Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The greenroom was warm. Not physically; if anything, the A/C was too strong and someone had left a bottled iced coffee sweating all over the floor, but warm in the way that made it hard to look directly at without feeling like an intruder.

The six of them were sprawled together on and around the couch, half on top of each other, half in their own little bubble. Taehyung was curled into the corner of the L-shaped sofa, pressed into Yoongi’s side, and murmuring something soft into the fabric of his shirt. Hoseok had one long leg slung across Jimin’s lap, his hand trailing in lazy circles along Jimin’s arm while pretending to sleep. Jin sat nearby, scrolling silently on his phone, but not really reading, his other hand anchored firmly on Hoseok’s shin.

And in the middle of it all was Namjoon. Sitting at ease with Jimin leaning against one knee, and Yoongi brushing past his shoulder every few minutes to grab water or hand someone their phone. The kind of stillness you could orbit around.

Jungkook sat at the edge of it all, legs crossed on the floor with his back against the wall. Not part of the pile. Not far from it either.

Just… adjacent.

It wasn’t unusual. He liked space. Or at least, that was the line he’d said so often he half-believed it. Liked space, liked quiet. He didn’t get overstimulated in the same ways as the others. Didn’t need grounding or nesting or the constant emotional temperature checks that filled up so much of their downtime.

At least, that was what everyone assumed. That’s what his test said.

Neutral.

The word had never stung until lately. Lately, it felt like a reminder. Of what he wasn’t. Of where he didn’t fit.

“Yah," Jimin said suddenly, flicking Hoseok’s knee hard enough to make the other man grunt. “Stop faking. You're not asleep.”

“I was close," Hoseok muttered, cracking one eye open. “Then you started flapping your mouth again.”

Jimin smirked, unfazed. “You’re not allowed to nap during pre-show hours. Isn’t that a Namjoon rule?”

“He said I could rest if I wasn’t spacing," Hoseok replied, smug. He stretched like a cat, the slight arch of his back catching Jungkook’s peripheral vision.

“Are you?” Namjoon asked mildly, glancing over without looking concerned.

Hoseok blinked up at him. “No, just bored.”

“Then nap," Namjoon said. “But drink something first.”

Hoseok obediently reached for the bottle on the floor, Jimin already handing it to him before he could fully sit up.

It all happened so naturally—too naturally. The unspoken dynamic rituals: check the switch for spacing, follow the dom’s rules, rehydrate. No one had to ask what to do. No one had to say the word dom or switch or sub out loud.

It was woven into how they moved. How they existed around each other.

And Jungkook just… wasn’t part of it.

“I’m gonna run through my verse one more time," he said, pushing off the floor with a forced breath.

“Take your in-ears," Jin said without looking up.

“I know," he replied, and he did, even if his fingers were already halfway to forgetting them.

The rehearsal space was cooler. Quieter.

He didn’t mind being alone, not really. It gave him time to check the swelling throb at the base of his neck that had started mid-morning and hadn’t fully gone away.

Another headache. That made… four this week?

He shook out his shoulders and reset his mic position, flipping into his verse with mechanical ease. The lyrics came out fine. No falter in pitch or rhythm. But when he stopped, the ache in his jaw caught up with him.

He’d been clenching again.

“You’re tense," Yoongi said gently, later that afternoon as they prepped for press photos. “Want me to stretch your neck?”

“I’m fine," Jungkook replied, leaning back just enough for Yoongi to let his hands fall.

Yoongi didn’t look offended. He never did. Just nodded and stepped back.

The thing with Yoongi was, his presence always hovered just close enough to soothe without overwhelming. His dom energy was soft, like the sun through a closed window. Still warm, still steady. But manageable.

Lately, though… even that felt like too much.

“Just let me know," Yoongi said simply, turning to help Taehyung with his jacket zipper. The younger sub leaned into him like gravity made it personal.

Jungkook watched them for a second longer than he should’ve, then turned away.

The day blurred after that. Rehearsals, outfit changes, photos, polite laughter at backstage jokes. His head never fully cleared. His limbs didn’t stop aching.

The others kept checking on each other. Subtle touches, a glance from Namjoon before a set. Jin adjusting Hoseok’s mic without a word. Taehyung leaning into Jimin’s chest after a particularly loud camera flash.

No one touched Jungkook.

He didn’t ask them to.

The silence stretched long when they got back to the dorm that night. Everyone peeled off slowly to their rooms or toward the kitchen.

Jungkook stood in the hallway for a moment, socked feet cold against the wood floor.

He could hear low laughter from the shared room, someone said something about cuddling. A moment later, Namjoon’s voice rumbled in response.

“Come here.”

Soft. Firm. Care-laced.

Not for him.

He went to his room. Closed the door. Laid flat on his back and stared at the ceiling until the pulse behind his eyes started to fade.

The quiet pressed in like a blanket that didn’t quite cover him.

He’d never thought of himself as lonely before.

But something about watching them made the word feel heavier than he wanted to admit

Jungkook woke up with his jaw locked and his fists clenched in the sheets.

The headache was still there.

Or maybe it had started again.

Either way, the light from his phone screen made him flinch when he checked the time: 4:47 a.m.

Too early to be productive. Too late to get real sleep.

He sat up slowly and rubbed at his neck, trying to massage the tension out of the muscle above his shoulder blade. It twitched under his fingers like it was made of wire.

He’d lost track of how often this happened lately.

Every other morning, it felt like his body was asking a question he didn’t have the answer to.

He wandered into the kitchen twenty minutes later, barefoot and bleary. The lights were dim, someone must’ve left one of the hallway switches on for Taehyung, who hated the dark when he woke up too quickly from dreams.

He found a banana and the emergency coffee mix and did his best not to think.

Halfway through stirring the sugar in, he heard footsteps. Not stomping. Not dragging. Familiar in their softness.

Yoongi.

“Morning," came the low voice behind him. Sleep-rough. Calm.

“Sorry," Jungkook said automatically. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah.” Yoongi came around to lean against the opposite counter, arms folded, hair a rumpled halo around his head. “Didn’t sleep much.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The only sound was the plastic spoon clinking gently against the side of Jungkook’s mug.

He wondered if Yoongi was going to offer touch again. A back rub. A stretch. A hand on the shoulder.

He didn’t. Just looked at him with that quiet, unreadable gaze.

“Headache again?” he asked eventually, voice light but not careless.

Jungkook hesitated. Then nodded.

“Getting worse?”

He didn’t answer.

They ended up sitting side by side on the floor of the living room, backs against the couch.

Yoongi didn’t push. Just passed him a water bottle and waited.

Jungkook took a slow sip, eyes fixed on the rug.

“You know," Yoongi said eventually, “it’s not a bad thing. To ask.”

Jungkook let the silence stretch out before answering.

“I don’t want pity.”

Yoongi blinked, then smiled, sad and warm. “I wasn’t offering pity.”

“I know," Jungkook said, and he meant it. He really did.

By the time the others started to stir, the quiet space had already shifted. Taehyung was the first to shuffle in, hair flattened on one side, a blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a cape.

He blinked at them blearily and immediately gravitated toward Yoongi’s side, dropping into his lap with a muffled sigh.

“Hi," he whispered, already burrowing.

Yoongi’s arms went around him easily, and the moment shifted like it had always been meant to.

Jungkook watched it for a second, then stood and took his now-empty mug to the sink.

Later, while waiting for their next schedule, the group gathered in the main room to stretch and run lines. A small back and forth about VCR timing turned into a full debate over set cues and stage light memory.

Jin grew visibly irritated.

“Just stick to the marks, Hoseok," he snapped. “You’ve done this six times already, what part of center-right confuses you?”

“It’s not confusing," Hoseok drawled, unfazed. “I just think it looks better when I angle out.”

“Except the camera doesn’t think that. And I don’t care what your opinion is when you’re ignoring instructions.”

The air shifted.

Jimin put a hand on Hoseok’s arm, not to calm him, but to keep him there. Grounding.

Namjoon didn’t speak right away. Just looked across the room at both of them, then at Jin, then at the floor.

“Hoseok," he said quietly, “don’t push it today. You’re still running low.”

“I’m not—"

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Hoseok shut his mouth.

Jin nodded once and turned away, already over it.

Jimin murmured something into Hoseok’s hair.

And that was that.

No yelling. No breakdowns. Just a rebalancing of energy. The doms domming. The sub bratting. The switch regulating. The group realigning.

Jungkook stood off to the side, watching it play out.

This was what they meant when they said BTS was more than a group. This was what it looked like.

He’d never noticed how often it happened until he started feeling it in his bones.

They filmed two live clips that afternoon, one group dance cut and one interview segment. Nothing groundbreaking.

But the lights were hot, and the delay between takes stretched long.

Jungkook tried to keep his breathing even. His temples had started pulsing again. Every time he blinked, the set lights felt sharper, like they were cutting at the edges of his vision.

“Everything good?” Jimin asked during a water break.

“Yeah," Jungkook replied, swallowing a grimace. “Just tired.”

Jimin nodded, clearly believing him.

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

“Have I?”

“Quieter than usual," Jimin corrected, smiling. “Like, philosophical sad-boy energy. Are you writing new lyrics or something?”

Jungkook chuckled, grateful for the shift.

“Maybe.”

Jimin bumped his shoulder. “Don’t let it eat you alive. Come bug us when it gets bad.”

“I will," he said.

He wouldn’t.

That evening, it happened again.

The ache started behind his eyes and spread downward— into his neck, his shoulders, his ribs.

He was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling again, when he realized his hands were shaking.

Not just twitching, shaking. Fine tremors running through his fingers like static.

He sat up and curled his knees to his chest.

He didn’t know what was happening.

He’d spent his whole life being not this. Not sensitive. Not structure-seeking. Not needy.

And now his body was screaming for something he didn’t know how to name.

Or worse, something he thought he wasn’t allowed to need.

Jungkook had barely stepped into the kitchen before the scent hit him, warm broth, something gingery, and the sharper bite of chili paste just beneath.

“Soup?” he guessed.

Jin didn’t look up from the stove. “Hoseok has that look again.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m fine, stop asking’ one," Jimin said, appearing in the doorway behind him. “Which usually means he’s three hours from emotional burnout and refuses to admit it.”

“That’s oddly specific," Jungkook muttered.

“Because it’s happened four times this month," Jin replied flatly. “I’m not watching him crash again during interviews.”

Jungkook hovered near the fridge, unsure if he should help or leave.

Jimin breezed past him and opened the top cabinet without asking, already pulling out chopsticks and bowls.

No one assigned tasks, but they all moved like something had been decided the second the first scent hit the air.

Yoongi came in next, sleeves rolled to his elbows, already holding a fresh towel and Hoseok’s favorite hoodie. Taehyung trailed behind him, quiet, with two bottles of water tucked under one arm and a sleepy yawn half-covered by his hand.

Namjoon entered last, just long enough to take one look at the stove, then glance toward the hall.

“Someone wake him?” he asked.

“I was just about to—" Taehyung began, but Namjoon was already moving.

No arguments. No questions.

Leader instincts. Pack structure.

Jungkook watched all of it unfold from the edge of the kitchen, one hand still resting on the fridge door. He wasn’t even sure if he was thirsty anymore.

Hoseok shuffled in five minutes later wearing the hoodie and a quiet pout.

“Not crashing," he grumbled as he sat, but the way he leaned into Jimin’s side undercut the protest.

“Sure," Jin muttered, ladling soup into bowls.

Yoongi knelt beside Taehyung on the floor, gently massaging the base of his skull. Namjoon sat with his back against the far wall, legs outstretched, eyes scanning the room in slow, quiet intervals.

No words needed. Everyone knew their place.

Everyone except—

“You gonna sit?”

Jungkook blinked. Jimin was watching him.

He nodded once, slowly, and took a seat on the floor, not in the circle, exactly. Not fully outside it either. Just like always.

The soup was good, warm and grounding. The kind of food made with intention.

He ate slowly, listening to the others banter about stage outfits and wardrobe malfunctions. At some point, Taehyung pulled his blanket cape tighter around his shoulders and leaned into Yoongi’s side with a soft hum of contentment.

Jungkook’s spoon stilled in his hand.

Yoongi pressed a kiss to the top of Taehyung’s head, just once, just gentle.

No one reacted.

No teasing, no blushes, no tension.

This was… normal.

It shouldn’t have surprised him.

He knew about the affection. The quiet bonds that ran deeper than they showed on stage. But seeing it, really seeing it, made something coil tight in his chest.

He forced himself to keep eating.

After dinner, they cleaned up in the same unspoken rhythm, Jimin dried while Jin washed; Yoongi tucked Taehyung into the couch with his phone and a pillow; Namjoon carried a half-asleep Hoseok toward the shared bedroom without saying a word.

Jungkook hung back again, unsure where to slot himself in.

He waited until the room had mostly cleared before standing to grab the remaining bowls. As he reached for Jin’s, their fingers brushed.

“Sorry," he said quickly.

Jin didn’t flinch, but he didn’t look up either.

“Leave those," he said instead. “I’ll finish.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You’ve been stiff all day," Jin replied, finally meeting his eyes. “Your right shoulder keeps favoring.”

Jungkook’s fingers tightened slightly on the ceramic.

“I’m fine.”

“Mm," Jin hummed, clearly not believing him. “Still. Go rest.”

He didn’t say it cruelly. If anything, it was practical. Measured.

But it still made Jungkook feel like a guest in his own home.

Back in his room, the silence was different.

Not comforting.

He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor, shoulders hunched like the weight might physically peel him open.

How long had it been like this?

He couldn’t even name the thing he was mourning. Something invisible. Something denied.

They were a pack. They moved as one. Breathed together. Slept side by side in curled heaps of warmth and affection.

And he was near them. Always near them.

But never… with them.

He wondered if it had always been like this, or if he just hadn’t noticed until now.

He didn’t sleep well.

Morning came with another schedule, another outfit change, another wave of chatter and teasing and casual intimacy.

Jin’s voice snapped across the room in controlled volume: “Jimin, for the love of god, sit still.”

“I am sitting!”

“You’re vibrating.”

“That's just my natural state—"

“Hoseok," Namjoon said gently, “please help him.”

Hoseok, only half-dressed and balancing a protein bar between his lips, sighed deeply and walked over to Jimin with theatrical slowness.

“C’mere," he muttered, and wrapped one long arm around Jimin’s middle, effectively anchoring him to the bench.

Jin exhaled like he’d just won a war.

Jungkook chuckled under his breath.

No one heard.

Soon, they were out the door—luggage trailing behind them, sunglasses pulled low, the familiar rhythm of departure settling in their bones.

The flight to Tokyo passed in a haze of half-slept naps and idle scrolling. Someone snuck snacks past the staff. Someone else hogged the window. Namjoon drooped against his seat like a folding chair. Hoseok disappeared under a hoodie. Taehyung and Jimin whispered something ridiculous that made both of them wheeze.

Jungkook kept his headphones in. Watched the clouds. Watched the wing. Thought about nothing in particular and everything all at once.

By the time they landed in Narita, fatigue clung to them like humidity. Still, there wasn’t time to rest. They were whisked straight from the arrival gate to waiting vans, then through Tokyo’s orderly traffic to the venue hosting that day’s interview and fan meeting.

The stylists were already there. The concept: coordinated colors. Minimal accessories. Nothing too bold. Professional, but not cold.

Jungkook pulled on his assigned top—charcoal gray with a clean neckline and stiff cuffs. He adjusted the collar twice before stepping into the mirror’s frame.

He looked fine.
Neat. Sharp. Disconnected.

Like someone else had dressed him. Like someone else would answer the questions in front of screaming fans.
He rolled his shoulders. Told himself to focus.

When Taehyung walked past a moment later, tugging his shirt hem into place, Yoongi was already there adjusting his chain. Jin leaned in a second later to swipe a stray lash from his cheek.

Two doms. One sub. No hesitation.

It happened in under ten seconds, without thought or effort.

Jungkook turned away from the mirror before he could watch any longer.

Hoseok dozed off on Jimin’s shoulder.

Jin plugged in headphones, one eye half-closed. Namjoon watched out the window, fingers gently curled into the seam of the seat.

Taehyung leaned into Yoongi, and the older dom let him rest without even shifting position.

Jungkook sat in the back corner, next to the door.

No one spoke to him. Not because they didn’t care. But because he didn’t reach.

He never reached.

The hotel suite had two bedrooms, one couch, and six people who didn’t like sleeping alone.

Technically, they were supposed to split by room assignments, two in one, four in the other. But the second the door closed behind them after the showcase, it was clear how things were going to go.

Jimin collapsed dramatically onto the bed in the bigger room, arms stretched wide like a starfish. Hoseok flopped down beside him without asking. Jin rolled his eyes but dropped their bags near the nightstand with the kind of efficiency that meant he was staying, too.

Yoongi and Taehyung wandered in last, already tugging off jackets. Yoongi glanced once at Namjoon, who simply nodded and kicked off his shoes at the doorway.

Jungkook hovered in the hallway.

He didn’t mind sleeping solo. Really. It gave him space to think. To decompress. He’d always needed a little more time to downshift than the others.

But that night, the room’s warmth tugged at something in his chest. The casual pile of limbs forming on the bed, the shared teasing over stolen hoodies, the unspoken instinct that of course we’re all sleeping together tonight.

It was easy. Intimate. Something more than comfort and less than obligation.

It wasn’t about sex or performance. It was about bonding, the physical closeness that came from syncing emotional states.

A pack’s nest.

He didn’t belong in it.

“You taking the other room?” Namjoon asked, voice soft behind him.

Jungkook turned. Nodded once. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

Namjoon looked at him for a second longer than necessary. His gaze wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t blind either.

Then he nodded. “Alright. Wake us if you need anything.”

“Will do," Jungkook said, even though he wouldn’t.

The smaller room felt colder than it should’ve.

Not just temperature, though the vent above the bed did keep blowing cold air no matter how many times he fiddled with the thermostat, but cold in a way that settled under the skin.

The bed was stiff. The silence too complete.

He lay down, back tense, arms folded across his chest.

Tried not to picture Taehyung curled into Yoongi’s chest. Tried not to imagine Jimin letting Hoseok tangle limbs around him like a sleep-hungry octopus.

Tried not to wonder if Namjoon’s steady breathing calmed everyone else the same way it always calmed him.

He dreamt of drowning.

The next morning, Jungkook woke up with stiff shoulders and an ache in his lower back. His pillow had fallen off the bed sometime in the night. The blankets were tangled around his legs like restraints.

He hadn’t moved much. Probably hadn’t slept much either.

He sat up slowly and rolled his neck, listening to the faint sounds of the others getting ready in the shared bathroom.

Laughter filtered through the wall.

Jimin, definitely. Jin snapping something sarcastic in response. The sound of water running. A loud yelp that could only be Hoseok slipping on wet tile.

And beneath it all, dom hum. Not words. Not even volume. Just presence.

The kind that made the air feel thicker. The kind that soothed Taehyung into silence when his anxiety spiked, or drew a bratty eye roll out of Hoseok just before he obeyed.

It was background noise for the rest of them.

For Jungkook, it felt like being shut out of a room he didn’t know he needed to be in.

They had a light schedule, thankfully. A short fan meet, followed by a private sit-down dinner with their Japanese label execs. No cameras. No heavy choreography.

Still, Jungkook’s body dragged through the day like he was swimming against something.

He ate less than usual at breakfast. Didn’t realize he hadn’t spoken in over an hour until Taehyung poked his knee during makeup.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah," Jungkook replied. “Just in my head.”

“Need anything?”

He shook his head. “Thanks, though.”

Taehyung looked like he wanted to say more, but Yoongi called his name from across the room, and the moment ended.

The fan meet was smooth. The crowd was warm, the energy good.

But halfway through the autograph table, as Jin teased Jimin for drawing hearts on every photo card and Hoseok batted his lashes at a particularly forward fan, Jungkook felt something shift beside him.

Namjoon had leaned down to quietly say something to Taehyung.

He didn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. The tone was low. Level. Weighty with dom energy.

Taehyung nodded once, cheeks pinking. Then relaxed so completely that his shoulder bumped gently into Yoongi’s side without resistance.

It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t showy.

It was subspace brushing the edges.

And Jungkook—

He felt it.

Like a whisper on the back of his neck. A tug behind his ribs. The sense of a room turning its head even though nothing had changed.

For a half-second, he thought he was going to pass out.

His fingers tightened around the pen in his hand. His heart thudded once, hard, then fell back into place.

“Jungkook?”

He blinked up at the fan in front of him.

“Sorry," he said quickly. “Lost in thought.”

He smiled. Signed. Passed the photo down the line.

No one noticed the way his hands were trembling.

They got back to the hotel late that night.

The second the door shut, Hoseok sighed like he was releasing an entire day through his spine and immediately collapsed face-first onto the nearest mattress.

“Don’t even think about stealing the pillows this time," Jimin warned.

“You love when I steal your pillows.”

“You drool on them.”

“Hoseok, Jimin," Namjoon called mildly from the bathroom. “Tone.”

“Tone?” Hoseok mumbled without lifting his face. “What tone?”

Jin threw a hoodie at him.

Taehyung curled into the corner of the bed and pulled a fuzzy blanket over his lap. Yoongi sat behind him, fingers already threading into his hair.

Jungkook stood near the door, keys still in hand.

The ache behind his eyes was coming back.

The one that didn’t feel like dehydration or fatigue or low blood sugar.

The one that felt like his body knew something his mind still wasn’t ready to admit.

“You okay?”

Namjoon’s voice, quiet behind him again.

He didn’t jump. He just nodded. “Yeah.”

“You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

They stood in silence for a beat.

“Did something happen?” Namjoon asked gently.

Jungkook wanted to lie. It would be easier.

But his jaw clenched, and he realized his shoulders were already halfway to his ears.

“I’m fine," he said, voice tight.

“Okay," Namjoon said. He didn’t push. “If you need—"

“I said I’m fine.”

It came out sharper than he meant.

Namjoon blinked. Didn’t flinch. Just gave a small nod.

“Alright.”

And that was that.

Later, from his place on the other side of the suite wall, Jungkook could hear the others settling in.

Not talking anymore.

Just the sound of breath. Of shifting blankets. Of safety.

It was quiet.

But it wasn’t his quiet.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since they’d touched down in Seoul, the buzz of Tokyo still lingering somewhere beneath his skin. The rush of the fan event was distant now, the afterglow fading into the cold, mechanical hum of their daily routine.

Jungkook sat at the far end of the Hybe conference room, a space too big for the seven of them, too cold to feel anything but a test. The kind of room that made you feel small, like a performance waiting to happen, where the mirrors on the walls never quite made you feel sure of your reflection.

The meeting had dragged on longer than expected, the words from the junior manager blurring together, too fast and too clean. Slides flashed across the screen, but none of it mattered in the way the quiet from the other night still hummed beneath his ribs. He hadn’t talked to anyone about it. No one had asked. It was easy to settle back into the routine of doing what was expected, saying what was needed, and not looking too closely at anything that mattered more than the image they had to maintain.

“The reception to the teaser posters has been strong," said their PR coordinator, all smiles and soft edges. “Fans are picking up on the tone right away. Very dynamic-driven.”

Jimin shifted in his chair. Jin crossed his arms.

“We’re not saying you need to play into it, exactly," the coordinator went on, “but it helps when there’s consistency between your natural roles and how you carry yourself in the media.”

“Natural roles?” Jimin echoed under his breath.

“Yoongi-ssi," she said, turning with practiced brightness, “your presence is really commanding lately. It reads very… grounded. And you’ve got that strength-to-protect aura, you know? Not intimidating, just… intense. Something fans lean into.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. Just blinked slowly.

“And Taehyung," she added, “there’s been a huge spike in engagement when you show a little push-and-pull with authority. Playful resistance, that kind of thing. But still sweet offstage. It creates this beautiful contrast, like, ‘tough but loyal.’ We’re not scripting anything, obviously, but if those natural dynamics keep showing up… we won’t complain.”

Taehyung looked down at the table.

“Just something to keep in mind for the next round of content drops," the coordinator finished, tapping her tablet like nothing heavy had been said at all.

No one pushed back. Not here.

Not directly.

After the meeting, Jungkook stayed quiet.

No one asked him anything. No one had addressed him once the entire session, no “neutral coding," no “mysterious singer” archetype. He wasn’t even mentioned in the role deck.

Invisible. Again.

He pretended not to notice that Taehyung hadn’t said a word since they left the building.

They had a full afternoon schedule: studio rehearsal, quick vocal warm-up filming, and a short interview. By the time they got back to the dorms, everyone was dragging.

Hoseok kicked off his shoes and headed straight for the couch.

Jin retreated to the kitchen, muttering about tea and protein powder.

Jungkook moved to follow.

And stopped in the hallway, just outside the shared bedroom.

The door wasn’t closed all the way. Through the gap, he could see Taehyung curled on the edge of the bed, a blanket pulled halfway over his head. His knees were bent, arms tucked tight against his chest. Yoongi sat behind him, not saying anything, just combing slow fingers through his hair.

Taehyung wasn’t crying.

He wasn’t shaking.

But his breathing was shallow, and his lips were parted like he was somewhere else entirely.

Subspace.

Gentle. Deep. Not panic-induced, but the kind that came after too much noise, too much expectation.

And Jungkook—

He didn’t mean to stare. He really didn’t.

But something in him ached at the sight.

Not jealousy. Not really.

Just… longing.

Like his body recognized something it had never been given a name for.

He left before they noticed him.

He found the kitchen empty except for Jin, who was wiping down the counter with aggressive efficiency.

“Tea?” he asked, without looking up.

“Sure," Jungkook said.

They stood in silence while the water boiled. The kettle whined a little, like it didn’t want to be here either.

Finally, Jin said, “That meeting was bullshit.”

Jungkook glanced at him.

“They know better," Jin muttered. “Yoongi isn’t that kind of dom, and Taehyung shouldn’t be shoved into a caricature because it’s easier to market a ‘loud sub’ than a quiet one.”

“You said that out loud?”

Jin gave a short laugh. “No. I’d like to keep my contract.”

Jungkook smiled, but it didn’t quite reach.

Jin poured the water into two mugs, dropped the tea bags in, and handed one over. “You good?”

It was asked like an afterthought, not a real question.

“Yeah," he said anyway.

Jin didn’t push. Just sipped his tea and turned back to the stove.

Later that night, Jungkook found himself scrolling through old videos, behind-the-scenes clips, practice room cams, bits of their early days that he’d saved and never really revisited.

He stopped on one frame.

The moment they introduced him to the rest of the trainees.

That’s what everyone thought. That’s what they said.

He remembered the looks. The coldness. The unspoken judgment.

He’d joined late. Uninvited. Unwanted.

And beneath the surface, behind closed doors, someone had already told him he needed to be tested.

Hybe needed a file.

“I’m not even nineteen," he’d told the staff member.

“It’s just a formality," they said. “You’re probably a neutral. It'll make branding easier.”

He remembered the cold of the chair. The sharp bite of the blood draw.

The way they stamped his result without a second glance.

Neutral.

No second test. No follow-up. No emotional assessment.

Just a label he’d never been allowed to question.

He closed the video.

Laid his phone on the nightstand.

Sat on the edge of the bed and let his breath catch in his throat.

The headache hadn’t left all day.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, fingers twitching.

His limbs felt too tight. Like his muscles were misfiring. Like he was half a step behind the rest of the world.

The others were settling in again. He could hear them through the wall. Taehyung’s laugh was soft now. Hoseok was humming something under his breath.

He sat in the quiet and stared at the floor.

Jungkook started noticing things after that.
Not new things. Just things he hadn’t let himself register before.

Like the way Taehyung instinctively leaned into touch when he got overwhelmed. Or how Hoseok would push just far enough to tip something off-balance, then wait, almost knowingly, for someone, usually Namjoon or Jin, to pull him back. How Jimin’s mood could flip like a switch—loud and electric one second, then grounding and serious the next, like he’d decided the pack needed him steady instead of bright.

It was… something.
Not choreography, exactly, but close.
Like everyone knew the steps to a dance no one had taught him.

The pack moved around each other with a kind of practiced ease, like they were tuned to the same frequency. Like they knew what to be, and when.
And then there was Jungkook.

Not outside of it, exactly. Just a half-beat off.
Like he kept missing a cue no one had called.

He told himself it was nothing. He was just tired. Off his rhythm.

The headaches were probably from his schedule. The kind of tired that curled behind his eyes and stayed there no matter how much he slept—normal. The ache between his shoulder blades that got worse in crowded spaces—stress. Obviously.

And the thing with Namjoon’s voice? That low, careful way he spoke sometimes that made Jungkook’s chest go strange and hollow and tight—

None of it meant anything.
Just static.
Just noise.

He shook it off. Kept moving.

Two days after the meeting, they filmed a live behind-the-scenes mini-doc. Something light, no script, just “be yourselves” energy. The kind of content that fans loved because it looked effortless.

It wasn’t.

The crew was fine. The room was warm. But the minute they walked into frame, everyone slid into their on-camera roles like slipping on coats.

Jimin bounced between members, teasing and loud.

Hoseok batted his lashes and leaned into Namjoon’s side, grinning just enough to look submissive without giving anything away.

Jin stood slightly off-center, quiet and sharp, presence calm and dom-anchored.

Yoongi turned the dial up, voice lowered, posture squared, soft touch trailing on Taehyung’s shoulder just long enough to linger.

And Taehyung—

He played up the resistance, just like Hybe wanted.

Pouted. Bratted. Pushed Jimin during a game segment and practically growled when Jin scolded him with a pointed stare. But behind his eyes, Jungkook saw the flicker of something else.

He’s not in it.

Not in the playful headspace the camera thought he was.

He’s pushing through.

And by the end of the second segment, he looked flushed and unfocused.

“Break?” Namjoon asked when they cut.

Yoongi nodded. “Taehyung—come on.”

Taehyung didn’t argue. Just followed, like his feet weren’t quite steady. Namjoon closed the door to the dressing room behind them.

No one said anything about it.

The rest of the group peeled off to check makeup or scroll through socials. Jungkook stayed on the couch, back pressed into the armrest, water bottle warm in his hand.

“You okay?”

He glanced up.

Jimin stood in front of him, half a protein bar in one hand.

“Yeah," Jungkook said. “Just tired.”

Jimin tilted his head slightly, then dropped into the seat beside him.

“You’ve been kind of…” he waved the bar vaguely, “quiet.”

Jungkook smiled, thin and automatic. “That’s normal.”

“Mm. Normal for you is like, emotionally cryptic. This is more… emotionally asleep.”

Jungkook huffed a laugh. “Wow. Thanks.”

Jimin smiled back but didn’t let it go. “Seriously though. You sure you’re not coming down with something?”

“No fever. Just tired.”

A beat passed.

“Your eyes were glassy during filming," Jimin added, quieter. “And you’ve been holding your shoulder weird.”

“I’ll stretch it out later.”

Jimin nodded once, then tapped the water bottle. “Drink something. You’re dehydrated.”

Jungkook drank. More to shut him up than anything else.

But somewhere inside, a part of him softened.

He’s paying attention.

That night, after dinner, Jungkook slipped into the shared bathroom while the others were winding down. The mirror was fogged from someone’s shower, soft around the edges like a memory. He wiped it clean with his palm and stared at his reflection like it might crack open and tell him something useful.

Was this what dynamic dysregulation looked like?

He didn’t even know. He remembers learning it about it in school, long ago—half listened, really. That kind of thing wasn’t supposed to concern him. He was neutral. Low-reactive. Steady baseline. No bonding compulsion, no drop response. Just... background noise.

And yet.

There were moments lately—small ones, stupid ones—that didn’t fit.

Like the way his chest tightened when he overheard Jin grounding Hoseok in a voice so calm, so certain, that Jungkook almost stepped into the room without meaning to. Or how his body went still and quiet in a way he didn’t have language for when Namjoon said something in that low, firm tone he used when the group got too chaotic.

It wasn’t attraction. It wasn’t anything like that.

It wasn’t anything.

He leaned forward, gripping the sink with both hands.

He’d been tired. That was all. His schedule had been a disaster for weeks, and the jet lag hadn’t helped. He was touch-starved, maybe. Overworked, obviously. His body was just... confused. Misfiring.

That didn’t mean anything.

Neutrals could be overwhelmed, too. That was a thing. Probably.

And just because praise made something in his chest ease a little—just because he found himself holding his breath when someone used a tone that sounded suspiciously like command—that didn’t mean anything either. Didn’t mean it meant something.

He laughed, quiet and shaky, and dragged a hand down his face.
God, he was being ridiculous.

“This isn’t a thing," he muttered. “You're fine. You’re just tired. Your body’s playing tricks.”

He looked up again, expecting to see some kind of confirmation in his face. Steadiness. Normalcy.

But all he saw was someone who looked like he was waiting for a verdict.

And he didn’t know who he thought was going to give it.

Later, curled in bed with the light off and one arm over his eyes, he let his mind go quiet long enough to remember.

Not in sharp, cinematic flashes. Just fragments. A slow, steady drift of memory—unmoored, uninvited.

The buzz of fluorescent lighting in the trainee rooms. That sharp, chemical smell of linoleum and cheap detergent. The constant ache behind his eyes from too little sleep, too much trying.

He remembered being the new kid. The silence that followed him into every room. Not quite hostility—but something colder. Calculated. Like they were all waiting to see if he’d survive the cut.

Gun-hee should’ve debuted.

Everyone knew it. Everyone said it. Even the staff, casually, when they didn’t think he could hear.

But Gun-hee had sharp edges. A dominant spark, even then. Fire, not frost.

And Jungkook—Jungkook was clean lines. Contained. Easy to edit, to mold, to place.

He could handle pressure. He could carry expectations without flinching.

And the neutral result only made it easier.

It wasn’t just that it didn’t disqualify him. It made him ideal.

No bond hierarchy to navigate. No risk dynamic tension with the older trainees. No messy drop cycles or need for regulation. No dom ego or sub sensitivity to account for in high-stress environments.

A neutral was a blank slate—and a blank slate was convenient.

They told him the test was routine. A formality. “Most people don’t fully settle until twenty," they said, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean anything. And maybe it didn’t—not to them.

But the result came back, and no one questioned it. Not even him.

Why would he? It explained the way he could hold his own. The way he didn’t crave touch or feedback or structure. He’d never really needed anything from anyone—why start now?

Still, some part of him remembered how fast they’d moved once the result came in. How the staff seemed to breathe easier. How the offers started coming. How he was suddenly perfect for the role they were building. Not just a singer. Not just a late addition.

A neutral.

Marketable. Manageable. Safe.

He didn’t question it. He couldn’t afford to.

He’d made it this far by holding steady, by keeping his wants tucked deep beneath his ribs.

But now—

Now he noticed things.

Small things, strange things.

How his shoulders went loose at Namjoon’s tone when it dipped into command. How something in his chest ached when Jin murmured grounding phrases into Hoseok’s hair after a long shoot. How praise made his pulse slow, his jaw unclench, like it was something he’d been starving for without realizing it.

He wasn’t supposed to feel any of that.

Neutrals didn’t respond to dom energy. Didn’t react to pack hierarchy. Didn’t want that kind of structure, didn’t crave permission to rest.

So what was this?

He didn’t think the test had been wrong. He didn’t want to think that.

But his body kept insisting on things he had no name for.

His chest felt too tight in a way that didn’t feel like stress, exactly. More like a misalignment. Like a bone out of joint that no one had noticed until it started to ache.

From the other room, someone laughed—low and easy, the sound of people who knew where they belonged.

Jungkook didn’t open his eyes.

He wasn’t tired.

He was… off. Slightly out of sync with himself. Like something was shifting under the surface, inch by inch, and he didn’t know what it was or how to stop it.

The next morning started like most: quiet shuffle of feet in the kitchen, the smell of instant coffee, someone humming under their breath.

Jungkook stood at the sink, waiting for the water to heat.

His vision swam a little when he blinked too hard.

He hadn’t slept well. Again.

Something in his chest wouldn’t settle, not panic exactly, but a low, persistent hum, like a warning tone he couldn’t shut off.

He turned toward the hallway just as Taehyung padded in, shoulders wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big, eyes half-shut.

Jungkook moved automatically toward the kettle.

“You want tea?” he asked.

Taehyung blinked up at him like he’d just remembered Jungkook existed, then nodded.

“Yeah. Please.”

Yoongi entered seconds later, already reaching for a mug from the upper cabinet.

“Did you eat?” he asked Taehyung, not looking at him.

Taehyung hummed, which clearly meant no.

Yoongi leaned in and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head before walking off without another word.

Jungkook handed Taehyung his tea without making eye contact.

His fingers were shaking again.

Later, during vocal rehearsal, the issue got harder to ignore.

They were standing in a half-circle with in-ears in, waiting for the cue to start a group harmony run. It was nothing major, just a check for upcoming pre-recordings, but it required focus.

Jungkook felt like his body was lagging behind his brain. His balance was off, breath shallow. By the time his verse came around, his timing was half a beat late.

Jin gave him a glance but didn’t say anything.

Then it happened again. Different verse. Another off-key entrance.

Taehyung, standing two people over, frowned.

“Kook," Namjoon said, gently. “You good?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I—yeah. Sorry. My timing’s off.”

“You feeling okay?” Jimin asked, head tilted.

“Just tired," he said. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Which was technically true.

Jin didn’t respond, but his eyes lingered a little longer this time.

They took a break ten minutes later.

Yoongi passed out water bottles. Hoseok draped himself over a stool with his usual half-conscious elegance.

Jungkook leaned against the mirrored wall and pressed his knuckles into his sternum.

There was a tightness there, almost cramping, but not physical. Not something he could describe. Just a sharp, restless kind of discomfort that lived under his skin.

“You want to sit?” Jimin asked, nodding toward the chairs.

“I’m fine," he said.

“You’re sweating," Taehyung murmured, not unkindly.

The observation made him freeze.

He was sweating. And cold. Like his body had mixed up the signals.

“I’m fine," he repeated, this time with less conviction.

Back at the dorm that night, he showered long and hot, hoping the water would rinse the tension out of his spine.

It didn’t.

By the time he dressed and stepped out into the living room, he found the others already halfway into post-dinner nesting.

Hoseok and Jimin on the couch, tangled up in some show they’d half-watched three times already. Taehyung tucked into Yoongi’s side again, clearly still worn out from the week.

Jin sat in the corner, quietly folding laundry, hands moving on instinct.

And Namjoon, calm and steady, watching over it all with a presence that filled the whole room without ever demanding anything.

It should’ve felt comforting.

Instead, Jungkook felt like he was standing outside his own house with no key.

“You good now?” Jin asked quietly, folding a hoodie and glancing up.

“Yeah. Just took a minute," he said, toweling at his hair. “Sorry for earlier.”

Jin shrugged, not unkind. “You’re not usually off.”

“Was off today.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

He looked at him then, really looked. And there was something in his eyes that made Jungkook shift on his feet.

“You dizzy?” Jin asked softly.

“No.”

“Muscle cramping? Trouble breathing?”

“No," he lied.

Jin nodded slowly, accepting the answer for now, even if he didn’t believe it.

“Alright,” Jin said. “But if it happens again, I want to run a check-in.”

Jungkook blinked. “A what?”

“Baseline settling. Nothing formal,” Jin added, catching the way his shoulders locked up. “Just want to see where your pressure’s sitting.”

“I’m a neutral,” he said, too quickly.

Jin’s face didn’t change.

“Doesn’t mean your nervous system can’t be fried.”

Then he went back to folding shirts.

Jungkook stood there, towel loose in his hand, heart ticking hard in his chest.

Baseline settling.

That wasn’t for people like him. He’d only ever heard that term used with subs coming out of deep space, or doms who’d overextended their bond field. It wasn’t supposed to apply to people like him. Neutrals didn’t drop. Neutrals didn’t have pressure readings to stabilize.

Still—his fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. His calves were tight. His chest felt floaty, like his ribs weren’t anchored right. And earlier, when he’d tried to breathe deep, it hadn’t quite worked. Like his lungs had forgotten how.

But it had to be stress. That was the only thing that made sense. He was run down, jet-lagged, overstimulated. One bad day didn’t mean anything more than that.

He glanced at the others—curled and comfortable in their own rhythms, nested into the edges of each other’s warmth. Like the room ran on some current he wasn’t part of.

And that was fine.

He was fine.

Always had been.

He crossed the room and dropped onto the floor near the couch—not close enough to crowd anyone, just enough to say I’m here without having to explain what that meant. The towel cooled in his lap. The voices from the show washed over him like static.

He stared at the edge of the coffee table, breathing shallow, and told himself the tightness in his chest wasn’t anything new.

Just fatigue.

Just a blip.

Nothing worth checking in about.

Later that night, Jungkook paced his room, unable to settle.

He knew he wasn’t sick. Not physically, anyway.

But his body was starting to feel like a traitor.

Heart rate all over the place. Brain fog. Nausea that came in slow, rolling waves.

And still—no fever. No cough. No allergy trigger.

He stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe slow.

In. Out.

In. Out.

He thought of Taehyung in Yoongi’s lap the night before, half-under, eyes dazed but peaceful. He thought of Namjoon’s voice calling Hoseok’s name and the way it made him still, even mid-rant.

He remembered the test and the words on the printout.

Neutral. Stable. Unreactive.

Jungkook didn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes dry and burning as he stared at the ceiling fan spinning slow and unhelpful above him.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t tired.

He was exhausted.

But the second he let his body go slack, something inside him would lurch. A sudden jolt in his gut. A flicker of panic he couldn’t track to anything.

Like falling from a height his mind refused to name.

It had to be stress.

That was the only explanation that made sense.

He was overworked. Underrested. Eating at weird hours. Constantly switching time zones. Everyone knew schedules were brutal. His symptoms lined up perfectly.

Tension. Headaches. Nausea. Muscle tightness. Emotional fog. Disrupted sleep.

Classic burnout.
Classic dysregulation.
Classic neutral exhaustion.

It had to be.

Because the alternative—

No. There was no alternative.

He’d been tested. Scientifically. Blood drawn. Marked. Filed.

Neutral.

Neutrals didn’t drop. Didn’t feel dom energy in their teeth. Didn’t ache when someone was praised for being good.

Science didn’t lie.

And Jungkook didn’t trust himself to know the difference anymore.

He got up before sunrise.

Paced the hallway once. Sat on the kitchen floor and drank half a bottle of cold water without tasting it.

His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

By the time the others started waking up, he’d showered, dressed, and retreated to his room again. The door was cracked just enough to hear the quiet thrum of pack life starting to stir.

Jimin teasing Taehyung for stealing hoodies. Jin checking their call sheet. Namjoon’s voice, low and even, threading the room like a stabilizer.

Yoongi humming something under his breath while the kettle boiled.

Normal.

Comforting.

It made his throat tighten for no good reason.

“You okay?”

The voice caught him off guard. It was Taehyung, peeking into the doorway with hair still sticking up and one sock half-on.

“Yeah," Jungkook said quickly, pulling his blanket a little higher around his waist. “Just didn’t sleep great.”

“Still off?”

“Just tired," he repeated. “Same stuff.”

Taehyung nodded, lingering for a second.

“You know, you don’t have to be okay all the time.”

The words weren’t condescending. Just quiet. Genuine.

Jungkook smiled, but it didn’t hold. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Okay," Taehyung said gently. “Just, if you ever need to crash, you can.”

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And then he was gone, padding down the hall toward the kitchen, leaving Jungkook staring at the doorframe like it had just revealed a secret.

Crash.

It stuck in his head, that word. Like it had weight. Like it meant something specific.

He’d heard the others say it before—between themselves, in passing.

He’s crashing.

He dropped too fast.

Give him space to land.

It had never been about him.

He was a neutral.

Neutrals didn’t crash. Neutrals didn’t drop. Neutrals didn’t need check-ins or pressure reads or touchpoints to stay level.

So what was this?

This drag in his limbs. This heat in his skin that didn’t break as sweat. This sense—low and thrumming—that something was off-kilter in a way he couldn’t name.

He sat there a while longer, blanket bunched in his lap, and tried to explain it to himself in clinical terms. Circadian disruption. Adrenal fatigue. Maladaptive overwork response. All of it plausible. All of it documented.

All of it safer than the alternative.

But none of it explained the way his throat had closed when Taehyung said the word crash—like his body heard something his mind refused to translate.

Jungkook ground the heels of his palms into his eyes and took a breath. A long one. Shaky at the end.

No. It was just exhaustion. That was all.

He’d get through the next rehearsal. Push through the schedule. Adjust, like he always did.

And eventually, whatever this was—this weird unsteadiness, this quiet slant in his wiring—it would pass.

Because it had to.

Because neutrals didn’t crash.

And he was a neutral.

End of story.

Later that day, they had a short dance run-through followed by downtime for new concept fittings.

The choreography wasn’t difficult, but halfway through the third run, Jungkook’s knees buckled slightly on a pivot.

He caught himself, barely.

Didn’t fall.

But his hand came up to press against his ribs like he couldn’t breathe right.

No one stopped the track, but he saw it— Jin’s glance. Namjoon’s pause. Even Hoseok, mid-spin, hesitated a second too long before finishing his move.

They all noticed.

And that made it worse.

“I’m fine," he said when they finished. “Tweaked something, maybe. It’ll pass.”

He said it like he believed it.

He said it like he had to.

The fitting was a blur. Flashing lights. Stylists tugging at fabric. Poses. Photos. Heat.

So much heat.

He stood under the studio lights and tried not to sway.

It wasn’t until a hand touched his shoulder, Yoongi’s hand, firm and grounding, that he realized he’d zoned out.

“You okay?” Yoongi asked, low.

“Yeah," Jungkook said instantly. “Just lost in thought.”

Yoongi’s hand lingered for a second too long. But he didn’t push.

They got home late. Again.

Everyone dragged their bags into the dorm like sleepwalkers. Jin immediately peeled off into the kitchen. Namjoon checked the thermostat. Jimin dropped face-first into the couch and groaned something unintelligible.

Taehyung headed straight for his room, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands.

Jungkook stood in the hallway a little too long, watching them all separate into their little routines.

He didn’t want to be alone.

But he didn’t know how to ask not to be.

An hour later, Jungkook sat at the edge of his bed, shirt off, fingers pressed into the tense knot between his shoulder and neck.

It burned. Like a pinched wire.

He curled forward slightly, breathing through the ache, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Pale. Shoulders hunched. Eyes tired.

He looked… brittle.

Not sick. But wrong.

Like something had slipped inside him sideways and was slowly making itself known.

His phone buzzed.

[ Jimin ]: you good?

He stared at the screen.

Typed. Erased. Typed again.

[ Jungkook ]: yeah. just tired

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared.

Nothing else came through.

He turned the screen off.

Laid back.

And when he closed his eyes, his breath caught.

Just for a second.

Not because he was scared.

But because the silence felt too heavy. Too still.

Like his body was waiting for someone to say good job, rest now, we’ve got you, without knowing why it needed that at all.

And that’s when it hit him.

This wasn’t about needing touch. Or attention. Or even care.

It was about absence.

The absence of something he never learned how to want because he was told he didn’t need it.

But now, with the quiet stretching on longer than it ever should have, he recognized it for what it was—this hunger that had begun to grow inside him. It wasn’t new. He’d felt it before, small and faint, but now it was louder, more demanding. But there was no guide for this. He’d spent years protecting a version of himself that didn’t need things—especially not this kind of softness.

But maybe neutrals could want things. He didn’t know why that thought felt like it had never occurred to him before. He couldn’t quite put the thought together, but it lingered. Still, he didn’t need it. He didn’t need any of it. He was fine. He was fine.

So he rolled over. Buried himself deeper into the blanket, like he could disappear in it. He muttered the words again, this time more firmly, almost like a mantra.

“I’m fine.”

And maybe he was. Maybe that’s what he had to be.

It wasn’t that the absence didn’t matter. It did—but he didn’t have to let it change anything. No one had ever told him he needed it, so why start now?
So he said it again, quieter this time, as if repeating it enough would make it true.

“I’m fine.”

Because he was.

Because he was fine. Always had been.

Chapter Text

Fan signs were usually controlled chaos.

There were set arrival times, set exit routes, lines on the table they weren’t supposed to lean over, schedules for eye contact and water breaks, and multiple staff assigned to monitor every gesture that got a little too real.

Still, something about today felt different.

It wasn’t bad, just off.

Too quiet. Too much energy in the air with no place to go.

Jungkook stood near the table with a pen in hand, nodding and smiling as the first line of fans trickled forward. His face did the job. He even laughed when someone told him their friend had flown in just to see his eyes smile.

He signed the photo card, said something polite, and passed it down the table.

Jin was next to him, posture straight, voice easy and clean. He was always good at this, measured, warm without losing edge. Neutral-coded in all the right ways. The fans ate it up.

And beyond him sat Taehyung, bouncing lightly in his chair, grin easy and posture loose like he hadn’t cried himself into subspace three nights ago.

Professionalism looked good on them.

Jungkook tried not to resent that.

By the time they reached the second wave of fans, the volume in the room had doubled. The hum of voices and music and lights layered over itself until it felt like an invisible pressure on the back of Jungkook’s neck.

He pushed through it.

Breathed evenly.

Signed three more albums, posed for a quick selfie, nodded at someone’s shaky voice and smiled gently when they teared up.

That part never got old.

Somewhere down the line, he heard Namjoon’s voice drop.

Not in volume, in tone.

Something grounding. Directive.

It wasn’t meant for him.

It was probably meant for Jimin, who’d started giggling a little too loud. Or maybe for Taehyung, who tended to spiral into energy bursts when overwhelmed. Either way, the shift was immediate.

Dom energy. Centering. Controlled.

And it hit Jungkook like a wave breaking over the back of his skull.

His hand froze mid-signature.

His eyes blurred for a split second, vision narrowing, sound fuzzing at the edges like he’d been shoved underwater.

His chest contracted sharply, breath catching.

And for half a second, everything in his body wanted to— kneel.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.

Literally.

His knees gave a warning pulse. His hands trembled just enough that he had to grip the pen tighter to hide it.

The fan in front of him said something. He didn’t catch it.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

They repeated themselves, smiling.

He nodded like he heard.

Wrote his name. Passed the album.

Did not look up again until the table had moved on.

Jin turned his head toward him slightly. “You good?”

“Fine," Jungkook said, staring at his hands.

“You zoned.”

“Long day.”

Jin looked at him for another beat before nodding once and returning to the next fan.

A few minutes later, someone brushed against his arm. Light. Familiar.

Taehyung.

“Your hand’s still shaking," he murmured, low enough for no one else to hear.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

Taehyung stared a second longer, then turned to his own fan with a smile so polished it almost looked fake.

They finished the event without incident.

Photos were taken. Thank-you's were said. Jungkook posed where he was told to, smiled when the camera clicked, nodded politely when the manager gestured for them to follow the stage exit path.

He did everything right.

He just didn’t feel real doing it.

In the van, everyone was quiet. The usual post-fan sign crash.

Hoseok dozed with one earbud in. Jin checked messages. Yoongi and Jimin leaned shoulder to shoulder, not quite talking. Taehyung sat between them and Jungkook, eyes half-closed.

Namjoon was up front, probably texting the manager.

Jungkook stared out the window and tried to remember how to breathe without counting it.

He didn’t know what had happened exactly.

Only that something had been too much.

And for a second, just a second, he’d almost gone somewhere he didn’t understand.

Somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be able to go.

The dorm was quiet when they got home.

Late evening. Golden light bleeding in through the hallway windows. Socks abandoned near the entry. The heavy, familiar kind of silence that came after a long day in front of too many people.

Most of them peeled off to their usual spaces without much talk.

Hoseok made a beeline for the shared bedroom and dropped face-first into his bed with a dramatic groan. Jimin muttered something about needing a foot massage and followed after. Jin stopped in the kitchen just long enough to check if there was any rice left in the cooker. Namjoon disappeared into his room, probably to finish emails or crash early.

Only Taehyung lingered in the hallway.

Jungkook knew he was being watched before he even turned around.

“You sure you’re okay?” Taehyung asked, voice low.

“Yeah," Jungkook said quickly. “Just tired.”

“You said that yesterday.”

He forced a small smile. “Well, I’m still tired.”

Taehyung didn’t look convinced.

“You zoned out at the table. For longer than usual.”

“Maybe I got bored signing the same name fifty times," Jungkook joked, pushing off the wall and heading toward the living room.

Taehyung followed.

“You also didn’t hear the fan when they asked you a question.”

“I misheard. It was loud.”

“And your hand was shaking.”

Jungkook paused, just for a second. “You watched me that closely?”

“I always watch you," Taehyung said simply.

It landed harder than he expected.

Jungkook swallowed, eyes flicking away.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

They ended up sitting on the couch in silence, lights low, the hum of the building filling the space between them.

Taehyung didn’t push again. Just sat close but not touching, hands folded in his lap.

It reminded Jungkook of how small he’d looked a few nights ago, curled against Yoongi’s chest in full subspace, boneless and safe.

It didn’t make him jealous.

But it did make something twist in his stomach.

He didn’t know what that meant.

Later, after everyone had disappeared into their rooms and the dorm had settled into that late-night lull, Taehyung stood in the kitchen with a glass of water and a hundred thoughts he didn’t know how to name.

He wasn’t a dom. Not even close.

But he noticed things.

Noticed how Jungkook had been slower on his feet lately. How his eyes sometimes darted when Namjoon used his grounding voice. How he’d flinched when Jin corrected his mic position during the shoot two days ago.

He wasn’t an expert.

But he knew what it looked like when someone was… misaligned.

And Jungkook?

He was out of sync.

Not just tired. Not just stressed.

His whole energy read wrong, like something in his system was misfiring and trying to play it cool.

Taehyung didn’t know what to do about that.

But it didn’t sit right.

Yoongi found him standing there.

“Hey," he said softly, reaching past him to grab a bottle of water. “You okay?”

Taehyung hesitated. “I think Jungkook had a moment.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “Moment?”

“At the fan sign.”

Yoongi leaned against the counter, waiting.

“He got hit with something," Taehyung said. “Dom energy, I think. Maybe from Namjoon? Or Jin? He blanked. Just for a second. But I’ve seen it before.”

Yoongi’s brows pulled together.

“Was he responsive?”

“Yeah. Eventually. He caught himself. But it was like, his body wanted to go somewhere, and he shut it down too fast.”

Yoongi stayed quiet for a beat, then exhaled slowly.

“You think he dropped?”

“No. Not fully. But… he almost did.”

Yoongi nodded once, eyes distant. “You think he’s masking?”

“I think something’s wrong," Taehyung said. “And he’s not saying it.”

Meanwhile, in his room, Jungkook sat on his bed with his laptop open, staring at an untouched track in Logic Pro X and the dull throb behind his eyes.

He’d been pushing it aside for days.

The headaches. The way his skin sometimes prickled for no reason. That strange, weightless pull low in his belly whenever Namjoon gave a directive and the energy in the room changed—just enough to make his spine lock and his mouth go dry.

Stress, he told himself. Burnout. Jet lag. Too many late nights and skipped meals and back-to-back schedules that never let him breathe.

He still believed that.

He had to believe that.

Because any other explanation didn’t make sense. It didn’t fit with anything he knew about himself, anything he'd been told. Anything he'd proven.

He was a neutral. It wasn’t a guess. It wasn’t a hunch. It was science—blood drawn, papers signed, results categorized and filed like every trainee before and after him.

Neutrals didn’t respond to dom energy.

Neutrals didn’t crash.

Neutrals didn’t ache when someone else got told they were good.

So these symptoms—whatever they were—had to be something else. Nerves, maybe. Dehydration. An overloaded sensory system. He’d been riding at redline for weeks.

He blinked down at the screen, fingers poised uselessly above the keyboard.

The thought came anyway.

What if something got filed wrong? What if he was tested wrong?

And then, before it could settle: No.

He clamped down hard on it. Quicker than breath.

It wasn’t just far-fetched. It was impossible.

Dangerous, even—disloyal to the people who had trusted him to know who he was. It would unravel everything. It would mean he hadn’t been chosen for the team on merit, but by mistake. It would mean he’d spent years outside the pack not because they didn’t want him—

—but because he didn’t belong the way he thought he did.

He couldn’t afford to think that.

Couldn’t even let the idea breathe.

So he drew a shallow breath, flexed his fingers against the keys, and started typing.

Even if the cursor blinked back at him like it knew he was lying.

Even if the beat he laid down felt thin. Unstable. Off by a fraction he couldn’t name.

The next day was light. Just a dance check-in and some styling notes for the next shoot.

No cameras. No pressure. No fans.

Just the seven of them in a studio that smelled faintly of floor polish and too many hours of practice.

“God, I forgot how brutal this choreography is on your ankles," Jimin muttered, flopping onto the floor mid-stretch.

“You say that every time," Jin replied, sipping coffee from a travel mug like he wasn’t also stretching his lower back at weird angles.

“That’s because it keeps being true," Jimin whined.

“You’re just old," Hoseok said, grinning.

“You’re only two years younger than me.”

“And that means two lifetimes cooler.”

Jin snorted into his drink.

Yoongi was crouched low by the speaker cable, sleeves shoved up, arms flexed as he fiddled with the jack. Taehyung knelt beside him, surprisingly focused for someone who hadn’t said much all morning.

Hoseok wandered over with his arms crossed, watching them work. “That loose again?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi muttered. “Keeps cutting in and out.”

“I’ll get the spares,” Hoseok offered, then paused. “Or… wait—”

He crouched, gently pulled the cable free, and used the hem of his sleeve to wipe the contact point with careful, almost surgical precision.

Yoongi raised a brow, amused. “Helpful today?”

“Dom-y today,” Hoseok said offhandedly, flashing a lazy smile at Taehyung. “You okay with that, sweetheart?”

Taehyung blinked—then laughed, light and open, like it cracked something in his chest.

“Only if you say it like that again.”

From across the room, Jimin snorted. “Ten bucks says he’s a pillow prince by lunch.”

“I contain multitudes,” Hoseok said, straightening with dramatic elegance.

“Switch multitudes,” Jimin added, flopping onto the couch behind them. “Flirt with me next. I’m bored.”

“Too needy,” Hoseok called over his shoulder. “Try again when I’m subby.”

They ran the choreography twice after that.

Jungkook nailed it both times—on paper. Sharp lines. Clean turns. No late pivots.

But Taehyung noticed the tension.

The way Jungkook’s shoulders hunched tighter each time Namjoon corrected someone, even when it wasn’t him. How his breathing turned shallow during water breaks. The tap-tap-tap of his fingers against his thigh, like he was keeping time with a song no one else could hear.

They had no camera on them. No press. No stakes.

And still, he looked like he was bracing for impact.

After rehearsal, they collapsed onto the floor, limbs splayed wide and sweat drying slow in the stale air.

Jimin ended up with his head in Namjoon’s lap, blinking lazily at the ceiling.

“You good?” Namjoon asked, brushing a hand through his hair.

Jimin didn’t lift his head. Just sighed. “Weirdly subby today.”

“That’s allowed,” Namjoon murmured.

“Will you pet me until I forget my name?”

Namjoon chuckled and didn’t stop touching him.

Jin passed by, dropping a water bottle next to Jimin’s hip. “You need sugar too?”

“No,” Jimin mumbled. “Just validation.”

“Weirdly honest today,” Jin muttered, but his hand found Jimin’s back for a second before he moved on.

Hoseok stretched beside them, arms overhead. “We should start a switch support group.”

“Too dangerous,” Taehyung said, closing his eyes. “You too would turn into an orgy.”

“Not if,” Jimin said, muffled into Namjoon’s thigh. “When.”

Hoseok stretched beside Taehyung, one hand braced behind him, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“You want me to settle you later?” he asked, voice quiet.

Taehyung blinked. “You offering?”

Hoseok shrugged. “Feels good. Being steady for someone.”

Taehyung gave him a small smile. “Then yeah. Let’s nest later.”

Jungkook stayed off to the side, towel around his neck, back against the wall. He smiled when someone looked at him, nodded when they made a joke.

And the second no one was watching,

His smile dropped.

Taehyung saw it. From across the room.

Didn’t say anything.

But his hands curled just slightly in his lap.

Later, back at the dorm, they ended up scattered through the living room.

Jin and Namjoon were comparing logistics for a shoot. Hoseok dragged Taehyung onto the couch and rested his legs across his lap, casually bratty but affectionate. Jimin was laying belly-down on the floor scrolling through his phone, making soft cooing noises every time someone sent him a meme.

Jungkook made tea. Sat in the farthest corner of the room. Quiet. Not isolated, but not touched.

Taehyung clocked it again.

He didn’t think the others even noticed.

“I feel like we should do something," Jimin said eventually, flipping onto his back and holding his phone above his face. “We haven’t done something stupid and fun in weeks.”

“Define stupid," Jin said.

“Group karaoke, no warm-ups, only 2000s hits.”

“I veto that," Jin replied. “On moral grounds.”

“Too bad," Jimin grinned. “Hoseok’s already queueing up ‘My Love’ on the TV.”

“Traitor," Jin muttered, but he didn’t move.

Taehyung slid closer to Jungkook during the first chorus of a very bad rendition of BoA.

“You want to sing something?” he asked.

Jungkook blinked like he’d forgotten he was in the room.

“Oh. Uh, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

He hesitated. “Don’t feel like performing right now.”

Taehyung nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

He didn’t press. Just bumped his knee once and let it be.

Hoseok ended up pulling Jin onto the couch with him. Jin fought it for all of ten seconds before sighing and rearranging their limbs with surgical efficiency.

Yoongi passed out snacks. Namjoon took someone’s head into his lap again (probably Jimin’s) and began massaging slow circles into their scalp.

The whole room was warm with care loops, laughter, tired bodies leaning into one another.

Taehyung looked over at Jungkook.

Still sitting up. Still apart. Still smiling like it didn’t matter.

But his fingers were clenched tight around the edge of the couch cushion.

Like he was trying not to slide off the edge of something he hadn’t named yet.

It was late again.

The kind of late that wrapped around the dorm like a blanket, low lights, soft rustling, the occasional thud of a cabinet closing or water running in the bathroom.

Most of the group had already retreated to their rooms. Jimin, dead asleep under three layers of blankets. Jin and Hoseok sharing a playlist in bed, one earbud each. Namjoon reading some training document with his legs stretched out and head propped in one hand.

Taehyung sat on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen, pretending not to be thinking too hard.

He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for anymore.

Only that something was wrong, and it had been wrong for a while, and maybe, maybe, he was the only one who couldn’t unsee it.

Yoongi came into the room slowly, barefoot and quiet.

He didn’t say anything. Just settled beside him with a soft sigh and a water bottle he didn’t open.

They sat there for a moment, breathing together.

Then Taehyung said, “I don’t think Kook’s sleeping.”

Yoongi didn’t look surprised. “You’ve been watching him a lot.”

Taehyung nodded. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You’re noticing something.”

“It’s like he’s… here. But not with us.”

Yoongi was quiet for a beat.

“Do you think we left him out?” he asked, voice low.

Taehyung didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to.

The hallway light flicked on.

Jungkook walked past in a hoodie and joggers, hoodie strings gripped tight in one hand, expression blank.

He paused when he saw them.

“Didn’t mean to wake you," he said softly.

“You didn’t," Yoongi replied. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just water.”

Taehyung watched him carefully.

He moved like his body was trying to be casual. But the tension was back, in his jaw, in his shoulders, in the stiffness of his walk. Like he was made of tightly wound rope that hadn’t come undone in weeks.

“You sleeping okay?” Taehyung asked.

Jungkook opened the fridge. “Define ‘okay.’”

“Define ‘not ’” Yoongi said gently.

Jungkook smiled, but it was tired.

“Stress. Too much coffee. Weird schedule.”

He grabbed a water bottle and turned to leave.

“You sure that’s all it is?” Taehyung asked.

Jungkook stopped in the doorway. Just for a second.

Then: “What else would it be?”

The words weren’t harsh.

But the wall behind them was unmistakable.

Taehyung didn’t answer.

And Jungkook didn’t wait.

Later that night, Taehyung stood outside Namjoon’s door for a full thirty seconds before he knocked.

“Come in.”

He slipped inside quietly. Namjoon was still awake, stretched out on his bed with a soft light on, eyes calm.

“You okay?” Namjoon asked.

Taehyung hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I just…”

He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, twisting his fingers together.

“Something’s wrong with Jungkook.”

Namjoon didn’t react. Not outwardly.

“You said that already.”

“I know. I just—" He looked down. “I think it’s more than stress.”

Namjoon tilted his head slightly.

“He blanked at the fan sign," Taehyung said. “Like, blanked. I thought he was going to drop.”

That made Namjoon sit up a little straighter.

“He didn’t," Taehyung added quickly. “But… he could’ve. His hands were shaking. His posture changed. The way he looked at me, it was like his brain short-circuited and rebooted.”

“You think it was a dynamic response?” Namjoon asked, voice still even.

“I don’t know," Taehyung whispered. “But it didn’t feel like nothing.”

Back in his room, Jungkook stared at the ceiling again.

He hated this.

The feeling that something was crawling under his skin. The dissonance between how his body felt and what he believed. The ache in his muscles that didn’t come from dancing, and the heaviness in his chest that didn’t lift, even when the room was quiet and still.

He’d run the math a thousand times.

It didn’t make sense.

His designation was neutral. Registered. Stamped.

Neutrals didn’t crave structure. Didn’t stagger when dom energy cut through a room. Didn’t find themselves wondering if anyone would notice if they just fell apart quietly in the corner.

It had to be stress.

It had to be.

Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed in their sleep.

Probably Jimin.

The sound was small. Familiar.

It made Jungkook’s throat close up.

He rolled over.

Buried himself deeper under the covers.

And told himself again: I’m fine.

Even though the word was starting to feel like a lie.

Chapter Text

Jungkook woke with the taste of metal in his mouth.

Not blood. Just the dull, bitter tang of something wrong.

His head was pounding before he sat up. His limbs felt too long for his body. Tight in the joints. Like he’d been holding still in the wrong way for too long.

He sat there for a moment, legs off the side of the bed, hands limp in his lap, and waited for his brain to catch up.

It didn’t.

He showered slow, hoping the steam would help. It didn’t.

He pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie and joined the rest of the group in the living room twenty minutes later, just as Jin dropped a blanket over Taehyung’s lap and Hoseok shoved his cold feet into Jimin’s thigh with a smug grin.

Yoongi looked up from the corner. “Morning," he said, soft and warm.

Jungkook nodded. “Morning.”

He dropped into the chair furthest from the couch pile. Not because he meant to, but because it was open.

Because no one had saved him a spot.

“Schedule’s light today," Namjoon said, scrolling through his phone. “Just choreography tweaks and a stylized shoot for the brand collab. Out by six if we move fast.”

Jimin groaned dramatically. “I don’t want to look cute today. I want to die in peace.”

“You can do both," Hoseok said sweetly, pushing Jimin’s head off his shoulder and into a pillow. “Die cute.”

“I’ll kill you first.”

“Romance," Taehyung murmured.

Jungkook smiled at the joke. No one noticed.

They got through rehearsal without much trouble. His body did what it was told. The steps still lived in his spine. He could do them half-conscious.

But everything around him felt like it was happening through a pane of glass.

Muted. Slightly off-tempo.

At one point during a water break, Hoseok touched a hand to his back in passing, a grounding gesture, instinctive, casual.

Jungkook’s whole body flinched.

Not visibly. Not much.

But enough that his breath caught and his vision fuzzed for half a second.

He moved away before Hoseok noticed.

He was in the kitchen after rehearsals, digging through a drawer for painkillers, when Namjoon stepped in behind him.

“Back again?”

“Just sore," Jungkook said without turning.

“Should get you on the physio list.”

“Already sent the email.”

He found the packet, shook two pills into his palm, and grabbed his water bottle from the counter.

“You’re running hot today," Namjoon said softly.

Jungkook blinked. “What?”

“Your skin’s flushed. You’re moving like something’s catching.”

“I’m fine," he said, a little too fast.

“You said that yesterday.”

“I meant it yesterday.”

“Do you mean it now?”

Jungkook hesitated. Just for a second.

Then forced a smile. “I’m just tired, hyung.”

Namjoon didn’t look convinced.

But he didn’t press.

That night, Jungkook sat on his bed scrolling mindlessly through videos when he heard someone laugh, then two more voices, low and affectionate, then a door shut softly down the hall.

He didn’t think anything of it at first.

Until he got up to fill his water bottle and saw the message on the group chat.

[ Jin ]: pack check-in in Hoseok’s room, 10 min, no bailouts 😘

Sent forty minutes ago.

He hadn’t seen it.

No ping. No tag. No one had come to grab him.

He stared at the message for a long time.

Then set his phone down and went back to bed.

The muffled laughter kept bleeding through the wall.

Jungkook laid flat on his mattress and stared at the ceiling until his eyes burned.

He wasn’t angry.

Not really.

It was an accident. Probably.

They’d assumed someone else told him. Or that he saw the text. Or maybe… they just forgot.

Because neutrals didn’t need grounding.

Because he never asked for it.

He rolled onto his side and curled his hands into the blanket.

His legs ached. His spine felt too tight. And his chest,

His chest felt like it was wrapped in gauze.

Too quiet.

Too slow.

Like his own body had gone gray around the edges.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t sleep.

Didn’t cry.

Just let the nothing sit in his bones.

And thought:
This must be what tired feels like when you run out of places to put it.

The next morning, the dorm was quiet.

Too quiet for seven people sharing a kitchen.

Jungkook walked out of his room around 10:30, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, eyes gritty from not sleeping. The light in the kitchen was already on, soft and warm, and Jimin stood at the stove flipping something in a pan.

“Morning!” he chirped, then paused, frowning. “You okay?”

“I’m fine," Jungkook said before the question had fully landed.

“You look…” Jimin studied him. “Like your soul hasn’t re-entered your body yet.”

Jungkook grunted and reached for a mug.

Jimin clicked off the stove and turned, holding a spatula like a pointer. “Sit.”

“What?”

“You look like you’re two skipped meals from tipping over. Sit. I’m making eggs and rice.”

“I can—"

“Sit," Jimin repeated, softer this time. “I got it.”

He sat. Mostly because it was easier than fighting.

Jimin moved around the kitchen like he actually enjoyed it. His energy was warm today, dom-leaning, but gentle. Not controlling. More like he just wanted to help.

He slid a bowl in front of Jungkook with barely a sound and joined him at the table with his own.

“I forgot how good it feels to take care of someone," Jimin said casually, spooning food into his mouth. “Hoseok’s been bratty for three days, and Taehyung’s touch-averse until noon.”

Jungkook smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

“No big.” Jimin chewed, then added, “You missed check-in last night.”

Ah. There it was.

Jungkook didn’t look up. “Didn’t see the message.”

“Thought maybe you fell asleep early.”

“I didn’t.”

Jimin frowned.

“You could’ve still come in.”

“It sounded full," Jungkook said lightly. “Didn’t want to crowd.”

Jimin’s frown deepened.

“You’re not ‘crowding’ your own pack.”

There was no accusation in the way he said it. Just fact.

But it still hit like a bruise.

Jimin stood up a few minutes later and reached over to touch his shoulder, just a quick squeeze, probably without thinking.

Jungkook flinched so fast he almost knocked his bowl off the table.

Jimin froze. “Whoa. Sorry.”

“No, sorry," Jungkook said quickly, pushing his chair back. “Didn’t mean to. Just, jumpy today.”

“You’re okay," Jimin said, voice immediately soft. “Didn’t mean to crowd your space.”

Jungkook nodded, jaw tight.

The room was suddenly too loud. The fridge hum. The click of Jimin’s spoon. His own breathing, sharp and shallow.

He blinked hard, trying to clear the haze around his vision.

It didn’t help.

The rest of the day blurred.

Costume fitting. A stylized solo shoot. An interview with pre-submitted fan questions.

He made it through each thing like walking a balance beam: one wrong step and it all crumbled.

His hearing started cutting in and out during the shoot. Not fully gone, but like someone was turning the volume dial without warning.

At one point, the photographer asked him something, and he didn’t respond until someone tapped his shoulder.

“You good?” Jin asked later, adjusting his own collar in the dressing room mirror.

“Yeah.”

“You spaced for a minute during that third concept.”

“Long day.”

Jin didn’t look at him directly. “You’re running stiff.”

“I pulled something," Jungkook lied.

“Your whole body?”

“Lower back.”

“Mm.”

That was all Jin said.

But Jungkook could feel his gaze linger after he turned away.

That night, he sat on the couch with the others while they played a dumb card game Hoseok had found online.

He wasn’t really playing. Just watching.

Trying not to float out of his own head.

Jimin sat curled up beside Jin. Hoseok sprawled across the rug, Taehyung half-leaning against his legs, laughing at something no one else found funny.

Yoongi tossed a card onto the pile and groaned. “I hate this game.”

“You hate all games," Jin said.

“I like Uno.”

“Because it’s violent.”

“Exactly.”

They all laughed.

Jungkook laughed, too.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His hands were curled tight in the blanket in his lap, knuckles white.

His hearing dipped again, just for a moment.

Just enough to make him blink, disoriented, like someone had dimmed the whole room.

No one noticed.

Or if they did, no one said a word.

Later, as the others peeled off for showers and final snack runs, Jungkook stayed on the couch alone, staring blankly at the coffee table.

His body wouldn’t move the way he asked it to. His legs were heavy. His arms tingled. And the ache in his spine had turned cold and sharp, like something was threading ice between his ribs.

When he finally stood, his knees nearly gave out.

He caught himself on the arm of the couch.

Sat back down slowly, heart thudding.

He wasn’t dizzy. Not exactly.

Just… not here.

Like his body was one place, and his mind couldn’t find it.

A few minutes later, Namjoon walked into the room holding a mug.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat on the edge of the couch near Jungkook’s feet and looked at him.

“Hey," he said eventually. “You with me?”

Jungkook blinked up at him. “Yeah.”

“You look a little locked up.”

“I’m okay.”

“Are you?”

Jungkook hesitated, then forced a nod. “Just tired.”

“Mm.”

Namjoon handed him the mug.

Hot. Sweet.

Lemon tea with honey.

He didn’t ask how Namjoon knew he needed it.

Didn’t ask why his hands shook as he wrapped them around it.

Didn’t say a word when Namjoon stayed close but didn’t touch.

Just drank in silence.

And thought:
Don’t notice. Please don’t notice.
If someone notices, I’ll fall apart.

The dorm was too loud.

Not in noise, volume was fine. Hoseok and Jimin were play-arguing about takeout, Jin was half-listening with earbuds in, and someone’s phone kept buzzing against the countertop.

But the energy was too loud.

Everyone’s moods moved through the room like electric current. Hoseok’s buzzed annoyance. Jimin’s playful frustration. Namjoon’s steady presence anchoring it all.

Jungkook stood at the edge of it with a glass of water and a system that felt like it was short-circuiting.

“You haven’t eaten yet, right?” Yoongi asked, appearing beside him with two bowls.

Jungkook startled. The water in his glass sloshed over the rim.

Yoongi froze. “Hey, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine," Jungkook said quickly, wiping his hand on his hoodie.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine.”

Yoongi held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.

Then handed him the smaller bowl. “Yours has less pepper.”

“Thanks," Jungkook muttered, even though his appetite had vanished.

They sat together on the floor in a lazy half-circle, nesting-adjacent, but loose.

Jungkook took a few bites, chewing like his jaw had forgotten how to move.

Hoseok was leaning against Taehyung, arms lazily wrapped around his waist, while Jimin had taken up the full couch, legs propped in Jin’s lap like a smug cat.

“You’re heavy," Jin muttered.

“I’m decorative," Jimin replied, eyes closed. “A precious, weighted pillow.”

Jin sighed but didn’t move.

Hoseok snorted. “What’s that make me?”

“Emotional support rake.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

Someone laughed. Too loud. Too close.

The sound pierced straight through him—sharp as a needle, sudden and wrong, like it had come from inside his skull instead of across the room.

His whole body jerked. Muscles coiled so fast his shoulders locked up, hand clenched too tight around the bowl he was holding. Porcelain clicked against bone, his knuckles blooming white.

He blinked.

And the world… dimmed.

Not visibly, not at first. But like someone had put cotton over his ears. Like the air had thickened. Muffled. Distant. A beat behind.

Voices warped underwater. The overhead lights buzzed louder than the conversation.

His vision grayed out at the corners, narrowed like a tunnel. His limbs felt too far away, like he was piloting them from somewhere deep inside his chest. Too slow, too heavy. Disconnected.

He couldn’t catch his breath. Or maybe he just forgot how.

The bowl was still in his hand, but it didn’t feel real anymore. Nothing did.

He told himself to move. Just—set it down. Walk away. But his fingers wouldn’t listen. His body didn’t listen. His thoughts were starting to scatter like leaves in wind, too fast to grab.

Something was happening.

He didn’t know what.

But it felt like falling—without motion. Like a switch flipped somewhere in his spine, and now all he could do was wait to hit bottom.

Taehyung noticed first.

His body stilled mid-laugh, expression dimming as he glanced over. His brow furrowed, attention narrowing to where Jungkook stood—motionless, bowl still in hand, shoulders drawn tight like a wire.

“Kook,” he said, low and careful, like approaching something skittish. A wild animal. Or a bomb.

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His chest was rising and falling, but too fast, too shallow—like the air wasn’t making it all the way in.

Taehyung shifted forward slowly, hand half-extended. “Hey. You with us?”

Jin turned at the sound of his voice, eyes sharp, already reading the room. “You okay?”

That pulled Namjoon’s attention instantly. He was on his feet in one clean motion, quiet but fast, crouching beside Jungkook with a hand raised—not touching, but close enough to ground.

“Talk to me,” Namjoon said gently, voice pitched just above a whisper.

Jungkook blinked, slow and uneven. His eyes flicked toward them but didn’t seem to register who they were. He shook his head faintly, like trying to dislodge water from his ears.

“I’m—fine,” he said, but the word cracked on his tongue. Barely sound. Barely belief. Just a brittle placeholder.

Namjoon nodded once. Not agreement—just acknowledgment.

“Okay. Try breathing in for me.”

“I am breathing.”

“Slower.”

The command threaded through the fog like a thin lifeline. Something in Jungkook’s chest stuttered, caught. His body listened even if his brain didn’t understand why. He pulled in a breath. Shaky. Shallow. Tried again.

Again.

The room had gone quiet.

Nobody moved. Nobody pushed.

They didn’t crowd him. Didn’t press for answers. No one asked what was wrong.

They just stayed still. Present. Focused.

Like they’d all dropped into a different register, a quieter one. Like some ancient instinct had clicked into place and told them: something’s wrong with the youngest—wait, watch, stay soft.

They were all looking at him now.

He could feel it—like heat against his skin. Too much. Too close.

Their eyes weren’t unkind, but they felt heavy. Like they saw something he hadn’t meant to show.

And he didn’t know why.

Didn’t know what they were seeing.

Didn’t know what he was doing.

His hands were still clenched too tight around the bowl. His chest kept jerking with uneven breaths. Everything felt slow and too fast at once. Like a camera glitching—frames skipping, sound out of sync.

Why were they watching him like that?

Why wasn’t anyone saying anything?

His throat closed up. Panic flickered at the edges of his vision again.

He didn’t know what was happening to him.

He didn’t know how to make it stop.

The moment didn’t pass, not really.

The volume of the room returned—but only in pieces, like a radio slowly tuning back in. Someone shifted. A chair creaked. A breath hitched. But everything still felt off-kilter. Tilted.

The blood stopped roaring in his ears, but that only made the silence louder.

His limbs weren’t numb anymore, just… distant. Light. Wrong.

He couldn’t tell if he was hot or cold. His skin felt like it didn’t fit right.

He blinked at Namjoon, then Taehyung, then Jin—but the edges of their faces were soft, smudged, unreal. Like they were underwater. Like he was.

His chest was too tight. His hands tingled where they gripped the bowl. He wasn’t even sure when he’d set it down.

And underneath it all—rising slow and sick—was fear.

What the hell just happened?

What was happening to him?

He forced a breath in and it caught, scraped its way down his throat like something splintered. “I’m—”

His voice broke. He tried again, quieter. “I’m sorry.”

He shifted, tried to stand—his knees nearly gave out. He caught himself on the edge of the table.

“Don’t,” Namjoon said, steady but gentle. He didn’t touch him. “It’s okay.”

Jungkook shook his head, dazed. “I just— too many people talking. Long day. Didn’t eat.”

The excuses tumbled out. Loose. Automatic. He couldn’t even track what he was saying. He just needed the attention off of him. Needed to move. To make it stop.

Everyone knew he was lying.

No one called him out.

But no one nodded along, either.

They just watched.

And that was worse.

Because it meant they’d seen something.

Something he didn’t understand.

Later, Namjoon pulled Jin aside in the hallway, just out of earshot but still close enough to hear the soft clink of glasses being cleared in the living room behind them.

“You saw that, right?” he said, voice pitched low.

Jin folded his arms, shoulder pressed into the wall like he could disappear into it. “Yeah.”

“Was that what I think it was?”

“I don’t know.” Jin’s voice was tight. Measured. “But it wasn’t neutral behavior.”

Namjoon nodded once. His gaze was fixed on the floor.

“Muscle tension. Muffled hearing. Disassociation,” Jin said, almost flatly—listing symptoms like facts could make them less strange.

“Could be stress,” he added. “We’ve all been running on fumes.”

“Could be neutral exhaustion,” Namjoon said. And that sounded more certain, more useful. A name for what didn’t make sense. “He’s been around a lot of dynamic energy lately.”

Jin didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, a tic in his cheek flaring and fading.

“Maybe we’ve been putting too much pressure on him,” he said eventually. “Too much proximity. Too much… expectation.”

“That’s not nothing.”

“No,” Jin agreed. But it didn’t sound like agreement. It sounded like a placeholder.

They stood there, the two of them, caught in the quiet drag of not-knowing. Of wanting to understand, but only being able to see what made sense inside the box they’d already drawn around him.

They didn’t say the word.

Didn’t say submissive.

Didn’t say misclassified.

Didn’t say: what if we’re wrong?

But the silence between them did. It vibrated with it.

Taehyung sat outside Jungkook’s room for ten minutes that night. Maybe longer.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t call out.

He just… sat.

Back against the wall, knees bent, hands loosely clasped in his lap. The hallway was quiet except for the occasional hum of the HVAC and the faint shuffle of someone brushing their teeth down the hall.

The light under Jungkook’s door was on. Steady. Unmoving.

Taehyung kept his eyes on it like it might flicker, like the smallest shift might mean something. That Jungkook was still in there. Still present. Still—

God, he didn’t know.

He didn’t know how to ask if someone was unraveling. Didn’t know how to say I see you slipping.

Didn’t know how to fix a silence that wasn’t even angry. Just… empty.

Jungkook hadn’t said much after the living room. He’d mumbled something about needing to lie down, then disappeared. Not rudely. Not like he was upset. But like he was already halfway gone.

And now Taehyung sat there, staring at the door like it might open if he stayed quiet long enough. Like maybe Jungkook would come out, see him, say something.

But the handle never turned.

The light didn’t flicker.

So eventually, with a weight like wet cement in his chest, Taehyung pushed himself up.

He paused once, just before leaving. Let his knuckles hover near the wood.

Still didn’t knock.

Didn’t want to push.

He just whispered, barely audible, “Goodnight, Kook,” and padded down the hall.

He lay in bed after, staring at the ceiling with his eyes wide open in the dark.

Listening.

For footsteps.

For anything.

But the only sound was his own breath.

And the quiet ache of knowing he’d waited too long.

Inside the room, Jungkook sat on the floor with his back against the wall, arms curled tight around his knees.

He hadn’t moved since he got in.

Hadn’t turned on music. Or lights.

Just let the stillness press in from all sides, thick and quiet.

For a while, he stared at the door.

He’d heard the soft rustle of fabric outside—knew someone was there. Probably Taehyung. Maybe Hoseok. He didn’t know.

Didn’t go to check.

Didn’t want to be seen like this.

Whatever this was.

His heart hadn’t stopped racing, not really. Not even hours later. Not even when the apartment fell completely silent.

And he didn’t understand why.

His body felt foreign. Like it was running some background process he couldn’t interrupt. Too many alerts flashing behind his eyes. Too many things he didn’t have words for.

He felt overheated and cold at the same time. Muscles twitching, then locking, then going limp. His thoughts came slow and sharp, then all at once, then not at all.

He curled tighter, arms wrapped around his knees like it might stop whatever was unspooling inside him.

Nothing helped.

He stayed like that until morning.

Didn’t remember getting into bed. Only that the floor had become too hard and his body too heavy to stay upright.

When his alarm buzzed, he ignored it.

When it buzzed again, he silenced it with a twitch of his hand and let it drop to the mattress.

He wasn’t sleeping. Hadn’t slept.

But he couldn’t get up either.

His limbs felt wrapped in wet cloth—slow, heavy, unresponsive. His back ached in a strange, sticky way, like the muscles were firing on delay or not at all.

At some point in the night, his jaw had locked. It took real effort to loosen it. The ache throbbed down his neck like a warning.

He stared at the ceiling, eyes dry, chest rising too slowly.

His heartbeat didn’t feel synced to anything anymore.

Too fast. Then too slow. Then like it was skipping altogether.

Panic tried to well up—but even that felt dulled, like it was muffled beneath something thick and wet.

He wasn’t even sure he was panicking.

He wasn’t sure of anything.

He started counting his breaths, desperate for a rhythm.

Four in. Four out.

Again.

Again.

The air felt thin.

The light hurt.

Everything around him seemed far away.

His own body most of all.

Like he was underwater in his own skin.

Like something had come untethered—and he had no idea how to put it back.

He finally got up around eleven.

By the time he made it to the kitchen, everyone else had already moved on with their day. Only Taehyung was still there, sitting at the table, nursing a cup of tea with both hands like he needed the warmth to stay upright.

“You missed breakfast," he said, voice careful.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

Taehyung watched him for a beat, then pushed the second mug toward him.

“I made extra. Lemon. A little honey.”

Jungkook stared at the cup like it was a test.

Then slowly reached for it, fingers curling tight around the heat.

“Thanks," he muttered.

They drank in silence.

Later, Namjoon stood in the center of the living room, his broad shoulders set a little too stiffly, as if the weight of his thoughts was pulling him down. The room felt smaller somehow, the walls closer, the soft hum of the air conditioning louder than usual. His hands were pressed against his hips, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as his gaze drifted aimlessly, not quite landing anywhere.

“Okay,” he said, his voice cutting through the stillness with an odd sharpness. “We need to talk about Jungkook.”

The words hung in the air for a long moment, thick and heavy. There was no rush to fill the silence. It was like the room itself was waiting for something, for someone to speak, but no one moved.

Jimin, already perched on the back of the couch, shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting from Namjoon to the others. He adjusted his position, fingertips grazing the fabric of the couch as if trying to ground himself. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice suddenly lower, strained.

“I’m worried,” Namjoon continued, his voice rougher than it usually was. He rubbed the back of his neck, as if trying to shake off something that wasn’t there. “You’ve seen it too.”

Jin glanced up from his phone, the faint glow of the screen casting a sharp contrast to the dim lighting in the room. His eyes were too focused, too alert for someone who was usually lost in his own world. “He flinched when I brushed his shoulder yesterday. Wouldn’t let me near him for the mic check.”

“That’s not him,” Yoongi’s voice slipped in, soft but unyielding. “He was locked up last night. Full-body tension. His eyes weren’t tracking right for a few seconds.”

Taehyung sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the wall. The coolness of the wood floor beneath him seemed to press against his skin, a sharp contrast to the heavy air in the room. His hands rested loosely on his knees, but his gaze never strayed from Jungkook, sitting on the balcony. Jungkook’s silhouette was half-lit by the sunlight streaming in, but his face was distant—his expression empty, like he wasn’t really there.

“He’s not asking for help,” Namjoon’s voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. He spoke as if the words were hard to pull out, like he had to force them past the weight in his chest.

“No,” Hoseok agreed, stretching further along the rug, his head resting against a cushion. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes half-lidded, the shadows falling in soft angles across his face. “But he’s screaming for it without saying a word.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t the usual relaxed quiet they shared, where the hum of the room felt like a soft blanket. No, this was different. This silence pressed down on them, thick and suffocating, like the air had become too dense to breathe easily.

Jin’s gaze flicked up, a hesitant uncertainty in his eyes. His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of his phone, but he didn’t look at it. His mouth barely moved when he spoke. “You think he’s misclassified?”

The question landed in the room like a stone. The walls seemed to close in just a little more, and for a moment, everything felt too sharp, too clear—everything but the answer.

Namjoon didn’t speak right away. His jaw tightened, his hands dropping to his sides, but his fingers curled into fists. His gaze wandered across the room, not really seeing anything.

“That’s not possible,” Yoongi said quickly, his voice too firm, like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. His gaze flickered toward Jungkook for a moment, then quickly away. “The test is definitive. It’s scientific. He’s neutral, that’s just… that’s what we know. There’s no way—”

“I don’t know,” Namjoon finally muttered. His voice was barely audible, lost in the hum of the distant air conditioner. He swallowed hard, as if the words were caught in his throat. “I think something’s wrong. And I think it’s getting worse.”

They didn’t say anything more.

The room fell into a heavy kind of silence that felt like it was pressing in from all sides. The soft hum of the AC was too loud. The faint echo of footsteps from the hall seemed too far away, a reminder of how isolated they all were in that moment. No one moved. No one shifted.

They didn’t decide anything.

Just the kind of silence that stretched on, thick with the weight of their thoughts—thoughts that none of them could seem to name.

The kind of silence that came when everyone knew something was wrong, but no one could bring themselves to say it.

The silence in the living room seemed to stretch longer than it should have, suffocating the space around them, but Jungkook didn’t notice any of it.

He was somewhere else.

Out on the balcony, the late afternoon sun hung low, casting a soft, golden haze over everything. It should have felt warm, should have felt like a relief, but the light only seemed to add to the heaviness in his chest. The hoodie was pulled tight over his head, the fabric soft but oppressive against his skin. His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his legs as though he were trying to hold himself together.

The cool air from the city below brushed over him, but it didn’t cut through the fog in his head. The silence of the outside world was a distant hum, muffled by the walls, by his own thoughts. The air felt thin, as if it were made of something too light to hold onto.

The fresh air helped a little. Just a little. But it didn’t clear the fog. It didn’t cut through the weight that pressed down on him, clogging his thoughts, swallowing the space in his chest. It didn’t make it easier to breathe.

This was just stress.

Just burnout.

Just—

His chest hitched, the air too thick, too tight in his lungs. His breath caught somewhere between his ribs, trapped by something he couldn’t put into words. For a second, he thought he might actually cry. The weight in his eyes pressed down like something behind them was ready to spill over, to break free.

But the tears didn’t come.

They never did.

His eyes stayed dry.

His body stayed locked, a quiet tension running through every muscle, rigid and unyielding. He couldn’t feel the tears even though he was sure they were right there, just out of reach. Something inside of him had shut down, a switch he couldn’t flip back on. It was like there was a space between his mind and his body, a gap he couldn’t bridge no matter how hard he tried.

He wanted to feel something, anything. A release, a crack, just a moment where he didn’t have to keep holding himself in place. But there was nothing. Only the cool afternoon light and the dry, tight feeling in his throat.

His fingers curled tighter against his knees, knuckles white in the soft glow. He couldn’t hold onto the thought that had been gnawing at him—the thing that was pushing through the fog, trying to take shape. It was too big, too terrifying. It didn’t make sense.

He didn’t know why he couldn’t let go. Why he couldn’t just… cry.

The sound of his breath, shallow and stilted, filled his ears. Every inhale felt like a gasp, every exhale too shallow to empty him of anything. The world outside felt muffled, as though he were hearing it through layers of thick glass. He wanted to sink into it, into the stillness, into the silence that surrounded him, but it wasn’t enough.

Not nearly enough.

And the fog lingered.

Outside, the afternoon light bathed everything in a soft, golden glow, but inside, the air felt thick, taut with unspoken words.

Taehyung had moved to hover near the balcony door, his posture stiff and restless. The others were scattered around the room, their movements casual, as if they were trying too hard to seem unbothered, to fill the silence with something that might make it less suffocating. There was light conversation, the kind that floated in the space like dust motes, and shared glances—furtive, careful glances that spoke more than any words could. Everyone careful, now.

But it didn’t fool him. He could feel the weight of it. The slow, deliberate tension in the air, thickening with every second. Everyone knew something was wrong. Everyone felt it. But no one could say it out loud.

He wanted to go to Jungkook.

He wanted to be there. To pull him out of whatever this was. But the truth was, he didn’t know what to say anymore.

He had tried before, hadn’t he? Tried to offer comfort when he could see the cracks starting to show. But now, after seeing Jungkook so far gone, so locked up—how could he find the words?

“You don’t look fine.”

Would that even mean anything? How could it? When Jungkook hadn’t let anyone in for so long, when his entire being seemed built around not needing anyone, not needing anything? When everything in Jungkook’s world revolved around doing just fine, doing it alone, being self-sufficient—always self-sufficient, until now.

“You almost dropped.”

Taehyung winced at the thought. He’d seen it. Seen Jungkook’s body go slack for a split second, eyes unfocused, hands frozen in place as though even his fingers had forgotten how to move. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the aftermath—the way Jungkook’s body just... shut down. How his face had gone hollow, how the air around him had seemed to freeze, and the way he hadn’t asked for help.

“I think your test was wrong.”

That was the one that lingered the most, the thought that gnawed at him like a persistent ache. The test. The blood test. The scientific certainty of it. Neutrals didn’t need anything. They weren’t supposed to have these reactions. Not like this. And yet… here they were. Jungkook, unresponsive and hurting, and none of them—none of them—had the right answers.

How do you say any of that to someone who has spent their entire life pretending that everything was fine, that they were fine, that they didn’t need anyone?

How do you say it without breaking them?

He swallowed hard, fingers brushing the doorframe as his eyes scanned the room again. Namjoon was frowning, his brows furrowed as he watched the others. Jin had his phone in hand, but he wasn’t looking at it—he was staring at nothing, just lost in his own thoughts. Jimin and Hoseok were talking in low voices, a conversation that seemed to loop around in quiet circles, but there was nothing substantial in it. Nothing to break the growing, inevitable tension.

And then there was Jungkook. Still out there on the balcony, alone, his figure like a shadow in the soft afternoon light. A part of Taehyung wanted to reach out, wanted to go to him, but something stopped him. Something heavier than doubt—guilt, maybe. Fear, too. Fear of making it worse. Fear of pushing too hard, of being the one who broke him when Jungkook was already holding himself together by the thinnest of threads.

The worst part was, Taehyung wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t know what to say—or because he was afraid that whatever he said wouldn’t be enough. Wouldn’t reach Jungkook in the way he needed it to.

The room felt colder than it had before, despite the sunlight spilling in from the open door. Taehyung’s chest tightened. He wanted to fix it, wanted to do something—anything—but the truth was, he felt helpless. He just… didn’t know how.

Later that night, Jungkook found himself back on the couch, curled into the farthest cushion, knees drawn tight.

The apartment had settled into its nighttime hush. The glow from the overhead lights had dimmed, warmer now, like dusk pressed between four walls. Somewhere in the kitchen, the hum of the fridge broke the silence every so often, and someone’s phone buzzed lazily against the table.

The others were sprawled across the room—Jin rubbing Jimin’s shoulders in slow, rhythmic passes; Hoseok and Taehyung tucked together on the rug with a phone between them, watching something muted and looping; Namjoon’s hand resting steady against Yoongi’s ankle, both of them quiet, but present.

No one talked about anything heavy.

But the air felt heavier.

A quiet gravity had settled into the room, a shared hush that wasn’t quite peace. It was something closer to waiting.

Someone, maybe Jin, kept glancing his way. Once. Twice. Then again.

Jungkook didn’t move.

He sat still, perfectly still, eyes half-lidded, body curled in on itself. His hoodie was still drawn up around his face, sleeves pulled down so far only the tips of his fingers peeked out.

Not asleep.

Not present.

Not gone, but definitely not here.

Outside the windows, the city moved on—traffic lights blinking red and green, distant voices from the sidewalk rising and fading again. Time kept passing.

He didn’t notice when Jimin reached for the blanket. Didn’t flinch when it was draped gently over his legs.

Didn’t react when Namjoon knelt by the side of the couch and placed a hand—not on him, but near him—on the cushion. A quiet offering. A reminder that someone was still there.

Just breathed.

Shallow.

Even.

Silent.

Chapter Text

Taehyung caught him alone.

It wasn’t on purpose, not exactly. But the others had left the dorm in pairs that afternoon, one of those rare free blocks where everyone scattered to do their own thing.

Jungkook had stayed behind, claiming a nap he wouldn’t take. Taehyung circled back after a walk, unsure what he wanted until he found himself in the living room doorway.

Jungkook sat curled into the couch with a hoodie on, eyes half-closed, TV remote loose in one hand. The screen played a music show neither of them were really watching.

“Hey," Taehyung said, soft.

Jungkook hummed in acknowledgment. Barely.

“Can I sit?”

“‘s your house too.”

So he sat.

Not close. Not far.

Just near enough to feel the hum of Jungkook’s presence.

For a while, they didn’t speak.

Taehyung let the silence hang, long enough for it to settle between them without crowding.

Then, gently “You’ve been different.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

Taehyung pressed on.

“Not just tired-different. Not just busy.”

“Everyone’s tired.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t make it a thing," Jungkook muttered, eyes still locked on the TV.

“I’m not. I just—"

“You are," he snapped, sitting up straighter. “You’re making it a thing when it doesn’t have to be.”

Taehyung held still. “Okay.”

Jungkook blinked like he hadn’t expected that.

“I’m not mad," Taehyung added. “Just… worried.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Then maybe stop thinking about it.”

That landed heavier than it should’ve.

Taehyung looked away, jaw tightening. “You know I can’t do that.”

Silence.

Too loud, all of a sudden.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you," Taehyung said finally. “And I don’t need you to explain it. But whatever it is, you’re not as alone in it as you think.”

Jungkook laughed under his breath. It was small, brittle. “Feels that way.”

“You’re not," Taehyung insisted.

And when Jungkook finally turned his head to meet his eyes, something in him looked hollowed-out.

“I don’t know how to be different than this," he whispered.

“I’m not asking you to be different.”

“Then what are you asking?”

Taehyung blinked.

And realized… he didn’t know.

Maybe just to be let in.

Maybe just to stay.

But he didn’t get the chance to answer.

Jungkook stood, muttered something about needing to lie down, and left the room without waiting for a reply.

Hoseok found him a few hours later, curled up in the recording studio on the third floor of the starship building.

He didn’t ask what Jungkook was doing there, he just stepped inside with a bottle of juice and sat beside him without explanation.

“I figured you’d be here," Hoseok said after a beat. “You always disappear into your cave when things get weird.”

“It’s not weird," Jungkook muttered.

“Everything’s weird. This group is weird. You’re weird. I’m hot.”

Jungkook cracked a tired smile.

Hoseok passed him the drink. “Hydrate, goblin.”

He drank half of it without thinking.

Hoseok leaned back on his hands, watching the ceiling.

“You know," he said slowly, “I think it’s kind of unfair.”

“What is?”

“That we’re all trained to read each other’s dynamic needs like second nature, but yours always get a pass.”

Jungkook’s stomach turned.

“I don’t have dynamic needs," he said, too quickly.

Hoseok turned his head. “I’m not convinced.”

“I was tested.”

“So was I. Doesn’t mean I always read clean.”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed.

Hoseok studied him for a beat.

Then smiled, slow, soft, teasing. “You’d make a very cute sub, you know. If you ever wanted to try it.”

It was flirtation. Easy. Casual. The kind of line Hoseok had used a thousand times without meaning anything cruel.

But something in Jungkook locked.

The room tilted.

Not physically, just in his chest. Like something had pulled tight and snapped at the same time.

He laughed. It sounded wrong in his own ears.

“Not my thing," he said. “Sorry.”

Hoseok shrugged, unbothered. “Didn’t say it had to be. But if you ever want to be bossed around a little, I know a guy.”

“Let me guess, it’s you.”

“Obviously.”

Jungkook didn’t reply.

He stayed still until Hoseok left the room.

And then he sat in the dark for a long time.

That night, they were sprawled across the living room floor, half-watching a variety show and arguing over which member of another group would make the best dom.

Jimin was lying flat on his back, halfway into Taehyung’s lap.

“Okay, but listen, he’s all soft voice and puppy eyes, but he’s got secret command energy," he said, waving a finger at the screen. “You know he’d switch hard the second you brat.”

“Mm, debatable," Jin muttered, smirking.

Jungkook stayed quiet.

Jimin sat up suddenly and turned to him with a grin.

“You’d be such a good sub if you let yourself rest. You just want someone to tell you what to do.”

The room stilled. Not entirely, but enough that it thudded.

It was a joke.

A light one. Teasing. Probably not even meant seriously.

But it hit Jungkook like a blow to the ribs.

His mouth opened, then closed.

The blood drained from his face so fast he felt it.

Jimin blinked, instantly aware something was off.

“I didn’t mean—"

“No, it’s fine," Jungkook said, voice flat.

The air had shifted.

“Wasn’t trying to—"

“I said it’s fine.”

He stood up, every movement tight and measured, and left the room with his jaw clenched.

No one followed.

He didn’t make it to his bed.

He barely made it down the hall before his knees buckled slightly, catching himself on the wall with a sharp breath and a jolt of panic.

Heart pounding. Breath shallow. His hearing fuzzed at the edges like cotton stuffed in his ears.

What the hell is happening?

It had been a joke.

Just a joke.

Hoseok, earlier in the day—laughing, offhand, “You’d make a very cute sub”—and Jimin in the living room, teasing light as air, “You just want someone to tell you what to do.”

No one meant anything by it.

He knew that.

But his body had responded like it had meant something. Like the floor had tilted underneath him. Like the words had touched some invisible nerve and flipped a switch he didn’t know he had.

And now—

Chest tight. Vision blurry.

Everything inside him screamed drop, screamed surrender, screamed you’re not okay, but he didn’t know what to surrender to. Didn’t know how.

Didn’t know if he was allowed.

The hall pulsed around him, fluorescent lights buzzing too loud. His legs shook as he stumbled toward the small side room, the one they used for extra clothes and luggage overflow. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere out of sight.

He shut the door behind him with a soft click and sank to the floor.

Back against the wall. Legs drawn up tight.

His hoodie sleeves bunched around his fists. The seams dug into his wrists, grounding and not grounding all at once.

He tried to breathe.

Couldn’t.

The oxygen wouldn’t stretch far enough. It stuttered halfway into his lungs and stopped.

His hands were going numb.

His jaw wouldn’t unclench.

His whole body was trying to shut down and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Didn’t understand why it was happening.

Not now. Not over this.

And god—he didn’t want anyone to see.

Didn’t want anyone to look at him like that.

Didn’t want—

The door creaked.

Light spilled in from the hallway, yellow and soft and awful.

He blinked up through the blur, barely able to register who it was until he saw the silhouette step inside.

Namjoon.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t flinch at the way Jungkook had folded into himself, didn’t ask what happened or what’s wrong or why are you like this right now.

He just crouched beside him, slowly, carefully.

Placed a hand—not on him, but close. Just there. Steady. Warm. Real.

“Breathe,” he said, low and quiet.

Jungkook did.

Barely.

A shallow inhale. A shakier exhale.

Then again.

And again.

The pressure cracked just enough for the air to slip through.

His jaw loosened. His fingers twitched. The high-pitched ring in his ears softened slightly.

But the confusion stayed.

Why had a joke—just a joke—shoved him this far off center?

Why did it feel like his body knew something he hadn’t given it permission to?

Like it was reaching for something he didn’t understand.

Something he wasn’t allowed to want.

The room was still.

Not silent—there was the distant hum of the hallway vent, the faint buzz of electricity behind the light switch, the soft shift of Namjoon adjusting his weight—but still in that particular way Namjoon always seemed to carry.

Calm like gravity.

Not the kind of quiet that pressed down, but the kind that held you steady without asking anything in return.

Jungkook stayed where he was, back against the wall, knees locked to his chest, his whole body wound tight like a wire ready to snap. Not shaking. Not crying. Just... frozen.

His fingers curled tighter around the hem of his hoodie, knuckles pale. Holding on. Not to warmth, not even to fabric really—but to something deeper. Like if he let go, he might slip straight through the floor and disappear entirely.

Namjoon didn’t speak again.

Didn’t probe or offer solutions.

Just stayed nearby. Close enough to be felt, far enough to leave room. Not crowding. Not coaxing. Just present.

That was the difference.

Not silence, but the kind of silence that waited.

Not one that left.

After a long minute, Jungkook swallowed hard and whispered, “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t just unconvincing—it was hollow. Brittle around the edges. Like something said out of habit, not belief.

Namjoon didn’t correct him.

Didn’t affirm it, either.

He just let it hang in the air, let the lie sit there without judgment until it deflated under its own weight.

Jungkook shifted, legs uncurling inch by inch, joints stiff and strange. Like his limbs didn’t belong to him. Like he was waking up in someone else’s body.

“I didn’t drop,” he added, like it mattered. Like that could somehow explain it away.

“No,” Namjoon said after a beat. His voice was soft, but not sure. “I don’t think so.”

There was a hesitation there.

Not certainty.

Not knowing.

Just a quiet acknowledgment that something had happened, even if neither of them had the words for it.

Jungkook could feel him watching, not unkindly. Just trying to make sense of it too.

“I’m just tired,” he said, forcing the words out evenly.

“I figured.”

“I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Yeah.”

“And earlier, Jimin didn’t mean anything by it. I just... it caught me wrong.”

“I know.”

The repetition wasn’t comforting this time.

It wasn’t doubt, either.

Just... unsettled.

Like Namjoon wasn’t sure what else to say.

Like he was trying not to make it worse.

The quiet stretched again, thin and tentative.

Jungkook rubbed the heel of his palm against his temple. His head throbbed dully beneath the pressure. His chest still felt too tight. Like something in him hadn’t finished unraveling yet.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Namjoon asked, a little cautious now.

“No.”

“Okay.”

It wasn’t a brush-off. But it wasn’t confident either.

It sounded like a placeholder.

A pause.

A waiting.

“I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” Jungkook said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.

Namjoon shifted, exhaled slowly. “You didn’t.”

Then, after a second:

“But... we’re still worried.”

Not scared. Not sure what to call it. Just... worried.

The kind of worry that didn’t know where to land.

Jungkook’s throat tightened. He looked down at his hands. Still clenched in his lap.

“I’m not like you guys,” he muttered.

“Like how?”

“Just... I’m not.”

“Okay,” Namjoon said, slow. Careful. “But why does that matter?”

“Because it does.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

But he did.

Because he’d always been the outlier. The one who didn’t need the same things, didn’t lean the same way. And they’d come to rely on that. It made him safe. Predictable.

If that changed, then what?

If he wasn’t neutral anymore—if he wasn’t outside the structure—then where did he fit?

Where did he belong?

“You don’t have to explain it yet,” Namjoon said, watching him. “You don’t even have to understand it yet. But—” He hesitated. “If it keeps happening… maybe you should talk to someone. Like a doctor.”

Jungkook flinched.

“It’s not—” His voice cracked, and he cleared it. “It’s not like that. It’s just stress. I just need to deal with it.”

“Okay,” Namjoon said again, more quietly. “Just… if it gets worse.”

“It won’t.”

He said it too fast.

Like saying it quickly would make it true.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t want to see whether Namjoon believed him or not.

Didn’t want to know.

“I don’t want to be something I’m not,” he said instead.

Namjoon didn’t answer right away.

When he did, it was quiet. “What if this is just... another part of what you are?”

Silence.

Not full of answers. Just the ache of too many questions.

Jungkook closed his eyes. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

It was too simple.

Too kind.

Too much.

They sat there for a while longer. Just breathing. Not talking. Not thinking, really. Just existing in the same space, minute after minute.

Eventually, Namjoon stood.

He reached out—not to grab, not to lift, but to offer. A hand, palm open, steady, patient.

Jungkook hesitated.

Then, slowly, took it.

His grip was weak. Uneven.

Namjoon didn’t react. Didn’t squeeze or pull. Just stood with him, one hand beneath his elbow until his legs remembered how to hold him again.

“You want water?” Namjoon asked.

“Yeah,” Jungkook croaked, barely audible.

Namjoon nodded once. “I’ll get it.”

Then he left.

No backward glance. No dramatic pause in the doorway.

Like he knew Jungkook wouldn’t run.

And Jungkook didn’t.

He followed Namjoon back into the living room, walking slower than he meant to. Like the air had thickened since they left.

The others had shifted around the space in the meantime—Jimin was at the kitchen counter, fiddling with a box of cereal; Hoseok’s voice drifted faintly from upstairs, maybe on a call; Taehyung lay half-asleep on the rug with one arm flung over his eyes.

They hadn’t noticed him leave.

They hadn’t noticed him come back.

Except—

Jin looked up from his phone. Just a glance, barely a lift of the chin.

But his gaze was sharp in that way it always was. Not unkind. Not confrontational. Just… seeing.

He didn’t ask where Jungkook had gone.

Didn’t make a joke.

Didn’t say a word.

He just met his eyes and gave a small nod.

Not an invitation.

Not a challenge.

Just—I see you.

Jungkook swallowed hard. Nodded back, a fraction slower.

Something inside him—the taut line that had been pulled wire-tight all day—slackened just enough to let him breathe.

He sat on the edge of the couch, careful with the way his body folded. Like any sudden movement might jolt the balance loose again. The couch cushion dipped beneath him, warm from someone else’s weight not long ago. He placed his hands on his knees. Let himself stay still.

Jimin glanced up but said nothing.

Taehyung shifted, mumbling in his sleep.

No one asked.

No one pressed.

And that, somehow, felt more merciful than comfort.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

But he didn’t freeze either.

Didn’t spiral or fold in on himself like before.

He lay curled on his side, blanket tucked to his chin, the room too quiet but not wrong.

His body still ached. Muscles sore like he’d been holding himself together for days. His head throbbed in that low, buzzy way that came with too much thinking and not enough release. His hands twitched now and then beneath the covers, like they hadn’t gotten the message that the panic was over.

But he stayed.

Breathed.

Let the tension exist without trying to crush it or solve it.

Not sleep.

Not peace.

But something in between.

A kind of rest that came only from finally being able to stop.

Not fully.

Not safely.

But enough—for now.

The next morning was unusually quiet.

No bickering over whose socks were on the bathroom floor. No fake outrage over Jin’s playlist. No Jimin whining about how unfair it was that everyone had better bedhead than him.

Just soft footsteps, the kettle clicking on, and the hum of a low-volume video playing in the background.

Jungkook stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at the edge of the kitchen doorway.

He wasn’t sure what he expected.

A question, maybe. A joke. Awkward sympathy.

Instead, he walked in to find Hoseok stirring oatmeal at the stove, eyes bleary but calm.

“Morning," Hoseok said without turning.

“Hey.”

Hoseok glanced back over his shoulder. “You want some?”

“I— yeah. Sure.”

“Sit," Hoseok said gently. “It’s plain. You can add whatever.”

They ate at the table, steam curling off mismatched bowls, neither one saying much.

Hoseok didn’t push.

But his presence was solid, relaxed in the way only Hoseok could be when he wasn’t trying to play a role.

After a while, he said, “You feel steadier today.”

Jungkook blinked. “Do I?”

“Yeah.”

“Not sure I am.”

Hoseok nodded. “Still. You’re breathing easier.”

Jungkook thought about denying it, then realized it was true.

He hadn’t noticed until right then, but… the tight band around his chest had loosened just a little.

“You’re not the only one who’s needed time," Hoseok said. “To figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

Hoseok looked at him, really looked.

“Your place in all this.”

Jungkook’s stomach flipped.

“I have a place.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t.”

Jungkook went quiet.

Hoseok let it settle.

Then, just as easily, changed the subject to a video game update he was waiting for and made a point of complaining about his lack of storage space on the PS5.

Later, while cleaning up the kitchen, Jimin drifted in.

He hovered awkwardly in the doorway, holding an empty mug like it gave him purpose.

“Hey," he said.

Jungkook looked up from the sink. “Hey.”

“I— uh— wanted to say sorry. About what I said the other night.”

Jungkook paused.

“You don’t have to," he said finally. “It was just a joke.”

“Yeah, but—" Jimin fidgeted, eyebrows drawn together. “It didn’t land like one.”

Jungkook wiped his hands on a towel.

“I know you didn’t mean anything by it," he said. “It just hit wrong.”

“I figured.”

Jimin scratched the back of his neck. “If it helps, I’ve said dumb things to every single one of you.”

“It does help," Jungkook said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jimin smiled back. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

They stood there for a second, not really needing to say more.

Then Jimin grinned, lighter. “Now I just have to say something dumb to Namjoon and I’ll have a full set.”

“Pretty sure that’s impossible.”

“You underestimate me.”

That night, they gathered for a shared dinner.

Nothing special. Just noodles, soup, and too many side dishes cluttering the table. Jin had taken over the kitchen like a man possessed, Yoongi had appointed himself DJ and kept skipping songs halfway through, and Hoseok had nearly started a chopstick war trying to keep everyone’s hands off the kimchi before he’d deemed it fermented enough.

It was loud. Casual. Familiar.

Jungkook took his usual seat at the edge of the table, a little quieter than the rest, expecting to fade the way he always did. Present, but peripheral. The soft invisibility he’d learned to live with.

But halfway through the meal, something shifted.

Yoongi leaned slightly to the side, their knees brushing under the table. Not hard. Not insistent. Just there. Warm and steady.

A second later, Jin refilled his soup without asking. No commentary, no lecture. Just a clean ladle dipped into the pot and tilted into his bowl with quiet efficiency.

Taehyung, without even glancing up, poured water into his glass when it dipped below halfway.

None of them said anything.

No one looked directly at him.

But the space around him felt… altered. Less like a wall he’d been placed behind, more like a door someone had quietly left unlocked.

He sat very still for a moment. Let the sounds of clinking dishes and overlapping voices wash over him.

Something ached under his ribs, low and uncertain.

He didn’t touch the door.

But he didn’t step away from it either.

Later, they gathered in the living room for a movie no one could agree on, so they picked something they’d all seen before and barely paid attention to.

Halfway through, Hoseok reached over and tugged the blanket off his lap.

“Rude,” Jungkook muttered, not moving.

“You weren’t using it,” Hoseok said, already wrapping himself up like a smug burrito.

“I was literally holding it.”

“You weren’t appreciating it.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes. “Fine. You can have it.”

“Are you giving it to me willingly,” Hoseok asked, raising a brow, “or are you just being a pushover?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Hoseok grinned and kicked his ankle gently beneath the throw.

“You’re cute when you pretend you don’t like us,” he said.

The words hit their mark. But not like they used to.

For once, they didn’t sting. Didn’t scrape against something raw.

They just… settled.

Jungkook didn’t know what to say.

So he didn’t.

He let himself lean back against the cushion, head tilted, eyes slipping shut while the hum of the television filled the room.

Taehyung didn’t say much all night.

He’d been quieter lately. Observant, but distant. Like he was keeping a careful count of how many steps Jungkook took and how many he might be willing to take back.

But when the lights dimmed and the last remnants of the movie faded into the background, Taehyung shifted slightly under the blanket and let his foot nudge Jungkook’s.

Once. Light. No pressure.

Just a touch.

A reminder.

I see you.

And for the first time in a long time, Jungkook didn’t feel like pulling away.

Because now he didn’t know what to do with the quiet that had followed him for so long when it suddenly didn’t feel empty anymore.

Didn’t know how to make sense of the warmth pooling under his skin, slow and reluctant and unfamiliar.

He wasn’t used to this kind of soft.

Didn’t trust it. Didn’t hate it either.

He didn’t move closer.

He didn’t pull away either.

He just stayed.

And that small fact—that he stayed—lodged itself somewhere deep and strange.

Because this wasn’t how things had been.

Not bad before. Not distant, not really. Just… simpler. A steady closeness that had never tried to hold him.

They’d always let him be. The youngest, sure, but independent. Neutral. A little outside the lines.

And for a long time, that was enough.

He liked the space they gave him. Liked the balance of it—comfort without pressure, connection without the weight of deeper threads.

But now—

Now there were these moments. These tiny, ordinary, unspoken shifts.

A refill of water. A quiet nudge. Knees brushing under the table. Blanket-stealing and soup.

Small things. Gentle things.

Things that felt like care.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know what it meant, or what they meant, or what he was supposed to want.

He wasn’t afraid of it.

But he wasn’t ready to name it either.

So he stayed there, breathing slow in the dark, heart a little too full, head a little too loud.

Not lost.

Just… unsure.

And maybe that was okay.

Maybe that was the start of something.

Chapter Text

The day started badly.

Too many cameras. Too much noise. Not enough sleep.

A packed variety filming schedule, ten hours of staged chaos, matching outfits, coordinated energy spikes, and pre-approved “spontaneous” moments.

It was the kind of day that grated on everyone.

But especially on Jungkook.

He tried to be sharp. Really, he did.

Smiled when the camera panned to him.

Laughed on cue when someone made a joke.

Gave his lines clean, followed the blocking, did everything right.

But everything inside him was slow.

Too slow.

His brain lagged behind his body. The lighting was too bright. Every sound felt like it was two inches from his ear.

And then someone snapped.

“Come on, Jungkook. We don’t have all day!”

The stage manager’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

It wasn’t new. Staff got short on long days.

But something about the tone, sharp, humiliating, meant to sting, hit too hard.

Jungkook froze, script in hand.

Jin turned instantly, eyes narrowed. “He’s doing his best—"

“I’m fine," Jungkook said quickly. Too quickly.

Everyone stilled.

Jungkook’s hands were shaking.

And then he blinked.

And the ground disappeared.

It wasn’t dramatic.

No fall.

No shout.

Just… a quiet folding in.

His knees gave out slowly. His hands loosened. His whole body dropped into itself like the strings holding him up had been cut.

Eyes open, but unfocused.

Breath shallow. Shoulders slack.

Gone.

For a second, no one moved.

Not even the cameras.

“Jungkook?” Namjoon’s voice was immediate, low, sharp, steady.

He was already moving.

Yoongi got there next, just behind him.

Taehyung’s chair scraped loudly as he stood. Hoseok reached for the nearest water bottle without even thinking.

Jin knelt fast, one hand reaching to cup the back of Jungkook’s neck.

“Hey. Kook. Look at me.”

Nothing.

Jungkook’s eyes fluttered, but his gaze didn’t land anywhere.

His body was still. Too still.

Not unconscious.

But completely dropped.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

Neutrals didn’t have the hormonal shift for subspace. Not real subspace.

This was the kind of drop that only came after intense overwhelm or dynamic pressure, and neither were supposed to apply.

“Get the cameras out," Jin snapped. “Now.”

The staff stared.

“Now.”

One of the PDs fumbled to turn off the main rig.

“Hands off for a second," Namjoon said, kneeling beside him. “Let me try.”

He placed one hand near Jungkook’s thigh, not touching. Just anchoring.

“Jungkook-ah," he said, voice low. “You’re safe. I need you to breathe with me.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

“Eyes on me," Namjoon said. “Come back now.”

Still nothing.

“Pressure spike?” Yoongi asked.

Jin nodded. “Or emotional override.”

“Shouldn’t be possible.”

“I know.”

Jimin dropped to the floor beside them, pressing his hand lightly to Jungkook’s wrist.

“His pulse is fast," he murmured. “But not panicked.”

“Which means he’s deep," Jin said, frowning. “Way too deep for someone who doesn’t—" He cut himself off.

No one needed him to finish.

They all knew.

Taehyung hovered behind them, mouth tight, hands balled into fists.

“Someone needs to hold him," he said finally. “He’s not going to come back on voice alone.”

“Not yet," Namjoon said gently. “We don’t know what he needs yet.”

“He needs us.”

Everyone went still.

And for a moment, all that mattered was the boy curled on the floor in the center of the circle.

Small.

Silent.

Dropped into a place no one thought he could go.

“Okay," Namjoon said, voice calm but firm. “We need to get him out of here.”

“Back to the dorm?” Yoongi asked.

“Too far," Jin said, already pulling out his phone. “Find a green room.”

“There’s one down the hall," Hoseok offered, already on his feet.

Jimin leaned closer to Jungkook. “Can we move him?”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away.

He reached out carefully, brushing his fingers along Jungkook’s forearm, watching for any reaction.

Nothing.

“I think we have to," he said. “Taehyung, help me lift.”

The pack moved like a machine.

Hoseok led the way. Jimin cleared the path. Jin stayed back just long enough to tell the assistant PD, quietly and sharply, that if any of this made it to footage, there would be consequences.

“None of this airs," he said. “None of it.”

They got Jungkook into the green room, lights dimmed, door locked.

Someone pulled the blinds. Someone laid out blankets. Someone grabbed water and a protein shake from catering.

Everyone moved.

Everyone except Jungkook.

He lay curled on the couch, hoodie bunched around his waist, jaw slack, eyes open but vacant.

Not asleep. Not awake.

Not with them.

“I’ve never seen him like this," Jimin whispered.

“No one has," Taehyung said.

Hoseok dropped onto the floor beside the couch, carefully folding a blanket and laying it over Jungkook’s legs. “I don’t think he’s ever seen himself like this.”

“Touch or voice?” Namjoon asked softly.

Jin crouched beside the couch. “Try voice first. If he doesn’t anchor in the next few minutes, we’ll switch.”

“I don’t think he knows he’s allowed to come back yet.”

The room stilled at that.

Namjoon sat close and leaned in slightly.

“Jungkook-ah," he said, gentle but firm. “You’re safe.”

No response.

“We’re here.”

Still nothing.

“You did good. You worked hard. You’re not in trouble.”

Jungkook’s eyelids fluttered.

Jin exhaled slowly. “He heard that.”

“He needs sensory grounding," Jin said. “But gentle. Yoongi?”

“I’ve got it.”

Yoongi moved in close, slow, practiced. He brushed his fingers lightly across the top of Jungkook’s hand, then down the length of his forearm. Repetitive, soft, steady.

“You’re okay," he murmured. “You’re here. You can rest.”

Jimin sat near his feet, keeping one hand on the edge of the blanket, eyes trained on Jungkook’s breathing.

“Should we stim?” he asked.

“Wait a little," Jin replied. “Let him climb partway back.”

Time passed weirdly.

Ten minutes. Maybe more.

No one spoke above a whisper. No one checked their phones. The world outside the room didn’t matter.

Only Jungkook.

Only this.

Eventually, he blinked.

Once. Twice.

Then his fingers twitched against the blanket.

“Hey," Taehyung said softly, moving into his line of sight. “Hi.”

Jungkook didn’t speak.

But his eyes tracked.

And that, that, was something.

It felt like he was nonverbal for hours.

Not from panic. Not from refusal.

Just… gone.

Like his brain had shut off the speech centers in order to reboot the rest of him.

Hoseok coaxed him into drinking a few sips of water. Yoongi kept touch light but consistent. Jimin talked softly, even when it felt one-sided.

Jin monitored his vitals. Namjoon sat with his back against the couch, keeping the room settled.

They stayed.

All of them.

And the longer they sat, the more they realized:

This wasn’t a breakdown.

It was a reveal.

The room was quiet except for the slow shuffle of blankets and the occasional sip of water.

Jungkook lay on the couch, curled on his side, face half-buried in his hoodie sleeve. He still hadn’t spoken. His lips were dry. His eyes blinked slow, uneven.

But he was back in his body.

Mostly.

Yoongi had kept one hand on his ankle the entire time. Not pressing, just present. The weight of it was real, reliable, solid.

“He’s regulating," Jin murmured, crouched beside the couch again. “Heartbeat’s leveling out. Shoulders aren’t locked anymore.”

“He’s grounding off physical contact," Jimin whispered.

Namjoon sat on the floor at Jungkook’s eye level. He hadn’t said much in the last thirty minutes. But the rhythm of his voice earlier had pulled something loose, cracked open the air like a thread.

“You’re doing good," Namjoon said softly now. “No rush.”

Jungkook blinked slowly.

His fingers twitched.

Jin watched carefully. “Try him again.”

“Jungkook," Namjoon said, voice low and even. “You’re here. You’re with us.”

Another blink. This time a little faster.

“You’re safe.”

His breath hitched. Not a full response, but closer.

Jin nodded. “He’s climbing.”

Yoongi moved his hand slightly, just enough to rub slow, careful circles against Jungkook’s calf.

“You dropped really hard," he said. “We caught you.”

Still no words.

But Jungkook’s shoulders shifted minutely, like he was trying to process it, trying to pull sound to his throat.

“It’s okay if you can’t talk yet," Jimin said, perched on the edge of the coffee table. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Hoseok came back from the vending machine with two bottles of warm tea and a pack of soft cookies.

He handed one to Namjoon, placed the other near Jungkook’s hand.

“Lemon ginger," he said. “Not sweet. Helps.”

He looked at Jungkook then. Quiet, soft.

“I get it," he added. “I’ve been close to where you went.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

But his fingers twitched again, this time toward the tea bottle.

Jin moved it gently into his hand.

“Small sip," he said.

Jungkook drank. A slow, shaky sip. Barely enough to wet his mouth.

But it was something.

“You did nothing wrong," Jin said quietly. “Not a single thing.”

“We should’ve caught it sooner," Hoseok murmured.

“We’ll talk about that later," Namjoon said gently. “Right now, we hold him.”

Jimin let out a breath. “You’re really bad at asking for help, you know.”

Yoongi smiled softly. “He’s not the only one.”

Another fifteen minutes passed.

Jungkook’s breathing evened out.

His hands relaxed, no longer clenched.

He turned his face slightly into the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, only for a second.

Then he opened them again and whispered, hoarse and quiet:
“…hurts.”

Jin was instantly there with water. “Where?”

“My head," Jungkook croaked. “And… chest.”

“Overuse," Jin murmured to Namjoon. “Like a rebound effect. He didn’t drop gradually, he snapped into it.”

“Yeah," Namjoon said. “And he’s never had settling scaffolding.”

“Because we thought he didn’t need it," Jimin whispered.

No one argued.

“We’ll go slow," Namjoon said gently, eyes on Jungkook. “No pressure. Just presence.”

Jungkook nodded once, almost imperceptible.

But he didn’t pull away when Namjoon reached forward and placed a hand lightly over his blanket-covered forearm.

“You’re doing so good," Taehyung said softly from the far corner, eyes rimmed red. “I’m proud of you.”

That made Jungkook flinch.

Then swallow.

Then close his eyes.

Not in shame.

In something else.

Maybe relief.

He drifted for a little while after that. Not asleep. Not fully awake.

Hoseok hummed something quiet near his shoulder. Jimin pulled the blanket up higher. Yoongi laid a second pillow under his knees.

And Namjoon, quiet, steady, grounded, kept one hand on his arm.

No one left.

No one rushed.

They just stayed.

And Jungkook, slowly, started believing that they might not stop.

It was late by the time they left the green room.

Too late for questions. Too late for explanations.

The building was mostly dark, most of the crew long gone, lights dimmed in the hallway like even the walls knew what had happened needed to be quiet.

Jungkook walked on unsteady feet, bracketed between Namjoon and Jin, the others just a step behind. He hadn’t said much, still recovering from the thick fog of subspace, but his legs moved now, and that was enough for them.

No one spoke on the way to the van.

Not because there was nothing to say, because they were all holding it back with both hands.

Because if anyone opened their mouth, it might all come spilling out.

Inside the van, Jungkook curled into the window seat, hoodie pulled low, the side of his head pressed to the cool glass.

Yoongi tucked a folded blanket behind his back. Jimin handed him a drink, straw already unwrapped. Hoseok silently queued up the quietest playlist on someone’s phone and pressed play.

Jin sat one seat away, not touching but watching, and Namjoon took the seat beside him, solid and warm and there.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was soft.

And that was enough for the ride home.

Back at the dorm, they didn’t ask what he needed.

They just offered.

Hoseok laid out clothes. Taehyung ran the hot water. Jimin fussed over which tea would be easiest on his stomach.

Yoongi wrapped a hoodie around his shoulders, sleeves tugged gently past his wrists. Jin rubbed his back once, carefully, before stepping away.

Namjoon stood near the bathroom door and said quietly, “Take your time. We’ll be here.”

And they were.

That night, Jungkook slept.

Not lightly. Not restlessly.

He slept, bone-deep, full-body, something-like-safe sleep.

And when he woke the next morning, the sun barely up, he found Namjoon sitting in the hallway outside his door.

Not asleep.

Just waiting.

Like someone who knew the world was about to change.

And had already chosen where to stand when it did.

The next morning, they were summoned.

All of them.

First thing, no warning. No chance to regroup. A text from their manager with a room number and a “come now” that didn’t leave space for argument.

Jungkook sat in the corner of the car, hoodie sleeves over his hands, head down. No one made him talk. Namjoon sat beside him, shoulder close. Jin checked his pulse twice under the guise of adjusting his jacket.

No one said it, but they all felt it:
This wasn’t a debrief. This was damage control.

The meeting room smelled like too-strong coffee and too many decisions already made.

The director of artist relations was there. So was the schedule manager. Their road manager stood off to the side, looking mildly terrified.

No one smiled.

“You’re late," the director said, eyes flicking over the group, landing briefly on Jungkook. “We were expecting you thirty minutes ago.”

“We were managing a medical event," Jin said calmly. “Your message said 9 a.m.”

The woman’s expression didn’t change. “I’m aware. Let’s begin.”

It wasn’t subtle.

The meeting was framed as a “check-in," but every word that followed said otherwise.

“What happened yesterday cannot happen again.”

“We understand there are pressures, but you all need to be more mindful of how you conduct yourselves on set.”

“There are already rumors. A few crew members were asking questions.”

“This is about protecting your image. His image.”

“This is about consistency. Professionalism.”

“This is about trust.”

“Stop," Namjoon said.

The whole room went still.

“I’m sorry?” the director asked, tone sharp.

“Stop talking like this was our fault.”

Silence.

“Jungkook didn’t collapse because he was careless," Namjoon continued, calm but hard. “He dropped. Fully. And we were not prepared for that because you told us, he’s neutral.”

“He is.”

“He was tested," Jin added. “But now? He dropped into deep subspace. No cues, no prep. We had to pull him out with grounding methods used for subs in crisis. That doesn’t happen to neutrals.”

The room stiffened.

No one responded for a long beat.

Then, finally, “We don’t believe this is the right time to revisit designation.”

Jimin choked out a laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We’re in the middle of a comeback cycle," the director said smoothly. “Testing right now would raise questions we’re not prepared to answer. From fans. From media. From brand partners.”

“He dropped in front of a camera crew," Hoseok said coldly.

“And all of that footage has been deleted. We made sure.”

“You mean you made sure no one outside could see it.”

Yoongi’s voice was quiet. Controlled.

The kind of calm that came from knowing too much now to back down.

“Look," the director said, softening just slightly. “We’re not trying to punish anyone. This is about optics. The pack image. The structure fans are used to.”

“This isn’t just about image anymore," Taehyung said. “It’s about health.”

“And we’re handling it," she said tightly. “Privately.”

Jungkook hadn’t spoken.

Not once.

Not since walking in.

But now his fingers twitched under the table.

And his voice came out small, scratchy, but clear:

“So you knew I wasn’t ready?”

All eyes turned to him.

The director blinked. “Excuse me?”

He looked up, really looked.

Face pale, but steady.

“You tested me at eighteen. For debut branding. Before I turned nineteen. Before dynamic maturity was finished.”

Silence.

“We needed a baseline," she said eventually.

“So you guessed.”

“It was inconclusive. We made the best call we could—"

“And then built a brand around it.”

No one spoke.

And then Jin did.

“We’re done guessing now.”

The meeting ended cold.

No decisions. No retest scheduled. No apology offered.

Just a reminder “Keep this quiet.”

Hybe didn’t want headlines.

Didn’t want speculation.

Didn’t want a drop scandal two weeks before press.

The boys left the room in silence.

No one said anything until they were back in the van.

Taehyung was the first to speak.

“We can’t pretend this didn’t happen.”

“No," Namjoon said. “We won’t.”

“Even if they do?”

“They can try.”

Yoongi reached across the seat, rested his hand on Jungkook’s knee.

“You’re not broken," he said quietly. “You’re not a problem.”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away either.

That night, the dorm was quiet.

Too quiet.

Everyone gave Jungkook space, but not distance.

Hoseok curled into the couch near his feet. Jin folded laundry in the same room, not saying much. Jimin brought him tea and left it beside him without comment.

Yoongi nudged his shoulder once on the way to the kitchen.
Taehyung touched his wrist, brief, grounding.

And Namjoon?

Namjoon sat close.

Not saying a word.

Just there.

Like a promise.

Jungkook sat in it, unsure what to do with any of it.

He wasn’t used to being watched this way.

Not out of suspicion. Not even out of care, exactly.

More like they were listening to something he hadn’t realized he’d been saying.

He hadn’t wanted to be different.

He hadn’t wanted to be the center of anything.

He’d always liked his role just fine—tucked at the edges, capable, quiet.

He was the youngest, but he’d never needed them to hold him.

Now, they were rallying around him like a shield.

Like something had changed.

And maybe it had.

But no one could tell him how, or why, or what to do with the feeling.

His body had betrayed him. Or maybe it hadn’t. Maybe it had done something else—something older, something deeper—but he didn’t know how to name it.

He didn’t even know how to think about it without shaking loose from himself.

He wasn’t scared of the company.

He wasn’t scared of the test.

He was scared of not understanding his own skin anymore.

And of what might happen when he finally did.

Chapter Text

It started with a knock.

Not something they could ignore or send away.

It was their manager—grim-faced, subdued—holding an envelope with the company’s letterhead printed clean across the seal.

“Meeting. Noon. Bring Jungkook.”

No explanation. No room for negotiation.

Jungkook sat at the kitchen table in a hoodie two sizes too big, fingers curled around a chipped mug of tea he hadn’t touched. His eyes were clearer than they’d been a few days ago, but still unfocused. Like part of him hadn’t landed yet. Like he was still hovering somewhere slightly above his body, watching from the ceiling.

“They want to test again,” Namjoon said quietly, like it might land easier if he softened the tone.

Jungkook didn’t look up. Just blinked once, slow.

Jin leaned against the counter, arms crossed tight. “They’re calling it voluntary.”

“But it’s not,” Jimin muttered.

“No,” Namjoon said, jaw tight. “It’s not.”

No one had to explain why.

Hybe had changed its mind. That was all anyone knew.

Last week, they’d waved it off. Said no need to reclassify, no rush.

Now, someone upstairs had decided they wanted proof. Clarity. Control.

Maybe it was the wrong person hearing the wrong rumor.

Maybe the legal team got nervous.

Maybe the company didn’t like not knowing what kind of liability they had on their hands.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t feel like care.

It felt like containment.

And if something was changing, Hybe wanted control of the narrative.

The ride to the building was quiet. Not a tense quiet. Just empty.

Hoseok dozed against the window. Jimin scrolled without seeing. Taehyung offered him gum and didn’t push when Jungkook shook his head.

No one said what they were all thinking.

No one didn’t greet them at the entrance. Just waved them through security, down a side hallway none of them had used before, and into a room Jungkook had never seen. Everything smelled like citrus and alcohol wipes. The walls were pale blue. Soothing. Manufactured.

A nurse looked up from a clipboard. Didn’t smile.

“Blood draw. Saliva after. No food for six hours?”

Jungkook nodded once. The movement felt too heavy for his neck.

They didn’t tell him what they were testing for. He didn’t ask.

He sat still while the needle slipped into his arm. Stared at a spot on the wall while the nurse labeled tubes. Swallowed when she handed him a cotton swab.

It took ten minutes. Maybe less.

But when it was done, he didn’t move.

No one said he had to stay in the chair, but he did. Just sat there, thumb pressed to the gauze at the crook of his elbow, watching a drop of blood seep into the cotton like it belonged there.

His thoughts felt slow. Thick and fogged, like a room with no windows.

He wasn’t angry. Not exactly. Not scared, either.

Just—

Tired.

Tired of his body being a question mark.

Tired of other people looking for answers in it.

Tired of this being the moment they decided to start caring.

Where was this urgency last year, when he couldn’t sleep for three nights in a row?

Where was it on tour, when he skipped meals and no one noticed until he passed out in rehearsal?

Where was it when he said he was fine—and no one asked again?

Now, suddenly, everyone wanted to know.

What was he?

What did it mean?

Was he safe? Was he a liability?

Jungkook didn’t have the answers.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

And when Namjoon finally stepped in to gently touch his shoulder, grounding him, he realized his tea-stained hoodie had a pinprick of blood on the sleeve.

It felt like the most honest part of him in the room.

The results came back the next morning.

No one said it out loud, but they were all waiting.

Woke up too early. Ate too little.

Moved through the kitchen like ghosts trying to pretend they weren’t haunting something.

Jimin tried to lighten the mood.

“Maybe they’ll print you a little certificate,” he said, rifling through the cereal box. “Dynamic of the Year.”

No one laughed.

He smiled anyway, too wide, and poured the milk too fast.

Taehyung mumbled something about the weather.

Hoseok made coffee like it was a science he could control.

Yoongi sat across from Jungkook at the table and said nothing at all. Just watched him carefully, as if quiet was a thing that needed supervision now.

Jungkook wore a hoodie again. Not the same one—but close. Too big, sleeves bunched at his wrists.

He stared at the table while the others moved around him.

He drank his tea. He chewed his toast.

He didn’t taste anything.

Jin kept looking at him. Then away. Then back again.

As if waiting for Jungkook to flinch.

But he didn’t.

He was too still for that.

He didn’t feel scared. Not really.

It was something murkier than that. Something like dread—but slower, softer.

Like waiting for a wave you can’t see, only feel pulling at your feet.

Whatever the paper said, he’d still be him.

He knew that.

He just wasn’t sure who “him” was anymore.

And what if it said neutral again?

What then?

What if it came back inconclusive, like the first time?

What if nothing changed?

Because his body had changed. Something was different. He knew that now in the pit of his stomach, in the way his hands had trembled when no one was watching.

In the way stillness had started to feel like a leash.

He didn’t want a designation.

But he didn’t want to keep floating either.

Because if he was still neutral—

Then what the hell had happened last week?

They said the results didn’t matter.

Said they’d support him either way.

Said they didn’t care if he tested neutral, submissive, or alien lizard overlord.

It was kind.

It was good.

And still—

Something in his chest felt braced.

In the van, Jimin kept trying.

“If it says you’re a dom, I want you to command me to go to bed earlier.”

Taehyung rolled his eyes. “If it says he’s a dom, we’re all doomed.”

“Hey,” Yoongi said, but it was gentle. “Let him be.”

“I am letting him be,” Jimin said. “I’m being fun. This is fun.”

Jungkook let the sound of their voices wash over him.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget.

Just stared out the window like the trees were moving too fast for him to catch.

Some part of him wanted to test neutral again.

Just so nothing had to change.

Just so they could go back to being what they were—close but not too close.

Friends, colleagues, family in some ways.

But not this.

Because this?

This was raw.

This was something he didn’t know how to carry.

The van pulled up to the building.

Someone touched his shoulder—he wasn’t sure who.

He followed them inside.

The meeting room was colder this time. More clinical.

The same director from last week. A different manager. A medical liaison he didn’t recognize.

"Submissive."

The word sat heavy on the table, printed in sterile black font across a form that now had his name at the top.

Dynamic Designation: Submissive.
Classification Type: Full-Submission / Praise-Responsive.
Settling History: Incomplete.
Bond History: N/A.

Jin stared at the paper like it had slapped him.

Yoongi looked like he might be sick.

Jungkook just sat there.

Frozen.

“You were tested too early," the liaison said. “Initial results showed low markers, but your chemistry hadn’t stabilized. It’s not uncommon, especially in high-stress adolescents. The system flagged you as borderline.”

“And no one followed up?” Taehyung asked, voice tight.

“We didn’t know there was cause to.”

“You used the results for branding," Hoseok said. “That was the cause.”

“That decision came from the executive team," the director replied smoothly. “Not medical.”

“There’s no bond on file," Jimin said quietly, scanning the bottom of the report.

“No," the liaison confirmed. “He’s never had one. Which means the symptoms he’s experiencing, drop instability, sensory dissonance, chronic fatigue, are consistent with untreated submission. Long-term neglect. Possibly mild regulatory burnout.”

Jungkook’s breath caught.

No one reacted outwardly.

But everything in the room shifted.

Jungkook’s breath caught.

No one reacted outwardly. But everything in the room shifted.

Inside him, something cracked. Not loud. Not even painful. Just quiet. The sound of a branch bending under snow.

Untreated submission.

Regulatory burnout.

Long-term neglect.

They sounded like diagnoses. Like blame. Like someone had opened up his chest and labeled the bruises he’d never been able to name.

He couldn’t speak. Didn’t know how. Didn’t even know what he’d say if he tried.

He felt like a room someone had finally turned the lights on in. Dust in every corner. Cracks in the ceiling. Nothing he could hide anymore.

Submissive.

Full-submission.

Praise-responsive.

Incomplete.

It read like a checklist for someone else’s life.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Relief? Fear? Grief for the years he’d gone without this knowledge? Shame for wanting to know?

He wanted to curl in on himself and disappear. He wanted to scream. He wanted someone to take the paper back and tell him it was wrong. He wanted someone to tell him it was right.

Because if this was right—then what did that make everything else?

The control. The pushing through. The exhaustion he’d worn like a second skin. The years of silence. Of forcing stillness over instinct.

He hadn’t wanted a designation. Hadn’t wanted to belong to something he couldn’t control. But maybe what he wanted didn’t matter anymore. Maybe it never had.

He thought of his hands trembling on the bathroom sink. Of the van. Of the hotel carpet and the way he hadn’t been able to move.

Maybe this was why.

Maybe it had always been why.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away from the table.

But his throat felt full of gravel. And something behind his ribs ached like it was trying to grow and shrink at the same time.

The others were talking now—arguing, maybe. But it all sounded far away.

He just sat there.

Still.

Small.

Seen.

“This cannot become public," the director said sharply, folding the folder closed. “We’re clear on that?”

No one answered.

She looked at Namjoon.

“You’re the face of the group. This stays contained.”

Namjoon’s voice was ice. “He deserves better than that.”

“And he’ll get it," she said. “Quietly.”

They didn’t talk in the van.

Not on the ride back from Hybe. Not when the elevator chimed too loud. Not when Jungkook disappeared into his room like the hallway couldn’t hold him anymore.

The sound of his door clicking shut echoed louder than it should have.

They didn’t follow.

They just… gathered.

It wasn’t planned, but somehow all six of them ended up in the living room.

Jin turned the overhead lights off. They were too bright. Jimin pulled the throw blanket over his lap, even though he wasn’t cold. Hoseok lay on the couch with one arm over his face like he didn’t want to be seen, but didn’t want to be alone either.

Taehyung stood in the hallway for a long time until Namjoon passed him on the way in, resting a warm hand on his shoulder.

That was enough.

He followed.

Yoongi didn’t sit. He paced. Slowly. Hands on his hips, then in his pockets, then rubbing the back of his neck.

No one asked what they were doing.

But when Jin exhaled, long, like he’d been holding it in all day, it felt like the starting bell.

“He’s a sub," Hoseok said softly.

The words landed like a blanket thrown over a fire. Not loud. Not hot. Just heavy.

“No more guessing," Jimin added. “It’s in writing now.”

“In writing," Jin echoed. “Bloodwork. Saliva. Hormone profile. All of it. Submissive.”

“Full-submission," Taehyung added.

“And praise-responsive," Yoongi murmured. “Of course he is.”

No one laughed.

They sat in it for a while.

Jin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice quieter than usual. “They knew.”

“The company?” Jimin asked.

Jin nodded. “Maybe not in detail. Maybe not the exact designation. But they knew he wasn’t stable. They had the original test flagged inconclusive. And they ran with it anyway.”

“To control the narrative," Hoseok said. “To shape the group dynamic.”

“To sell him as untouchable," Taehyung muttered. “Unattached. Wild card genius.”

“Neutral," Namjoon added. “The safest designation for a public figure no one wanted to deal with.”

Yoongi stopped pacing.

“He’s never had a bond.”

Everyone went quiet.

“He’s never had one," he repeated, slower. “Not a temporary link. Not a handler. Not even experimental care in training.”

“Not even with us," Taehyung said, voice breaking. “And we’ve been his pack for years.”

“He never told us," Jimin whispered.

“He didn’t know," Jin snapped, then winced. “Or he did and didn’t trust it. Or he thought it wasn’t real. Or, God, I don’t know.”

“Maybe he believed them," Hoseok said, voice soft. “Maybe he looked at that first paper and thought it had to be true.”

Namjoon didn’t speak for a long time.

When he finally did, it was quiet. Careful.

“We missed him.”

No one interrupted.

“I missed him. I thought… if he needed something, he would ask. And if he didn’t ask, then he didn’t need. But that’s not how it works. Not with subs who don’t know they’re subs. Not with people who are afraid to want anything.”

“He tried," Taehyung said. “In his own way. He stood near us after shows. He lingered at the door during check-ins. He watched us nest without ever asking to join.”

“Because he thought it wasn’t for him," Jimin whispered. “And none of us told him it was.”

Hoseok sat up slowly, arms wrapped around his knees. “We can’t change that.”

“No," Jin said. “But we can start from here.”

There was a long silence.

Not awkward.

Just full.

Then Jimin spoke, soft but certain. “He’ll need structure.”

Jin nodded. “Gentle settling. Responsive care. Something he can retreat into, not feel forced by.”

“I’m good at praise," Yoongi offered, voice quiet. “He responds to my energy.”

“I can help too," Hoseok added. “If he ever wants to push. I can brat him right back into safety.”

“Don’t brag about that," Jin muttered.

“It’s not bragging if it’s true.”

Taehyung huffed out a laugh. It cracked in the middle.

“I just want him to stop looking like he’s bracing all the time.”

“We’ll get him there," Namjoon said. “But it has to be slow. We’re not fixing him. We’re making space.”

They sat like that for a while. No plan. No timeline.

Just intention.

Just presence.

A promise, unspoken:
We won’t leave Jungkook out again.

Jungkook didn’t remember the walk back to the van.

Didn’t remember the ride. Just a blur of engine rumble and leather seats, the folder stiff and sharp in his hands. Didn’t remember the elevator ride, either—only the way the fluorescent lights made everything too bright.

Didn’t remember Namjoon’s hand on his back, steady and silent.

Didn’t remember letting go.

He closed the door to his room behind him and leaned into it like it might hold his weight.

It didn’t.

The folder was still there in his hands. His name on the front. His designation just underneath.

He didn’t open it again.

Didn’t need to.

He let it fall to the desk like a mistake and stood there in the dimness, hoodie sleeves too long, arms hanging limp at his sides like he’d forgotten how to use them.

The silence was worse than noise. It pressed in around him, thick and sharp, and for a moment he thought maybe it wasn’t silence at all. Maybe it was static.

Maybe it was his own pulse, echoing in his ears.

He took two steps forward and sat down on the floor, not because he meant to—he just didn’t know where else to go. Cross-legged, spine bowed, palms pressed against the carpet to remind himself he was still real.

The room felt unfamiliar. Like a hotel room he hadn’t had time to unpack.

Like nothing inside it had ever been his.

The label hovered just beneath his skin. Like it had been branded there instead of printed on paper.

Submissive.

Full-submission.

Praise-responsive.

Incomplete.

He mouthed the words without sound. Like that would help them make sense.

He’d spent years assuming he was neutral.

Learning to act like it.

Living like it.

He’d built a whole self around that assumption: the restraint, the independence, the unspoken belief that needing less meant being easier to keep.

That not asking for more meant being wanted, even if it was only a little.

And now?

Now he didn’t know what he was. What he was allowed to be.

What he was supposed to do with this—this designation, this sudden clarity that only made everything murkier.

What if it meant he wasn’t strong?

What if it meant everything he’d built wasn’t real?

What if it changed the way the others looked at him?

Or—worse—what if it didn’t?

What if they still saw him as the same blank shape, even with a label stamped on top?

What if nothing changed?

What if he didn’t?

He wrapped his arms around his knees. Rested his forehead on the curve of his forearm. Tried to breathe through the swell of uncertainty that pressed hot against the back of his throat.

He wasn’t even sure what he wanted. Comfort? Space? A plan?

He didn’t know how to ask.

Didn’t know if he was allowed to.

Would they wait for him to speak first? Would they think it was their job to fix it? Would they walk on eggshells now, worried about stepping wrong? Would they start treating him like someone different?

Or like someone delicate?

He didn’t want that.

But he also didn’t want to be alone.

The contradiction clawed at him.

He stood up—too fast. His legs ached. His chest ached more. He turned a slow circle in the room, half-restless, half-drifting, and ended up by the desk again. Picked up the folder like it might change, like maybe this time it would say Neutral again, and this would all have been a mistake.

It didn’t.

The paper was still warm from where he’d held it before. His name. The words. The history left blank.

A different version of him might’ve laughed.

A different version might’ve cried.

He did neither.

He set the folder back down. Pulled the hoodie tighter around him and stared at the closed door.

He didn’t know how long he’d been in there. Time didn’t feel real. His thoughts didn’t feel like thoughts—just fragments, looping like a beat that wouldn’t resolve.

And under it all, the same single, shapeless question repeating on mute:

Now what?

Jungkook didn’t decide to come out.

There wasn’t a clean moment where it made sense, or felt easier, or felt like a choice at all. Just a stretch of silence too long, breath fogging up the inside of his hoodie, the scent of old laundry detergent and stale stress clinging to the sleeves.

The folder still sat on his desk. The designation still said what it said.

He picked it up again. Held it like it was going to vanish if he let go.

It didn’t.

He opened the door.

The hallway was quiet. Light from the living room pooled warm on the floor like it didn’t know anything had changed.

But it had.

When Jungkook stepped out, shoulders hunched, hoodie sleeves too long, the folder still clutched like it might bite, six pairs of eyes looked up.

No one said anything.

No one asked how are you?

No one asked anything at all.

It wasn’t cold, but it felt like it should’ve been. The air had a strange weight to it—heavy in the wrong places. Like someone had dialed down the warmth in the room but left the thermostat alone.

Jimin, sitting on the couch with a blanket tangled around his legs, shifted quickly. The blanket fell to the floor as he scooted to the side, making room without making eye contact.

“Come sit,” he said softly. “It’s warm.”

It was the kind of line that should’ve been effortless. Should’ve cracked the atmosphere open like sunlight through a window.

But his voice was cautious. Gentle in a way that wasn’t quite usual.

Jungkook hesitated.

It was instinct, not trust, that made his feet move.

He crossed the room slowly, not sure what he was stepping into—just sure it wasn’t the same living room he’d left behind an hour ago.

Jin was already on his feet, halfway to the kitchen like he’d been waiting for something to do with his hands. He returned with a mug of tea, steam curling like breath from the surface, and held it out without a word.

Jungkook took it without looking at him.

The ceramic was too warm. He held it anyway.

He sat down beside Jimin, careful not to let their knees touch.

No one spoke.

Not really.

Yoongi opened his mouth once, like he meant to say something, then closed it.

Hoseok glanced over but didn’t hold his gaze.

Taehyung was still in his hoodie, legs drawn up, arms wrapped around his shins like they might anchor him.

They weren’t looking at him like he was broken.

But they also weren’t looking at him like they knew what he was anymore.

They were holding themselves back, one and all—something small and careful in the way they breathed, like they didn’t want to take up too much space near him.

Like they weren’t sure where the new edges of him were.

Or if it was even okay to touch.

Jungkook took a sip of the tea. It tasted like mint and something unfamiliar. He didn’t know if that was a comfort.

“It’s real now,” he said quietly.

The words landed soft, but final.

Jin, still standing, looked down at him with something tight in his throat.

“It was always real,” he said.

And maybe it was.

But real didn’t mean safe.

Real didn’t mean simple.

A beat passed. Someone’s hand twitched like they meant to reach for him—then thought better of it.

The space around him felt padded, like everyone was giving him room without quite knowing if that was the right thing.

Like they were all waiting for the new version of him to announce itself.

Like they didn’t want to look at him too closely in case it hadn’t settled yet.

And maybe that was fair.

Because he didn’t know what he looked like now, either.

The thing about secrets was that they didn’t stay small.

Even when no one said a word.

Even when no tweets got posted, no reporters were tipped off, no staff leaked photos from the green room floor.

The silence still spread.

It grew legs. Sprouted eyes.

By the end of the week, it had a seat at every table.

Jungkook noticed it first in the way people looked at him.

Not fans. He wasn’t allowed to look different in front of them. His styling stayed the same, his script the same. His energy, carefully coached into being just enough—bright but not blinding, tired but not sad. He did his job. He smiled on cue.

But inside the company?

Inside the backstage rooms and studio floors and the hushed corridors between fittings?

Something shifted.

Staff smiled at him more. Too warmly. Too deliberately. Like someone had sent out a memo not to spook him.

PDs hovered when he hesitated, their laughter too soft, too coaxing. Their redirections stretched out like they thought he’d fall apart mid-sentence.

Someone asked if he needed water three times during one shoot.

He wasn’t thirsty.

Another assistant touched his elbow as she passed—barely a brush, featherlight—but the intention behind it made his skin crawl.

Like she thought she was handling something breakable.

Like he wasn’t real anymore, just a designation with legs.

He started wearing headphones even when nothing was playing. Just to give himself a boundary. Something to tuck behind.

The pack noticed, too.

Hoseok, always half-asleep in his awareness, started clocking Jungkook’s presence like a sixth sense. His eyes would flick up every time he walked into a room. Not sharp or suspicious—just aware. Too aware.

Yoongi touched his back in passing more than usual. A palm between the shoulder blades, steady and brief.

Not a claim. Not pressure. Just a soft I see you.

It would’ve been comforting if it didn’t feel like everyone was suddenly seeing him.

Jimin stopped teasing so much. Which meant more than it should’ve. No dumb nicknames, no poking at his sleeves, no low-effort impressions. He still smiled, still pulled faces when the cameras rolled—but the lightness in his touch had been put in storage somewhere.

Like he didn’t want to push him too hard.

Like he wasn’t sure if he could anymore.

Jin asked, one evening in the hallway, if he wanted to start sitting in on grounding checks.

His voice had been neutral. Gentle. Noninvasive. The kind of question that came with an escape route baked into the silence afterward.

Jungkook didn’t answer out loud.

He just nodded once, the way you do when you know they’ll stop asking if you give them something.

He hadn’t decided yet if he’d actually show up.

And Namjoon—

Namjoon watched him like a second heartbeat.

Never close enough to smother.

Never far enough to lose.

It wasn’t intrusive. It wasn’t anything, really. Just the quiet presence of someone holding a net under you without being asked. Like a lighthouse. Like a contingency plan.

Jungkook didn’t mind it.

But he felt it.

That was the thing. He felt everything lately.

It was like being in a room full of padded corners, where everyone walked softer and talked slower and smiled too wide just in case.

No one said it.

No one dared say it.

But they were waiting on him to break.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because he wasn’t even close.

He was fine. Tired, sure. Overthinking, maybe. But his hands were steady. His heartbeat normal.

He wasn’t some fragile thing with cracked edges and trigger wires.

He wanted to scream that.

Not really. Not loud. But the urge sat under his skin like a buzz.

He hadn’t even figured out what kind of sub he was yet.

Hadn’t asked for anything.

Hadn’t done anything.

And already, the world was changing around him like he’d stepped into a different gravity.

Like his designation took up space now—loud and invisible.

But the weirdest part?

Taehyung stopped speaking first.

He didn’t know how to open the space anymore. Didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Didn’t want to assume.

He hovered like someone holding a glass sculpture they didn’t know how to put down.

He didn’t tease.

Didn’t nudge.

Didn’t offer his shoulder when Jungkook came home late and sore from rehearsals, even though he used to, even when Jungkook didn’t need it.

Jungkook missed the old version.

But he didn’t blame the new one.

They were all trying so hard not to hurt him that they didn’t seem to realize they were still leaving bruises.

Small ones.

Invisible ones.

The kind you don’t notice until you roll over and wince.

They were backstage when it happened.

A quick festival rehearsal, one of those spring industry events with overlapping groups and too much time between segments.

He’d stepped away for water, hands still damp from setting his mic, when a voice behind him said:

“You looked like you were gonna drop again last week.”

He turned.

Seungyoun. A soloist. Member of too many almost-groups.

Switch-leaning dom, if Jungkook remembered right. Quiet about it in interviews, open about it in idol circles.

They’d trained together once. Before debut. Long enough for a few jokes. A few good memories.

Jungkook blinked. “That obvious?”

“Not to most people.” Seungyoun paused. “But I know that look.”

“Yeah.”

“You holding up?”

Jungkook nodded. “Trying.”

Seungyoun sipped his water. “Did they retest you?”

He didn’t ask how he knew.

He just answered. “Yeah.”

“And?”

Jungkook didn’t say it.

He didn’t have to.

Seungyoun let out a slow breath. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

Jungkook gave a small smile. “It’s weird. I think I’m more relieved than anything.”

“That’s normal.”

“Is it?”

Seungyoun nodded. “Nothing messes with your head like being untreated. Even when you don’t know what’s missing.”

They stood there in the soft murmur of backstage noise, not saying much.

Then Seungyoun clapped him on the shoulder, warm, dom-heavy touch that didn’t burn.

“You’ll figure it out," he said. “You’ve got a good pack.”

Jungkook blinked. “You think?”

“I watched what they did after that shoot. You didn’t see their faces.”

He paused.

“Take your time," Seungyoun added. “Let them hold you. You don’t have to fix it yourself anymore.”

And just like that, he walked away.

That night, Jungkook sat on the balcony with a blanket over his knees and the sound of Jimin’s playlist floating through the dorm.

He didn’t know how to ask for what he needed.

But for the first time in years, he was starting to believe someone might offer it anyway.

It was Jimin who reached for him first.

Not physically, not at first.

It was during a day off, mid-afternoon, with the group scattered across the dorm. Some were half-asleep in their beds, Hoseok was reading something with too many footnotes, and Jungkook had curled up in the far corner of the living room with headphones on.

He wasn’t listening to anything.

He just didn’t want to talk.

So when Jimin dropped to the floor beside him, no announcement, no comment, just soft energy and crossed legs, he didn’t react.

Jimin didn’t say anything right away.

Then, like it had just occurred to him:
“Do you want to see something stupid?”

Jungkook blinked. “Always.”

Jimin turned his phone around.

It was a video of Taehyung tripping over a foldable chair three years ago and trying to pretend he hadn’t.

Jungkook snorted.

Jimin grinned.

Ten minutes passed before Jungkook realized they’d drifted into a casual lean. Shoulder to shoulder. No pressure. No purpose. Just there.

And when Jimin eventually left to make tea, he ruffled Jungkook’s hoodie on the way up.

It startled something inside him.
Not fear.

Just… warmth.

A flicker, low in his chest. Like the ember of a fire he hadn’t realized was still burning. He almost moved away on instinct—but Jimin was already gone, and the absence felt louder than the touch had.

The kind he didn’t know how to hold yet.

The next day, Yoongi pulled him into the kitchen with no explanation and handed him a mixing bowl.

“What am I doing?”

“You’re helping me bake.”

“I don’t bake.”

“Exactly. We’re learning.”

Jungkook stared at the ingredients, suspicious.

“Yoongi…”

“Yeah?”

“This feels like a trap.”

Yoongi smiled. “It’s a poorly disguised bonding activity.”

“Ah.”

“You caught me.”

They made cookies.

They were… mostly edible.

But the real moment happened when Jungkook dropped a spoon and cursed, backing up like the metal had bitten him.

Yoongi didn’t laugh.

He didn’t scold.

He just bent down, picked it up, and said gently,
“It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jungkook stared at him, throat tight. The words lodged somewhere under his ribs, strange and disarming. He hadn’t realized how much of his life had been lived waiting for the reprimand. It shouldn’t have hit so hard.

But it did.

And Jungkook, for the first time in days, relaxed his shoulders without realizing it.

The relief came too fast. Too easily.

His body, traitorous thing, wanted to sink into it. Like muscle memory it didn’t know it had.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He didn’t know what this was.

Not the softness. Not the unspoken rules. Not the quiet pulse in his chest that ached for something slower, deeper, safer.

Something like… trust.

He had never trusted anyone with that kind of space before. It was a weight—one he had carried for so long, he didn’t know where to put it down.

His life had been about staying on guard, staying neutral. To let anything seep through felt wrong, almost dangerous. But here, in this tiny moment, his body moved without permission, without checking in. It didn’t ask him if he was ready.

He wanted to fight it. He wanted to pull the blanket tighter, shut it down, leave it locked behind a wall of control. But it kept breaking through.

Softness felt like suffocation, even though his chest was hungry for it.

Later that night, Hoseok walked into Jungkook’s room without knocking and threw a hoodie at his face.

“What—"

“Come here," Hoseok said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re lying in bed doing nothing, and I want to bother you in a loving way.”

Jungkook sighed but followed.

They ended up in the living room with Taehyung asleep on the floor and Namjoon reading in the corner.

Hoseok shoved two blankets at him, then stole one back. “Nest with me. Come on. We’ll watch something dumb.”

“Are we watching for plot or vibes?”

“Pure vibes. No thoughts, just overstimulated sea creatures.”

And just like that, they curled into opposite ends of the same cocoon of blankets and didn’t say anything else.

Halfway through the second episode of whatever cursed series Hoseok had queued up, Namjoon set his book down and moved to sit behind the couch.

He didn’t speak.

Just rested a hand gently, gently, against the top of Jungkook’s shoulder.

Didn’t pet. Didn’t guide.

Just stayed there.

Jungkook froze for a second.

Then… didn’t.

He let the weight settle.

He let himself feel it.

It wasn’t heavy. Just… steady. Like a grounding wire. Like someone saying, without saying: You don’t have to hold all of this alone.

And when the tension in his spine started to uncoil, he didn’t push it away.

They didn’t talk about it after.

Didn’t label it.

Didn’t call it care.

Maybe that made it easier to accept. To pretend it wasn’t unraveling him slowly in the best possible way. Every soft gesture a stitch undone, every kindness a question he didn’t know how to answer.

But Jungkook could feel it: a shift in the air. A new language being spoken in the way Jimin lingered in the doorway before bed, in how Yoongi offered food without waiting for him to ask, in the way Taehyung pressed a warm compress into his hands and simply whispered, “For your wrists. They’ve been tight lately.”

None of it asked for thanks.

None of it required permission.

They just offered.

And let him take.

One night, when most of the group was asleep, Jin found him curled on the balcony with a book he hadn’t turned a page in.

He sat down without a word and placed a small jar on the floor between them.

The scent was faint but familiar, already calming. A reminder that someone had noticed something he hadn’t said out loud.

“What’s that?” Jungkook asked.

“Lavender balm. You can put it on your temples when your headaches start.”

Jungkook stared at it.

Then at Jin.

“Why?”

Jin shrugged. “Because you keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

“…you noticed.”

“We all did.”

They sat in the quiet for a minute.

Then Jin said, voice low, “You’ve always been one of us.”

“I know.”

“You just didn’t know how.”

Jungkook swallowed hard.

“I still don’t.”

Jin smiled. “That’s okay. We’ll show you.”

It happened during a fan meet.

Nothing major. No incident. No drop. No meltdown.

Just a moment.

Barely a moment.

A fan had given him a handmade bracelet with his name embroidered on the inside, and he’d smiled, really smiled, wide and soft and open, and said thank you with both hands, fingers curled gently over theirs.

And then he’d looked up.

And Namjoon had been watching.

And Jungkook—

Just for a second—

Had tilted.

Not leaned. Not slouched.

Tilted.

His head dipped slightly. His body angled toward the table. His shoulders relaxed in that subtle, unmistakable way that meant one thing:

He felt safe.

That night, the call came in.

“I thought we made ourselves clear," said the voice on speaker. “Your presentation is slipping.”

Jin stood with his arms crossed, eyes flat, while Namjoon held the phone steady on the kitchen counter.

“He didn’t break character," Jin said.

“No, but he shifted tone. And fans notice those things. It was soft. Docile. There are already compilation edits going around.”

Jimin swore under his breath from the hallway.

Taehyung sat on the edge of the couch, jaw tight.

“You told us this would be handled quietly," the voice continued. “So handle it.”

And then the line cut.

Jungkook sat on his bed later that night, headphones in, but no music playing.

Just white noise.

His fingers twisted the corner of his blanket into a knot.

It made his knuckles ache. But the pressure kept him from floating. From crying. From shattering into pieces he didn’t have the strength to gather back up.

He wasn’t even sure what he’d done wrong.

It wasn’t like he’d meant to shift.

It had just… happened.

His body had leaned into the energy without thinking. The comfort. The hum of safety. The glow of praise, even if it was unspoken.

And then it was over.

And now he was being told it was too much.

But his skin still felt hungry.

His spine still itched for pressure.

His chest still hummed with the need for something he didn’t know how to ask for.

The worst part?

He’d seen this before.

He’d helped other members through it.

He knew the signs—the restless hands, the hollow ache, the tight way someone breathed when they were too full of need and didn’t know how to let it out. He’d seen it from the outside. But now that it was him, everything blurred.

Watched Taehyung float off during a grounding check. Watched Hoseok sink into a bratty haze only to curl up like a kitten thirty minutes later. Held Jimin’s hand when the lights were too much and the world felt loud.

But that was them.

That wasn’t supposed to be him.

This was his own body ringing the bell.

And he didn’t know how to answer.

He felt like a lighthouse without a beacon, lightless, just waiting for someone to find him.

The hunger wasn’t just about needing to be held. It was deeper. A pull he didn’t understand, like some internal magnet tugging at him, urging him to find something he could neither see nor name.

It wasn’t even about giving in. It was about the act of letting.

He had spent years defining himself through control, through predictability. Even his breath had a rhythm, a purpose. And now, everything was blurred, chaotic, without a sense of direction.

His hands tightened into fists, the motion almost instinctual, like holding the world in place. He didn’t trust the vulnerability in his chest, didn’t know how to allow it without falling apart.

It felt like needing to drive a car but not knowing how to start the engine.

And worse—

Some part of him didn’t want to learn.

Because if he gave up control, even for a second, what if he couldn’t take it back?

What if that was the end of him—of this version of him? What would he become if he stepped off the edge?

Namjoon knocked once and entered without waiting.

He sat on the edge of the bed, not speaking at first.

Then quietly: “You okay?”

“No," Jungkook said. “But I don’t know why.”

Namjoon nodded.

“That’s allowed.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Can I ask you something?” Jungkook said.

“Of course.”

“How often do subs need to be in subspace?”

Namjoon blinked, caught off guard.

“It depends," he said. “On the person. Their dynamic style. Their settling needs.”

“But... like. Is it once a week? Once a month?”

“There’s no formula.”

“But—" Jungkook rubbed at his temple. “I feel like my body wants it. Not the extreme stuff. Just… softness. A place to land.”

“And your mind doesn’t trust it yet.”

“No," he admitted. “My mind still thinks I’m faking it.”

The words came out too raw. Like tearing fabric. He looked down, ashamed. As if admitting it out loud might make it true.

Namjoon reached out, but stopped halfway.

Let his hand hover, not touch.

“Do you want help regulating?”

Jungkook swallowed hard.

The room felt too warm. Too close.

Not uncomfortable. Not unsafe. Just unfamiliar. Like standing at the edge of something deep and soft and terrifying.

“I don’t know what that means," he whispered.

The shame of it pressed against his ribs, suffocating him slowly.

He was supposed to know this. Supposed to be the solid one, the rock. Neutral. In control. But here, now, he was nothing like that.

His body was a runaway train, but he didn’t know the tracks. He had no idea how to steer it or if he could.

It was supposed to be a choice, wasn’t it?

To want it, to let them take care of him. But his mind still held the walls up, refusing to let anything soft creep inside. Softness wasn’t for him. He had built a life out of being unreachable.

But now, his fingers were trembling, his breath shaking. It felt like his body was falling into something he didn’t understand, didn’t know how to name. And the worst part?

He didn’t want to admit that he needed it. Needed to feel anchored, needed something other than the tension and the weight of expectation.

Regulation was surrender. Wasn't it?

It meant stepping away from control, letting someone else decide, and where did that leave him?

He rubbed his temple again, the familiar ache of a headache growing as the pressure in his chest expanded.

Could he let go? What would happen if he did?

The weight of the question pressed on him like an anvil. It felt like falling into an abyss.

But what if that was the only way to finally stop this endless cycle of tension?

Could he trust them to catch him? Could he trust himself to let them?

Meanwhile, in the hallway, the rest of the pack hovered.

Not listening.

Not exactly.

But waiting.

Because they knew. They all knew.

He needed more.

But no one had gotten clear consent.

And after everything, the misdiagnosis, the drop, the secrecy, no one wanted to overstep.

Jimin leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“He looks like he’s about to fall apart half the time," he said quietly. “And we’re just… standing here.”

“We don’t want to break him worse," Yoongi said.

“We’re daring him to ask," Jin muttered. “But no one’s told him he can.”

Hoseok tilted his head back and sighed.

“This isn’t about comfort anymore. It’s settling.”

“He doesn’t know how to want it," Taehyung said. “He doesn’t even know how to name it.”

And names mattered. Names made things real. Made them true. Without them, all he had were shadows—cravings he didn’t understand, instincts he kept trying to bury.

They all looked toward the door.

Inside, Namjoon’s voice was quiet:

“Whatever you need, we’ll learn together.”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

But he didn’t ask him to leave.

Chapter Text

It started with the emails.

Subtle at first. Then not.

Meeting requests. Brand check-ins. Language revisions.

Suggestions for “toning down dynamic ambiguity.”

Suggestions for “positioning him less centrally during fan interactions.”

Suggestions for “scheduling separate styling meetings” to avoid any misinterpretations during group fittings.

They didn’t say it outright.

But everyone knew what it meant.

Jungkook read through the emails on his phone, fingers stiff, the screen blurring slightly as his vision slipped in and out of focus. The words didn’t make sense—not in the way they should. Toning down dynamic ambiguity. Positioning him less centrally. The phrases were so clinical. So dispassionate. It wasn’t about the words; it was about the weight of the silences they carried.

Didn’t they understand?

He hadn’t asked for any of this.

The attention, the pressure, the expectations. They had started making him feel like an outsider in his own life, like everything he did was too much, too little, or—worse—just not the right kind of “appropriate.”

He didn’t even know what “appropriate” was anymore. He just knew that the more they tried to “fix” him, the more he pulled away, the tighter his chest got.

Was it wrong to want to be nothing but himself for once?

To exist without the labels they so eagerly tried to paste over him?

He didn’t know how to say it, didn’t know if he could—he didn’t even trust his own voice when it came to this.

The silence, the soft exclusion, had become a second skin.

It was easier to fade into the background. Easier not to be noticed. Easier to shut down than risk being made a spectacle of.

Because the moment they’d started to make space for him, he had started backing away.

And he hated himself for it.

He hated how badly he wanted to feel wanted and yet hated the very idea of it at the same time. How their care felt like a cage and his rejection felt like a war.

Did they see the way he shrank away from their touches? The way his body tensed, no matter how gently they reached out?

Did they understand that he didn’t know how to be soft? How to accept care without breaking in the process?

No. They wouldn’t understand.

They couldn’t.

And worse—he wasn’t sure he wanted them to.

“They think he’s going to embarrass us," Jimin said one night, staring at his phone with his head tipped back over the couch.

“They think we are," Jin replied.

“They’re not giving him time," Yoongi muttered.

“They’re not giving him space," Taehyung added.

“He’s not going to get either," Namjoon said. “Unless we protect it.”

Jungkook heard them in the other room, voices soft but tinged with something he couldn’t place—something fragile. It wasn’t the words that hit hardest. It was the way their voices shook, just a little, like they weren’t sure if they could hold their concern without breaking.

“Protect it.”

He knew they meant well.

He knew they didn’t want to push him away.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Every attempt to protect him felt like an intrusion. Every touch, every word, every care… they were all reminders that he wasn’t enough as he was.

He couldn’t bear to be fixed.

He couldn’t bear to be exposed.

But he was both, all the time, caught in the limbo of wanting to disappear and the gnawing ache of not being wanted—not in the way that he needed.

He hadn’t meant to pull away so violently. But there it was—each rejection, each slip further into himself, each moment where he chose silence over connection.

He had done it without thinking. Without planning.

His body did the work before his mind could catch up.

And now they were trying to fix what he didn’t even know how to name.

Could they see the way his heart was splintering every time they tried to open a door? The way it pained him to keep walking further into his own isolation, but how much worse it felt to allow them to breach the walls?

He hated this feeling—the ache in his chest, the sharp slice of loneliness that never seemed to dull, no matter how close they got.

And worse, he feared they could never understand the space he was occupying. The one between wanting and needing and knowing he couldn’t have either without losing himself completely.

He didn’t say it aloud.

But his body said everything.

He flinched when Jimin brushed his shoulder.

He pulled away when Jin reached to fix his mic.

He moved rooms when Yoongi offered a blanket.

Didn’t show up for the group check-in.

Didn’t reply in the group chat.

Didn’t look at them the way he used to, not even sideways, not even soft.

Every gesture, every touch, every attempt to reach him felt like a fire in his skin. The warmth they offered was both a balm and a burn.

He couldn’t escape the contradiction in himself.

He wanted to be needed, but he couldn’t stand the thought of being relied on.

He craved connection, but every time it got too close, he pulled back, faster than he could think.

And that—

That was the real cruelty of it, wasn’t it?

That he didn’t know how to exist without pushing people away, even when he knew, deep down, that he didn’t want to be alone.

His body betrayed him at every turn.

Every touch was a reminder of the distance growing between them, between him and the world he couldn’t quite reach.

“Is he mad at us?” Jimin asked.

“I don’t think he’s mad," Hoseok said. “I think he’s scared.”

What no one said out loud, but everyone felt, was this:

They’d started making space for him.

Started shifting, softening, opening up.

And now he was backing away.

And no one knew if it was temporary.

Or permanent.

Scared.

The word stuck in his chest like a splinter, lodged in deep, refusing to come out.

It was the right word, wasn’t it?

He was scared. Scared of what would happen if they really let him in. Scared that they would see him for everything he wasn’t.

He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t even close.

They thought they were giving him space.

But space was a lie. He couldn’t trust it.

If he let them in, he’d have to let himself go, and he wasn’t sure he could do that.

The thought of someone knowing all his cracks, all his weaknesses, made him dizzy. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be seen—it was that he didn’t know who he was if he wasn’t hidden.

Who would he be, without all the walls?

He didn’t know.

Didn’t want to know.

But the thought had been clawing at him lately—quiet and relentless, like water through a crack in concrete. It lingered in the air after he turned from the window, folded himself into bed, and pretended not to ache for anyone to follow. It sat with him through rehearsals. Pressed into his spine during soundcheck. Curled cold in his throat when his stomach stayed empty and no one asked why.

He didn’t ask for help.

So they didn’t offer it.

And no one—not one of them—knew what storm he was holding back with the flat of his palm and the curl of his voice around “I’m fine.”

All they knew was this:

He was pulling away.

And some of them—some of them were starting to feel like maybe they should’ve tried sooner.

Late one night, Taehyung found himself standing outside Jungkook’s door with a glass of water and no good reason to be holding it.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t move.

Just stood there.

And tried not to think about how often he'd ended up in this hallway lately, always with some excuse in his hand. A snack. A charger. A question that could’ve waited until morning.

He stared at the door like it might open on its own. Like it might see him there and make the decision for him.

But it didn’t.

And he didn’t.

Instead, he remembered—

It was right after debut.

The company had them in endless training loops. Diet cycles. Group bonding sessions that felt more like endurance tests.

One day, Jungkook showed up late to practice—shoelaces dragging, hoodie strings chewed at the ends, eyes red like he hadn’t slept at all.

No one said anything.

Not Namjoon, not the managers, not even Jin, who usually noticed everything.

Except Taehyung.

“Hey,” he’d whispered, catching Jungkook by the water cooler. “You okay?”

Jungkook blinked, surprised. “Yeah. Just tired.”

But Taehyung had noticed the way his shoulders slumped—not just with exhaustion, but something else. Something looser. Like his body had started to give, even before Namjoon offered a direction. The angle of his head. The slight tilt forward when his name was called.

Only for a second.

But it had been enough to ping something in Taehyung’s chest.

A resonance.

Sub.

Not a certainty. Not proof. Just a tug in his gut—familiar and fragile and utterly unspoken.

It felt like recognition. Like watching someone else float the way he floated sometimes, during check-ins or evaluation drills. That instinct to go still when a dom’s voice threaded through the noise. That flicker of relief when someone else took the lead.

And still, Taehyung had said nothing.

Not to him.

Not to the others.

Not even to himself, not out loud.

Maybe it wasn’t his place.

Maybe he was just projecting.

Maybe he didn’t want to drag his own mess into it, didn’t want to claim something tender that wasn’t his.

Because back then, even Taehyung wasn’t sure he deserved care. Not really. He played the part—joked around, kept things light. But most of the time, even when the others touched him gently or coaxed him to check in, he still felt like a shadow hovering at the edge of his own need.

So how could he have reached for someone else’s?

Now, years later, he stood at Jungkook’s door with a glass of water going lukewarm in his hand and a heart full of guilt he couldn’t pour anywhere.

Because what if that moment—what if that was when he should’ve said something?

What if Jungkook could’ve had care sooner?

What if someone—he—had just named it?

What if he’d said sub, out loud, with kindness?

Maybe it would’ve cracked something open.

Maybe Jungkook wouldn’t be so afraid to ask now.

Maybe he wouldn’t be behind that door, silent and sinking, while the rest of them tried to guess how far gone he already was.

Taehyung swallowed.

Lifted his hand.

Knocked—soft, once.

No answer.

He stayed anyway.

Inside the room, Jungkook sat on the floor, legs pulled up, hoodie sleeves stretched over his hands.

His body buzzed.

Too many feelings. Not enough categories.

His mind spun in circles.

He didn’t know what was his anymore.

Was the urge to be touched real?

Or was it suggestion?

Was the way his skin lit up when Namjoon’s voice dropped into command proof,

Or conditioning?

Was he being good? Or weak?

Wanting was fine on paper.

But needing?

That felt dangerous.

So he pulled away.

Let the pack fill the space with silence.

Let the pressure build without relief.

Let himself spin deeper without saying a word.

Because he didn’t know how to fall safely
into something he still didn’t understand.

The dorm felt off.

Not tense, exactly.

Just… unsettled.

Like a room with one missing chair. One lightbulb out.

The kind of wrong you didn’t notice until you sat in it for too long.

Later, after practice, the dorm door clicked open.

“Where’s Jungkook?” Namjoon asked, voice low, keys settling on the entryway table.

No one answered.
Not because they didn’t know—though, honestly, they weren’t sure anymore.
But because the real answer hurt too much to say.

He hadn’t come to practice.
Again.
And not one of them had pushed hard enough to ask why.

Namjoon didn’t press.
Just toed off his shoes and disappeared into the kitchen.

Yoongi found him ten minutes later, standing in front of the open fridge like it had forgotten how to feed him.
The fluorescent light buzzed faintly. A jar of kimchi sat front and center, aggressively uneaten.

“You good?” Yoongi asked, leaning one shoulder into the doorframe.

Namjoon didn’t look up. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do.”

Yoongi padded into the room and closed the fridge for him. The soft thump echoed just slightly too loud in the quiet.

“You mean about Jungkook?”

“I mean about all of it.”

Yoongi tilted his head, arms crossing loosely. “That’s big for you. All of it.”

“I don’t vent much.”

“No shit,” Yoongi muttered, though not unkindly. He nudged the counter with his hip. “Start small?”

“I’m the one who’s supposed to keep us together.”

“You do keep us together.”

“I missed it. All of it.”

“So did the rest of us.”

“But I’m pack dom. I should’ve known.”

Yoongi placed a steady hand on his arm. “You’re also human, Hyunwoo.”

“I watched him flinch for months,” Namjoon whispered. “I saw him step away from nesting nights. I saw him get sick and said nothing.”

“We didn’t know what it meant.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt him.”

“No.” Yoongi’s voice was quieter now. “It doesn’t.”

There was a pause.

Then, softer: “He won’t let me near him.”

“He won’t let any of us near him.”

Namjoon pressed his thumb into the edge of the counter, jaw tight.

Yoongi watched him for a moment. “When was the last time you slept?”

Namjoon didn’t answer.

“Eat something,” Yoongi said gently. “I’ll make soup.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Didn’t ask if I had to.”

They moved without speaking for a while. Namjoon rinsed rice; Yoongi chopped scallions. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t peace. But it was something.

In the living room, the lights were low.

Jin sat curled on the far end of the couch, scrolling through his phone with a barely-there frown. He wasn’t reading anything. The motion was just to keep his hands busy.

Jimin was sprawled sideways beside him, legs draped over the armrest, humming softly to himself while flicking through the channels on mute.

They could hear the occasional clink of cookware from the kitchen. The soft murmur of Namjoon and Yoongi’s voices. It was almost comforting.
Almost.

Jimin glanced over. “Think he’ll eat this time?”

Jin sighed. “Maybe if we put it in front of his door.”

“And if we call it a peace offering instead of dinner?”

“Then definitely not.”

Jimin chuckled, a little wry. “God. Remember when he used to steal our snacks and pretend it wasn’t him?”

“He still pretends it’s not him.”

“Yeah, but back then, he’d smile after. Now he just disappears.”

Jin said nothing.

There was a pause, thickening.

Then—

From the hallway came a crash.

A sharp thud of something hitting the floor. Then a loud, frustrated, “I hate this shirt!”

Hoseok.

Jin blinked once. Sighed. Set his phone down with a soft thud on the coffee table.

Jimin raised an eyebrow without looking over. “Your turn?”

“My turn.”

Jin stood with the grace of someone about to negotiate a ceasefire. Rolled out his shoulders like he was walking into a boardroom, not a bedroom.

And in a way, he was.

They all were, these days—walking into a minefield of unreadable moods and unspoken grief, trying to figure out which version of each other they’d get that hour.
Trying to figure out how to hold it all together when one of them was already gone.

Hoseok was in the shared bedroom, halfway into a shirt he clearly didn’t like, hair mussed and expression sharp.

“It’s not even the color," he said before Jin could speak. “It’s the texture. It makes my neck itch. It feels like stage clothes and I’m not even on camera.”

Jin crossed his arms. “Okay. So don’t wear it.”

Hoseok blinked. “I thought you were gonna say I’m being dramatic.”

“You are being dramatic. But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

Jin tilted his head. “That you’re bratting out because you don’t know how else to say you’re upset.”

Hoseok scowled. “I’m not bratting.”

“You’re throwing shirts.”

“I'm expressing myself.”

“You threw a sock at me this morning.”

“It missed.”

“That’s not a defense.”

Hoseok flopped onto the bed and covered his face with a pillow.

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“I feel— everything. Loud. Fast. Wrong.”

Jin softened. “You’re dysregulating.”

“I shouldn’t be dysregulating.”

“But you are.”

Jin sat beside him and tugged the pillow away.

Hoseok didn’t fight it.

Didn’t brat again.

Just looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and said, “I don’t know what to do.”

And that was all it took.

Jin slid down, leaned in close, voice low and steady.

“Let go.”

Hoseok blinked.

“You’ve been holding everything since the drop. You’ve been joking through it, teasing through it—covering for everyone else. Let go.”

Hoseok swallowed. “Now?”

“Right now.” Jin said, voice low and calm, but with an edge underneath it. The edge that had always been there when he slipped into his natural rhythm as a dom. Control like a blade. Intention like a heartbeat.

Hoseok stared up at him, lips parted, breathing too fast.

And then, deliberately, slowly,

He mouthed off.

“You’re not the boss of me.”

Jin smiled.

Sharp. Predatory.
Relieved.

Because he knew that tone.

Knew that look.

Hoseok wasn’t saying no.

He was challenging him to prove it.

Jin moved fast.
Not rough. But precise.

He shifted, swung a leg over Hoseok’s hips, straddling him without putting weight down yet.

Hoseok gasped, instinctively pressing his head back into the mattress.

Jin leaned down until their faces were inches apart.

“You want to brat at me, Hoseok-ah?” he murmured, soft and lethal. “Or do you want me to take the fight out of you?”

Hoseok’s eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

His whole body said yes.

Jin didn’t wait for permission he already had.

He grabbed Hoseok’s wrists, pinned them above his head with one hand easily. His strength wasn’t showy like Yoongi’s, it was focused. Surgical.

He pulled the hoodie sleeves down, exposing bare forearms.

Hoseok squirmed a little beneath him, a low whine escaping.

Jin grinned.

“There you are," he said quietly. “There’s my brat.”

He kept him pinned with one hand and traced the other lightly over the exposed skin.

Fingertips ghosting.

Then nails.

A scratch. Sharp enough to light up the nerves without breaking skin.

Hoseok arched, a startled gasp leaving his mouth.

“Stay still," Jin said, voice like velvet wrapped around steel.

Hoseok whimpered but obeyed.

Almost.

Jin’s grin widened.

“Not good at taking orders tonight, are we?”

“Maybe you’re just bad at giving them," Hoseok snapped.

Jin laughed under his breath, dark and thrilled.

“Oh, you are begging for it.”

He adjusted his grip, pulling Hoseok’s wrists together tighter, pressing his thumb into the sensitive tendons there, just enough to make him squirm.

Then he leaned down and bit him.

Not hard enough to bruise. But enough to leave Hoseok writhing under him, the air punched out of his lungs in a stuttered gasp.

For a minute, the room was just the sound of breathing.

Jin’s rough and steady.

Hoseok’s broken and fast.

The tension that had been simmering all week snapped taut, and then, beautifully, began to unravel.

Hoseok sagged into the bed, tension bleeding out of him second by second.

Jin shifted, loosened his grip, brushed his fingers down Hoseok’s arms in a steady grounding pattern.

“Good," he murmured. “Good boy.”

Hoseok whimpered, high and desperate, and buried his face against Jin’s thigh without thinking.

Jin stroked his hair once, twice.

“You’re okay," he said, voice low. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Hoseok nodded, shuddering.

The brat was gone now.

The fight was gone.

Only trust remained.

Jin stayed like that for a long time, holding him down without restraining, touching without demanding.

Until Hoseok’s breathing evened out. Until the tightness melted. Until the world stopped spinning too fast.

And somewhere in the quiet of it, Jin felt himself settle too.

Because this—this was as much for him as it was for Hoseok.

Control.

Care.

Connection.

All the things he didn’t know he was starving for until they were right there in his hands.

In the living room, the low hum of the TV filled the silence that followed. Blue light flickered against the far wall, catching the curve of Jimin’s cheek where he lay curled sideways on the couch, socked feet wedged beneath a throw pillow.

Taehyung padded in a minute later, quiet. His steps were slow, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to sit or just pass through. But then he dropped down at the other end of the couch with a soft exhale, one leg tucked under him, thumb pressing absently into the seam of a cushion.

They weren’t watching the screen so much as waiting for it to end.

The air had that quiet weight to it. Like everyone in the dorm was holding something and no one knew where to set it down.

The credits rolled.

Neither moved.

Finally, without looking over, Taehyung spoke.

“Hoseok okay?”

Jimin shrugged, eyes still on the TV. “Jin’s with him.”

Taehyung nodded. He didn’t ask anything else.

They sat in the lull, the way you do when it’s too late to start something and too early to sleep.

Then, eventually—

“You ever feel like you’re… I don’t know.” Taehyung made a vague gesture. “Too much? Not enough?”

Jimin blinked slowly. Turned toward him with a tired squint. “What kind of question is that?”

“I don’t know,” Taehyung muttered. “A dumb one.”

Jimin didn’t say anything for a beat. Then—quietly, “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Taehyung let out a breath. Not quite relief. But close.

“I thought I could handle it,” he said. “The fame. The attention. The pressure. All of it.”

Jimin turned the volume down with a click of the remote. Not off—just softer.

“I’m the only one who knows what it’s like here,” Taehyung went on, voice tight. “To be a sub in the spotlight. To be... on. All the time. Cameras right in your face when you’re one wrong breath from slipping.”

Jimin tilted his head, listening now. No commentary. Just space.

“I knew something was wrong with Jungkook,” Taehyung said. “I felt it. Even if I couldn’t name it.”

He rubbed his thumb against the inside of his wrist. A grounding habit. One that didn’t seem to work tonight.

“And I still didn’t help him.”

“Hey—” Jimin shifted, finally speaking. “That’s not—”

“I wanted to,” Taehyung cut in. “I wanted to be the one who saw it first. Protected him. Made it easier. I should’ve—”

“You couldn’t,” Jimin said, firm but not unkind. “That’s not your failure.”

Taehyung laughed bitterly. “Sure feels like it.”

Jimin bumped his shoulder into Taehyung’s. “You’re still here.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It means more than nothing.”

The room settled again.

Then Jimin leaned back and said, almost to himself, “Being a sub’s hard enough when the whole world’s watching.”

Taehyung didn’t speak, just nodded. That particular ache was too familiar to need words.

Jimin gave a dry huff. “And being a switch doesn’t exactly make it easier.”

Taehyung blinked. Looked over.

“They want me to be whatever looks best on screen,” Jimin said. “Playful one second, reliable the next. Flirt when it’s charming. Dom when it’s spicy. Sub when it’s convenient.”

He tugged at the throw blanket until it bunched up near his knees.

“I like being both,” he said. “But some days it feels like I’m faking half of it.”

Taehyung tilted his head, brows drawn. “You’re not.”

“Feels like I am,” Jimin said with a lopsided shrug. “Too dom to be the soft one. Too sub to be taken seriously. Just... the middle guy. The filler.”

There was no punchline. No teasing grin to undercut the vulnerability.

Taehyung looked at him, quiet.

“You’re not filler.”

Jimin snorted. “Tell that to the fans who only notice me when I cry or kiss someone.”

“Then fuck the fans.”

Jimin blinked at him.

Taehyung shrugged. “I mean it. You don’t owe them your insides just because you’re good at playing both sides.”

Jimin didn’t answer for a moment.

Then—soft, almost like surprise, “Thanks.”

They sat in the low buzz of the television glow.

Somewhere down the hall, a faucet turned on. A door creaked.

The dorm wasn’t sleeping. But it wasn’t quite awake, either.

And maybe this—this strange, heavy quiet—was the only kind of peace they were going to get tonight.

The television murmured on, low and flickering, casting light across the quiet curve of the living room.

Outside the door, the apartment felt still. Held.

But down the hallway, behind a closed door, the silence was a different kind. Not gentle. Not shared.

Alone in the dark, Jungkook lay curled on the floor beside his bed. The carpet pressed rough against his cheek. The mattress loomed above him—unmade, untouched—like even it knew better than to expect softness.

He could hear the others faintly. The clink of chopsticks. A laugh from Jimin. Music low and shapeless in the background, like Taehyung was cycling through loops without really playing anything. It was all so close. Right there.

But it may as well have been a world away.

Smile for the cameras. Tease in interviews. Laugh just enough to look normal. Stay sharp enough to dodge real questions.

And when he couldn’t?

When the exhaustion slipped through?

He pulled tighter.

Smiled wider.

Worked harder.

That’s what he did now.

Even though it wasn’t working.

Even though every bone in his body screamed for something he didn’t know how to name.

He hadn’t gone to the movie night Jimin planned. Hadn’t joined the music jam when Taehyung started looping chords in the living room. Hadn’t responded when Yoongi sent a picture of the takeout, the caption a soft, hopeful “hey, food’s here if you’re hungry.”

He’d stared at the text until the screen dimmed.

And then turned it face down.

He stayed where he was, sleeves pulled down over his hands, knees to his chest, hoodie pulled tight around his ears like that might drown out the ache. Like that might count as care.

He told himself it was just exhaustion.

Just a long day.

Just needing a break.

But he knew better.

There was a hollow under his ribs now, yawning wide and wide and wider still. And he didn’t know what to call it. Didn’t know how to fill it. Didn’t know how to want without shame, or need without fear, or reach without bracing for the fall.

He didn’t know how to need.

Not without feeling like he was broken.

Not without feeling like he was failing.

He’d spent so long holding himself together in pieces that he couldn’t tell which ones still fit.

His skin buzzed like static.

Too hot. Too tight.

Too full of something he couldn’t bleed off.

His hands shook when he tried to text back.

(He didn’t send anything.)

His stomach flipped when he thought about walking into the living room.

(He stayed frozen on the floor.)

His heart kicked against his ribs when he imagined reaching out and finding nothing there.

He pressed his forehead to the carpet and tried to breathe through it.

Slow. Shallow. Careful.

Like maybe if he moved gently enough, the ache would stay quiet.

Like maybe if he stayed small enough, no one would notice the collapse.

He stayed like that for a long time.

Breathing.
Not crying.
Not moving.
Just… there.

Eventually, his phone buzzed again. A new message. Someone checking in.

He didn’t look.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t want to be seen if it meant being misunderstood.

Because even now, even after everything, he was still doing the right things.

He showed up to practice.
He laughed when someone made a joke.
He remembered to compliment Jin’s vocals.
He nodded along when Jimin talked choreography.
He stayed in the room when they played back mixes and acted like his skin wasn’t crawling.

He did everything he was supposed to do.

And still—
Still, it wasn’t enough.

It worked for about two days.
Then it didn’t.

The pressure inside him started to build again. Quiet at first. Manageable.

Then sharper.
Hotter.
Like a tide coming in beneath his ribs—slow but relentless.

Nights stretched long and empty.
Sleep skimmed shallow across the surface of his thoughts.
Food turned strange in his mouth—too sweet, too dry, too much.

Even kindness scraped raw.

Every soft word from the others felt like a spotlight aimed at his fractures.
Every quiet moment felt like a test he was failing.

When Jin handed him a water bottle after practice, Jungkook flinched so hard it almost hit the floor.

When Jimin asked, with a hopeful grin, if he wanted to help make the next playlist, Jungkook mumbled something about deadlines—so fast, so garbled, it barely counted as a sentence.

When Taehyung left a sticky note on his door—Thinking of you. No pressure.—Jungkook crumpled it in one fist and shoved it into a drawer so hard the wood splintered.

He didn’t take it out again.

Didn’t look at it, even when he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He didn’t know why he was angry.

Not exactly.

Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was just afraid.
Because the second he let himself admit what he really needed—

Touch.
Grounding.
Structure.
Care.

—he didn’t know if he’d be able to go back to pretending he didn’t.

And that terrified him.

But it also pissed him off.

Because his body knew.

Even if he wouldn’t say it out loud.
Even if he clawed against the wanting with everything he had.
Even if he locked it up behind silence and sarcasm and late-night excuses.

His body still knew.

It tilted toward voices.
It leaned into warmth.
It buzzed when Namjoon’s tone dropped low during casual check-ins—even if the words weren’t meant for him.

It craved without permission.

And he hated it.

He hated the rawness of it.
Hated the weakness of it.
Hated that he couldn’t control it—couldn’t fix it—no matter how disciplined he was. No matter how many layers he wrapped around himself. No matter how many times he told himself he was fine.

He was so tired of pretending to be fine.

He was furious with himself for not being able to make it true.

One night, after everyone else had gone to bed, he stood in the hallway outside Namjoon’s door.

Just stood there.

Hand half-raised.
Fist trembling.
Breath snagged high in his chest like barbed wire.

Ten minutes passed.
Maybe more.
His heart slammed against his ribs with every second.

He didn’t knock.

Couldn’t.

Didn’t know what would break open if he did.

So he turned.

Went back to his room.

Collapsed onto his bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

And stared up at the ceiling until dawn burned at the edges of the curtains.

The next morning, Namjoon found Jungkook at the kitchen table.

Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

Head ducked.

Hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold.

He wasn’t drinking it. Just holding it.

Like maybe it would warm him by osmosis.

His stare didn’t move—not even when Namjoon walked in.

“You okay?” Namjoon asked, voice soft but direct.

Jungkook blinked slowly, like it took real effort. Like he had to pull himself back from somewhere far away.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Not exactly.

But it wasn’t the truth either.

It hadn’t been long.

Barely two weeks since the retest.

Since the results they hadn’t seen coming.

Since the word “submissive” took up residence in the back of all their minds—quiet, echoing, impossible to ignore.

Two weeks was nothing.

Two weeks was everything.

In that short span, Jungkook had started slipping.

Not gradually.

Not like someone easing downhill.

He was falling—fast and hard, unraveling at the seams.

At first, it showed in small ways.

A missed count in choreography.

A forgotten jacket.

A water bottle untouched after a brutal run-through.

A smile that twitched into place too late, too tight.

Then it got worse.

He moved like a shadow of himself—like his body had weight but no anchor.

He drifted during group conversations, laughter passing over him like static.

His shoulders curled tighter by the day, arms crossed even when no one else was cold.

His skin looked too pale under the fluorescents.

His breath ran short too fast.

And maybe he thought they hadn’t noticed.

But they had.

Jimin caught him zoning out during a shoot—eyes glassy, head tilting like he was listening to something no one else could hear.

Jin found him curled into a folding chair backstage, knees tucked, arms wrapped around himself so tight it looked painful.

Yoongi saw his untouched lunch trays—two days in a row. No excuse. Just... left there.

Taehyung saw the way Jungkook flinched from praise. As if kindness might break something open he couldn’t afford to feel.

And Namjoon—

Namjoon saw all of it.

Every crack.

Every missed connection.

Every slow, hollowed-out glance Jungkook thought he’d hidden..

At first, he gave space.

It felt like the right thing. The respectful thing.

Let Jungkook come to them, on his own time.

Let him adjust.

Let him figure out who he was now, without pressure, without expectation.

They’d known each other so long in one shape—equal footing, equal weight. Shifting that balance overnight felt... dangerous. Unfair. Even cruel.

They didn’t want to overwhelm him.

Didn’t want to crowd him with assumptions about what he needed.

And truthfully?

They were scared.

Scared of doing the wrong thing.

Scared of seeing something in Jungkook’s eyes they weren’t ready to name.

Scared of the reality of it and what it might mean for all of them.

So they convinced themselves that patience was kindness. That silence was trust. That backing off would give him room to breathe.

But room had turned to distance.

And distance had turned to absence.

And absence had turned to isolation.

And now—

Now they could see what that space had cost him.

Because Jungkook hadn’t filled that silence with healing.

He’d filled it with work. With detachment. With self-discipline so brutal it bordered on self-harm.

And they had let him.

They had watched, quietly, from the edges.

Waiting for a signal.

Waiting for him to break the ice.

But Jungkook didn’t know how to ask.

He never had.

So instead of stepping in, they waited.

Because it felt noble.

Because it felt safe.

But now Namjoon saw it for what it was.

Not just caution.

Not just respect.

Fear.

Avoidance.

A subtle kind of cowardice dressed up as dignity.

And maybe the worst part was—he understood why.

Because stepping in meant acknowledging what was happening.

It meant saying, out loud, that Jungkook was hurting. That he needed something only they could give.

It meant changing the entire shape of their dynamic—maybe forever.

But the shape was already changing.

It had been changing since the moment the test results came back.

They just hadn’t moved with it.

They’d stood still.

And Jungkook was drowning in the silence between them.

Now Jungkook’s body was screaming.

Now his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking.

Now his voice frayed at the ends like thread pulled too thin.

And Namjoon realized—

They didn’t have time.

They never had.

Whatever was breaking inside Jungkook—it wasn’t waiting for them to get their act together. It wasn’t interested in patience or protocol or respect. It was happening, whether they stepped in or not.

Namjoon stood at the counter, fists clenched tight against the edge. Jaw locked. Heart thudding too loud in his chest.

He couldn’t fix it alone.

None of them could.

Footsteps sounded at the door.

Jin entered first, tossing his keys into the bowl with practiced rhythm. His gaze slid briefly to the table—just enough to clock Jungkook’s blank stare—then shifted away. His posture was too careful.

Jimin and Yoongi filtered in behind him, still mid-argument about a dance transition. The kind of disagreement that normally ended in laughter. This one didn’t. Jimin’s voice was clipped. Yoongi didn’t meet his eyes.

Hoseok came in yawning, hoodie pulled over his head, rubbing at his face like he hadn’t slept at all. His eyes darted to Jungkook, then dropped. He said nothing.

Taehyung trailed in last, phone forgotten in his hand. His jaw was tight. Eyes dark.

Namjoon didn’t wait.

Didn’t try to ease into it.

Didn’t sugarcoat.

“Pack meeting,” he said, voice low but firm. “Tonight.”

The room froze.

No one asked why.

No one pretended not to understand.

Because they’d all been holding it in too. Each in their own way.

The tension.

The dread.

The awareness of something fragile unraveling in plain sight.

They felt it in the silences.

In the things Jungkook wasn’t saying.

In the things they hadn’t said either.

Jin straightened where he’d been leaning against the counter. His expression didn’t shift, but his fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve.

Jimin bit the inside of his cheek hard, jaw jumping. He looked at Namjoon, then at Jungkook, then away.

Yoongi’s face shuttered, the way it always did when he didn’t trust himself to speak.

Hoseok crossed his arms slowly, tucking his hands beneath his sleeves like a barrier. His shoulders hunched.

Taehyung set his phone down on the table without looking. His mouth pressed into a thin line.

Namjoon looked at each of them. Really looked.

And they looked back—something flickering behind their eyes that felt like agreement. Or guilt. Or fear.

No more stalling.

No more hoping Jungkook would ask for help he clearly didn’t believe he deserved.

No more waiting until the crash took him out completely.

“It’s time,” Namjoon said.

And this time, no one argued.

Chapter Text

The living room was too quiet.

No TV. No music.

Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of someone shifting their weight—six people arranged in a loose, uneven circle, not touching, not looking at each other, the tension between them louder than any sound could’ve been.

It wasn’t a dramatic tension.
Not sharp like anger.
Not loud like panic.

It was thick. Heavy.
Like humidity before a storm.
Like the breath you hold before you jump.

Namjoon stood near the front of the room, arms crossed, back straight, face carved from stillness.
He didn’t pace. He didn’t fidget.
He just stood, solid and silent, like the ground they all needed but hadn’t known how to ask for.

He let the quiet stretch.

Let the discomfort settle fully into their bodies.
Let the weight of it sink deep, until no one could pretend it wasn’t real.

Jungkook sat near the edge of the couch.
Too close to the door.
Too ready to bolt.

His hoodie sleeves were bunched around his elbows, the fabric twisted like he’d been pulling at it without realizing. His shoulders hunched low, and his body folded into itself in that careful way he had when he didn’t want to take up space. When he wanted to disappear without actually leaving.

Jin had positioned himself just to the left of center, not quite blocking the door but not quite out of the way either.
Yoongi sat next to him, spine too-straight, hands resting lightly on his knees like he was reminding himself not to reach for something that wasn’t his to take yet.

Hoseok lounged with more distance than usual, legs long in front of him but drawn in closer than his usual sprawl. His arms were crossed, fingers tucked tight under his sleeves. Jimin, beside him, wasn’t smiling. His mouth was pressed into a line, eyes fixed on the floor with an uncharacteristic stillness.

Taehyung had taken the armchair. Not his usual spot. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, phone nowhere in sight. His thumbs rubbed circles into his palms—soft, slow, grounding.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Finally, when it felt like the silence might split open the seams of the room, Namjoon began.

“This isn’t a punishment meeting.”

His voice was quiet.

But it landed like an anchor, settling the air with weight and certainty.

“This isn’t about blaming anyone. Or shaming anyone.”

He looked around the room.

Met every eye.

Not to challenge. Not to corner.
Just to connect.
To make sure every one of them knew—really knew—they weren’t alone in this.

“We’re here because silence isn’t helping anymore.”

A muscle ticked in Jimin’s jaw.
Hoseok’s foot bounced once, then stopped.

No one interrupted.
No one even shifted.

When Namjoon spoke like this—low, grounded, absolute—everyone listened.

“We’re all responsible," he said, voice even. Measured. Not cold, but clear. “We all missed things. We all thought space would be enough.”

He glanced toward Jungkook, brief and careful.

Not demanding. Not pressing.
Just seeing him.

“And it’s not.”

The words were simple.

But they knocked the breath out of Jungkook like a blow.

He felt his stomach twist.
Felt the heat rise in his chest, tight and frantic.
Felt the itch behind his eyes that warned him he couldn’t sit here one second longer.

He stood halfway without thinking, knees locking, hands bracing on his thighs.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly.
Flat. Mechanical.
Too fast.

The lie fell heavy in the space it landed, sour in his mouth, like bile.

Namjoon didn’t move.

Didn’t step in front of him.
Didn’t raise his voice.
Didn’t say no.

He just said, calm and quiet:

“Please sit.”

The rest of the pack didn’t speak either.
But they moved—not physically, not with words—but with presence.

Jin straightened slightly, hands open in his lap, watching him without judgment.
Yoongi’s fingers twitched against his knees, curled loosely like they wanted to catch something fragile.
Hoseok’s brows furrowed, his whole posture angled forward in subtle readiness.
Jimin’s eyes flicked up, soft and steady.
Taehyung didn’t look away. Not for a second. His gaze held Jungkook’s like a lifeline.

Jungkook froze.

He expected pressure.
Expected the room to close in around him.
Expected—something. Anything.

But all he got was space.

Not the lonely kind he’d been drowning in.
The intentional kind. The kind built by others. Held open like a door.

The silence didn’t trap him.
It waited.

Slowly—so slowly—he sat back down.

His arms crossed tight over his chest, like armor.
His gaze dropped to the floor.
He didn’t say a word.

Namjoon nodded once.

Not triumphant. Not victorious.
Just… grateful.

This wasn’t a battle.

This was a beginning.

“We’re not here to force anything,” Namjoon said.

“We’re here to listen. To stay.”

No one moved.

No one breathed deep.

The quiet felt thick. Not heavy like blame—just full. Like everything they’d swallowed was finally pressing up from beneath. Like it might spill.

For a long time, no one spoke.

Then Jimin blurted, “I didn’t know what the fuck to do.”

Too loud, too fast, like it had been waiting behind his teeth.

He winced. Ran a hand through his hair. Laughed, but it didn’t sound like him—sharp at the edges.

“I always thought I was good at reading people. Right? The emotional one. The adapter.” He glanced around, as if daring anyone to correct him. No one did.

“I can flip it. Dom, sub, doesn’t matter. I thought that meant I was flexible, that I could—” His mouth twisted. “God. That I could be what you needed. All of you. Especially you.”

He didn’t look at Jungkook, but everyone knew who he meant.

“But I couldn’t read you.” He was quieter now. “Not really. You were—polite. Distant. I kept waiting for something more obvious. A sign. A shift. Anything.”

He picked at the hem of his hoodie, pulling a thread until it curled. “And when it didn’t come, I just… decided you didn’t want more. That you wanted the space. That’s what neutrals do, right?”

There was bitterness there. Not at Jungkook—at himself.

“I didn’t mean to leave you out,” he said. “I just thought that was the safest thing. That backing off meant I wasn’t pressuring you.”

His voice cracked.

“I thought I was protecting you. I really did.”

Silence again. Then, softly:

“But maybe I was just protecting myself.”

Yoongi shifted forward. Not to take over—just to catch what Jimin had dropped.

“I felt it in my body,” he said, almost under his breath.

They turned to him.

“I didn’t know what it was, just—wrongness. Something off. You were always tired. Tight in your shoulders. I kept thinking, maybe he’s just adjusting. New dynamic, new roles.”

He looked down at his hands. They were open, palms up like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“But my instinct said otherwise. Said you were hurting.”

He flexed his fingers, slow and deliberate.

“And I didn’t act on it.”

Yoongi glanced up at Jungkook, eyes soft and steady. “I didn’t think I had the right to. That maybe I was making it about me.”

A pause.

“But being a dom, for me, isn’t about… power. It’s about holding. Carrying weight until you’re ready to carry it again.”

He exhaled through his nose. “And I didn’t do that for you.”

A beat.

Then: “Oh my god.” Hoseok’s voice sliced through like a cold draft.

He wasn’t angry. Not exactly. Just fed up. With them. With himself.

“You’re all sitting here talking like you missed a signal.”

He hugged his knees to his chest, eyes flat.

“It wasn’t subtle.”

Everyone went still.

Hoseok laughed once, short and humorless. “You looked like you were drowning, and we all acted like maybe you were just… deep thinking.”

He looked straight at Jungkook then—just for a second.

“I saw it. The way you’d disappear in plain sight. How small you made yourself every time we grounded.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face.

“I ignored it.”

Raw. Blunt. No apology wrapped around it.

“I joked. I talked too much. I kept it loud because you were so quiet, and I didn’t want to hear what that meant.”

Jimin flinched.

Hoseok didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

“I didn’t want to be right,” he muttered.

“Because if I was… we were all wrong.”

Jin was still. Too still. Like if he moved, something would break.

“I wanted it to be clear,” he said finally.

His voice was low, tense. Strained like piano wire.

“I wanted there to be a reason. Something measurable. Something I could explain.”

He exhaled. “Because if I couldn’t explain it, I couldn’t control it.”

No one said anything.

He ran a hand through his hair.

“I believed the science. I believed the numbers.”

He looked at Jungkook then, really looked.

“And I used those numbers to justify the fact that I was scared. I’m not a gentle dom. I never have been.”

He said it without shame.

“I like control. I like precision. I like knowing where I stand.”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t know where I stood with Jungkook. And instead of leaning in, I—.”

He clenched his jaw.

“I kept things professional. Safe. Rational. I told myself you needed space. That I was being respectful.”

He looked up—at Namjoon, at Yoongi, then finally at Jungkook.

“But really, I just didn’t want to touch something I didn’t understand.”

His mouth was a flat line.

“And that’s on me.”

The silence after that felt sharp.

Taehyung’s voice broke it like paper tearing.

“I should’ve said something.”

Everyone turned.

His voice was soft, but not weak. Just wrecked.

“I knew. I didn’t know-know, but—something.”

He looked straight at Jungkook.

“I saw you looking at us when we touched. When we grounded.”

He swallowed. His hands were trembling.

“And it hurt. Watching that.”

He blinked fast, as if trying to keep the tears from falling.

“But I was scared I’d be wrong. That if I said something, I’d—”

He shook his head. “I didn’t want to hurt you more.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“But silence was hurting you. And I let that happen.”

Nobody interrupted this time.

Because what was there to say?

They just sat in it. Together.

The ache.

The grief.

The not-enough-ness.

And in the center of it all—Jungkook. Silent. Still.

The only one who hadn’t said a word.

Jungkook hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t said a word.

He sat curled into the end of the couch, hoodie drawn tight, eyes lowered.

But he was still there.

The silence after the last voice faded wasn’t empty.

It pulsed.

It ached.

Every breath in the room felt like it belonged to someone else.

Every heartbeat a waiting drum.

They didn’t look at him all at once.

Didn’t corner him.

Just waited.

Quiet.

Open.

And it was that, more than any question, more than any apology, that undid him.

Jungkook stared at the floor.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Not from fear. Not even from nerves.

It was like his body was vibrating too fast to contain.

His breath stuttered in and out, not quite shallow, not quite deep—just wrong. Everything was wrong.

The air was too still. Their eyes too steady. The room too quiet.

He didn’t want to speak. Didn’t want to crack open whatever was sitting in his chest, waiting to spill.

But it was already rising. Thick in his throat. Acid behind his eyes.

And once it started—

He didn’t think he could stop.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said.

It came out flat. Too quiet.

Not furious. Not yet. Just exhausted.

“I didn’t want to be reclassified.”

His jaw locked.

He forced himself to breathe.

“I didn’t want to wake up and have everything—everything—feel different. Like my body doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

He laughed. Sharp and bitter, no humor in it.

It startled even him.

“You think this is some kind of revelation? Some divine clarity?”

His voice pitched up, cracked open.

“It feels like my skin doesn’t fit.”

Yoongi shifted like he might move toward him, but didn’t.

Jin's jaw was a line of tension.

None of them spoke.

They let him fall.

“I spent years convincing myself I was fine.”

His fists curled in his lap. Nails biting into his palms.

“Years building routines. Walls. Systems. You know. Neutrals love systems, right?”

That laugh again—uglier this time.

“I wasn’t coping. I was functioning. I was surviving. And you never saw the difference. And maybe that’s on me, but—”

He cut himself off. Swallowed hard. Then—

“Now it’s just noise. All the time. Want, and heat, and need—”

His voice broke around the word.

“I don’t know what to do with that.”

He looked up. Finally.

Eyes red, chest heaving.

“I hate that you’re rewriting everything.”

Silence crashed into the room like thunder.

“You talk about leaving me out. About how sorry you are. But you’re acting like what we had before—like I was the mistake.”

He looked at Taehyung. At Jimin. At Namjoon.

“You followed the rules,” he said, voice trembling. “You treated me like a neutral. Like I was supposed to be treated. And now you're acting like it was wrong. Like all those years weren’t real.”

He stood, too fast, body stiff with too much adrenaline.

“I was there. I chose to be there. I learned how to be there.”

He began to pace. Couldn’t stop.

“You think I didn’t do the research too?” he snapped, eyes sharp now, voice raw with something that could almost be mistaken for bitterness. “You think I didn’t read every article, every forum thread, every piece of academic writing on neutral dynamics and how to exist in a bonded pack without destabilizing it? You think I didn’t check and double-check the boundaries? What to say, what not to say, how to regulate presence and pressure, when to step in and when to fade out?”

His breath caught.

“I knew where I was allowed to fit. I made myself small in all the right places. Not because I was scared. Not because I didn’t want more. But because I respected what we had.”

He turned on them, arms tight across his chest like a shield.

“You kept me close without breaking structure. And I held that line with you. I was proud of that. I thought—” he broke off, jaw clenched. “I thought it meant something. That even if I wasn’t a sub, even if I wasn’t tied into your regulation cycles or touch protocols, I still mattered. I worked for that. I built trust, and rhythm, and care. And now you talk like I was just orbiting. Like I was a mistake.”

He sat back down hard, breath shaking. Then quieter, but still burning:

“I did it right. I did it right. And now I’m being punished for that.”

His whole body was coiled tight, trembling with the effort of holding everything in.

“And now you act like it’s something to apologize for.”

He stood. Too fast. The couch shoved back slightly behind his knees.

“I was there. I loved you. I worked beside you. I fought with you and laughed with you and held space for you, and you’re acting like it wasn’t real just because I changed.”

His voice rose—not quite a yell, but raw and hot and breaking.

“It was real. I know it was. I need it to be.”

He laughed again, bitter to the core.

“That was all I had. All I was sure of. And now I look at you and all I see is pity. And caution. And—God—like you’re handling me.”

No one interrupted.

They just let him unravel.

“I don’t want your guilt,” he said, more quietly now, but no less fierce.

“I want you to believe me when I say I chose to be there. With you. As I was. Even if I couldn’t name it.”

He bit down on his lower lip, hard, like it might hold something in.

“But now…”

He shook his head, hands opening uselessly at his sides.

“My body wants things I don’t understand. Everything’s too much. Every Dom voice, every touch—it turns me inside out. And I hate that it feels good.”

That broke something.

His face crumpled. His voice dropped into something small.

“I hate that it feels good.”

He sat again. Hard. Like his legs had stopped listening to him, too.

“I watched you all for years,” he whispered. “Subspace. Settling. Nesting. I saw it all and thought—that’s not for me. That’s for someone else. That’s soft. That’s known.”

His throat closed. He forced the words through anyway.

“I don’t know my threshold. I don’t know what I need. I don’t even know who I am when I’m soft. And now you look at me like I’m breakable, and it makes me want to disappear.”

A pause. The kind that swelled with every heartbeat.

“I don’t want to be fragile,” he said, and it came out like a confession. “I want to be steady. I want to be… known. The way I was.”

His hands curled slowly in his lap, not clenched. Just trying to hold something that kept slipping through.

“I don’t know how to let you hold me without losing the version of me I built.”

His voice hitched—quiet, but raw.

“I spent so long figuring out who I was. Not just surviving it, but shaping it. I did the research. I learned the dynamics. I learned what a neutral’s place in a pack should be—and I filled it. I was careful. I was consistent. I made sure I belonged.”

He looked up, expression tight with something that lived just under rage. “You all did that research too, didn’t you? You learned how to include someone like me. How to protect without overstepping. How to respect boundaries and leave room. You made space for me.”

He swallowed hard.

“And now that space is gone.”

He shook his head, more at himself than them.

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now. I don’t know what a submissive version of me looks like. I don’t know if he’s soft, or needy, or loud, or quiet—I don’t even know what he wants.” His voice thinned. “I don’t know if I’ll like him.”

A breath, sharp and wet.

“I don’t know if you’ll like him.”

His eyes were rimmed red, barely blinking. “And every time my body reacts before I say it can, every time I crave something I don’t understand—I feel like I’m disappearing. Like I’m watching someone else take over. And I know that’s what settling is supposed to feel like, but—”

He cut himself off. Bit the inside of his cheek hard. Then:

“I’m scared I won’t recognize the person I become.”

He sank back onto the couch like it was the only solid thing left.

“I’m scared he’s not someone you’d stay for.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty.

It was full of breath.

Of heat.

Of six people trying to figure out how to move toward someone who’d just laid every raw nerve bare.

He didn’t look at them.

Didn’t say another word.

Just curled tighter into himself like the words had taken everything out of him.

No one moved for a long time.

The room stayed still, like it was holding its breath.

Like even the walls knew something had shifted.

Then—

“That’s not fair,” Jin said, voice cutting through the air too quickly. Too sharp, too fast. He paused, visibly trying to reign in his frustration, but his words came out anyway—hot, edged with a rawness he hadn’t planned on.

“You can’t think we wouldn’t—”

He stopped himself before the words could go further, exhaling sharply through his nose, and then tried again, softer this time. “You’re still you, Kook. Nothing has to change. This doesn’t make you someone else.”

Jimin nodded, urgency in his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, hands pressing into his knees. “Yeah, okay, maybe we missed something, maybe we should’ve—” He caught himself before the apology could spiral, but the guilt was there, hanging thick in the room. “But you’ve always been part of this. That doesn’t go away. You’re not going away.” His voice wavered, the weight of his own uncertainty leaking through.

Taehyung’s voice came after, tight, unwilling to soften but not with malice. “I don’t care if you’re a sub,” he said. “That’s not what matters. That’s never what’s mattered.”

Jungkook’s lips pressed tight, his jaw tensing. It took him a moment, a long one, but when he spoke again, it was calm. Flat. Like he was holding something back—something sharper, darker.

“It kind of is,” he said, letting the weight of the words fall between them.

And there was silence. The kind of silence that wasn’t just the absence of sound—it was heavy. Thick.

Jungkook unfolded, just enough to look at them. His eyes flicked between each of them, but it wasn’t quite anger. It was something deeper. More weary.

“You don’t know how I’m feeling,” he said, steady but strained. “None of you know what this feels like. What it’s been feeling like.” His voice was low, but there was an edge of emotion buried underneath.

Yoongi opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again, lips pressing together. He wanted to argue, wanted to say something—but the words didn’t come.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, pushing the air from his chest like it had weight, like it hurt. “I was happy,” he said, voice raw, a crack slipping through. “I was. I loved you. I loved everything we had.”

A sharp breath, quiet but filled with something broken, tugged at the corners of his expression.

“But that doesn’t mean I was okay. I didn’t even know I wasn’t okay.” He looked away then, swallowing hard, his throat working as if the words were fighting their way out. “Not until my body stopped letting me ignore it.”

A harsh exhale through his nose punctuated the pause, like the air had gotten too thick for him to breathe properly.

“And now you’re telling me nothing has to change?” His eyes flicked back to them, sharp. Cutting. “Everything’s already changed. You just don’t want it to.”

Jimin flinched. The motion was slight, almost imperceptible, but it hit Jungkook with a weight all its own. Jin’s face shifted—his gaze dropped like he’d been struck, something crumbling in his expression.

Hoseok’s gaze was distant, weighed down with guilt. “I—I just keep thinking... if we had known, if we had seen it... Maybe we could have done something. I can’t believe we missed this. That we left you to carry all of this alone.”

Jungkook’s lips pressed into a thin line as he shook his head. His jaw clenched. “Why would you think that?” His voice was quiet but edged with disbelief. “Why would you think that I was ‘tested wrong’—I didn’t even think that. I didn’t need you to ‘fix’ me. I didn’t need you to see me as something broken.” His words came out in a rush, frustration creeping in like a slow burn. “I was okay. I was okay.”

The room was heavy with his gaze, pointed and sharp. Jungkook didn’t turn away, and neither did they. The space between them felt like it could suffocate.

“I mean... you know what I’m talking about, right? It’s not just about me.” He could feel the muscles in his neck tightening, trying to push the words out without giving too much of himself. He swallowed hard. “Our dynamics aren’t just something you put on a shelf and admire when you feel like it—it’s part of who we all are. It’s how we relate to each other. How we feel safe. How we breathe.” He let that sit for a moment. “It’s not just my thing. It’s the way the world works. And it’s not like you guys didn’t know this. You all have your dynamics too—what you need from each other, what you give. We all do.”

He stood taller now, but his arms were folded tightly over his chest, almost protective in the motion, as if he could shield himself from the weight of their eyes. But it wasn’t anger this time. It wasn’t the fury that had sparked before. This felt like something else. Something deeper.

“And if you’re pretending it doesn’t matter, then you’re pretending I don’t.”

The words landed like a punch. No one spoke, no one even moved at first. They just absorbed the weight of what he’d said, each of them feeling the deep ache in their chest at the suddenness of the truth.

It wasn’t angry silence.

It wasn’t filled with accusation, but something quieter, softer. Like the sound of a wound that had been opened.

Jimin swallowed, his throat working, trying to find his voice again. “Kook,” he said, softer this time, reaching out like he wanted to bridge the gap but wasn’t sure how to. “We know we fucked up. We do. We should’ve paid more attention. We should’ve realized—”

“We didn’t realize,” Jin interrupted, his voice tight, remorse thick in his words. “And that’s on us. But you’re still you. You’re not a different person now because of this. You’re not—” He glanced at the others, almost like asking them for reassurance, his voice starting to break. “You’re still ours, Kook. You always will be. We don’t want to change that.”

Jungkook’s lips pressed tighter. “But I’m not just yours, Jin,” he said, and it wasn’t harsh, but it held something fragile underneath. “I’m me. And if you’re not going to make room for that—” He stopped, not finishing the thought, because the next part of it hurt too much to say out loud.

Yoongi looked like he wanted to reach for him. To say something that would make it better, make it okay again. But he couldn’t.

Instead, he just stared at the ground, hands flexing, like he was struggling to hold back something too big to process. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or fear—maybe both. “We didn’t know. We should’ve. But we didn’t.”

Taehyung spoke next, his tone sharper than before, but the urgency was still there, like he was grasping for the right words. "That’s not it," he said, shaking his head. "It’s not about fixing it. It’s about hearing you, Kook. Really hearing you. For once."

Jungkook's eyes narrowed, and his mouth thinned into a hard line. He shook his head slowly, frustration pooling in his chest. "You weren’t listening because there was nothing to listen to." His voice had a bite to it now. "I didn’t even know something was wrong. I didn’t know what I was feeling, so how could you expect yourselves to figure it out?"

He shifted his weight, sitting up a little straighter but keeping his arms tightly folded across his chest. "I didn’t need anything from you. I didn’t even know what I needed. So how could you know what I needed?" His words tumbled out, slow but steady. "And now you’re telling me nothing changes? That nothing’s different?"

He stared at Taehyung, and the intensity of his gaze was almost painful. “How can nothing change when I changed? How can you sit there and tell me it’s all the same when I’m not the same anymore?”

The room hung in silence. The weight of his words settled between them, and this time, it wasn’t just guilt—they could feel the rawness, the frustration underneath. No one moved.

Namjoon, who had been quiet until now, shifted his position and leaned forward just slightly. His voice was steady, deep, grounding. “We can’t change the past,” he said, his tone calm but unwavering. "We can't erase what happened. But we can choose how we move forward. What we do now, together... that’s what matters."

The others fell silent, each of them holding their breath, letting the weight of Namjoon’s words sink in.

Jungkook didn’t reply immediately. His eyes flicked to the ground, then back up to the group. There was no softness in his expression, but something about Namjoon's calm presence cut through the tension. He felt the muscles in his shoulders loosen, just a fraction.

Taehyung’s face softened, and he looked like he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he just nodded, accepting Namjoon’s grounding words.

For a long moment, no one moved. The room felt smaller in a way that was almost comforting, like they were all just... here. Not trying to fix anything, but to be together in this.

Then:

Jimin moved first. Quietly. No sudden gestures. No noise.

Just a slow shift until he was seated cross-legged at Jungkook’s feet, close enough to reach, but not touching.

Not yet.

“I don’t regret loving you as a neutral,” he said softly.

There was a catch in his voice, like it cost something to be that honest.

“I just regret we didn’t know there was more to love.”

Jungkook didn’t move, but something in his shoulders stilled.

Yoongi followed. He didn’t say anything at first. Just folded himself onto the floor beside Jimin, one long leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. His body relaxed into the room like a sigh.

He didn’t reach for Jungkook either. But the way he angled his shoulders—just slightly, instinctively—offered a line of gravity.

Something steady. Something low.

Like a shoreline, waiting.

“I didn’t want to assume you needed anything,” he said after a beat. His voice was low. Heavy.

“But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have offered.”

Jin didn’t sit. He stood a few feet behind the couch, hands tight at his sides like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be close. His voice was thinner than usual, a little frayed at the edges.

“I wish I had noticed sooner,” he said. “Not because it makes you more or less. Just…”

He shook his head, eyes falling to the floor.

“I would’ve done things differently. I want to. If you’ll let us.”

Hoseok moved without a word, easing down onto the other end of the couch like he’d been there all along. He pulled his knees up and tucked them close, wrist draped over one shin. His eyes flicked toward Jungkook, then away again—not avoiding, just soft.

He let the silence stretch. Let it say something.

“You were always you,” he said eventually. “Every version of you.”

He blinked, slow and sure.

“Still are.”

And then—

Taehyung.

He didn’t sit. He knelt.

Directly in front of Jungkook.

Close enough that if Jungkook opened his eyes, if he looked—he’d see nothing but warmth.

“I don’t think any of us knew what you were carrying,” Taehyung said, voice barely more than breath. “But we saw you carrying it.”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“And we watched you do it alone.”

He reached out, slow, careful, until his fingertips hovered over Jungkook’s wrist.

Not quite touching. Just offering.

“You don’t have to let go,” he murmured. “Just… let us help you carry it.”

Jungkook’s voice was quieter now, less edged with frustration, but still carrying the weight of his feelings. "I’m not asking you to fix everything," he said, his tone almost tired. "I just... need to know that we’re not pretending. That we’re not gonna just act like it’s fine when it’s not."

Jin let out a slow breath, leaning back into the couch. "It won’t be fine. Not like before," he said softly. "We can’t undo what we missed. But we can make sure it doesn’t happen again. We can change how we approach this, how we approach you."

Jimin nodded in agreement, his voice quieter now, more gentle. "We’re not perfect. We never will be. But we can try harder. For you. For us."

Hoseok, who had been still, eyes fixed on Jungkook, looked away briefly, almost as if embarrassed by the weight of what had been said. "I still don’t know how I missed it," he said quietly, his voice holding that lingering guilt. "I should have seen it. But I didn’t. I’m sorry."

Jungkook looked at him, and for a moment, he just... stared. It was a long, silent beat before he spoke again. "You couldn’t have known," he said softly, his voice less sharp now. "I didn’t know." He let out a breath, his shoulders dropping slightly. "But it doesn’t change the fact that everything’s different now."

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy with frustration—it was just... still.

Namjoon gave Jungkook a small nod, a silent understanding. "And we’ll figure out how to move forward, together. No pretending. No expectations. Just... us, trying."

It would’ve been easy to stay still.

Easier to keep the space between them, to say nothing, to let the moment pass like all the others.

But Jungkook moved.

Not much. Just a tilt. A lean.

A fraction of surrender toward Taehyung’s hand waiting for him.

Taehyung didn’t hesitate.

His fingers came to rest lightly against Jungkook’s wrist, skin to skin. A ghost of pressure.

Jungkook didn’t flinch.

He didn’t lean further, didn’t collapse or curl forward. But his breath wavered.

And that was all it took.

Namjoon crossed the room, silent as always, and sat behind the couch, spine straight, legs folded.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t reach.

Just made space with his presence.

Solid. Constant.

Big enough to hold all of them.

Jin turned and dimmed the lights.

Not to hide.

Just to soften the world.

They didn’t press in. Didn’t smother.

No one asked for anything.

No answers. No labels. No apologies.

But one by one, they re-formed around him.

Jimin’s knee bumped lightly against Jungkook’s shin.

Yoongi leaned just close enough that Jungkook could feel his warmth at his side.

Hoseok’s foot stretched until it touched his ankle—barely there. A grounding point.

Jin passed a warm mug into Taehyung’s free hand, who held it for a moment, then offered it to Jungkook without a word.

And Taehyung’s hand stayed where it was, thumb tracing small, unconscious circles into the fragile skin of his inner wrist.

No one told him to breathe.

But slowly, he did.

Slower each time.

They didn’t fill the space he’d made—they joined him in it.

It wasn’t a full shift.

It wasn’t a bond.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

But it was presence.

And this time, he wasn’t the only one holding it together.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, the tension in the room began to shift, slowly but surely. The weight of their words lingered in the air, but it was quieter now. The space felt less charged, less suffocating.

Hoseok broke the silence first, shifting in his seat and letting out a soft sigh. "So, does this mean we can finally stop pretending to know what we're doing?" he asked, his voice dry, but with a hint of humor hiding underneath.

Jimin snorted. "I don't think any of us ever knew what we were doing, Hobi." He looked over at Jungkook, his smile a little more genuine now, though still tinged with a bit of exhaustion. "I mean, come on, we’ve been winging it this whole time. Just... with a lot more noise and bad decisions."

Taehyung rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. "You’re not wrong." He turned to Jungkook, his tone softer, almost sheepish. "But, seriously... we really don’t know what we’re doing. So, like... help us out, yeah? Let us screw it up in the least embarrassing way possible?"

There was a quiet beat before Jungkook finally cracked. He leaned back into the couch, the tension in his posture easing just a little. "I’m not giving you any more free passes, you know," he said, a faint smile on his face, but his voice was still dry. "You’re on your own now."

"Hey, we’ve earned this, right?" Jimin chimed in with a grin. "We’ve been through the wringer. We deserve a couple more mistakes."

"Isn’t that the definition of being a group?" Taehyung laughed, leaning back as he stretched his arms over his head. "Fucking up, then pretending it wasn’t that bad."

"That's all we know how to do," Hoseok said, his voice half-amused, half-tired. "But I think we’ll get it right eventually."

There was a quiet pause, and then Namjoon leaned forward slightly, his voice warm but grounded. "We’re still figuring it out. But, like they said, we're doing it together." His tone was steady, but there was a flicker of something gentler behind his words, something softer than usual.

"Yeah," Jungkook muttered, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "We’re definitely figuring it out."

The room settled into a companionable silence, the kind of quiet that only came after a deep conversation. It wasn’t perfect, not by any means. But they were still here. And for now, that was enough.

Hoseok broke the stillness, his voice light. "Alright, but seriously, next time we have one of these heart-to-heart things, can we just... order pizza and watch bad movies afterward? No more emotional minefields."

"Agreed," Jimin added immediately, rubbing his stomach. "I'm in."

Taehyung grinned. "If there’s one thing we can do right, it’s eat pizza. And make sure it’s the greasy kind."

Jungkook let out a breath of laughter, the sound catching in his throat. "Fine, I’ll settle for greasy pizza. But I’m still making you all pay for it."

"Deal," Hoseok said with a mock salute.

Namjoon smiled softly, shaking his head as the others bickered lightly about pizza toppings, the noise of their voices filling the space again, this time with a sense of ease.

And as the laughter carried on, Jungkook let himself sink into the couch, feeling the weight of the moment lift just a little. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t everything. But they were trying. And that was enough for now.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “We’ll figure it out.”

And somehow, he believed it.

Chapter Text

Morning came slowly.

Not with bright lights or alarms.

Just the lazy stretch of dawn seeping through half-closed curtains, warming the edges of the living room where they’d all fallen asleep in a tangle of bodies.

Jungkook woke to warmth.

Weight.

Breath.

A slow, steady pulse of life around him.

Jimin was sprawled across the floor, one arm flung dramatically over Hoseok’s stomach. Yoongi had folded himself onto the couch nearby, head tipped back, mouth slightly open.

Taehyung was curled into the corner, hoodie pulled tight, one hand still loosely draped over Jungkook’s ankle like an afterthought. Jin had somehow tucked himself into a chair, legs dangling off the side, snoring softly.

Namjoon, of course, was already awake, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, scrolling slowly through his phone, face relaxed in the soft morning light.

Jungkook blinked.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, he didn’t feel the urge to get up and run.

He didn’t move much.

Just shifted enough to curl a little deeper into the nest of bodies and blankets.

Just enough to let the reality sink in:

He wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

Namjoon noticed the movement first.

He didn’t say anything.

Just set his phone aside and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, like he was acknowledging something important without making a big deal of it.

One by one, the others stirred.

Grumbles. Stretching limbs. The soft chaos of a pack waking up without alarms or demands.

Jimin yawned so wide it cracked his jaw.

Hoseok mumbled something about coffee and immediately rolled onto his side.

Yoongi blinked blearily at the ceiling, then gave a tiny, drowsy smile when he saw Jungkook awake.

Jin rubbed his face aggressively and grumbled about how he was too old for sleeping on chairs.

Taehyung squeezed Jungkook’s ankle gently before pulling his hand back, giving him space.

No one rushed.

No one demanded.

They just... were.

Existing together.

Easy.

"Coffee?" Yoongi offered eventually, voice rough with sleep.

Jungkook nodded.

Jin grumbled about real food and staggered toward the kitchen to investigate.

Jimin flopped onto the floor dramatically and demanded someone bring him toast.

Hoseok seconded the toast demand without opening his eyes.

Taehyung wandered toward the kitchen with a half-awake "I'll help."

And through it all—

Jungkook just sat there.

Wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like Jimin’s shampoo and Taehyung’s laundry detergent.

Breathing.

Existing.

Belonging.

When Namjoon returned with two mugs, one pressed carefully into Jungkook’s hands, he didn’t say anything.

Just offered a small, warm smile.

It said more than words.

You’re here. You’re safe. You’re wanted.

They ate in pieces.

Toast, eggs, coffee passed around like currency.

Lazy conversation about nothing, new music, old dramas, terrible fan gifts, a bet on who would fall asleep first at dance practice tomorrow.

And Jungkook realized something, sitting there, blinking against the soft weight in his chest:

They weren’t pretending he was fragile.

They weren’t treating him like glass.

They were treating him like themselves.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t all fixed.

And it was enough for now.

Later, after plates had been abandoned in the sink and Jimin had threatened to sue Hoseok for snoring too loud, Namjoon gathered them back into the living room.

Not serious.

Not heavy.

Just... intentional.

"I was thinking," Namjoon said, voice slow and careful.

"Maybe we could do a little... information session."

He smiled, faint and a little awkward.

"A ‘Sub 101, ’ if you want to call it that."

Jungkook blinked.

"You want to teach me how to be a sub?"

Jimin snorted into his coffee.

"No, no. You’re already a sub. We just want to help you understand your dynamic better."

Taehyung nodded from where he was curled on the floor. "Not because you have to change anything," he said. "Just because you deserve to know."

Jungkook hesitated.

The old instinct to pull away flickered at the edge of his mind.

But when he looked around—

At Jimin’s bright grin.

At Hoseok’s lazy wave of support.

At Yoongi’s warm, steady presence.

At Jin’s sharp, determined focus.

At Namjoon’s quiet anchor.

At Taehyung’s gentle, unwavering eyes.

He nodded.

Small.

But real.

"Okay," he said.

"Yeah. I want to learn."

They didn’t do it formally.

No whiteboards.

No lectures.

Just all of them, curled around the living room with snacks and drinks, sprawled over couches and floor cushions like a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Taehyung sat cross-legged at the center, looking more like he was about to tell a bedtime story than lead a serious conversation.

Jungkook tucked himself between Yoongi and Jimin, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like armor he didn’t want to take off yet.

"Okay," Taehyung said, clapping his hands once, "welcome to Sub 101."

Jimin immediately whooped like they were at a concert.

Hoseok threw a pillow at him without looking.

Jin rolled his eyes.

Yoongi just laughed under his breath and elbowed Jimin lightly.

Taehyung grinned.

"But seriously," he said, tone softening, "we thought it might help to go over some basics. No pressure. No tests. Just information."

He caught Jungkook’s eye and added, quieter.

"And if you want to tap out at any point, you can."

Jungkook nodded, heart thudding.

Not fear.

Not dread.

Just... nerves.

The good kind.

The kind that meant he was stepping into something important.

"First thing," Taehyung said, "subspace."

He let the word hang there for a minute.

No rush.

No weight.

Just... offering it up like a soft thing.

"There’s different kinds," Taehyung explained. "It’s not just one thing."

He ticked them off on his fingers.

"Light subspace, floaty, dreamy, safe but still aware."

"Deep subspace, really floaty, really soft, might need help coming back up."

"Full submersion, that’s heavy, usually needs a Dom to monitor carefully."

Jungkook blinked.

"Wait. There's levels?"

Jimin snickered.

"Bro, it’s like getting drunk. There’s tipsy, there’s drunk, and then there’s ‘I’m texting my ex at 3 AM’ drunk."

Hoseok cackled.

"What the hell kind of analogy—"

"It’s accurate!"

Jimin defended, hands flailing.

"Light subspace is like tipsy, happy, relaxed, still functioning. Deep subspace is drunk, mushy, emotional, maybe slurring a little. And full submersion is blackout, no memories, no decision-making skills, needs safekeeping."

Namjoon shook his head, fond but resigned.

"You’re banned from metaphors."

Jungkook laughed before he could stop himself.

It bubbled up, surprising and real.

Jimin grinned like he’d won a prize.

"Anyway," Taehyung said, amused but steering them back, "you’re probably going to hover between light and deep subspace most of the time."

He tilted his head.

"And that’s normal."

Jin leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Settling is the key," he added. "Subs usually need to dip into subspace regularly. Like... a pressure valve."

"Some people need it daily," Yoongi said. "Some weekly. Some monthly. Depends on the person, their dynamic, their lifestyle."

Jungkook chewed his lip.

"How do you know how often you need it?"

"You don’t," Taehyung said simply.
"Not at first."

Hoseok flopped dramatically onto the couch.

"You find out the hard way," he said, muffled into a pillow.

Jimin threw another pillow at him.

Jin smiled slightly.

"You learn your rhythms over time. Your body tells you."

He pointed at Jungkook, gentle.

"And now, you’re finally listening to yours."

Jungkook nodded slowly.

It wasn’t overwhelming.

It wasn’t scary.

It was... possible.

"Other things to know," Taehyung said, ticking more points off:

“Subdrop is real. It happens after intense emotional or physical scenes. Partial drops can happen if you're interrupted mid-subspace and forced to function.”

"That’s what happened to you, right?" Jungkook said quietly, looking at Taehyung.

Taehyung nodded once.

"And to you too," Jungkook said, glancing at Hoseok and Jimin.

They both nodded too.

"But you don’t have to be scared of it," Jimin added, softer now.

"We're gonna teach you how to recognize it. Way before it gets bad."

"And you won’t be managing it alone anymore," Yoongi said.

Firm.

Steady.

Promise.

They went over signals next:

• Fuzzy thinking.
• Shaky hands.
• Over-sensitivity to touch or sound.
• Feeling "too good" or "too empty" suddenly.
• Difficulty speaking.

"Your body will talk to you," Taehyung said.
"And now... you get to listen."

Jungkook’s chest ached.

Not in a bad way.

In a relieved way.

"Any questions?" Namjoon asked after a long beat.

Jungkook thought about it.

He really thought.

And then, finally:

"How do you know when it’s safe to let go?"

The room went quiet again. Not heavy. Just full of thought.

"You don’t always know," Taehyung said, voice soft. "But that’s what trust is for."

Yoongi leaned over and bumped his shoulder against Jungkook’s. "Let us be your net. Hoseok flopped closer until their legs touched. "Let us catch you." Jimin tossed an arm lazily over the back of the couch. "Let yourself fall." And Jin, sharp, careful Jin, nodded once. "You’re not as alone as you think you are."

Jungkook didn’t cry. Didn’t collapse. Didn’t fall apart. He just sat there. Breathing. Existing. Learning. They let him breathe after. No one crowded him. No one demanded more.

The lesson ended the way it started: soft and open, sprawling into lazy conversation about movies they wanted to watch and snacks they needed to restock. Normal. Safe.

Jungkook didn’t speak much. He sat wrapped in his blanket, legs curled up underneath him, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea. Listening. Thinking.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have questions. It was that the questions were too big to hold all at once. They pressed against the inside of his chest, crowding his ribs: What do I do when my body needs something I don’t know how to ask for? What happens if I fail? What if this changes everything? What if it’s already too late?

He caught himself glancing at Taehyung. At the way he sat so easily, body loose and grounded in his space. At the way he laughed when Jimin teased him and didn’t flinch from the affection. At the way he trusted.

Could he have that? Could he feel that safe? Could he want? Could he need? Without breaking everything he'd worked so hard to build? He turned the mug in his hands slowly. The ceramic was warm, solid.

"You okay?" Yoongi asked softly from beside him. No pressure. No demand. Just offer.

Jungkook nodded. Then hesitated. Then shook his head. Then shrugged helplessly.

Yoongi just smiled. Didn’t make him explain. Didn’t press for words he didn’t have yet.

That was the thing. No one was asking him to perform. No one was asking him to fit neatly into the box labeled "submissive" overnight. They were just being here.

Namjoon caught his eye from across the room. Nodded once. Slow. Steady. We’re not going anywhere. And for the first time, Jungkook believed him.

Jimin broke the quiet with a stretch and a groan.
"Okay, emotional learning hour over," he said, flopping dramatically onto the arm of the couch. "Time for snacks and existential choices."

Hoseok raised an eyebrow without lifting his head.
"That’s ominous."

"Actually," Namjoon said, glancing at the others. "Before we move on..."
He hesitated, like the words were heavy. "There's something we wanted to say."

The rest of the pack stilled.

Jin cleared his throat. "We don’t expect an answer right now. Or at all, if you don’t want to give one. But—"

"But we were wrong before," Yoongi said gently. "When we didn’t give you a choice. When we kept you close but didn’t let you in."

"So," Taehyung said, soft and steady. "We want to offer you one now."

Jimin waved a hand vaguely in the air. "Like a ‘get out while you still can’ thing."

"Dude," Hoseok sighed. "Maybe don’t phrase it like that."

Jungkook blinked. Looked at each of them, all suddenly watching him like he might bolt. Like they were braced for the answer.

Then he snorted.

Actually snorted.

"You’re kidding, right?"

Jimin perked up. "Uh oh. Is that a good snort or a bad snort?"

"A you’re all dumbasses snort," Jungkook said, not unkindly. He shook his head, almost laughing. "You hold me through the worst night of my life, give me tea, teach me about subspace like it’s a normal Tuesday, and now you’re asking if I want out?"

There was a beat of silence.

And then Jimin whooped. "Sorry, you’re stuck with us!"

"Yeah," Jungkook muttered, smiling into his mug. "I figured that part out already."

Taehyung grinned, relief bright in his face.
"Just wanted to be sure you knew you had a say."

"I do," Jungkook said. And it surprised him, how much he meant it.

Later, after most of the snacks were gone and Jin was threatening to unplug Hoseok’s phone charger "by accident," Namjoon spoke again. Soft. Careful.

"No pressure," he said. "But if you want... we can help you try settling tonight." Jungkook blinked. "Settling?"

Taehyung smiled. "Gently dropping into deep subspace." Jungkook’s stomach flipped. Not in fear. Not exactly. More like standing at the edge of something beautiful and being too scared to step forward.

"You don't have to," Jimin said quickly, seeing the hesitation. "You never have to," Hoseok echoed, flopping over onto his side. "But," Yoongi said, voice low and warm, "if you want to feel what it’s like... we’re here."

Jungkook set the mug down slowly. Fingers trembling just a little. He thought about all the years he spent shutting down every soft thing inside himself. All the moments he felt the pull toward something he couldn't name, and shoved it down harder. All the loneliness he told himself was normal. All the aches he thought he deserved.

He thought about Taehyung’s hand steady on his wrist. Jimin’s laughter wrapping around the room like a net. Yoongi’s steady presence beside him. Hoseok’s teasing nudging at the walls of his fear. Jin’s sharpness cutting through confusion with care. Namjoon’s silence offering space without expectations. Maybe, just maybe, He didn’t have to do it alone anymore.

Jungkook swallowed hard. Felt the weight of the blanket around his shoulders. Felt the hope burning under his ribs like a second heartbeat. "Okay," he whispered. And the whole room seemed to breathe out at once. No celebration. No fanfare. Just acceptance. Steady. Sure.

Yoongi leaned closer. "We’ll go slow." Jin stood, stretching. "I’ll grab extra pillows and blankets." Jimin immediately started rearranging the living room into a soft, chaotic nest. Hoseok threw himself into the pile with a lazy "I’m ready whenever." Taehyung just sat closer, anchoring the space. And Namjoon, Namjoon watched him like a steady tide. Patient. Inviting.

Jungkook pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Closed his eyes for a moment. Breathed. Maybe, just maybe, He could fall.

They didn’t make a big deal out of it. No commands. No formalities. Just... movement. Soft. Natural.

Jin dragged every spare blanket and pillow into a ridiculous pile in the center of the living room. Jimin immediately destroyed the neatness, sprawling with zero dignity. Hoseok layered himself lazily over the mess. Yoongi sat nearby, cross-legged, a steady center of gravity. Taehyung and Namjoon bracketed the space, calm and waiting. Jungkook stood at the edge, frozen.

"You’re good," Jimin said, reaching out casually. "You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be." Something in those words, small, easy, true, loosened something under Jungkook’s ribs. He shuffled forward. Blanket trailing. Heart hammering.

Jimin tugged the edge of his blanket playfully and pulled him down into the nest. He landed squarely between Jimin and Yoongi, Hoseok’s sleepy weight slumping against his legs. Laughter stirred the air. Soft. Gentle. Real. "You’re doing so good, Kookie," Yoongi said quietly, ruffling his hair once before pulling back.

The praise landed like a warm hand across his spine. Made his chest ache. Made him want.

"Ready to try?" Namjoon asked from above him, voice even and steady. No rush. No force. Just space. Jungkook nodded. Small. But real.

"Alright," Taehyung said, shifting closer. "We’re going to guide you down. You don’t have to do anything but listen." Yoongi’s hand settled on his back, steady, grounding. Jimin’s arm slung casually across his shoulders. Taehyung’s hand brushed his ankle, just a touch, just enough. "Breathe, Kookie," Taehyung said softly. "That’s all you have to do. Just breathe."

Jungkook sucked in a shaky breath. Held it too long. Namjoon’s voice cut in, warm and grounding: "You’re doing so well already."

Another breath. Easier this time. His body shifted closer without conscious thought. "You’re safe here," Hoseok mumbled sleepily against his thigh. "You’re safe with us." The words, safe, good, wanted, wrapped around him. Warm. Heavy.

"Nothing to fix," Yoongi said, voice a low hum. "Nothing wrong with you." "You’re perfect exactly how you are," Jimin whispered against his temple.

The tightness in his chest eased. The shaking in his hands stilled. Yoongi rubbed slow circles into his back. Jin murmured something about being proud of him, how hard he’d worked just to get here, how much strength it took to stay.

Every word felt like a hand at his back. Every breath another brick out of the walls he’d spent years building. "You can let go, Kookie," Namjoon said, voice low and sure. "We’ve got you." And finally, Finally, Jungkook believed it.

He let his head tip forward. Let his body sag sideways. Jimin caught him easily, tucking him against his side. Yoongi shifted to cradle his other side, hand firm against his spine. Hoseok pressed closer without a word. Taehyung kept his grounding touch, steady and real. Jin brushed a hand over his hair. And Namjoon, Namjoon stayed exactly where he was. The anchor at the center of the storm.

The world blurred. Edges softened. Breath evened out. Jungkook floated. Not alone. Not drowning. Held. Every whisper of praise wrapped around him:You’re safe. You’re doing so well. You’re ours. You’re good.

Touch became comfort, not demand. Breath became rhythm, not task. Weight became safety, not burden. He drifted, Light. Soft. Real.

The first real taste of what it meant to be held as a submissive. Not because he was weak. Not because he was broken. But because he was worthy. Exactly as he was.

When he finally blinked back to the world, body loose and light and buzzing with quiet joy, They were still there. No one pulled away. No one rushed. "You did so good, Kookie," Taehyung whispered. Jimin hummed a soft sound of pride. Yoongi squeezed his side gently.

And for the first time he could remember, Jungkook smiled. Soft. Unforced. Real. Home, he thought. This time, it wasn’t just a wish. It was true.

Chapter Text

The apartment had settled into something gentler.

Not quiet like tension—just the hush that came when no one needed to perform. The hush of a long-awaited exhale. After days of split schedules, filming of programs and nights ended far too late, the pack finally had a full day off. No interviews. No soundchecks. No cameras. Just time.

Jin had gone a little overboard with breakfast. Toast, fruit, rice, soup. Half of it sat untouched, but the act of cooking seemed to steady him. Jimin, draped upside-down over the couch in a hoodie far too big, flicked through videos with the sound off. Namjoon stood near the window, watching the sky like it might tell him something. Hoseok hadn’t moved in an hour. Taehyung was still in slippers.

No one said much. They didn’t need to.

But the calm held edges, if you looked close enough. Yoongi had brewed something that technically wasn’t tea. Jin’s mouth was a little too tight.It wasn’t bad. Not like before. Just... something unspoken. Still lingering.

Jin was the first to break it, voice low like he’d been rehearsing it overnight.

“I think we should talk to someone,” he said, not looking up.

Yoongi glanced over from the kettle. “Like a doctor?”

Jin nodded once. “A dynamic specialist. Third-party. Discreet.”

Hoseok raised a brow. “You think something’s wrong?”

“I think,” Jin said carefully, “that one good scene doesn’t undo months of suppression. Or years of misclassification. Just because he’s smiling more doesn’t mean his body hasn’t been affected.”

Jimin hummed under his breath. “He's doing better, though.”

“Yeah,” Jin said. “But better isn’t the same as healed.”

Taehyung didn’t speak, but his hand moved slowly toward Jungkook, fingers resting just near his wrist, not touching. Not yet.

And Jungkook, wrapped in a blanket on the floor, didn’t lift his head.

But he nodded.

Small. Barely there.

But enough.

Jungkook sat on the floor, cross-legged and stiff, trying not to read into the way his shoulders had locked up again overnight. His chest was tight, but not panicked. Not like it used to be. This was quieter than fear. Just nerves. Cold, low-bellied nerves that didn’t burn so much as simmer. He stared at his socks and thought about leaving them all for the appointment. Then I thought about how ridiculous that was. Then didn’t change them anyway.

Taehyung was the first to speak. He didn’t clear his throat. Didn’t shift. Just said, softly, from where he sat on the edge of the coffee table, “I’ll go with you.” The words landed gentle, but direct. Like he’d been holding them all morning. Jungkook didn’t look up at first. His stomach dropped a little at the idea of not being alone in the doctors office, and he didn’t know what to do with that. “You don’t have to," he said quietly. Taehyung smiled, the kind he only used when he was serious. “I know," he said. “But you shouldn’t have to face this alone.” And that was that.

Yoongi looked up from the stove where he was stirring something he hadn’t offered anyone else yet. “I’ll come too," he said, voice as even as it always was when he was protecting something important. “You’ll need someone grounded. And I can hold them off if anything goes sideways.” Jungkook blinked at him.

“You think someone’s going to come at me in the waiting room?” Yoongi just raised a brow. “I’ve seen Dynamic clinics," he said. “The waiting rooms aren’t always peaceful.”

Namjoon turned from the window then, coffee still in hand, expression unreadable. “I’ll stay," he said. “If Hybe calls or drops by, someone has to be here. You three go.” It wasn’t a command. Just a steady acceptance of the way things had to work.

Namjoon didn’t have to say he’d rather go. Didn’t have to say he hated letting Jungkook face anything without him. He just passed that weight quietly into the air, trusting the others to carry it for now.

They didn’t make a big deal of leaving. Jimin handed Jungkook a protein bar with a wink and a “don’t die," and Hoseok flicked his phone flashlight on and off dramatically in their faces as they tied their shoes. Jin passed Taehyung a spare mask, told Yoongi to keep his hat low, and made Jungkook promise he’d text when they arrived. No one said “good luck.” No one said “be brave.” They didn’t need to.

The car ride was quiet. Not awkward. Just still. The city passed by in slow blurs of concrete and morning fog, windows fogged slightly from the chill that hadn’t burned off yet. Jungkook pressed his hand against the glass once, just to feel something solid. Taehyung sat beside him, scrolling slowly through his phone but not looking at it. Yoongi in the front, hat pulled low, one earbud in but not playing music. Every once in a while, he glanced into the rearview mirror, not to check traffic, but to check on them. No one said a word until they pulled into the narrow alley that led to the clinic’s private entrance. The building was tucked into a quieter part of the city, nestled between a boutique vet clinic and a coworking space with early risers already at their desks. From the street, it looked like nothing. Just another door, another brass nameplate, another buzzer to press. Inside, it was different.

The moment they stepped through the second set of doors, thick, soundproofed, locked behind a secure reader, the air changed. It was warm. Not hospital warm. Home warm. The lights were low and golden, not fluorescent. The furniture was plush and rounded, no sharp angles, no sterile steel. Everything about the space felt intentional, designed to unhook the body before it even reached a consultation room. The receptionist looked up with a kind smile and didn’t blink when Jungkook handed over his name on a card that didn’t match his public record. “We’ve got you in Room Three," she said gently. “Dr. Ryu will be in shortly. There’s tea inside if you’d like.”

Taehyung murmured a thank you and touched the small of Jungkook’s back, not pressing, just guiding. Yoongi stayed close, alert without being tense. Room Three was just as warm as the lobby. Dimly lit, with soft beige walls and chairs that looked more like nest couches than anything clinical. No exam table. No machines out in the open. Just subtle sensors tucked into corners and framed art that didn’t feel like it was trying too hard to be calming. Jungkook sat down slowly. His hands were cold, even though the room wasn’t. Taehyung sat beside him without speaking. Yoongi took the seat closest to the door.

“I feel like I’m about to get graded," Jungkook muttered, more to the space than to them. “Like someone’s going to tell me I’ve been doing this wrong for so long that my body filed a complaint.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong," Taehyung said quietly, and it wasn’t a correction, it was a truth, laid gently over the nerves still pulsing in Jungkook’s spine. “You’ve just never been given the right tools.”

They didn’t wait long. The door opened five minutes later, and Dr. Ryu stepped in, a tall, softly spoken man with dark glasses, no clipboard, and the kind of presence that didn’t overwhelm the room but settled it. “Jeon Jungkook-ssi," he said warmly. “Thank you for coming in today.” He nodded to Taehyung and Yoongi without questioning their presence. “Let’s just talk for a bit. No rush. No pressure. We’ll go at your pace.”

It was the first time in years someone outside the group had looked at Jungkook and spoken to him, not about him. He didn’t know what to do with that either. So he nodded. Slowly. Said nothing. Just breathed.

They started slow.

Dr. Ryu didn’t rush them. He didn’t pull out charts or hook Jungkook up to machines the moment he sat down. He offered him water, asked if he’d slept the night before (he hadn’t, not really), and then said softly, “We’re going to do a full scan, energy mapping, nerve responsiveness, and subspace thresholds. You won’t be in pain. You might feel things shift in your body, but I’ll explain everything as we go.”

Jungkook nodded, throat dry.

Taehyung was close, but not crowding. Yoongi stood just behind his chair, a quiet presence, anchor and guard in equal measure.

They moved from the lounge-like chair to a reclined examination seat that looked more like a spa pod than anything clinical. Jungkook laid back slowly, letting the curve of the cushion catch his spine, his head, the tension sitting in his hips like bricks.

Dr. Ryu dimmed the lights a little more.

“This is your first real scan since pre-debut?” he asked.

Jungkook nodded.

“I was tested at eighteen. A few weeks before debut. Hybe needed to finalize dynamic branding for the group.”

The doctor’s mouth pulled into something quiet and unimpressed.

“You weren’t nineteen?”

“No.”

Dr. Ryu didn’t say anything else. But his hands stilled for just a moment before he moved on.

The first part of the scan involved soft pulses of focused energy sent through a small arch above Jungkook’s body, scanning how his nervous system responded to ambient dynamic stimulation. Lights blinked softly. A low hum filled the space.

Then came targeted exposure: carefully dosed pulses of Dom energy, measured, settled, nothing like what he was hit with during practice or fan signs. Just enough to see what his body did with it.

He flinched. Not from pain. From how easily it sank in. Taehyung noticed. Yoongi did too. Neither said anything. Just stayed close.

The doctor’s voice was calm. "Your nervous system is hypersensitive to Dom field exposure. This isn’t inherently bad, it just tells me you’re under settled. When a submissive doesn’t get regular subspace settling, the body starts treating every dominant interaction as too intense."

After that came tactile scans, fine sensors placed against the base of his neck, along his spine, over his chest. Subspace settling markers. Most people had a healthy range, steady pulses, a smooth rhythm in how the body pushed and pulled dynamic energy through.

Jungkook’s scan fluttered. Out of sync. Off balance. The doctor didn’t comment. Just adjusted settings and kept going.

The last scan was the one he dreaded most: threshold evaluation. A slow, guided exposure designed to see how easily he could enter deep subspace with a safe Dom presence and verbal prompting.

Yoongi stepped forward for this.  “I’ve helped with this before.” he said quietly Dr. Ryu nodded. “If Jungkook-ssi’s comfortable.” Jungkook didn’t say anything for a second. Then nodded. “Yeah. Yoongi’s… okay.” So they tried. It didn’t take much.

Two soft lines from Yoongi—"You’re safe, Kook. You’re okay. Just breathe for me.”, and Jungkook’s body melted. His shoulders dropped. His chest loosened. His brain slowed.

The machine lit up. Bright. Jungkook blinked, dazed, and Yoongi gently pulled him back with a grounding hand to the wrist and a steady “There you go. That’s it.” He barely felt the tears prick behind his eyes.

They let him rest for a few minutes before they talked. Back in the soft chairs. Dr. Ryu had the scan results on a screen, abstract patterns, color fields, nothing Jungkook could read. But the doctor’s face was calm. Serious. Kind.

 “Jungkook-ssi," he said, voice low and even. “What I’m about to say is not your fault.” That was how he started. That alone made something twist hard in his chest.

 “You’ve been living with untreated Dynamic Compression Syndrome. It’s rare, but not unheard of. It occurs when a submissive is misclassified and denied both settling and dynamic affirmation for an extended period of time, usually years.”

He paused to let that sit. “Symptoms include physical pain, drop instability, energy imbalances, emotional fatigue, and, eventually, long-term nervous system complications if untreated.”

Jungkook didn’t breathe. Taehyung’s hand found his knee. Yoongi leaned forward slightly. “Is it reversible?” “Yes," Dr. Ryu said. “But it requires consistency.” He looked at Jungkook again.

“Your body is desperate to settle. You reach deep subspace faster than any patient I’ve seen this year, but you bounce out quickly. That’s a sign of instability.”

“What do I have to do?” Jungkook asked, voice barely a whisper. “You’ll need to enter deep subspace, consistently, for short durations every day. Around forty-five minutes at a time, two to three times a day, ideally after stress events like performances or filming.” Dr. Ryu waited a beat. “For at least four to six weeks.”

Silence.  It wasn’t a dramatic diagnosis. It wasn’t fatal. But it was life-changing. “And if I don’t?” Jungkook asked. Not hostile. Just... honest. “Then your dynamic imbalance will likely worsen. You may start experiencing micro-fluctuations during stress that mimic disassociation. Your drop responses will become less manageable. And over time, you may develop chronic sensitivity to Dom energy.”

 He breathed. In. Out. Taehyung’s hand was still there. So was Yoongi. “Can I... still perform?” “You can," Dr. Ryu said carefully. “But if you ignore this, there’s a chance you won’t be able to stay performing much longer.”

And there it was. The truth his body had been screaming all along. Dr. Ryu gave them time to absorb it. “Do you want to discuss options for telling your company?” he asked gently. Jungkook didn’t answer. Taehyung did. “No," he said. “Not yet.”

The ride back to the dorm was quieter than the one that had taken them there. Not the stiff, braced silence of fear, something softer. Thicker. The kind of silence that hung heavy over decisions not yet spoken aloud.

Jungkook sat between Taehyung and Yoongi, hands clasped loosely between his knees, eyes unfocused. He wasn't sure what he was looking at. The city passed by in muted colors, buildings blurring into each other, faces in passing cars meaningless and far away. Every few minutes, the weight of what the doctor had said pressed down on him again. Dynamic Compression Syndrome. Untreated for years. Quiet damage building up under the surface while he smiled for cameras and told himself he was fine.

He didn’t know what he expected when they got home. Some explosion, maybe. A breakdown. Or maybe he’d hoped for someone to swoop in and make the decision for him. But when they stepped through the door, everything was... still.

The others were waiting. Not pacing. Not buzzing. Just there.

Jimin sprawled across the couch but didn’t even pretend to be comfortable. Hoseok lounged with one arm over the backrest, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his thumb never moved. Jin sat perched on the arm of a chair, arms crossed, tension thrumming in his shoulders. Namjoon stood by the window again, watching the city as if it might offer answers it hadn’t given them before.

The second the door clicked shut behind them, four pairs of eyes lifted toward Jungkook.

He froze under the weight of it.

It was Taehyung who stepped up first, brushing his sleeve lightly against Jungkook’s. A small, grounding touch. Yoongi lingered just behind, a wall of steady, warm energy.

“It’s manageable," Yoongi said quietly, answering the question no one had spoken yet. “But serious.”

Jimin sat up straighter. Jin shifted, uncrossing his arms slowly. Even Hoseok locked his phone and tossed it aside, attention sharpening.

Jungkook wet his lips, still tasting the metallic fear clinging to the back of his throat. “The specialist said… it’s been untreated for too long.” His voice cracked and he hated it, but he kept going. “I have something called Dynamic Compression Syndrome. It’s from being misclassified and not getting regular settling.”

He swallowed hard, blinking against the burn in his eyes.

“It’s real. It’s—" He broke off, laughing once, hollow. “It’s not just stress or overwork or nerves. My body’s been trying to settle without help for years, and it’s... breaking down.”

Silence followed. Heavy but not suffocating. Just weighty enough to make him want to curl in on himself.

Jin scrubbed a hand over his face, voice tight when he finally spoke. “How bad is it?”

“Bad if I ignore it," Jungkook said. “If I don’t start regulating daily subspace drops, consistent grounding, it could get worse. A lot worse. Full destabilization.”

Hoseok whistled low, sharp between his teeth. “And if you do what they say?”

“Six weeks of structured deep subspace. Maybe longer depending on how my body responds.”

“Subspace?” Jimin repeated, voice pitching higher. “Like… actual subspace?”

“Yeah.” Jungkook nodded miserably. “Deep, floaty, grounded. Not light or full drop, but still...” He waved a hand, helpless. “It’s obvious if you know what to look for.”

Another heavy beat passed before Yoongi filled it. “He settles fast. Faster than the doctor’s ever seen. But he bounces out too quickly because he’s unstable. His body’s been fighting for so long, it doesn’t know how to stay.”

Hoseok cursed under his breath. Jimin looked like he wanted to punch something. Jin just closed his eyes for a moment, as if steadying himself. “Can you still perform?” Namjoon asked finally, voice low and careful.

Jungkook hesitated. “Yeah. But if I don’t settle properly, my energy’s going to tank harder after every event. I’ll crash faster. Drop harder. And eventually...” He trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

They didn’t need the words filled in. Eventually, he wouldn’t be able to do it at all. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Jin straightened. “Then we settle you.” It wasn’t a question. Jimin nodded sharply, folding his arms. “Every day, every night if we have to.” “We figure it out," Hoseok said, surprisingly serious. “Schedules, rotations. Whatever it takes.” Yoongi looked at Jungkook, voice gentler. “If you want us to.”

That was the catch. It was always his choice. They could protect him, shelter him, build walls around him, but only if he let them. Jungkook breathed out slowly, feeling the burn behind his eyes lessen just slightly. “I want to," he whispered. Relief, sharp and almost painful, moved through the room like an unseen current.

But it wasn’t that easy. Not really.

“What about Hybe?” Hoseok asked, more careful now. “We can cover a lot, but they’ll notice if you start acting... different.” “They’re already suspicious," Taehyung added, voice tight. “After the fan sign.” Jin’s mouth twisted. “And if they find out you need active settling—" “They could pull you," Namjoon said flatly. “Bench you. Cut your exposure. Rebrand you, if they’re feeling generous. Or terminate quietly.” The words sat in the air, heavy and real. No one pretended otherwise.

“We don’t tell them," Taehyung said. Not reckless. Not defiant. Just steady. “We protect it. We protect him.” Namjoon nodded, slowly but with absolute certainty. “We’ll hide it.” Jimin grinned, sharp and fierce. “We’re sneaky bastards when we need to be.” Hoseok’s smile was thinner, more tired. But real. “We can cover for him. We can shield him.” Jin looked at Jungkook directly, eyes hard and full of something dangerously close to promise. “They’re not taking you away," he said. Not again.

Jungkook pressed his hand against his heart, feeling it beat hard against his ribs. Maybe for the first time since all this started, he felt like it wasn’t just his fight anymore.

They spent the next hour sprawled across the living room floor, tossing out ideas in low voices, how to monitor him subtly, how to layer their Dom fields without drawing attention, how to time his settling sessions around schedules, how to explain away any slip-ups. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t foolproof. But it was real.

And more than that, it was theirs.

Chapter Text

They didn’t start that night.

After the meeting, after Jungkook said it out loud, I want you to help me, they all drifted quietly into their usual routines, letting the weight of it settle where it needed to.

No rush. No immediate action. Just... a new understanding humming underneath the surface. The kind you didn't poke at too hard if you wanted it to hold.

Jungkook spent the night half-curled against the back of the couch, pretending to watch a movie none of them cared about, Jimin’s head dropping slowly onto his shoulder, Hoseok snoring from the floor. No one said anything when Taehyung tucked a blanket over him.

No one said anything when Namjoon squeezed his ankle on his way to the kitchen. No one said anything when Yoongi drifted close enough to nudge his knee lightly, silent and steady. It wasn’t fanfare. It wasn’t dramatics. It was care.

Real and quiet and normal. And maybe that was what scared him most, how easily he wanted to believe this could be normal. By morning, the quiet pact they'd made the night before had solidified into something stronger.

Jin woke him up with a muttered "Come eat before you drop," shoving a mug of tea into his hands before disappearing into the kitchen.
Hoseok pressed a post-it note to his forehead that just said "You are not allowed to be annoying today. settling hours are sacred."
Jimin tried to tie his shoelaces together during breakfast and nearly knocked over the rice cooker.

Namjoon sat beside him at the table like a wall of steady calm, while Yoongi made small talk about weather and laundry like the sky hadn’t shifted inside their home.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing life-shattering. Just today we start. Not because he was broken. Not because he needed fixing. Because he deserved it. Because now, for the first time, They weren't going to let him carry it alone.

It didn’t happen all at once.

There wasn’t a timer, no alarm that rang out to mark the moment he needed to let go again. But his body knew. The way it always had, long before he’d been willing to listen.

By mid-afternoon, the edges of things had already started to fuzz. Noise stuck too long in his ears. Lights felt too bright even when they weren’t. His muscles jittered with something that wasn’t quite adrenaline, wasn’t quite exhaustion—just an ache building in the hollows of his bones, waiting for relief.

Technically, there’d been a break scheduled between vocal warmups and rehearsal—but no one had taken it seriously. Hoseok had wandered off to reread lyrics in the stairwell, Jimin and Taehyung were halfway through choreo tweaks with the choreographers, and Jungkook—

Jungkook had stayed tucked in Studio B, headphones on, laptop screen dimmed against the glare, tapping through the final vocal comp for a new demo. He told himself he wasn’t hungry. That he’d eat after rehearsal. That the tremble in his hands was just caffeine withdrawal.

"Kookie," a voice said gently. He blinked. Lifted his head.

Namjoon stood in the doorway, sweat-damp hair curling at his temples, brows drawn in concern. “Hey,” his voice came low and even, more suggestion than command. “Come here.”

"I’m—" The word snagged in his throat. He swallowed. Looked at his screen. The plugin window was still open. He hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes. "Shit."

Namjoon crossed the room slowly, not intruding, just—present.

A second pair of footsteps—sharper, more deliberate—came in through the door a beat later, and then Jin was crouching in front of him.

“You’re going,” he said softly. Not accusing. Just clear. “You’re starting to drop.”

“No I’m not.” The denial slipped out automatic.

Jin gave him a look like glass. Not angry. Just precise. “Your hands are shaking.”

Jungkook looked down. They were.

There was no lecture. No scolding. Just a hand reaching forward—careful, practiced—and closing around his wrist.

“Breathe.”

Jin didn’t say please. He didn’t have to. His tone wasn’t harsh, but it cut through the fog.

Jungkook breathed.

“Again.”

Namjoon’s hands appeared at his shoulders then, large and warm and steady as stone. He didn’t speak, just pressed down lightly, like anchoring a wire against the wind.

They didn’t drag him anywhere. Didn’t even move him from his studio chair.

They just… joined him.

Jin knelt close enough that their knees touched. Namjoon eased down behind him and let Jungkook lean back. When his spine touched solid warmth, he sagged without meaning to. His head tipped to the side, barely brushing Namjoon’s chest.

“Just like this,” Namjoon murmured. His voice was lower than Yoongi’s, steadier, less coaxing. A presence you could lean into without fearing it would ever tip. “You don’t have to go deep. You just have to let go.”

Jin’s fingers skimmed down his wrist to his palm, blunt nails scraping the skin there in gentle passes. Repetitive. Predictable. Not praise, not guidance. Just contact.

“I’m not—” Jungkook tried again, words thick. “I was—working.”

“I know,” Jin said, matching his tone. “Now you’re resting.”

There was no room for argument. Not because they shut him down, but because the ache was already easing. Just the act of being seen—intercepted—before it was too late loosened something deep in his chest.

Namjoon hummed low under his breath, the vibration curling through his back. His breath was slow and even, almost meditative, and Jungkook found himself syncing without meaning to.

The weight of a palm settled at his sternum. Namjoon again, steady and warm. Just a point of contact. A reminder.

“Still here,” Namjoon said. “We’ve got you.”

It started with a touch. Nothing demanding. Nothing overwhelming. Just a hand on his wrist, two fingers brushing lightly against the skin, grounding him to the present.

Jungkook blinked blearily, the hallway light behind Yoongi casting soft halos around his shoulders.

"You’re running too high," Yoongi said, voice low enough it barely disturbed the quiet around them. It was nearly midnight. The others were scattered around the dorm, half-asleep or pretending to be. No cameras. No managers. No fans. Just them.

"I’m fine," Jungkook mumbled out of habit. Yoongi raised an eyebrow, patient, indulgent, like he was humoring a child who thought they could lie well. "You’re vibrating out of your skin, Kook-ah." A low, warm chuckle rumbled from his chest, not mocking, just knowing. "You’re terrible at hiding when you’re tired."

Jungkook didn’t fight when Yoongi guided him gently toward the couch.
Didn’t fight when he was nudged to sit down, blanket pooled at his knees.
Didn’t fight when Yoongi’s hands slipped to the hem of his hoodie and tugged lightly. "Skin," Yoongi said simply. "You settle faster with contact." It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Jungkook raised his arms, letting Yoongi tug the hoodie up and over his head in one easy motion, exposing a plain black tank top underneath. His skin prickled at the temperature change, but more at the attention.

Yoongi’s hands were warm when they settled on his shoulders. Heavy. Comforting.

"You’re doing good already," Yoongi murmured, thumbs stroking slow, lazy circles into his traps.
"Let me help you the rest of the way."

The praise slid under his skin faster than he could catch it, sparking heat low in his belly.

Jungkook let himself tip forward slightly, into the touch.
A small thing. A huge thing. Yoongi didn’t push.
He waited. Breath steady. Hands steady. Anchoring him without a single word of command.

"You’re safe," Yoongi said after a long moment, the words breathed against the shell of Jungkook’s ear. A shiver rippled through him. Not fear. Relief. "You're good," Yoongi said again, slower this time, lower. "Doing so good for me, Kookie."

The praise hit harder than anything had in weeks. His shoulders slumped under the weight of it, head tipping forward until his forehead bumped against Yoongi’s thigh where he was kneeling in front of the couch. Yoongi just laughed, soft and fond, and carded a hand through his hair, slow and steady.

"Good boy," he rumbled, voice honey-thick, fingers threading through the short strands at the base of Jungkook’s skull. The words cracked something open deep in his chest.

Without thinking, Jungkook tilted his head further, giving more of his neck, exposing the vulnerable skin under his jaw. Trust. Pure, instinctive trust.

Yoongi's hand drifted down, cupping the side of his throat loosely, not squeezing, not restraining, just holding. Claiming without taking. Grounding without trapping.

"Can I get you floating, Kook?" Yoongi asked, thumb brushing slow passes over his pulse. "Can I settle you a little deeper?" The question wasn’t rhetorical. It was a real ask. His choice. Jungkook gave a tiny, breathless nod, voice stuck somewhere low in his chest.

Yoongi smiled, slow and lazy, and slid onto the couch beside him, pulling Jungkook into his lap like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Strong arms wrapped around him, one low on his hips, one across his shoulders, tucking him in tight. Warmth surrounded him, steady breath, steady heartbeat, steady presence. "Just breathe with me, Kookie," Yoongi said, voice almost a purr against the side of his head. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Just like that."

Jungkook tried.

At first it was shaky. His ribs catching against the inhale, fighting the exhale.
But Yoongi’s body was a blueprint under his, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the soft rumble of breath through his throat. And eventually, Jungkook matched it.

Matched it so well he barely noticed when his muscles unlocked.
When his spine melted against the firm line of Yoongi’s body.
When his fingers curled lightly into the front of Yoongi’s shirt, not to hold on, just to touch.

"That's it," Yoongi whispered, pressing a slow kiss to the top of his hair. "Good boy." The words slipped inside like warm honey, dripping through his veins, slowing everything down until the world tilted, And floated.

Deep subspace caught him soft and slow. The edges of the world blurred, colors running like wet paint, sounds muffled and thick. He wasn’t gone. Just... lighter. Softer. Held.

Yoongi rocked him slightly, not enough to jar, just enough to keep the rhythm of breath and body aligned. Jungkook whimpered once, quiet and broken open, and Yoongi only tightened his arms, whispering low, meaningless comforts against his temple. "Got you. Good boy. You're mine to hold right now."

Time blurred. It could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. When Jungkook finally blinked back, he was limp against Yoongi’s chest, breath slow, muscles loose and boneless. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to leave the warmth. Didn’t have to. Yoongi just kept holding him, nosing gently into his hairline like an overgrown cat, murmuring lazy praise that slid through his half-drifting brain like silk.

"You did so good," Yoongi said against his hair. "So proud of you, Kookie." Jungkook hummed, too deep in the haze to form words, but the answering squeeze around his ribs said it didn’t matter. Yoongi had heard him anyway.

The first time settled easily. Yoongi’s hands, his voice, the slow, unshakable patience of being held without expectation, it had left Jungkook floating, lighter than he’d been in years. But it didn’t last. Dynamic Compression Syndrome wasn’t a single wound to be stitched up. It was a slow, grinding collapse that couldn’t be fixed in a night.

By morning, the ache had crept back into his bones. Low-grade tension pulling at his muscles, that tight buzz of energy scraping against the inside of his skin. It wasn’t pain, exactly. It was imbalance. Too much static, not enough grounding. A body that wanted to slip under and rest but kept jolting awake.

They needed to keep going. Small, careful sessions tucked between schedules, hidden where Hybe’s eyes wouldn’t catch them. Each member finding their own way to help carry the weight Jungkook had been holding alone for too long. Not out of obligation. Out of need.

The first time settled easily. Yoongi’s hands, his voice, the slow, unshakable patience of being held without expectation—it had left Jungkook floating, lighter than he’d been in years. But it didn’t last. Dynamic Compression Syndrome wasn’t a single wound to be stitched up. It was a slow, grinding collapse that couldn’t be fixed in a night.

By morning, the ache had crept back into his bones. Low-grade tension pulling at his muscles, that tight buzz of energy scraping against the inside of his skin. It wasn’t pain, exactly. It was imbalance. Too much static, not enough grounding. A body that wanted to slip under and rest but kept jolting awake.

And Yoongi had known it, even before Jungkook did. That this was just the first step, the first layer peeled back, the first tight muscle unwound. One touch, one night, one soft cocoon of breath and body wouldn’t undo months of tension. It wouldn’t quiet the restless, skittering hum under his skin. But it had cracked something open, something small and raw and needy, and now that it was open, it couldn’t be closed again.

He felt it at practice the next day, that low, electric thrum, vibrating under his skin like a second heartbeat. Every step felt too sharp, every breath too shallow, his body too small to hold the frantic energy that wanted to pour out. He stumbled over the choreography twice, caught himself once on the edge of a mirror, pulse spiking, vision narrowing. Taehyung caught his eye, brow furrowing, but didn’t say anything. Just tilted his head in silent question. Jungkook forced a smile, felt it crack at the edges.

It took everything in him not to fidget, not to break the illusion that he had himself under control. But he could feel the others noticing, small glances, hesitant pauses, the way they started to hover just a little closer when he passed, like they were waiting for him to tip over. He hated that they could see it. Hated that he couldn’t hide it. Hated that he didn’t want to hide it anymore.

They needed to keep going. Small, careful sessions tucked between schedules, hidden where Hybe’s eyes wouldn’t catch them. Each member finding their own way to help carry the weight Jungkook had been holding alone for too long. Not out of obligation. Out of need.

He was theirs now, openly, finally, fully. And if he needed settling to heal, they would give it to him. No matter how messy. No matter how risky.

Which was how, late that night, after practice ended and the hallways emptied, Namjoon caught his wrist with two fingers and said, low and certain, "Come here."

And Jungkook, He followed. Because something deep inside him, something long-starved and newly tender, knew, He couldn’t climb out of this alone.

They waited until everyone else was gone. The practice room was quiet in a way it never was during the day, no instructors shouting counts, no managers checking time, no stylists hovering to fix hair.

Just the slow whir of the air conditioning, the scuff of sneakers against polished floors, the low thud of music bleeding in from a studio down the hall. And Namjoon, standing in the center of the room, steady as a tide.

Jungkook lingered by the door for a second longer than necessary, nerves crawling under his skin like ants. He didn’t know why he was suddenly so wired.

Yoongi’s settling the night before had settled him easy, floating him down in soft touches and praise. But this, This felt different.

He could feel Namjoon’s Dom energy humming against his skin, low and resonant like a drumbeat he couldn’t ignore. Not sharp. Not aggressive. But present. Unyielding.

"Come here," Namjoon had said quietly, not turning to look at him. A simple command. Soft. Uncomplicated. And yet it pulled at something deep inside him, a rope tied somewhere under his ribs.

Jungkook pushed away from the door and walked across the floor, sneakers whispering against the polished surface, heart hammering against his ribs. "Drop your bag." Another low command, voice a shade rougher now. He let it fall with a soft thump.

"Stand still." Jungkook froze on instinct. Head ducked slightly, arms at his sides, breath shallow.

Namjoon finally turned then. Slow, deliberate. His eyes skimmed over Jungkook's frame, not cold, not judging, assessing. Like he was already working out how to catch him when he fell.

"You’re running too hot," Namjoon said simply, stepping into his space until they were close enough Jungkook could feel the heat coming off him in waves. "You need to be grounded."

Jungkook nodded without thinking. Namjoon reached up and hooked a finger under the thin strap of his tank top. Tugged it lightly. "Skin."

He peeled the shirt off without hesitation this time, letting it drop to the floor with his bag. Namjoon’s gaze didn’t sharpen. Didn’t shift. Just... softened. Like seeing Jungkook bare wasn’t about vulnerability. It was about truth.

"Good," Namjoon murmured. "Very good." Jungkook’s stomach flipped at the praise, heat pooling low in his gut. He curled his toes inside his sneakers, trying to stay grounded.

Namjoon stepped closer, until their chests brushed faintly. His hands came up, settling on Jungkook’s shoulders, big and heavy and warm. "Close your eyes," he said, voice pitched low.

Jungkook obeyed instantly. The world went dark. Nothing but breath and heartbeat and the steady, unyielding weight of Namjoon’s hands. "Breathe with me," Namjoon ordered next. "In through your nose. Hold. Out through your mouth."

Jungkook tried. At first, the panic fluttered in his chest, too fast, too shallow. He fought it without meaning to. Fought it like breathing had rules he’d forgotten how to follow.

Namjoon’s hands tightened slightly, thumbs stroking slow passes into the notch of his shoulders. "Good," he murmured. "You're trying. Good boy."

The praise hit harder than it should’ve. His knees wobbled slightly, heat flashing through his belly, and Namjoon caught him before he could even tip forward, dragging him close by the hips until their bodies aligned.

"Stay with me, Kook," he breathed against his ear. "Stay."

The command buzzed straight through him. Jungkook sagged against Namjoon’s chest without meaning to, forehead pressing into the solid heat of his collarbone. Breath hitching.

Namjoon wrapped an arm around his waist, the other threading into his hair at the crown of his head, not yanking, just holding. Anchoring. "That's it," Namjoon said, rougher now, voice thick with approval. "That’s my good boy."

The words broke something open inside him. A full-body sigh rolled through Jungkook, the kind that made his bones feel too loose, too heavy to hold himself up. He slumped further, letting Namjoon carry the weight without shame.

"That's it," Namjoon praised again, mouth brushing his temple, hot and steady. "You don't have to stand for yourself tonight. I'll hold you."

He floated there, body pressed close, breath matching Namjoon’s slow, deliberate rhythm, until the edges of the room blurred and softened.

The scent of sweat and rubber from shoes scraping the floor. The low thud of distant bass. The whisper of Namjoon’s voice threading through his skin.

He sank fully into Namjoon’s arms, trembling slightly but not from fear. Namjoon shifted to lower them both slowly onto the floor, tugging Jungkook into his lap without breaking the rhythm. Big hands skimming along his bare spine. Soft murmurs into his hair. Breath syncing. Heart syncing. Trust syncing.

When Jungkook finally blinked back to the room, heavy-limbed and soft-eyed, Namjoon was still there, one hand cupping the back of his neck, thumb stroking slow, grounding circles.

"You did perfect," Namjoon whispered against his temple. "So fucking perfect for me." Jungkook whined low in his throat, too deep in floaty space to form words. Namjoon just chuckled, dark and pleased, and tucked him tighter against his chest.

Coming back from deep subspace was always the strangest part. Like waking up from a dream you didn’t know you were having, your body still trailing pieces of it behind you, soft, half-faded echoes.

Jungkook shifted slowly in Namjoon’s arms, muscles loose and heavy, forehead still pressed against his chest. He wasn’t dizzy. He wasn’t panicked.
He wasn’t anything sharp. Just weightless. Breathing like he wasn’t fighting himself for it anymore.

Namjoon helped him sit upright when he was ready, kept a grounding hand warm against the back of his neck the whole time. No rush. No scolding. Just presence.

"You’ll need more settling tomorrow," Namjoon said simply, like he was reminding him to pack an umbrella. Jungkook nodded before he could think about it.

When Namjoon let him go, Jungkook hadn’t known how to ask for more. His body still ached with leftover tension, like sore muscles after a deep stretch. He knew it wasn’t enough. Knew that one night wouldn’t fix months of compression and silence. But it had felt like a start—like waking up from a long, dreamless sleep to find sunlight filtering through the curtains. He’d slept better that night than he had in weeks.

But his body didn’t forget that quickly. By the next afternoon, the quiet ache had returned, knotting low in his stomach, tightening at the base of his skull. And he didn’t know how to fix it, didn’t know how to make his hands stop shaking when he reached for a water bottle during rehearsals. He could feel eyes on him—Taehyung’s worried glance, Hoseok’s raised eyebrow. He smiled through it, careful and practiced, until they looked away.

It wasn’t something he could explain. Wasn’t something he wanted to explain, when it felt raw and vulnerable and too new to touch. It was enough to be seen, to be held, just for a moment. But now that he’d felt it, his body kept reaching for it, like an addict looking for a hit. He hated himself for it—for wanting more.

And now, tucked into a cramped green room while stylists fussed over last-minute touch-ups and Jin barked orders into his phone, Jungkook was trying not to let it show. Trying not to feel like his bones were vibrating under his skin, like his heartbeat was too loud in his own ears.

When Jimin slipped into the room, bright and reckless, Jungkook didn’t expect him to notice. Didn’t expect him to take one look and grin like he was about to start trouble.

“You look like a kicked puppy,” Jimin announced cheerfully, and before Jungkook barely had time to process it before Jimin was there, crowding into his space, throwing an arm around his shoulders like they were the best of friends who hadn’t just spent the last four hours dancing under hot lights for fan cams.

Jungkook opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. They were tucked into the corner of the green room, mostly hidden by garment racks and piles of stage outfits. Managers milling around were too distracted with touch-ups and last-minute run orders to pay attention.

Perfect for sneaking in a settling session, if you were dumb enough or brave enough. Jimin, of course, was both.

"You’re buzzing," Jimin muttered under his breath, pulling him down into the battered couch they’d claimed as their fortress.

He poked Jungkook’s side, a little too hard to be accidental. "Your whole body’s vibrating. You trying to lift off like a drone?"

"I’m fine," Jungkook said automatically, even as his hands fisted in the hem of his oversized shirt. Jimin snorted. Loudly. Rudely. "You’re not. You’re terrible at lying. Worse than Taehyung after a night out."

Before Jungkook could respond, Jimin grabbed him by the hips and hauled him sideways across his lap, sprawling him messily over the couch like a lazy cat. Jungkook yelped, half-laughing, half-panicking. "Jimin—" "Shhh." Jimin clamped a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly. "Settling hours are in session, remember?" The hand stayed just long enough for Jungkook to stop trying to scramble away.

When Jimin lifted it, he replaced it with a warm palm against Jungkook’s ribs, thumb stroking slow circles just under the hem of his shirt. Skin-to-skin.

"Good boy," Jimin whispered, barely audible under the hum of the room around them. The words hit like a punch to the gut. Jungkook’s whole body jolted, then sagged.

"There it is," Jimin said, pleased. "You’re so easy, Kook. Just need someone to tell you you’re doing good and you melt like butter."

Jungkook flushed hot under the praise, the teasing edge cutting straight through his resistance. He turned his face into Jimin’s shoulder, embarrassed.

Jimin just laughed and shifted him higher, tucking his knees up until Jungkook was practically curled in his lap like a human backpack.

The physicality was ridiculous. The intimacy wasn’t.

"You’re safe," Jimin said, voice low and serious now, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. "You’re doing so good." "Nothing’s wrong." "Nothing’s broken."

Each phrase dropped like a stone into water, rippling outward until Jungkook couldn’t remember why he was so tense in the first place. His spine melted against Jimin’s chest. His fingers unclenched. His breathing slowed without conscious effort.

"You’re allowed to lean," Jimin murmured, one hand stroking slow, lazy lines down his spine.
"You’re allowed to need."

The world around them blurred, not from subspace, not fully, but from peace. From the steady rhythm of Jimin’s body pressed against his. From the soft hum of air conditioning and stage mics and distant conversations he didn’t have to care about. From the way Jimin’s hands kept mapping slow, easy circles into his ribs, his hips, his spine.

If anyone noticed them? They didn’t say a thing. Maybe just assumed Jimin was being Jimin, affectionate, ridiculous, loud. No one realized he was quietly stitching a broken piece of their pack back together with nothing but touch and love and whispered grounding words.

By the time they were called back to stage, Jungkook’s head was heavy against Jimin’s shoulder, and he had to blink slow and stupid just to sit up straight.

Jimin ruffled his hair hard enough to almost knock him over. "You owe me lunch for that," he teased brightly, grabbing his jacket. "I’m putting it on your tab."

Jungkook smiled, dazed and loose-limbed, feeling more like himself than he had in days. "You’re annoying," he muttered. Jimin winked at him, all teeth. "You love it."

The playful settling helped. It always did, with Jimin, easy, chaotic touch, words slipping past his defenses without even trying.

When they got back to the dorm that night, the air felt different. Lighter, maybe. Or maybe that was just Jungkook, the last remnants of Jimin’s playful settling still buzzing through his skin. His limbs felt loose, warm. Like he’d been sitting in the sun for hours, like the tension had been wrung out of him by laughter and teasing touches and the steady, grounding weight of Jimin’s body pressed up against his.

Dinner was a chaotic affair. Taehyung crashed onto the couch beside him, half-draped over his shoulder, whining about a sore neck and demanding Jungkook dig his elbow into the knot at the base of his skull. Hoseok claimed the armrest, long legs stretching across both their laps like a lazy cat, poking at Taehyung’s sides until he yelped and swatted him away. Jin paced in and out of the kitchen, muttering to himself about missed takeout orders and the tragedy of cold ramen.

And Namjoon, of course, just leaned in the doorway, watching them with that quiet, pleased expression he got sometimes, like a dad watching his kids play. His eyes met Jungkook’s once, and there was a flicker of something unspoken there—a question, a reassurance, a promise.

Jungkook felt the warmth spread, the knot in his chest loosening just a little more.

After they ate, they sprawled around the living room like overgrown puppies, limbs tangled, half-hearted complaints muffled into pillows. Someone had thrown on a comfort movie—something silly and familiar, the kind of thing they could quote without paying attention. The room hummed with low conversation, the sound of soda cans cracking open, the occasional smack of a thrown pillow.

It felt... safe.

But later that night, when the others drifted off one by one, leaving dishes half-stacked in the sink and abandoned blankets on the floor, Jungkook felt it again. The slow buzz building under his skin, rising in tiny, scraping spikes every time he moved, every time someone brushed past him in the hallway, every time he blinked too long at the ceiling and felt like he was floating just a little too far from his body.

Not panic. Not fear. Just... imbalance. The doctor had warned them about this.

Some days, after public schedules, after too much crowd noise and stage lights and carefully managed energy, Jungkook would need deeper grounding. Something that touched the places inside him Jimin’s casual mischief couldn’t quite reach.

Jin found him curled up at the edge of the living room, blanket-wrapped and tense, pretending to scroll through his phone. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, arms crossed, watching. Assessing. Calculating. Planning.

“Come with me,” Jin said finally, voice low and absolute. Not a question. Not a request. A command.

Jungkook looked up. Paused. Then pushed himself to his feet without a word. Because somewhere deep in his body, deeper than fear, deeper than pride, he wanted it. Needed it. And Jin—Jin would know exactly how to give it to him.

Jin’s room was dark when he pulled Jungkook inside. Only the dim light from the hallway spilling across the floor, casting long shadows over the bed, the chair tucked in the corner, the soft nest of discarded hoodies piled against the far wall. The door clicked shut behind them.

Jin didn’t turn on the lights. Didn’t offer explanations. Just said, in that voice that brooked no argument, “Shirt off. Pants too.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. But he obeyed.

Hands fumbling slightly at the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head, fingers shaking a little when he unfastened his jeans and shoved them down, stepping out barefoot onto the cool wood floor.

Left in just his boxers, skin goosebumps under the brush of cooler air. Exposed. Vulnerable. Waiting.

"Good boy," Jin murmured, stepping closer, circling him once, predatory but calm, like a panther deciding exactly where to sink its claws. "Such a good boy, standing still like that."

Jungkook shivered. Not from fear. From need.

He barely noticed Jin reaching for the narrow scarf hanging from the back of his chair, the one Jungkook had seen him use a hundred times in casual styling but never like this.

"Hands," Jin said simply. And Jungkook lifted them without hesitation.

Jin worked quickly, efficiently, binding his wrists loosely but firmly in front of his body with the scarf. Not tight enough to hurt. Tight enough that he couldn’t forget about it. Silk-soft against his skin. A constant, humming reminder: you are being held.

"There," Jin said, stepping back to admire his work. "Perfect." The praise hit harder than it should’ve, making Jungkook’s knees wobble.

Jin caught his chin between two fingers before he could tip forward. Tipped his face up. Made him look.

"You want to float?" Jin asked, voice pitched low, deadly serious. Jungkook nodded. Choked. "Yes."

Jin’s mouth curved, not a smile. Something sharper. Something satisfied.

"Then listen," he said, still holding his chin lightly. "You're not allowed to think. You're not allowed to worry. You're not allowed to hold yourself up." He leaned closer, breath hot against Jungkook’s ear. "You're mine to guide right now."

The shudder that wracked Jungkook’s body was full-body and helpless. He sagged slightly against the invisible leash of Jin’s voice, hands twitching against the silk binding.

Jin caught him easily, steering him backward toward the bed. Pushed him down onto the soft mattress without force, just steady pressure, constant and inevitable. "On your knees," Jin ordered. And Jungkook obeyed.

Jin climbed up behind him, settling close but not touching yet, letting the anticipation build until it vibrated between them. Jungkook panted softly, fighting to stay upright, fighting to stay present.

A hand at the back of his neck. Firm. Unmoving.

"Breathe with me," Jin whispered, voice like smoke. "In. Hold. Out."

It should’ve been clinical. Mechanical. Instead it felt, Intimate. Like Jin was breathing life straight into him.

Each inhale stretched him out further. Each exhale dropped him lower.

The scarf tightened minutely with every shudder of his arms, the soft pressure against his wrists a tether, a reminder: You are not allowed to hold yourself together anymore.

"Good boy," Jin murmured again and again, the words dripping like honey into his bones. "You're doing so fucking well. Look at you. So beautiful when you give in."

Jungkook whimpered, head tipping forward, muscles trembling from the sheer effort of letting go.

Jin caught him before he could collapse fully, hauling him back against his chest, arms wrapping around him tight. "You’re safe," Jin whispered into the curve of his neck. "You’re mine to care for. Mine to guide. Mine to catch."

The bindings held. The world fell away. And Jungkook, He surrendered. Fully. Without fear. Without shame.

When he floated into deep subspace minutes later, body weightless against Jin’s chest, breath slow and easy, wrists limp in silk, Jin just kissed the crown of his hair and held him tighter.

No demands. No expectations. Just this: Care shaped into control.

Settling wasn’t a straight line.

Some days, it floated in easy. Sweet and low like honey, clinging to him in gentle layers he could carry through the day.

Other days, no matter how many hands caught him, no matter how many anchors he trusted, he slipped through their fingers like smoke. Today was one of those days.

The concert taping was brutal, blinding lights, screaming fans, Dynamic managers rushing them from stage to interview to stage again without pause. Jungkook barely had time to catch his breath between sets, much less ground himself.

By the time they stumbled off stage for the third time, he could feel it, The buzz. The itch. The low, scraping vibration in his chest that said he was slipping out of sync again.

He clenched his fists and forced himself to walk steady behind the others, head down, mouth shut.

Maybe he could ride it out. Maybe he could just fake it until they got home. Maybe, Hoseok’s hand caught the back of his hoodie.

"Bathroom. Now," Hoseok muttered low and sharp against his ear, dragging him sideways without ceremony. Jungkook opened his mouth to protest, Then caught the flash of Hoseok’s expression: Not playful. Not joking. Worried.

He stumbled after him down a narrow service hallway, slipping into an empty dressing room bathroom just as a team of stylists rushed past with makeup kits and clipboards.

The door slammed shut behind them. Hoseok locked it. Spun on his heel.

"You’re so obvious it’s painful," he hissed, crossing his arms. "You’re gonna get caught if you keep floating around like that."

Jungkook flushed, stung. "I’m trying—" "I know," Hoseok cut him off, softer now. "And you’re failing."

He sighed. Scrubbed a hand through his hair. Glared at the ceiling like it personally offended him. "God, I hate doing this," he muttered. But he stepped forward anyway. Hands awkwardly reaching for Jungkook’s shoulders. Because hating it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to do it anyway. Jungkook braced himself for the worst.

Hoseok was many things, beautiful, cutting, charming when he wanted to be. But Dom wasn’t exactly a hat he wore well. At least, not on purpose.

"Alright," Hoseok muttered, poking him lightly in the forehead. "First rule. You’re gonna listen. Got it?" Jungkook blinked at him, startled. Nodded once.

"Second rule," Hoseok said, arms folding across his chest again. "If you float away, you owe me coffee for a week."

Jungkook snorted. The sound startled both of them, sharp and a little hysterical in the tiny, echoing bathroom. Hoseok grinned, quick and mean and fond. "There’s my Kookie."

He grabbed Jungkook’s wrist, not rough, but firm, and tugged him forward until they were standing chest to chest, barely a breath between them.

The bathroom was small. Warm. Close. Nowhere to run.

"You’re buzzing like a neon sign," Hoseok muttered, slipping a hand up under the hem of Jungkook’s shirt. Skin-on-skin. Fingers splaying wide across his ribs.

Jungkook gasped, the contact jolting through him like an electric shock. Hoseok just laughed under his breath. "Yeah. Thought so."

"Close your eyes," Hoseok ordered. Jungkook obeyed, lashes fluttering down.

"Breathe with me," Hoseok said, voice softer now. Low. Steady.

Jungkook’s breathing stuttered. But Hoseok’s hand stayed steady on his ribs, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles into his skin.

"You’re doing fine," Hoseok murmured. "You’re not in trouble. You’re not broken. You’re just high." A soft scoff. "High as fuck, honestly."

Jungkook laughed again, breathless, the knot in his chest loosening a fraction.

Hoseok tugged him closer by the waistband of his jeans until they were pressed together, nose to collarbone. He nosed against the side of Jungkook’s throat, slow, deliberate. A grounding touch. A claiming one.

"You’re fine," he whispered against his skin. "You’re mine to hold right now."

The words sank deeper than they should’ve. Jungkook sagged against him, forehead thudding lightly against Hoseok’s shoulder.

"That’s it," Hoseok said, voice smug. "Good boy."

The praise curled through him like heat. His fingers clenched loosely in Hoseok’s hoodie. The buzzing in his chest dulled, softened, smoothed.

"Good boy," Hoseok repeated, slower now, dragging it out like he knew exactly what it did to him. "Good, good boy."

Deep subspace wasn’t dramatic this time. It slid in easy, slow and syrupy, until Jungkook was floating in the warm, sleepy place where nothing hurt and everything was steady.

Hoseok just kept holding him. Breathing with him. Letting him sag heavier and heavier into his chest.

"You’re so annoying," Hoseok muttered finally, nudging his forehead against Jungkook’s hair. "Making me feel things."

Jungkook smiled, slow and loose and weightless. Didn’t bother answering. Didn’t need to. Hoseok’s arms around him said everything louder than words.

They stayed like that until the knock came at the door, sharp and impatient. A staff member shouting their call time.

Hoseok pulled back first, smoothing Jungkook’s hair down with both hands like he was smoothing out a rumpled shirt. "You good?" Jungkook nodded, still a little floaty.

"Good," Hoseok said, tapping his forehead lightly. "You owe me three coffees now."

Jungkook laughed, breathless and happy. Hoseok grinned, cocky and crooked and completely incapable of pretending he didn’t care. He slung an arm around Jungkook’s shoulders and tugged him out into the hall.

Back to the stage. Back to the world. But for the first time today, Jungkook wasn’t afraid of floating away. Because no matter how awkward, how bratty, how reluctant, Hoseok would always catch him.

The dorm was quieter than usual when they got back. Not heavy. Not tense. Just… still. Like the whole place was holding its breath around them.

Jungkook toed off his sneakers by the door, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair still damp from a rushed backstage shower.

The others trickled in behind him, dropping bags and jackets wherever they landed. No one turned on the TV. No one blasted music from the speakers. No one filled the space with noise just for the sake of it.

Instead, they moved around each other with a kind of easy, deliberate care that still caught him off-guard sometimes. Like they were thinking about it. Like they were thinking about him.

Jin dragged out the big blanket nest they'd built weeks ago without a word.

Jimin shoved a stack of pillows into the middle of the living room and collapsed on top of them dramatically.

Hoseok stole the corner of the couch closest to the window, arms crossed, head tipped back against the cushions.

Yoongi disappeared into the kitchen and came back with water bottles and protein bars, dropping them onto the coffee table with a lazy kind of precision.

Taehyung nudged him toward the middle of the room with a look that said, You know where you belong now.

Namjoon locked the front door, double-checked the chain, and then settled into his usual spot on the floor, spine straight, watching everything with quiet, steady eyes.

And somehow, Without anyone saying a word, Jungkook found himself curling into the middle of the nest.

Blankets pulled up around his shoulders. Warmth bleeding into his bones from every side. The quiet hum of their breathing filling the space.

He should've been embarrassed. Should've felt weird about how easily it all fit now. How necessary it felt. But he didn't. Not tonight.

He let his head tip back onto Jimin’s lap, let Taehyung stretch out beside him like a living security blanket, let Yoongi toss a hoodie over him like a second skin.

He let Jin poke at his ankle until he shifted closer. Let Hoseok grumble and then wordlessly shove a pillow under his head. Let Namjoon brush fingers briefly over the crown of his hair in a touch so soft it barely registered as anything more than permission.

This was what settling felt like, he realized. Not just the grounding sessions. Not just the quiet commands and careful touches. This. This messy pile of limbs and laughter and stubborn loyalty.

This was what his body had been begging for all along. What Dynamic Compression Syndrome had tried to strangle out of him. What misclassification and years of pretending had nearly stolen.

And now, He had it.

His heart thudded heavy in his chest. Not from fear. From something sharper. Softer. Hope.

It didn’t erase the fact that Hybe could still ruin everything if they found out.
Didn’t erase the fact that every schedule, every fan event, every slip of his body leaning toward Dom energy in public was another chance for them to notice.

Didn’t erase the fear curled tight in his belly that one day they might not be able to hide it anymore.

But for tonight, He wasn’t pretending. He wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t alone.

"You’re smiling, idiot," Hoseok muttered from across the nest, eyes slitted open. Jungkook snorted, tipping his head to the side. "Shut up," he mumbled back. Hoseok just smirked and closed his eyes again.

The others didn’t tease him. Didn’t pile on like they usually might. Maybe they felt it too, that fragile, perfect thing trembling in the center of the room, woven between them like gold thread.

They had him. He had them. And maybe tomorrow Hybe would tighten the leash again. Maybe tomorrow the weight of hiding would feel impossible. Maybe tomorrow he would stumble, and crash, and fall apart all over again.

But not tonight. Tonight, he belonged. And for the first time in what felt like forever, He wasn’t afraid of falling.

Chapter Text

Six weeks passed, and the city felt different. Crisper. Sharper. Jungkook’s nerves didn’t buzz constantly anymore. The world didn’t feel like it was fraying the edges of his thoughts, rattling his bones. He could breathe again.

It hadn’t been easy. The first few drops had felt like prying open a rusted door, his body and mind fighting the instinct to hold on, to stay hyper-alert, to brace for impact. But slowly—one careful, patient, painstaking session at a time—they’d chipped away at that instinct.

He still felt the echoes sometimes, the sharp crackle of anxiety beneath his skin, the reflexive flinch when someone’s voice grew too sharp or a hand reached for him too quickly. But the constant, bone-deep ache, the clenching, grinding tension that had knotted itself into his spine, had begun to loosen.

It helped that the pack had found their rhythm, too. They’d grown better at reading him, at sensing when his energy started to fray or when his thoughts drifted too sharp, too brittle. They’d learned to spot the subtle signs—the hitch in his breathing, the flicker of his gaze, the way he fidgeted with his sleeves or tapped his thumb against his wrist.

The days had taken on a steadier, softer pulse, like a song slowly finding its beat. Mornings were a little brighter, evenings a little quieter, and the silences in between less tense, less loaded. The air felt cleaner, like the fog of constant overstimulation had finally started to lift.

But the biggest change, the one he still struggled to fully accept, was the simple, overwhelming fact that they wanted this. They wanted him. Not just the version of him that made good music, or the one that performed well on stage, but the version of him that slumped boneless against their sides, slow-blinking and pliant, letting himself be held, soothed, settled.

This morning, the dorm was a gentle kind of chaos. Coffee brewing, the rich, nutty scent curling through the hallways. Someone’s phone chimed in the kitchen, a low, insistent buzz against the marble countertop. The low thrum of conversation drifted from the living room, half-laughter, half-teasing, the sound of six voices overlapping in comfortable disarray.

Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed, still waking up, his hair a wild mess, loose pajama pants slung low on his hips. His body felt... better. Not perfect. But stronger. The sharp, biting tension that had wrapped around his nerves for so long had dulled to a faint echo, something he could tune out if he tried. He stretched, spine arching, shoulder blades pulling tight, and let out a long, slow breath.

Someone knocked at his door, a short, familiar pattern. Polite, but a little impatient.

“Come in,” he called, scrubbing a hand over his eyes.

The door cracked open, and Jimin stuck his head in, bright-eyed and already fully dressed, his hair still a little damp from his morning shower. “Hey, you up?”

Jungkook snorted. “Obviously.”

Jimin slipped inside, closing the door behind him, his grin widening. “Good, because we need to figure out who’s going with you to the appointment today.”

Jungkook blinked, his brain catching up to the date. Right. The six-week follow-up with Dr. Ryu. He hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but he hadn’t really thought about it either, too focused on just... surviving each day, getting his footing back, relearning how to breathe without flinching.

He leaned back on his hands, the cool sheets crumpling beneath his palms. “Who’s ‘we’?”

Jimin flopped down onto the edge of the bed, bouncing a little with the impact. “Everyone,” he said, stretching his arms overhead, joints cracking. “Hoseok was already up, and he’s insisting he gets to go because ‘he hasn’t had a turn yet,’” he added, rolling his eyes with a fond, exaggerated sigh.

Jungkook snorted again, his mouth quirking. He could almost picture it—Hoseok leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a bored but pointed look on his face, arguing his case with the same dry, stubborn logic he used when they fought over movie choices.

“And?” Jungkook prompted, eyebrow raised.

Jimin grinned, leaning in a little. “And Yoongi hyung wants to go, too, but he’s got a dance practice this afternoon, and Taehyung’s still half-asleep, and Jin’s pretending he doesn’t care, but he’s already packed his bag.”

That drew a genuine, breathy laugh from Jungkook, his chest lightening, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “So, what, you’re trying to convince me to pick you?”

Jimin’s grin only widened, bright and unrepentant. “Obviously,” he said, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched. “I’m the most fun. And I promise I won’t be overbearing like Jin or hover like Namjoon or stare at the medical equipment like it personally insulted him, like Hoseok.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, shoving him lightly. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Hey,” Jimin said, holding up his hands in mock surrender, “I’m just saying, I’m a great hype man. And you know you’ll need one if that doctor starts talking in medical jargon again.”

Jungkook hesitated, his fingers twisting in the sheets. He could feel the warmth in his chest spreading, a quiet, unspoken gratitude. They hadn’t talked about it explicitly, but the fact that they were all still... trying, still making an effort, still choosing to be here, with him—it meant more than he could put into words.

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice a little rough, a little softer than he meant it to be. “Fine. You can come.”

Jimin’s grin split wide, all teeth and mischief, his eyes bright. “I knew you loved me,” he said, clapping a hand to Jungkook’s shoulder and leaning back, the bed creaking beneath them.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jungkook muttered, fighting back a smile. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“Never,” Jimin said, flashing him a wink before he straightened and turned toward the door. “Come on. Jin’s already grumbling that we’re gonna be late.”

Jungkook sighed, shoving himself off the bed and padding barefoot down the hallway behind him. The voices from the kitchen grew louder, more distinct—the clatter of dishes, the soft hum of the fridge, the steady drip of a pour-over coffee.

Hoseok was leaning against the counter, one long leg crossed over the other, lazily scrolling his phone. Namjoon was at the stove, flipping what looked like an absurd number of pancakes, the warm, sweet smell of syrup curling through the air.

Jin glanced up from the dining table, a glass of water halfway to his lips, his eyes narrowing slightly as they landed on Jungkook. “You’re late,” he said, more habit than complaint, but his gaze softened a fraction when Jungkook smiled back.

“Not my fault,” Jungkook shot back, grabbing a slice of toast from the counter and taking a quick bite. “Jimin wouldn’t stop talking.”

“Hey!” Jimin yelped, slapping him lightly on the back. “I was advocating for you!”

Hoseok glanced up, smirking. “You mean begging.”

“Same thing,” Jimin shot back, leaning over to steal a piece of pancake off the stack Namjoon had just plated.

Jungkook just snorted, the warm, chaotic noise of the kitchen settling something deep in his chest, smoothing out the last of his morning nerves.

The nerves were still there through, a low, persistent hum beneath his skin as he followed Namjoon and Jimin through the narrow alley to Dr. Ryu’s private entrance. Jin trailed just behind, eyes sharp, steps steady, his hand ghosting close to Jungkook’s back without quite touching.

The morning air was cool, and Jungkook tugged his hoodie a little tighter, head ducked, steps careful as they reached the secure door. Namjoon held it open, his broad shoulder blocking the doorway just long enough for Jimin to slip through first, one hand catching Jungkook’s elbow as he passed, a quick, grounding touch. I’m fine. I’m here. I’m staying.

Inside, the air was just as warm as he remembered. Dim, golden light. The soft, round shapes of the furniture. The quiet hum of an air purifier somewhere in the back, like a heartbeat under the steady breath of the room. The receptionist looked up, smiled, and didn’t blink when Jimin handed over Jungkook’s alias card.

“Room Three again,” she said, her voice gentle, eyes kind. “Dr. Ryu will be with you shortly. There’s tea inside if you’d like.”

Jin murmured a quiet thank you, his hand finding Jungkook’s shoulder this time, not pushing, just guiding him into the hallway. Jimin shot him a small, crooked grin over his shoulder, and Namjoon’s quiet, steady presence filled the narrow space behind them as they slipped into the cozy, enclosed space of Room Three.

Jungkook hesitated just inside the door, shoulders stiff. Six weeks of settling had changed him, body and mind. He felt a little more solid, a little less like glass under pressure. But the nerves still flared sometimes, sharp and bright, whispering that this could go wrong. That he could fail.

Jin caught his eye, brow furrowing slightly. He reached out, fingers wrapping gently around Jungkook’s wrist, thumb rubbing a slow, steady line over his pulse.

“Breathe,” he murmured, voice low but firm. “You’re fine. You’re with us.”

Jimin, already sprawled over the small couch, one leg thrown over the arm, just shot him a lopsided grin. “Sit down, Kook. You’re making the air weird.”

Jungkook huffed a small, breathless laugh, tension loosening just a fraction as he sank into the seat beside Jimin. Namjoon chose the chair by the door, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes calm but watchful.

They didn’t wait long.

Dr. Ryu slipped into the room a few minutes later, tall and calm, a faint hint of citrus in the air around him, like he’d just washed his hands. He closed the door quietly behind him, took a moment to settle into the chair opposite them, and gave them all a small, approving nod.

“Jeon Jungkook-ssi,” he said warmly, settling his dark glasses a little higher on his nose. “It’s good to see you again.”

Jungkook swallowed. Nodded. Managed a small, tentative, “You too, seonsaengnim.”

The doctor’s smile widened just a fraction, enough to soften his serious features. He didn’t have a clipboard. No tablet. Just his hands, folded loosely in his lap.

“How have you been feeling?” he asked, voice low and even. “Have the past few weeks been manageable?”

Jungkook hesitated, but Jimin kicked his knee lightly, one eyebrow raised in mock impatience.

“He’s doing better,” Jimin said, tone light but sincere. “He’s still a pain in the ass, but less so.”

Namjoon huffed a small, quiet chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Even Jin’s lips twitched, his hand still wrapped around Jungkook’s wrist, thumb still moving in slow, steady circles.

Dr. Ryu chuckled softly, settling back in his chair. “That’s good to hear.” He tilted his head, gaze still on Jungkook, patient and unhurried. “How about you? How are you really?”

Jungkook hesitated, fingers tightening in the fabric of his hoodie for a second before he let out a long, slow breath.

“Better,” he said, voice low, a little rough. “Still... adjusting. But better.”

The doctor nodded, the slight dip of his chin calm and reassuring. “That’s expected. You’ve been pushing through a significant adjustment period. Six weeks isn’t a long time for the kind of recalibration your body needs, but it’s a good start.”

He reached for the small, slim device on the side table, thumb swiping across the screen to pull up a file.

“I’ve reviewed your recent scans,” he said, tapping a few notes as he spoke. “Your nervous system has started to stabilize. Your response to dominant energy is still hypersensitive, but it’s no longer overloading on minimal exposure. That’s a good sign.”

Jungkook’s shoulders eased a little more. He felt Jin’s grip tighten for a second, a small, silent confirmation.

“But we’ll need to run a few more tests to confirm your progress,” Dr. Ryu continued, rising to his feet and gesturing to the reclined examination seat in the corner. “If you’re up for it.”

Jungkook hesitated, but Namjoon’s hand found his shoulder, warm and steady, a silent reassurance. Jimin was already on his feet, stretching his long limbs with a dramatic yawn.

“C’mon, Kook,” he said, flicking him lightly on the forehead. “Let’s see how much of a hassle you still are.”

Jungkook huffed another breathless laugh, the nerves loosening a fraction more as he let them guide him to the reclined seat, sinking back into the soft, curved cushion, his spine and shoulders slowly relaxing into the gentle curve.

Dr. Ryu dimmed the lights, his calm, steady voice guiding them through the scan, just as he had before. But this time, when he reached the threshold test, Jin stepped forward, his hand slipping to the back of Jungkook’s neck, thumb pressing gently against the hinge of his jaw.

“Breathe for me,” Jin murmured, voice low and sure. “You’re fine, Kook. You’re safe.”

Jungkook’s body responded immediately, muscles loosening, breath slowing, nerves settling into the warm, syrupy drift of subspace. The machine lit up, bright and steady.

Jin’s grip tightened, fingers flexing against his nape. “That’s it,” he whispered, lips close to Jungkook’s ear. “Good boy.”

Jungkook’s chest fluttered, warmth pooling in his bones, and he sank deeper, steadier, safe.

The lights in the exam room brightened slowly, easing them back into full awareness without the harsh shock of fluorescents. Jungkook blinked, breath steady, chest warm and loose, fingers tingling faintly from where Jin had kept his grip firm at the back of his neck.

“Take your time,” Dr. Ryu said, stepping back to give them space. He swiped a few notes into his handheld device, his eyes flicking to the pulse monitors on the walls, the soft blue of the diagnostic readouts glowing behind Jungkook’s head.

Jin’s hand lingered, fingers slowly tracing the shape of Jungkook’s spine, a silent, steadying presence. Jimin leaned against the wall nearby, his arms crossed, mouth quirking into a small, relieved smile. Namjoon was still seated, his broad shoulders relaxed, eyes tracking Jungkook’s breathing like he was keeping time.

Dr. Ryu glanced at the readout one last time before stepping forward again, his expression calm but clearly pleased. “Alright, Jungkook-ssi,” he said, folding his hands together, voice settling into the warm, steady cadence of a professional debrief. “Your scans today look significantly better than six weeks ago.”

Jungkook swallowed, his mouth a little dry, the edges of his mind still soft, pleasantly unhooked. He glanced up, meeting the doctor’s gaze through the slight blur of post-drop warmth.

“The hyperactivity in your sympathetic nervous system has decreased by about 40%, and your parasympathetic baseline has stabilized,” Dr. Ryu continued, sliding a finger along the screen to pull up a more detailed chart. “Your response to controlled Dom energy is still sensitive, but not reactive. That’s a crucial improvement.”

Jin’s hand tightened on his nape, just for a second, before smoothing back down. Jimin shifted his weight, head tilted, his eyes sharper now, less guarded.

“Your drop triggers have also stabilized,” Dr. Ryu added, swiping through a few more data points. “You’re no longer at immediate risk for dynamic compression collapse. The instability we saw during your first scan has significantly reduced, and your overall energy mapping is much smoother.”

Jungkook let out a slow breath, the knot in his chest loosening a little more. He felt Jin’s thumb trace a slow circle at the base of his skull, a silent you’re doing well, just breathe.

“But,” Dr. Ryu continued, his tone shifting just a fraction, more serious now, “I want to be clear about one thing. While you’re out of the immediate danger zone, your body’s baseline needs are still high. This isn’t just a matter of recovery from mismanagement—it’s also a reflection of your natural dynamic profile.”

Jungkook blinked, his mind sharpening a little, curiosity tugging at the edges of his still-floating thoughts.

Dr. Ryu met his gaze, his dark glasses catching the soft light. “You’re a Full-Submission sub,” he said, voice even but firm, “and that comes with unique needs. Full-Submission subs tend to require more frequent and structured subspace settling than other submissive types. This isn’t a flaw or a sign of weakness—it’s simply how your body is wired.”

Jimin’s brows rose slightly, his mouth quirking into a small, thoughtful frown. Namjoon straightened a little, eyes narrowing in quiet consideration. Jin’s grip tightened, the pressure warm and grounding against Jungkook’s skin.

“Most submissives can go days or even weeks between deep subspace drops without significant imbalance,” Dr. Ryu continued, his tone slipping into that measured, patient cadence that came with years of experience. “But Full-Submission subs, especially those who are also praise-responsive, often need much more frequent regulation. This is particularly true for individuals in high-stress, high-stimulation environments—like idol work.”

Jungkook’s stomach twisted slightly, the weight of the truth settling against his ribs, but it didn’t feel like panic this time. Just... acceptance.

Dr. Ryu leaned forward a little, his tone softening. “This means that while your progress is impressive, you should expect to continue settling at least three to four times a week, ideally more on days when you’re performing, filming, or under significant stress.”

Jin’s fingers flexed again, a silent confirmation, and Jimin’s head tipped back, a long, slow exhale slipping from his lips.

“Think of it like maintaining your breathing or keeping your muscles warm before a show,” Dr. Ryu said, his mouth curving into a small, understanding smile. “It’s part of your baseline care, not a temporary recovery phase. You’ll need regular, structured settling for the rest of your life, and that’s not a bad thing. It just means you have to be intentional about it.”

Jungkook’s throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear. Just... a quiet, tentative acceptance. The slow, creeping realization that this didn’t have to be a weakness. That this was just part of who he was.

Dr. Ryu straightened, his hands folding loosely in front of him. “I’ll adjust your care plan accordingly,” he said, nodding once, a small, approving gesture. “You’re doing well, Jungkook-ssi. Keep going. You have the right people around you. You’ll be fine.”

Jungkook let out a slow, shuddering breath, his head dipping forward, Jin’s hand a steady weight at the back of his neck, Jimin’s soft, reassuring grin, and Namjoon’s quiet, unwavering presence a warm, solid thing at his side.

And for the first time in a long, long while, he believed it.

The appointment was over, and the moment the door clicked shut behind them, the tension of the last hour seemed to evaporate. Jungkook exhaled softly, feeling a weight lift from his chest. The consultation had gone well—better than he’d expected. Dr. Ryu’s soft-spoken clarity had grounded him, given him answers, but most of all, a sense of control. They’d discussed his scans, his body’s responses, and his overall health. While he was technically out of the danger zone, it wasn’t over yet.

Jimin, Namjoon, and Jin walked out beside him, the quiet hum of the clinic’s hallway slowly fading behind them. They moved down the narrow corridor toward the exit, the subdued lighting casting long shadows on the walls.

Jin pulled his phone out as they passed the small waiting area near the front door. A few people were sitting nearby, but he didn’t think much of it until the flash caught his eye. He glanced at the people quickly, the faintest flicker of uncertainty in the air. Had someone just taken a picture?

He turned his head, meeting Jungkook’s gaze. Jungkook looked lost in thought, still processing the conversation with Dr. Ryu, but Jin’s suspicion lingered.

“Did you see that?” Jin murmured quietly to Namjoon, who had been walking at the front of the group.

Namjoon’s lips tightened, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled out his own phone, making sure to check the street behind them as they stepped out into the crisp afternoon. He gave the group a subtle nod, signaling that they should move on.

They didn’t say much else as they walked toward the waiting car, the weight of the appointment still fresh in the air between them. They’d heard the doctor’s warnings, and they were all acutely aware of what was at stake for Jungkook, but there was something else in the air now—a quiet, shared understanding of what they’d need to do going forward.

When they reached the car, Jin casually mentioned the incident in the clinic’s waiting area. “Someone might’ve taken a picture of us in the lobby. Just a heads-up.”

Jimin paused, raising an eyebrow. “Not sure it matters. We’re all here for a reason.”

Jin shrugged. “Maybe. But you know how things go. Just... keep an eye out.”

Later that night, after a long silence filled with their own thoughts, they sat around the dorm’s common room. Taehyung was sprawled out on the couch, flicking through a playlist, while Hoseok leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room. No one had spoken much about the appointment, but the unease from the waiting room lingered.

“It’s a good thing we got the all-clear today,” Jin said lightly, breaking the quiet. He tossed his phone onto the coffee table and leaned back into his seat. “But I swear, I felt like someone was taking pictures of us when we left the clinic.”

Jimin looked up from his phone. “Really? That’s weird.”

Jin shrugged. “Could’ve been nothing. But just in case, let’s keep it low-key for a while. Not like we’re strangers to rumors.”

“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” Taehyung said from the couch. He seemed nonchalant, but there was a flicker of concern in his gaze. “We know the drill.”

They all nodded. The tension from the doctor’s appointment slowly faded as they settled back into their usual rhythms. But in the back of their minds, the possibility of outside eyes on their dynamic remained—lingering like an invisible weight they couldn’t shake off.

The next morning, the steady hum of the dorm’s early bustle was interrupted by the shrill ring of Namjoon's phone. His hand brushed over the nightstand, still half-dazed from the late night rehearsal, and squinted at the screen. It was one of their Hybe managers.

"Hyung, you good?" Jimin’s voice floated from the kitchen, where he was making his usual attempt at breakfast. It wasn't quite a full conversation until the phone call registered.

Namjoon pressed the answer button, trying to mask the sleep still thick in his voice. “Hello?”

“Namjoon-ssi, it’s Manager Park. We need you and the rest of the members down at the company building in about an hour. It’s urgent. I’ll text you the details. Don’t keep us waiting.”

The urgency in the manager’s tone made Namjoon sit up straighter. “What’s going on?”

There was a brief pause on the other end, the sound of papers shuffling before the manager answered. “Just… get everyone down here. I’ll explain when you arrive.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving a tension that hung in the air long after the click. Namjoon let the phone drop onto the bed, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Urgent?” Jimin repeated from the kitchen, his voice now laced with curiosity. “Should I go with you guys?”

“Yeah, I think we all need to go,” Namjoon said, standing and stretching. He was already moving into a more focused state, sensing the weight of something important hanging over them. “Wake the others up. We need to be out of here in the next fifteen minutes.”

“Got it!” Jimin’s voice was a little too chipper for the gravity of the situation, but it was just Jimin’s way of staying upbeat under pressure.

By the time the rest of the members were up and moving, a sense of collective urgency buzzed through the air. They were used to last-minute schedules and sudden meetings, but this felt different. There was no clear reason behind the meeting—just a vague mention of “urgent,” and that was enough to have everyone scrambling.

Taehyung was the last to throw on a jacket, cursing softly as he fumbled for his shoes, his mind racing with possibilities. Jin barely looked up as he adjusted his tie, his expression unreadable, but his pace was quick, sharp—an indication he wasn’t about to let the mystery unnerve him. Jungkook, still adjusting to the rhythm of the morning, couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. His mind wandered back to the appointment, to Dr. Ryu’s words, his body’s responses... but he pushed those thoughts away. He had no time for them now.

As they filtered out of the dorm, Yoongi’s car waiting just outside, the atmosphere was tense. No one spoke at first; it was the quiet buzz of anticipation that filled the space between them.

“I’ll drive,” Namjoon said firmly as he approached the car, taking the wheel. His leadership instinct had kicked in automatically.

The ride to the company building was silent, save for the low hum of the car and the occasional murmur of someone shifting in their seat. When they arrived, the glass doors of the Hybe building slid open, spilling bright morning light into the lobby as the group stepped inside. The air was cooler here, tinged with the crisp, faintly sterile scent of filtered air and polished tile. Namjoon took the lead, his broad shoulders cutting a steady path through the bustling crowd of trainees, staff, and managers moving with purpose around them.

They passed a cluster of stylists wheeling garment racks toward the elevators, a group of assistants huddled over coffee and laptops, and a line of trainees practicing tight, whispered choreography near the side wall. The usual controlled chaos. But today, it felt sharper—more pointed. More eyes flicked in their direction, whispers trailing in their wake. Namjoon’s jaw tightened. Jimin’s fingers tapped an anxious, irregular rhythm against his thigh.

Jungkook followed a step behind, head ducked, hands buried in his hoodie pockets. Jin’s shoulder brushed his briefly as they moved toward the escalators, a silent, grounding touch. Neither said anything.

Up the escalators, the air seemed to grow heavier. The upper floors were quieter, more polished, the domain of executives, producers, and PR teams. Here, the whispers felt sharper, like the snap of thin wires. The harsh tap of heels on polished floors followed them as they reached the glass-walled meeting room at the end of the hallway.

Their manager, along with two department heads and a member of the PR team, were already seated inside, papers and tablets arranged neatly before them. The doors swung shut behind them, sealing the tension into the room.

On the long, polished glass table, a single tablet sat in the center, angled just enough for them to see the screen. A blown-up, grainy photo. Four familiar figures emerging from a side door into the cool evening air—Jungkook, Namjoon, Jimin, and Jin. The clinic’s discreet signage barely visible in the background, mostly obscured by Jungkook’s hunched shoulders and Namjoon’s protective stance.

It was a sloppy shot, likely taken in a rush, the kind of quick snap a fan might capture without time to frame or adjust settings. But it was clear enough to recognize them. Clear enough to ignite a small corner of the internet.

“Do you know what this is?” Manager Park’s voice cut through the room, low and tight. He didn’t wait for an answer, just tapped the screen to zoom in on the clinic’s nameplate, the text sharpening into crisp gold letters.

“You went to a third-party dynamic specialist,” he continued, his voice gaining a sharper edge. “Without consulting us. Without using any of our approved, in-house staff. You went behind our backs.”

A second manager leaned forward, fingers laced tightly together. “Do you have any idea what kind of risk this poses? Not just for the group’s image, but for the company as a whole? This picture has been shared over ten thousand times in the last twelve hours. Fans are speculating. Some of them have already figured out what kind of clinic this is.”

Another sharp breath, the harsh click of manicured nails against the table as one of the PR staff leaned in. “We have worked for years to craft the right dynamic branding for this group. To build an image that appeals to the widest possible audience. And now, because of this—” she gestured sharply at the screen, her nails catching the light, “—we have to do damage control. Again.”

The first manager picked up, voice hardening. “And don’t think for a second we don’t know why you went to a private specialist. You went because of him.” His eyes cut to Jungkook, sharp, assessing. “Because of this new… designation. This reclassification. Do you have any idea how damaging that could be if it gets out?”

The room fell silent, the air thick with unsaid accusations, unspoken anger. Jungkook felt the weight of it settling into his bones, a dull, heavy pressure that made his pulse thrum in his temples. He didn’t move, didn’t shift his stance, just kept his eyes fixed on a point somewhere near the corner of the table, letting the words wash over him without latching on.

“Do you have any idea how bad this looks for us?” the second manager pressed, voice sharper now, nearly cracking under the strain. “It’s not just that you broke protocol. It’s that you’ve now brought attention to a mistake we made years ago—a mistake that could have been quietly managed if you hadn’t gone outside the company. You were tested before you were legally of age. That’s a liability. A major one.”

Another pause. The sound of papers rustling, a tablet screen flashing back to standby.

“We will figure this out,” Manager Park said finally, his tone like the slow grind of metal on metal. “But you all need to understand something very clearly. If this story gets out, if this designation change becomes public knowledge, it will not just affect Jungkook. It will affect the entire group. Your contracts, your sponsorships, your reputation. Everything.”

Silence fell, thicker this time. More oppressive. Jungkook’s pulse drummed low in his ears, his muscles pulled tight like wires. The only sound in the room was the faint hum of the air conditioning, a cold, unfeeling whisper against the back of his neck.

The silence stretched, pressing down on them, the weight of the company’s judgment settling like concrete over their shoulders. Jimin’s jaw clenched, his fingers curled tightly against the armrest of his chair. His eyes were locked on the grainy image still glowing on the tablet in the center of the table, the implications hitting him in sharp, stinging waves.

“What are you trying to say?” Hoseok’s voice cut through the quiet, his usually slow, measured tone sharper now, edged with a rare, simmering heat. His gaze flicked to the managers, eyes narrowed, shoulders tense beneath his jacket. “Are you saying we should’ve just let him keep burning out? That we should’ve ignored the problem until it became something you couldn’t sweep under the rug anymore?”

A few heads turned, the air in the room sharpening, static building in the small, enclosed space. One of the PR staff shifted in her chair, manicured fingers twisting her tablet case, but she didn’t interrupt.

Taehyung’s hand tightened where it rested on the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening. “We’re a group,” he bit out, his voice low but crackling with barely contained frustration. “We look out for each other. If you think we’re just going to sit back and—”

“Enough.” Namjoon’s voice cut through the rising tension, low and firm, the kind of quiet command that cut straight to the bone. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t snap, but the room fell still, the other members catching themselves, shoulders dropping fractionally as the leader’s steady presence pulled them back from the edge.

He didn’t break eye contact with their manager, his expression unreadable, but the set of his jaw, the slow, controlled rise and fall of his chest, spoke volumes.

A beat of silence. Then Manager Park leaned back in his chair, a small, thin smile curling at the corner of his mouth, eyes gleaming behind thin-rimmed glasses. “I’m glad to see you’re so… invested in each other’s well-being,” he said, his tone light, almost mocking, like a teacher humoring a particularly unruly class. “But perhaps you should consider the bigger picture. This isn’t just about one of you. It’s about all of you. It’s about the brand we’ve built together. The trust we’ve cultivated with the public. The image we’ve carefully maintained for years.”

He paused, tapping his fingers lightly against the polished glass, the soft, rhythmic click filling the space. “And if that image starts to fracture, if the public begins to question the narrative we’ve crafted—well, let’s just say it’s not just contracts and sponsorships that might be affected.”

His eyes flicked to Jungkook, lingering a second too long, a thinly veiled threat simmering just beneath the surface of his gaze. “Careers are fragile things. As I’m sure you all understand.”

Jimin’s teeth clicked together, his fingers curling tighter, but Namjoon’s hand found his shoulder, a quiet, grounding pressure that pulled him back, kept him seated, kept him silent.

Manager Park’s smile widened a fraction, satisfied. He shifted his gaze back to the group as a whole, fingers still drumming lightly against the tabletop. “We will, of course, be doing damage control. It’s already in motion. But moving forward, there will be some changes. Clearly, we’ve given you too much freedom. Too much room to maneuver outside the lines we’ve drawn.”

Another pause, another slow, satisfied breath as he let the words sink in. “So, we will be assigning one of our in-house dynamic advisors to monitor you more closely. To ensure you’re following the protocols we established when this group debuted. That means more check-ins, more oversight, and a stricter adherence to the dynamic presentations we’ve built for each of you. No more unsanctioned appointments. No more off-the-record visits to third-party clinics. Understood?”

Silence. Heavy. Pressed against the walls, thick in their throats, pulling tight at the backs of their necks.

Jungkook still hadn’t moved, his head ducked, eyes fixed somewhere near the corner of the table. He felt the pressure of the others’ gazes, the tight, simmering frustration radiating off them in waves, but he didn’t lift his head, didn’t speak, just breathed. In. Out. Let the words wash over him, sink into his bones, settle like silt at the bottom of a deep, still lake.

Manager Park leaned back, straightened his tie, and flicked a glance at his colleagues, the small, satisfied smile still clinging to his lips. “Alright,” he said, voice smooth, almost cheerful now. “That will be all for now. Expect a more detailed plan in your inboxes by the end of the day. You’re dismissed.”

The door clicked shut behind them, the glass walls rattling faintly in the sudden vacuum of silence that filled the room.

The car was too small. Too close. Too quiet.

Jungkook could feel the press of every breath, the sharp edge of each inhale and exhale, like the air had turned to glass, shivering and brittle. The engine’s low rumble felt like a second heartbeat beneath the floor, rattling through the bones of his feet, up his legs, settling somewhere behind his ribs, tight and raw.

Yoongi sat beside him, arms folded, jaw set, eyes locked on the blur of buildings outside the tinted windows. Taehyung’s leg bounced, restless and tight, his hands twisted in his lap, knuckles bone-white against the dark fabric of his jeans. Hoseok had his head leaned back against the headrest, eyes closed but mouth a thin, unyielding line, every breath a tight, controlled exhale.

Jimin was the first to try, the first to crack the silence, his voice a rough whisper. “I can’t believe—”

“Hold it.” Namjoon’s voice cut through the cramped, humming air, low and steady from the front seat. Not sharp, but final. The kind of tone that pulled muscles taut, tightened throats, snapped tongues back behind clenched teeth.

They fell silent again, the only sound the soft, mechanical click of the turn signal as they merged onto a side street, the dark, narrow lanes of Seoul slipping past in flashes of neon and passing headlights. Jungkook’s pulse felt thin, stretched, caught in the back of his throat. He swallowed once. Twice. Tried to breathe, but the air felt thick, dense, pressing against the backs of his eyes, the base of his skull.

He didn’t look at anyone. Just stared at the leather grain of the seat in front of him, the faint scuffs and creases, the shallow, ghosted imprints of a thousand other rides, other days, other moments that hadn’t felt like this.

He hadn’t meant to drag them into this. Hadn’t meant to slip the noose around all their necks.

When they pulled up in front of the dorm, the car doors opened in quick, sharp succession, the members spilling out onto the street, movements jerky, hands shoved into pockets, shoulders tight and high. They filed into the building without a word, their footsteps muffled against the thin, worn carpet of the stairwell, the creak and groan of the old building swallowing their breaths as they climbed, floors ticking by like the steady swing of a pendulum.

The door clicked shut behind them, the lock catching with a soft, final snick, and the silence cracked wide open.

“They can’t do this,” Jimin snapped, the words tearing out of him like something broken, his hands fisted at his sides, jaw clenched so tightly his temples pulsed. “They can’t just—just treat us like we’re—like we’re—”

“Handlers,” Hoseok cut in, his voice low, bitter, the word hitting the air like a dropped glass, sharp and shattering. He crossed his arms over his chest, eyes dark, throat working around the tight, ugly knot of something that tasted like betrayal. “That’s what their ‘dynamic advisors’ are.”

Taehyung kicked the edge of the coffee table, the glass shivering, a low, dangerous rattle echoing through the small, crowded space. “And what the hell was that?” he spat, his eyes bright, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “What was that little ‘careers are fragile things’ line? Was that supposed to be a warning? A threat?”

Yoongi didn’t say anything, just stood near the window, hands on his hips, eyes dark, breath coming too fast, too hard, shoulders drawn tight beneath his jacket.

Jungkook stood near the door, his back pressed against the wall, the cool, chipped plaster biting into his shoulder blades. He felt small. Thin. Like a shadow cast too long against the floor, the edges of his form fraying, smudging, coming undone.

This was his fault. He’d done this. He’d brought this on them. Pulled the walls in tighter, tightened the leash around all their throats. If he’d just—if he hadn’t—

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them, soft and cracked, a thin, wavering line against the rising tide of anger and frustration filling the room.

Everyone froze.

Jimin whipped around, eyes wide, mouth parting, the raw edge of something like disbelief pulling at his brow. “What?” he said, voice tight, almost a gasp. “What the hell are you sorry for?”

Jungkook’s throat felt tight, dry, his tongue thick and clumsy against the roof of his mouth. “I just—I didn’t mean to—if I hadn’t—”

“No.” Yoongi’s voice cut in, sharp, a flash of steel, his head snapping around, eyes locking on Jungkook’s, dark and fierce. “Don’t. Don’t you dare apologize for this. This isn’t your fault. This is them. This is them trying to control us, trying to pull the strings they think they’ve tied around our necks. This isn’t you.”

Hoseok exhaled, a low, bitter laugh escaping his throat as he looked away, fingers curling and uncurling against his sleeves. “Don’t let them put that on you, Kook-ah. That’s exactly what they want. They want you to feel guilty, to feel small, so you stay quiet, stay controllable. Don’t give them that.”

Taehyung’s shoulders dropped, some of the fire draining out of him, replaced by a quieter, more focused kind of anger. He glanced at Jungkook, his jaw working, the hard edge of his expression softening just a fraction. “Hoseok’s right. This isn’t you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jungkook looked down, his chest tight, the breath shivering in his throat, his heart a thin, stuttering line against his ribs. He felt the weight of their eyes on him, the raw, pulsing pressure of their anger, their frustration, their loyalty, and for a second, he couldn’t breathe, the room tilting around him, the walls too close, too tight, the air too thin.

But he forced himself to look up, to meet their eyes, to breathe past the tightness in his throat, to swallow the fear, the guilt, the shame.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time, but steadier, his voice a thin, trembling thread stretched across the silence. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“Don’t.” Namjoon’s voice, low, steady, pulling them all back, grounding the room, the pack, the pulse of their anger, their fear. “We’ll deal with this. Together. Like we always do.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, but not empty. Just full. Full of too many things, too many feelings, too much weight to put into words.

They didn’t say anything else. Just breathed. Together. In the tight, too-warm space of the living room, the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen the only sound between them, the air settling, thick and dense, pulling them close, keeping them whole.

Chapter Text

The announcement came on a Monday morning. Dropped into their group chat like a hand grenade with the pin already pulled.

[Manager Park]: 🚨 Meeting at 10. New comeback concept briefing. 🚨

[Manager Park]: Be ready. Visuals locked. Roles assigned. Tight leash this round.

The dorm buzzed with low-grade static all morning. Coffee was poured and repoured until it tasted like burnt earth. Toast was made and left uneaten on the counter. No one said it out loud, but they all felt it—like the low, thrumming tension before a storm, the kind that raises the hairs on the back of your neck, that catches in the throat and thickens the air. They’d been bracing for it since the car ride back from the last meeting. Since the veiled threats and corporate smiles.

Since the leash snapped tight.

They filed into the company building just before ten, sunglasses on, shoulders squared, the hum of Seoul’s morning rush still thrumming through their bones. The lobby air was cold, over-filtered, the polished floors throwing back the sharp click of their boots as they crossed to the escalators. Staff bustled around them, heads bowed over tablets and clipboards, barely glancing up as the seven of them passed, a ripple of tension cutting through the organized chaos.

The conference room was bright and cold, lit too harshly by white overheads that gleamed against glass walls and chrome fixtures. The air was sharp with the scent of coffee, floor polish, and too much ambition. Every surface gleamed like teeth. Every staff member smiled like they were selling something dangerous.

Jungkook dropped into his chair, the leather cool against his back, the edge of the table pressing into his forearms. His pulse felt thin, stretched, like the skin around his wrists had grown too tight. He caught the brief flicker of Jimin’s eyes, the subtle set of Taehyung’s jaw, the way Hoseok’s fingers tapped once, twice, before stilling against his thigh.

The monitors flickered to life. The first slide hit like a hammer.

New Concept: Untouchable Power.

Visuals: Dark, Dominant, Dangerous.

Target Emotional Impact: Awe. Fear. Lust.

Jungkook’s gut twisted. Hot and cold all at once. He pressed his palms harder against his thighs, willing his body to stay still, to stay quiet. He felt the tight, buzzing line of tension shoot down his spine, catch in his throat, tighten his pulse into something thin and sharp and unsteady.

The slides clicked past, each one a carefully curated nightmare. Photos flooded the screen. References. Moodboards. Concept poses.

Every image was a version of themselves they were supposed to become. Cold eyes. Sharp suits. Leather stretched over muscle. Bodies molded into violence and control.

Every few slides, the dynamic advisor stepped forward, her voice slick and careful, her smile a thin, painted line. “Remember, stage energy is perception. Not reality.” She gestured to a slide of Jin, eyes sharp and cold, jaw set in a brutal line. “You must embody what the fans crave, even if it’s outside your personal dynamic.” The next slide showed Taehyung, caught mid-roar, teeth bared, every muscle locked and straining. “Masking is professionalism.”

Jungkook’s skin felt too tight, his bones too close to the surface, his breath a thin, shallow thing that scraped against his lungs.

Then the real knife dropped.

Assigned Persona Roles:

Namjoon: Precision Leader. Alpha Command.

Yoongi: Silent Protector. Hypermasculine Wall.

Jimin: Unstable Charmer. Wild Card Switch.

Jin: Ruthless Strategist. Dom Precision.

Hoseok: Icy Seducer. Unreachable Beauty.

Taehyung: Rebellious Firebrand. Loud Defiance.

Jungkook: Aloof Dominant. Cold Seduction.

He felt it hit somewhere low in his chest, like stepping into a hole he hadn’t seen.

He was supposed to wear control like a second skin. He was supposed to project danger like breathing. He was supposed to deny everything he had finally started letting himself need.

Across the table, Taehyung’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching, his fingers white-knuckled around the edge of the table. Jin’s hands were fists in his lap, the fine bones of his wrists standing out against pale skin. Yoongi’s face stayed neutral, his foot tapping an uneven rhythm against the floor. Hoseok didn’t move at all, only his eyes flicked once toward Jungkook, quick and sharp, something bitter and tight caught in the hard set of his jaw.

Hybe’s dynamic advisor leaned forward, her voice syrupy, the smile on her lips thin and sharp. “We’re not saying you have to change your real dynamic, of course. Just... control the narrative.” She let the words hang in the air, thick and heavy, before adding, “It’s about survival.”

Jungkook smiled. He felt it happen. Felt the skin around his mouth stretch too tight, felt the sick, floating buzz under his skin start to hum louder, felt his pulse thin and fast against the cage of his ribs.

He glanced down at his hands, curled tight against his thighs, the skin pale and bloodless around his knuckles. He breathed in, slow and deep, felt the air catch in his chest, cold and sharp, the metallic taste of adrenaline thick on his tongue.

It’s about survival.

He let the words echo through his head, over and over, until they lost all meaning, until they felt like a brand, searing hot and unrelenting against the thin, vulnerable line of his spine.

By the time the meeting ended, his hands were numb.

The elevator ride  to the practice rooms was quieter than the grave. No one wanted to be the first to say it out loud: We’re fucked.

Practice that afternoon hit like a hammer. They were drilled like soldiers. Sharp, predatory choreography. Partner lifts that bruised hips and knees. Eye contact so intense it left Jungkook’s skin raw.

The choreographer barked orders from behind mirrored walls: "Predators. Not prey. OWN the space."

Jungkook tried. God, he tried.

He straightened his spine. Hardened his gaze. Sharpened every movement like a blade.

But every time Namjoon corrected his posture, every time Jin dragged his eyes down his body, assessing form, every time Taehyung threw an aggressive, staged punch too close to his face, His chest seized a little tighter. His breathing snagged a little harder.

Dynamic Compression Syndrome didn’t care about stage personas. His body was slipping out from under him. Soft. Needy. Reaching for settling that wasn’t allowed to exist here.

He caught his reflection in the mirror once, Chest heaving. Hands trembling at his sides. Eyes glazed, not cold.

Not dangerous. Not dominant. Just, Wrong. "Focus, Kook!" the choreographer snapped, clapping loud enough to jolt him. He snapped upright automatically. Head bowed slightly.

Deferential. Submissive. Exactly the opposite of what they were paying him to be.

Taehyung drifted closer during a water break, nudging his knee lightly under the guise of stretching. "You’re floating," he whispered, low and sharp. Jungkook shook his head. "I'm fine," he rasped. "You’re not." Taehyung’s eyes darkened. "You need to come down."

But they didn’t have time. Schedules waited. Cameras waited. Hybe waited.

There was no space for soft hands and low voices and breath synchronized to settling. Not here. Not now.

They finished the rehearsal bruised and breathless. No one spoke in the van. No one had to.

Jungkook slumped against the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of neon. Inside his chest, a coil of panic and exhaustion twisted tighter.

They wanted him untouchable. They wanted him dominant. They wanted him perfect. And if he shattered underneath it, They wouldn’t blink.

The set was too hot. Lights blaring from overhead rigs. Fog machines leaking mist across the floor. Cameras circling like vultures.

The leather jackets and heavy boots they'd been styled in trapped every breath of heat against their skin, turning every movement into a slow crawl through molasses.

They were halfway through the third take of the "power scene" when it happened. The director barked cues through a megaphone from his perch behind the monitors: "More dominance!" "More threat!" "You’re predators, not schoolboys, move like it!"

Jungkook bit down on the floaty buzz in his chest and snapped into position, eyes locked forward, trying to look cold and untouchable. He didn’t see it coming. None of them did.

One second, Jimin was hitting his marks, mouth curled into a smirk sharp enough to cut. The next, He missed a step. Stumbled. Fell.

Not a graceful fall. Not a choreographed slide. A collapse. Legs folding under him like he’d been unplugged.

The music screeched to a halt. Staff shouted. Someone knocked over a light stand. The group jolted apart, instinct kicking faster than thought.

Namjoon reached him first, sliding to his knees beside Jimin’s crumpled form. Hands firm. Voice calm. "Min, look at me. Hey. You’re okay."

Jimin blinked up at him, dazed. Sweat pouring down his temples. Chest heaving like he’d sprinted miles. Mouth working soundlessly for a second before he rasped, "I’m—" His voice cracked. His body sagged again.

Jin crouched beside them, peeling off Jimin’s jacket, pressing cool hands to the back of his neck. Yoongi shoved a water bottle into his hand. Hoseok hovered nearby, lips pressed into a hard line.

Jungkook stayed frozen. Rooted to the spot. Watching. Watching how fast the mask cracked when the body couldn’t keep pretending anymore. Watching how fast the staff’s fake smiles dropped into tight, disapproving frowns. Watching how quickly concern shifted to annoyance.

"You okay to keep going?" the director barked, impatient now. Not really a question. Not really caring about the answer.

Namjoon straightened slowly, broad body shielding Jimin from the worst of the lights, the worst of the stares. "No," he said, voice flat. "We need ten."

The director scowled. The stylist sighed. Someone near the monitors muttered, "Idols these days... too sensitive."

Jungkook flinched like he'd been slapped.

Jimin was helped off set, wrapped in towels, pushed into a folding chair with a fan blasting straight into his face.

They resumed filming. Because they had to. Because schedules didn’t care about bruised bodies and cracked heads. Because Hybe didn’t care how many times they broke as long as they looked good doing it.

Jungkook moved on autopilot. Hit his marks. Held his poses. Gritted his teeth against the growing tremble in his hands.

But inside, Something shifted.

If Jimin, bright, stubborn, kinetic Jimin, could fold under the weight of it all, How long could he last?

The static in his chest buzzed louder. His muscles locked tighter. The floor tilted under his boots, just slightly. The world blurred at the edges, colors too sharp, sounds too distant.

Taehyung bumped his shoulder lightly between takes, trying to ground him. A touch that barely registered. A breath of kindness in a storm that was pulling him under faster than he could scramble free.

He should say something. He should call it. He should ask for help. But the cameras were rolling. The directors were shouting. Hybe was watching.

The ride back to the dorm was silent.

Jimin slept crumpled against the van window, mouth slightly open, the bruises on his elbows stark against his pale skin. Hoseok sat stiffly, earbuds jammed in so deep it looked painful. Jin stared out the window, arms crossed tight over his chest, leg bouncing in a sharp, angry rhythm. Namjoon didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched them all in the rearview mirror with steady, unreadable eyes.

Jungkook kept his gaze locked on his own lap. If he looked up, if he met anyone’s eyes, he knew he’d shatter. He could feel it building inside him already, the static hum under his ribs, the floaty edges creeping up behind his vision.

The van bumped over a pothole. Jungkook flinched. Nobody commented.

When they got back, the dorm lights were dimmed low. The air inside was thick and heavy, like a thunderstorm was gathering between the walls.

Jimin mumbled something about needing a shower and vanished down the hall. Hoseok and Jin followed, shoulders brushing as they moved. Yoongi slumped onto the couch and pulled out his phone, thumb idly scrolling through something he wasn't seeing. Namjoon lingered by the door, arms folded, quiet.

Jungkook hesitated at the edge of the living room, unsure where to go, unsure how to hold himself upright now that the cameras were gone and nothing was pretending to be okay anymore. The dorm felt too small, the walls pressing in, the air thin and stale.

A hand caught his wrist. Gentle. Firm. Calluses against his skin, grounding him before he could drift too far. He looked up into Taehyung’s face—open, tired, kind in a way that cut deeper than any sharpness could.

“Come on.” Taehyung’s voice was low, steady, like he’d already made up his mind. “Walk with me.”

No waiting for permission. Just a light tug, a silent command, and Jungkook let himself be led down the hall, into the far room they barely used for anything but dumping laundry and hiding from the world when it got too loud.

Taehyung closed the door behind them, softly. No lock. No pressure. Just the quiet click of the latch, the thin, dusty light from the streetlamp outside filtering through the crooked blinds.

They sat on the floor, backs against the bed frame, legs stretched out. For a long minute, neither of them spoke. Just breathed. Listened to the faint hum of the AC rattling in the vents. The muffled clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

Taehyung shifted, the bed frame creaking behind him. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his thigh, a nervous tic he probably didn’t even notice. Then, finally, he said, “You’re slipping.”

Not a question. Just a fact, dropped into the space between them like a stone into still water.

Jungkook pressed his forehead against his drawn-up knees. The press of bone against skin, the slight sting, felt real. Grounding. “I know.”

Silence again. Heavy, but not crushing. More like... invitation. A chance to crack, if he wanted it.

Taehyung let out a slow breath, the kind that sounded like it hurt a little on the way out. “You think you’re failing.”

Jungkook’s stomach twisted. The words hit too close, too raw, like a fist to a bruise that hadn’t even begun to heal. He swallowed, his throat tight.

“I am,” he rasped, voice low and rough against the tightness in his chest. “They want something from me I can’t give. I’m supposed to be—” He broke off, waved a hand vaguely, the motion sharp and useless. “Dominant. Cold. In control. And instead, I’m—” The word caught in his throat, bitter and burning.

Taehyung’s head thudded back against the frame, his fingers stilling against his thigh. His jaw clenched, the muscle jumping. “A sub,” he finished for him.

Jungkook flinched, the word hitting too sharp, too blunt. He closed his eyes, felt the thin sheen of sweat on his palms, the trembling in his fingers he couldn’t quite suppress.

“It’s not a flaw,” Taehyung said, voice low but fierce, like he was daring Jungkook to disagree. “It’s not a weakness.”

A beat. The AC clicked off, leaving the room too quiet, too heavy. Taehyung exhaled, a bitter, humorless sound. “I knew before we debuted that being a sub idol would be hell. Everyone told me. My family. My old friends. Even the company warned me.” He barked a short, sharp laugh. “‘Are you sure you’re suited for this?’ ‘You’ll have to work twice as hard to be taken seriously.’” The words came out with a sharp edge, like they’d been chewed over a thousand times, ground down to something jagged.

Jungkook finally glanced up. Taehyung wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t pretending. Just... there. Solid in his tiredness. Whole in his quiet battle scars.

“It’s easier if you’re neutral,” Taehyung said, his eyes unfocused, staring at a crack in the wall. “Or dominant-coded. Or if you can fake it.” A pause. His fingers started tapping again, the rhythm sharp and uneven. “But if you’re a sub? And you can’t hide it?” He huffed, jaw clenching. “You’re prey.”

The word hung between them, thick and heavy, sticking to the damp walls, settling into the thin, dusty carpet.

Jungkook’s throat burned. He looked away, blinking hard against the sudden prick of heat behind his eyes. The words felt like a slap, like a reminder of every sideways glance, every whispered rumor, every unsaid thing that had sunk claws into his skin over the years.

Taehyung nudged his knee, a small, grounding touch, two fingers pressing lightly against his shin. “But you’re not broken,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You’re not failing. You’re just... here.”

A pause.

“They are,” Taehyung added, voice fierce now, his eyes sharp in the half-dark. “It’s the company. It’s the industry. It’s the fucking narrative they’re trying to sell. Not you.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Jungkook let his head drop back against the bed frame, eyes closing against the flicker of light from the blinds, the thin, cutting brightness that felt like a spotlight, like exposure.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, the words barely making it past the tightness in his throat, the bitter, metallic taste of fear.

Taehyung’s hand lingered against his knee for a second longer, warm and steady, before pulling back. “You’re doing it,”he said simply, his voice rough, his breath coming slow and heavy. “One fucking awful day at a time.”

They sat there in the dim room for a long time after that. Breathing. Existing. Shoulder to shoulder. No pressure. No judgment. Just, here.

The living room felt too small. The air was thick, the heat of too many bodies crammed into one space clinging to the walls like damp, stubborn smoke. Jungkook hugged his knees to his chest, the rough weave of his hoodie pressing against his forearms. The curve of his spine ached against the armrest of the couch, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. If he shifted, he felt like he might come apart.

Someone kicked a pillow across the floor, the soft thud breaking the heavy quiet. Hoseok, long legs stretched out in front of him, his jaw sharp, eyes unfocused. He huffed a sharp breath, head tipping back against the couch. “I’m not—” He paused, rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I’m not whatever the hell they think I am.”

Jimin made a rough, disbelieving sound and dropped onto the couch, his limbs sprawling like he’d given up trying to hold himself together. “Yeah? Join the club.” He dragged a hand down his face, fingers catching on the curve of his cheekbone. “Every time they call me a ‘wild card,’ I feel like I’m in some shitty action movie.” He flopped his arm over his face, voice muffled against his sleeve. “Like, I get it. I have energy. I’m loud. Whatever. That’s not... that’s not all I am.”

Yoongi sat on the floor, one knee pulled up, his other leg stretched out in front of him, his fingers plucking at the frayed hem of his jeans. “They just... they look at you, and they pick a word, and that’s it. Like you’re a... a...”

“A mascot,” Jin cut in, arms crossed tight over his chest, shoulders pulled up around his ears. He stood against the kitchen counter, head tipped back, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. “They pick a mask and they slap it on you, and then you’re stuck with it. Forever.”

Hoseok’s jaw flexed, teeth clicking together. “It’s bullshit,” he muttered, head rolling against the couch back. “They don’t even know me.”

No one argued.

Taehyung’s foot bounced against the hardwood, a quick, agitated rhythm that made the air feel tighter, more brittle. He let out a sharp, frustrated breath, fingers digging into the edge of his hoodie. “They said it didn’t matter,” he muttered, his voice rough, eyes locked somewhere over Jungkook’s shoulder. “That being a sub wasn’t a problem. But then they hand me ‘fierce’ and ‘firebrand’ and act like it’s a compliment.” His foot stilled, the echo of it vibrating up through the floor. “What the hell is that?”

Jungkook pressed his face against his knees, breathed in the warm, stale scent of his own skin. His pulse thudded slow and heavy in his throat, a dull, rhythmic pressure. He couldn’t look up. Couldn’t let them see the raw, open ache on his face.

Yoongi twisted the loose thread around his finger, tighter and tighter until his fingertip went white. “I’m not—” He cut off, jaw clenching, eyes fixed on the spot where the thread strained and frayed. He let out a rough, humorless laugh. “They think because I’m... big, I should be quiet. Like that’s all there is to me.” His jaw worked, his thumb rubbing hard over the calluses on his other hand. “Like I can’t be—” He broke off again, exhaled hard. “Whatever. It’s stupid.”

Jimin’s arm fell to his side, his head tipping back with a low, shaky laugh. “Stupid’s a nice way to put it.” His fingers flexed against the beanbag, restless, twitching. “It’s like... I don’t know. Like they want us to be... easier to sell.”

No one responded, but the silence felt tighter, more fragile, the weight of it pressing in on all sides.

Namjoon’s head hung low, his broad shoulders curved, fingers loosely knotted over his knees. His mouth opened, closed. He swallowed, ran a hand over his face, the rasp of calloused fingers against stubble barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner. “They picked our masks,” he said, voice rough, tired, “and they locked them in place before they even knew us.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and echoing. The room felt too small again, the air too hot, too tight, too close.

Jungkook squeezed his arms tighter around his legs, felt the dull ache in his spine deepen, the sharp press of his elbows against his ribs. It felt like he was listening to echoes of his own panic, bounced back in different voices. Each of them drowning in different ways. Each of them trying to make it look easy.

No one spoke for a long time. Just the low, uneven rhythm of breath, the quiet creak of the couch under shifting weight.

Finally, Taehyung broke the silence, his voice sharp and sudden, like he couldn’t hold it back any longer. “It’s not you,” he said, his eyes flicking toward Jungkook, quick and sharp, like he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. “It’s them. It’s always been them.”

Hoseok nudged a pillow toward Jungkook, lazy, half-hearted. “Welcome to the club,” he muttered, voice dry but not unkind.

Jin’s jaw tightened again, his fingers flexing uselessly at his sides. “We should’ve—” He broke off, teeth grinding together, the muscle in his jaw jumping. “We should’ve seen it sooner.”

Yoongi leaned back against the couch, tipping his head toward Jungkook, eyes dark and unfocused. “You’re not alone,” he said, simple and solid, the words falling into the space between them like stones into a still pond.

Jungkook closed his eyes, pressed his forehead harder against his knees, felt the thin, sharp burn of tears he refused to let fall. His chest ached, tight and twisted. He didn’t have words yet. But he didn’t need them.

They stayed like that for a long time. Messy. Bruised. Breathing the same heavy air.

Not fixed. Not healed. But seen. And in a world that wanted them to be masks and nothing else, maybe that was the most real thing they had.

Chapter Text

The news broke just after noon. Group chat exploded.

[Manager-park]: 🏆 Big news, boys! You’re nominated for Artist of the Year at the Seoul Sound Awards! 🏆

[Manager-park]: Get ready. We’re going HARD for this win.

Jimin was the first to shout loud enough to wake the neighbors. "YAHHHH!" He tackled Taehyung onto the couch, both of them howling and wrestling before anyone could even read the second message.

Hoseok stumbled out of his room, bleary-eyed, blinking. "What’s happening? Are we dying?" "Better," Jimin yelled, bouncing on the cushions. "We're famous!"

“Jimin, we are already famous," Namjoon said smiling. “Yeah, I know. But now we are even more famous.”

Yoongi laughed, grabbing Jungkook around the shoulders in a bear hug that lifted him half off the ground.

Jin whooped and threw a throw pillow straight at Namjoon’s head. Namjoon ruffled Jin’s hair as he ducked the pillow.

For a minute, Just a minute, It felt normal. Good. The kind of high they hadn't touched in months.

Then the third message dropped.

[Manager-nim]: Reminder: Dynamic image control is priority.
[Manager-nim]: Public exposure. High risk. No mistakes.

The crash came fast and hard. The laughter faltered.

Yoongi let go of Jungkook with a quiet grunt. Jin rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. Jimin flopped backward onto the couch, arms spread wide, grin already fading. Namjoon clicked his phone off without saying anything.

Because they all knew what it meant. They weren’t going as themselves. They were going as products. As masks.

Jungkook sat back on the arm of the sofa, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. The high he'd felt only seconds ago was gone, hollowed out by the sharp press of anxiety rising in his chest.

They were nominated. They might even win.

And all he could think about was how many hours he’d have to spend holding himself together with bloody fingers and duct tape smiles.

Hoseok finally broke the silence. "So," he said, dry as desert air. "Who’s ready to pretend to be someone else again?"

No one laughed.

Still, they tried to pull it together. Tried to turn the day into something worth celebrating.

Jimin ordered fried chicken. Jin dug out the "emergency champagne" they'd been saving since Christmas. Yoongi and Taehyung wrangled the bluetooth speaker into playing something loud and stupid.

Jungkook sat cross-legged on the floor, a paper plate balanced on one knee, pretending to eat. He wasn’t hungry. The buzz in his body was already back, crawling under his skin.

But he smiled when he was supposed to. Clinked paper cups when they toasted. Whooped when Jimin climbed on the coffee table to do a victory dance.

Because that’s what you did. You smiled when you were supposed to. Even if it hurt.

Later, when the food was gone and the music wound down, the managers texted again.

Dress code for the awards: Formal. Strong visuals. Elegant dominance.

Jungkook’s heart sank.

Elegant dominance. Cold. Controlled. Untouchable.

Exactly what he wasn’t.

He sat there on the floor a little longer after the others wandered off to clean up or crash in their rooms. The empty paper cup dangled between his fingers. The lights from the city outside flickered across the living room floor. Tiny, restless ghosts.

He could do this. He had to do this. He’d smiled through worse.

And if something felt different this time, if something deep inside him was fraying at the edges faster than he could patch it, He didn’t let himself think about it too long.

After all, They were nominated. They had something to celebrate. Even if the celebration already tasted like ash in his mouth.

The red carpet stretched out like a river of blood under their shoes. Cameras lined both sides, flashes popping fast enough to make Jungkook’s head swim. He adjusted his cuffs, fake-casual, because he could already feel the buzz starting low in his ribs, the too-fast heartbeat, the tightening in his throat. Tight leather. Tight smiles. Tight leash.

The van ride over had been a tense, silent thing. Stylists fussed over them right up until they were shoved onto the carpet, hands smoothing hair, tugging at jackets, whispering last-minute reminders. Smile. Own the space. Control the narrative.

As if any of that was easy when Jungkook’s body already felt two seconds from floating out of itself.

The lights were blinding. The fans were screaming. The air felt thick and plastic and wrong.

Namjoon kept them moving like a unit, every inch the cold, perfect alpha leader he was styled to be. Jin fielded most of the press questions, answering with sharp-edged politeness that barely disguised his exhaustion. Jimin and Hoseok posed with practiced smirks, heads tilted just enough to catch the best angles. Yoongi stood solid at Jungkook’s back, a quiet wall of muscle and steady breathing that Jungkook leaned toward without meaning to. Taehyung cracked jokes on cue, each laugh feeling more painful to listen to than the last.

Jungkook smiled. He waved. He moved when they moved. He felt nothing.

Inside the venue, the chaos only thickened. Staff barking orders. Flashing signs. Assistants herding idols like sheep from waiting areas to stage wings to green rooms. The noise rattled around the high ceilings and crashed back down on them in endless waves.

Hybe’s dynamic manager found them by the back entrance, sharp smile stretched too wide. "Remember," she said, not even pretending anymore.
"No missteps. No slips. We’re watching."

A quick glance, calculated, pointed, at Jungkook. He barely nodded. He was good at nodding.

They were herded into a holding area backstage, where other groups milled around, half-dressed in glitter and nerves.

Jungkook found himself shoved between Jimin and Hoseok, shoulders brushing, legs bumping.
The closeness helped. Barely.
But the buzz was still there, static under his skin.

He caught sight of them then, DO:ZEN. Just in passing. They weren’t big yet, mid-tier rookies from a newer company. Their stagewear was simple, almost plain compared to the extravagant costumes swirling around them. They leaned against the wall together, laughing at something one of them said, heads pressed close, not caring who saw.

One of them, a soft-faced boy wearing a sub collar visible just under his collarbone, was curled half into another member’s side, casual, easy, natural. No manager rushed to pull them apart. No handler barked at them to "fix the image." No one even looked twice.

It wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t staged. Just... real.

The sight carved a hollow ache right through the center of Jungkook’s chest. He turned away before he could start staring.

"Focus," Jin muttered near his ear, voice tight. Not unkind. Just scared. Jungkook nodded again. Another mask layered over the cracks.

Their own manager reappeared with the tight, anxious smile that meant another camera crew was coming. "Positions. Ready. You know the drill."

They lined up in order. Straight backs. Chin up. No mistakes.

Jungkook took his place. Front row. Center. Where every eye would land. Where there would be nowhere to hide.

The camera crew swept past, filming quick B-roll of the nominated groups.

Jungkook held his pose. Counted slow in his head. Breathed through the tremble sneaking into his hands.

One flash of the lens. One click of a shutter. One glance too long from a manager. It would all be over.

But he smiled. He smiled because that was what was expected. He smiled because he didn’t know what else to do. He smiled because he was too scared to do anything else.

The bomb was ticking. Louder now. Louder than the crowd noise, louder than the lights, louder than the screaming in the back of his mind. And no one could hear it but him.

The auditorium was a sea of glitter and light. Hundreds of idols packed into tight rows, stiff in their best tailoring, blinking against the camera flashes ricocheting off every surface. From a distance, it must have looked dazzling. Golden. Flawless. Up close, it smelled like fear

Jungkook shifted in his seat, fingers curled loosely around his thighs under the table. The cloth was too smooth, too fake, polyester masquerading as silk. Everything tonight was a costume. Everything was pretending.

His tuxedo was sharp, pressed to perfection, every line sculpted for maximum effect. He felt like a doll in it. A mannequin propped up in someone else's dream.

He smiled when the camera panned over their section. Tilted his head just enough. Caught the light. Didn’t flinch when the MC cracked a joke about their "dangerous auras."

He was good at pretending. He’d been pretending so long he didn’t remember how to stop.

The awards dragged on. Performance after performance, bright and hollow, the cheers too loud, the lights too white, the speeches all bleeding together. Time didn’t move normally anymore. It warped and stretched and folded in on itself.

He tried to focus on the others. Jimin elbowing Hoseok under the table when he started to nod off. Jin whispering something sharp and funny to Taehyung, making him cover his mouth to hide a laugh. Yoongi shifting subtly closer to Namjoon, a steady anchor between storms.

Tiny sparks of realness in the noise. But they flickered in and out too fast for Jungkook to catch.

His breathing felt wrong. Too shallow. Too quick. He unclenched his fists slowly, flexing his fingers, willing sensation back into them. The tablecloth crinkled softly under his palms. He stared at it.

White on white. Stage lights reflecting off the weave like static.

Someone, maybe Taehyung, bumped his shoulder lightly. A grounding touch. A reminder: stay here. He nodded. Smiled. Didn’t feel it.

The buzzing under his skin was louder now. Not pain. Not exhaustion. Something worse. The feeling of being hollowed out from the inside, like his body was still moving but nothing real lived there anymore.

He wondered, distantly, if this was how statues felt. Painted gold. Paraded in front of crowds. Cracking quietly under the glitter.

Another winner announced. Another round of applause. Jungkook clapped with the others. His hands felt like someone else’s hands.

At one point, Yoongi leaned over, murmured something low and warm about how close their category was, how proud he was, how far they’d come. Jungkook smiled and nodded. He didn’t hear a word.

He felt weightless. Not in the good way. Not in the floating-on-a-breeze way. In the falling-off-the-edge-of-the-world way.

If he closed his eyes, He could almost feel the floor tilting under him. Could almost hear the soft, inevitable shatter of impact waiting just out of reach.

But he didn’t close his eyes. He kept them open, wide and bright, smiling when the cameras swept past. Because that’s what he was supposed to do.

No one noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t know what they were seeing yet. Not even the pack.

They were tired too. Frayed at the edges. Holding themselves together with spit and duct tape just like him. They couldn’t see him slipping because they were all too busy staying upright. He didn’t blame them. He wasn’t even sure he would’ve noticed himself anymore.

The timer ticked louder.

Louder.

Louder.

"And the Artist of the Year goes to..."

 The MC's voice thundered through the auditorium. The envelope tore open. The lights sharpened. The crowd held its breath.

 "BTS!"

The roar hit like a tidal wave.

Jungkook stumbled upright with the others, dragged along by momentum and duty and the weight of a million eyes.

 Hands clapped his back.

Someone, Jimin, maybe, grabbed his wrist, pulling him toward the aisle.

They were moving.

They were smiling.

They were winning.

And somewhere deep inside, Jungkook felt something crack.

The walk to the stage was endless.

Flashes exploded in his eyes.

The stage steps loomed like cliffs he wasn't sure he could climb.

Every breath tasted wrong—metallic, thin, too sharp against his tongue.

Namjoon’s hand brushed his back briefly. A grounding touch.

Not enough.

The others moved into place without thinking, practiced after years of repetition: Namjoon front and center, trophy clutched firm and proud. Jin by the mic, smile dazzling, speech ready. Jimin waving, Hoseok bowing low, Yoongi steady and golden beside them. Taehyung laughing bright, a hand over his heart.

Jungkook smiled too. Because that was what was expected. Because that was what you did when the world was looking. Because he didn’t know how to stop.

The lights were so bright they blurred the world into shapes without edges. The stage floor tilted under his shoes. His heartbeat wasn't a rhythm anymore, just a fractured drumbeat behind his ribs. His skin itched, too tight, too wrong.

"We want to thank Hybe, our staff, our families, Monbebe—" Jin’s voice, warm and strong through the mic, felt like it was coming from underwater.

Jungkook swayed. No one saw.

Someone, Taehyung, again, always Taehyung, shifted slightly closer. But he was too late.

The world dropped out from under him. No warning. No time. Just, White noise. A sudden, vicious yank downward. A body giving up all at once.

He collapsed.

Knees hit the stage first, jarring up through bone. Palms skidded uselessly across the slick floor. Shoulders crumpled. Chest seized.

The crowd gasped, a ripple of confusion cutting through the applause. The camera flashes kept going.

At first, it looked like part of the performance. Part of the image. The “dangerous, dominant” energy gone too far.

But when Namjoon dropped the trophy with a sickening crack and lunged, when Yoongi’s face twisted in panic and he dove to catch Jungkook’s slumping body, when Taehyung’s voice ripped out, raw and cracking, calling his name into the silence, the truth hit like a gunshot.

This wasn’t staged.

This wasn’t performance.

This was real.

Jungkook lay curled on the stage, trembling violently, breath hitching in shallow gasps that barely moved his chest. Sweat beaded across his forehead, too cold, too fast. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, not from emotion, but sheer physical collapse.

He was gone.

Gone somewhere deep inside himself. Gone somewhere the stage lights couldn’t reach. Gone somewhere too quiet to be pulled back without force.

Namjoon crouched low, one arm braced protectively around Jungkook’s shoulders, shielding him from the cameras still flashing like vultures.

Yoongi pressed both palms flat to his chest now, murmuring, breathing with him, trying to pull him back.

Taehyung hovered inches away, hands fluttering helplessly between reaching and not daring to touch, voice cracking on a soft, desperate, "It’s okay, Kook-ah, we’ve got you, we’re here."

 The MC’s voice faltered into static. Someone backstage screamed for a cut to commercial. Security started moving toward the stage, slow, hesitant, unsure if this was still part of the show.

It didn’t matter.

The world was watching.

Jungkook’s body shuddered under the weight of their hands, but he didn’t come back. He couldn’t. The years of masking, of pretending, of surviving had hollowed him out from the inside, and tonight, under the brightest lights, the final wall had crumbled.

He had survived too long.

And survival had a cost.

Now, it was Hybe’s turn to pay.

Chapter Text

The second Jungkook went down, the air around them cracked open. Gasps from the audience. Camera flashes popping like gunfire. The MC stumbling over words, desperate to salvage the show.

Staff stormed the stage. Security in black suits. Stage managers with headsets. Dynamic managers in crisp suits with fake smiles already plastered on. And in the middle of it all, Jungkook’s crumpled body, curled tight on the stage floor, twitching like a live wire. Namjoon crouched over him, blocking as many eyes as he could with the sheer breadth of his body. Yoongi with a hand splayed over Jungkook’s back, whispering steady nonsense under his breath.

The Dynamic managers moved in first. Too fast. Too rough. Reaching for Jungkook like he was a broken prop to sweep off the stage. Namjoon growled low, deep in his chest, not moving. Yoongi flattened his palm more firmly against Jungkook’s spine, a silent warning. Taehyung lunged in too, sliding between the Dynamic managers and Jungkook’s limp body with more courage than sense.

"No," Namjoon said. One word. Cold and immovable as stone.

The Dynamic managers hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough for Namjoon to scoop Jungkook up into his arms, rising to his full terrifying height. The crowd roared, in confusion, excitement, fear. No one knew yet what they were seeing.

Hybe’s senior manager appeared at the edge of the stage, waving frantic signals. "Move, move, MOVE!" Not a request. A command. Jimin grabbed Hoseok’s wrist, hauling him after Namjoon without waiting. Jin barked a sharp "Come on!" to Taehyung, snapping him out of his frozen panic. Yoongi fell into step behind Namjoon, flanking him like a shield.

The staff cleared a path. Cameras still flashing. Fans still screaming. Security barking into radios. It was all a blur of movement, color, noise. Jungkook’s body was too light in Namjoon’s arms. Too still. Every few steps, a tiny tremor ran through him, muscles twitching, heart hammering unevenly against Namjoon’s chest.

They hit the wings of the stage and didn’t slow down. No pause for interviews. No pause for press. No photo ops. Just straight into the maze of back hallways, cold, industrial, ugly under the stark fluorescents. A handler tried again. "This way, he needs to be isolated for treatment—" She reached for Jungkook’s arm.

Namjoon turned his shoulder into her path like a wall. "No." His voice was soft. Deadly. The handler’s mouth snapped shut. Another manager, older, higher-ranked, tried a different tactic. "You’re making a scene. Think about the company image." Yoongi’s lip curled. "Maybe you should have thought about that before you pushed him to collapse."

The manager’s face froze. It was the closest thing to open rebellion they’d ever dared, and the tremor of it shook all of them, hard and fast, before they could think better of it. Taehyung hovered so close to Namjoon’s side he was practically glued there, one hand ghosting just above Jungkook’s wrist, not quite touching. He was trembling too, not with fear, but fury.

"Where’s the damn green room?" Jin snapped, scanning the endless concrete corridors. The Dynamic managers pointed stiffly, masks cracking under the weight of so much uncontrolled chaos. They half-ran the last stretch. Burst into a side room usually used for costume changes. Shoved the door closed. Locked it. Silence slammed down like a hammer.

Jungkook whimpered softly in Namjoon’s arms, the first real sound he’d made since he fell. The whole pack flinched. Namjoon knelt slowly, carefully, easing Jungkook down onto a nest of discarded jackets and duffel bags. He never let go fully, one hand anchored against Jungkook’s spine, steady as a heartbeat. Yoongi crouched beside him, voice low and coaxing. "Kook-ah, it’s okay. We’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re home."

Taehyung sank to the floor at Jungkook’s head, murmuring nonsense syllables under his breath like a prayer. Jin hovered near the door, vibrating with the effort not to punch the first person who dared enter. Hoseok paced the room, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Jimin peeled off his jacket and tucked it gently around Jungkook’s shaking body, fingers lingering too long at his wrist.

No one knew what to do. Not really. They knew grounding techniques. They knew emergency steps. But this, this wasn’t a normal drop. This was the slow-motion aftermath of years of masking, compressing, surviving until there was nothing left to survive with.

Jungkook whimpered again, curling tighter on himself, fingers scrabbling weakly at the floor. Taehyung made a broken sound, reaching out. Namjoon caught his hand gently, stopping him. "Not yet," Namjoon said, voice like gravel. "Let him come back at his pace." Yoongi shifted closer, pressing his forehead briefly to Jungkook’s shoulder. "We're here," he whispered. "We're not leaving you."

And outside, behind the locked door, they could hear it. Hybe’s machine rumbling to life. Managers yelling. Damage control in full spin. The lies already being crafted. The leash already tightening. They could hear the world closing in again.

But for right now, for this stolen, broken moment, Jungkook was theirs. And they were going to fight to keep it that way. They didn't even knock. The door slammed open without warning. Hybe Dynamic managers spilled into the green room, suits sharp, smiles sharper, eyes cold. The room flooded with their presence, sucking the air out in an instant.

The pack bristled as one. Jin moved first, stepping physically between the door and Jungkook’s crumpled form without even thinking. Hoseok flanked him a second later, one shoulder set stubbornly against the frame. Yoongi and Namjoon stayed anchored beside Jungkook on the floor, low and wide, making it clear without words: You want him? You go through us.

The senior handler, the one with the laminated credentials swinging from her neck, plastered on a brittle smile. "Alright," she said, too loudly, too brightly. "Let’s get him up. Big moment. Fans are already worried—" "He's not moving," Namjoon said flatly. Voice like a warning shot.

The handler ignored him, tapping rapid commands into her tablet. "We’ve got ambulances staged. Press releases prepped. We need social media posts from all of you, grateful, humble, emphasizing exhaustion." Her gaze flicked pointedly over the pack. "And everyone needs to smile."

Silence. Tight and choking. Jimin barked a sharp laugh, not amused. "You want us to smile while he’s like this?" "He's fine," the handler snapped, veneer cracking. "Overworked. Normal. The narrative’s simple." She pushed a phone into Yoongi’s free hand, the screen already glowing with a pre-written post.

Yoongi didn’t even look at it. He set it down on the floor. Very carefully. Like it might explode. Taehyung rose to his feet slowly, moving to stand behind Namjoon. He was shaking, not from fear. From rage.

"You saw him," he said, voice too soft to be safe. "You watched him drop. And you’re still standing here lying?"

The second handler, taller, broader, maybe thinking he could intimidate them, took a step forward. "We’re not lying," he said, voice like plastic. "We’re protecting him. Protecting all of you."

Jin’s laugh was a broken thing. "From who?" A sharp tilt of his head. "Us? The truth?"

Namjoon stood then, rising to his full height slowly, deliberately. Still between Jungkook and the world. Still shielding him with everything he had. "We're not posting anything," Namjoon said. No anger in his tone. Just pure, quiet finality.

The Dynamic managers faltered. Not used to direct refusal. Not used to the pack standing as one. The senior handler recovered first. "You’ll tank your own careers," she said, low and venomous now. "You’ll bring him down with you." A pointed glance at Jungkook, limp and trembling on the pile of jackets.

Yoongi shifted, just slightly, like he was ready to lunge. Jimin caught his elbow, squeezing hard.

"We’re not letting you touch him," Hoseok said, deadly calm. "And if you try," Jin added, teeth flashing, "we'll make a bigger scene than you can cover up."

For a second, just a second, it hung there. The possibility of a real break. Of a public fight. Of contracts shattered, images blown wide open, blood spilled in front of every flashing camera still lurking backstage. The Dynamic managers hesitated. Then pulled back. Barely. A retreat disguised as professionalism.

"Fine," the senior handler said, lips stretched into a knife-thin smile. "Fine. You want this on your heads? Fine." She tapped something into her tablet furiously. "We’ll tell the media he’s exhausted. Dehydrated. We’ll say he’s stable. We’ll say he’s receiving medical care." A flash of teeth. "You'll play along. Or none of you make it to next year."

The door slammed shut behind them with a final, vicious click.

The green room was quiet again. Not peaceful. Not safe. But quieter. Jimin sank down onto the carpet, hands trembling in his lap. Hoseok sat with his back against the door, breathing hard. Jin prowled the edges of the room like a caged tiger. Taehyung curled back up next to Jungkook, reaching out finally, brushing the back of his hand lightly over Jungkook’s temple, grounding himself more than anyone.

Yoongi stayed kneeling at Jungkook’s side, fingers brushing steady circles over his spine. Namjoon stood over them, arms crossed tight, jaw locked like he might break his own teeth if he spoke. Jungkook whimpered once, a broken noise low in his throat. They all flinched.

"He’s still too cold," Yoongi said, voice cracking. "We need to get him home," Namjoon said. No one argued. No one even hesitated.

The plan formed silently between them: Get him out. Get him safe. Deal with the consequences later. Because for the first time, really, truly, they all understood. The company wasn’t going to save him. The image wasn’t going to save him. The fans, the cameras, the contracts, none of it was going to save him.

Only they could.

At first, they told themselves it was normal. That this was just subdrop. That if they stayed close, if they spoke softly, if they touched gently, he'd start coming back. He always came back.

But minutes stretched longer. And Jungkook stayed cold.

Yoongi pressed two fingers lightly against the inside of Jungkook’s wrist. His heart skipped under the skin, uneven, sluggish. "He’s not regulating," Yoongi said. Low. Shaken.

Taehyung wiped at Jungkook’s face with a sleeve, brushing away sweat that wasn’t cooling properly. "He’s breathing too fast."

Hoseok pressed his hand to Jungkook’s shoulder, felt the rigid muscles twitching uncontrollably beneath the jacket. "He’s locking up."

Jimin knelt back, hands hovering, helpless. "That’s not... that’s not supposed to happen, right?" His voice cracked hard on the last word.

Namjoon’s face was blank, that awful, terrifying kind of blank that meant he was thinking three moves ahead and hated every single one of them.

Jin finally exploded. "This is fucked," he snapped, pacing tight circles. "He needs a real medical Dom, a real grounding team, not a goddamn press statement!"

The door rattled once, a polite knock. One of the Dynamic managers, Hybe’s cleanest, most polished face, called through the wood, voice oily and fake-cheerful: "Everything okay in there?"

No one answered. They didn’t have to.

Jungkook whimpered again, legs twitching in tiny, desperate movements. Not conscious. Not aware.

Yoongi shifted his hand to cup the side of Jungkook’s throat, feeling the thready pulse. He met Namjoon’s eyes across the nest of jackets and bags. Shook his head. Once. Slow.

This wasn’t going to fix itself. And if they waited any longer, If they played along with the script Hybe shoved into their hands, Jungkook might not come back at all.

"We move him," Namjoon said. No hesitation.

Jin spun to face him. "How?" A sharp, desperate whisper. "There’s Dynamic managers everywhere. Cameras. Fans."

"We’ll make it look normal," Hoseok said, voice too calm, too glassy. His survival mode voice. "We’ll say he’s exhausted. Heading home early. No interviews."

"Managers won’t buy it," Jimin said, bitter. "They’ll know something’s wrong.”

"Let them," Taehyung said, fierce and cracked.

Namjoon rose smoothly to his feet. "Yoongi, you take point." Yoongi nodded, already shifting into movement, the old muscle memory of chaos control kicking in.

"Hoseok, Jimin, cover us. Run distraction if you have to." Both switches snapped to attention, the fear burning off into something hotter: adrenaline, stubbornness, loyalty.

"Jin, Taehyung, stay close. Keep eyes on exits. Watch for Dynamic managers." They nodded. Tight. Silent. Ready.

"And me?" Jin asked, voice low.

Namjoon crouched to lift Jungkook again, cradling him close, shielding his body as best he could. "You," Namjoon said, meeting his eyes. "You back me up."

Because if it came to a fight, real or otherwise, Jin was the one Namjoon trusted to throw the first punch.

Jungkook whimpered softly against Namjoon’s chest. It cut through all of them like a blade.

"No more waiting," Taehyung said under his breath. "Not ever again."

The pack gathered around Namjoon, forming a loose, natural barrier of bodies. From the outside, it would just look like tired idols supporting their exhausted youngest. Polite smiles. Bowed heads. Controlled chaos.

Inside the nest of them, inside the tight, desperate spiral they formed, Jungkook was barely breathing.

They weren’t moving to protect their image anymore.

They were moving to save his life.

And no handler in the world was going to stop them.

Chapter Text

They got him home in pieces. The van barely slowed before Namjoon was out, carrying Jungkook close to his chest, head tucked under his chin like a broken bird. The others poured out around him, a tight, frantic knot of bodies, shielding, covering, protecting. The front door slammed open. The dorm swallowed them whole.

Inside, it was chaos. Jimin shoved the coffee table aside with a curse. Hoseok started tearing the couch apart, throwing cushions and blankets onto the floor. Yoongi barked orders over his shoulder, towels, water bottles, first aid kit, anything soft, anything warm, anything now. Jin stripped off his jacket and spread it over the growing nest. Taehyung disappeared into the bedroom hallway and came back with every pillow he could carry, dumping them onto the floor like offerings.

They built a nest in the living room. Not pretty. Not clean. A messy, desperate pile of blankets, jackets, scarves, hoodies. Soft things. Safe things. Namjoon knelt in the center of it, still cradling Jungkook like he didn’t trust the ground not to steal him away. Jungkook was barely conscious, making tiny, broken noises in his throat, twitching like a live wire.

"Clothes," Yoongi said, voice rough. "Get this shit off him. He’s overheating now." Jimin and Hoseok moved fast, careful, stripping the stiff award show tuxedo off his trembling body. Peeling away the polished layers until only bare skin and shivering muscles were left. Dressing him in the softest hoodie they could find, loose cotton shorts, thick socks.

Jungkook whimpered when they shifted him, eyes fluttering half-open, glassy and wild. Yoongi crouched close, murmuring nonsense under his breath: "You’re okay. You’re home. We’ve got you." Every move was careful. Every touch feather-light. Because even though the specialist had said he was "fine", even though the bloodwork and reflex tests had come back clean, none of them trusted it. Not after what they’d seen. Not after watching his body shut down in front of millions.

Dynamic Compression Syndrome was a monster that lived in the bones. You didn’t see it until it was too late. They didn’t know if this was EPD rearing its head again, or something worse, but they weren’t taking chances. Not now. Not ever again.

Taehyung knelt at Jungkook’s head, stroking his hair back from his clammy forehead, voice steady even though his hands shook: "Good job, Kook-ah. You’re so strong. You’re doing so good." Praise. Constant, quiet praise. Because Jungkook, Praise Sub, Full-Submission Sub, needed the words as much as he needed the air.

Namjoon rocked slightly, slow and rhythmic, anchoring both of them. Yoongi tucked a pillow under Jungkook’s knees, easing the tension from his locked joints. Jimin pulled a blanket over them all, forming a cocoon of warmth and scent. Jin set bottles of water and damp cloths within reach, hovering like a mother hawk. Hoseok knelt a little outside the circle, legs folded under him, arms limp at his sides, just watching, waiting.

The living room was too bright. Too loud. Too full of breathing and fear. Jin clicked off the overhead lights. Only the soft lamp by the couch stayed on, casting the room in gold.

The change was immediate. Jungkook’s trembling slowed, tiny, almost imperceptible. His breathing hitched, once, twice, then evened out into something shallow but steady. Taehyung let out a broken breath. Jimin wiped at his eyes, pretending it was sweat. Yoongi leaned his forehead against Jungkook’s shoulder for a long, shaking moment. Namjoon didn't move. Just rocked. And rocked. And rocked.

Because they weren’t safe yet. They needed him to come back. Fully. Not just breathing. Not just surviving. But living. And they would sit here, holding him, feeding him touch and voice and scent and love, as long as it took. Because he had fallen. And they had almost lost him. And now? Now they were going to catch him. No matter how many times it took.

Jungkook finally slept. Safe between Yoongi and Namjoon, breath slow, heartbeat steady, cradled in warmth and scent. Namjoon watched him for a long minute, assessing. Measuring. Making sure. Then, carefully, he shifted, lifting Jungkook in his arms. Yoongi moved instantly, tugging blankets aside, helping wrap him in softness.

Namjoon carried Jungkook down the hallway without a word, tucking him gently into Namjoon's own bed, wrapping him in the thickest quilt, the softest hoodie they could find. A kiss pressed to his temple. A whispered command: "Sleep, baby. We've got you." Door cracked, light low. Safe. Protected. Away from what was about to happen.

When Namjoon returned to the living room, the atmosphere had already shifted. Jimin was trembling, fingers dug into the couch cushions so hard his knuckles were white. Hoseok sat stiff-backed, vibrating under his skin. Taehyung rocked slightly where he knelt, jaw tight, chest heaving with shallow, rapid breaths.

Jin caught Jimin first. One sharp look, one rough grab, and Jimin broke, gasping, scrabbling at Jin’s jacket. "Please," he choked, voice wrecked and raw. "Please, please, please—"

"You need to be ruined," Jin said, voice low and vicious against his ear. Jimin whimpered, nodding so fast his teeth clacked. Jin slammed him down into the pile of blankets with no ceremony, ripping open the buttons of his shirt, baring skin, biting down hard on the sharp curve of his collarbone. Jimin cried out, not from pain, from relief.

Pinned.

Taken.

Owned.

Exactly what he needed.

Across the room, Yoongi cornered Hoseok gently, crowding into his space until Hoseok folded without a word, body sagging against him. Yoongi fisted a hand in the back of his hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose his throat.

"You want to forget, baby?" Yoongi asked, voice thick with heat. Hoseok whimpered, eyes blown wide, mouth open. Nodded.

Yoongi kissed him hard, teeth clashing, hands rough as he shoved Hoseok down onto the cushions, dragging his hoodie up over his head. No softness now. Only need. Only grounding through claiming.

Taehyung shook where he knelt, watching, panting like he'd run a marathon. Torn between terror and craving.

Namjoon didn’t wait. He grabbed Taehyung by the back of his neck, dragging him bodily into his lap. Taehyung went with a broken, desperate noise, straddling Namjoon’s thighs, grinding down shamelessly.

"Good boy," Namjoon rumbled against his ear, grinding up, letting Taehyung use him, filthy, needy, raw.

Clothes disappeared. Fast. Frenzied.

Jimin cried out again when Jin forced him flat, hand wrapped around his throat, not choking, just reminding him who owned his body right now.

"You’re nothing but mine right now," Jin growled, biting his way down Jimin’s chest. Jimin sobbed, hips bucking.

Hoseok whimpered under Yoongi’s weight, legs spread wide, fingers scrabbling helplessly at his biceps as Yoongi fucked him slow and deep, grinding every thrust into pure grounding contact.

"Take it," Yoongi whispered, biting at his ear. "Let me fuck the fear out of you." Hoseok gasped, back arching, tears streaking down his cheeks.

Taehyung buried his face in Namjoon’s neck, sobbing soundlessly as Namjoon ground against him, one hand fisting in his hair, the other gripping his ass, dragging him in harder, faster, dirtier.

It wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t neat.

It was survival.

Jimin came first, body shaking, wrecked sob catching in his throat as Jin kept him pinned, kept him safe, kept him his.

Hoseok followed seconds later, a broken, gasping collapse against Yoongi’s chest, clinging so hard his nails left marks.

Taehyung shattered last, a high, desperate sound punched out of him as Namjoon ground up into him once more, tipping him over the edge.

After, they didn’t untangle. They just collapsed. Tangled in sweat and blankets and hoodie strings, hearts still pounding too fast.

Jin pressed kisses into Jimin’s hair, murmuring praise like a litany. Yoongi wrapped Hoseok tighter, humming low in his chest like a lullaby. Namjoon rocked Taehyung gently, thumb stroking the back of his neck, grounding both of them.

And down the hall, behind the cracked bedroom door, Jungkook slept on, safe in a nest of warmth and scent, untouched by the chaos his collapse had unleashed. The dorm stayed quiet long after the chaos burned out.

The nest sprawled in lazy, tangled piles across the living room, Doms and Subs collapsed together in a messy heap of skin and cotton and old, comforting blankets. For the first time in hours, everything was still.

Breath slow.

Heartbeats syncing.

Safety.

And then the world started knocking again.

It began with the buzz of a phone. Soft. Insistent. Ignored.

Then another. And another. And another. Until the air was full of it, a hive of vibrating dread.

Yoongi groaned and fumbled for his phone from somewhere under Hoseok's limp body. His face tightened the second he unlocked it.

"Shit."

A whisper.

A warning.

Hoseok stirred, blinking heavy-lidded and wrecked, pressing closer into Yoongi’s chest like he could block the world out with skin alone.

Yoongi didn't push him away. He just lifted his phone higher so the others could see.

#GetWellJungkook

#BTSProtect

#WhatHappenedAtSSA

#JKCollapse

Trending worldwide.

Videos already circulating, grainy, shaky clips from audience members too far back to catch every detail, but close enough to see Jungkook crumple mid-stage. Photos. Speculation. Fury.

Fans weren't buying the official line. Not this time.

"He fainted because of exhaustion!"

"Hybe needs to let them rest!"

"Why was no one helping him?"

"Why did the cameras cut so fast?"

"Something’s wrong. You can see it. Look at how scared the others are."

One thread had already broken through, hundreds of retweets deep.

Side-by-side screenshots: BTS on stage smiling. BTS backstage, eyes wild, posture stiff, half-carrying Jungkook like he weighed nothing.

The captions:

"Protect them."

"They’re not okay."

"Don’t trust Hybe."

Jin cursed softly, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"Fuck. This is spreading too fast."

Jimin shifted against Jin's side, burrowing closer, clearly still foggy and deep in subspace, but his body tensed slightly, sensing the shift.

Taehyung curled tighter against Namjoon, murmuring soft, sleepy questions that no one answered.

Namjoon took a slow breath, looked at each of them in turn.

"We knew this might happen," he said, voice steady even when everything else was not.

Yoongi nodded, grim. "We just hoped it wouldn’t be now." Hoseok peered at the screen over Yoongi’s arm, expression dull and exhausted. "They’re not gonna let this go," he said softly. Not the fans. Not the media. Not Hybe.

A new alert pinged, a "clarification" from Hybe’s official account.

"BTS’s Jungkook is resting comfortably after suffering mild exhaustion due to busy schedules. Thank you for your love and concern."

It was slick.

Professional.

Sanitized.

It was also a lie.

The pack read it in silence. Every word landing like a slap. Jimin whimpered under his breath, clinging tighter to Jin's hoodie. Hoseok shuddered. Taehyung made a wounded, confused sound.

Namjoon set his phone down slowly. Almost reverently. "Let them spin whatever story they want," he said. Still calm. Still dangerous. "But we know the truth."

Yoongi met his gaze across the nest. "And we protect him. No matter what."

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t even a promise.

It was a fact.

They didn’t know what was coming yet. The scale of it. The fury. The retaliation. But they knew this: They weren’t going back into the cage Hybe built for them. Not without a fight. Not when it meant losing Jungkook. Not when it meant losing each other.

The buzz of phones filled the silence again. The world was watching now. Breath held. Waiting. And for the first time in a very long time, The pack was ready to be seen.

Chapter Text

The dorm was too quiet. Usually, mornings meant Jimin whistling off-key, Yoongi frying something that smelled suspiciously like burnt sugar, Jin yelling about lost keys. Normal meant noise. Life. Today meant silence.

They dressed without talking. Neutral colors. Soft fabrics. No signs of Pack, no signs of D/s. Just idols. Just workers. Just assets. Jungkook pulled a hoodie over his head, sleeves swallowing his hands. He didn’t fight when Namjoon gently tucked the hood up over his hair. It was easier to hide that way.

The van ride felt longer than usual. Taehyung sat pressed between Jimin and Hoseok, foot bouncing fast enough to rattle the seat. Jin scrolled through his phone like he could scrape the nerves off his skin. Yoongi leaned against the window, face turned away. No music. No jokes. Just breathing. And waiting. Namjoon sat in the front, upright and unmoving. A shield in human form. Jungkook leaned close to his side, trying not to think too hard, trying not to listen to the frantic beat of his own heart.

Hybe HQ appeared in the window, tall, cold, gleaming like a promise no one believed anymore. The van pulled into the underground lot. Security guards waited. Dynamic managers too, some familiar, some not. None of them smiling. They filed out. Pack instinct keeping them close without conscious thought.

A handler, new, young, clean-smiling, met them with a clipboard tucked tight to her chest. "This way, please," she said, all professional courtesy. No one answered. They just walked. The corridors felt wrong. Sterile. Scrubbed of scent and sound. They passed framed posters of their own faces, bright smiles, perfect poses, like ghosts trapped in glass.

Conference Room B. The door swung open. Inside: a long glass table, too many chairs, cold white light bleeding across every surface. Hybe executives sat waiting. Sharp suits. Tired eyes. No rage. No villainy. Just the quiet efficiency of people doing their job, maintaining a system that broke people because that's how the system had always worked.

One exec smiled, tight, professional. "Good morning, boys," he said, voice smooth as oil. "Thank you for making time to meet with us." Like they had a choice. They sat because they were told to sit. Namjoon at the head. The others folding in around him, tighter than the staff probably noticed, but impossible for any of them to unlearn now. Jungkook tucked between Yoongi and Taehyung, head ducked, hands buried deep in his sleeves.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Just breathing. And the hum of fluorescent lights. And the thin, sharp smell of too much clean. Then the exec leaned forward, hands steepled neatly on the table. "Let’s talk about your future," he said. Smiling. Promising nothing.

And all of them knew: This wasn’t about their future. It was about control. About compliance. About reminding them who still held the leash, at least on paper. No anger yet. No fighting. Just the quiet understanding that today, like every day in this industry, would be a negotiation for the right to keep breathing. The silence stretched thin before the executive spoke again.

"We know it’s been a difficult week," he said, folding his hands neatly on the table. "Unfortunate events. Misunderstandings. Nothing we can’t recover from, together." Together. Like they were a family. Like they hadn’t been left to bleed alone onstage while PR teams spun fairy tales for the press. No one moved.

The exec smiled again, all tight professionalism. "There’s a path forward," he continued. "BTS is a valuable asset —" he feels a slight, sharp glance at him from Namjoon. ", valuable family. We want you to feel supported. We want you to succeed," he corrects. The word succeed tasted like ash.

He tapped the table lightly, and another handler stepped forward, sliding neat stacks of papers across the glass. Contracts. Amendments. Legalese printed in crisp black ink. Jin didn’t even glance at the stack in front of him. He stared at the exec, mouth twisted in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"We understand that... emotional settling has become a concern," the handler said, flipping smoothly through the top page. "Especially considering recent public events." Public events. Jungkook collapsing. The pack shielding him like wolves on a battlefield. The fans screaming online. The whisper network swelling under Hybe's skin.

"Moving forward," the exec said, "we’ll be taking a more active role in monitoring and managing dynamic behavior. For your safety. For the company's stability." Yoongi’s knuckles went white around the edge of the table. "Dynamic managers will be present at all schedules, all dorms, all public events," the handler said. "Mandatory. Full oversight. Health check-ins. Behavioral interventions when necessary."

Hoseok’s jaw twitched. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. "And of course," the exec added smoothly, "we’ll need full compliance on public image guidelines. Dynamic expression will be... restrained. For now." The room went colder.

Jungkook’s breath hitched beside Taehyung. So soft, so quick, almost hidden. Taehyung slid his foot sideways under the table, tapping against Jungkook’s ankle in silent comfort. "All of this is standard," the exec said. "As you know." A smile thin enough to cut.

"And failure to comply," the handler said, voice lilting up like she was offering candy, "would constitute a breach of contract." There it was. The leash. The chain around their necks. Legal. Clean. Efficient.

Namjoon shifted slightly, the movement so subtle only the pack noticed. Yoongi caught it and straightened in his seat. Jin sat back slowly, arms folding. Hoseok and Jimin mirrored him without thinking. Taehyung leaned forward just a little, shielding Jungkook’s slumped form behind his shoulder.

They didn’t look like a band. They looked like a pack. Ready to fight. Ready to endure. But not ready to break. The exec smiled again, pleased at their obedience. At their silence. At their exhaustion.

"Of course, we’re not trying to pressure you," he said. The oldest lie in the book. "We’re offering you a lifeline. A way to move forward. Together." Together. Always that word. Always with teeth hidden behind it.

Namjoon spoke first. Calm. Measured. Flat. "We understand." The exec's smile widened. Mistaking Namjoon’s stillness for submission. Mistaking silence for surrender.

Yoongi spoke next. "Of course," he said, voice just as steady. "We’re loyal to BTS." Not to you. Not to this company.

Jin tilted his head, gaze lazy, mouth twisting up into something almost amused. "After all," he said, voice syrupy sweet, "What would we be without loyalty?"

The execs relaxed slightly. Believing the lies they wanted to hear. Believing that tired idols could be corralled back into place with a few contracts, a few paychecks, a few reminders of who owned the walls around them.

They didn’t see it yet. The slow coil tightening behind the pack’s eyes. The quiet rage cooling into something harder. Something sharper. They hadn’t won. Not today. But they hadn’t lost either.

The meeting droned on. Page after page of new expectations. Clauses buried in legalese. Threats dressed up like "opportunities." The pack said little. They nodded. They agreed. They signed nothing. They promised nothing. They endured.

Because today wasn’t about winning. It was about surviving. And survival was a long game.

It was almost impressive how Hybe kept talking. Hours dragged past, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a second heartbeat. They covered everything. Schedules. Choreography changes. Media scripts. Public appearances. Behavioral expectations.

Everything sounded so normal. So reasonable. If you didn’t listen too hard, you might even believe it was kindness.

"We know the dynamic issue is sensitive," one handler said, shuffling a stack of sanitized pamphlets. "We want to help you manage it professionally." Manage. Not honor. Not heal. Just manage.

"We have specialists on call," another added, handing out business cards like weapons. "Trained company therapists. Settling coaches. Industry experts." Specialists. Paid to teach them how to act dynamic enough to be profitable, but not so dynamic that it scared the fans.

Jungkook shifted slightly where he sat, hoodie sleeves swallowed in his fists. He didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Just breathed. Barely. Taehyung tapped his foot under the table, a quiet staccato of nerves. Jimin’s jaw twitched, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Hoseok folded his arms tighter, shoulders hunching inward.

Yoongi sat still, a statue carved out of exhaustion. Jin lounged back like he was bored, but his eyes were sharp, cataloging every word. Namjoon remained motionless at the head of the table. A dam with hairline fractures. Invisible, but deepening.

The execs mistook their stillness for agreement. They mistook everything.

When the Dynamic managers slid NDA forms across the table, crisp sheets demanding silence under threat of lawsuit, Jin didn’t even reach for a pen. He smiled, slow and sharp, and let the paper sit untouched.

Jimin didn’t bother to hide the way he leaned sideways into Hoseok’s space, shoulder pressing close, dynamic energy bleeding out soft and golden. Yoongi tilted his chair back on two legs and looked the handler directly in the eye when he said, "We’ll need time to review this with our lawyers." Their lawyers, not Hybe's. A tiny fracture spidering out under the table.

Jungkook stayed silent, but when one handler leaned too close, voice syrupy sweet, asking if he was feeling well enough to "keep up", Taehyung cut in sharp and clean: "He’s doing just fine. Thanks." A small thing. A sharp thing. A crack.

The execs frowned, faint, professional, but didn’t push. Not yet. They still believed in the leash. Still believed exhaustion and money and time would wear the pack down. They didn’t realize: The pack had already chosen survival over obedience.

The meeting droned on. Page after page of new expectations. Clauses buried in legalese. Threats dressed up like "opportunities."

The pack said little. They nodded. They agreed. They signed nothing. They promised nothing. They endured.

Because today wasn’t about winning. It was about surviving. And survival was a long game.

It was almost impressive how Hybe kept talking. Hours dragged past, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a second heartbeat. They covered everything. Schedules. Choreography changes. Media scripts. Public appearances. Behavioral expectations.

Everything sounded so normal. So reasonable. If you didn’t listen too hard, you might even believe it was kindness.

"We know the dynamic issue is sensitive," one handler said, shuffling a stack of sanitized pamphlets. "We want to help you manage it professionally."

Manage. Not honor. Not heal. Just manage.

"We have specialists on call," another added, handing out business cards like weapons. "Trained company therapists. settling coaches. Industry experts."

Specialists. Paid to teach them how to act dynamic enough to be profitable, but not so dynamic that it scared the fans.

Jungkook shifted slightly where he sat, hoodie sleeves swallowed in his fists. He didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Just breathed. Barely.

Taehyung tapped his foot under the table, a quiet staccato of nerves. Jimin’s jaw twitched, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Hoseok folded his arms tighter, shoulders hunching inward.

Yoongi sat still, a statue carved out of exhaustion. Jin lounged back like he was bored, but his eyes were sharp, cataloging every word. Namjoon remained motionless at the head of the table.

A dam with hairline fractures. Invisible, but deepening.

The execs mistook their stillness for agreement. They mistook everything.

When the Dynamic managers slid NDA forms across the table, crisp sheets demanding silence under threat of lawsuit, Jin didn’t even reach for a pen. He smiled, slow and sharp, and let the paper sit untouched.

Jimin didn’t bother to hide the way he leaned sideways into Hoseok’s space, shoulder pressing close, dynamic energy bleeding out soft and golden.

Yoongi tilted his chair back on two legs and looked the handler directly in the eye when he said, "We’ll need time to review this with our lawyers."

Their lawyers, not Hybe's. A tiny fracture spidering out under the table.

Jungkook stayed silent, but when one handler leaned too close, voice syrupy sweet, asking if he was feeling well enough to "keep up", Taehyung cut in sharp and clean: "He’s doing just fine. Thanks."

A small thing. A sharp thing. A crack.

The execs frowned, faint, professional, but didn’t push. Not yet.

They still believed in the leash. Still believed exhaustion and money and time would wear the pack down.

They didn’t realize: The pack had already chosen survival over obedience.

The Dynamic managers laid out a proposed public apology schedule. Brief video addresses. Pre-written captions. Social media posts dripping with regret.

Hoseok leaned in, voice syrup-slow: "And if we don’t agree to post these?"

The smile the exec gave him wasn’t kind. It was clinical.

"Then we’ll release a different narrative," he said smoothly. "One that protects the company’s image first."

Protects the company. Not the people. Never the people.

Taehyung made a small, sharp sound, a half-choked laugh, and shoved his chair back from the table. Yoongi reached out automatically, grounding him with a hand on his thigh. Not holding him back. Just reminding him: Not here. Not yet.

Jin tapped his knuckles lightly against the contract in front of him. Like a warning bell.

"We hear you," Namjoon said finally, voice neutral as a blade.

And that was the end of it.

The execs dismissed them with tight smiles and tight eyes. Another handler, not the first, not the last, trailed them to the elevator, chirping about revised shooting schedules and brand endorsements, pretending not to notice how none of them answered.

The elevator doors slid closed on a wave of fake smiles and the bitter, burnt scent of adrenaline.

Inside the elevator, the silence broke differently. Not with words. With breathing. Shallow. Ragged. Alive.

Hoseok slumped against the mirrored wall, rubbing at his face. Jimin curled into the corner, hoodie strings fisted in one hand. Jin just laughed once under his breath, sharp and joyless.

Yoongi reached for Taehyung without thinking, pulling him into his side, anchoring them both.

Namjoon pressed his palm flat against Jungkook’s back, warm and steady. Jungkook leaned into it without hesitation.

They didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say.

The cracks had started. They would split wide soon enough.

And when they did? They would not be the ones breaking.

The building felt colder on the way out. Or maybe it was just them. Maybe it was the way the air stuck in their throats, the way the walls seemed narrower, closer, like they were being swallowed whole.

The handler who met them at the elevator didn’t say much. Just the same brittle smile, the same fake-sweet assurances. "Thank you for your cooperation." "We're looking forward to the comeback." "You’re doing so well."

Words sharp enough to scar. Words meant to sound like praise but tasted like chains.

They didn’t answer. They just kept walking.

Out through the underground lot, into the waiting black van, doors slamming closed with finality behind them. The driver didn’t speak. The Dynamic managers didn’t follow. The building shrank in the rearview mirror until it was just another ugly square against the skyline.

Still, no one spoke.

Namjoon sat in the front seat, one hand braced against the dash like he could physically keep the world from collapsing. Yoongi pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window, staring out at nothing. Jin sat stiff and wired, fingers twitching against his thigh. Hoseok slumped against the far door, hoodie pulled up, eyes hidden. Jimin sat small and folded in the center bench, knees pulled to his chest. Taehyung leaned heavy against Yoongi’s side, too exhausted to pretend he wasn’t breaking apart.

Jungkook sat between Namjoon and Jimin, hood up, hands fisted in the hem of his sweatshirt, staring at the floor. Small. Silent. Anchored only by the points of contact pressed against him from either side.

The van moved through the city like a ghost.

They passed billboards with their faces on them, smiling, posing, perfect. They passed posters announcing the comeback. Passed buildings filled with people who would never know how close everything had come to falling apart.

They passed the life they were supposed to be grateful for. The life they were supposed to be silent about.

The van turned down a side street. The driver, bless him, didn’t take them to the dorm immediately. He circled. Gave them space. Gave them a few minutes of motion without meaning. Without destination. Just time.

Jin was the first to break the silence. Not words. Just a low, bitter laugh. Quickly swallowed.

Yoongi reached across the aisle and grabbed his hand without looking. Jin squeezed back hard enough to hurt.

Hoseok slumped forward, resting his forehead against the seat in front of him. Jimin shifted until his head rested against Hoseok’s shoulder.

Taehyung finally dragged his hoodie off his head, blinking blearily around the van. He caught Jungkook’s gaze, wide, glassy, terrified, and gave him a tiny, broken smile. Not perfect. Not strong. But there.

Jungkook blinked hard, like he might cry, but he didn’t. He just shifted closer into Jimin’s side, letting Jimin wrap an arm around him without a word.

Namjoon finally exhaled. Long and slow. Like dragging air out of a collapsing mine. He turned slightly in his seat, voice rough but steady.

"We’re still here."

The words were simple. Heavy. Anchoring.

Jimin nodded against Hoseok’s hoodie. Yoongi closed his eyes and squeezed Jin’s hand harder. Taehyung bumped his knee against Jungkook’s thigh. Hoseok made a noise somewhere between a breath and a sob and didn’t move.

They were still here. Battered. Bruised. Backed into a corner. But together.

And if the world wanted to take that from them, it was going to have to fight harder than this.

The van turned toward home. Lights blurring past the windows. The future rolling toward them faster than they could stop it.

But for now, for this moment, they had each other.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The moment they stepped out of the van, Namjoon knew it was going to be a disaster.

The air was wrong, too thin, too sharp. The Dynamic managers were swarming before the doors even finished sliding open, hands on their elbows, backs, shoulders, nudging them forward like cattle at market.

"Smile more."
"Stay close."
"Don’t touch each other."
"Dom energy down, Sub behavior neutral."
"Don’t look tired."

Orders rattled off in quick, clipped voices, barely disguised behind the plastic smiles Dynamic managers wore for the cameras.

The event wasn’t anything special, just a last-minute press call for sponsors, another set of staged photos to prove BTS was still shiny and healthy and saleable. But the Dynamic managers were tense. Jittery. Panicked in a way that set every nerve in Namjoon's body vibrating.

They herded the group into the side of the event space, a red carpet and an LED step-and-repeat board, corporate logos flashing in bright white. Photographers yelled from behind the barricades.
"BTS, this way!"
"Over here!"
"Group photo, please!"

The pack moved on instinct, tight, silent, falling into their practiced formation.

Jimin leaned into Jin’s side slightly, the only sign of how badly his nerves were fraying. Hoseok stood stiff and beautiful, blank-eyed, hands loose at his sides. Yoongi placed himself strategically behind Jungkook without looking like he was guarding him. Taehyung curled in slightly on himself, every inch of him screaming stay away. Namjoon planted himself at the far left, shoulders broad, body language passive but poised to snap at the first sign of danger.

Jungkook stood between Yoongi and Taehyung, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, head ducked just enough to look shy, not scared. No one outside the pack would notice the way he trembled. No one except maybe the fans, because fans always noticed everything.

The Dynamic managers buzzed around them, gesturing for different poses, different angles.
"Closer together!"
"Bigger smiles!"
"Energy up, boys!"

Jin's jaw clenched. So small it was almost invisible. But Namjoon saw it. Of course he did.

Jin was vibrating under his skin, sharp Dom energy leaking out in waves he couldn’t control anymore. He looked polished from the outside, hair immaculate, suit perfect, but the cracks were there.

The way his eyes narrowed when a handler shoved a clipboard at him too hard. The way his hands fisted at his sides when they barked orders at Jungkook like he was a prop instead of a person. The way he kept scanning the room, not for threats to himself, but for escape routes.

He wasn’t going to make it. None of them were.

Another handler, a woman with a high ponytail and nervous hands, darted forward mid-shoot. She grabbed Jungkook's wrist, too hard, too fast, dragging him half a step to the left to "balance the frame."

Jungkook flinched so hard he almost stumbled.

And Jin, Jin moved.

Not a punch. Not a shove. Nothing messy enough to get them arrested.

Just one sharp, brutal motion, stepping between the handler and Jungkook, yanking Jungkook back behind him with one arm, baring his teeth in a low, guttural sound that barely qualified as words.

"Don't touch him."

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t a scream. But it didn’t have to be.

Cameras caught it anyway, the movement, the snarl, the way the handler froze mid-grab, wide-eyed and scrambling back.

The pack froze. Dynamic managers scrambled. The air sucked out of the room.

And every single fan watching the livestream knew something had just broken.

It didn’t take long.

The moment Jin pulled Jungkook back, the handler’s face twisted in shock, the low snarl escaping Jin’s throat, it was already over.

Flashbulbs caught it. Phones caught it. Fans caught it.

A hundred different angles. A hundred different versions. Some messy. Some blurry. All unmistakable.

Within minutes, clips started hitting the internet. At first, just a few: Fancams from the barricades. Shaky livestreams. Snippets uploaded to Twitter and TikTok with frantic captions.

"Did you see that?"
"Jin just protected Jungkook from a handler."
"BTS looks TERRIFIED."
"Protect them at all costs."

Within an hour, it was trending.

#ProtectBTS
#JinDidNothingWrong
#JKCollapseTruth
#HybeExposed

Fans weren’t angry at BTS. They were angry at the system. At the way the boys flinched. At the way the Dynamic managers hovered like predators. At the way Jungkook had flinched when someone touched him without warning. At the way Jin had stepped in like he couldn’t even help himself.

Analysis threads popped up faster than anyone could control:

"Look at Taehyung’s face after Jin pulls Jungkook back, pure panic."

"Yoongi is literally blocking Jungkook with his whole body."

"Hoseok doesn’t move because he’s trying not to trigger the situation further."

Some tried to spin it at first. Accounts that always parroted company lines.

"Just a misunderstanding!"

"Jin was stressed from schedules!"

"Fans are overreacting!"

But fans didn’t buy it. Not this time.

Too many things lined up. Too many things that had been buried too long:

Jungkook’s fainting spell.

The heavy, unnatural silences in recent interviews.

The way Dynamic managers hovered too close in the background shots.

The exhaustion dragging at their faces in unguarded moments.

It wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. And now it was boiling over.

Even mainstream media outlets started picking it up.

"BTS’s Jin Defends Bandmate During Public Appearance, Fans Demand Answers."

"Concerns Grow Over Idol Group's Treatment After Disturbing Event Footage Surfaces."

Hybe scrambled. Issued a vague statement within hours:

"There was an unfortunate misunderstanding during today's event involving a staff member and our artist. We apologize for any concern caused. BTS is currently resting and will proceed with their schedules as planned."

It only made it worse.

"‘Unfortunate misunderstanding’?!"

"Stop treating them like machines!"

"Let them rest! Let them breathe!"

By midnight, trending topics worldwide:

#ProtectBTS

#HandlerAbuse

#SupportJin

#HybeStopLying

And under the surface, quieter but no less real, other idols started posting.

Nothing direct. Just enough.

A rising rookie group’s leader:

"Protect your family first. Always."

A mid-tier Dom idol from another company:

"Chains snap when pulled too tight."

A veteran idol, known for his careful, political posts, simply posting a black heart emoji with no context.

Fans noticed. Fans always noticed.

The whisper network exploded. Rumors about mistreatment. About forced dynamic suppression. About the price idols paid to smile on camera.

And BTS?

They sat in the dark of their dorm, phones buzzing endlessly, notifications stacking like sandbags against a rising flood. No one talked much. There wasn’t anything left to say.

Jin sat curled up in one corner of the couch, head buried in his arms, tension still radiating off him in waves. Namjoon sat next to him, one hand resting heavy and steady between his shoulder blades. Hoseok and Jimin curled into each other on the floor, exhausted and limp. Yoongi sat cross-legged by the window, phone dark in his hand, staring out at the city that was finally, finally seeing them bleed. Taehyung perched on the edge of the coffee table, one leg bouncing restlessly, eyes dark and wide.

Jungkook sat in the nest of blankets they hadn’t bothered to clean up from the last few nights of hell. Wrapped up tight. Small. Silent. Watching the world catch fire around them. For a long time, the only sound in the dorm was the soft buzz of phones vibrating endlessly against the floor.

No one moved to answer them anymore. No point. The world had already seen what it wanted to see. No spinning it now. No fixing it.

Jungkook sat with his knees tucked against his chest, arms wrapped tight around them, chin resting on his hoodie sleeves. He hadn’t spoken since they got home. Hadn’t cried either. Just sat there, breathing slow and shallow, eyes wide and dark.

Jin hadn't moved from the corner of the couch. Not since they'd gotten in the door. Namjoon sat close beside him, one hand still pressed against the small of his back, grounding him silently. Yoongi hadn’t stopped staring out the window. Hoseok and Jimin clung together on the floor like kids who didn’t know where to go when the ground cracked open under their feet. Taehyung paced, small, tight circles like a caged animal, but never strayed far from Jungkook's side.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

They hadn’t meant to start a fight. They hadn’t meant to pull the pin out of the grenade.

They just wanted to survive. Protect each other. Protect Jungkook.

Jin dragged a shaking hand through his hair, breathing like it hurt.

"I didn’t even think," he muttered finally, voice hoarse and raw.

"I just, I saw him, I—"

"You protected him," Yoongi said, voice soft but firm, still staring out at the city lights.

"That's it."

Jin shook his head miserably.

"They’re going to crucify us."

"They’re trying," Namjoon agreed, low and steady.

"But it's not working."

Hoseok shifted slightly on the floor, face pressed into Jimin's shoulder.

"Fans saw," he whispered.

"They know."

The words hung there, heavy and terrifying and unbearably fragile.

Fans saw. Fans believed them. Fans didn’t want them to be caged anymore.

But fans weren’t the ones holding the contracts.

"I don't want this to ruin us," Taehyung said quietly, finally slumping down onto the floor next to Jungkook.

"I don't want this to rip us apart."

"It won’t," Jimin said immediately, voice breaking halfway through.

Jungkook finally moved. Shifted closer to Taehyung, their knees bumping, a silent grounding point between them.

He swallowed hard, voice barely audible.

"I’m sorry."

The whole room froze.

Taehyung shook his head instantly.

"No. No, Kook, you don't, it’s not—"

"I am," Jungkook said again, soft but certain.

"If I wasn’t, If I didn’t—"

He cut himself off, curling tighter, hoodie strings pulled taut between his fists.

Yoongi finally turned from the window, moving across the room in three long strides. He knelt in front of Jungkook, catching his hands gently, prying them free.

"You didn’t cause this," he said firmly, meeting Jungkook’s eyes.

"The system caused this."

Jungkook blinked, a tear slipping free and sliding down his cheek without him seeming to notice.

Namjoon shifted too, nodding slightly.

"We’ve been surviving inside their walls so long we forgot what it felt like to breathe."

Hoseok lifted his head from Jimin’s shoulder, blinking slow and dazed.

"It’s not your fault," he said.

"It’s the walls’ fault."

Jin pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, breathing hard.

"I’m not sorry," he muttered.

"I’m scared.

But I’m not sorry."

That cracked something open.

Jimin sniffled, scrubbing at his face. Yoongi bowed his head for a long moment like he was praying. Taehyung slid his arms around Jungkook’s shoulders, pulling him close.

Not to fix him. Not to silence him. Just to hold him through it.

"I didn’t want to be a hero," Jin said, voice shaking.

"I just wanted him safe."

"I know," Namjoon said.

"We all did."

The room stayed quiet for a long moment. Grief and fear and exhausted love hanging heavy between them.

Finally, Jungkook whispered into the quiet:

"What do we do now?"

No one had an easy answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But when Namjoon finally spoke, his voice was low and certain.

"We survive," he said.

"Together."

Chapter Text

The first buzz of a phone woke Yoongi. He ignored it at first. Another buzz. Another. Then another. Then the buzz became a flood, vibrations rattling across the floor, against the walls, against the inside of his skull.

Yoongi groaned low, blinking heavy-lidded into the dark of the living room. Blankets tangled around him. Hoseok curled up like a cat against the couch. Taehyung sprawled half-off a beanbag, hoodie tangled around his face.

Another phone buzzed. Another. The air felt thick, electric. Wrong. Yoongi fumbled for his phone blindly. Notifications exploded across the lock screen, missed calls, messages, news alerts, flashing so fast he couldn't read them all.

Hoseok stirred, making a soft, confused sound. Then Namjoon's voice, low and rough from the other side of the room: "Everyone up." Not loud. But final. Commanding.

The others shifted slowly, groggy and confused. Until Jimin, who'd crashed curled into Jin’s side, grabbed his own phone and choked on a breath.

"Hyung—" Jimin’s voice cracked. "Hyung, it’s, it’s about Kook."

That woke Jungkook up fully. He pushed upright from his place under a pile of blankets, hoodie slipping down to reveal wide, startled eyes. Yoongi sat up straighter, thumb flying across the screen. Finally catching the headlines.

"Breaking: Leaked Documents Reveal BTS's Jungkook Misdiagnosed As Neutral." "Anonymous Insider Leaks Hybe Medical Records: Inconclusive Test at 18, Sub Confirmation at 25." "Fans Outraged After Medical Neglect Allegations Surface Against Hybe Entertainment."

Yoongi stared at the screen. Breathless. Sick. It was all there. All of it. Every ugly piece. Every word they’d fought to keep buried for Jungkook’s sake. Exposed. Laid out in flashing headlines and viral threads.

Hoseok grabbed his own phone, swearing under his breath. Jin sat rigid, staring blankly at his notifications. Taehyung turned pale and shoved both hands into his hair, breathing too fast. Jungkook sat frozen in the nest of blankets. He hadn't even looked yet. Hadn’t checked. Didn’t have to. The look on everyone's faces said enough.

Yoongi pushed up, crossing the room in two long strides. He dropped down in front of Jungkook, hands open, voice low. "You don’t have to read it." Jungkook blinked at him, huge, glassy-eyed, lost. "You don’t have to," Yoongi repeated, softer. "We’ll deal with it." Jungkook swallowed hard. Nodded. Curled tighter into himself.

Namjoon grabbed the remote off the coffee table, flicking the TV on. Not even pretending it wasn’t bad. Not even pretending they could control it anymore. News anchors already scrambling to get the story out: "…leaked internal documents appear to show that BTS's youngest member was misdiagnosed during early dynamic testing, reportedly tested too early for official results…" "…confirmed Sub dynamic following private re-evaluation six months ago…" "…fans express outrage at Hybe’s alleged negligence…"

Footage rolled, clips of Jungkook during debut, fainting during concerts, flinching on stage. The narrative wasn’t subtle anymore. The world had put the pieces together. And they were furious.

Yoongi sat back on his heels, scrubbing a hand over his face. Hoseok slid off the couch onto the floor, grabbing at Taehyung without thinking, grounding them both in the physical reality of touch. Jimin buried his face against Jin’s side, shaking slightly. Jungkook didn't move.

Namjoon lowered the volume but didn’t turn it off. The noise was better than the silence. Their group chat with Hybe exploded, Dynamic managers, managers, PR team all spamming frantic messages. MEETING. NOW. EMERGENCY. DON’T RESPOND TO ANYTHING. The pack stayed still. Frozen. Drowning.

Yoongi looked up at Namjoon. "What do we do?"

Namjoon’s mouth was a grim line. He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t rush. Just let the silence stretch between them, the heavy, unbearable weight of it. Finally, he said: "We go."

Because they had no choice. Because hiding wouldn’t save them. Because Hybe would just send people here if they didn’t show.

Hoseok exhaled shakily, pushing to his feet. Jin stood slower, dragging Jimin up with him. Taehyung moved last, hands trembling at his sides. Jungkook didn’t move. Yoongi touched his knee gently. "You don’t have to say anything." Jungkook finally nodded. A tiny motion. The only one he could manage.

They gathered what little they needed. Phones. Wallets. Masks. No smiles. No stylists. No Dynamic managers to shepherd them this time. Just the seven of them. Alone in the eye of a storm they hadn’t wanted to create.

When they left the dorm, the sun was just starting to rise. The sky was blood-orange and heavy. By the time they reached Hybe’s underground parking lot, the world had caught fire. The van hadn’t even pulled into the dock before Jimin's phone buzzed again, another alert, another hashtag, another thread dissecting every minute of the last seven years.

The building loomed ahead, sterile and sharp under the rising sun. No Dynamic managers waited at the doors this time. No PR smiles. Just a junior staffer pacing nervously by the entrance, clutching a clipboard like it could shield her from the tsunami bearing down on them.

They walked inside together. No words. Just the soft shuffle of sneakers on tile and the electric hum of panic in the air. The lobby screens, usually reserved for artist promos, had been switched off. No bright faces smiling down from the walls. No promises of success. Just blank, black squares reflecting their own hollow silhouettes back at them.

Hoseok tucked himself instinctively between Namjoon and Yoongi. Taehyung brushed shoulders with Jungkook so lightly it might have been a mistake, except it wasn't. Not anymore.

The elevator ride up was silent. No Dynamic managers squeezed in with them this time. No one breathing down their necks, telling them how to stand, how to smile, how to live. Just the seven of them, crammed into a small metal box, waiting for the next blow.

Phones kept buzzing. Not just fans now. Other idols. Other groups. Industry names they hadn't heard from in years. "Thinking of you." "Stay strong." "You didn’t deserve this." "We see you."

Yoongi read one message over Namjoon’s shoulder. An older idol, someone they'd admired when they were trainees. A Dom. Someone who never spoke about his own dynamic publicly. "Sometimes you don’t mean to change the world. You just refuse to break. And it’s enough."

Yoongi swallowed hard. Tucked the phone into his pocket without answering. Because what could you say to that? What could you say to any of it?

They stepped out of the elevator into chaos. Hybe's PR team crammed into the hallway. Phones pressed to ears. Laptops open on knees. Shouting and pacing and paper flying everywhere. Someone tried to wave them toward a smaller conference room. Damage control. Containment.

Jin snorted under his breath, sharp and humorless. They went anyway. Because what else could they do?

Inside:
A few higher-ups. Some legal reps. The head of PR. Faces tight. Eyes tired. No one smiled. No one pretended anymore.

The head of PR, a woman in a sleek black suit, hair pinned back so tight it looked painful, stood at the head of the table. A laptop open in front of her. A dozen tabs flashing frantic headlines across the screen.

"We’re in crisis," she said without preamble. Voice clipped. Professional. No warmth. No apologies. Just survival.

Jin folded his arms. Jimin slumped into a chair like his bones had given out. Hoseok hovered near the door, pale but steady. Yoongi stood behind Taehyung’s chair, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Jungkook stayed half-hidden between Namjoon and the wall. Silent. Braced. Waiting.

The PR rep clicked the remote. Headlines exploded across the projector screen:
"Misdiagnosis of BTS's Jungkook Raises Industry Questions About Idol Dynamic Testing."
"Hybe Entertainment Under Fire For Alleged Neglect."
"Fans, Industry Insiders Demand Reform In Idol Management Practices."

Below the headlines: clips of idols posting cryptic messages, images of protests forming outside smaller agencies, fan letters trending with hashtags demanding change.

"You have to understand," the PR rep said tightly, "we didn’t anticipate this level of backlash."

Yoongi barked a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Namjoon laid a quieting hand on his arm without looking. The PR rep kept going, undeterred.

"We’re preparing a statement. A compassionate one. We’ll acknowledge mistakes. Frame it as an unfortunate situation, no intentional malice. Focus on how young Jungkook was at the time. Emphasize our concern for his health."

No one answered.

Not because they agreed. Not because they forgave. But because they were too tired to fight ghosts anymore.

"Your cooperation will help," she continued. "Stay quiet. Stay professional. Appear unified."

Unified. That word again. Like they hadn’t spent years being told they weren’t allowed to belong to each other at all.

The PR rep clicked to the next slide. Graphs. Polls. Public sentiment data.

"We can survive this," she said. "Together."

And there it was. Not concern for them. Concern for the brand. For the product. For the machine.

Yoongi shifted closer to Taehyung without thinking. Hoseok brushed his fingers against Jimin's wrist under the table. Namjoon stood tall and unmoving. Jin smiled, small, sharp, cold.

And Jungkook?

Jungkook just watched. Eyes too big. Too quiet. Too knowing.

They weren't free. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But the world had seen them now. Seen the cracks. The blood. The truth. And you couldn’t unsee the truth once it got under your skin.

The dorm was dark when they returned. They didn’t bother with the lights. Too bright. Too sharp. It would’ve made the cracks in them too visible.

They shuffled inside in silence, shoulders brushing, heads bowed, the door clicking shut behind them like the final beat of a funeral drum.

Phones buzzed endlessly in pockets. The world outside was still screaming, hashtags flying, news reports spiraling, fans fighting tooth and nail, but inside the dorm, there was only the quiet weight of breathing.

Yoongi kicked off his shoes halfway down the hall, not even caring where they landed. Jimin dropped onto the couch like gravity had doubled. Hoseok folded down onto the carpet without a word, curling up like he could make himself small enough to disappear.

Jin leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed so tight across his chest he looked like he might crack in half.

Namjoon stood in the doorway for a long moment. Just...standing. Holding the whole heavy weight of them in his broad, unmoving shoulders.

Jungkook hovered near the edge of the room, hoodie sleeves swallowed in his fists, staring at nothing.

No one spoke. No one needed to. The grief in the room was thick enough to choke on.

Not grief for the fans. Not grief for the comeback they knew now would never happen the way it was supposed to.

Grief for the innocence they couldn’t get back. For the naivety they hadn’t even realized they were clinging to. For the reality that survival had a price. And they were paying it.

Yoongi dropped his head into his hands, fingers fisting into his hair. Taehyung perched next to Hoseok on the floor, their shoulders brushing, grounding each other without trying to fix anything. Jimin tilted his head back against the couch, blinking up at the ceiling like he was trying to see through it.

Jin broke the silence first. Soft. Bitter. Half a laugh, half a sob. "They think if we smile enough, we’ll forget they tried to break us."

No one argued. Because they all knew it was true.

Jungkook moved then, slow, mechanical, crossing the room to where Namjoon still stood. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. Just pressed himself against Namjoon’s side, fists tightening in the fabric of Namjoon’s hoodie.

Namjoon dropped a hand onto the back of his head immediately, cradling him close.

Taehyung shifted, reaching out without looking to catch Jungkook’s hand, threading their fingers together on the way. Jimin slid off the couch onto the floor beside them. Yoongi pulled himself up, crossing the room to join them. Hoseok tucked his head against Yoongi’s side, and Jin finally let himself move too, crouching down, closing the space between them.

No one said it out loud. But they knew.

They were a pack. Official or not. On paper or not. Recognized by the world or not. They were each other’s. And no handler. No company. No headline. No contract. Could erase that.

For a long time, they just sat there. Tangled together on the floor like some broken constellation, breathing each other in, anchoring to the only thing left that was real.

Jungkook trembled in Namjoon’s arms. Not from fear. Not from grief. Just from being seen. Fully. Finally.

No way to hide now. No way to pretend he was neutral, or invisible, or unimportant.

The world had seen him bleed. And it hadn’t looked away.

The thought terrified him. And somewhere deep, buried under all the terror,

It comforted him, too.

Maybe there was no way back. Maybe survival had ripped something open inside him that would never close again.

But he wasn’t alone.

And for now, in this fragile, exhausted moment, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The meeting room smelled like coffee and nerves.

Someone had tried to make it comfortable, plush chairs, soft lighting, even a basket of bottled water and energy bars on the sideboard.

It didn’t help.

The tension in the air was heavy enough to choke on.

BTS sat together near the center of the long conference table, backs straight, hands folded neatly in their laps. Not trying to make a statement. Just there. Just breathing. Just existing.

Across from them: Executives. Lawyers. PR heads from every major label. Representatives from two dynamic rights organizations, the real kind, the ones with teeth. A few media outlets, hovering nervously in the corners. The power in the room didn’t sit neatly where it used to anymore. It shifted, uneasy, crawling across the carpet like static.

Namjoon sat at the end of their line, shoulders broad and still. Yoongi beside him, arms folded but not closed. Jin sat sharp and small, a tight line of tension down his spine. Hoseok looked too loose, too casual, but his fingers tapped against the table in a steady beat that betrayed him. Jimin was quiet for once, staring at a point on the wall. Taehyung kept glancing sideways at Jungkook, not protectively, just...present.

Jungkook sat in the middle, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands, heart thudding so loud it drowned out half the introductions. He didn’t know how to be this visible. A man in a navy suit cleared his throat. "Thank you all for coming." Formal. Distant. As if any of them had a choice.

"We're here today to discuss voluntary industry-wide guideline revisions regarding the management of idol dynamics," he continued. The words were careful. Sanitized. Nothing radical. Nothing emotional.

"This isn't about assigning blame," another executive said quickly. "This is about moving forward. Modernizing best practices."

Yoongi shifted slightly in his seat, and Namjoon caught the movement without looking. Small glances. Small touches. The language of survival.

One of the dynamic rights reps, a woman with sharp eyes and a notebook brimming with annotations, spoke up next. "We are recommending three primary changes," she said. Voice clear, steady, like she already knew most of the room would resist her.

"First: the removal of mandatory internal Dynamic managers for dynamic management unless specifically requested by the idols themselves."

A ripple of discomfort moved through the executives. Not anger. Not outrage. Just fear.

"Second: dynamic settling and grounding to be overseen, if necessary, by external, neutral third-party specialists, not by company-employed staff."

Jin tapped his fingers once against the tabletop. A dry, hollow sound.

"Third," the rep finished, "mandatory regular health evaluations, mental, physical, and dynamic, with transparent results available to idols, not just company management."

Silence stretched. Hybe’s CEO, a man Jungkook had only met a handful of times, leaned forward slightly. "Will these guidelines be enforced?" The rights rep smiled thinly. "Not at first."

The man nodded once, expression unreadable. Calculating the cost. The risk. The survival math of an industry that wasn’t ready for this but couldn’t avoid it anymore.

Someone from another agency shifted uncomfortably. "Is there...a particular timeline?"

The rights rep flipped a page in her notebook. "Effective immediately for companies that wish to participate voluntarily." Another small smile. "And it will be noted publicly who chooses to comply." A threat wrapped in velvet.

 BTS said nothing. They weren’t here to argue. They weren’t here to demand. They were just...here. Breathing. Existing. Undeniable.

The woman glanced at them briefly. Not pity. Not sympathy. Recognition. Something had shifted. Not because they shouted. Not because they fought. But because they didn’t break. Because they didn’t leave each other behind.

The meeting dragged on, technical discussions, media protocols, damage control plans, but none of it mattered much. Not really.The world had already seen the truth. The guidelines were just the industry trying to catch up before it drowned.

Afterward, they were asked, politely, stiffly, to say a few words for the internal record. Not a press conference. Not a public statement. Just a few sentences, off-camera, in a bland beige room.

Namjoon spoke first. Simple. Measured. "We want a system that keeps everyone safe. Not just profitable." Yoongi followed. Voice low but steady. "We didn’t do anything special. We just stayed together." Jin’s mouth twisted into something like a smile. "Sometimes that’s enough." Hoseok didn’t say much. Just nodded when it was his turn. Jimin murmured something about protecting their younger members. Taehyung squeezed Jungkook’s hand under the table and said nothing at all.

When it came to Jungkook, he hesitated for a long moment. The room waited. No pressure. No expectation. Finally, he lifted his head and said, soft but clear: "I just want to be able to exist without hurting." No one clapped. No one cheered. No one cried. But something cracked open in the walls around them anyway. And nothing, not polished PR statements, not contracts, not carefully-worded apologies, would ever fully close it again.

The guidelines rolled out quietly. No flashing headlines, no triumphant banners, no victory laps. Just a muted announcement on official channels:
"New voluntary standards for dynamic management adopted to promote health, safety, and artistic freedom."

The words were slick, sanitized, carefully chosen to sound progressive without admitting guilt.

BTS watched it happen from their dorm, hunched around the living room in sweatpants and hoodies, half-eaten takeout scattered across the table. Namjoon scrolled through the industry news sites in silence. Yoongi stared blankly at the muted TV. Hoseok stretched out on the floor, long legs tangled with Jimin’s. Taehyung tucked himself into the corner of the couch, hoodie pulled up over his head like armor. Jin sat cross-legged at the coffee table, absently picking at the frayed corner of an old magazine. Jungkook curled up at the far end of the couch, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands.

They didn't speak much. There wasn’t much new to say.

Hybe had issued their own internal memo within hours of the announcement:
Effective immediately: No internal Dynamic managers unless requested. Dynamic settling to be overseen by third-party neutral specialists. Regular mental, physical, and dynamic evaluations scheduled quarterly for all active idols.

No apology. No real acknowledgment. Just survival strategy, clean and cold.

Whispers started leaking online, not from BTS, but from others. "Company X changed their policies after the BTS incident." "My friend's group just got offered neutral settling options for the first time ever." "Industry’s scared."

It wasn’t a revolution. It wasn’t even clean. But it was movement.

Jin flipped his phone over on the table with a sigh. "Think they even realize they’re admitting they were wrong?" Yoongi huffed a humorless laugh. "Does it matter?" Jimin shrugged where he was stretched against Hoseok, his hand idly toying with a hoodie string.

Jungkook didn't say anything. He didn’t have to. Taehyung nudged his knee gently under the blanket, grounding him in that small, solid way he'd started doing without thinking.

The industry adapted like a wounded animal learning how to limp. Policies shifted. Training protocols were rewritten. Dynamic rights organizations got calls returned a little faster. Journalists stopped treating dynamic neglect like a scandal and started treating it like a systemic health issue.

No one gave BTS credit. No one thanked them. And they didn’t want it.

They hadn’t survived for applause. They hadn’t clawed through years of silence and shame for praise. They had done it for each other.

Namjoon finally shut the TV off. The blue light cut out and left the room heavy and dim. He stretched, slow and deliberate, and pushed to his feet.

"Come on," he said quietly, voice heavy but steady. "Nest night."

No one argued. No one hesitated. They moved automatically now, trained by months of necessity, survival tangled into instinct. Yoongi dragged a mattress out into the living room. Hoseok and Jimin threw every blanket and pillow they could find into the pile. Taehyung set up the humidifier near the window. Jin grumbled about the mess but helped anyway, clearing away the last of the cold food containers.

Jungkook stayed curled up on the couch for a moment longer, sleeves swallowed around his fists, before someone, Jin, scowling, dropped a blanket over his shoulders.

"Don’t sit there like a ghost," Jin muttered, voice rough. "You’re not haunting anyone."

Jungkook blinked, heart twisting painfully tight, and let himself be tugged into the center of the warmth, into the pile of bodies and blankets and the easy, worn-in comfort of them.

They weren't leaders. They weren't revolutionaries. They were just a pack. Bruised. Exhausted. Holding each other up with stubbornness and tired love.

And somehow, without ever meaning to,

They had changed the world anyway.

Hybe changed, but not because they wanted to. They changed because they had to. Because the industry was shifting under their feet faster than they could keep up. Because BTS wasn’t just another idol group anymore, they were a public symbol of survival, whether they had asked for it or not.

It started small. New faces at meetings. Fresh PR managers with tight smiles and wary eyes. Dynamic managers reassigned or quietly let go. Training protocols updated to include mandatory dynamic sensitivity training. Dynamic evaluations now scheduled openly, listed in their shared calendars like normal doctor’s appointments instead of being hidden behind endless excuses and shame.

The difference wasn’t in the words. It was in the way people moved around them now. Staff didn’t grab them without asking anymore. Didn’t bark orders across rooms. Didn’t hover so close it felt like being caged. Everyone kept just a little more distance. A little more respect. Fear disguised as professionalism, but it didn’t matter. It gave them breathing room either way.

Namjoon noticed it first. The way managers offered choices instead of commands. The way stage directors asked instead of demanded. The way nobody corrected him anymore when he stepped between a handler and a younger member, body still reading danger even when his mind told him it was safe.

Yoongi noticed it too. He watched the new staff carefully, like a soldier cataloguing enemy movements. He caught the way they flinched when he raised his voice even slightly, the way they deferred automatically to Namjoon when decisions needed to be made. They were still wary, but wary in a way that acknowledged the pack’s power instead of pretending it didn’t exist.

Jimin leaned into it like it was a game. Flashed bigger smiles. Poked at the edges of the new freedom. Tested boundaries carefully, with a brat’s instinct for finding cracks in the system. Hoseok watched everything with lazy, calculating eyes, the full weight of his intelligence masked behind slow blinks and soft snark.

Taehyung carried it quieter. The shift unsettled him, he didn’t trust the easy smiles and careful offers. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He kept close to Jungkook without making a show of it, hovering like a silent shield when they moved through company spaces.

And Jungkook… Jungkook was still learning what it meant to take up space he was allowed to have. Still curled in tight around himself some days. Still flinching at sudden noise, sudden touch. But he was standing a little straighter. Speaking a little more. Laughing, real, startled laughter, sometimes when the world around him softened enough to let it through.

Hybe didn’t apologize. Not formally. Not directly. No one sat them down and said, “We’re sorry we tried to break you.” It wasn’t how companies worked. It wasn’t how this world worked. But BTS didn’t need an apology. They didn’t need validation from the machine that had almost ground them down to nothing.

All they needed was what they already had. Each other. A bond that didn’t need to be sanctioned by contracts or press releases. A pack that had survived everything thrown at them, not because they were stronger or smarter or more righteous, but because they had clung to each other when it would have been easier to let go.

The true power shift wasn’t in the new policies or the new managers or the polite, fearful deference in the halls. It was in the simple, unbreakable fact that BTS didn’t need Hybe anymore. Not to define them. Not to protect them. Not even to survive.

Hybe needed them.

And for the first time, everyone knew it.

Dinner was a mess, two orders short, wrong drinks, sauce spilled down Hoseok’s sleeve when Jimin tripped trying to answer the door. Nobody yelled. Nobody even really laughed. Just tired grins and quiet curses, and the kind of easy, bruised affection that didn’t need words. Jin picked the pickles out of his sandwich with clinical disgust. Taehyung made a half-hearted attempt to steal fries off Hoseok’s plate. Yoongi propped his chin on Namjoon’s shoulder and let the TV wash over him without really seeing it. Jimin sprawled across two chairs, legs swinging aimlessly. Jungkook sat wedged between Hoseok and Taehyung, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, picking at his food without much appetite. No one commented. No one pressured. The fact that he was even there, tucked into the circle without flinching, was enough.

It hit in waves sometimes, the reality of what they’d survived, what it had cost, what it would keep costing. Hoseok set down his drink too hard once, the sharp thud making Jungkook flinch before he could stop himself. Hoseok winced immediately, mumbling an apology. Taehyung pressed his knee lightly against Jungkook’s, grounding him without saying a word. Namjoon caught Hoseok’s eye and gave a small, sharp look, not angry, just a reminder: gentler, slower. Hoseok nodded, a tiny, rueful shrug. Still learning. They all were.

Later, they ended up piled across the living room again, half-nesting, half-collapsing, blanketed in hoodies and mismatched throws. The TV played some late-night rerun none of them were really watching. Jungkook leaned his head against Taehyung’s shoulder; Taehyung leaned back without thinking. Hoseok’s legs draped lazily over Jimin’s lap. Yoongi sprawled on the floor with an arm flung over his face. Jin curled against Namjoon’s side like he couldn’t even pretend to stay upright anymore. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t pretty. But it was theirs.

For a long time, no one spoke. Then Jimin broke the silence, voice flat against the hum of the TV. "I’m still pissed," he said. No one laughed. No one told him to cheer up. "Me too," Jin muttered, not bothering to open his eyes. "Still want to break something sometimes." Hoseok shifted, nudging Jimin lazily with his foot. Jimin shoved back half-heartedly. "Still scared," Taehyung said, his voice soft but clear. "Sometimes." Yoongi sighed from the floor. "Same." Jungkook tightened his hands in the blanket, heart hammering, and forced himself to whisper, "Me too."

Namjoon didn’t say anything. He just reached out, squeezed Jungkook’s ankle once, firm and grounding, the way only Namjoon could. Hoseok’s voice was softer than usual when he said, "You don’t have to be brave all the time, you know. You’re allowed to be a mess." Jimin grunted, tugging the blanket up higher. "‘S not like the rest of us are doing much better," he said, half into the fabric.

Jungkook smiled, small, broken, real. "I know." And he did. Finally. They were all messes. Bruised, stubborn, tired as hell. But still here. Still choosing each other every goddamn day.

Outside, the world kept shifting gears. New policies, new guidelines, new rules trying to put names and structures around things that had nearly destroyed them. But here, in the dim living room, wrapped up in each other’s warmth and stubborn loyalty, it didn’t matter. They had survived. Not cleanly. Not heroically. Not like stories told it. But enough. Enough to still be here.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t a big moment. It wasn’t fireworks or grand declarations or choreographed speeches. It was Jimin, half-flopped across the living room floor, kicking his heels lazily in the air and staring at the ceiling, saying, "Hey. If we’re already living like a pack...shouldn’t we just...be one?"

Silence met the question at first. Not the bad kind, not the heavy, aching kind they used to live inside. Just a kind of stunned quiet, like the room was holding its breath.

Hoseok snorted into the pillow he was hugging. "Trust you to bring up something huge like it’s a snack order."

"I’m serious," Jimin insisted, lifting his head to squint at the rest of them. "I mean, we nest together. We settle together. We handle drop together. We act like one. Shouldn’t we make it real?"

Yoongi shifted where he was sprawled across the couch, lifting his head enough to look toward Namjoon. A natural motion, unthinking, like even now, even after everything, he needed Namjoon to anchor the heavy moments.

Namjoon didn't answer right away. He sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the armrest, arms loosely draped over his knees. Watching them all. Thinking. Letting the idea settle before speaking.

Finally, he said, low and even, "Only if everyone wants it."

The room shifted. Tension rippled, tiny and real, not fear but seriousness.

No one here would be forced. No one here would be cornered into it because it was easier, because it was expected. The whole point was choice, real choice, freely given, not demanded.

"I want it," Jimin said immediately, messy and too loud and completely sincere.

Hoseok made a face but rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling again. "Yeah. Same."

Yoongi smiled, slow and warm and so, so steady. "Of course."

Jin didn’t speak right away. He pulled his knees to his chest, fingers curling into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, eyes sharp as they flicked around the room, not judging, just thinking, just measuring what it would mean to say yes out loud. "Yeah," he said finally, voice soft. "Yeah. I do."

Taehyung, half-buried under a blanket in the corner, lifted one hand without looking up. A silent, easy agreement.

Then everyone was looking at Jungkook.

He sat cross-legged against the far end of the couch, hoodie swallowed around his frame, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t moved since Jimin’s question cracked the air open. Hadn’t breathed differently. But now his hands were fisting in the soft cotton of his sleeves, and his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

He looked at Namjoon first, instinctively, like maybe he could find the right answer there. But Namjoon wasn’t giving him anything, no push, no pull. Just quiet, steady patience. Just a space waiting for him to step into, if he wanted.

Jungkook licked his lips, tasting nerves and fear and something else, something thicker, heavier, sweeter.

"I..." he started, then stopped, throat closing.

Jimin shifted, shoving himself upright. "You don’t have to," he said quickly, words stumbling over each other. "If you don’t want—"

"I want to," Jungkook said, voice cracking halfway through.

The room exhaled around him.

He flushed, dropping his head into his hands for a second, overwhelmed by how big it felt even though no one was pushing him.

When he lifted his face again, it wasn’t fear burning in his chest anymore.

It was something fiercer. Brighter.

"I want to," he said again, steadier this time. "I just...I’ve never had something like this. I don’t know how to do it."

Namjoon smiled, small, slow, and the warmest thing Jungkook had ever seen.

"You’re already doing it," he said simply.

Jungkook’s throat closed up again, but this time it wasn’t fear.

It was relief.

Raw and huge and terrifying and good.

Jimin whooped and launched himself across the floor, tackling Jungkook in a hug that knocked the breath out of both of them. Hoseok threw a pillow at them half-heartedly. Taehyung snickered into his blanket. Jin rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to hide the small, sharp smile curling at the corner of his mouth. Yoongi just sat there and beamed like the sun had moved into the living room.

When Jimin finally let go, Namjoon cleared his throat, voice a little rougher than usual.

"Tomorrow," he said. "If you still want it, we'll make it official."

Jungkook nodded, heart pounding.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he would choose them again.

And they would choose him.

Not because they had to.

Not because the industry said so.

But because they wanted to.

Because somewhere along the way, they had already become each other’s without even meaning to.

Now they just had to claim it.

They didn't talk much about it the next morning. No big planning session, no group chat explosion. Just a quiet understanding that settled between them like a second skin.

It started with Jimin tossing all the couch cushions into a pile in the middle of the living room. He didn’t say anything. Just did it, grinning to himself like a kid building a fort. Hoseok joined next, dragging every spare blanket out of their rooms, arms overflowing. Taehyung followed, carrying pillows and a couple of Jungkook’s favorite hoodies, tossing them into the growing nest without a word.

Yoongi disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing a few minutes later with water bottles, snacks, and a bag of electrolyte gummies like they were preparing for a marathon. Jin grumbled about the mess, but his hands were steady when he helped spread the blankets wider, smoothing down corners, making sure nothing rough or uncomfortable would interrupt what they were about to create.

Namjoon hovered near the door at first, watching them, heavy and thoughtful. Then he moved, slow and sure, dragging the extra mattresses out, layering them underneath everything else, turning the living room floor into something soft, forgiving, safe.

Jungkook stayed perched on the arm of the couch, watching it all unfold. Not frozen. Not afraid. Just overwhelmed in the best, strangest way. This wasn’t a production. It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t some ritual someone else had scripted for them.

This was theirs.

Their space.

Their bond.

Their beginning.

Someone, maybe Taehyung, put on a playlist. Nothing heavy. Just soft background music, low enough that it barely touched the edges of the room. Someone else, probably Yoongi, lit a candle, something that smelled like fresh laundry and summer rain.

The light through the windows dimmed as the afternoon wore on, turning everything golden and thick, the kind of lazy softness that only came when no one was performing for anyone else.

"Okay," Jimin said eventually, standing in the middle of the mess, hands on his hips, surveying the wreckage like a proud general. "I think we’re ready."

Ready. The word echoed in Jungkook’s chest.

Ready for what?

Ready for everything.

Ready for the way his life was about to crack open and rearrange itself into something bigger, something heavier, something sweeter.

He pushed himself off the couch, hoodie sleeves slipping down over his hands, and stepped into the center of it all.

Jimin grabbed his wrist and spun him in a lazy circle, laughing under his breath. Hoseok flopped down into the pile dramatically. Taehyung dropped beside him, pulling him close without hesitation. Yoongi stretched out at the edge, arms folded behind his head, looking as content as Jungkook had ever seen him. Jin fussed a little more, adjusting the pillows until he was satisfied, then dropped down next to Namjoon, who sat cross-legged, steady and waiting.

They weren’t in a rush. There was no clock ticking down, no outside schedule they had to answer to. For the first time in too long, they could move at their own pace. Breathe their own air. Choose their own beginning.

Jungkook sat down between Jimin and Taehyung, heart thudding loud enough he was sure someone could hear it. Jimin threw an arm around his shoulders, loose and easy. Taehyung bumped their knees together lightly. Yoongi caught his eye from across the pile and gave him the softest smile.

"We’re really doing this," Hoseok said, not mocking, just amazed.

"Yeah," Jin answered, voice rougher than usual. "We are."

Namjoon leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, voice low and even as it rolled across the room.

"Last chance to back out."

No one moved.

No one even thought about it.

Jungkook looked around, at Jimin’s bright eyes, at Hoseok’s lazy sprawl, at Taehyung’s soft grounding presence, at Yoongi’s quiet steadiness, at Jin’s sharp, protective tension, at Namjoon’s unshakable weight anchoring it all, and realized he had already chosen.

Long before today.

Long before the question had ever been asked out loud.

He nodded, throat tight.

"I’m ready."

The others echoed him, some louder, some softer, all sure.

Namjoon smiled, small and real, and said, "Then we start together."

No orders. No instructions.

Just a pack choosing to weave themselves together, one touch, one breath, one heartbeat at a time.

It started simple.

Not with kisses.
Not with hands pulling or mouths crashing together.
Just touch.

Small, steady, certain.

Jimin ran his fingers lightly up Jungkook’s arm, tracing the seam of his hoodie like it was precious. Hoseok leaned against his other side, cheek resting lightly on his shoulder. Taehyung pressed their knees together, anchoring him with the quiet solidity he had always offered without asking for anything in return.

Jungkook let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

It didn’t feel like falling.
It felt like...sinking.
Safe. Slow. Sure.

Yoongi shifted first, sliding closer across the tangle of blankets and pillows until his thigh pressed warmly against Jungkook’s knee. He reached out, deliberate, steady, and cupped Jungkook’s face in one broad palm, thumb stroking lightly over the curve of his cheekbone.

"You good?" he murmured, voice pitched low, private.

Jungkook nodded, dizzy with it, the question, the care.

Namjoon was watching too, not pushing, not pulling, just present, like a center of gravity they could all fall against if they needed to. When Jungkook leaned into Yoongi’s touch, Namjoon’s mouth curved at the corner, something so full of pride it made Jungkook’s chest ache.

Jin moved next, predictably impatient. He crawled forward on hands and knees, deliberate, lazy, like a cat that knew exactly how dangerous it was. He didn’t say anything, just leaned in and brushed his lips lightly across Jungkook’s temple.

A kiss.
Not a claiming.
Not a brand.

Just a kiss.

Jungkook shuddered, breath catching. His whole body sang with it, nerves lighting up from the inside.

Jimin pressed another kiss to his shoulder, playful and light. Hoseok’s fingers found his wrist and held it, loose but firm. Taehyung leaned closer, forehead bumping gently against Jungkook’s arm, silent and steady.

It was slow.
It was patient.
It was everything he hadn’t known how to want.

Yoongi kissed the other side of his face, slow, dragging, reverent.

Jungkook’s eyes fluttered closed, head tipping back without thought.

Namjoon moved at last, crawling into the nest of bodies with the kind of deliberate control that made Jungkook's skin prickle in the best way. He cupped the back of Jungkook’s head, threading strong fingers through his hair, and pressed their foreheads together.

"You’re ours," he said, voice rough.
"If you want to be."

Jungkook made a sound, helpless, broken, real, and nodded.

Namjoon kissed him then.

Not soft.
Not bruising.

Just full.

The dam broke.

Jimin laughed into his skin, delighted and breathless. Hoseok tugged him down onto the pillows, pulling him across his lap. Taehyung’s hands found his waist, grounding and coaxing all at once.

Hands everywhere now, careful, curious, reverent. Tugging his hoodie off, sliding under the hem of his shirt, tracing the dips and curves of his ribs. Jungkook trembled, breath shuddering out in a broken gasp.

Yoongi kissed his throat. Jin slid behind him, mouth dragging down the line of his spine. Jimin pressed open-mouthed kisses to his side, whining softly under his breath like he couldn't get enough.

Someone, he didn’t know who anymore, pulled his shirt off completely. Another set of hands, Hoseok? Jimin? Taehyung?, working the drawstring of his sweatpants loose.

He should have been embarrassed. Should have felt exposed, overwhelmed, afraid.

He didn’t.

He felt...

wanted.

They didn’t rush.

They didn’t rip or tear or force.

They peeled him open slow and careful, like he was something precious, something they had been waiting a long time to hold properly.

Namjoon kissed his temple again, steadying him. Yoongi’s hands never left his hips, broad and solid and grounding. Jin mapped kisses down his back, dragging teeth lightly along the curve of his spine just to make him shiver.

Jimin slid their hips together, grinding lazily, a low moan slipping free before he could stop it. Hoseok caught it, caught him, hands skimming down Jungkook’s thighs, guiding him where he needed to be.

Taehyung kissed the inside of his wrist, soft and sure, thumb stroking circles into his pulse point.

It was a slow drowning.

The best kind.

The kind where he didn’t have to fight for breath, because every hand, every kiss, every grounding point was breath. Was life. Was belonging.

Yoongi was the first to slide lower, mouthing along Jungkook’s chest, teasing a nipple until Jungkook arched into him helplessly. Hoseok ducked lower too, licking slow up the inside of his thigh, laughing softly when Jungkook jerked at the heat.

Jimin pressed kisses everywhere he could reach, messy and eager, hands tugging at the waistband of Jungkook’s pants until Taehyung helped slide them off completely.

Jungkook was shaking now, not from fear, but from need, from too much touch and not enough, from the realization that this wasn’t just about sex. It wasn’t about release.

It was about belonging.

Claiming.

Choosing.

And being chosen right back.

"Still good?" Namjoon asked, voice steady against the thundering rush of blood in Jungkook’s ears.

"Yes," he gasped, so wrecked with wanting he could barely find the word.

"Say it," Jin murmured against his skin, cruel in that way only Jin could be, demanding not just submission, but willing surrender.

Jungkook swallowed, chest heaving.

"I want it," he said.
"I want all of you."

The noise that broke from the pack wasn’t a cheer.

It was a sound of breaking.

Of walls falling. Of something snapping into place that had been stretched too thin for too long.

Then there were too many hands again, Namjoon stroking his face, Yoongi mouthing hot kisses down his stomach, Jimin grinding against his thigh, Hoseok slipping fingers along his inner thigh with lazy, maddening patience, Jin biting into the curve of his shoulder just to leave a mark, Taehyung pressing kisses up his spine.

Heat. Pressure. Breathless, wrecked sounds.

A rhythm older than words, older than survival.

The bond didn’t come with flashing lights or magic symbols.

It came with mouths pressed to skin.
With gasped names.
With the creaking of mattresses under shifting bodies.
With Jungkook’s wrecked sob when he finally tipped over the edge with all of them around him, anchoring him to the earth with their hands and mouths and bodies and hearts.

When he came down, trembling and boneless, he found himself cradled in a tangle of limbs and slow, steady breathing.

Someone, maybe Yoongi, stroked his hair.
Someone, maybe Hoseok, pressed kisses to his temple.
Someone, Taehyung, surely Taehyung, murmured something soft and grounding against his skin.

"You’re ours," Namjoon said finally, voice like an anchor dropping into deep water.

"And you’re mine," Jungkook whispered back, voice raw, wrecked, whole.

They stayed tangled for a long time.

No one rushed to pull away. No one fidgeted or looked for clothes or cracked awkward jokes to break the heavy, golden quiet. They just stayed, skin against skin, breath against breath, heartbeats slowly slowing together.

Jungkook drifted somewhere soft, somewhere deep. Not gone, not blank, just warm and weightless, tucked into the center of something too big and too good to name. Fingers combed through his hair. Lips brushed his temple. Someone’s thigh was pressed against his own; someone’s chest was a slow, steady rise and fall against his back.

He didn’t need to know who. It didn’t matter. They were all his now. And he was theirs.

Taehyung was the first to move, shifting just enough to tug a blanket up over them. His hands were clumsy, still heavy with aftermath, and when he finally managed to drape it over the whole tangle of bodies, he let out a little victorious huff that made Hoseok snicker quietly into Jungkook’s hair.

"You’re useless," Hoseok muttered, voice wrecked but fond.

Taehyung just grunted and dropped back into the pile, arm slinging across Jungkook’s waist without hesitation.

Yoongi sighed, this big, boneless sound, and curled closer, nuzzling into the crook of Namjoon’s neck like he was half a second from falling asleep. Jin was pressed against Namjoon’s other side, one leg tossed over Yoongi’s, arms tucked under his cheek like a cat in a sunbeam.

Jimin, of course, couldn’t stay still. He shifted and wriggled until he ended up draped half over Hoseok and half over Jungkook, humming happily under his breath.

Jungkook laughed, a real laugh, shaky and bright, and Jimin beamed at him like he’d just scored the winning goal in a championship game.

"You okay?" Jimin asked, voice pitched low but sparkling.

Jungkook nodded, too full to even find words for it. His throat burned, but not from sadness. From being too much full, like there wasn’t enough room inside him for all the warmth pressed against his skin.

Namjoon squeezed his shoulder gently. "Tired?"

Jungkook nodded again.

"Good," Namjoon said, voice rough with affection. "Means we did it right."

Someone else snorted, probably Jin, but no one argued.

Jungkook turned his face into Jimin’s shoulder and breathed deep, trying to hold the moment in his lungs, trying to memorize the exact feel of it. He didn’t know if he ever really could. It was too big. Too good. But he didn’t have to hold onto it alone anymore.

They were holding it with him.

Holding him.

The room was warm and heavy with the smell of sweat and skin and trust. Someone’s stomach growled quietly, and Jimin giggled into the pile. No one moved to fix it. Later, maybe. Later they’d crawl into the kitchen, raid the fridge for leftovers, make stupid jokes and burn something in the microwave.

Later.

For now, there was only this.

Only each other.

Only the steady, solid reality of being wanted, chosen, kept.

Jungkook drifted lower, lower, until he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming. Someone kissed his hair. Someone else tucked the blanket tighter around him. Someone mumbled something sleepy and ridiculous about stealing all the pillows.

He didn’t catch it all.

He didn’t need to.

All he needed was the steady, slow thrum of the pack around him.

Breathing. Holding. Staying.

For the first time, he let himself believe it wasn't temporary.

That he wasn’t a guest here.
Wasn’t a mistake.
Wasn’t something fragile that would break if they looked too close.

He was pack.

He was home.

And when he finally slipped under, boneless and safe and whole, he did it with a smile still curled against Jimin’s skin and six heartbeats drumming steady all around him.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jungkook felt when he woke up was heat.

Not the suffocating, stifling kind that came from studio lights or crowded green rooms. Not the prickling, uncomfortable press of too many expectations on too little skin.

This was different.

This was warmth. Real and heavy and good.

Someone’s arm was slung across his waist. Someone else's knee was wedged between his thighs. Someone was breathing slow and steady into the back of his neck.

He cracked one eye open and immediately had to shut it again, the morning sunlight spilling across the nest like liquid gold.

A soft groan sounded next to his ear. Taehyung, probably. He had that slow, lazy wake-up sound, the one that rumbled low in his chest like he was protesting being conscious at all. Jungkook smiled into the pillow, shifting slightly, and immediately earned a grumbled complaint when his movement jostled the entire precarious pile of bodies.

"Still alive?" Jimin’s voice, bright and teasing, floated from somewhere behind him. Jungkook didn’t bother answering. He just made a noise that could have meant anything, and Jimin snickered in response.

Yoongi’s arm tightened around Jungkook’s waist instinctively, pulling him back flush against a broad chest. It should have felt claustrophobic. Should have triggered that old reflex to pull away, to make himself smaller, less noticeable.

Instead, Jungkook melted.

His whole body relaxed without permission, sinking deeper into the nest of limbs and heat and heartbeats around him.

A hand, Namjoon's, steady and grounding, slid into his hair, combing slow fingers through the messy strands.
"You’re safe," Namjoon rumbled, voice rough with sleep but firm with certainty.
"You’re home."

Jungkook shivered, not from fear, but from how right it felt. How heavy and sure the words landed in his chest.

Someone shifted behind him again, Hoseok, he realized, draping himself across Jungkook’s back like a giant, affectionate cat. Jimin giggled as Hoseok’s long limbs tangled with his own.

The world could have ended outside that nest and Jungkook wouldn’t have noticed. Wouldn’t have cared.

He belonged here. Finally. Fully.

Yoongi pressed a lazy kiss to the back of his neck, the barest scrape of teeth making Jungkook jolt and shiver. He heard Jimin’s amused hum, felt Hoseok nuzzle deeper against his spine, and suddenly the weight of their closeness wasn’t just comforting.

It was electric.

The shift was subtle but undeniable, the lazy warmth sharpening into something heavier, needier, still soft but burning low and deep.

Jungkook squirmed a little without meaning to, thighs rubbing together, breath catching.

"Mm," Yoongi hummed behind him, voice dark with sleepy amusement. "Someone’s awake now."

Jimin snorted. "Told you he was secretly the thirstiest."

Hoseok didn’t even bother pretending to be surprised. He just grinned against Jungkook’s back, teeth scraping lightly at the thin cotton of his shirt.

Namjoon’s hand curled a little tighter in Jungkook’s hair, grounding and commanding without pressure.

"Let’s take care of him first," Namjoon said simply, the words striking through the sleepy haze of the nest like a spark to dry tinder.

Jungkook shuddered, helpless and so, so ready.

The touches turned deliberate.

Hands stroking down his sides, over his stomach, along his thighs. Gentle, slow, patient. Someone slipped fingers under the hem of his shirt, tracing the bare skin underneath with lazy reverence. Someone else mouthed at his shoulder, teeth nipping lightly through fabric.

The heat built slowly, not a wildfire, but a steady, rising tide he couldn’t outrun and didn’t want to.

Namjoon tugged gently at his hair, tilting his head back until he could press a kiss, firm and claiming, to the corner of Jungkook’s mouth.

"You’re allowed to want," Namjoon murmured, low and steady against his skin. "You’re allowed to need."

A broken sound punched out of Jungkook’s chest before he could stop it.

Hands moved lower, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants, stroking over bare, sensitive skin with devastating patience. Yoongi’s mouth found his throat, open and wet and claiming.

Jimin was pressed against his side now too, playful but reverent, laughing quietly every time Jungkook whimpered or shivered under too much touch. Hoseok stayed curled against his back, anchoring him, breathing slow and steady into his hair.

Someone, he thought maybe Taehyung, pressed their palm flat against his lower stomach, holding him steady while the world tipped sideways.

It wasn’t frantic.

It wasn’t hurried.

It was devotion, in every kiss, every touch, every murmured praise against his overheated skin.

When he finally broke apart, gasping and shaking and clinging to anyone he could reach, it wasn’t loneliness that cracked his chest open.

It was love.

Thick and slow and real.

Later, after they’d cleaned up a little and burrowed back into the nest, it was Jimin who broke the silence with a dramatic groan.

"I’m starving."

Jungkook laughed, breathless and wrecked but light, so light he thought maybe he could float away.

"Then get up and make something," Jin grumbled from his pile of blankets, voice rough with leftover sleep and satisfaction.

Jimin gasped in mock betrayal. "I almost died for you!"

"You jerked off on him," Jin shot back dryly. "Not exactly a noble sacrifice."

The nest dissolved into laughter and groaning complaints and a lot of half-hearted shoving.

Yoongi tugged Jungkook close again, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"C’mon," he murmured against his skin, smiling. "Let’s make breakfast."

"Or," Hoseok said lazily from the floor, "let’s set the kitchen on fire again and order delivery."

"Either way," Jimin said brightly, already clambering out of the nest, "it’s gonna be amazing."

And just like that, messy, laughing, still half-naked and wholly theirs, they stumbled into the next moment together.

Getting out of the nest was harder than it should have been.

Not because anyone was reluctant, although, if Jungkook was honest, curling back into the heat of Jimin and Hoseok’s bodies had its appeal, but because they were all lazy, half-dressed, and way too handsy to make real progress.

Yoongi was the first one upright, pulling on a pair of sweats and offering Jungkook a hand with a warm, amused smile. "Come on," he said. "If we wait any longer, Jimin’s gonna start eating the couch cushions."

Jimin, sprawled dramatically across the floor, groaned loudly in protest. "You don’t know that. Maybe I’ve evolved past earthly hunger."

"You ate half a pizza by yourself last night," Jin muttered, throwing a pillow at him.

Jimin caught it one-handed and used it to smack Hoseok, who had the bad luck of sitting closest.

The chaos only grew from there.

By the time they staggered into the kitchen, it was already a disaster. Someone, probably Taehyung, had turned on the coffee pot without putting a cup under it. Flour dusted the countertops like fresh snow. There were three cartons of eggs out for reasons no one could explain.

Jungkook just stood there for a moment, staring, trying to decide whether to laugh or cry.

Yoongi leaned in and bumped his shoulder gently.
"Welcome to breakfast," he said with a grin.

"More like battlefield," Hoseok grumbled, elbowing past to dig out a pan.

Jimin was already rifling through the fridge, pulling out random ingredients with reckless optimism. "We can totally make pancakes," he said, tossing a bag of slightly-questionable blueberries onto the counter. "And bacon. And eggs. And hashbrowns—"

"You are not in charge," Jin snapped, grabbing the blueberries before they could roll onto the floor.

Namjoon, the only one who seemed even mildly competent, started organizing a workspace with grim determination.

Jungkook edged toward the coffee machine, desperate for caffeine.

Yoongi followed him, steady as a shadow, and when Jungkook fumbled with the mugs, Yoongi’s hand closed over his, guiding him without rushing. "You’re doing great," he murmured against Jungkook’s ear, voice low and warm.

Jungkook shivered, smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Yoongi didn’t let go even after the coffee was safely poured. He kept his hand over Jungkook’s for a moment longer, thumb brushing small circles against the back of his wrist like a secret.

Across the room, Hoseok and Jimin had somehow gotten into an argument about proper pancake flipping technique, which quickly escalated into Hoseok flinging a handful of flour at Jimin’s face.

"You bitch!" Jimin shrieked, staggering back like he'd been shot.

Hoseok smirked, lazy and unbothered, brushing flour off his hands with exaggerated elegance.

It took approximately thirty seconds for all hell to break loose.

Jimin retaliated with a scoop of pancake batter. Taehyung tried to defend himself with a spatula and ended up slinging raw egg halfway across the counter. Jin shouted about food safety violations while brandishing a frying pan like a weapon. Namjoon sighed, the long-suffering sound of a man who had already given up, and kept cooking like none of it was happening.

Yoongi just laughed, low and delighted, and tugged Jungkook back against his chest, shielding him from the worst of the crossfire.

"You," he said, nuzzling into the curve of Jungkook’s neck, "are too pretty to get covered in pancake guts."

Jungkook flushed, warmth blooming low in his stomach.

The praise, so casual, so constant, never stopped feeling like a hand wrapped around his ribs, holding him together.

He leaned back into Yoongi’s embrace, letting himself be held for a breath, two, three, before chaos yanked them all forward again.

Someone, probably Jin, managed to salvage enough food for a real breakfast, though the bacon was suspiciously charred and the pancakes looked more like abstract art than anything edible.

They piled back into the living room, plates balanced precariously, laughter still bubbling over.

Jungkook ended up squished between Jimin and Hoseok again, their knees knocking against his under the low coffee table as they dug in.

"Not bad for a total disaster," Hoseok said, mouth full of pancake.

"Pretty on-brand for us," Taehyung agreed, wiping syrup off his fingers with a grimace.

Jungkook just smiled, looking around at them, at the mess, at the noise, at the casual, effortless affection threading through every motion, and felt something in his chest loosen that had been tight for years.

This was his life now.

This was his family.

This was home.

The next night, after dinner and two rounds of terrible board games, Jungkook barely escaped into the bathroom, and straight into Jin’s waiting trap.

He didn’t even have time to react.

One second, he was closing the door behind him, grateful for a moment of peace from Jimin’s endless whining about how "no one appreciated his Monopoly strategy," and the next, Jin was crowding into his space, kicking the door shut with a soft thud.

Jungkook froze, back hitting the cool tile wall, breath catching.

Jin just smiled.

Not a friendly smile.

Not a reassuring smile.

A dangerous smile.

"You," Jin said lazily, voice dripping satisfaction, "have been way too smug lately."

Jungkook blinked, brain still trying to catch up.

"I, what?"

Jin tsked, stepping closer, close enough that Jungkook could feel the heat of his body.
"All soft and wrecked in the nest this morning, making us all crazy. Acting like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing."

Jungkook flushed, blood rushing straight to his cheeks, and lower.

"I wasn’t—" he started, but Jin was already moving.

He plucked a towel off the rack with a flick of his wrist, and before Jungkook could even think about dodging, Jin had looped it around his wrists and pulled, not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to make it clear: stay.

Jungkook gasped, instinctively testing the knot.
It held.

Jin’s grin widened.

"There we go," he murmured, sounding downright delighted. "Now you’re listening."

Jungkook squirmed, heat blooming under his skin, sharp and desperate.

Jin leaned in, so close their noses almost brushed, but didn’t touch.

"You’re so easy," Jin whispered, breath warm against his lips. "All that pretty submission just sitting under your skin, begging to be pulled out."

Jungkook whimpered, an actual, humiliating whimper, and Jin laughed, low and wicked.

"You like this," Jin said, tilting his head thoughtfully, like he was studying a particularly interesting science project. "You like being tied up. Helpless. Waiting for someone to decide what to do with you."

Jungkook squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe, trying not to grind his hips forward like some desperate thing.

Jin didn’t let him hide.

He trailed his fingers down Jungkook’s arms, feather-light, until he reached the towel binding his wrists together. He gave a little tug, making Jungkook stumble forward a half-step, chest bumping into Jin’s.

"Good boy," Jin purred, voice pure sin. "Come here."

Jungkook made another helpless sound, muffled against Jin’s shoulder, and Jin just laughed again, a soft, cruel thing.

He didn’t kiss him.

He didn’t touch anywhere he shouldn’t.

He just circled him, slow and deliberate, running his fingertips along the edges of his skin, skimming over his sides, up the sensitive inside of his arms, never landing where Jungkook wanted him most.

"You’re trembling," Jin noted, voice practically glowing with satisfaction.

Jungkook tried to steady himself, locking his knees, digging his teeth into his bottom lip.

Jin caught him doing it and tsked softly.

"None of that," he said, reaching up to stroke his thumb across Jungkook’s lower lip, pressing just enough to make him part his mouth obediently.
"Good subs take what they’re given."

Jungkook shivered so hard he almost lost his balance.

Jin caught him easily, tugging the towel higher, making Jungkook rise up onto his toes.

The position pulled a desperate, broken little moan out of him, and Jin chuckled, smug and fond all at once.

"Beautiful," he said softly, like he was speaking more to himself than anyone else.

For a moment, Jungkook thought Jin might actually, finally, do something.

Touch him.

Kiss him.

Break him properly.

But instead, Jin leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of Jungkook’s ear, and said, almost sweetly, "Not yet."

Then he stepped back, loose and lazy, and flicked the towel loose with a quick twist of his fingers.

Jungkook stumbled, catching himself against the wall, heart hammering, cock aching, brain a complete mess of want and humiliation and need.

Jin just smirked, tossing the towel over his shoulder like he hadn’t just dismantled him with a few words and a scrap of cloth.

"Wash up," he said brightly, already strolling toward the door.
"You’re late for movie night."

Jungkook just stood there, panting, dizzy, half-wrecked without even being touched properly.

He was going to kill him.

He was going to kill him and then probably beg him for more.

Because God, he wanted it.

He wanted all of them.

He wanted this life, messy and stupid and overwhelming and good.

He wanted it until he couldn’t breathe.

He finally pulled himself together enough to splash cold water on his face, straighten his clothes, and stumble back into the living room, only to be tackled by Jimin and Hoseok, both crowing about popcorn and bad romcoms.

As Jimin clambered into his lap and Hoseok draped over his back, snickering, Jungkook caught Jin’s smug little smirk from across the room.

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

And somewhere deep in his chest, something thrilled at the thought.

The next afternoon, after a lazy morning spent wrestling over the TV remote and sneaking leftovers straight out of the fridge, the chaos started brewing early.

It was Jimin and Hoseok, of course.

It was always Jimin and Hoseok when things got out of hand.

Jungkook saw it happening before anyone else did, the slow gleam of mischief building in Jimin’s grin, the lazy sharpening of Hoseok’s eyes as he stretched out like a cat preparing to pounce.

It was a conspiracy.
It was always a conspiracy.

He wisely stayed out of the way, flopping on the couch beside Taehyung and pretending he hadn’t seen a thing.

Across the room, Namjoon was focused on something boring, emails, probably, leaned back in an armchair, radiating that calm authority that usually kept the rest of them in line.

Usually.

"Hoseok," Jimin stage-whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I bet you can’t get Namjoon to lose his cool before dinner."

Hoseok arched a lazy eyebrow.
"I bet I can."

Yoongi glanced up from where he was trying to fix the coffee machine again, and laughed under his breath.
"This is going to end badly."

"Yep," Jin agreed, not looking up from his phone.

Jungkook snorted, hiding behind a throw pillow.

Jimin grinned wickedly and sauntered across the room, dropping himself dramatically into Namjoon’s lap like he belonged there, which, technically, he did, but not like this.

Hoseok followed, slinking behind Namjoon’s chair and leaning down to drape himself over Namjoon’s broad shoulders, chin resting lightly on top of his head.

They were a mess of long limbs and mischievous smiles, practically vibrating with the effort of not laughing.

Namjoon didn’t even flinch.

"Hoseok," he said calmly, "off."

"No," Hoseok said sweetly, kicking one socked foot in the air.

"Jimin," Namjoon continued, voice still maddeningly even, "down."

Jimin just smirked and wiggled in his lap.

Jungkook felt secondhand panic and secondhand thrill bloom in his chest.

Jimin wiggled.

Hoseok giggled.

Namjoon sighed.

A dangerous, dangerous sigh.

"You think this is funny?" he asked, voice low, the edge of command bleeding into his words.

Jimin looked down at him, all bright-eyed innocence.

"Maybe."

Hoseok shrugged. "A little."

Namjoon shifted, and in one smooth, terrifyingly fast move, had Jimin flipped over his knee, ass up, braced with one hand against his lower back.

The room froze.

Jimin froze.

Jungkook made a sound he would later swear was a cough and not a panicked squeak.

Hoseok tried to scramble back, laughing, but Namjoon caught him by the wrist without even looking, dragging him down into the mess too.

"You wanted my attention," Namjoon said, voice rumbling like distant thunder.
"Now you have it."

Jimin whimpered, half-laughing, half-melting already.

Hoseok grinned, breathless, and let himself be manhandled across Namjoon’s lap, face pressed into the couch cushions.

Yoongi let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"Dead men walking."

Jin didn’t even look up.
"They deserve whatever they get."

Taehyung pulled the pillow over his head in sympathy.

Jungkook...just watched.

Heart pounding.
Mouth dry.
Something low and hungry curling in his gut.

Because Namjoon wasn’t mad.

He was calm.

Which was so much worse.

The first smack landed on Jimin’s ass with a sharp crack.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Just enough to make Jimin gasp and arch into it, whole body trembling.

Hoseok got the next, lower, heavier, a palmprint blooming pink across the curve of his ass.

They squirmed and whined and laughed, trying to get away and clinging just as hard to the safety of it, the heat of it, the rightness of it.

Namjoon didn’t hurry.

He set a rhythm, slow and relentless, alternating between them, making sure they felt every second of his attention.

"You wanted to play," Namjoon murmured, voice like velvet and iron twisted together. "You wanted my focus. Here it is."

Jimin moaned, helpless and high.

Hoseok cursed under his breath and bucked into Namjoon’s thigh.

Jungkook couldn’t look away.

He wasn’t even sure he was breathing anymore.

Namjoon let it build slowly, heat rising, bodies straining, until both brats were shaking with it, flushed and wrecked and panting.

Only then did he ease off, smoothing his palms over their trembling thighs, over the tender, pinkened skin.

"Good boys," he said, voice rough and steady, praise landing as heavy as any punishment.

Jimin whimpered. Hoseok shivered. Both of them melted completely against him, boneless and compliant.

It was one of the hottest things Jungkook had ever seen.

And maybe he made a noise.

Maybe it was a whimper.

Maybe it was just breath catching in his throat.

Whatever it was, Namjoon’s gaze snapped to him across the room, heavy, dark, knowing.

Later, that look promised.

Later, he would take Jungkook apart too.

Jungkook shivered so hard he had to curl tighter into the couch, hiding his face in Taehyung’s side to stay grounded.

Taehyung, mercifully, just patted his head and didn’t say a word.

Later that evening, once the chaos settled, Jimin and Hoseok napped curled against Namjoon’s sides, blissed out and glowing, while the rest of the pack drifted around the apartment, half-wrecked with affection and comfort.

It was stupid. It was messy. It was perfect.

And it was only just beginning.

Later that evening, after the noise and laughter had faded into a warm, sleepy hum around the apartment, Yoongi found him.

Jungkook had curled himself into the far end of the couch, legs tucked up, face half-buried in a throw pillow, trying to quiet the restless buzzing under his skin.

It wasn’t bad.

It wasn’t fear.

It was just...too much.

Too much adrenaline. Too much affection. Too much pack.

He wasn’t sinking, he was floating, too light, drifting higher and higher until he couldn’t quite catch onto anything solid.

Yoongi saw it instantly.

He always did.

Without a word, Yoongi crouched in front of him, resting broad hands gently on Jungkook’s knees. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just offering.

Jungkook blinked down at him, dazed, heart hammering against his ribs.

"You with me?" Yoongi asked softly, voice warm and steady like a weighted blanket.

Jungkook nodded.

Barely.

Yoongi smiled, small, soft, private, and reached up to cup his face, thumb stroking slow across the curve of his cheekbone.

"Come with me," he said, no urgency, no force. "Let’s ground you down."

Jungkook melted before he even realized he was moving, sliding into Yoongi’s hands, letting himself be guided up and away from the couch, down the hall to the safety of one of the bedrooms.

The lights were low. The bedding smelled like fabric softener and home.

Yoongi sat him on the edge of the mattress and dropped to his knees between Jungkook’s legs, hands bracketing his thighs, so careful, so reverent.

"You did so good today," Yoongi murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of his knee through the thin fabric of his sweatpants.

Jungkook shuddered, breath catching.

"You’re so strong," Yoongi said, kissing higher, teeth grazing lightly, worshipful.
"So good for us. Always."

Jungkook whimpered, head tipping back, hands fisting in the sheets.

Yoongi smiled against his skin and worked slow, pulling Jungkook’s sweatpants down his hips, down his thighs, tossing them aside without hurry.

Jungkook flushed, naked and open under his gaze, but Yoongi only looked at him like he was precious. Like every inch of him was something to be honored, cherished.

"Beautiful," Yoongi breathed, hands sliding up the outsides of his thighs, slow and grounding.
"My beautiful boy."

Jungkook whimpered again, thighs trembling.

Yoongi didn’t rush.

He kissed his way up Jungkook’s legs, over his hips, across the tender skin of his stomach. He kissed the scar on his side. He kissed the dip of his collarbone. He kissed every place that ever hurt, ever ached, ever tried to fold itself smaller.

Jungkook started shaking, not from fear, not from cold, but from the overwhelming tide of being seen.

Yoongi’s hands never stopped moving, stroking down his arms, squeezing gently at his calves, cradling the back of his neck. Anchoring him. Catching him.

"You're safe," Yoongi whispered against his skin. "You’re mine. You’re ours. You don't have to fight anymore."

Tears blurred Jungkook’s vision before he could stop them.

He sniffed, trying to wipe them away, but Yoongi caught his hand midair and kissed his knuckles, slow and sure.

"It’s okay," Yoongi said, voice rumbling low and sweet. "You can let go."

Jungkook choked on a sob, and then he was falling forward, into Yoongi’s arms, into the heavy, solid safety of him.

Yoongi caught him easily, cradling him against his chest, rocking him slightly, letting the shudders run their course.

When Jungkook finally pulled back, dazed and red-eyed, Yoongi kissed his forehead and pushed him gently back onto the mattress.

"You don’t have to think right now," Yoongi said, sliding up over him, mouth trailing slow, wet kisses down his chest.
"You just have to feel."

Jungkook moaned, arching into the touch.

Yoongi worshiped him with his mouth, his hands, his body, kissing every inch of skin he could reach, murmuring praise between every breathless gasp he pulled from Jungkook’s lips.

"So good."

"So beautiful."

"Mine."

When he finally slid his hand between Jungkook’s thighs, wrapping fingers around him, it was slow, careful, devastating.

Jungkook sobbed, a broken, grateful sound, and let himself be unraveled.

Yoongi stroked him slow and steady, never rushing, murmuring praise against his skin, grounding him with every touch.

When Jungkook finally shattered, gasping and crying and clinging, Yoongi caught it all.

Caught him.

Held him through the shudders, the sobs, the soft, desperate sounds he couldn’t hold back anymore.

Held him until he was limp and boneless and wrecked in the best way.

Held him until he came back to himself.

Later, when Jungkook drifted on the edge of sleep, tucked safe against Yoongi’s chest, a rough palm stroking slowly down his spine, he realized he wasn’t floating anymore.

He was anchored.

Tethered.

Home.

A few nights later, after the nest had practically taken over the entire living room, Taehyung broke.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Quietly.

The way only Taehyung could.

It happened sometime after midnight. Everyone else was tangled together in lazy piles, half-asleep, half-touchy, while some dumb action movie flickered across the TV in the background.

Jungkook had been the one to notice it first.

Taehyung didn’t sit apart because he didn’t want to be close.

He sat apart because he didn’t know where he fit anymore.

Not with the way Jungkook melted into touch now, practically radiating need.
Not with the way Jimin and Hoseok bratted and whined and demanded attention so openly it made everyone laugh.
Not with the way the pack responded, so quick, so sure, to the kinds of need they could see.

Taehyung didn’t know how to do that.

His submission had always been different.
Quiet. Steady.
Not loud. Not obvious.

He didn’t ask for attention.
He didn’t demand it.
He just held space for everyone else.

And some traitorous part of him, the part he never said out loud, whispered that maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.

Maybe if he wasn’t loud, or needy, or messy, he didn’t count the same way.

Maybe he didn’t fit this new version of the pack at all.

Jin noticed next.

He nudged Namjoon lightly with his foot, tilting his chin toward the quiet slump of Taehyung’s shoulders.

Namjoon frowned, slow and deep, and nodded.

They moved together without speaking.

The rest of the pack hardly noticed, still half-lost in sleepy affection.

Jungkook watched though, heart thudding, something deep and old curling in his chest.

He knew that look.

He knew what it felt like to believe, no one would miss you if you stayed still long enough.

Taehyung barely resisted when Namjoon reached out and pulled him into his lap.

Didn’t fight when Jin climbed in behind them, bracketing his body with theirs.

Didn’t even speak when Namjoon tilted his chin up with two fingers, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"You’re not invisible," Namjoon said, voice low and certain.
"You’re not forgotten. Your submission isn’t wrong"

Taehyung blinked hard, the barest shine of unshed tears catching in the TV’s light.

"You’re our anchor," Jin added, wrapping an arm around his waist from behind, mouthing soft kisses into the slope of his shoulder.
"You’re the reason we’re still standing."

Taehyung shuddered, the fight bleeding out of him all at once.

Namjoon’s hands were slow and firm, stroking down his back, smoothing over the curve of his spine.

Jin’s mouth was relentless, kissing, biting, worshipping, marking Taehyung’s skin like it was holy.

They didn’t rush.

They didn’t demand.

They just held him.

Held him through the stiff tension, the shaking breath, the slow melt when Taehyung finally let go and sagged fully against Namjoon’s chest, head tucked under his chin.

"You don’t have to be loud to be important," Namjoon said, voice rumbling low against his hair.
"You just have to be here."

Jin’s hand slid lower, stroking the inside of Taehyung’s thigh, teasing the sensitive skin, dragging slow gasps from his throat.

Namjoon cupped his jaw, tilting his face up, kissing him softly, so softly, like he was afraid Taehyung might break under anything harder.

"You’re ours," Namjoon said between kisses, steady and certain.
"You always have been."

Taehyung whimpered, high and helpless, the sound catching in the back of his throat.

He didn’t fight when Jin’s hands slipped lower, working him open, coaxing him into the kind of soft, weightless surrender he was too stubborn to ask for but so desperately needed.

He didn’t fight when Namjoon’s praise wrapped around him like rope, holding him steady while the world tilted.

He didn’t fight when he came, gasping and shuddering and clinging, wrecked in the most beautiful way, sinking deeper into the safety of their bodies, their voices, their belonging.

Later, curled boneless between them, Jin pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and whispered, "We see you, Taehyung-ah."

And Namjoon, steady as ever, just wrapped him tighter against his chest and didn’t let go.

The next evening, after a long, lazy dinner and way too many stupid jokes, the apartment settled into a soft, warm buzz of contentment.

Jimin was sprawled across the couch, pretending to die from food coma.
Yoongi and Taehyung were tangled up under a blanket, murmuring quietly.
Jin was sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling on his phone and pretending not to eavesdrop on everyone.

Jungkook was sitting on the edge of the nest, half-watching a mindless sitcom playing on low volume, when Hoseok dropped down beside him with a little thump.

"Move," Hoseok said lazily, nudging him with his foot.

Jungkook blinked at him. "I’m literally not even in your way."

Hoseok huffed dramatically and shoved harder with his foot until Jungkook tipped sideways with a yelp, landing half in the pillows.

He glared up at Hoseok, who just grinned, all lazy mischief and sharp intent.

"Brat," Jungkook muttered, adjusting himself back up on his elbows.

Hoseok’s grin widened.

"That's rich coming from you," he said, and then, before Jungkook could react, Hoseok shifted his weight, pressing one long leg over Jungkook’s hips, pinning him down effortlessly.

Jungkook sucked in a sharp breath, body jolting at the sudden weight, the casual dominance.

He stared up at Hoseok, heart pounding, brain stuttering.

Hoseok just smiled down at him, all lazy, dommy confidence like he’d been waiting for this moment for weeks.

"Stay," Hoseok murmured, voice pitched low and firm.

Jungkook froze.

The command landed deep, instinctive and sharp, pulling his breath right out of his lungs.

Hoseok cocked his head, watching him.

"Good boy," he said softly, and Jungkook shuddered so hard he almost broke free of the hold by accident.

Hoseok's smile sharpened into something feral.

He slid a hand down Jungkook’s chest, slow and deliberate, teasing the thin fabric of his t-shirt up just enough to expose a sliver of skin.

"You’re easy," Hoseok said, sounding delighted.
"One ‘stay’ and you melt."

Jungkook flushed hot, fists clenching uselessly at his sides.

Hoseok leaned down, slow, giving him every chance to move, to object, but Jungkook stayed frozen, trembling, pupils blown wide.

He kissed him.
Soft at first. Testing.

Then deeper.

Taking.

Jungkook whimpered into the kiss, hips jerking up against Hoseok’s weight helplessly.

Hoseok chuckled against his mouth.

"Desperate," he teased, nipping at Jungkook’s lower lip. "You like being pinned down, don’t you?"

Jungkook nodded frantically, unable to lie even if he wanted to.

Hoseok rewarded him with a slow roll of his hips, grinding down against him with devastating laziness.

Jungkook gasped, back arching, desperate for more friction.

Hoseok pulled back just enough to look at him properly, eyes dark, mouth slick and swollen from kissing, body radiating easy, confident dominance.

"You want to be good for me, don’t you?" he said, tilting his head thoughtfully.

Jungkook nodded again, throat working, hands curling into the blankets.

Hoseok smirked, pleased.

"Then be still," he murmured, voice dropping to a growl.
"Take what I give you."

Jungkook whimpered, trembling with the effort to obey.

Hoseok didn’t make it easy.

He teased, slow grinds, feather-light touches, wicked kisses placed just out of reach, until Jungkook was writhing under him, panting, eyes glassy with need.

But he didn’t move.

Not without permission.

When Hoseok finally, finally, curled his hand around him, slow and firm, Jungkook sobbed, whole body bowing up against the hold.

Hoseok fucked him through it with his hand, slow and relentless, murmuring filth-soft praise the entire time.

"Good boy."

"Look at you."

"Perfect under me."

When Jungkook finally came, broken and crying and wrecked, Hoseok held him down through it, catching his mouth in a deep, claiming kiss as he shuddered apart.

Later, when Jungkook was boneless and blinking up at the ceiling, Hoseok flopped down beside him and casually threw an arm across his chest.

"You’re not bad at submitting, you know," Hoseok said lazily, eyes fluttering half-closed.

Jungkook huffed a tired, wrecked laugh. "You’re not bad at topping."

Hoseok grinned.
"Natural talent."

Jungkook smacked him weakly in the stomach, and Hoseok laughed, soft and pleased.

They stayed like that for a while, tangled, warm, floating just under the surface of sleep, before the rest of the pack slowly started drifting toward them, folding into the nest like magnets finding their true north.

No one said anything.

No one needed to.

They were learning each other, one messy, perfect moment at a time.

A few nights later, after too much sugar and not enough supervision, it happened.

Technically, it started innocent enough.

Jungkook was curled up in the center of the nest, half-dozing, wearing one of Jimin’s old oversized hoodies and looking about fifteen seconds from slipping into that warm, heavy, post-dinner nap.

Too tempting.

Far, far too tempting.

Yoongi struck first, of course.

He leaned over from where he’d been scrolling on his phone, nudging Jungkook’s knee with a warm palm.
"You tired, Kook-ah?" he asked, voice syrup-thick with affection.

Jungkook hummed sleepily, blinking at him through heavy lashes. "Little bit."

Yoongi smiled, soft and devastating.
"You want some help relaxing?"

Jungkook nodded without thinking, too blissed out to register the danger signs.

Yoongi shifted closer, hand stroking slow up the inside of Jungkook’s thigh, still outside the hoodie, still careful, still sweet.

"You’re always working so hard," he murmured, mouth brushing the shell of Jungkook’s ear.
"You deserve to be taken care of too."

Jungkook shivered, breath hitching.

And that’s when Jin, who had been suspiciously quiet in the background, decided to join the party.

He slinked up on Jungkook’s other side, sliding a hand over the small of his back, light and teasing.

"Yoongi-hyung’s right," Jin purred, voice dripping mischief. "But honestly, I think I could make you feel even better."

Jungkook blinked, dizzy, caught between two dangerous smiles.

Yoongi’s warmth against his thigh.

Jin’s teasing fingers brushing just under the hem of the hoodie.

He was doomed.

Utterly doomed.

"Let’s make it a game," Jin said, grinning. "Whoever makes Kook-ie feel better wins."

Yoongi laughed, low and fond. "You’re on."

Jungkook squeaked, trying to sit up, but Jin pushed him back down easily, fingers curling around his wrists.

"Stay still," Jin said, faux-serious. "You’re the judge."

Jungkook opened his mouth to protest, and immediately lost all ability to speak when Yoongi slipped a hand under the hoodie and stroked slow, deliberate circles over his stomach.

Soft. Sweet. Devastating.

Meanwhile, Jin pulled the hoodie up higher, exposing more skin to the cool air, and leaned down to scrape his teeth lightly over Jungkook’s hipbone.

Jungkook gasped, back arching.

Yoongi rewarded him with more praise, whispered right into his ear.
"Such a good boy. Always so sensitive for us."

Jin, not to be outdone, slid his hand higher, teasing at the waistband of Jungkook’s boxers with wicked fingers.

"You’re shaking already," he murmured, amused.
"Maybe you’re easier than I thought."

Jungkook whimpered, caught between pleasure and panic, not sure which way to lean, and too far gone to resist either of them.

It escalated fast.

Yoongi worshipped him with hands and mouth, slow kisses trailing up his ribs, thumbs stroking down his thighs, murmuring endless, grounding praise into his overheated skin.

Jin wrecked him with little bites, teasing touches, wicked grins, always just a little too sharp, just a little too much, pushing Jungkook higher and higher without letting him fall.

Yoongi praised.

Jin tormented.

Jungkook drowned.

He writhed between them, hands scrabbling uselessly at the blankets, whimpering, gasping, so desperate he thought he might float right out of his body.

Yoongi caught his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"So good," he said, voice thick with affection.
"So beautiful like this."

Jin pinched his inner thigh, making Jungkook cry out.

"So messy," Jin purred, grinning.
"You gonna cry for us, pretty boy?"

Jungkook sobbed, the sound ripped from his chest, hips jerking helplessly under their hands.

He didn’t know who pushed him over the edge first.

Maybe it was Yoongi’s praise.

Maybe it was Jin’s cruelty.

Maybe it was both at once, too much, too good, too overwhelming.

He shattered, back bowing, whole body trembling with the force of it, wrecked and sobbing and so, so beautiful.

Yoongi caught him when he started to collapse, pulling him against his chest, stroking his hair, whispering soft nonsense into his ear.

Jin pressed a kiss to his forehead, surprisingly gentle, and murmured, "Good boy. You did so well."

Jungkook clung to them both, too wrecked to even think, tears wetting Yoongi’s t-shirt, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break free.

Later, when he was half-asleep, floating somewhere just above consciousness, he felt them still there, one hand smoothing down his spine, another tracing idle patterns over his wrist.

Safe.

Wanted.

Loved.

Later that same night, after Jungkook had been gently bullied into showering, fed leftover snacks, and stuffed into another one of Yoongi’s enormous hoodies, the pack decided, without really deciding, to pile into the nest for a movie.

It was tradition by now.

No planning. No schedule.

Just gravity.

Pack gravity.

Someone, probably Jimin, had insisted on putting on a terrible horror movie. The kind with bad special effects and worse acting, where nothing made sense but everyone screamed anyway.

They sprawled out across the massive, chaotic heap of pillows and blankets, legs tangled, arms slung lazily over each other without any real thought.

Jungkook ended up wedged between Taehyung and Hoseok, Jimin draped half over his lap, Jin curled against his back, and Namjoon sitting upright behind them all like a human fortress.

Yoongi was stretched out at the foot of the pile, one hand lazily stroking over Jungkook’s ankle whenever he twitched at a jump scare.

It was messy and hot and uncomfortable and perfect.

At some point, Hoseok started throwing popcorn at Jimin’s head.

Jimin retaliated with a pillow.

Taehyung made the mistake of trying to mediate and ended up with a face full of popcorn and a thrown blanket.

Jungkook tried to escape, laughing, breathless, but Jin grabbed his hoodie, dragging him back into the pile with a gleeful cackle.

Namjoon didn’t even flinch when the chaos exploded around him.

He just reached out, hauled Jimin and Hoseok back down into the nest like disobedient puppies, and tucked them firmly against his sides.

"Stay," Namjoon said simply, voice low and amused.

Jimin whined. Hoseok huffed.

They stayed.

Eventually, the noise died down.

The movie kept playing in the background, a soft, ridiculous hum no one was really watching anymore.

Breathing slowed.

Bodies settled.

Touch lingered, soft and reassuring, anchoring them all.

Jungkook let himself sink into it.

Let himself believe, truly, finally, that he didn’t have to earn this.

Didn’t have to fight for it.

He just belonged.

Hoseok’s hand was curled loosely around his wrist, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles into his skin.

Taehyung’s head rested on his shoulder, breath warm and steady against his neck.

Yoongi’s fingers still traced gentle, absentminded patterns against his ankle.

Jin was pressed close against his back, heartbeat a steady drum against his spine.

Namjoon’s warmth radiated across all of them, solid and sure, the silent center they all orbited around without thinking.

It was stupid.

It was messy.

It was real.

And it was theirs.

Someone yawned, loud and dramatic, probably Jimin, and the sound triggered a chain reaction of sleepy complaints and mumbled curses.

One by one, they drifted off.

Breath syncing.

Bodies tangling closer.

Jungkook fought it for a moment, habit, instinct, fear he didn’t even need anymore, but the pack wouldn’t let him float away.

Yoongi tugged him closer by the ankle.

Hoseok wrapped an arm around his waist, anchoring him.

Jin nosed into the back of his neck, muttering something soft and fond that Jungkook didn’t catch.

Taehyung made a soft, sleepy noise of protest when Jungkook tried to shift away and clung tighter.

Namjoon, steady, unmovable, simply laid a hand on the pile of them, firm and grounding, the weight of it enough to make Jungkook exhale and let go.

He slept.

Surrounded.

Anchored.

Home.

It started innocently.

(Which, honestly, should have been a warning.)

One minute, they were still half-asleep in the nest, the room filled with the soft hum of breathing and occasional sleepy mumbles.

The next, Jimin shifted closer to Hoseok, draping an arm across his chest with a soft, happy sigh.

Hoseok, without even waking up fully, tucked his face into Jimin’s neck and hummed like it was the best thing in the world.

Taehyung stirred at the movement, grumbling under his breath, but instinctively pressed closer, latching onto Hoseok’s back like a second blanket.

Jungkook, warm and sleepy and half-floating himself, blinked blearily at the sudden mass of limbs forming beside him, and before he could think better of it, he scooted closer too, sliding into the tangle with a sleepy little sound.

It was like a switch flipped.

The touch spiraled.

Jimin whined softly, rubbing his cheek against Hoseok’s shoulder.
Hoseok giggled, half-delirious, and patted Taehyung’s thigh in some clumsy attempt at affection.
Taehyung, still half-under, slotted his knee between Jungkook’s legs and huffed when Jungkook made a small, wrecked noise in response.

It was all mindless. Instinctual.
Warm bodies seeking warmth.
Submissive need chasing submissive need, compounding into something bigger than any one of them could control.

Jungkook floated somewhere between awake and dreaming, so overloaded with comfort and touch and safety that his brain short-circuited entirely.

He buried his face against Taehyung’s side, clinging shamelessly, the heavy pulse of subspace dragging him deeper.

Jimin made a soft, needy noise and curled tighter around Hoseok.

Hoseok was giggling and whining at the same time, hands clumsy and grasping.

Taehyung’s breathing hitched, low and ragged, as he pressed closer, chasing contact without even meaning to.

The pack’s submissives were collapsing into each other, creating a chaotic, messy, beautiful storm of need.

The Dom-line realized about thirty seconds too late.

Yoongi lifted his head first, frowning.

Jin’s eyes snapped open next, immediately sharp.

Namjoon didn’t even need to look, he felt the shift in the air, the sudden magnetic pull of it, and sighed, low and fond and just a little panicked.

"They're spiraling," Jin muttered, already pushing himself upright.

"Bad?" Yoongi asked, scrambling to sit up.

"Not bad," Namjoon said, getting to his feet and surveying the pile of whining, giggling, half-floating subs.
"Just...a lot."

Yoongi snorted. "Understatement."

By the time they reached the pile, it was chaos.

Jimin was whining in earnest now, hands fisting in Hoseok’s hoodie.
Hoseok was wriggling and giggling and mumbling nonsense about pancakes.
Taehyung was mouthing helplessly at Jungkook’s shoulder, clutching him like a lifeline.
Jungkook was glassy-eyed and flushed, clinging back just as desperately, tiny, high-pitched sounds escaping every time someone moved.

Absolute, beautiful, ridiculous disaster.

"Okay," Namjoon said, voice firm and calm, sliding into command mode.
"Hoseok. Jimin. With me."

They whined in protest but followed, barely, crawling dazedly into his arms like sleepy puppies.

Jin knelt next to Taehyung, carding fingers through his hair until Taehyung blinked blearily up at him, pupils blown wide and trembling like a leaf.

"There you are," Jin murmured, soft and sharp. "Come here, baby."

Taehyung whimpered but obeyed, collapsing into Jin’s lap with a shuddery sigh.

Which left Jungkook, shaking and soft and too far gone to even pretend otherwise.

Yoongi scooped him up gently, cradling him against his chest like he weighed nothing at all.

Jungkook buried his face in Yoongi’s neck and sobbed, happy, overwhelmed, helpless.

Yoongi rocked him, whispering soft praise into his hair, grounding him stroke by stroke.

It took time.

Long, patient minutes of steady hands and steady voices.

Jimin and Hoseok giggling and nuzzling and whimpering against Namjoon’s chest as he held them down with the sheer weight of his presence.

Taehyung clinging to Jin, melting inch by inch under the slow, soothing strokes down his back.

Jungkook pressed against Yoongi, absorbing every soft murmur, every slow heartbeat, every warm hand anchoring him back to earth.

They weren’t broken.

They weren’t hurting.

They were just...full.

Overfull.

Too much love.
Too much safety.
Too much touch after not enough for too many years.

Their bodies didn’t know what to do with it.

When the worst of it passed, and they were all breathing normally again, Namjoon wrangled them back into one big, soft pile, this time with the Dom-line carefully woven through them like grounding wires.

Jimin tucked into Namjoon’s side, purring like a cat.

Hoseok draped himself half over Namjoon and half over Jin, sighing happily.

Taehyung curled into Jin’s lap, small and sweet and safe.

Jungkook clung to Yoongi’s hoodie, face pressed into his chest, whole body loose and floating and content.

Yoongi rubbed slow circles into his back, murmuring nonsense under his breath, and Jungkook felt himself drifting, not away but deeper into the center of them all.

Not alone.

Not different.

Home.

And this time, when he fell asleep, he didn't worry about whether he belonged.
He just slept.

Surrounded.
Anchored.
Loved.

Chapter Text

It started at practice. Not a real, hard practice. More of a loosen-up, run-through-choreo-before-a-comeback kind of session. Everyone was half-tired, half-wired, sweaty and laughing too much between sets. The pack was buzzing, high on being together, high on the first real stretch of peace they’d had in months. Which, naturally, meant it was only a matter of time before someone pushed too far.

"Hoseok," Namjoon said, tone patient, "again, from the top." Hoseok flopped dramatically into place, rolling his eyes in a way that made Jimin snort.

The music started. They ran the chorus once, twice. At first, Hoseok kept up fine. A little sloppy maybe, exaggerating moves, stretching transitions too far, but nothing serious.

But the jokes started slipping in, too. When Jimin stumbled on a spin, Hoseok gasped theatrically. "Should we call an ambulance? You good?" When Taehyung missed a beat, Hoseok clutched his chest. "A tragedy. Years of training, and this is the result." When Jungkook tripped over the edge of the practice mat, Hoseok let out a long, suffering sigh. "Maknae down. Man overboard. Tragic."

At first, it was funny. It made everyone laugh, loud, stupid, warm. Made the room feel lighter. But Hoseok didn’t stop. The jokes kept getting sharper, the tone edging closer to real bite. When Jimin flubbed again, Hoseok smirked, "Honestly, it’s a miracle he still has fans."
When Taehyung stumbled, he murmured under his breath, "At least you’re cute." When Jungkook missed a step, he rolled his eyes, "Wow. Neutral instincts showing." That one stung harder than he probably meant it to, and Jungkook stiffened.

Even Hoseok froze for a split second like he realized, shit. But he didn’t back off. Because when Namjoon stepped in, calmly correcting a misaligned formation, Hoseok barked a soft, sarcastic laugh and said, "Wow, Dad Voice activated. Guess we’re in trouble now." The room went still. The kind of still that wasn’t funny anymore.

Namjoon didn’t yell. He didn’t scowl. He just stopped the music mid-beat, a quiet, clipped cut that echoed in the practice room. The sudden silence was deafening. Hoseok’s smile faltered. Namjoon stared at him across the room. Not angry. Not punishing. Just...disappointed. Which was so, so much worse.

"Five-minute break," Namjoon said, voice calm but final, and walked off toward the benches without another word. The tension in the room snapped like a live wire. Yoongi looked down at his shoes. Jin fidgeted with his water bottle. Jimin shifted awkwardly, sneaking a glance at Hoseok like you good? you alive??

Jungkook kept his eyes firmly on the floor, heart thudding uncomfortably.
Hoseok stood there, frozen. Not bratting now. Not teasing. Just...small. Like he hadn't realized until that exact second that the game had ended and no one had told him.

"It's not a big deal," Hoseok muttered, too loudly, snatching his towel. No one said anything. No one knew how. He wiped his face, grabbed his bag too harshly, and stalked toward the water cooler like he could outrun the weight sitting heavy in the air. Across the room, Namjoon watched him go, jaw set tight, fingers flexing uselessly against his thighs.

Because even when it was small, even when it was light, Packs didn’t run on silence. They ran on trust. And somewhere, somehow, something small had cracked.

The five-minute break dragged. It stretched and stretched, too long, too heavy, the kind of silence that made the air feel sticky. Hoseok hovered near the water cooler, drinking mechanically, face hidden behind the bottle.
Jimin fiddled with the speaker settings even though they didn’t need adjusting. Taehyung sat on the floor, tying and untying his sneaker laces like it was some kind of sport. Jungkook drifted awkwardly between groups, unsure where to land. Yoongi leaned against the mirror wall, arms crossed, watching the whole thing with a look that screamed we need to fix this, but with no idea how yet. Jin perched on a bench nearby, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his jaw was tight enough to crack. Namjoon sat a little apart, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing in particular, slow and steady like he was holding back a storm with sheer willpower.

No one said anything. No one knew how to start.

Hoseok eventually came back to the group, towel slung around his neck, fake-casual. He flopped down next to Jimin on the floor and bumped their shoulders together.

Jimin smiled, small, real, but didn’t tease like he usually would. Hoseok bumped him again, harder this time, a bratty little nudge that would normally have launched a full wrestling match. Jimin chuckled, but it was strained at the edges. Hoseok’s smile wobbled.

"We good?" he asked, voice light, fake-light, looking at no one in particular.
Silence. A beat too long. Yoongi cleared his throat. "Yeah. Just tired." "Uh-huh," Hoseok said, like he believed it. Like he didn't.

Jungkook’s stomach twisted. He knew that tone. Knew that too-bright smile.
He opened his mouth, he didn’t even know what he was going to say, but Taehyung beat him to it, blurting out, "We’re fine, really!" too fast, too loud.
Everyone winced at the same time.

Hoseok laughed. Sharp and soft and all wrong. "Cool," he said, standing up and brushing invisible dust off his sweatpants. "Super fine. Love that for us."
He wandered toward the far mirrors again, stretching idly like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn’t folding in on himself one muscle at a time.

Jimin shot Yoongi a wide-eyed look across the room like fix it???
Yoongi shot a look at Jin. Jin muttered something vicious under his breath and stood up, already moving toward Namjoon. Because this wasn’t something they could ignore. Not if they wanted to be a pack, not just a group.

Namjoon stood when he saw Jin coming, nodding once like he’d been waiting. Like he’d already decided.

"Five more minutes," Namjoon said loud enough for everyone to hear. "Then we talk."

No one argued. No one teased. Even Hoseok just nodded, still facing the mirror, hands braced on his thighs, head bowed like he was waiting for the axe to fall.

And under it all, in the small space between heartbeats, the truth hummed: They weren’t mad. They weren’t broken. They were just... still learning. Still building. Still figuring out how to carry each other when it mattered most.

Five minutes later, Namjoon called them in. No dramatic claps, no barking orders. Just a steady, low, "Come here," that made the pack gravitate toward him without even thinking.

They sat on the floor, a loose circle, some leaning into each other, some sitting cross-legged and tense. Hoseok hovered at the edge for a second too long before Jimin snagged his hoodie sleeve and tugged him down between them.

No one said anything at first. The room hummed with nervous energy, the way it did before a storm, or before someone said something they couldn't take back. But Namjoon didn’t let it fester. He looked around the circle, steady and warm, and said, "No one’s in trouble."

Hoseok flinched like he'd been slapped anyway.

"We're not doing punishments," Namjoon continued, voice even softer now. "We're not doing blame. We’re talking. That’s it."

There was a long beat of silence. And then Namjoon’s gaze landed on Hoseok. Not heavy. Not demanding. Just an open door.

Hoseok swallowed hard, mouth working like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. It was Jimin, as always, who cracked it open. He bumped Hoseok’s shoulder, light and easy, and said, "You were being a little shit, but you’re our little shit."

A ripple of awkward laughter skated through the circle. Tension broke, just a little. Hoseok huffed a breathless laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"I didn’t mean to," he muttered. "It was just—" He stopped. Started again. "I was having fun. At first. It was stupid." He looked down at his hands, picking at the frayed edge of his sleeve. "And then I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I guess I didn’t know how to stop once it wasn’t funny anymore."

Yoongi shifted, leaning in closer without crowding him. Jungkook nodded, like he understood something without needing it spelled out. Jin, mercifully, stayed quiet. Taehyung just hugged his knees to his chest and watched, soft-eyed and steady.

"I think I got scared," Hoseok said finally, voice so low they barely heard it. "Like... if I stopped being funny or easy or—" he gestured vaguely, helpless ", whatever... then I wouldn’t be..."

He trailed off, but everyone heard it. Wanted.

"Hyung," Jimin said, voice cracking with something fierce and warm all at once, "you're the heart of us, dumbass."

"You’re more than enough," Yoongi said, immediate and certain.

"Even when you’re not being a little shit," Jin added, dry but fond.

"Especially then," Jungkook said, shy but firm.

Taehyung just leaned over and bumped his knee against Hoseok’s in silent agreement.

Namjoon let the pack’s words land. Let them settle, heavy and grounding. And then he leaned in, elbows braced on his knees, meeting Hoseok’s exhausted eyes.

"You don’t have to perform to belong here," Namjoon said quietly. "You already do."

Hoseok blinked fast, swallowing hard, trying not to let anything spill over.

"Even when you fuck up," Namjoon added.

"Especially then."

The words cracked something open. Hoseok didn’t cry. Not really. But he leaned into Jimin’s side, hiding his face in his hoodie, and breathed like the world was finally letting him in again.

The pack shifted closer around him without even thinking, hands resting on his back, brushing against his arms, anchoring him with touch and steady presence. No one needed to say it aloud. You’re ours. You always were. You always will be.

It started the way most things did with them now: a glance, a brush of fingers, an unspoken agreement that buzzed warm under the skin. The talk was over. The air was easier now, light again, but not empty. Full of something heavier. Hungrier.

Hoseok shifted on the floor, still tucked against Jimin, and the pack moved with him, tightening the circle without thinking. Touch-starved. Connection-starved. And maybe a little reckless with how much they loved each other.

Namjoon moved first. He leaned in, cupping Hoseok’s jaw with one big hand, thumb stroking slow over the hinge of his jaw.

"You hear us?" Namjoon asked, voice low and rough. "You believe us?"

Hoseok nodded, throat working, eyes wide. Not scared. Wanting.

Namjoon smiled, small, soft, and kissed him. It wasn’t sweet. It was claiming. It was we love you even when you’re stupid in the shape of a kiss, deep and slow and sure. Hoseok melted into it instantly, clinging to Namjoon’s shoulders, letting himself be taken apart piece by piece.

Yoongi’s hands were next. Sliding under Hoseok’s hoodie, stroking over bare skin, grounding him, steadying him. Jin knelt behind Hoseok, mouthing slow, open kisses down the side of his neck, biting lightly just to make him shiver.

Jungkook and Taehyung hovered nearby, touch-starved themselves, watching with wide, hungry eyes, waiting for permission they didn't know how to ask for. Namjoon pulled back, breathing rough, and turned Hoseok slightly in his lap.

"You’re gonna take what we give you," he said, voice steady, hands framing Hoseok’s hips. "Because you’re ours."

Hoseok whimpered, nodding frantically.

Yoongi stripped the hoodie over Hoseok’s head in one slow, easy movement, revealing flushed skin and trembling muscles.

"Beautiful," Yoongi murmured, pressing kisses over his collarbone. Jin scraped his nails lightly down Hoseok’s spine, grinning when Hoseok arched into the touch.

Namjoon’s hands were everywhere, holding, guiding, steady. Jimin caught Jungkook’s wrist when he fidgeted nervously, tugging him closer with a wicked little smile.

"Come help," Jimin whispered, eyes gleaming.

Jungkook flushed but obeyed, sliding in beside Hoseok and pressing kisses to his ribs, his stomach, anywhere he could reach. Taehyung followed a second later, settling against Hoseok’s other side, nuzzling into his hipbone with a soft, desperate sound.

Hoseok tipped his head back, gasping, utterly overwhelmed and soaking in it.

"Good boy," Namjoon rumbled, biting lightly at his shoulder. "So good for us."

Hoseok whined, clutching at Jimin’s shirt, at Jin’s wrist, at anything he could reach. The hands on him turned greedy. Yoongi’s mouth traced down his chest, slow and heavy, mouthing at his ribs. Jin’s fingers gripped his hips, bruising and sure.

Jimin kissed the inside of his thigh, smiling against his skin when Hoseok shivered. Jungkook mouthed at his side, teeth scraping gently, needy and breathless. Taehyung slipped a hand into Hoseok’s hair, tugging lightly, grounding him.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. It was perfect.

When Namjoon finally pushed him down onto the soft, rumpled blankets of the nest, Hoseok went without a fight. Didn’t even think to resist. He wanted it. Needed it. Needed them. Needed to feel them, all of them, carving the truth into his skin until he couldn't doubt it anymore.

They took him apart slowly. Piece by piece. Hands and mouths and bodies pressing him down, lifting him up, making him whole in the breaking.

Namjoon set the rhythm, steady, deep, claiming. Yoongi grounded him, whispered praise, stroked trembling limbs, kissed away the fear. Jin tormented him, teasing bites, bruising grips, wicked whispers that made Hoseok cry out.

Jimin and Jungkook and Taehyung licked and kissed and clung, desperate to be part of it, desperate to pour every drop of love they had into the cracks.

Hoseok sobbed through it, gasping, laughing, crying, all of it at once. They wrecked him. They built him back up. And when he finally shattered, writhing, sobbing, clinging, he didn't fall alone.

Namjoon was there, catching him, anchoring him. Yoongi’s hands smoothed over his skin, grounding him. Jin kissed the tears off his cheeks without mocking. Jimin, Jungkook, and Taehyung tangled close, pressing kisses anywhere they could reach, warm and messy and perfect.

When Hoseok finally stopped shaking, boneless and blinking up at the ceiling, Namjoon kissed his forehead and murmured, "You’re enough, Hoseok-ah."

The others echoed it, soft and fierce.

"You’re ours."
"You’re perfect."
"You’re loved."
"You’re home."

And Hoseok, wrecked and floating and anchored all at once, believed them. Believed it down to his bones. For the first time in too long.

Chapter Text

They woke up tangled.
Not just a little, full nest pile, arms and legs everywhere, someone’s foot digging into Namjoon’s side, someone else's hand mashed against Jungkook’s face.

It took a solid ten minutes and a lot of sleepy grumbling to even separate enough to breathe.
But nobody minded.
Nobody rushed.
It was messy and warm and stupidly perfect.

Yoongi was the first to move, stretching with a groan and blinking blearily at the kitchen.
"I’m making breakfast," he announced, determined. "Real breakfast. Like...food."

Jimin, already halfway through stealing Hoseok’s hoodie, snorted.
"I give it ten minutes before you burn the apartment down."

"I know how to cook!" Yoongi protested, offended.

"You know how to microwave," Jin corrected without looking up from his phone.

"Same thing," Yoongi muttered.
Jungkook and Taehyung dissolved into giggles immediately.

It should have been a warning.
A big warning.
But the pack, newly re-bonded and stupidly giddy with freedom, ignored all signs from the universe and trooped into the kitchen anyway.

It started small.
Yoongi cracking eggs into a bowl, concentrating fiercely, tongue poking out the side of his mouth.
Hoseok standing behind him, pretending to supervise but mostly leaning heavily into his back and muttering sarcastic commentary under his breath.
Jin trying to slice fruit and throwing side-eye at everyone who dared to breathe too loudly.
Jimin opening cabinets at random, pulling down the wrong pans on purpose just to be annoying.
Jungkook and Taehyung hovering near the fridge, supposedly finding ingredients but mostly sneaking pieces of bacon into their mouths like guilty raccoons.

Then Jimin threw a handful of flour at Hoseok.
There was a beat of silence.
One, two, three,

And then Hoseok retaliated with an open bag of rice, hurling it at Jimin’s head with terrifying accuracy.
Jimin shrieked, flailing, knocking into the table, sending a carton of eggs skidding across the floor.
Yoongi yelped, trying to save the batter, and ended up elbow-deep in flour.
Taehyung, trying to help, slipped on the spilled rice and took Jungkook down with him in a shrieking tangle.
Jin cursed like a sailor, narrowly avoiding getting a whole cutting board to the face, and threw a kitchen towel at Jimin's head hard enough to knock his hat off.

Namjoon walked in, saw the absolute warzone, and just...blinked.
Deadpan.
Silent.
Surveying the exploded food, the half-destroyed kitchen, the five grown men rolling around on the floor covered in rice and batter and flour like it was normal.

Then he turned around and walked back out without a word.

Jimin broke first, laughing so hard he had to clutch the counter to stay upright.
Jungkook followed, snorting uncontrollably as he wiped flour off Taehyung’s face with the sleeve of his shirt.
Yoongi tried to look serious and failed miserably, clutching the ruined batter bowl to his chest like it was a fallen comrade.
Hoseok collapsed against Jin, wheezing with laughter.
Even Jin, high priest of pretending he was above it all, cracked a smile.

"I tried," Yoongi gasped out between giggles.

"We all tried," Jimin said solemnly, eyes sparkling.

"And failed miserably," Jin added, smirking.

"But with great honor," Taehyung said, grinning wide.

Jungkook wiped his nose on his sleeve, still snickering, and declared, "Best breakfast ever."

They ended up eating cereal on the living room floor, still dusted with flour and rice, still laughing every time someone coughed and a puff of flour poofed into the air.
It wasn't perfect.
It was chaos.
And it was theirs.

For the first time, truly, without reservation, without tension humming just beneath the surface,
They were allowed to be messy and stupid and loud and full of life.
No Dynamic managers watching.
No cameras recording.
No company waiting to punish the cracks.
Just them.
Just the pack.

After breakfast, or what passed for it, they collapsed onto the couch, still laughing, still buzzing.

"Games?" Jimin asked, grinning wide, already halfway digging the controllers out of the entertainment unit.

"You just want an excuse to scream at us," Taehyung said, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Correct," Jimin said proudly.

"Kart?" Jungkook suggested, eyes lighting up.

There was a chorus of agreement.
Even Namjoon smiled, shaking his head, already resigning himself to whatever chaos was about to unfold.

They booted up Mario Kart, settled into loose, lazy sprawl across the couch and the floor, controllers in hand, energy high and ridiculous.
The first few races were chaos.
Jimin cackling as he bumped Jungkook off Rainbow Road.
Taehyung shrieking when Hoseok red-shelled him two inches from the finish line.
Yoongi calmly winning without even realizing he was winning.
Jungkook swearing loudly in three languages when he got blue-shelled out of first.

And then there was Jin.
Jin, who played Mario Kart like it was a blood sport.
Jin, who wasn’t playing for fun, he was playing for dominance.

First, he took Jimin out with a perfectly-timed lightning bolt, sending him tumbling off the map.
Then he baited Hoseok into a shortcut and dropped a banana peel right at the end, watching him crash with an evil little smirk.
When Taehyung finally clawed his way into second place, Jin hit him with a red shell right before the finish line, sliding past with a wicked grin.

"Learn to drive," Jin chirped, smug.
Taehyung threw his controller at him.
Jin caught it one-handed and laughed.

It was funny.
At first.
But Jin didn’t stop.
Every round, he went for blood.
Trash-talking, targeting people mercilessly, grinning wider every time someone groaned or cursed.

Even Yoongi frowned after Jin blue-shelled him twice in a row.
Jimin fake-cried into Hoseok’s shoulder.
Jungkook threatened to uninstall the whole system.

"You’re a menace," Yoongi said, tossing his controller onto the couch.

"You’re banned," Jimin declared dramatically.

"Criminal behavior," Jungkook agreed, pointing accusingly.

Jin just leaned back smugly, stretching like a cat in a sunbeam.
"I play to win," he said, absolutely unrepentant.

The pack exchanged looks.
Silent agreement forming in a heartbeat.

Five seconds later, Jin yelped as Yoongi grabbed him bodily off the couch, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"WHAT—" Jin spluttered, kicking wildly.

"You wanted to play games," Namjoon said mildly, following behind, already rolling up his sleeves.
"Let’s play."

Jimin cackled and tackled Jin’s legs, helping pin him down onto the nearest pile of cushions.
Jungkook and Taehyung dogpiled on next, snickering uncontrollably.
Hoseok sat back on the couch, sipping his drink and smiling serenely like this was the best show he’d ever seen.

"You can’t do this!" Jin protested, writhing.

"You blue-shelled me at the finish line," Yoongi said, voice grave with mock sorrow, pressing a knee into Jin’s back to keep him down.

"You deserve this," Jimin agreed, grinning.

"You brought this on yourself," Namjoon added, pulling Jin’s shirt up with ruthless efficiency.

And then the real punishment started.
Not pain.
Not degradation.
Affection.
Overwhelming, ridiculous, suffocating affection.

Yoongi kissed down Jin’s spine, slow and heavy.
Namjoon slid his hands under Jin’s sides, stroking warm, broad palms over sensitive skin.
Jimin teased at the waistband of his sweats, laughing when Jin cursed and kicked weakly.
Jungkook nipped at his ribs, quick little bites that made Jin gasp and squirm.
Taehyung leaned over his shoulder, whispering soft, wicked praise into his ear.

"Such a good boy...getting wrecked for us…you love it, don’t you?"

Hoseok, still calmly watching from the couch, tossed a pillow at Jin’s head and said, "Cry harder, king."

It was chaos.
It was ridiculous.
It was perfect.

They didn’t let Jin up.
Not for a long time.
They kissed him, touched him, teased him until he was shaking, flushed, breathless, cursing and begging and laughing all at once.
They overwhelmed him until he gave in completely, melting into the nest of bodies, into the hands and mouths and love pressing him down and lifting him up.
They ruined him with affection.
They ruined him with home.

And when Jin finally stopped fighting, going soft and pliant under their hands, Yoongi leaned down, nuzzled into his hair, and murmured,
"Next time, maybe let someone else win."

Jin made a broken noise that was half a whine, half a laugh.
Namjoon chuckled and kissed his temple.
Jimin kissed his stomach.
Jungkook kissed his wrist.
Taehyung just curled closer, humming under his breath.

Hoseok, ever the chaos god, took a picture on his phone and declared, "For blackmail purposes."

They spent the next hour tangled up like that, drifting half-asleep in a pile of warmth and laughter and steady breathing.

It didn’t happen all at once.
The pile slowly dissolved, pack members peeling off one by one, Hoseok dragging Jimin away by the wrist with a wicked grin, Taehyung muttering something about snacks.

But Jungkook stayed.
Curled against the nest of pillows, breathing slow, eyes heavy-lidded, soft in a way he didn’t even seem to realize.

Namjoon and Yoongi exchanged a look over his head.
No words needed.
Instinct humming between them.

Yoongi moved first. He knelt down beside Jungkook, brushing a hand through his hair, slow and tender. Jungkook leaned into it immediately, a tiny, helpless sound escaping his throat. "Hey," Yoongi murmured, soft and coaxing. Jungkook blinked up at him, dazed and pink-cheeked, pliant. Namjoon crouched behind him, big hands bracketing Jungkook’s hips, steady and grounding. "You’re floating, baby," Namjoon said, voice low, almost smiling. Jungkook made a tiny noise of protest, like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t find anything at all except the overwhelming need tightening in his chest. Yoongi leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. Soft. Teasing. "You want us to help you down?" Jungkook nodded so fast he almost toppled forward. Namjoon caught him easily, laughing low against his skin. "Good boy," Namjoon rumbled, hands sliding up under his shirt, feeling him shiver. Yoongi tugged the shirt off, tossing it somewhere behind them without a second thought. Jungkook whimpered, arching into the touch instinctively, chasing the steady weight of Namjoon’s hands, the soft burn of Yoongi’s mouth against his throat.

They didn’t rush. They never rushed with him. They took him apart slowly, like a ceremony, like a prayer. Namjoon mapped every inch of his skin with broad palms, firm enough to anchor but never enough to hurt. Yoongi kissed his way down Jungkook’s chest, slow and worshipful, murmuring praise between each touch. "So beautiful." "So good for us." "Such a sweet little thing." Jungkook writhed between them, caught somewhere between wanting to beg for more and wanting to melt into the floor entirely. Namjoon grabbed his wrists, pinning them gently behind his back. Not tight. Not forcing. Just holding. Jungkook shuddered, a soft keen leaving his throat, head tipping back. Yoongi chuckled against his ribs, nipping lightly. "Sensitive," he teased, voice dripping with affection. "Always is," Namjoon agreed, pressing kisses to the nape of his neck. "Our good boy."

It spiraled beautifully from there. Yoongi spread him out on the couch, slow and careful, stripping him bare piece by piece. Namjoon knelt behind him, solid and steady, keeping his wrists pinned with one big hand while the other mapped soothing, grounding circles into his hips. Jungkook moaned openly, helplessly, drowning in the praise, the control, the heat of it. "You’re perfect," Yoongi murmured, mouth hot against his belly. "Meant to be here," Namjoon added, voice a rough growl against his spine. "Made for us," Yoongi said, nipping his thigh hard enough to leave a mark. Jungkook sobbed, trembling, hands flexing uselessly in Namjoon’s grip. He was gone. Completely, blissfully, wrecked open. Floating so far down into subspace he could barely remember his own name.

They didn’t fuck him hard. They didn’t need to. It was slow. Heavy. Satisfying. Like being filled and praised and ruined all at once. Namjoon fucked into him with steady, grinding thrusts, low grunts vibrating against Jungkook’s spine. Yoongi kissed and mouthed every inch he could reach, whispering endless praise into his skin until Jungkook was crying without even realizing it. Good boy. Good boy. Good boy. Every word stitched him back together even as he broke apart.

When Jungkook finally came, shaking, sobbing, utterly gone, Namjoon and Yoongi didn’t stop. They rode him through it, coaxing more pleasure from his trembling body, grounding him with their weight, their heat, their voices. By the time they finally let him go, he was wrecked. Soft and glassy-eyed, body loose, mind empty in the best way.

Yoongi scooped him up easily, cradling him against his chest like he weighed nothing at all. Namjoon pressed a kiss into his sweat-damp hair, murmuring nonsense under his breath, steady and grounding. "You’re safe," Yoongi whispered, rocking him gently. "You’re ours," Namjoon added, voice so full of truth it hurt. Jungkook didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He just clung tighter, floating safe and high and home.

Jimin caught Hoseok in the hallway, lazy and sprawling against the wall like he was waiting for trouble to find him. "You think you’re funny, huh?" Jimin said, stalking toward him with a wicked grin. Hoseok smirked, unapologetic. "I know I’m funny." "You started a food war," Jimin pointed out. "You threw the first handful of flour," Hoseok countered. Jimin paused. "...Fair. But you escalated." Hoseok tilted his head, fake-innocent, eyelashes fluttering. "Oops?" Jimin lunged, grabbing him around the waist and dragging him backwards toward one of the spare rooms. Hoseok shrieked, an actual, startled shriek, and kicked wildly, laughing too hard to resist. "Min! I’m delicate!" "You’re a menace," Jimin said, kicking the door closed behind them. "And you love it," Hoseok teased, grinning wide.

Jimin threw him onto the bed and climbed on top without missing a beat. "You're gonna pay for it, brat," he promised, grinning wide enough to show teeth. Hoseok arched lazily under him, all long limbs and lazy challenge. "Bring it on, pretty boy." It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t heavy. It was stupid, fun, chaotic, them. Jimin straddled Hoseok’s hips, pinning him with his weight, hands sliding up under his shirt to map the lazy arch of his ribs. Hoseok gasped, squirming, but didn't try to escape. Didn't want to.

Jimin leaned down, mouthing kisses across his jaw, his throat, teasing bites that made Hoseok twitch and curse. "You’re such a little shit," Jimin murmured, laughing against his skin. "And you’re obsessed with it," Hoseok gasped, shivering when Jimin sucked a mark into his collarbone. Clothes disappeared in a flurry of movement, half-wrestling, half-makeout, full chaos. Jimin pinned Hoseok’s wrists above his head, grinning down at him. Hoseok writhed, tugging uselessly, smirking. "You’re not strong enough to hold me," he teased, lazy and wicked.

Jimin leaned down until their noses brushed. "I don’t have to be," he whispered, voice a low purr. And then he kissed Hoseok so hard the teasing died between them. It was messy. It was rough. It was fun in the kind of way that made both of them laugh between kisses, biting and gasping and rolling over each other without a care in the world. Jimin fucked into him with quick, dirty thrusts, mouthing endless filthy praise against Hoseok’s shoulder.

"Such a good little brat—"

"Take it—"

"That’s it, baby, just like that—"

Hoseok cursed, laughing breathlessly, clinging to Jimin’s shoulders as he arched up into him. When they finally came, tangled, gasping, sweat-slicked and grinning, they collapsed into a heap of exhausted limbs, hearts hammering in their chests. Jimin pressed his forehead against Hoseok’s and laughed, soft and breathless. "You’re impossible," he whispered. Hoseok, eyes fluttering closed, smiled lazily and whispered back, "You love it." They stayed like that for a long moment. Not heavy. Not broken. Just stupid, messy, happy. Exactly what they were supposed to be.

It happened when the chaos faded. When the others drifted off, Jimin pulling Hoseok toward the spare room, Jin muttering about needing a shower, Namjoon and Yoongi disappearing toward the kitchen for snacks.

Jungkook found himself left behind, blinking slowly on the living room floor, still half-floating from everything. Still aching, sweet and full and soft inside. Not lost. Just...adrift.

He barely noticed when Taehyung settled down beside him, easy and quiet. Didn’t flinch when Taehyung tugged him gently down, arranging them both on the couch like they’d done it a thousand times. Maybe they had. Maybe they just didn’t know it before now.

Jungkook ended up sprawled half on top of him, head tucked under Taehyung’s chin, fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his shirt. Breathing slow. Breathing safe.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Taehyung’s hand drifted slowly up and down Jungkook’s back, warm and steady, not asking for anything. Just there. Solid. Certain.

Every sweep of his palm bled the leftover tension out of Jungkook’s muscles, grounding him inch by inch, breath by breath. Jungkook melted into it, sighing quietly against Taehyung’s chest, letting himself be held without apology for the first time in what felt like forever.

He wasn’t good at this. Wasn’t good at asking for touch, for comfort. Wasn’t used to trusting his body to someone else's hands, someone else's care. But Taehyung didn’t ask him to. Didn’t demand or expect. He just...was there. Patient and steady. Waiting, if Jungkook needed him. Holding, if Jungkook wanted him.

Slowly, almost shyly, Jungkook shifted closer, pressing his face against the curve of Taehyung’s neck, breathing him in. Warmth and comfort and something so achingly safe it made his throat close up.

Taehyung hummed low under his breath, almost a purr, curling tighter around him. Fingers slipping under Jungkook’s shirt to trace lazy patterns over bare skin. A slow, grounding rhythm. Nothing sexual. Nothing heavy. Just touch for the sake of touching.

Jungkook floated. Not high, not frantic. Just...soft. Warm. Carried.

Somewhere in the haze, Taehyung pressed a kiss into his hair and murmured, so quietly it was barely a breath, "You’re doing so good."

Jungkook whimpered, small and wrecked, clinging harder. Not because he was breaking. Because he was finally being put back together.

They stayed like that for a long time. Breathing together. Drifting. Healing. Not needing anything more than what was already given.

When Jungkook finally started to drift toward sleep, boneless and humming inside, Taehyung didn’t let go. Just pulled the blanket up higher around them and tucked Jungkook closer. Safe. Held.

It started with a dare.

"Bet you can’t tie me up," Hoseok teased, sprawling across the living room floor like a sacrificial offering, grinning wickedly at Jin over a pile of abandoned blankets.

Jin, who had been meticulously ignoring the chaos around him in favor of reading a book, looked up slowly. Raised an eyebrow. Closed his book with a deliberate snap.

The pack stilled, every member within earshot freezing like they’d just heard the starting gun of a very dangerous race.

"You sure about that?" Jin asked, voice too casual to be safe.

Hoseok just smirked, lazy and loose, dragging his fingers through his hair and stretching until his shirt rode up, flashing bare stomach. "I’m bored," he said innocently. "Entertain me."

The challenge hung heavy in the air.

Jin moved slowly. Not rushed. Not frantic. He stood, stretched lazily, and padded over to his bag, pulling out a bundle of soft, well-worn rope like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just lit Hoseok on fire from the inside out.

By the time Jin knelt beside him, Hoseok’s smirk was wobbling just slightly. Not fear. Anticipation. Desire.

"Hands," Jin said simply, holding out his palm.

Hoseok obeyed immediately, dropping his wrists into Jin’s hand with a pleased little hum.

Jin worked efficiently, wrapping the soft rope around Hoseok’s wrists in a neat, secure pattern, tight enough to hold, loose enough not to hurt. Every brush of Jin’s fingers sent shivers racing down Hoseok’s spine.

"Color?" Jin asked softly, tugging once, testing the give.

"Green," Hoseok breathed, eyes heavy-lidded, body already humming with pleasure.

Jin smiled, sharp and satisfied. "Good boy."

Hoseok whimpered, quiet, desperate, arching slightly against the pull of the rope.

Jin chuckled low in his throat, the sound pure sin. "You’re such a slut for this," he murmured, teasing, running his fingers lightly down Hoseok’s bound arms, over the smooth line of his chest.

Hoseok squirmed, giggling breathlessly, his whole body lighting up under the attention.

"Maybe," he gasped, laughing when Jin pinched his side.

Jin didn’t rush. Didn’t tear him apart. He played. Tugging on the ropes just enough to make Hoseok whimper. Teasing kisses along his ribs, his stomach, the sensitive insides of his thighs. Never quite giving him what he wanted, needed, until Hoseok was a panting, writhing mess, straining against the ropes and gasping for air.

"You look good like this," Jin said, voice low and pleased, thumb brushing across a flush-dark cheek.

"Told you," Hoseok slurred, grinning lopsidedly. "I’m the best."

Jin snorted, nipped his ear, and whispered, "Brat."

Hoseok shivered so hard his whole body jerked.

It didn’t end in some earth-shattering orgasm. It didn’t need to.

When Jin finally untied him, slowly, carefully, with reverent fingers, Hoseok was wrecked and blissed-out, floating in deep subspace, giggling helplessly every time Jin brushed his skin.

Jin hauled him into his lap like it was nothing, wrapping his arms tight around Hoseok’s waist and pressing kisses into his hair.

"You’re ridiculous," Jin muttered affectionately.

Hoseok hummed, burrowing closer. "You love it."

Jin didn’t argue. Just held him closer and let the laughter vibrate through them both, easy and unbreakable.

The night wound down in pieces. The chaotic bursts of energy softened into low laughter, lazy kisses, half-hearted wrestling matches that dissolved into cuddles.

Someone, probably Jimin, suggested dragging all the blankets and pillows into the biggest room. "No beds," he declared grandly, arms full of comforters. "Just us."

No one argued. Not anymore.

They made a nest that could only be described as catastrophic. Pillows everywhere. Blankets tangled into impossible knots. Stuffed animals Jimin "borrowed" from other rooms appearing like treasures. It looked like hell. It felt like home.

One by one, they crashed into the pile. Jimin first, diving headfirst with a dramatic yell that earned him a scolding smack from Jin and a cackle from Hoseok. Yoongi and Namjoon followed, herding Jungkook and Taehyung between them, making sure no one floated off half-asleep in the wrong direction. Hoseok sprawled sideways across everyone’s legs like a cat. Jin shoved until he got prime position tucked under Namjoon’s arm, muttering darkly about "deserving compensation for putting up with you idiots all day." Jungkook ended up sandwiched between Yoongi and Taehyung, face smushed against Yoongi’s chest, one arm flopped over Taehyung’s waist. It was hot and sticky and too many limbs and absolutely perfect.

Someone was humming, low, off-key, too lazy to care. Someone else was quietly laughing at a joke that hadn’t even been funny. Someone was drooling on somebody else's thigh. None of it mattered.

There were hands everywhere. Not sexual, not frantic. Just...touch. Thumbs brushing slow circles into ribs. Fingers tracing aimless patterns across spines. A hand slipping into hair, carding gently, grounding. Breathing slowed, softened, synced.

In the heavy quiet, somewhere between sleep and waking, Jungkook realized he wasn’t afraid anymore. Not waiting for the walls to crash down. Not bracing for the sharp, familiar sting of being forgotten. Not wondering if he belonged.

He was here. Messy. Loved. Kept.

The last thing he heard before sleep dragged him under was Namjoon’s voice, low and rough and steady: "Pack strong." A promise. A vow. A truth.

Chapter Text

It was the best kind of morning. Heavy. Warm. Messy. The kind where no one moved for a long, long time because everything already felt exactly right.

Jungkook woke first. Blinking slowly, brain foggy but heart steady. It took a moment to realize what he was buried under. Arms slung across his chest. A leg hooked around his thigh. Someone’s breath puffing gently against the side of his neck. Warm skin everywhere, tangled sheets, steady breathing.

Jimin was curled against his left side, mumbling nonsense in his sleep. Hoseok had his foot wedged under Jungkook’s thigh like a human heating pad. Taehyung was tucked against his chest, fists curled into his shirt, breathing slow and even. Yoongi’s hand rested low on his stomach, fingers twitching occasionally like even asleep he was still grounding him. Namjoon was sprawled across the foot of the bed, somehow managing to look peaceful and ready for war at the same time. And Jin, Jin was draped half across Jungkook’s back, snoring like he paid rent to do it.

Jungkook smiled. Small. Private. Not sharp like it used to be. Soft around the edges, like something fragile and precious he finally didn’t have to hide anymore.

He shifted slightly, careful not to wake anyone, and breathed in deep. Sweat. Skin. The faint, lingering smell of clean cotton and home-cooked food and warm bodies. The smell of them. His pack. His.

Someone, probably Jimin, mumbled, "Stop moving, 'Kook-ah," without even opening his eyes, smacking blindly at his hip. Jungkook huffed a laugh and settled again, letting the stillness soak into his bones. Letting the peace stay.

It hadn’t always been like this. There were cracks still, if you looked close enough. Scars you could trace with your fingers if you knew where to press. But the difference now was that the cracks weren’t things to hide. They were part of the shape of them. Part of the way they fit.

Jungkook closed his eyes again. Not because he was tired. Because he could. Because for the first time in years, he didn’t have to be on guard even inside his own skin. Because he was allowed to rest.

The nest shifted around him, bodies stretching, groaning, a few soft curses, the rustle of blankets. He felt a hand card gently through his hair. Another slide slow up his thigh. A lazy, barely-there kiss pressed against his collarbone. Touch like breathing. Touch like belonging.

"You awake?" Yoongi murmured against his temple, voice low and rough with sleep. Jungkook nodded, nuzzling closer instinctively. Yoongi’s arms tightened around him. "You good?" Another nod. Slower this time. Meaning it.

Jimin whined into the crook of Jungkook’s neck and said, "No talking, just cuddles." Hoseok made a grumpy noise of agreement and shoved his cold toes against Jungkook’s shin. Jungkook yelped and kicked back, earning a chorus of half-asleep laughter from around the pile.

They didn’t rush to untangle. Didn’t rush to do anything. They just...existed. Messy. Half-asleep. Together. Exactly how it was supposed to be.

It started small. A hand sliding up a bare side. Fingers brushing across a hipbone, light and teasing. A mouth pressed against the shell of an ear, the corner of a jaw, a stretch of throat. Lazy touches. Half-conscious. Greedy in the way only the truly safe are greedy, no rush, no sharp hunger, just the slow, inevitable gravity of want.

Jimin twisted under the pile first, rolling until he was half-pinned under Hoseok, both of them mumbling curses and laughter into each other’s skin. Yoongi slid his hand higher up Jungkook’s side, thumb stroking slow circles under the ribs, coaxing little shudders with barely-there pressure. Taehyung made a small, soft sound in his throat, sleepy and needy, pressing closer against Jungkook’s chest, nosing at his jaw. Namjoon stretched, groaning low in his throat, the sound vibrating through the mattress and into every touchpoint of skin. Jin nipped at the side of Jungkook’s neck, teeth sharp but not cruel, just enough to make him arch and gasp.

The nest shifted around him. A low, simmering tide of touch and breath and heat. Not frantic. Not messy yet. Just...rising. The first lazy spark of a fire that would burn slow and deep.

Someone kissed his shoulder. Someone else nosed under his jaw, mouthing at the sensitive skin. Hands found his thighs, his hips, his waist. Everywhere. Nowhere. Everywhere at once.

Jungkook whimpered softly, caught between sleep and need, floating without resistance. He wasn’t alone. Wasn’t drowning. Every touch was an anchor now. Every kiss a tether. Every brush of fingers a promise, spoken without sound.

Yoongi pulled him closer, murmuring nonsense against his skin, soft praise, soft curses, soft need. Jimin giggled breathlessly against Hoseok’s throat, hips rolling lazily as they tangled together. Taehyung clung tighter, his hands shaky but sure, fingers tracing the shape of Jungkook’s ribs like he could memorize him by touch. Jin bit a little harder at Jungkook’s shoulder, growling low in his throat, the sound sparking something bright and sharp through the thick syrup of the air. Namjoon kissed down the line of Jungkook’s spine, slow and deliberate, big hands pressing warmth into every vertebrae.

It was inevitable. Not a choice. Not a decision. Just them. Their bodies knew it before their minds could catch up. The slow, sweet pull into each other. The gravity of touch. The gravity of us.

Someone whispered, "Let go, 'Kook-ah," against his skin. He didn’t know who. Didn’t care. He did. Melted into them. Broke open soft and easy. Let the tide take him.

Around him, the pack moved with him, hands and mouths and skin finding purchase. The shift was slow but unstoppable, touches turning heavier, kisses turning deeper, breath catching in throats. A slow, beautiful unraveling. No rush. No fear. Just need. And trust.

It was slow at first. Lazy hands sliding over skin. Kisses dragging long and deep and dirty across bare shoulders, open mouths and teasing teeth. The weight of bodies shifting, pressing down, moving together in the most natural rhythm in the world.

Jimin found Hoseok first, pulling him closer, tangling their legs together, laughing against his mouth as Hoseok grabbed a fistful of his hair and kissed him like he was starving. Yoongi pressed Jungkook down gently, mouthing at his stomach, slow kisses laid like prayers, moving lower with each press of his lips. Taehyung leaned up to kiss Jungkook too, soft and desperate, hands slipping under his back to hold him steady like he might float away if he let go.

Namjoon watched for a moment, broad shoulders tense, jaw tight, something burning in his eyes, before he reached for them all. Gathering them closer. Settling massive hands on hips and waists, guiding, grounding, giving. Not controlling. Not taking. Just holding. Because that was what Namjoon was best at. Holding the pieces together without ever making anyone feel trapped.

Jin, sharp-tongued, clever Jin, kissed his way down Jungkook’s side with wicked patience, biting lightly at his hip, laughing low when Jungkook bucked helplessly into the touch. "Greedy," he murmured against the flushed skin, smiling like it was a secret only he knew. "You’ve always been so greedy for us." Jungkook gasped, pleasure knotting under his skin like electricity. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t have to. Not anymore.

There were too many hands to track. Too many mouths. Too much sensation.

Yoongi’s fingers skimming his thighs. Namjoon’s mouth on the back of his neck. Jimin’s hand tangled in his hair, tugging gently, grounding him. Hoseok’s lips pressed to the inside of his wrist, soft and worshipful. Taehyung’s slow, needy grind against his hip, breath hitching with every shallow roll of his body. Jin’s teeth scraping deliberate paths across sensitive skin, marking him like he had every right to.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t perfect. It was better. Real. Bodies sliding together, skin slick, breathless laughter spilling between kisses, hands grasping without aim, only instinct.

They worked him open with reverence. Not because he was fragile. But because he was theirs. Because he deserved to be wrecked beautifully. Because he deserved to be loved the way only a pack could love one of its own, Fiercely. Wholly. Without mercy and without regret.

Namjoon pushed inside him first, slow and steady, groaning low against his shoulder. Jungkook cried out, legs trembling, caught between the heavy grind of Namjoon’s hips and the endless, grounding touches from every side. Yoongi kissed him like it would break him open softer, easier, sweeter. Jimin whispered dirty encouragement in his ear, filthy praise that made Jungkook’s toes curl. Hoseok mouthed down his chest, kitten-licking into the sweat pooling there. Taehyung ground against his side, desperate and aching, seeking friction wherever he could find it. Jin nipped at his throat, at his collarbone, marking him over and over like he couldn't help himself.

It blurred after that. Heat. Noise. Need. Jungkook lost track of who touched him where, who fucked into him when, who kissed him soft and who bit him rough. It didn’t matter. They were all his. He was all theirs.

He came first, shattered apart in slow waves, crying out helplessly into Yoongi’s shoulder as Namjoon fucked him through it, as hands and mouths never stopped, never let him fall. The others followed, messy, gasping, whispered names spilled into skin. No one tried to be quiet. No one tried to hide.

When it was over, when the heavy breathing slowed and the touches softened again, they collapsed into each other. A heap of wrecked, sated bodies. A tangle of limbs and lazy, murmured kisses. Jungkook somewhere in the center of it all, boneless and buzzing, floating and anchored at the same time.

Jimin slung an arm over Hoseok’s waist, mumbling something about being "King of the Brats." Taehyung snorted against Jungkook’s chest. Yoongi kissed Jungkook’s forehead, his shoulder, the bridge of his nose. Jin buried his face in the curve of Namjoon’s neck and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "I love you, assholes." Namjoon just rumbled a laugh and tightened his arms around the entire heap.

No one spoke big words. No declarations. No grand speeches. Just breathing. Touching. Choosing. Again and again.

After, the room fell into a thick, sticky kind of quiet. Not uncomfortable. Not tense. Just...full.

Breath evened out slowly. Heartbeats calmed. Hands still wandered, absently now, tracing patterns over ribs and hips and shoulders, grounding without thinking. Someone, probably Hoseok, kicked off a blanket in protest of the heat. Someone else, definitely Jimin, grumbled and pulled it back up again. There was laughter, quiet and warm, too tired to be anything but honest.

Jungkook floated somewhere between sleep and waking. He didn’t need to think. Didn’t need to brace or explain or shrink himself smaller to fit. He just was. Wrapped in the heat of his pack. Held steady by every breath, every beat, every touch.

Yoongi brushed fingers through his hair, slow and soothing. Jin muttered a soft curse and shifted closer, pressing a lazy kiss against the side of Jungkook’s throat. Taehyung curled against his side, snuffling quietly into his shoulder. Hoseok’s long legs tangled with his, anchoring them both. Jimin draped himself over them all like a final, dramatic blanket. Namjoon pressed a kiss into his hairline and stayed. Just stayed.

No one said it aloud. But it buzzed under their skin, low and certain. I’m here. I’m staying. I’m yours.

Jungkook sighed quietly, eyes fluttering closed, overwhelmed by how much he didn’t have to doubt it anymore. How much he could believe it now. How much he could choose it back.

"You’re heavy," Taehyung mumbled against his chest.

"You're clingy," Jungkook whispered back, smiling even as he tightened his arms around him.

Jimin groaned dramatically.

"Shut up. I’m trying to have an emotional breakthrough."

Hoseok snorted into the crook of his elbow.

"You wouldn’t know an emotional breakthrough if it bit you."

"That’s not true," Jimin argued sleepily. "I’m feeling very deep things right now."

"Yeah," Jin said dryly, "hunger doesn't count."

More snorts, more shifting bodies, more lazy, boneless laughter.

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t need to. He was tucked into them so securely it didn’t matter if the whole world shifted underneath them. He wouldn't fall. Wouldn't be left behind. Not anymore.

They stayed like that for a long time. Breathing. Holding. Choosing each other again and again in the tiny, thoughtless ways that mattered more than anything else.

Outside, the world would keep spinning. Hybe would keep scheming. The industry would keep grinding its gears, chewing through anyone not strong enough to hold their ground.

But here, In this pile of warmth and sweat and affection and dumb, messy love, They had already won.

Namjoon's hand found his under the blankets, squeezing once, firm and sure.

"We've got you," he said, voice low, meant only for them.

"We've got each other," Yoongi added, pressing a kiss into Jungkook’s temple.

"And we’re not going anywhere," Jimin said, way too loud, way too earnest, because of course he did.

Hoseok smacked him half-heartedly but didn’t disagree. Jin sighed like it physically pained him to admit it, but nodded anyway, face buried in someone's shoulder. Taehyung just hummed quietly, content, pressed so close it was impossible to tell where one of them ended and the next began.

Jungkook smiled. Soft and full and real. And for the first time in forever, He didn’t have to wonder if he deserved it. He just did.

The room faded into slow, even breathing. Fingers tangled together. Legs draped lazily over thighs. Chests rising and falling in a messy, perfect rhythm. No endings. No beginnings. Just this. Always this.