. Seokjin needed the cuddles as much as Jimin.

Namjoon’s gaze never left Jungkook. He saw the subtle tremor starting in the boy’s limbs, the way his body struggled to settle fully, and, without a word, he reached behind and pulled the folded blanket from the edge of the bed.

“Here,” he offered softly, holding it out.

Jungkook looked at it for a moment, then reached out with both hands. He wrapped it around his shoulders, tucking the edges under his chin. His breathing was still a little unsteady, but grounded now. They sat in silence for a while, the room filled only with soft breaths and Hugo’s content sighs. When the tremors had calmed, and the weight of the moment had begun to ease, Seokjin spoke from the doorway, his voice was light, tender, laced with affection.

“Is my tiny dragon ready to go back to bed?”

Jungkook’s head whipped towards the door, not having realised that the whole Eros was there with him. His cheeks flushed with what looked like embarassment and he quickly averted his eyes, looking at the bed. He seemed unsure, almost scared.

Seokjin hummed low, “maybe one of us could stay here with you until you fall asleep?”

Jimin and Taehyung immediately gasped, “we could have a pajama party, Jungkookie!”

Yoongi snorted and tucked Taheyung against his chest, “maybe another time, darlings. We all need to sleep tonight, and I know you and your little rascal soulmate. You wouldn’t get an ounce of sleep.”

However, Jungkook’s eyes seemed to light up, even if he tried to hide it, going back to pet Hugo’s fur.

“But,” Seokjin added, keeping an eye on the sub’s reaction, “Jiminie and Tae can keep him company for a little while, yeah? Only if you promise me to be nice and quiet, and allow Jungkook ah to sleep.”

“We’ll be quiet as mice, hyung.”

“Super duper quiet, we promise.”

Namjoon looked down at the boy, laughing softly.

“It seems like these two tiny rodents want to keep you company, honey. Is that okay?”

Because, even though Seokjin’s sixth sense was usually always right (Namjoon as well as all the others could definitely attest to that), he still wanted to have at least a confirmation from the boy. But then Jungkook nodded, a subtle dip, the motion so quick it could have been missed if not for the bright eyes tracking the sub’ movement.

“Okay,” Namjoon said, rising slowly from his crouched position, “let’s get you bundled up.”

And so, after Jungkook stood back up on shaky legs and climbed back into his bed, the two switches sat themselves on the big armchair near the window, one on top of the other. Hugo padded close to the due, and after circling the carpet a couple of times, laid back down with a happy huff.

The rest of the Eros wished Jungkook a good night, and Hoseok turned to Jimin and Taehyung and made sure to remind them of their promise and that “mice don’t sing, wrestle, or giggle past bedtime. Got it?”.

With a last soft “good night,” the door clicked shut, leaving just the quiet hum of the night. The room quieted. The boy, now under the blankets and between warmth and softness, exhaled slowly. Jimin shifted on top of Taehyung, making himself more comfortable.

“We’re here, Jungkookie,” he whispered, “just rest.”

And for the first time in a long while, Jungkook let his eyes close with a little less fear.

 

 

###

 

 

 

Jungkook woke slowly, his eyes heavy and unwilling to open. He wanted to keep them closed a little longer, to cling to the darkness and the stillness of sleep, but his mind refused to cooperate—hyperactive, relentless, it pushed against the quiet, forcing his eyes to blink open and stay that way.

Exhaustion had become a constant, something he’d learned to carry like a second skin. It had been that way for a long time. Still, he refused to bend, not resting more than absolutely necessary. Now, with the Eros gently pushing him to eat more, to gain weight, to ease off the excessive exercise that had once been his only coping mechanism, he felt the pressure to hold on to what little control he had left. If that meant sleeping less than he wanted to, then so be it. He’d endured far worse to survive, this was a minor sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.

And then memories from the night before surged up, sudden and sharp. That panicky, ugly feeling twisted in his chest, pulling tight like a noose. He didn’t want to think about back then. Didn’t want to remember the things that had happened, or how they still found ways to haunt him, even in his sleep. Dreams weren’t an escape, they were just another prison, one that forced him to relive every ache and horror his body had once endured.

He forced himself to sit up, even though his body ached and his skin still felt too tight. His heartbeat wasn’t racing anymore, but a vague soreness lingered in his chest, like a bruise from a scream that never fully left.

The room was now vacant. He had heard the switches carefully tiptoe outside the room at one point, probably going back to their bedroom. They left the door slightly ajar, maybe to give him the sense of company, of still being there with him, even if they promised to let him rest. He didn’t know what compelled him to beg the way he did last night for the switches to remain in the room with him, to keep him company after yet another grand spectacle in which he made a fool of himself. He hated the fact that control slipped right through his fingers when he slept, that he couldn’t control his thoughts and what they did to his body.

However, he couldn’t lie and say something did shift yesterday, when he was allowed to go on a walk through the pretty flowers.

Friend.

That word had sounded so foreign, so bizarre coming from someone who should order him around. But the switch had said it so confidently, like there could not have been any other explanation as to why Jungkook existed in this space except as a person who deserved companionship. It didn’t seem possible, if he was honest, that the Eros—any member of it—meant that word in any authentic way, but Taehyung had said it, softly but without hesitation. Like it was self-evident, like breathing. And the moment he’d heard it, something inside Jungkook had cracked and ached, like a frozen pipe in a thaw.

And the way it was said, so matter-of-fact, made him do something he believed now to have been a bit reckless, giving him that flower. However, he could not bring himself to regret it, because the look of admiration, the care with which he accepted the flower, told a different story from the one his brain was trying to sell him.

He forced himself out of bed. The air in his room was cool, and the light leaking through the windowpane was still very faint. He padded across the wood floor, feeling its chill bite at the bare skin of his feet. As he did, he passed by the small whiteboard they’d set on the shelf beside his bed, which made him stop and look at it. He stared at it for a second, fingers hovering just above the big star drawn on the left-hand corner. It had a bow on one of its sides, and when Taehyung was giving his explanations for each drawing, he stated that ‘stars are pretty as they are, sure, but a star with a bow? That’s absolutely priceless’. It was kind of funny when he said that, and it had almost made him laugh, but stopped himself at the last second.

Subs shouldn’t display such boisterous emotions, that was inappropriate and also disrespectful, because submissives should never show they were having more fun than their doms. He couldn’t remember the last time he had truly laughed, apart from that slip up when he first arrived at the house, and Hugo had licked his hand.

He dropped his hand and made his way to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth a bit too long to clear the last lingering taste of sleep. He avoided looking at the mirror, as he always did, not ready to look at his reflection yet.

He returned to his room to dress himself. The head dom had told him that, for the time being, he would keep borrowing their clothes, even if they didn’t really fit him, because they didn’t want to overwhelm him with shopping. Not that he would actually go shopping if they ever offered: a sub should be grateful with what they were given by their doms. Besides, it had already been a huge upgrade going from being completely naked at all times to having even a pair of underwear and undershirt on.

He quickly got undressed, making sure to fold and put his pajamas under the pillow. He walked to the wardrobe and opened its left door, picking up a pair of underwear, a long-sleeved white tee and a pair of soft sweatpants. He layered two pairs of socks on (even if he knew it would be futile, his feet would be cold no matter what), and chose a dark grey hoodie that he swiftly pulled over his head to stave off the fastly-growing shivers.

Once dressed, he looked around the room, unsure on what to do next. The whiteboard had said ‘breakfast at 8:30, with everyone together,’ numbers drawn in a cheerful pink, and a quick look at the clock signalled it was five in the morning. Still too early.

He could stay in here, maybe sneak in some steps or something more fatiguing. But if they were to come into the room and catch him doing such things, when they expressly told him that he needed to rest and avoid physical exercise, they would definitely punish him, or worse, monitor him even more.

Nobody should be awake yet. He thought about doing some wandering around the house, but that wasn’t allowed either.

Frustration was starting to build inside of him, but before he could mull over it more, a dark snout pushed the bedroom’s door open, allowing for Hugo to peer inside curiously. As soon as the dog saw Jungkook, he trotted over quickly, panting happily. Once beside the sub, he nosed insistently at his hand, demanding attention with all the subtlety of a brick. Jungkook huffed softly, ever amused by the dog’s antics, and gently scratched behind his ear, watching as Hugo’s tail began to wag with delighted intensity.

But soon enough, Hugo had other plans: he took hold of Jungkook’s hoodie sleeve between his teeth and began tugging him toward the door.

Where are you taking me?, Jungkook wondered silently, allowing himself to be led with quiet curiosity.

They stepped into the corridor, silent and deserted in the early hour. Once Hugo seemed satisfied that the human was following him, he released the fabric and trotted ahead, pausing every few steps to glance back and make sure Jungkook was still there.

Maybe he wants breakfast, Jungkook thought as they descended the stairs together. He supposed he was right, because when they reached the kitchen archway, Hugo plopped himself down in front of it and looked up at him expectantly.

Jungkook gazed at him fondly, giving the dog another soft pet on the head.

“Ah, he chose his victim to bring him breakfast, I see?” a voice called from inside the kitchen.

Jungkook jumped, head snapping up toward the speaker.

Yoongi.

Yoongi, the Dom who spoke sparingly, who carried an air of quiet authority that always made Jungkook’s stomach knot, was standing at the kitchen counter, seemingly unfazed, methodically preparing breakfast.

Jungkook blinked, momentarily frozen, his hand still resting on Hugo’s head. He hadn’t realized anyone else would be awake. The Dom’s presence wasn’t threatening, not exactly, but it carried weight. Quiet, controlled weight that made Jungkook’s instincts curl inwards, even when he didn’t want them to.

Yoongi didn’t look up immediately, too focused on whatever he was chopping at the counter. But his tone had been mild, even a touch amused. Jungkook hesitated in the doorway, unsure if he was allowed to come in, unsure if he should, unsure if he wanted to. But Hugo was already plodding across the floor to his water bowl, tail still wagging.

“C’mon in,” Yoongi said, finally glancing over his shoulder, “I am an early riser myself and make breakfast basically every day.”

Jungkook blinked, panic low in his tummy. For some reason, though, he found it wasn’t building like it usually did when he had to share a space with one of the Eros’ members. His fingers weren’t tingling, his breathing was still somewhat even, and even his head wasn’t spinning. He wanted to analyse whatever… this was further, wanted to understand why alarm bells weren’t ringing like they usually did. Remaining focused on something had been difficult for a long time now, but he had become an expert in understanding when he was in the presence of danger, so why was everything so... out-of-reach at that moment?

The dom resumed cutting the radishes placed on the cutting board, the soft thud of the knife lulling in its semplicity.

“Come sit at the counter,” Yoongi said, still not looking up, “I’ll make you some tea.”

As if a switch had been flipped, Jungkook moved. Quiet and obedient, he stepped further into the kitchen and perched on one of the stools, purposefully choosing one a little farther from where the Dom stood slicing vegetables. The distance wasn’t much, but it gave him just enough space to breathe.

It was only then that he noticed the music. Soft, almost imperceptible at first, flowing from some unseen speaker and filling the room like steam. The melody was mellow, almost lazy, but the voice singing it held an aching weight, the kind that demanded to be heard. The words were in English, unfamiliar to him, but there was something in the cadence, in the way it wrapped itself around the beat, that made his head gently bob along without him even noticing.

“Do you like it? The song?” Yoongi asked, tone casual, like he was inquiring about the weather.

Jungkook froze, realisation slamming into him.

He had been moving. Indulging. Enjoying.

His head lowered in shame, the rhythm leaking from his body as quickly as it had entered.

Another rule, carved into him long ago: submissives weren’t allowed such distractions. Music was a luxury reserved for doms, and maybe, occasionally, for switches, if granted permission. But subs were meant to be focused, clean, available, desirable. Music was a temptation that led away from purpose, away from duty, it was something that pulled you toward yourself, and that, above all, had never been allowed.

A sub should never be greedy or selfish. Pleasure could only be given to, never taken from, and if one was caught enjoying something so ostentatiously, the consequences were dire. Jungkook had seen them, the subs who had been caught listening to music. They were then forced to wear those horrible noise cancelling earbuds, denying them the privilege of hearing even the most basic of sounds for however long their doms saw fit.

Panic surged in Jungkook’s chest. His body tensed, hands gripping the edge of the stool, eyes flicking downward as his brain scrambled to fix it, whatever it was. There had to be a way to undo this, to shrink it down, to smooth it over before it could be noticed and judged.

But Yoongi, either oblivious (or deliberately gentle with the tension crackling in the room), simply continued in the same even tone, “I composed it. Sound and lyrics.”

Jungkook’s gaze flicked up, startled.

“I had to ask Joonie to help me with the English, but this song, this whole album, really, is one of my latest creations.”

There was no boast in his voice, no pride curling at the edges, no demand for praise. He didn’t sound like someone showing off, someone waiting for validation. He was just… explaining, telling Jungkook, plainly, like it mattered that Jungkook knew. Like it mattered to Jungkook.

That was more disorienting than the music itself. Jungkook didn’t know what to say. Offering a compliment, especially an unsolicited one, would’ve been wildly inappropriate. But staying silent when a Dom offered something of theirs also felt like a misstep. The rules felt like oil and water in his head, no longer clear, no longer solid.

Yoongi gave him a soft smile, “I produce music,” he said, turning his attention back to the cutting board, “it’s mine and Namjoon’s job. It can be hard, sometimes outright frustrating. But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

He brushed the radishes off the board and into a bowl, then oiled a pan and turned on the stove, the click of the burner lighting cutting through the silence like punctuation.

“Sometimes it’s the only way I know how to express myself, through music and lyrics. As if life just... seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music.”

Jungkook stared at him, absorbing.

He hadn’t truly listened to a song in years. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d made it through a track from beginning to end without flinching at the joy it stirred, without shutting it down before it could unravel him. But once, back then, music had been everything. It had been escape, and connection. Self.

And dancing.

He used to love dancing most of all. The memories were soft and faded, but he could still see flashes, bare feet on cool flooring, his old bedroom lit only by the slant of sunlight through curtains, music pouring from a cheap speaker. He’d moved with the sound, let it wash over him, trusted his body to respond before thought could interfere. The melody had felt like it was wrapping around his skin, like it knew him even when he didn’t know himself.

He didn’t do that anymore. He didn’t know how to do that anymore. As if somewhere along the line, he hadn’t just lost touch with himself, but also with the things that had once helped him understand himself.

He kept his gaze fixed on the glossy marble of the worktop as Yoongi worked, the music filling the quiet with a presence so gentle it somehow left more room for breathing, rather than less. There was a comfort to it. The soft scrape of ceramic against cutting board, the low hum of the flame, even the cadence of Yoongi’s footsteps as he moved between stove and fridge and counter, each task completed without so much as a sigh or a single raised voice.

His former houses had always rung with voices, sometimes with laughter, true, but more often with shrillness, or the clatter of something being flung, or the stomp and snarl of an owner in a bad mood. Here, sound seemed weightless. Jungkook risked looking up. Yoongi was focused, serene, his face devoid of menace or expectation. He worked with a level of absorption that almost made it seem like Jungkook wasn’t even there, though every few moments the Dom’s eyes would flicker towards his direction, as if making sure that Jungkook was alright, that he wasn’t slipping through invisible cracks, like sometimes he felt happening. Like he was taking care of him.

A new song began to play. Slower, stripped down, a quiet hum of guitar strings under a voice that barely seemed to rise above a whisper. It drifted through the kitchen like mist, curling around the corners, filling the space between the clink of utensils and the sizzle from the pan. Jungkook didn’t recognise the track, but it didn’t matter.

He felt it before he understood it: the tight pinch in his throat, the way his shoulders drew in a little, how his hands folded tighter in his lap. The melody reached into his chest and touched something that hadn’t been touched in a long time. Not even bruised, just numbed, quieted. As if the part of him that used to live for rhythm and flow had been buried under years of silence and had only now twitched at the surface, surprised to hear its own name called.

He looked down quickly, biting the inside of his cheek. Embarrassed, maybe, or just overwhelmed by the absurd gentleness of it all. His body didn’t know what to do with safety, not when it came without a price. Not when it asked for nothing in return.

The music played on, a notes of a piano began to slowly drift into the track.

Yoongi said nothing, as if he hadn’t noticed.

Overwhelmed, Jungkook felt like he needed to do something with his hands, to dodge all these too-big feelings that were stirring inside his chest that he wasn’t ready to unpack yet.

He saw a bowl filled with cabbage, a mix of spices sat on top of the leaves, ready to be mixed. He grabbed the bowl, ready to start mixing the ingredients with his hands.

A wooden spoon was silently placed next to him. Jungkook looked at the dom, who had now thrown the radishes in the pan, the quiet sizzling mixing with the music.

Jungkook hesitated. Then, carefully, like he was testing the weight of his own skin, he reached out and grabbed the spoon, his hand trembling slightly as he wrapped his fingers around it. He began to stir.

Yoongi didn’t look up. He didn’t comment, didn’t praise or thank or mark the moment in any way that would make it harder to hold onto. He just adjusted the heat on the stove and grabbed the eggs from the fridge.

Together, they listened to the whole album.

 

 

###

 

 

It hadn’t been a good day, if Jungkook had to be honest.

After that quiet moment with Yoongi in the early morning, something had shifted, or maybe it had simply cracked a little further. Breakfast had been a disaster. He’d barely touched the rice, staring at it with something close to revulsion, then guilt, then rage. At one point, he’d almost wanted to throw the bowl across the room, just to see. Just to see what they would do, because honestly, at that moment, he would have welcomed anything else, punishment, reprimand, being sent away, rather than having to sit there and eat.

He knew what would happen if he started eating again. Really eating. If he allowed his body to feel safe, to gain weight, to soften back into something human. He knew what came next. They would take it all away, they always didm, and this time wouldn’t be any different. He would let his guard down, start to trust, start to need, and then it would be gone. Food withheld, freedom revoked, safety dismantled piece by piece, like it had never been real to begin with.

So it felt like a kind of punishment, to even try. To chew. To swallow. Because what came after, the slow starvation, the madness that clawed at the insides of his skull, that wasn’t a game he was willing to play anymore. But they never got angry, not once. Even when his hands shook and the tears came, even when he whispered broken pleases into the curve of his wrist. Even then, he was met only with steady voices, quiet encouragement, soft reassurances.

They didn’t back down either.

He had to eat. And so he did, mouthful by mouthful, while his insides screamed, and by the end of it, every time, he felt stripped raw. Like someone had taken sandpaper to his nerves and left him to fray in the wind. He knew there were other things on his schedule, group activities, quiet games, maybe even a walk, but by midmorning his thoughts had gone thin and stretched, drifting into that strange empty space where time didn’t quite feel real. He hadn’t meant to. It just happened: a fog rolling in, a place inside himself he didn’t know how to stop falling into.

The Eros noticed, of course, their eyes were gentle, but heavy with concern. He saw it in the way Taehyung tilted his head, in how Jimin’s voice dropped half a register when he spoke, in the way Hoseok would check the calendar twice as if hoping it held a different answer. Still, they tried. They offered card games and movies and little walks around the garden. The walks were his favorite, when he could manage them.

But today, the weight in his chest hadn’t let up. By late afternoon, the ache in his body had grown too loud to ignore, so he’d wandered, slow and untethered, until he found himself in the common room, blanket clutched loosely in his fingers, limbs curled in on themselves like a child who had forgotten how to be held.

Jimin peeked his head inside the room, voice light and casual.

“Ah, here you are. We were looking just for you.”

Jungkook immediately tensed.

Finally, he thought. Finally.

Finally, the punishment. The reprimand. The order to leave.

He braced for it like a wave about to break, shoulders rigid, breath caught somewhere in the middle of his throat. There it was: the moment they would tell him that he was too much, that they simply couldn’t keep trying, that the effort it took to hold his pieces together far outweighed whatever they thought he was worth.

He imagined their words already: “You’re going back.” “It’s time.” “We tried.”

And maybe they’d send him back to the clinic, where it had been disorenting, but it had been good. And from there, who knew? Maybe even farther back, to the place where the world had been made of chains and endless rules and countless punishment. Where eye contact was a crime and crying was a weakness. Somewhere familiar.

And wasn’t that the worst part? That the thought of it felt familiar, safe, even. Predictable.

He didn’t want to go back. Somewhere inside the tangle of his brain, he knew this place was better. Here, they were helping him. Here, no one had chained him to the ground or refused to let him speak. Here, they had taught him how to breathe again.

But still, he waited. Because familiarity sometimes felt safer than the hope that maybe, maybe, he wouldn’t be abandoned this time.

Jimin stepped inside, steps slow and measured. Behind him came Seokjin.

Ah. There it is. Of course the head Dom would come in to deliver the final blow. It had to come from him.

Jungkook dropped his gaze to the floor. He didn’t move, nor breathe. Just listened.

And then—

“Coming!” a distant voice chirped from the hallway, followed by the quick thudding of fast feet.

Jungkook blinked, his head tilted, just slightly, toward the sound.

Hugo appeared first, a blur of excitement, barreling into the room at full speed and completely failing to stop in time. He slammed into the side of the couch with a loud thud and a confused little yelp, limbs tangling in a way that made him look like a startled octopus.

“Hugo!” Jimin groaned, though there was no real annoyance in his tone, just the kind of fond exasperation reserved for people you loved too much to stay mad at, “you do that all the time. You need to figure out how legs work, darling.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened.

Then Taehyung entered.

Excitement clear on his face. An unabashed happiness that Jungkook had come to realise was his baseline emotion.

And in his hand—

A hairbrush. And hairbands.

Jungkook stared.

The confusion must have written itself all across his face because Taehyung stopped, blinked, then grinned even wider. He stopped in front of where the sub was positioned on the couch and kneeled gracefully, looking up at him expectantly.

“We thought,” he said, drawing out the last syllable, “maybe you’d like it if we did your hair?” He offered up the brush, cradled daintily in both palms, like some kind of offering.

“It’s okay if not! I mean—you don’t have to, if you don’t want. Like, no pressure, never ever. But your hair is like, the perfect length for it, and i think you would look so pretty and, and, sometimes, when my mind gets… all tangled, it helps when Jiminie or Seokjin-hyung does this for me.”

He shrugged, soft and genuine, “I always feel a bit better.”

Jungkook’s brain stuttered. No one had ever offered to do his hair just for the sake of it. The only people who had ever touched his hair before had done so to cut it, or to grab him by it, to pull his head back and force him to listen, to punish, to prove a point.

Even during those rare moments when his hair was brushed, it was always perfunctory, harsh, an act to make him presentable for someone, never for himself.

Taehyung looked like he was offering because he wanted to, not because he had to, or because someone told him it was good for Jungkook, but because it was something he genuinely enjoyed being done to him, and by extension, as if it were simple logic, something Jungkook might enjoy too.

Jungkook knew this was part of the care plan; another careful step, introducing touch again. And to say he was terrified would be an understatement.

He had learned to hate touch, loathe it, fear it with every cell in his body. Touch meant pain. Meant rough hands, grabbing, yanking, punishing. And when it wasn’t harsh, when it started out soft and coaxing, that was somehow worse, because then it meant danger masked as kindness. It meant a command cloaked in sweetness, a threat waiting behind a smile. Touch was never just touch. It was currency, control. It was conditional. And nothing had ever been done just for the sake of feeling good.

No one in the last five years had treated touch like something beautiful, something safe. Something his. Something he could want. So he had learned to run from it. To shrink, to flinch, to hide his skin, because when no one touched him, the pain lessened, the world stayed at arm’s length, and there was a strange kind of safety in that: in not being reached for, not being hurt again.

He knew what he looked like naked. He hadn’t looked in the mirror for years, but the glimpses he caught while changing were enough. The ruined patches of skin, the lines, the dents, the memories.

He had a been disobedient, bad, unworthy sub.

And his body told the story—again and again, every day, in every quiet glance.

So no, he didn’t trust touch, didn’t believe in it. And even now, sitting perfectly still, watching Taehyung wait for his answer with a brush held out like a gift—

He was scared out of his mind.

Seokjin came into view and lowered himself onto the opposite couch, a serene expression resting gently on his face.

“Taetae is right,” he said, voice soft and warm, “it is a perfect way to relax. What we usually do is—he sits on the floor, right between my legs, so it’s easier to brush. Then we spend a long, long time brushing it out. Slow and gentle. Don’t we, sweetheart?”

The question had been meant for the switch, who quickly looked up at the head som and nodded fervently, a small, bashful smile tugging at his lips.

“And then, with the help of Jiminie,” Seokjin went on, “we section his hair and start making these tiny plaits that, once you brush them out, make his hair go all wavy.” He finished the explanation with a soft smile, as if the act itself was a memory he cherished.

Jimin, who had moved to sit on the same couch as Jungkook, just a few feet away, added cheerfully, “And we have so many different colours for the hairbands. You get to choose as many as you like.”

Taehyung pushed himself up a little on his knees, leaning toward Jungkook in a mock whisper.

“I like yellow the best.”

Jungkook looked at them, one at a time. They had made it abundantly clear the day before: this part of the care plan didn’t have to start right away. They would offer, but they would follow his lead.

And he almost wanted to say no, just to see what would happen. Just to test if they would finally snap, punish him for rejecting what they believed was good for him, or if they would really, truly listen and back off.

But… it sounded so nice. The way they described it, the gentleness, the care. It was something he hadn’t felt in such a long, long time. And now, his curiosity, still raw and cautious, was growing by the second. A quiet want to feel what it was like, to be taken care of in that way.

As if sensing the inner struggle flickering behind his eyes, Seokjin spoke again, “if you don’t like it, or if it feels like too much at any point, we stop. No questions asked. We’ll check in with you throughout, and if you decide you’ve had enough, we’ll put the brush and the hairbands away and just watch a film.”

Jungkook took a couple more minutes to think about it, fear thick and bitter in his mouth. His eyes flicked to the bag of hairbands, the tangle of colours forming a messy little ball of rainbow. Then, slowly, he looked back at Taehyung—still kneeling, still waiting, his smile just as bright, just as patient.

And then Jungkook moved. He crept down from the couch, careful, each motion deliberate and small. His limbs felt shaky, but he settled himself onto the floor, cross-legged, directly in front of the other couch.

Once positioned, he looked up again.

Taehyung stared at him with something like awe flickering in his eyes. Then, with no sudden movements, he reached for the tools with quiet purpose and rose to his feet. Even that simple act made Jungkook flinch inwardly, his body tensing further with every inch the switch stepped closer.

Panic began to twist inside him. He wanted to bolt. His chest grew tight with the impulse to run, to hide, to undo whatever he'd just allowed. This was a mistake. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to let anyone in like this.

“Okay,” Taehyung said gently, his voice narrating each step as he moved behind him, “I’m just going to sit on the couch behind you now.”

Jungkook felt the dip of the cushions as Taehyung settled into place. He stared ahead, frozen.

This is the worst, he thought wildly. I can’t see him. I can’t see him, what is he going to do now?

“I’m picking up the brush,” Taehyung said softly, “I’ll start on the right side of your head.”

Jungkook barely had time to react, the panic bubbling so close to the surface that it nearly boiled over, until he felt it.

The brush.

A gentle stroke, soft bristles gliding across his scalp, light as a whisper.

He went still, every muscle locked and trembling, but he didn’t move away.

The brush made another pass, and then another.

And slowly, very slowly, the panic didn’t grow louder. It balanced on the edge of something tender and terrifying. He sat there, breathing shallowly, eyes wide but still, listening to nothing but the sound of the bristles moving through his hair.

And for the first time, he didn’t pull away. He stayed perfectly upright, stiff as a streetlight, but focused keenly on the way each stroke patterned itself across the back of his head.

It didn’t feel like anything he’d remembered. The sensation was foreign, faintly ticklish, not at all the bruising he’d braced for. Taehyung’s hands were soft, controlled, never once grabbing or jerking, and the brush was… it was gentle. It was just a brush. There was no threat in it, no second act. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched his hair without wanting to own it, to claim it as proof he’d been good, or bad, or useful. The quiet repetition of it now, just a brush moving steadily through tangled hair, made his mind spin a little. It was so easy, not transactional, not an ordeal. Just care, happening in real time.

After the first few minutes, his breathing slowed. The rigid line of his spine softened bit by bit and his shoulders started to lower from where they were pressed close to his ears.

There was a rhythm to it, a kind of slow, meandering tide rolling over him—tense, then softening, tense again, then softer still.

The couch creaked as Taehyung shifted his weight now and then, sometimes pausing to comment on how nice the hair felt (“like silk, really, did you use the conditioner, Kookie? You must have. It’s crazy soft.”) and sometimes humming beneath his breath, little unfinished fragments of a tune that seemed to circle and return, but never resolve.

Occasionally, he would rest the back of his hand on Jungkook’s scalp, just for a second, while smoothing out a section or untangling it gently with his fingers. Jungkook noticed that even when Taehyung touched him without the brush, he didn’t feel like shrinking away from it. It felt soothing, a gentle way he forgot existed.

“Can we continue Jungkook? Are you feeling okay?” came Seokjin’s question, and he couldn’t do anything but nod his head a couple of times, slowly, as to not disturb Taehyung’s work.

“…nice,” he said before he could stop himself. And it was, nice, great even. There were no better words to describe the sensation at the moment.

Jimin shifted slightly on the couch, smiling fondly at him, “it is nice, isn’t it? Our Tae always goes so deep into—” but before he could finish the sentence, Seokjin cleared his throat, stopping the switch.

Jungkook would have liked to focus on what was happening around him, why the head dom interrupted Jimin, but something was happening, something he couldn’t really explain. It felt like when his mind went far away, like when he lost track of time for such long periods of time, he couldn’t remember why or how it had even started.

But this… this was different. Good different. It felt nicer, a kind of mellow that allowed his senses to quiet down, not because he shut them out, but because there was no need for them to scream. The panic didn’t just recede, it dropped below its usual hum, to a level so low it almost resembled calm. Or something close to it, he couldn’t name the sensation exactly, but for once, that wasn’t frightening. Not knowing didn’t feel dangerous, it felt like a breath of fresh air, like coming home after being gone too long.

“Do you think he’s…?” came Jimin’s voice from somewhere far off.

Someone, Seokjin, maybe, murmured a response, but Jungkook couldn’t catch the words. He was too focused on the feeling of the brush grazing the nape of his neck, too absorbed in the hush of the moment.

“I’m going to start braiding now, honey,” Taehyung said softly, his usual exuberance replaced by a gentle, measured tone.

Jungkook nodded.

And if brushing had been nice… this was something else entirely.

The small push and pull of his hair being sectioned and guided into plaits felt divine. The light tugs, never sharp or punishing, sent tingles from his scalp all the way to his toes.

His mind drifted, far and quiet, but not disconnected. He was more in his body than he’d been in a long time. For once, he wasn’t shrinking from sensation, but he was leaning into it.

Time passed, he couldn’t tell how much, but at one point Taehyung placed the last headband (he hadn’t chosen the colours, but maybe, perhaps, next time he will) in his hair, adjusted another one, and murmured, “all done, do you want to see?”

Jungkook would have loved to say yes, would have loved to see the final product, what had brought so many new and amazing sensations. But he knew, even in this fuzzy-feel good state, that looking in a mirror would shatter this fragile, tender moment, and he didn’t want that. He wanted to cherish the sensations he felt tonight, without worrying about the final product.

He shook his head, but one of his shaky hands reached up, and gently touched his hair. The sensation between his fingertips was new, but welcomed, something he wanted to feel over and over again.

“Okay honey, let’s stay here for a bit longer, then it’s bedtime, okay?” Seokjin said.

For once, he didn’t feel as afraid of his voice as he usually was. He had stayed in the room, with him and the switches, but he had not touched him or interfered. He had simply observed, as if making sure, like Yoongi had done that morning, that Jungkook would be alright and wouldn’t start feeling uncomfortable.

He nodded once again, content to let his mind drift in this pleasant new-found place.

At some point, not long after, he started to come back to himself: the fuzziness slowly dissipated, and panic and fear crept back in, sitting heavy on his chest. However, they weren’t stifling like they usually were. He could still feel them, sure, but they weren’t being as loud. He wasn’t blinded by terror and the need to cover, to find somewhere safer.

The present, the room he was in, the people that filled it, it was all still dangerous, but it wasn’t intolerable.

He quickly blincked, eyes focusing more clearly on what he was seeing in front of him. He shifted his gaze, looking at Seokjin first, then Jimin.

“Hi honey.” he said, lower lip slightly trembling.

Seokjin stood up, catching Jungkook’s attention. He smiled, looking teary himself, “okay darlings, time for bed. Jungkook, would you like Taehyung and Jimin to tuck you in?”

And now that Seokjin mentioned it, being able to have one last moment with them, especially Taehyung, sounded like the perfect way to end the night. So he nodded, shyness creeping back, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“Wonderful. I will leave you to it, then. These two petals will look after you well.”

With that, he turned and started to make his way towards the living room’s entrance.

But, before he disappeared into the corridor, he turned around one last time, looking at Jungkook, “you did very well tonight, honey. I—we are very glad you allowed us the privilege to spend time with you.”

And with that, he was out of the room.

 

 

He quickly got ready for bed, feeling his eyes drooping. When he came out of the en-suite bathroom, Jimin and Taehyung were already in the bedroom, wearing their pajamas and sitting on the same armchair as the night prior, one on top of the other. They didn’t seem to have noticed him come out, as they both had their eyes closed, softly rubbing their noses together, a low ‘I love you’ whispered by Jimin.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, he closed the door a bit louder than he usually did, breaking the tender moment.

“Ah Jungkookie, sorry, sorry. I'm sure you’re tired.”

Jimin untrangled himself from his spot, standing up and allowing Taehyung to do the same.

“let’s tuck you in, yeah?” said the younger switch.

But then Jungkook’s hand shot to his head, where his hair was still braided.

Taehyung, seemingly understanding, shot him a fond smile, “don’t worry, they won’t come undone during the night, I can attest to that. They’ll be slightly messier tomorrow morning, but it’s also fun to undo them, seeing your hair get all curly.”

And Jungkook couldn’t stop himself before blurting out, “again?”

That seemed to shock both switches, as they wore the same stupefied look on their faces. But before Jungkook could grow embarassed, Jimin quickly added, “of course we can do it again, honey. All the times you want. We’ll be delighted.”

That settled Jungkook, who nodded once, before climbing on the big bed and made himself comfortable under the covers. Jimin and Taehyung approached the bed, standing next to each other, looking like two pretty dools.

“I really enjoyed tonight, Jungkookie.”

“Me too, lots and lots.”

Jungkook clutched the covers, pulling them tighter around himself. His eyes were starting to close on their own accord, making it difficult to stay awake.

“…thank you.” he managed to whisper.

The last thing he heard were two quite ‘good night’s being whispered back.

Perhaps, it will be a good night.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Notes:

Hello hello :)
Habemus wifi!!
My wifi is finally back, and I can write again :,) I am sorry it took me so long (once again :((((), but now I can finally open my google docs and write my sweet silly fan fiction!

TRIGGER WARNINGS
eating disorder and food insecurity
Mention of panic attacks
Mention of torture

As always, if I missed something, let me know!!
I will start replying to all your super amazing fantastic comments after dinner and beating my dad at a card game!

I hope you enjoy (feeling a bit insecure about this one, ufft) and let me know your thoughts!
Next chapter, our Kookie will go on an adventure! I can't wait to start writing it! :D

I love you ihih and I hope you see horses, wherever you are!
See you soon! xxxxxx

It was early the next day. The house was quiet in a way it rarely managed to be, the kind of silence that seemed to stretch between walls still holding the warmth of sleep.

In the kitchen, Seokjin moved restlessly between cupboards and counters while Hoseok leaned against the table, his arms folded loosely across his chest. Namjoon had claimed a chair, hair still mussed from sleeping, and Yoongi sat beside him with a mug that sent thin curls of steam toward the ceiling.

The two switches were still in bed, both having admitted the night before that they felt a little unsteady, a little fuzzy after tending to Jungkook. Floaty, Jimin had murmured, Taehyung nodding faintly in agreement before they snuggled in bed next to each other. Jungkook, too, remained asleep; none of them were surprised by that.

Seokjin’s voice broke the quiet, carrying with it the weight of his worry.

“He fell so quickly,” he said, not quite to anyone in particular, “one moment he seemed present—well, as present as one can be when already deep in drop, and the next he was just… floating.”

His hands fluttered in front of him as though he could shape the sensation out of air, before dropping back down uselessly, “it was like he slipped away in an instant.”

Yoongi sipped his coffee, contemplative, “it’s not surprising,” he said, voice rough-velvet and even, “he lets his defences down for the first time in years, even if it’s just a little, and the crash is going to be heavy. He has to learn how to come back from that.”

Seokjin nodded, eyes distant, “I thought for a moment he’d completely checked out, but he was tracking everything. Every sound. He just… didn’t know where to put himself.”

Namjoon scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly.

“It’s not something to panic over,” he said at last, his voice carrying a quiet certainty that drew their attention.

“What happened last night, it wasn’t dangerous. Overwhelming, yes, but not dangerous. He didn’t lose himself, nor he panicked at the feeling, ” finished Yoongi.

Seokjin’s lips pressed together, unease still written across his features.

Namjoon leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, “we can work with that. What matters now is helping him understand what it means, what it feels like, and that it isn’t something to be afraid of. We explain it to him, we prepare him, and next time it won’t be such a freefall.”

Across the table, Hoseok’s mouth curved into something softer, though his gaze was still distant.

“I thought introducing touch would be something that would have taken weeks, if not months. I wasn’t expecting him to trust us so… readily.”

Yoongi hummed, low and thoughtful, “it means we must be doing something right.”

He set his mug down with deliberate care, eyes flicking to Seokjin, “we just have to make sure he knows where the ground is when he floats.”

Something in Seokjin’s shoulders eased, only a fraction, but enough for the others to notice. He glanced down at his hands, finally still, and breathed out. Herubbed at his temple, the weight of responsibility still settled heavy in his chest.

“I’ll talk to him,” he said finally, voice softer than before but no less resolute, “he needs to know what happened last night, what it meant. We didn’t realise he’d slip so easily, and that’s on us. From now on, if there’s even a chance he could fall into subspace, we tell him. He deserves to choose whether he wants to step into it or not.”

The others nodded, agreement rippling through the quiet kitchen.

“Exactly,” Namjoon said, leaning back in his chair, “he will understand that choice is fundamental in this aspect of submission.”

“Especially now,” Yoongi added, his tone firm but even, “he’s barely learning what safety feels like. If he’s going to float again, he needs the anchor of knowing it’s his decision.”

Seokjin exhaled, a small release of tension, “then that’s what we’ll give him. Clarity, and a way out if he wants it.”

Hoseok, who had been turning his empty mug slowly between his palms, glanced up with a faint smile, “and maybe we can find small ways to explore, too, like low-risk things. Gentle, grounding activities that let him test his comfort without pushing him too far. That way he can practice making those choices in moments that don’t carry so much weight.”

Yoongi hummed his approval, and even Seokjin’s expression eased further, as though Hoseok’s suggestion had given him a direction to hold onto.

Seokjin started taking out the ingredients he would need for breakfast.

“I’ll talk to him during our check-in before lunch,” he decided aloud, the certainty in his voice grounding them all.

Before anyone could respond, their attention shifted toward the archway. A tousled Jimin padded in, hair sticking up in soft tufts, one hand rubbing sleep from his eye.

“Hi, baby darling,” Yoongi murmured, a smile forming on his face, arms opening without hesitation. Jimin drifted into his embrace like it was the most natural thing in the world, tucking himself against the dom’s rumpled t-shirt, nuzzling close with a sigh.

“How did you sleep? How are you feeling?” Yoongi asked, fingers already carding gently through Jimin’s hair.

But Jimin only shushed him softly, pressing a small hand to Yoongi’s chest. “it’s still sleepy time, hyung,” he whispered, voice low and playful, “in five minutes, please.”

Yoongi chuckled, a warm sound that seemed to melt into the morning hush, and the others joined in, their conversation resuming in softer tones, as not to disturb the switch’s dreams.

 

 

###

 

 

After Hoseok and Taehyung had shared their account of yesterday’s little garden “date,” Namjoon had found himself quietly pleased (and more than a little eager) to show Jungkook another corner of their home. By mid-morning, he went looking for him and found the boy tucked at the low table with Yoongi and Jimin, bent over an intricate-looking board game that sprawled across the surface in a mess of carved pieces and colorful markers.

Namjoon lingered until the round played itself out, watching with faint amusement as Jungkook’s careful strategy was undone by Jimin’s mischievous grin.

When the laughter subsided, he crouched by the table, his voice warm and coaxing.

“I heard you really liked the garden yesterday,” he said. “How about I show you the indoor one?”

Jungkook’s head popped up, eyes widening with a brightness that felt almost childlike. He scrambled to his feet so quickly it was almost a scamper, only to freeze mid-step, glancing back at Yoongi and Jimin as though guilty for abandoning them.

Yoongi waved him off with an easy flick of the wrist, “go on, honey. Enjoy your time with our resident green-thumb genius.”

Namjoon huffed, rolling his eyes as he stood, “they like the rest of you just fine,” he said dryly, “but you know how it goes—dads get a different kind of love.”

The banter tugged a smile from Yoongi, and Jimin let out a snort. Jungkook, meanwhile, looked between the two doms with open curiosity, his gaze flitting as though he were trying to piece together a puzzle he’d only just realized existed.

“Come on,” Namjoon said, offering his hand in a way that was more invitation than instruction, and when Jungkook hesitated, he simply smiled and let his hand drop again, leading the way with a gentle, “this way, Kookie.”

The indoor garden was on the west side of the house, past a short corridor lined with framed photographs and oddly shaped driftwood sculptures (Taehyung’s handiwork, if memory served).

The space itself was a sunroom, glass-walled on three sides, the hush of the world outside held at bay by a delicate orchard of potted trees, trailing vines, and bursts of unexpected colour. Even in the chill of late winter, it was vibrant in here, an oasis humming with the promise of green. In the centre, a wrought-iron table bore a scattering of seed trays, gardening shears, and a battered watering can.

Jungkook stopped at the threshold, blinking at the sudden brightness. He took a cautious step in, then another, gaze flickering around the lush, enclosed world. Namjoon watched him, noting how the tension in his spine subsiding little by little. The dom lingered by the threshold for a moment longer, allowing the sub to the take the room in.

The boy was unfolding like a leaf in sunlight, still shy and hesitant, but softening by degrees as the garden wrapped around him. The fuzziness in his gaze lingered, a tell-tale sign of the subdrop’s haze, and yet beneath it there was life, curiosity, an immense amount of wonder.

Namjoon didn’t know why it was plants that called to him, why leaves and petals seemed to coax out such light in someone who had been denied so much of it, but he wasn’t about to question the gift. If this was what helped Jungkook find reasons to keep reaching forward, then Namjoon would tend it with the same care he gave his own garden.

“This is my little kingdom,” he said quietly, gesturing to the room with a sweep of his hand, “I love my plants, and they love me back. It’s easy loving them, even when they can’t say it out loud.”

Jungkook turned at the words, eyes flicking up at him for a heartbeat before skittering away again, pulled back to the broad monstera pressed against the glass of the eastern wall. Just as Hoseok had described, the boy’s hand rose instinctively, fingers hovering above the glossy, hole-punctured leaves, only to retreat a breath away from contact. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, guilt and longing warring in his expression.

Namjoon smiled, reaching for the spray bottle on a low table and misting the glossy leaves of an alocasia, “go right ahead,” he encouraged, tone warm but unhurried, “she likes all the pets.”

Tentatively, Jungkook brushed his fingers across the monstera’s surface. His touch was reverent, almost fragile, as if afraid the leaf might dissolve beneath his hand. He traced the ragged holes with growing wonder, shoulders loosening as if each mark of imperfection was its own kind of beauty.

Namjoon stepped closer, pruning a pot of trailing ivy as he spoke.

“Did you know,” he murmured, “that those holes help her survive? They let more sunlight reach the lower leaves, and they make her strong against winds and heavy rain. She’s one of the oldest plants I have—very dear to me.”

Jungkook’s lips parted, eyes still fixed on the leaf.

A fragile sound left him, hesitant and shaky, “d-does s-she… she ha—mmh.” His voice broke off, frustration twisting across his features as he struggled.

Namjoon straightened, spray bottle still in hand, heart giving a tight tug. The effort was written in every tremor of the boy’s body, the sheer courage it took to try, to push against the walls that had been hammered into him. For Jungkook to even try, to push words through the rawness of his throat, toward a Dom he had no reason yet to trust was nothing short of extraordinary. Namjoon felt it strike him deep, a weighty kind of honor that pressed against his ribs, steady and grounding. He could almost hear Seokjin’s voice in his head, reminding him that the smallest steps were often the most sacred, that courage sometimes whispered instead of shouted.

And still, honor did not absolve him of responsibility; if anything, it doubled it. Jungkook’s curiosity was a living, trembling thing, and Namjoon would never let it wither in silence.

He paused mid-spritz, set the bottle down on the low table, and shifted closer—only a single plant’s breadth separating them, the subtle line of distance he knew the boy needed. His voice, when it came, was firm but wrapped in warmth.

“Ask her,” he said, tipping his head toward the monstera, “on top of pets, she loves being asked questions.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitched, the faintest shadow of doubt, but he didn’t protest. He only drew in a careful breath, shoulders tight with the effort, and tried again.

“Wha—what is y-your nam… name?” The whisper was thin, fragile as spider silk, but it reached the air between them all the same. His fingers never stopped their featherlight stroking of the leaf.

Namjoon swallowed hard, something swelling in his chest that felt too layered to pin down with a single word. Proud didn’t begin to cover it. Fond came closer, yes, but still fell short. There was a rare, quiet gratification too, a bone-deep gratitude for being allowed to stand here in this moment, helping a boy who had been denied so much find his way to voice, to choice, to connection.

Namjoon’s lips curved, a small, knowing smile as he leaned toward the wide, glossy leaves, “her name is Olivia,” he said with playful reverence, as though confiding a secret.

“She’s very proud of it too, so you’ll have to say it nicely.”

Something flickered in Jungkook’s eyes, something startled and fragile, like a spark in kindling, and though his mouth didn’t move again, his hand softened against the leaf, almost as if acknowledging the name. Olivia, in her stillness, seemed to approve.

Namjoon let the silence stretch, just enough for the boy to find his own rhythm in the quiet petting of green. Only then did he reach for another spray bottle resting on the shelf, weighing it in his palm before extending it across the distance between them.

“Do you want to help me water them?” he asked.

Jungkook’s gaze darted from the bottle to Namjoon’s face. The want in him was so sharp, Namjoon could almost taste it in the air, raw, bright, and painfully honest. To be allowed to care for something so simple, to help it live and thrive, it was a yearning written in the set of his shoulders, in the way his throat worked before sound came.

But over that eager thrum lay its old companions: doubt, fear, the cloying hesitation of someone who had learned too many times that trying led to pain.

His head dipped, the hair falling forward like a curtain, and he shrugged, “don’t… don’t know h-how.”

The words were heavy, laced with shame, but Namjoon only breathed them in and nodded once, slow and certain.

The dom understood.

Because helplessness was no stranger to subs who had survived cruelty. They had been taught that effort was useless, that no matter how carefully they followed the rules, punishment came anyway, indiscriminate and cruel. They had been taught that mistakes were inevitable, and that even success could be twisted into failure by a Dom who had never believed they deserved gentleness in the first place. Better not to try at all than to risk the sting of correction.

Namjoon knew, and more than that, he refused to let the boy stay in that barren place.

“I’ll teach you, yeah?” His voice came low and steady, as sure as soil beneath roots, “we’ll go from plant to plant, flower to flower, and I’ll tell you all about their care. You’ll be an expert in no time.”

He kept his arm extended, patient, the spray bottle resting like an open invitation in his hand. No demand nor hurry present in his gesture.

Jungkook stared at the bottle for a long moment, the wrestling of want and worry playing out open and honest across his face. Then, very slowly, he reached for it. His grip was careful, almost apologetic, as though the privilege itself might prove too heavy to hold.

“Okay,” Namjoon said, voice low so as not to tip the moment, “I’ll show you.”

He raised his own bottle, demonstrating with ease as he twisted the nozzle.

“Depending on how you angle this, the water will spray differently. A mist, a stream, plants need different things on different days.”

He gave the trigger a gentle squeeze, letting a fine cloud of droplets settle over the leaves in front of him.

Jungkook studied every movement intently. He glanced at his own bottle, turning the nozzle with slow, testing clicks. Then, lifting it toward the monstera, his trembling fingers squeezed until a delicate mist escaped. The sudden spray startled him, making him jump back a fraction, and his cheeks flushed crimson almost at once.

Namjoon chuckled softly, not in mockery but in reassurance, a warm hum of approval in the quiet space between them, “exactly like that. Perfect.”

“Now,” he continued, nodding toward the broad leaves, “Olivia likes lots and lots of water, and I can see her soil’s a little dry.”

Jungkook turned his head this way and that, squinting beneath the leaves as though he were checking for himself. Then, with visible resolve, he lifted the bottle again and gave two more light spritzes.

He paused, uncertain, and looked back at Namjoon.

Namjoon’s answering smile was wide and steady, his thumb lifted in encouragement, “great work, Jungkookie. She’ll feel a lot better once you’ve finished with her.”

Namjoon straightened, brushing his hands down his thighs.

“Come on,” he said lightly, tilting his chin toward the next cluster of pots, “let’s take care of the others together.”

So they moved, side by side, from plant to plant. Namjoon would pause now and then, pointing to a bright bloom or a leafy stalk, offering small anecdotes—how this flower had nearly wilted before perking up again in spring, how that stubborn tomato vine seemed determined to climb anywhere but its trellis. Jungkook listened with a fierce kind of attentiveness, nodding at every word, as though storing each detail away like treasure.

Each time, before his fingers brushed a leaf or his bottle sent a mist into the air, he looked to Namjoon first, seeking quiet permission with wide, dark eyes. Only when he caught the dom’s nod did he move, his touch light, almost reverent, as though the plants might bruise beneath the weight of his attention.

It was endearing, achingly so, even if the habit carried a hint of sadness.

His courtesy was absolute, every gesture marked by restraint. Namjoon recognized it for what it was: the caution of someone who had learned, far too early, that space and belongings could be violated without warning. But as he watched Jungkook’s hands linger, tender and deliberate, he couldn’t help but think it wasn’t only fear that shaped him. There was something innate in this gentleness, something unspoiled that no harm had managed to erase. Respect lived in him like second nature, a softness he carried not because of his pain, but in spite of it.

And maybe that was what made Namjoon’s chest ache the most, that Jungkook could still offer so much care outward, to leaves and petals and stems, when he had been given so little of it himself. The patience he granted the plants was the very patience he rarely allowed for his own trembling edges. Namjoon found himself wishing, fiercely, that one day Jungkook would look at himself with the same kind of reverence, the same tender allowance for fragility. U

ntil then, Namjoon thought, he would do whatever it took to hold that space for him.

When they reached the far corner of the room, Jungkook stopped. A splash of violet caught his gaze, and he lingered before a cluster of blossoms, their petals a deep, tender purple. Namjoon smiled to himself, already knowing what he had paused in front of.

As always, Jungkook’s eyes lifted to him first, silent in his request. Namjoon gave a small nod, and only then did Jungkook extend a hand, his fingertips brushing the delicate surface of a petal—

—and the flower folded in on itself at once, curling tight until it was nothing but a small closed ball.

A startled sound broke from Jungkook’s throat, soft and distressed, his hand snatching back as though he’d done something terrible.

“Hey,” Namjoon soothed quickly, stepping in before the panic could take root, “you didn’t hurt it, Jungkookie. That’s just what balloon flowers do. They close themselves to protect themselves and their moisture.”

Jungkook blinked at the blossom, now sealed in on itself, his brows furrowed in worry. He leaned a little closer, studying it as if an answer might appear in the folds.

Namjoon’s voice softened, drawing nearer until he was just close enough to offer quiet company without crowding.

“It’ll open again soon,” he murmured “it just needs to know it’s safe first.”

Jungkook lingered, his head bent slightly as if the flower’s closed shape might reveal its secret if only he looked long enough. His fingers hovered just shy of brushing it again, but he held back, patient and cautious, as though he already understood that forcing it would not bring it back out.

Namjoon stayed at his side, content to wait in the stillness. The only sounds were the faint hum of the fans and the distant drip of water somewhere deeper in the greenhouse.

Then, so quietly that Namjoon almost doubted he’d heard it, Jungkook whispered, “feel safe.”

Namjoon’s chest tightened, not from sorrow but from the fragile, brilliant significance of those two words. He knew instantly that Jungkook wasn’t speaking of the plant alone. This was exactly why he had wanted to stop here, why he had chosen this moment, this lesson hidden within violet petals.

There was so much inside Jungkook that had been shaped into something harmful, so many truths he would need to relearn: that his body was his, that his voice mattered, that boundaries were not just possible but sacred. And Namjoon, together with the others, had no desire to rush him. They would wait, because there would be countless conversations when Jungkook was ready to open himself. That was good, essential. Open communication was the cornerstone of trust.

But in moments like this, when no conversation was necessary and still the deepest truths were spoken, something vital was being planted in Jungkook’s heart. A knowledge that could not be taken from him: that being touched against his will was never acceptable, and that he had every right to say no. That right was not negotiable, and it was a pillar of his recovery.

If Namjoon could help him see it clearly through the language of the plants he clearly adored, he would seize that chance every time.

“See,” Namjoon said softly, gesturing to the closed blossoms, “sometimes we’re not comfortable being touched, or with someone handling our things. Just like these balloon flowers, we can show it, or say it, and others need to respect that.”

Namjoon waited a moment before adding, “touch feels different when it’s safe, it doesn’t take anything from us, it gives. Safety makes touch soft instead of heavy, a choice instead of a burden.”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. He stood still, eyes fixed on the little flower still curled into itself, as though weighing Namjoon’s words in silence. His shoulders rose and fell in a small breath, then he lifted his head, gaze seeking Namjoon’s with a quiet steadiness that hadn’t been there before.

“Continue?” he asked, the word barely more than a murmur, but carrying a fragile conviction.

Namjoon felt warmth swell in his chest, tender and unshakable.

He smiled and gave a slow nod, his voice low and steady as he replied, “Let’s continue, honey.”

 

 

###

 

 

After watering nearly every plant in the greenhouse, the morning had slipped by faster than either of them had realized. The sunlight had softened, spilling warmth across the floors, and the scent of damp earth lingered in Jungkook’s hair. It was nearly time for lunch, but more importantly, it was time for his check-in.

Seokjin led him quietly to the living room, their footsteps muffled by the rug. From the kitchen beyond, the soft clatter of pans and the murmur of voices drifted through the archway, mingling with the faint sizzle of something frying. There was comfort in the normalcy of it, but Seokjin felt an odd tightness in his chest all the same.

Hugo, ever observant, had decided to follow them. He settled himself on the floor beside Jungkook, resting his head lightly on the boy’s lap, ears perked and eyes gleaming with expectation. Jungkook’s fingers didn’t hesitated over the dog’s thin fur, and he began almost instinctively to stroke, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Seokjin let out a small, exasperated sigh.

“That dog, I swear. It seems like we don’t shower him in love every chance we get.”

Jungkook didn’t respond, save for the continued, gentle pets he offered Hugo. The faint curl of his lips was enough to show he was present, but Seokjin’s throat tightened as he cleared it softly, aware of the nervous flutter in his own chest.

Why was he so unsettled about this talk? About last night? About Jungkook, so fragile yet slowly opening, teetering on the edge of something he had never been allowed to feel safely before?

Seokjin sat back for a moment, drawing in a steadying breath that he hoped didn’t sound as loud as it felt. The last thing he wanted was for Jungkook to see any hint of his nerves, to mistake them for doubt or discomfort. These check-ins were already enough of a hurdle for the boy, Seokjin knew that. He refused to make them harder by adding the weight of his own anxieties into the space. Jungkook needed steadiness. He needed the quiet assurance that these conversations were not punishments or obligations, but moments of care. Seokjin repeated the thought like a mantra: this was about grounding, not scrutiny, comfort, not pressure.

When they had brought him home from the hospital, they’d told him very clearly that he wasn’t a burden. Not to them, not to anyone, and Seokjin meant it with every fiber of his being. His role, now, was to show Jungkook exactly that, in words, in gestures, in the patient rhythm of their daily lives. Still, the perfectionist in him wouldn’t let go. He wanted to get this right, every word and every pause. The subject of last night wasn’t small; it was delicate, formative. He couldn’t stumble through it, not when Jungkook’s fragile trust was just beginning to stretch and test itself.

He smoothed his palms over his knees, a small ritual to quiet the restless urge in his chest. Jungkook wasn’t asking him for flawless answers. He was only asking to be met with honesty, gentleness, consistency, and that had to be enough.

Seokjin exhaled softly and let his gaze fall back to Jungkook, who sat quiet and still beneath Hugo’s weight, fingers moving absently through the dog’s fur. Progress, Seokjin reminded himself. It was still progress, to see how much softer Jungkook was with the dog, with the plants, with a house that let him move unhurried and unpunished. But he wondered, sometimes, if Jungkook would ever believe in his own safety, or if the past was too thick a wall.

He pulled one of the big, plush chairs closer to Jungkook and sat, careful to keep his posture open, his arms resting loosely on his thighs. For a while, Seokjin just watched, letting the quiet fill up the space between them. He’d promised himself not to rush, to let every check-in stretch as long as it needed.

“It looked like you had a good morning,” he said at last, voice pitched to something gentle and nearly private. Jungkook nodded, not looking up from Hugo’s fur. The thumb of his left hand traced mindless circles on the dog’s head.

“Did you find a favourite plant yet?” Seokjin asked, the words light.

Jungkook’s head dipped once in a small nod. His lips parted, closed, then parted again, his throat working with the weight of unformed sound. Seokjin leaned forward a fraction without even realizing it, every part of him suspended in that fragile moment.

And then, soft and uneven: “b-ballon fl-flower?”

The word tumbled out like something caught between a question and a reply. Jungkook’s eyes flicked up for a heartbeat before darting down again, as if the courage it had taken to release the sound had already burned through him. His hand tightened gently on Hugo’s fur, grounding himself.

Seokjin’s heart clenched, not with worry, but with giddy astonishment. A word. A piece of thought offered aloud.

What a genius, he thought immediately, warmth rising through his chest. Of course it was Namjoon. Namjoon with his unfailing knack for weaving meaning into the smallest things, for turning a plant into a metaphor and a lesson all at once. Of course he would be the one to show Jungkook the balloon flower, and explain how it closed when touched, retreating on its own terms. A perfect, living illustration of boundaries, of consent, of the right to space.

“Ah,” Seokjin said, his voice catching just slightly before he smoothed it with pride, “I see. Very majestic flowers indeed.”

Seokjin smoothed the fabric of his trousers again, a small habit he hadn’t bothered to correct. It bought him a breath, a moment to shape the next step.

“I know these check-ins are for you to tell us how you’re feeling, if there was anything that made you uncomfortable, or if there was something you enjoyed particularly,” he began, his voice calm, almost conversational. He gave Jungkook a chance to glance up, but the boy stayed bent over Hugo, thumb still sketching those slow, patient circles, “and there will be the possibility of talking about all those thing today as well, I promise. However, I would like to first talk a little bit about last night.”

He watched carefully, ready to calm the boy down if needed, but Jungkook didn’t flinch. His shoulders stayed level, his breathing steady.

It was enough to encourage Seokjin forward.

“So,” he continued, leaning back just slightly to ease the weight of his presence, “do you know what subspace is?”

A pause, then a nod. Jungkook’s gaze stayed fixed on Hugo’s fur, but the movement was sure enough. He didn’t appeared bothered or agitated by the question, which was really good.

“Good,” Seokjin murmured, his tone softening with relief, “and subdrop? Do you know what that is?”

Seokjin knew he was asking obvious questions, because most people knew what subspace and subdrop were, as it was taught in school. However, they didn’t know Jungkook’s whole past, so he didn’t want to assume, especially when it came to such important things.

And this time the reaction was different: Jungkook stilled, the circles of his thumb halting mid-pattern, his lips pressed into a flat line, as though holding back something unspeakable. For a beat Seokjin thought he had pushed too far, but then the boy exhaled slowly and gave another small nod, his posture loosening back into its previous quiet curve.

Seokjin felt the flicker of curiosity stir — what had tightened inside Jungkook at the mention of that word? What had memory attached to it? But he swallowed the question before it could rise. The boy himself had already chosen to move past it, and Seokjin had promised himself he would follow Jungkook’s lead, not drag him backward.

“Okay,” Seokjin said gently, choosing his words with care, “last night, when Taehyung ah was brushing your hair, we noticed you slipped a little bit. Nothing wrong with that,” he added quickly, his voice steady, reassuring, “your body reacted in the way it needed to. It is completely normal. I only bring it up because it happened very quickly, and we didn’t know it would happen in the first place.”

At that, Jungkook finally lifted his head, his gaze flicking to Seokjin. Curiosity shimmered there, tentative but undeniable, like a hand reaching for light without meaning to.

Seokjin’s heart eased at the sight and he offered a small smile, continuing, “we want to take care of you in the best of our abilities. And now we know that you falling into subspace quite easily is a possibility, especially with touch.” He kept his tone even, not letting the weight of the subject turn heavy.

“Anytime something like this might happen again, we’ll warn you first. You can step back or stop if it feels too much. You’re always in charge of your body and your comfort.”

He smoothed his trousers yet again, not out of nerves this time, but to anchor himself as he said the most important part, “we want you to explore and learn with us, but nothing will be forced, especially with something as important as subspace. Your safety is crucial, Jungkook. And we would never take advantage of it.”

Seokjin let a quiet pause settle between them before he asked softly, “Do you have any questions, or would you like to talk more about it?”

Jungkook gave a small shake of his head, his hair falling forward as he did. But there was a shift, subtle, almost imperceptible, his shoulders lowering, his body no longer wound tight. Trust, fragile but present, made itself known in that quiet adjustment.

“Perfect,” Seokjin murmured, his expression gentling, “thank you, Jungkook-ah.”

He rose from the sofa, a hint of theatricality colored his voice as he added, “wow, let us go into the kitchen and bear witness to the catastrophic culinary chaos I shall undoubtedly be forced to amend. A tragedy in several acts, most likely involving scorched pans and ill-fated experiments.”

His words drew the faintest spark of amusement to Jungkook’s eyes, and Seokjin let it sit there like a small victory as he gestured toward the doorway.

 

 

###

 

 

After Seokjin’s quiet talk with Jungkook before lunch, one he later told Hoseok had gone “quite well, all things considered”, Hoseok had allowed himself a measure of optimism. Perhaps lunch, for once, might be less of a battlefield. Breakfast had been almost uneventful; Jungkook had eaten nearly everything on his plate without tears, a small victory that still felt enormous after the struggles of the past few days.

But perhaps Hoseok was being a little naïve.

Lunch was a bright, homey spread: steaming tofu stew with a side of marinated chicken, and a handful of noodles added to the broth to make it heartier. It smelled rich and comforting, a meal meant to ease the body and the spirit. Jungkook, however, stared down at his bowl with outright disdain, lips pressed thin. Still, he hadn’t said anything, just picked up his spoon with rigid determination and began to eat.

It took only a couple of bites before the sub set his spoon down, the faint clink against the bowl drawing Hoseok’s eye. With a small, deliberate motion, he nudged the dish a few inches away from himself. Around the table, the others noticed, but no one said a word. They kept eating, kept talking in easy tones, careful not to let silence sharpen into scrutiny; they had all learned that hovering only made things worse, that Jungkook needed space if he was ever going to make it through a meal without breaking apart.

Time stretched. Where Hoseok had expected him to pick the spoon back up, to take another reluctant mouthful after a pause, nothing happened. Jungkook’s gaze had dropped beneath the table, fixed on the nervous curl of his fingers against his thigh. His food sat cooling in front of him, untouched.

By the time most plates were nearly empty, Hoseok decided to try.

He shifted closer, voice low and warm, “you’re doing great, Jungkookie. A few more bites, and then you can leave the table.”

He braced himself for the usual: maybe a small nod, maybe the slump of shoulders, even tears were no longer surprising. What he wasn’t expecting was the quiet, resolute word that followed, spoken without a trace of hesitation.

“No.”

Silence pooled into the space, sudden and heavy, chopsticks hovering midair, eyes flickering across the table. For a moment no one moved, as if the single syllable had frozen them in place.

It had never happened before.

They had all assumed—naively, in hindsight—that such a sharp refusal wouldn’t surface for a long time, if it ever did at all. Jungkook had seemed so demure, not only in the softness of his submissive nature, but also, painfully, in the shadow of his past. Clear instructions had steadied him, and he had followed them with such trembling earnestness these last few days that it had almost seemed to hurt him to disobey.

Maybe they had taken that for granted. Maybe they had mistaken obedience for stability.

Now, as their gazes slid uneasily toward one another, they could see this wasn’t bratting, wasn’t a game. The set of Jungkook’s jaw, the fear flickering in his eyes, the faint undercurrent of anger, there was no malice there, only raw refusal that came from somewhere deeper, more fragile.

Hoseok blinked, startled, but his tone softened at once.

“I understand it’s really hard, honey,” he murmured, careful, coaxing, “but remember what we said about eating? We’re not doing this to punish you, but because we want to see you all healthy again.”

The silence lingered, thick as smoke, stretching between them with every second Jungkook kept his head bowed, fingers still tangled in his lap. He neither reached for the bowl nor moved to lift his spoon again. The others kept still as well, hesitant to break the fragile balance.

Finally, Hoseok tried again, gentler this time, his hand steady as he nudged the bowl back toward him, “it’s okay,” he soothed softly, “It will help y—”

But the words were cut off when Jungkook shoved the bowl away, rougher now, enough that the stew nearly sloshed over the rim. His hand trembled even as it pushed, his voice breaking through the quiet, louder than it had been since the hospital.

“I-it won’t help m-me! S-stop!”

The sudden outburst echoed through the dining room, shocking in its sharpness. And before anyone could react, Jungkook scraped back his chair and stood.

But there was no defiance in his stance, no pride in the refusal. The moment he was on his feet, he folded in on himself, shoulders hunching, arms instinctively shielding his torso, as though bracing for a blow. His chin ducked, his breath quick, and every line of his body screamed defense, protection. Fear.

Hoseok’s heart broke a little at the posture. He was expecting a blow, he was expecting to be hurt.

The room was utterly still, as if the walls themselves had drawn in a collective, stunned breath. He glanced at Seokjin, whose face showed only calm, but whose eyes were fixed with laser focus on the trembling sub. Hoseok recognized that look: crisis mode, with every muscle poised to respond but not to escalate. For a long moment, no one moved or spoke. From the kitchen, only the distant purr of the refrigerator filled the silence.

Seokjin spoke up, “Jungkook ah, I promise we won’t hurt you, we just want to understand. Could you tell us what is happening?”

Jungkook’s gaze fell to his hands, restless and trembling. The knuckles whitened, fingers twisting into themselves as though they could vanish into his skin. A single tear escaped, sliding down his cheek, slow and unyielding.

No one moved. No one spoke. They waited, not pressing nor demanding, only anchoring themselves in stillness, hoping he might feel steadied by it.

Jungkook drew a shaky breath, then another, his chest hitching as though each inhale cost him something. When his voice finally emerged, it was a threadbare whisper, frayed at the edges.

“Y-you’re going to ta-take it away anyway.”

The words seemed to drop like stones in water, rippling through them with devastating clarity.

Hoseok felt his stomach turn, a sick realization curling inside him. He remembered, the first night, the way Jungkook had recited his fears about food, like a lesson branded into him: subs had to stay thin, subs were punished for eating, subs who gained too much were unwanted, unsellable. At the time, their hearts had cracked at the cruelty of it, but they thought they had made it clear that his reality had changed. They thought he struggled only because his body wasn’t used to consistent meals, because weight gain was unfamiliar, uncomfortable.

But now the truth bared itself with merciless sharpness. Jungkook didn’t fear the food itself. He feared the inevitable cruelty he believed was waiting: that they would allow him this nourishment only for a time, only until he grew soft again, then rip it away.

The realization left them shaken, grief pooling heavy in their chests. Because he truly believed that of them. Because he couldn’t imagine it being otherwise.

What else had they been missing?

Seokjin’s chest tightened at the volume and conviction in Jungkook’s voice. He held his hands up, palms open, a silent plea for the boy to hear him.

“Jungkook ah… listen to me. I swear, we will never—”

“They all promise!” Jungkook shouted, voice cracking, tears streaming freely now, “a-and t-then they break them! They b-break ev-everything!” His small frame trembled, his fists clenching at his sides as if trying to hold the world together himself. The raw anguish in his tone made the Eros around the table freeze.

Yoongi stood slowly, his movements deliberate enough that no one in the room startled.

“Come with me, please, Jungkook. I’d like to show you something.”

Jungkook didn’t move. His hands twisted in front of him, trembling, as if bracing for the hidden consequence.

Yoongi’s voice softened, steady as stone, “this is not a punishment. But if I remember correctly you like music, yeah?”

For a moment there was nothing, just the sound of Jungkook’s uneven breathing and the shimmer of tears sliding down his cheeks.

Then, with a small, uncertain nod, he admitted it.

“Follow me, then.”

Jungkook blinked at him, wavering on wobbly legs, but his legs moved, following him as the tears continued streaming down his face.

The Eros didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched as Yoongi led the fragile sub carefully out of the dining room, one slow step at a time.

Yoongi led him up the stairs, their footsteps slow and uneven, Jungkook lagging just half a pace behind. The house was quiet in this part of the day, their breaths the only sound in the wide hallway as they passed the doors Jungkook had learned to recognize—bedrooms, studies, places he’d avoided in his solitary wanderings.

Then Yoongi stopped in front of the largest door at the far end of the corridor, dark wood polished smooth, a door Jungkook had never once seen opened.

He froze, hesitating. He knew this one. He remembered the way his curiosity had drawn him here once, when he first arrrived here, only for someone to tell him, That’s Yoongi hyung’s office. It’s not off limits, but we always ask before going in. It’s like his little heaven. After that, Jungkook had never dared to even touch the handle.

But now Yoongi’s hand wrapped easily around it, turning the knob with no hesitation, and he pushed the door open.

The scent hit first: wood polish, faint paper, a thread of something warm and metallic from the equipment inside. Then the room revealed itself, wide and spacious, every corner filled with music. A mixing console stretched across the back wall, shelves stacked with vinyls and notebooks, an upright piano near the window where soft mid day light brushed its keys. Guitars rested in stands, a microphone gleamed faintly in its place, cables snaked neatly over the floor like arteries leading to the heart of it all.

Yoongi stepped aside, leaving the doorway open.

“This is mine,” he said simply, voice low but steady, “I thought a piece of it could be yours too.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened. Then he blinked, gaze flicking to the side, retreating from the Dom’s words like they held a secret he wasn’t ready to receive. He stood at the threshold, motionless, until Yoongi crossed the room, gestured for him to follow with a slight tilt of his chin, and sat down behind the piano.

Jungkook inched into the room, steps measured as always, and stood awkwardly near the door, his eyes darting to the racks of cables and the wall of old concert posters. He seemed afraid to touch anything, to take up even the smallest piece of space.

Yoongi let him look, let the silence settle. In truth, he hoped more than he dared admit, that music could become for Jungkook what the garden had become fo him, fostering a bond with Namjoon’s quiet heart, a language that bridged instead of broke. That this wasn’t some half-baked thought thrown together in panic after the boy’s words at lunch, though the urgency of that moment had sharpened his resolve. He wanted this to stick. He wanted to offer something real, something of himself, through which a bond might take root.

And beyond all that, he just wanted it to work, because the fear and anger he had glimpsed in Jungkook’s eyes downstairs had been unbearable, and Yoongi would do almost anything to keep from seeing it again. Maybe dragging him away from the table, away from the food he still needed, wasn’t the wisest choice. But this was how he handled crisis: with instinct, with music, with whatever he could grasp at to steady the edges. He wasn’t about to feel ashamed of it, not if there was a chance it could help.

He flicked his fingers across the ivory keys, testing the sound, and after a moment, began to play. The piece was gentle, something pale and private. It filled the room in concentric circles, drawing warmth into the wood grain, the wires, the silent spaces. Jungkook stood there by the wall, arms locked at his sides, and listened. And finally, the tension seemed to ease, a slow exhale settling over his cheeks.

Yoongi played for quite a while, not watching the boy, letting the song speak for him. When he finished, the last notes faded into the hush, Jungkook hadn’t moved, not even an inch. His fingers, Yoongi noticed, had loosened from their white-knuckle brace. He was breathing steadily again.

Yoongi turned on the bench, facing the sub with careful calm.

“Come here,” he said, softer than before.

This time, Jungkook came, crossing the room in careful, even steps. He was now next to the piano, eyeing the keys curiously.

“Sit, sit,” Yoongi instructed, making room on the seat for him. Jungkook tensed yet again, nervous about such close contact with the dom, but his longing look towards the piano told the older man his itchiness to try and play was stronger than that ever present fear. So he sat, still trying to maintain a little bit of distance between them.

Jungkook stopped fidgeting, finally settling on a position that kept just enough space between them. Yoongi let the quiet hang for a beat, then leaned forward again.

“Let me show you a simple melody,” he said, and his hands found the keys.

The tune was short and unassuming, sweet at first listen, though threaded with a quiet longing, a trace of melancholy he hadn’t planned but couldn’t push away. He didn’t know why that particular piece came to his fingertips, it wasn’t chosen so much as it simply arrived, as if the room itself had asked for it. And somehow, it fit: a song of restraint and ache, but gentle enough to invite rather than overwhelm. Jungkook leaned closer, gaze caught on the movement of Yoongi’s hands, his breath soft and unsteady, as though the sound itself tugged at him. He seemed almost enthralled by the way the dom’s fingers pressed and lifted, coaxing the melody into being.

When Yoongi let the final note fade, he glanced sideways and couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him.

“Here, see?” he murmured, nudging the air with his shoulder, “put your hands like this.”

He demonstrated, splaying his hands gently on the keys and then hovering his palms so Jungkook could see the shape, the curve of his fingers. Jungkook hesitated at first, then, as though emboldened by the lack of criticism or expectation, he edged his hands onto the cool ivory.

“Try the blue keys first,” Yoongi said lightly, nodding to a set he’d marked with faded washi tape. “Just those, up and down. Don’t worry about anything else.”

Jungkook pressed a finger down. The note rang out, thin but clear, and even though he barely held it there before recoiling, Yoongi smiled.

“Good. Again.”

Another note, this time a little firmer. Then another. And though his hands trembled, and his face was tight with anxiety, the music came—awkward and halting, but pure.

Yoongi kept his own hands folded in his lap, resisting the urge to guide, he just let the boy experience what could as well be one of his first experiences playing an instrument. Jungkook pressed the keys Yoongi had shown him, hesitant at first, then a little bolder, the sound spilling out in uneven bursts as though testing their patience with him. He repeated the notes, each time letting them ring a fraction longer, as if getting acquainted with their voices.

“Now,” Yoongi said after a while, his tone unhurried, “try following the numbers on the tape.”

Jungkook blinked, lowering his gaze to the faint sequence inked across the faded strips. They were simple, consecutive, and together formed a childlike melody. He drew in a shaky breath, then set his fingers down, haltingly pressing each number in turn. The tune stumbled once or twice, but it emerged nonetheless, fragile and true.

“Good job, Jungkook-ah,” Yoongi murmured, the praise simple but sure, knowing that, for right now, it would be enough.

The boy froze, a flush climbing across his cheeks. He glanced at his hands in disbelief, as if they had acted without him, as if he wasn’t quite convinced he had really made music at all. Then his eyes lifted, quick and uncertain, searching Yoongi’s face with a glimmer of hope that made something in the dom’s chest loosen.

Yoongi chuckled softly once again, warmth threading through the sound. He gave a little nod.

“Go again. Let me see you practice.”

And Jungkook did, leaning in with more intent this time, shoulders still tense but hands moving with a budding eagerness, each note carrying the tremor of both fear and possibility. Jungkook practiced a few more times, each repetition steadier than the last, his fingers slowly finding confidence on the keys.

Then, without warning, he froze, his gaze drifting away from the piano, past Yoongi, toward the wall where a row of guitars hung in quiet display. He murmured something, so faint Yoongi couldn’t catch it.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you. Say that again?”

But Jungkook only ducked his head, turning back toward the keys. His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the room.

“...Sorry.”

Yoongi’s reply came without hesitation, his tone gentle but certain, hoping he understood what he was referring to.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Yoongi answered quickly, his voice steady but gentle.

He paused, weighing his words before continuing, “you’ve spent a long time surviving in ways that left you with no choice, no room to ask for what you needed. It makes sense that now, when things still feel uncertain, you’d hold back, or test whether someone is really paying attention. That isn’t wrong. It’s… part of learning you’re allowed to be seen again.”

Yoongi let the silence linger for a moment, then said quietly, “it was a bit scary, back at the dinner table, wasn’t it?”

Jungkook’s shoulders rose and fell in a small shrug. He kept his eyes on the keys, then he gave a small nod.

Yoongi tilted his head, patient, “and you? Were you scared as well?”

This time Jungkook nodded, barely, “scared.”

The word came out clipped, as if torn from his throat. He swallowed hard, fingers pressing into the cool ivory, “…you’ll take it away.”

Yoongi exhaled softly, not in frustration but in understanding, and leaned forward just enough to meet Jungkook’s downcast gaze.

“You’re afraid it won’t stay with you. That wehn you'll finally feel safe enough to allow yourself to eat, someone will take it from your hands.”

A beat of silence, and Jungkook gave another small nod.

Yoongi let his voice steady, a calm anchor, “I won’t tell you it will be easy to believe us. Trust doesn’t work like that. But I will tell you this: no one here is waiting to snatch anything from you. Not your food, not your safety, not your choice. If the last thing you want to do is trust, that’s fine. Just allow yourself to test it. Bit by bit. That’s all I ask.”

Jungkook’s voice cracked, stumbling over the words.

“I… do-don’t know h-how to do that anymore.”

Yoongi didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let it stretch, just long enough for the weight of Jungkook’s confession to settle between them. Then, with quiet certainty, he spoke.

“You don’t need to know how, Jungkook. Trust isn’t a skill you master. It’s a door you walk through, one small step at a time. Sometimes backwards, even. But once you’ve taken even the tiniest step, you might look back and realize—‘I’ve come this far. What if I take another?’ It won’t always be easy. It might even hurt. But would you really want to lose the ground you’ve already gained by turning back?”

Jungkook’s eyes grew glassy, his lips twitching as though caught between resistance and relief. His hand curled and uncurled on the piano’s edge, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm. He didn’t speak, but Yoongi noticed the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders eased from that permanent hunch. Maybe something had clicked, small, fragile, but real.

“Can I show you something else?” Yoongi asked softly.

He reached for a thin spiral-bound notebook on the shelf behind the bench, opening it to a page marked by a bent corner. He slid it carefully in front of Jungkook: the paper was filled with a mess of penciled chords, half-formed lyrics, and scattered lines, chaos made tangible.

“This,” Yoongi said, his voice steady, “is my dump journal. Every stray thought, every doubt, every fragment I couldn’t carry around in my head, I put in here. No one else reads it. It’s mine, and mine alone, unless I choose otherwise.”

He tapped the page once, then looked back at Jungkook.

“I’ve got dozens of these scattered around. Would you like one? Your own space where you can write whatever comes to mind, no right or wrong way of doing it.”

Jungkook stared down at the messy scrawl as though it were a foreign language, then lifted his gaze to Yoongi’s. After a pause, he nodded twice, solemn.

Yoongi’s lips curved faintly. He rose from the bench, walked over to his desk, and pulled open a drawer. From it, he took a sleek, dark leather journal, smooth and untouched. Returning to Jungkook, he held it out, palm steady.

“Now,” Yoongi said, placing it gently in his hands, “we match.”

Jungkook held it in his hands almost reverently, caressing the soft cover.

“Happy writing,” said Yoongi, his fingers already playing another melody even before fully sitting down.

 

 

###

 

 

Jungkook stayed in Yoongi’s studio for hours, as if spellbound by the sheer possibility of sound. Every corner of the room seemed alive with music: strings waiting to be plucked, keys ready to be pressed, notes scattered in Yoongi’s hand like half-formed stars. Jungkook lingered, quiet but open in a way Yoongi hadn’t seen before, watching, listening, letting the space breathe around him.

It was mid-afternoon by the time the two finally descended the stairs. Seokjin was in the kitchen, sat at the kitchen nook, glasses perched on his nose, typing away at his computer. He looked up when he heard their footsteps and blinked, startled.

“Hello there,” Seokjin greeted warmly.

But before he could say more, Yoongi leaned over, planted a soft kiss against his lips, and said, “Jungkookie asked if he could try one of your famous mayak eggs. You made a batch earlier this week, right?”

For a heartbeat, Seokjin was frozen. Too many pieces collided at once, Jungkook’s presence, the outburst at lunch, the mention of food...

But then the meaning caught up with him, and he shot to his feet so fast his chair squeaked.

“Yes! My eggs!” His voice brimmed with delight, nearly tripping over itself, “oh, Jungkookie, you’ll love them. I use my grandma’s recipe, and no one comes close to the way she made them. You’ll see.”

Jungkook flushed a soft pink, ducking his head, the corners of his lips twitching in embarrassment. In his arms, hugged close, was something Seokjin hadn’t noticed before—a sleek leather-bound journal, unmistakably Yoongi’s. Or maybe not Yoongi’s, Seokjin realized, tilting his head.

He raised a questioning brow at Yoongi. Yoongi only mouthed later and winked, the gesture smooth enough to sweep Seokjin’s curiosity aside for now.

With that, he vanished down the corridor, but Seokjin couldn’t wait and sit around, or question what had just happened. He had a snack to prepare!

 

 

Jungkook, still savoring the lingering taste of the mayak egg, sank deeper into the sofa cushions, cradling his new journal in his lap like a precious secret. He was still marveling at it when the unmistakable sound of scrambling feet echoed from the corridor.

He lifted his head just in time to see the two switches bounding into the room.

“Jungkookie! What a nice surprise to find you here!” Taehyung exclaimed, which was odd, Jungkook thought, seeing that he came into the kitchen not even 15 minutes ago and had asked to wait for him in the living room after finishing his snack.

Jimin was first to settle onto the sofa opposite him, placing a massive bag with a soft thunk on the floor.

“Me and Tae Tae are in dire need of doing our nails,” he announced, wiggling his chubby fingers in front of Jungkook.

“They need some well-deserved loving.”

Taehyung nodded earnestly, kneeling to open the bag and start spilling dozens of nail polish bottles across the coffee table. Reds, blues, glittery shades, pastels, each bottle gleamed like a tiny treasure.

“We aren’t usually allowed to do them in the living room,” Jimin continued, lowering his voice in faux-conspiracy, “because Hoseok hyung says we might ruin the carpet. But! We convinced him—”

“—because we can be super careful!” Taehyung cut in, gesturing solemnly.

“—and we’ll be good boys and listen well,” Jimin finished, as if sealing a very important pact.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked between the two of them, slightly overwhelmed by their enthusiasm, before landing once more on the rainbow of polishes before him. The colours shimmered under the afternoon light, and thjey could see a spark of simple delight i nthe sub’s eyes—just looking, just imagining.

Jimin’s eyes were brimming with excitement as he smiled at Jungkook, “and you know, we couldn’t help but notice you have such pretty hands.”

“—absolutely gorgeous,” Taehyung added, nodding earnestly.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed, and he looked down at his hands, turning them this way and that, as if examining something he had never really considered before.

Jimin leaned slightly forward, voice gentle, “so we were wondering… would you let us do yours as well? You choose the colour.”

For a moment, surprise flashed in Jungkook’s eyes, quickly followed by a spark of excitement. But before he could agree—or refuse—he fixed them with a serious, unwavering gaze.

“You t-touch only when I fe-feel s-safe,” he whispered, his tone firm, almost formal, before retreating slightly into himself as if only just realizing what he’d said.

The switches froze for a heartbeat, processing the words. Shock flickered in their expressions, but quickly softened into something warmer, something akin to pride. Jimin busied himself quietly, arranging the bottles of nail polish with careful hands, refusing to meet Jungkook’s eyes, unwilling to let the tears brimming in them show.

Taehyung, however, smiled blindlingly at him, his tone calm and steady, “exactly. Only when you feel safe. And if, at any time, you don’t feel safe anymore, you let us know, and we stop immediately.”

Jungkook’s gaze lingered on him for several seconds, studying his expression, measuring it, weighing the sincerity behind the words. Then, with a careful, deliberate nod, he scooted closer to the coffee table, eyes bright, ready to choose a colour and take this first step into something new.

“Purple, please,” he murmured, searching for the exact colour he had in mind.

A hush settled over the trio as Taehyung and Jimin fanned out the purple shades, each glass bottle more extravagant and improbable than the last: a rich, vampy eggplant, a pastel lilac, a glitter-bombed midtoned violet, and one that looked iridescent, like sunlight caught on the edge of an oil slick. Jungkook stared at them all, mesmerized, his fingers tightening on the little journal in his lap.

Jimin caught the look and smiled, bright and affectionate, “Pick them up if you want, so you can see them better.”

Taehyung lined the bottles up shoulder-to-shoulder, then nudged them closer to Jungkook’s side of the table, like a line of soldiers being offered for inspection. Jungkook picked out a bottle in the exact shade of bruised balloon flower. He held it up, examining the label—‘Violet Hour’—before looking expectantly to Jimin and Taehyung for approval. They both gave a grand, approving nod, and then, as if the smallest mundane acts must be accompanied by a ritual, Jimin placed a folded towel under Jungkook’s hands.

“Rest them here, Kookie. And let us know if you want me to do your left, and Tae to do your right, or the other way around. Or…”

“Or you can do it yourself,” Taehyung finished, his eyes soft, as if the offer was more important than anything else in the room. Jungkook hesitated, the bottle poised above his knuckles, then he placed it back on the table, closer to the switches.

“You d-do it, please,” he murmured.

Jimin picked up the bottle of ‘Violet Hour,’ uncapping it with a careful twist, while Taehyung selected a nail file from the assortment in the bag.

He leaned slightly closer to Jungkook and whispered, almost reverently, “I am going to begin now,” before starting to gently file the sub’s nails.

Jungkook didn’t tense, his hands remaining relaxed, resting lightly on the towel, and his gaze tracked every movement, every little change in angle and pressure, as if he wanted to memorize the process completely.

Meanwhile, Jimin began chatting softly, telling Taehyung about something that had happened earlier in the day, their conversation meandering naturally from funny anecdotes to plans for the weekend. Jungkook listened attentively, occasionally glancing up with curious eyes, absorbing the casual, unhurried rhythm of their interaction.

After a few minutes, Jimin pulled out his phone and played a song. The music floated into the room, and Jungkook tensed slightly at first, uncertain. But as the melody wrapped around him, he relaxed again, murmuring softly, “I like this song.”

At that, Taehyung grinned, Jimin’s eyes lighting up, and soon they were singing loudly, teasing each other, laughing, and filling the room with playful energy. Jungkook didn’t sing along—he didn’t know the words—but he started bobbing his head, a shy smile tugging at his lips. The movement was small, almost imperceptible at first, but it grew, and the delight in his expression was unmistakable. For the first time in a long while, he seemed completely absorbed in something joyful, feeling safe enough to enjoy it without reservation.

At that moment, Namjoon appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.

“Are my babies having fun?” he asked, voice light and teasing.

The two switches and Jungkook froze mid-motion, their singing cutting off abruptly as they turned to him.

“We are having the best time,” Jimin said earnestly.

“And we are making ourselves soo pretty, you’ll see, hyung,” Taehyung added, nodding seriously.

Namjoon smiled fondly at them, eyes crinkling at the corners, before his gaze softened as he shifted to Jungkook.

“And you, Jungkookie? Are you having fun?”

Jungkook’s eyes flitted around the living room—first to Jimin, carefully holding the nail polish above his nails, watching it shimmer; then to Taehyung, thoughtfully selecting his own colour; then to the phone, as a new song began to play.

Finally, he met Namjoon’s gaze.

A small, genuine smile lifted his lips, quiet but unmistakable.

“I am.”

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Notes:

Hello hello :)
New chapter! This one basically wrote itself. It's all in Jungkook's POV, and, even if it's a bit tougher to write about his feelings and emotions, it was a delight to dig deeper into his perspective. I hope it's not too boring or introspective.

I also want to thank from the bottom of my heart Ava here on AO3, who made a playlist for this fic. Like... what do I even say to that???
It's an amazing playlist, full of wonderful songs, so please go give it a listen <3
It's called jk on spotify (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/689DnK1i3IkhdOqGRUXCMH?si=jUeB2zuDQDSZQRnWC2hyZw&pi=P-nRG7EBTWaKH)

TRIGGER WARNINGS
- pretty graphic description of a panic attack
- mention of eating disorders and food insecurity
- mention of torture

Also, at the beginning of the fic there will be little poems from here on. I imagined them to be Jungkook's, written in his journal. They mirror how he's feeling and what he's experiencing. They are written by me, so I hope you enjoy them as well!

I always feel like I have a million things to say, and then I forget them all when it comes to write the notes :(

Just know that I love you and, as always, thank you for reading, leaving kudos and commenting. I am oh so very grateful *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Please enjoy! I'll see you soon xxxx

Miss despair please exit out of my soul,

Is it not how I exert control?

I burrow under warmth that comes from gentle caresses,

To cover the frost that permeates my being.

Is that called unseeing?

Deep regrets,

Deep regrets,

Sometimes I just want to forget.

I laugh, I cry,

I conquer, I am conquered.

Am I allowed to lose?

I feel the rough wall biting at my back,

Face to face with something that remains unnamed.

How can I disentangle myself from a void,

When all I want is to avoid?

Brazenness is what I am being punished for,

Lacking that shame that comes with distrust.

I water the plant that is blooming inside of me,

Hoping that, with time, it will grow into a tree.

What a view!

On top of the tree

I exclaim and I enjoy,

And maybe someday I will say with true joy.

 

 

###

 

 

The morning light spilled in through the wide living room window, soft and golden, brushing against the cream-coloured couch where Jungkook sat curled into himself. A blanket cocooned him in warmth, its folds draped close around his shoulders, and his fingers moved idly against the faint shimmer of polish on his nails. The colour was still intact, neat and pretty, even though a couple of days had passed since Taehyung and Jimin had painted it on for him.

It felt strange, bizarre, even, to see his hands marked with something so frivolous, so unnecessary. He had always thought nail polish belonged in someone else’s world, a world of leisure and self-indulgence, never his. His reality was different; his hours had been accounted for: cooking, cleaning, or offering his body to whoever demanded it. There had never been room for something so small, so seemingly pointless, when everything about him had been measured in utility. And yet, Taehyung and Jimin had slipped into the room that afternoon, countless of bottles in hand, laughing and teasing, as if taking up space was as simple as breathing. They had painted his nails and then their own nails, chatting idly, trading secrets, letting music fill the silences between them. They had done all of it with him. And the doms had let it happen, had even encouraged it, as if something as delicate as polish on his hands held meaning.

He remembered Namjoon’s voice, warm and curious, asking if he was having fun. It hadn’t felt like a test, or a trap, but like a real question. Jungkook had wanted to mistrust it, to retreat into silence, but he hadn’t been able to deny the truth. He had been having fun. The word had tasted unfamiliar, almost foreign on his tongue, but he had said it anyway, because for the first time in longer than he could remember, he had been allowed to simply be.

And then there had been the journal. He brought it with him at all times, and right now, Jungkook’s fingers traced the leather cover with something close to reverence, careful not to crease or smudge it. He had managed to write a few entries inside, although they were sloppy, uneven lines that would have made little sense to anyone else. But they were his. Words shaped by his own hand, thoughts that belonged solely to him. It felt strange and fragile, this act of creation, yet precious all the same.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had possessed something entirely his own. Now, though, he had this journal. He had the bracelets and the anklet resting safely on his nightstand, still perfectly positioned as if waiting for him. That made four things in total, four objects he could point to and call his. It was almost overwhelming, the idea that ownership, choice, permanence could belong to him at all.

The past few days had slipped by in a blur, a delicate balance of quiet and chaos dotting his hours. He had a routine now, the calendar in his room followed religiously, its neat squares dividing time into something manageable. It felt odd at first, to have certain slots for walking, for movies, even for rest. But it grounded him, gave him a shape to fit his days into. No guessing, no waiting in dread for what might be demanded next, just a schedule, a rhythm, and in its simplicity, it had become freeing. For the first time, he didn’t have to calculate how to move or where to be at every passing minute. The decisions were already made, gentle and predictable. All he had to do was follow them, and that, in its own way, was a kind of peace.

Still, confusion lingered. His mind felt foggy more often than not, thoughts slipping away like water through his fingers. He would lose track of conversations, lose track of himself, and the frustration of it gnawed at him. There were moments when it felt as though he had stepped out of his own body, trapped in a haze where nothing aligned quite right. He hated that feeling, the absence of control, the way his own mind seemed unwilling to cooperate. And his emotions too refused to stay in one place. They scattered and shifted without warning, pulling him from sharp despair to sudden flickers of something lighter. Sometimes, even, a fragile giddiness, or a warmth that felt dangerously close to contentment. Softer, unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. The fuzziness remained, but within it he had begun to catch glimpses of clarity he thought he had lost forever.

There were moments now when he could be present, aware of the room around him, aware of the people in it, and almost feel the urge to join in, to add his voice to the rhythm of conversation, to step into a moment rather than hover outside of it. But habit tugged him back every time. He had learned long ago that a sub’s words were seldom wanted, that speaking unprompted was rude, punishable. So he swallowed his voice, again and again. Still, sometimes the need pressed against his chest until it broke free, almost without his consent. And every time, without fail, they were met not with irritation, but with enthusiasm. It was so surreal that he hardly knew what to do with it. The way their eyes lit up when he spoke, the way they leaned closer, listening as if every syllable mattered. It made something flutter low in his chest, made him want to chase that reaction again, and again.

His thoughts drifted back to the calendar, its neat boxes mapping out the rhythm of his days. This morning’s square told him he would spend time with Hoseok. He wasn’t displeased by the idea; there was something about the dom’s presence that drew him in, something warm and bright that felt almost effortless. Hoseok’s openness, his sunny way of filling a room, intrigued Jungkook, even as the quiet strength of dominance beneath it left him a little unsettled. It wasn’t overbearing, though, if anything, it was caring, intentional. A kind of strength that seemed to carry him rather than crush him, though Jungkook wasn’t sure yet if he could trust that.

A small pang tugged at him when he remembered the switches wouldn’t be home this morning, gone to work before he’d even woken. He still felt tentative around them, not quite knowing what to make of their constant energy. Taehyung especially, exuberant, unpredictable, a little overwhelming in the way he seemed to spill out of himself without restraint. Yet even when it felt like too much, there was something magnetic about them both. Luring, almost. Like a flame that beckoned even as it warned.

He found himself wanting to know them more, not just their laughter and their noise, but the quieter quirks that surfaced in their shared glances, in the peculiar ease of how they existed with one another. Sometimes he caught himself staring, unable to look away from the easy affection they exchanged, the way their bond seemed to breathe around them like a living thing. He had never seen switches like that before. In the houses he’d known, they were colder, sharper, bound only to their doms and careful never to give too much of themselves to anyone else. They had wielded their roles like weapons, dominant even in softness, manipulative in ways that always left subs scrambling to please.

But here… here it was different. Jimin and Taehyung weren’t guarded or calculating. Their affection spilled into the air around them, open, generous, alive, and Jungkook didn’t know what to do with how much he wanted to understand it.

Just then, a voice drifted into the room. Low, warm, threaded with a quiet rhythm, Hoseok was singing something Jungkook didn’t recognize. It wasn’t loud, more like a hum carrying words, but enough to let him know someone was approaching. From the sound of it, the dom was on the stairs, and another familiar set of sounds joined him, the sharp, light patter of Hugo’s paws on wood. Jungkook’s chest loosened with quiet appreciation. Hoseok had started doing that on purpose, he realized. Announcing himself before coming into view, giving Jungkook the chance to know where he was in the house, giving his body time to prepare instead of spooking.

Hugo was the first to appear, nose pushing through the doorway before his whole body bounded in. He gave a sharp, friendly bark the moment his eyes found Jungkook, tail wagging with enthusiasm, before trotting over and springing onto the couch. He circled once, twice, then flopped into a neat coil against Jungkook’s thigh, already sighing as though he’d been planning this nap all along.

A few seconds later, Hoseok followed, a grin blooming across his face when he saw him. The brightness of it filled the room without effort. He was carrying a blue bag slung over his shoulder, its content a mystery.

“Hello, flower!” Hoseok greeted, cheer in his voice, “are you ready to spend some time with me? I can’t wait to show you what I brought.”

There it was again. The nicknames, the small, affectionate words they had all begun to use for him—“Jungkookie,” “honey,” and, in Hoseok’s case, “flower.” At first, it had unsettled him, each pet name feeling strange and too intimate. But slowly, almost against his will, he found himself waiting for them, storing them up like warmth. Every time Hoseok called him “flower,” a flurry of something fluttered low in his stomach, a strange mix of embarrassment and comfort that left his cheeks tinged pink.

It was odd, being compared to something so soft. Did Hoseok mean he was bright? Delicate? Pretty? That last word snagged him every time. Pretty had been twisted into something ugly in his past, doms muttering it like they were cataloguing him, a word meant to sell, not to honor. He had learned to hate it, to shrink from it. But from Hoseok’s mouth, “flower” didn’t sound like that. It didn’t sound like appraisal. It sounded like affection, like something treasured. Maybe even the kind of pretty he used to like, before it was stolen from him.

He thought he might write about it later in his journal, try to untangle the knots of it. For now, he just let himself feel the warmth bloom in his stomach, uncertain but not unpleasant.

Hoseok sat cross-legged on the floor with ease, dropping the blue bag in front of him as though it weighed a ton, though his grin never faltered.

“Come sit with me, it’s easier on the floor.”

Jungkook hesitated, then slowly unfolded himself from the couch, sliding down until he mirrored the dom’s position, knees knocking slightly as he arranged himself. The plush carpet did little to soften the sharp pressure against his tailbone, a dull ache sparking across his skinny frame. He winced, shifting.

“Take a pillow,” Hoseok suggested immediately, already nudging one toward him, “it’ll be more comfy, yeah?”

Jungkook obeyed without a word, grateful for the relief once he settled again. His eyes, however, betrayed his curiosity, fixed on the mysterious bag. He looked at Hoseok expectantly, quietly but eagerly waiting to be shown the content of the bag.

“Alright,” Hoseok drawled, mouth curling as he reached in, “let’s see here.”

One by one, he pulled out skeins of thread—red, gold, turquoise, violet—until a small mountain of color pooled between them. Cotton strings in every imaginable shade spilled across the carpet, forming a rainbow right under Jungkook’s nose. His lips parted without him realizing. He stared, stunned to stillness, unable to decide if the sheer quantity or the dazzling hues left him more breathless.

Hoseok chuckled at the expression on his face, warm and indulgent.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a lot,” he picked up a handful, letting them spill through his fingers, “but I thought I could teach you how to weave. It’s easy, relaxing… and when you’re done, you’ve got these bright little bracelets to keep for yourself, or to gift to someone, if you want.”

Jungkook’s eyes darted between Hoseok’s face and the tangle of threads. The idea of “gifting” was new. He’d never thought of something he made, with his own hands, as being worthy of giving to someone else. But he liked the sound of it. He liked even more the thought that there could be an exchange, trading gifts like trading care.

He reached a tentative hand toward the pile. His fingers hovered above the colors, unsure. He wanted to touch, feel the sensation under his fingertips, but he first looked at the dom for permission, feeling compelled to have it before doing basically anything.

“Pick three,” Hoseok suggested, nudging a few strands closer to him, “you can always add more, but three’s a good start.”

Jungkook steeled, panic surging up. Was there a right way of picking colours? Did he need to match them to make it pretty? What if he picked the wrong colours and Hoseok would scold him, swatting his hands away to show him, the incompetent thing that he was, the proper way of doing it?

Picking the nail polish had been easy, or at least less pressuring: there was only one colour to choose, and it didn’t really matter which one he would have picked. Now? Now the pressure of doing it right made his vision blurry, the strings blurring together, the rainbow becoming an ugly, murky colour.

Hoseok’s smile dimmed a tad the moment he noticed the tension crawling into Jungkook’s shoulders, the way his gaze blurred and slipped from the threads as though they had become too much. Without a word, he scooped up a handful of strings, bright and varied, and placed them carefully in front of the sub, nudging the rest aside until they were out of sight.

“It can be overwhelming at the beginning,” Hoseok said lightly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, “there are so many choices. Here, this should be easier. Just pick from these ones.”

Jungkook blinked rapidly, his vision clearing. Eight threads lay before him now, arranged in a simple rainbow order, each hue distinct from the other.

Oh.

This was… bearable. Manageable.

Not being forced to wade through an endless pile, but instead having someone narrow down the options while still leaving him room to decide—that alone felt like a weight lifting from his chest. All his life, choosing had been a battlefield; he remembered, before, how even something as small as picking his clothes could spiral into a torment, the stress rising until tears pricked his eyes. This, this was different. Hoseok’s guidance didn’t smother, nor did it take the choice away. It felt like freedom, like having the world held steady in a frame he could finally see clearly.

With the pile now narrowed down, Jungkook felt steadier. His hand lifted again, fingers trembling, but this time he didn’t pull back. He let his touch drift across each thread in turn, the soft cotton whispering against his skin, the shades distinct and inviting.

He stopped at orange. He liked orange. It reminded him of mangoes, a bit unsure of the reason, but he remembered distinctly the couple of times he had tasted one. Sweet. Golden. Bright. The color was warm, rich, almost pulsing with life. Yes. Orange would be his first choice.

Next, his fingertips brushed blue, and his chest tightened. He dreamt for many years about seeing the night sky, having that possibility taken away from him, often shackled somewhere dark (the kind of dark that would eat at his soul) or tucked away in a windowless room, not to be seen. He liked when the sky became a deep blue colour, stars like little freckles, stirring something hopeful in him. Blue would be his second choice.

Then he faltered. The remaining colors swam before him, and he couldn’t see which would fit, which would complete the little trio he was building. He wanted something to stand beside his sweet mango and deep sky, but he couldn’t decide. His chest tightened again, hesitation pulling him under. Slowly, almost against his own instincts, he lifted his gaze. Hoseok was watching him with a fond, gentle smile, his whole body perfectly still, radiating calm. Jungkook’s cheeks burned, but he didn’t look away.

Instead, brave in the smallest way, he whispered, “help?”

Hoseok blinked, as though pulled from a reverie, his mouth parting slightly.

“You… want me to help you choose?” He sounded almost startled.

For one breath, dread pooled heavy in Jungkook’s stomach. Had he asked the wrong thing? Should he have kept silent? The apology gathered on his tongue, until Hoseok’s voice came again, soft and certain.

“I would love to, sweetheart. Let’s see… white, maybe? That way you’ll have contrast, and the two beautiful colours you already chose will shine even brighter.”

Pretty? The Dom said pretty, that the colours he had chosen were pretty. Jungkook’s blush deepened into a scarlet bloom, but this time it wasn’t only embarrassment, it was something sharper, sweeter. Maybe pride? Or flattery? He couldn’t quite name it, but he knew he didn’t dislike the way it warmed his chest.

White would be the perfect finishing touch. He nodded, picking up the last thread and gathering it in his hand, clutching all three strings in his hand, feeling empowered.

Across from him, Hoseok selected his own three colors: pink, pastel green, and a rich burgundy red. He laid them out neatly, then grinned.

“Right, let’s start then!”

He waited until Jungkook was watching before beginning, his movements slow and careful.

“First,” Hoseok said, holding up his threads, “you line them up together like this, and tie a small knot at the top. That way they stay joined.” He tied the knot, leaving a little tail of string above it.

“See? That little bit at the top is so later you can tie the bracelet around your wrist.”

He glanced at Jungkook, making sure he was following, then continued.

“Next, you spread the strings apart, one to the left, one in the middle, and one to the right. Just three spots.” He laid them out on the table in a clean row, “like birdies sitting side by side.”

He smiled, then moved the left string over the middle one, “now this one goes on top of the middle.” He shifted the strands with exaggerated slowness, “then the right one moves into the middle spot. Left, middle, right, they just take turns.”

He showed the motion again, weaving one string over, another under, until a little braid began to form, “iIt’s like they’re dancing together. One step, then the next. Left over middle, right over middle. Over, over, over. That’s all.”

He held up the neat braid-in-progress, the colors twisting together.

“See? It makes a pattern when you keep going, and slowly, it becomes something beautiful.”

He set the braid back down and met Jungkook’s gaze, voice softening.

“Want to try, sweetheart?”

Jungkook stared at the little plait, fingers twitching with the urge and anxiety to touch. He had watched carefully, trying to memorize the left-middle-right logic, but his mind had a way of making such things slippery, as if the instructions sweated out of his memory the second they were given. He reached for his own trio of threads, lined up the ends, and tried to remember where to begin.

His hands were clumsy at first, he knotted the tops unevenly, and one of the strings slipped free, dangling out of place. He panicked, wanting to shove the mess out of sight. Wrong, wrong, it’s wrong, do it again, do it perfect. But Hoseok only laughed, an easy, golden sound, utterly lacking in mockery.

“Happens to me, too,” Hoseok grinned, “try again. Tighten the knot a little higher this time, so the strings stay together.”

Jungkook tried again, holding his breath, and this time got the three lined up just right. He felt a rush of adrenaline course through him. He had done it. He’d gotten it right. And the dom hadn’t gotten mad, not even a flicker of impatience. Instead, he had been patient, warm, guiding him with tips that made the process feel almost manageable. His fingers brushed over the tiny knot, tentative, as though it was something sacred. It wasn’t just the strings that held tighter this time, something inside him cinched into place, small but solid, a quiet anchor he hadn’t realized he needed.

He looked up at Hoseok, searching, though he couldn’t have named what for, only that he needed to see the reaction, seeking for something. Hoseok’s face lit up all at once, lifting a fist in triumph.

“Good job, honey! You did it!”

And there it was again, that strange, fragile fuzziness, the same one that had filled him when Taehyung brushed his hair. And again, instead of a rising panic, something else broke through, something unfamiliar but achingly welcomed. His lips trembled, tugging upward in a motion that felt foreign, unpracticed, like a fawn trying to find its legs. A smile. It wobbled, uneven and awkward, probably closer to a grimace than anything pretty. But it was his, and more than that, it was his way of showing Hoseok that he understood, that he felt like he did a good job, that he was grateful.

The words like a gentle caress.

Hoseok froze for a split second, surprise flickering across his features, but he recovered quickly, his voice soft and steady.

“Jungkookie, I think you’re slipping. Are you okay to continue? Do you want to take a break?”

Ah. That was it. He was slipping. The word tugged at a memory; Seokjin’s calm explanation, the conversation that had lodged itself in his chest like a lantern. How it was his choice, whether to let go into subspace. How they would ask, every time, at the first signs, and they would step back if he said no. He tested his own awareness, shaky hands pressing against the fuzziness around him. The world was blurred at the edges, cotton-soft, but not gone. He still had a grip, thin, trembling, but there. And he didn’t feel in danger. Not in the way he usually did.

He wouldn’t mind continuing, but he had to be sure of something first.

“I… I s-stop whenever I w-want to?”

Hoseok’s answer was immediate, unhesitating.

“Whenever you need. There’s no right or wrong moment to take a step back.”

Jungkook lowered his gaze, tracing the small, uneven beginning of the bracelet with trembling fingers. He looked up again, eyes searching.

“Continue, please.”

And so they did.

 

 

###

 

 

Jungkook’s fingers lingered over the bracelet he had just finished weaving, brushing lightly along the uneven knots. Every flaw stood out to him, each crooked twist a reminder of his clumsiness. His face fell as he compared it to Hoseok’s, neat and balanced, almost perfect. He was proud, truly, but he couldn’t help but think he could (should) have done much better.

Hoseok, quick to catch the disappointment shadowing his expression, leaned closer with an easy smile.

“Mistakes just mean your bracelet has character.”

The words eased the sting, even if Jungkook wasn’t sure he fully believed them.

It was then time for his check-in, this time with Yoongi. Jungkook found himself watching him too closely, too long. There was something about the dom that pulled at him in ways he wasn’t prepared for. On one side, he thought Yoongi might be the coolest person he had ever met: someone who could make music out of anything, who could sit down at an instrument and coax a melody into existence in seconds. But it wasn’t just talent. Yoongi carried himself with this quiet steadiness, a calm that wrapped around Jungkook like a blanket. Soothing, almost safe.

And that was where the unease crept in. Safety, in his world, was never free. He couldn’t help but wonder if Yoongi was tricking him somehow, manipulating him into lowering his guard, into believing choice and care were real things he could claim. He was always braced for the betrayal, waiting for the inevitable moment when the illusion shattered.

Still… that gnawing suspicion was softer now, fading bit by bit the longer he stayed with the Eros. They hadn’t hurt him, nor had they taken anything he didn’t give. If anything, they kept offering more—more patience, more gentleness, more care. Were they truly like that? Could anyone be? Caring and loving, even to someone as broken as him?

Or were they just waiting for him to finally let go, so they could crush whatever fragile solace he had found? Jungkook was still very much on high alert, but his gaze had shifted: he was beginning to look with different eyes, noticing details he had once dismissed as tricks. What had seemed like deception when he first arrived now carried the faint shimmer of something else, something more genuine.

During his check-in, he held out the bracelet he’d woven, tentative, waiting for Yoongi’s reaction. He wasn’t sure what he expected, only that he needed something, that same spark of affirmation he’d craved from Hoseok.

And he got it.

Yoongi studied the bracelet with unhurried care, then glanced back at him with the smallest smile.

“You worked hard on this. Very well done”

The praise made Jungkook’s stomach flutter, and he quickly looked away, heat creeping up his cheeks. Then Yoongi asked gently what he thought about slipping (him having been updated on how the morning had gone by Hoseok), how he had felt then, and how he felt now. Jungkook considered the question in silence, before fetching his journal from the coffee table and scribbling in messy strokes:

I feel good. I felt good. Wasn’t scared.

Yoongi read over the words carefully, his expression unreadable for a moment, before he looked up.

“I’m really glad. That’s what I like to hear, you feeling good and safe.”

Jungkook shifted in his seat, wriggling a little under the warmth of the words, bashfulness spilling into him until he had to bite the inside of his cheek just to steady himself.

 

Lunch came and went.

He forced himself through it, chewing and swallowing while his thoughts screamed at him to stop, to push the plate away, to accept whatever punishment might follow instead. It was always like this, an exhausting war waged inside him, a draining battle of will that left him hollow and trembling when it was over.

As he was excused from the table and allowed to go rest, Jungkook pushed himself up carefully, still holding onto the bracelet, appreciating his hard work, (The Eros had all admired it in turn, as everyone was present and done for the day. Their words had stayed with him, warm and strange in his chest).

But that was when something went wrong. He felt it first in his legs, how one second they carried him forward, and the next they gave out, as though someone had flipped a switch and drained the power from him entirely. His knees buckled, his body jolting in sudden betrayal.

Then came the tingling, a flood of static rushing beneath his skin until every limb felt sluggish and unresponsive. He tried to command his body, but nothing obeyed. His vision blurred, black spots spreading across his sight until everything wavered between light and shadow. Confusion hit first, then fear. Then the full weight of panic.

Sound fractured, voices muffled, the room tilting, the ground slipping beneath him. His name was being called, sharp at first, then warped, like echoes underwater. Shapes loomed above him, shadows shifting, bright with color one second, swallowed in black the next.

Jungkook tried to move, tried to reach out, but his body remained locked. The terror was suffocating. He had no idea what dying felt like, but he was certain that this was close.

All at once, he felt himself being lifted, scooped up and held against something solid. Panic surged hotter. His chest heaved, breath hitching as he tried to fight it, tried to get away. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be touched, not like this, not now.

He couldn’t see, couldn’t see who was holding him, couldn’t see what they were going to do. Blindness only made the terror worse.

And then something else. Something unfamiliar. The motion, slo and steady. His body rocked back and forth in an unhurried rhythm, like a cradle. Through the fractured haze of sound, he caught it: a voice. Not clear, not yet, but there. A low murmur threading through the chaos, steady enough to cut through. Words still broke apart on their way to him, too muffled to understand, but the tone was soothing.

The sharpest edge of the pain began to dull, not completely gone, but softening enough for him to notice the raw sound leaving his own throat. Screaming, he was screaming. His fear clawed its way out the only way it could, a ragged voice tearing from him until breath turned thin.

“You’re okay… calm down… okay.”

The fragments reached him, finally. Grounding words, whispered close, coaxing him back. His throat ached, the screams faltering into heavy, wrenching sobs. At some point, he had closed his eyes. He hadn’t even realized it until he felt the darkness there, felt himself holding on to it, unwilling to open them again. He couldn’t, he wasn’t ready to face the blur, the ugly black spots, the tilting world. He kept them shut, clutching the dark.

The rocking continued, unbroken, a large, warm hand cradled the back of his head, the other arm wrapped firm around his body. It didn’t feel… bad. He had never thought of being held like this as soothing, nice dare he say. It felt different, new, even through the ragged leftovers of terror. There was no restraint, no threat, no flexed muscle ready to punish. Just the rhythm, slow and certain, the body behind him solid and unmoving, as if it would hold him forever if that was what he needed.

It took a long time before the world levelled out. His heart hammered wild in its cage, ragged sobs shuddered through him, but gradually the panic began to drain, replaced by a hollow, ringing exhaustion. He felt the scratch of a knit jumper against his cheek, the solid heat of a chest rising and falling beneath him.

Voices floated in and out, half-lost in the haze:

“This is a very severe drop.”

“Should we call the hospital? Doctor Jung?”

“He’s calming down.”

Jungkook kept his eyes shut, not wanting to see, to know. The voices were too sharp, too much, and he tuned them out as best he could. He was still so confused, still so afraid of what had just ripped through him. But here, in this circle of arms, there was a pocket of comfort he hadn’t felt in who knew how long. Touch that didn’t threaten, warmth that didn’t demand, someone tucking him close, and keeping him there. He wanted to stay, just a little longer. Just until the world outside stopped being so loud.

An immense tiredness swept over him, sudden and heavy, dragging at his bones. He didn’t even try to fight it. The darkness pulled at him, soft and merciful.

Right before it took him under, he caught a rumble against his cheek, words wrapped in the steady beat of the chest beneath his ear:

“He’s falling asleep. Let him rest.”

 

 

###

 

 

The first thing he noticed was the smell. Sweet and deep, vanilla wrapped in amber, soft as a blanket. It curled around him before thought had even formed, coaxing him upward from the heavy fog of sleep.

His eyes opened slowly, lashes sticking. The world was blurry, and for a moment he couldn’t place it. But then, his room, he was in his room. The familiar ceiling, the weight of thick covers tucked snug around his body. A warm glow caught his gaze; on the nightstand, a candle burned low, three little wicks dancing in restless flickers, flames bowing and swaying like they were alive. That was the scent, he realized, letting it settle into him.

His gaze moved past the candle, and then stilled.

On the armchair, Yoongi sat with both feet planted firm on the ground. Across his lap, Jimin curled, small and seeking, tucked into the dom’s chest with his eyes closed. Jungkook watched as Jimin rubbed his nose lazily along the line of Yoongi’s throat, nuzzling like it was instinct, like it was second nature to seek for the dom’s scent to sooth himself. Yoongi’s hand moved in slow, sweeping arcs across Jimin’s back, pausing at the nape of his neck to scratch gently, forming a patient rhythm. Beside them, leaning into the curve of the chair, stood Namjoon. His fingers threaded absently through Jimin’s hair, then drifted to Yoongi’s, touching them in turns, like it was natural to spread care evenly, without preference or hurry.

For a moment Jungkook only watched, caught and unmoving. It looked so normal. Ordinary in its intimacy, yet strange enough to feel like something he shouldn’t be seeing, as though he had stumbled into a room he didn’t belong in, intruding on a secret too soft to bear witness to. And still, he couldn’t look away, curiosity tugging at him, greedy and unwilling. His eyes traced the scene, cataloguing the details, the way Jimin melted under each stroke, the way Yoongi’s hand never faltered, the way Namjoon’s attention moved with quiet steadiness, careful in distributing his love in equal amounts.

It was domestic. It was something he had never known to be real. He wanted it to be his, at least he thought he wanted to experience it. Love. He would like to be caressed like Jimin, and in turn, know he could seek out his dom for solace. His chest ached. He pressed the heel of his palm over his sternum, embarrassed even in solitude by how badly he wanted to have that kind of permission, to be held and touched and told he mattered. And he was terrified. Because every day, it seemed easier to trust them, to want to reach out to them, and every day, the skin over his ribs felt a little thinner, a little more desperate for the warmth he saw everywhere in this house.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to gather his scrambled thoughts, to make sense of the fragments that drifted through his head. It settled, in the end, into a dull ache of wanting, not for touch, not exactly, but for the peace that settled in the room when the three of them joined together, the way it seemed to make the air itself a little lighter. He would not ask. Even though that had become a gentle dare, a flame flickering at the base of his throat. He would never ask.

He would… wait. And maybe, if he waited long enough, someone, someday, would offer. Someone would look at him the way Yoongi looked at Jimin, or the way Namjoon looked at both of them, and would make sure his chest wasn’t filled with anxiety and his soul with loneliness.

He shifted, testing the weight of the blankets and how they pressed in around him. Every limb felt leaden, a strange soreness running beneath the skin, but not the kind of ache that frightened him. He took inventory, testing his fingers, his toes. They obeyed, hesitant but present, wiggling around, feeling the texture of the cotton against his skin. His throat hurt, and he was parched, lips sticking together when he tried to smack his lips a couple of times. Then he assessed why exactly he was there, lying down in his bed, in his room with two doms and a switch seemingly waiting for him to wake up. The memories were less hazy than they usually were. Not sharp, but clearer, like a dream that lingered even after waking, minutes ago? Hours? Of that, he couldn’t be sure, but the feeling remained. The fear still clung to his skin, the despair still echoed in his chest.

And then, he remembered the touch. At first, it had felt the same as every other time a dom had put hands on him. Rough, careless, as though he were weight instead of a person, something to be hauled from one place to another. He had braced for it, heart splitting open with the certainty of being tossed aside, hidden away so his pain would not embarrass anyone. That was what always happened.

But it hadn’t been like that. They hadn’t dropped him, hadn’t hidden him. Instead, the unimaginable had happened: arms had tightened, anchoring him to the ground instead of restraining him. A chest had steadied beneath his cheek, rising and falling until his own breath remembered how to follow. A hand had smoothed down his back, gentle and patient, calming his racing heart.

They had brought him closer instead of pushing him away, and the world had stopped spinning.

Yoongi turned his head from where he had just pressed a kiss to Jimin’s forehead, gaze shifting toward the bed. His eyes widened, surprise softening his features, a small gasp slipping out before he could stop it. Jimin stirred immediately, his own breath catching at the change. His eyes fluttered open, searching Yoongi’s face first, then following the line of his gaze until they landed on Jungkook. Relief washed across his expression, quiet and bright all at once. Namjoon was the last to move, lifting his head slowly, his hand stilling in Jimin’s hair as his eyes found Jungkook.

“Jungkook-ah,” Jimin whispered, voice hushed as though unwilling to disturb the fragile peace of the room, yet edged with unmistakable hope, “you’re awake.”

He uncurled from Yoongi’s lap at once, crossing the space toward the bed. Jungkook pushed himself up, instinctively bracing to stand, but Jimin’s voice stopped him.

“No, no, Jungkookie, don’t get up yet. Let me come to you.”

The words, gentle but firm, cut through his daze. He sank back against the pillows, a ripple of relief loosening the tension in his shoulders. His muscles still ached, heavy with fatigue, and the reprieve was more mercy than command.

Jimin reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, Jungkook only noticing it now. He brought it close, offering it with a small smile.

“Here, drink this. I’m sure you’re thirsty.”

Jungkook reached out, fingers curling desperately around the cool glass. But the weight slipped almost immediately from his trembling grip, panic starting to surge in his chest, the shame sharp and familiar. Before it could fall, Jimin’s hand steadied it. His voice was quick, soothing, as though he had been expecting this all along.

“Okay, honey. What if I help you, mh? I brought a straw, just in case. Let me hold it.”

Jungkook had been bracing for the coldness that always followed moments like this, a flicker of annoyance, a tightening of voice, some proof that his mistake had been too much. Instead, Jimin’s touch was light, and his words shimmered with patient fondness. He held the glass steady, angling the straw toward Jungkook’s lips.

“Sip slowly. There’s more if you want it.”

Jungkook leaned forward, lips closing around the straw. The first swallow was awkward, clumsy; the next, easier. The chill of water soothed the rawness in his throat, greedy for more. Jimin waited patiently, silent apart from some hums of approval. Jungkook drained the last of the water, lips clinging to the straw until the glass emptied. His chest rose and fell, still unsatisfied, and before he had to ask, Jimin was already refilling.

“More?” Jimin asked softly.

Jungkook nodded quickly, and when the glass returned, he whispered a grateful “thank you” before drinking again. The second went down as quickly as the first, finally feeling that his thirst had been quenched.

Behind him, the quiet shift of movement drew Jungkook’s eyes. Yoongi had risen, steps measured as he approached the bed. A clear smile softened his face, relief unmistakable, as if he were just as grateful as Jimin to see Jungkook awake.

“I’m glad to see you are awake, Jungkook-ah,” he murmured, bending toward the nightstand, picking up a small bowl, “I know you’re confused about what happened. It must have been frightening what you went through. And we’ll talk about it, we promise, but first, I need you to do something super brave for me.”

He set the bowl down on Jungkook’s lap, looking even tinier against the flully blankets. Jungkook’s gaze dropped, and dread thickened in his chest.

Chocolate.

His head snapped up, wide eyes pleading.

“N-no, please,” he stuttered, the words scraping out in desperation. He could force down rice, meat, vegetables, anything dull and safe. But this? Sweetness had been forbidden, punished. Sweets meant greed, they meant ugly and undesirable, the doms he had to live with carving those rules into him until they felt like truth.

He shook his head again and again, as if motion alone could erase the bowl from existence, but deep down he already knew: begging would not change this, crying would not change this. He would have to face it.

Yoongi’s answer proved him right. The smile was still there, although looking heavier in some way.

“This isn’t optional, Jungkook-ah,” Yoongi said, his voice gentle but unyielding, “your body needs this, your sugar levels will be extremely low right now. You need something sweet to stabilise them.”

The firmness in his tone allowed no escape, yet beneath it lingered something steady, protective, an insistence not born of punishment, but of care.

Jungkook stared at the bowl, at the two squares of chocolate nestled inside, gleaming dark and menacing. He gripped the blanket tight. His mind spun in panic, unspooling images of past punishments: fingers swatted away from meals, food snatched back or fought over, desserts dangled in front of his eyes, taunting him. He wanted to believe the past was not going to repeat itself, he yearned for it, but trust was such a precious, delicate thing, and he had already put what felt like massive amounts of it in their hands. Was he ready to face this too and let go of what had been his reality for many, many years?

Yoongi waited, along with Jimin, who was looking at him with big, hopeful eyes, but otherwise remained still and did not push him to eat the chocolate.

“Remember what we said about trust? About stepping forward?” Said then Yoongi, calm as ever. Jungkook looked back up at him, looked at the resolute expression on his face. It wasn’t scary or evoking big bouts of fear in him like he thought it would, the chocolate eliciting more fear than anything else.

He heard Namjoon step closer to the bed, flanking Jimin. He looked at him, a similar expression to Yoongi’s on his face, although a bit less firm.

“Jungkook ah, just because something is familiar, doesn’t mean it’s safe, and living without food isn’t safe. I know you’re scared, but sometimes we have to do things, even if we’re terrified.”

Jungkook looked back down at the chocolate, his white hands framing the bowl, white knuckled amidst the blankets.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, parched all over again. His brain screamed at him to refuse, to lash out, to run—anywhere but here, away from the proof of a new reality he wasn’t ready to face. But the part of him that wanted to believe them was growing, steady as roots threading into soil, stubbornly pushing back against the voices that told him not to. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, dizzy from the drop, the wide blue sea below luring him closer. He reached into the bowl, fingers trembling, and pinched one square between them. It had already begun to melt against his skin, slippery. It had already started to melt a little bit in between his fingers, it's shiny coat starting to become slippery. From his position on his cliff, he could see the white foam of the waves, little fishes swimming around.

He wainted one last moment, took a deep breath and jumped.

Sweetness erupted in his mouth.

Jungkook could hear voices around him, saying how proud they were of him, how brave he was being, but he wasn't really paying attention to them. Couldn't when all he could focus on was the taste in his mouth, the feeling of melting sugar, and the explosion of flavour he had forgotten about.

And he could have imagined it, his mind playing tricks on him. But there, between the sweetness and the taste of cocoa, he could almost taste the sea.

 

 

###

 

Later, after Jungkook had some rest, (he couldn’t really fight the pull of sleep, his eyes drooping until Namjoon gently suggested he let himself drift) he woke again. The curtains had been left open this time, and the big window filled with the fading light of late afternoon. Beyond it, dark grey clouds gathered on the horizon.

Yawning, stretching against the dull ache in his body, he decided he had had enough of staying in bed. Yoongi had said they would talk about what happened, and Jungkook needed to know. Whether he could prepare himself or not, he didn’t want to be caught unguarded again. He just…needed to know.

He pushed himself up, legs shaky but determined, and stumbled out into the hall. He had barely reached the stairs before movement caught his eye: Hoseok was coming up, his steps quickening as soon as he saw him.

“Honey, you’re still too weak to walk, let alone walk down the stairs,” Hoseok said, concern softening every word.

Jungkook’s gaze dropped, chastened, but he still forced out, “B-but you s-said I could know.”

Hoseok stilled for a moment, nodding solemnly. 

“You’re right,” Hoseok replied warmly, the fondness in his eyes unmistakable, “we did say that, and we will. But let’s do it in your room, yeah? It’ll be easier on your body and I promise we will talk about everything.”

So, with Hoseok fussing gently at his side, Jungkook returned to bed, settling beneath the covers, he looked at the dom almost expectantly. ‘I am ready’, his eyes said, and Hoseok understood without needing to exchange any words, quickly going back down the stairs to retrieve the others.

 

The others slipped in quietly, as if they had been waiting just outside. Namjoon took the armchair near the window, sitting at the edge of it. Hoseok perched on the armrest , his body angled toward the bed. Jimin and Taehyung slid onto the mattress at the foot, their knees touching, while Seokjin dragged the desk chair around and turned it, sitting with his legs crossed so he could face everyone at once.

“Jungkookie,” Seokjin began, voice warm and steady, “I’m sure I’m not speaking only for myself when I say how happy I am to see you awake and that you rested well.”

His lips curved, and he added in a conspiratorial murmur, “also, a little birdie told me you were very brave and ate the chocolate. You’re a very brave boy.”

He folded his hands neatly over his knee, the picture of calm assurance, “I’d like to ask a couple of questions first, nothing difficult, just yes and no ones. I just want to make sure you’re feeling better.”

Jungkook gave a small, tentative nod.

“Good. Are you feeling dizzy?”

A shake of the head.

“Feeling like you’re going to throw up?”

Another shake.

“Are you really cold? Especially your feet and hands?”

Jungkook stilled, awareness creeping in as though the question itself pulled it to the surface. His feet and hands were really cold, and the rest of his body was freezing as well, despite wearing several layers of clothes. Slowly, he nodded, tugging his sleeves over his hands, a flush of exposure rising in his chest.

Seokjin hummed thoughtfully at Jungkook’s nod.

“That is one of the most common symptoms,” he said, his voice low, almost gentle, “but we can definitely fix that.”

Turning slightly, he addressed Hoseok.

“Seok-ah, would you please heat up the water bottle? The big one, and also bring the wool blanket? The one in the big chest.”

Hoseok was already rising, nodding briskly, “on it.”

He slipped out of the room, footsteps fading down the hall.

Seokjin refocused on Jungkook, “one last thing,” he said, tone calm but precise, “do you feel like you’re seeing things around you that are there one moment and gone the next? Almost like hallucinations?”

Jungkook frowned, his brows drawing tight as he searched his memory. He remembered having had weird dreams: overlapping voices that bled into one another, objects melting into shapeless blurs, but that wasn’t the same as what Seokjin described. He shook his head quickly.

Still, his uncertainty must have been plain, because Seokjin was quick to offer an explanation, “I ask because some subs can experience those things when coming out of a blackout drop.”

So that was what it had been? A blackout drop? He’d heard the term before, back when he was still being taught what it meant to be a sub. He could almost recall the lessons, scattered definitions, warnings delivered in voices he could no longer place. The knowledge hovered close, but just out of reach, blurred at the edge of him memory.

And Seokjin stepped in, without asking questions or mock his confusion. His voice stayed even, his words chosen with care.

“A blackout subdrop is a particular kind,” he explained, “it usually begins with dizziness, sometimes fainting. Vision can blur, you might see double, or black spots, or shapes that aren’t really there. Muscles may seize up or stop responding, leaving you unable to move. Inside…” His tone gentled even further, “it can feel like being swallowed by fear. A deep sense of abandonment, disorientation, like the world has slipped away, and you’re left untethered.”

The description basically explained what Jungkook felt to a T. He could remember it all too vividly now: the terror, the confusion, the helplessness of not seeing what was right in front of him. A shudder rippled through his body, and his hands curled reflexively. The tremble in his fingers grew sharper, betraying the memory clawing at him.

“…Scared,” he whispered, the word fragile, torn from him as though it couldn’t stay hidden.

A soft coo escaped Jimin, who instinctively lifted a hand, only to stop himself mid-motion. His gaze searched Jungkook’s face, tender and hesitant.

“Kookie… could I—could I hold your hand?” His voice was careful, almost pleading, hope threaded through it.

Jungkook blinked, startled by the offer. His first instinct was caution, but the thought of the switch’s hand anchoring him felt different. Not frightening.

He hesitated, then gave a shy little nod.

A delighted keen slipped from Jimin, who scooted closer, cautious but eager, and offered his hand palm-up. Jungkook studied it for a breath, then slowly placed his own trembling hand into it. The warmth that closed around him was immediate and certain, Jimin’s fingers wrapping firm but gentle. The squeeze was steady, unspoken words flowing through it: I’m here. You don’t have to be scared anymore.

In that moment, Hoseok returned, his arms laden with comfort. A thick, cream-coloured blanket was draped over one elbow, and a long, padded tube rested on top. He set both down carefully on the bed.

“Right,” he said, a spark of brightness in his tone, “so this water bottle is designed to be hugged or wrapped around your body. It’s magical, trust me. And here’s the blanket.”

He passed the long water bottle first, and Jungkook instinctively drew it against his side, heat seeping through instantly, chasing away the lingering chill in his bones. A low, content hum slipped from his throat before he could stop it, startled but soothed by how good it felt to hold something warm. The blanket came next, Hoseok laying it across Jungkook’s lap with careful precision. He tucked in the corners snugly, his hands always a breath’s distance from Jungkook’s skin, mindful of boundaries.

“While you were resting,” Seokjin began gently, “I phoned Doctor Jung. I wanted to make sure we didn’t need to take you to the hospital, since this was quite a severe drop.” He paused, watching Jungkook closely, before continuing, “he told us there’s no need for that right now. What we do need to do is monitor you carefully for the next few hours. And it’s important to make sure you don't slip again.”

He hesitated, before cointinuing, “Doctor Jung also explained that what you experienced can happen when someone re-enters subspace after many years. It can be a shock for the body: hormones spike, everything in your system is disrupted, disrupting the 'balance' if that's what we want to call it, of subdrop.”

His shoulders sank, the comfort of Jimin’s hand and Hoseok’s careful care slipping out of reach as a pit opened inside him. So that was what it meant, his body couldn’t even handle being a sub anymore, the very thing that was supposed to define him, steady him, tie him into connection… instead poisoned him from the inside out. A bitter laugh almost bubbled up at the absurdity of it.

Healing? That was the word they liked to use. But trying to heal was carving him open, throwing his body into chaos, leaving him weak and trembling and broken in someone else’s bed while they phoned doctors to figure out how to piece him back together. Every step he took toward what they called rightness seemed only to unravel him further, strand by strand, until there’d be nothing left but the mess he kept making and the people forced to clean it up.

He fixated on the blanket in his lap, looking at its fluffy texture. Several pairs of eyes watched him from the edge of his vision; he could feel their collective concern radiate toward him, but the shame was stronger, an old habit gnawing at his insides. He had failed at the only thing he was supposed to be: his body had failed, his mind had failed, and now these people—kind, patient, impossibly gentle—were stuck with the fallout.

He didn’t realize he’d started to cry until the wet heat prickled beneath his lashes and a drop splattered onto the wool. He scrubbed it away, angry at himself, at his traitorous eyes, but another followed, then another, until his vision blurred and the voices in the room dissolved into a gentle drone.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, soft as breath. “I’m so… so sorry, I—”

The words broke apart. He pressed his arm to his face, ashamed.

“Jungkook,” Namjoon’s voice cut in, low and steady, pulling him back before the spiral could pull him under. When Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward him, Namjoon didn’t hesitate.

“There is absolutely nothing here you need to apologize for. Not a single thing.”

The firmness in his tone softened as he went on, “recovery isn’t meant to be neat or easy. You probably know that better than any of us by now, but even with these setbacks, you’re still moving forward. Every time you wake up and choose to try again, that’s progress. Every time you let us close, even like this, it’s progress. And these moments where it feels harder? They aren’t failures, but part of the process, because without them, there wouldn’t be space to learn. For you, and for us, too.”

Jungkook blinked, confusion threading with disbelief, as Namjoon leaned in a little, his gaze warm but unflinching.

“We don’t want to care for you because we feel obligated,” Namjoon said, voice quiet but sure, “you’re not a burden to us. We want to care for you because we want to see you thrive again, because we want you healthy, safe, steady. We want to be here for the highs and the lows, not just the easy parts.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile “that’s what it means to us to have you here.”

Seokjin cleared his throat softly, easing the weight of Namjoon’s words without breaking their depth. His tone was steady, almost clinical at first, but softened by the quiet care threaded through it.

“And it doesn’t mean setbacks can’t be fixed,” he added gently, “we can find solutions. Like now, I asked Doctor Jung what we could do to help you through this difficult situation, and he told me that the best way forward would be to have consistent, safe subspace sessions. That way, your body can relearn that it’s safe to slip. We would ease you into it and bring you back up gently, so you wouldn’t fall. We wouldn’t allow it.”

His gaze lingered on Jungkook a moment longer before flicking toward Namjoon, giving him a small nod, a wordless invitation.

Namjoon returned it and leaned forward, his voice quiet but weighted with honesty.

“I was the one who picked you up when you started panicking,” he admitted, “it was instinctual, really. I couldn’t stand back and watch you suffer, not when every part of me wanted to comfort you.”

He glanced down at his hands, shoulders rounding slightly, almost sheepish in a way that looked out of place on him.

“I want to apologize for not asking your consent first. We’ve said before, and we’ll keep saying it, that we will always ask before touching you. That promise doesn’t change. But in that moment… I didn’t, and I am sorry.”

Namjoon bowed from where he sat, the movement deliberate, humble. When he straightened, his expression held no shame, only quiet sincerity.

“The doctor was clear, though. Comforting you through touch is the quickest way to bring you back safely. Skin-to-skin contact tells your body you’re not in danger, that you’re safe. So what I’m asking is, would you please allow us to intervene? To touch you and comfort you, if it ever happens again. If you drop?”

The room fell into silence, stretching thin. They waited for him. Jungkook’s chest rose and fell too quickly, the air suddenly sharp in his lungs. His hands curled slightly in his lap, unsteady. This was… too much. Too much to process, too much to take in all at once.

A dom apologising to a sub? To him? It was almost surreal. He didn’t know where to place it, didn’t know what to do with it. Accept it? Be grateful? Or be angry—angry that they hadn’t kept their promise, that they had touched him without asking? But the anger felt… wrong. Out of place. Namjoon’s voice had been too sincere, too earnest. There had been no trick hidden in it, no sharpness dressed as gentleness, just apology and care. And it hadn’t felt like a moment where they could take advantage of his weakness, it had felt like the opposite. Like they were offering him something solid to lean on, comforting.

His mind slipped back to Yoongi’s words, the ones that had taken roots somewhere deep inside him, about trust, about doors and steps, about not needing to rush. Maybe this was another step, another kind of edge to stand at.

And maybe, like the taste of chocolate had been, jumping from this cliff wouldn’t be as terrifying as it seemed.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze. It caught Namjoon’s first, then flicked across the circle, sweeping over each of them. Every face he met was open, holding nothing but sincerity.

When his eyes found Namjoon again, his throat tightened.

He swallowed, and nodded.

“B-but, if I say no, it’s no,” he was quick to specify.

Everyone quickly agrees, not hesitating before doing so.

In that moment, he could almost feel the sensation of sea salt on his skin, sticky but freeing.

 

 

###

 

 

The next afternoon found Jungkook in Yoongi’s studio. He hadn’t planned on it, at least, not originally. The calendar had marked out a walk in the garden with Namjoon and Taehyung, and he had liked that idea well enough. But when he’d passed Yoongi’s door earlier, faint strains of music had bled through the frame, and something inside him had tugged, insistent, almost aching.

By the time he’d stood in the doorway, his fingers curled tight around the edge of his journal, his cheeks had already been hot.

“C-can I…” His voice had been nearly swallowed by the hum of sound, “can I… stay in here, please? While you w-work?”

Yoongi had only lifted his gaze, steady as always, and then given a quiet nod. Somehow, the simplicity of it had made Jungkook’s chest loosen.

When the others heard, they had agreed without fuss, (although Taehyung had pouted a bit, and asked if he would pretty please spend some time with him that same night. Jungkook was quick to agree) and now here was Jungkook, curled up on the studio couch with his journal open on his lap.

He couldn’t look away from Yoongi’s desk. It was like another world, a dense constellation of knobs and buttons, blinking lights, and glowing meters. The computer screen stretched wide, filled with colourful lines that danced and layered over one another, a language he couldn’t begin to understand. Numbers flickered, letters strung together, and each adjustment Yoongi made—just a slight twist of his fingers, a nudge of the mouse, shifted the entire sound in ways that felt like magic. The sub’s breath caught when Yoongi looped a melody, adjusting it again and again until it clicked into place, smoother, sharper and alive. To hear a song form right in front of him, to hear its flaws slowly bend toward perfection, it left him almost dizzy.

The journal sat forgotten, his pencil unmoving. His gaze flicked between the glowing screen and the dom’s silhouette, shoulders bowed in concentration. Yoongi’s focus was absolute, and somehow that too was comforting, being allowed here, in this space that felt sacred, and knowing his presence wasn’t an intrusion.

For a long while, Jungkook simply listened. The music pulsed through the room, filling him in places he hadn’t realised were empty, and all he could do was sit quietly, heart beating to its rhythm, and let it wash over him.

A sudden knock against the closed door made Jungkook jump, his attention torn from the bright tangle of coloured lines and blinking numbers on the screen. He glanced up, wide-eyed, curious who it might be.

“Come in,” Yoongi said quietly, not looking away from the desk.

The door eased open, and Seokjin stepped inside, a gentle smile already softening his face.

“Hello, sweets. How’s your afternoon going?” He asked, lingering for a moment by the doorframe.

“It's going well, Jungkookie is a great companion. We’re working on a new demo.”

Jungkook’s head snapped toward Yoongi, heart tripping over the casual words. We? Him and Yoongi? He wasn’t doing anything, just sitting on the couch, eyes half-dazed by the glow of the screens and the soft hum of sound. But still warmth rushed through him, quick and dizzying. It made him feel… important, as if his presence mattered, as if he wasn’t just watching but part of it, somehow helping to make something. His cheeks burned, and he gave a tiny wiggle of delight where he sat, clutching his journal a little tighter on his lap.

Seokjin huffed a quiet laugh at the sight, then crossed the room and lowered himself onto the opposite side of the couch.

“I actually came to talk to you,” he glanced over at Yoongi, “do you mind if I steal his great mind for a couple of minutes?”

Yoongi nodded, turning back towards his monitors. 

“Go ahead, hyung.”

Seokjin turned back, his eyes bright, carrying an almost secretive excitement.

“So, as you know, I spoke with Doctor Jung yesterday, about what happened, and about your health.”

Jungkook nodded slowly, following along.

“Well,” Seokjin continued, “he also brought up an opportunity for you, something I thought might interest you. There’s a sub-only drama course starting next week. It’s designed for socialising, and it’s open to subs who’ve been through difficult times, who might need some space to heal and recover.”

He paused, letting the idea linger in the air, “it could be a wonderful chance to make new friends and try new things. And who knows? You might even pick up a few incredible skills along the way.”

Jungkook looked at Seokjin for a few seconds, having to take his words in. A drama course. The idea was dizzying, at first, too big, too loud. But beneath it hummed a strange, wild pulse of curiosity. He tried to picture himself on a stage, among others subs, moving and performing something great, something grandious. He didn’t feel great, nor grandious for that matter, and the beliefs of failing and being a let-down were butting their strong heads against his ribcage.

The idea was dizzying, bigger than himself, but beneath it hummed a strange, wild pulse of curiosity.

What if? What if he could actually learn to perform, to be among other subs without having to fight for food or try and comfort each other in the face of violence and punishments. Collaborating to make something beautiful, and even if he couldn’t believe he could create something like that, he could still try.

Jungkook’s thumb traced circles on the cover of his journal, searching for an answer.

“I won’t be disappointed, even you don’t want to do it,” said Seokjin, that same smile still present on his face.

And then, out of the blue, a horrible doubt crept into his mind.

“You’d b-bring me back, right?” He asked impulsively

Because he realised just in that moment that his fear might not stem from this new experience, from having to try and trust the Eros again. At least, that wasn’t the main concern. Instead, he feared being abandoned, and specifically, being abandoned by them.

And what an odd feeling, that of being wanted and wanting back.

Seokjin looked shocked for a moment, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times. Even Yoongi turned around from his position at the desk, looking just as baffled. Before Jungkook could start feeling regret from having been so honest, for having said the wrong thing by believing he could truly be wanted, Seokjin answered.

“ We would never leave you behind. You will always have a place here.”

Jungkook thought hard for a moment, and, after having heard those words, made his decision.

“I’ll try.”

Perhaps, the hardest part of life is being courageous enough to try.

And Jungkook, in that moment, felt very courageous.

Notes:

Our Kookie will be a theatre kid, hell yeah B-)