Chapter Text
Jungkook wakes up on the floor.
Sesame oil. Garlic. Lemon-scented cleaner.
So, the kitchen, probably. That would match with the cold wood beneath his cheek.
Something buzzes by his ear. A bee? He attempts to swat it away, but his arm only twitches.
More buzzing. His head throbs in time with the endless noise. He just wants quiet.
He rolls onto his back, and fuck, was that a mistake. He breathes through the roiling in his stomach—big, shaky gasps as he swallows over and over, throat clicking dryly.
The apartment is dark, only the barest slivers of light creeping past the heavy curtains he couldn’t survive without.
He shivers, fingers searching for the soft edge of a blanket and coming up empty. Right—it’s the floor, not his bed.
Buzz. Buzzzz.
“Leave me alone,” he rasps, pleading to no one. To everyone.
It doesn’t listen to him. The vibrations continue to whittle away at his sanity. Or what’s left of it.
Jungkook swipes at the source of his annoyance with a trembling hand, and it skitters across the floor.
The fuck? He glares at the flat, black object. His phone.
Thoughts tumble into his foggy mind, too many to process. He grits his teeth at the pounding in his temples.
He taps the screen. 12:26 p.m.
Six unanswered calls. Two from his boss. Two from the doctor’s office. One each from Seokjin and Taehyung.
And a shit-ton of messages.
He’s embarrassingly late for work.
And he missed his maintenance session.
Perfect.
He calls Sohee first, putting the phone on speaker and shoving it as far from his head as he dares. She’s concerned but kind, a far cry from his last boss, who would’ve demanded he get his ass to the office right away. Death was the only excuse that man would accept, and even then, it was dicey.
Still, despite Sohee’s reassurances—One day won’t hurt them, Jungkook-ssi. Or you. Please, rest—the emails are piling up, dozens of authors clamoring for his attention. Colleagues waiting for his input on a mountain of projects.
If his headache doesn’t turn into a migraine, maybe he can start tackling his inbox tonight. The thought summons a fresh bout of nausea. Bad idea.
Gods, he’s so tired.
“Do you need me to call someone for you?” Sohee asks, drawing his fading attention back to the conversation.
She knows about his condition, a designation they both share. Unlike him, she’s at peace with hers, flourishing in a healthy relationship, not curled up in a ball of agony after passing out on the kitchen floor.
Some people have all the luck.
“No, n-no. I’m fine, thank you.”
He wouldn’t blame her for laughing at his pathetic lie, but she doesn’t. “Are you sure? There’s a very good specialist I can recommend. They’re not far from you.”
“I’ve already scheduled an appointment, but I really appreciate the offer.”
Also not true, but he’ll have to contact his doctor soon enough. Otherwise, they’ll send someone over to check on him, and he’ll be taking a side quest to the urgent care clinic—just what he doesn’t need.
“Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know,” Sohee says. “Take care of yourself, Jungkook-ssi.”
“Thank you. I will.” More lies.
He ends the call with Sohee and opens the group chat with his work friends, Taehyung and Seokjin, the only people aside from Sohee who seem to give a crap about him.
jk: i’m okay. sorry for worrying you. i think it’s something i ate
th: you’re alive!! do you need anything? ginger tea? cuddles?
sj: did you go to your appointment, jungkook-ah?
Fuck. He told Seokjin about that? He really has been out of it.
jk: i’m good. thanks, tae
sj: don’t ignore me, jeon jungkook. do i need to drag you there myself?
th: ease up, hyung. he’s sick!
sj: which is why he needs to go to the doctor
jk: not ignoring you, hyung. i’ll go soon
sj: you better. or i’ll dom you myself
The message coaxes the ghost of a smile to Jungkook’s lips.
jk: isn’t namjoon keeping you too busy for that?
sj: i can handle you both, brat
It’s not the first time Seokjin has offered to lend a hand, but Jungkook can’t bring himself to accept. He wouldn’t do that to his friend.
th: wait. you’re dropping?
sj: yes, he is
“Dammit, hyung,” Jungkook mutters, rubbing his stinging eyes. He lowers the brightness on his screen.
jk: i’ll be alright
th: i know a guy. he helped me when i was struggling to go down. i’ll send you his number
jk: thanks
jk: gonna rest. i’ll see you both tomorrow
th: feel better!!
sj: message us after you’ve been to the doctor
jk: will do
sj: i mean it, jungkook-ah
His phone buzzes again a moment later with the contact information of Taehyung’s acquaintance. Jungkook swipes it away and forces himself to focus long enough to dial a different number. He squints as the buttons blur.
The receptionist answers on the second ring.
“Yes, this is Jeon Jungkook. I was, um, supposed to come in earlier today.” He waits as the woman asks a flurry of routine questions, responding to most. Missing a few. “Can I just speak with the doctor? I’m not . . . not feeling well,” he finishes in a whisper.
“I’m sorry, Jungkook-ssi. We really need to see you as soon as possible. Shall I arrange for transport?”
Transport? As in an ambulance? No fucking way.
“No, I’ll get there.” Somehow.
“Dr. Choi has an opening at 3. Are you available?”
No. He wants to curl up in his bed and pretend the world doesn’t exist. “Yes.”
“Great. I’ve scheduled the appointment.”
“Thank you.”
His neck burns, just beneath his ear. He hisses and scrubs at the irritated skin. The mark that reveals his weakness to the rest of the world is raised and hot to the touch.
“Jungkook-ssi? If you don’t show up, I’m afraid we will have to send someone to collect you.” She pauses to let him absorb the subtle warning. “For your safety, of course.”
Right, sure. He’s keenly aware of what’ll happen if he skips another one—a visit from Submissive Protective Services.
“I understand.”
Jungkook hangs up and uses the handles on the drawers to haul himself upright. He sways on his feet, ears ringing.
He doesn’t have time for this shit. He has so much to do. Losing most of yesterday evening (he doesn’t remember how he got home), and, let’s be honest, all of today will only leave him further behind.
He opens and slams cupboards, searching for a familiar blue box. Where is it—ah, there. His special tea.
That’ll stifle his body’s ridiculous needs.
He fumbles with the box, dropping it twice before pulling out one of the packets inside. His hands are unsteady as he prepares it, steeping the dried leaves and herbs. An aroma he can’t wholly identify drifts up to his nose. It doesn’t matter if it smells or tastes good.
It just needs to do its job.
Jungkook chugs two cups filled to the brim, gasping through tears as it sears his throat. He closes his eyes, sagging against the counter while he waits for it to kick in.
He shouldn’t have let it get this bad. Usually, the symptoms are slower to arrive and he can attempt to guide himself into subspace before he turns into a full-blown mess.
But this was just so . . . sudden. He’d barely contacted his doctor’s office for an impromptu session when the headaches started. Then the dizziness hit.
And now—
The jackhammering in his skull is slowing. There’s only a dull twinge accompanying each thump of his heart. His stomach isn’t gurgling either, threatening to reject anything he even thinks about eating. And hey, bonus, he can loosen his grip on the counter without crumpling into a heap.
That tea is truly a lifesaver. Bless the intern who mentioned it in the break room all those months ago. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but his curiosity won out.
Thank the gods it did.
It’s completely natural and super effective. I only have to go down every other month.
He was immediately sold.
He hugs the little blue box to his chest, counting the remaining packets. Hmm, running low. He’ll need to replenish his stock while he’s out.
Jungkook glances at his phone. 1:14. He can squeeze in a quick shower so he at least looks like the functional human he is.
Dr. Choi will be thrilled. Maybe Jungkook will cut back on the frequency of his appointments, too.
He’s doing well.
Couldn’t be better.
***
“Jungkook-ssi, have you considered increasing your sessions?” Dr. Choi pushes her glasses up her nose. The thick lenses magnify her narrowed eyes. “Frankly, I’m concerned about you.”
Is it his hair? No, he washed and dried it before he left. Even brushed it, too.
His complexion? He was generous with the concealer.
His hands are folded neatly in his lap, not trembling or fidgeting. He’s not wearing pajamas or mismatched socks or an inside-out sweater.
What does she see? A flashing neon sign hovering over his head that screams just had another drop?
“Your Doms have noted that you don’t stay under for very long,” she says, thumbing through his file. Jungkook wants to burn it. “And you seem on edge, rather than relaxed, when you come back up. Has this been your experience?”
Of course he hasn’t been chill after his maintenance sessions. That’s what happens when his stupid brain won’t shut up long enough for him to space properly.
He’s broken. A dysfunctional sub. He knows it, the Doms here know it, and now Dr. Choi does, too.
“It’s not that bad. I get what I need out of the appointments.” He’s on a roll today. Why start telling the truth now?
He glances at his lap so he won’t have to deal with the disapproving expression his doctor is surely wearing.
“Jungkook-ssi—”
“I don’t have time for extra sessions,” he interrupts, wincing at his own rudeness. “I’m sorry, but my schedule is very busy.” Not a lie, shockingly.
“I can contact your employer, write a note to excuse you for additional treatment.”
“I appreciate it, but that won’t be necessary.” Jungkook pauses before backtracking slightly. “If I think I’m getting to the point where I need to come in more often, I’ll definitely call.” Extreme stubbornness will land him in worse trouble if he’s not careful. Best to play along.
Dr. Choi sighs. Her pen scratches at the paper. Jungkook won’t try to peek at whatever she’s writing. He won’t.
“I’m recommending a follow-up after today’s session. If the feedback from your Dom is consistent with what the others have reported, we will be reassessing your care options,” she says.
Translation: If he doesn’t get his shit together, there’ll be a hospital room with his name on it. And a lock on the door.
He gives a vague jerk of his head, neither a nod nor a shake.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
“No.” He already has the answers.
“Very well. I’ll let you go so you can meet with the Dom I’ve chosen for you.” He dares to look up—big mistake—and she gifts him with a sharp stare. “Good luck, Jungkook-ssi.”
It sounds like more of a threat than encouragement, but he pushes out of his chair and dips into a hasty bow anyway.
“Thank you, Dr. Choi.”
Let’s get this over with.
***
“Are you comfortable with the paddle, Jungkook-ssi?”
Jungkook would roll his eyes if they weren’t hidden behind the smooth leather of a blindfold. “Yes, Sir.”
“Very good.”
No shivers tickling his spine. No anticipation fluttering in his belly.
Just the persistent chill living in his bones and the static where there could be (if he wasn’t such a disaster) a pleasant muffling from the repeated pinprick of his thoughts.
A break from the noise—but it never comes.
The man walks around the room, and Jungkook follows his footsteps. Waiting is his least favorite part. Just get on with it already.
His nose picks that moment to start itching, and he reaches to scratch at it, forgetting about the cuffs trapping his wrists. The buckles and clips rattle as he fusses, shifting to rub his face on the bench’s padded surface.
He jumps at the firm press of a hand on his back.
“Settle.”
“Sorry, Sir.” Jungkook goes limp out of habit, playing the part he’s meant to. “I’m ready.”
The Dom—what’s his name? Jihoon? Jiwoong?—launches into his routine, warming Jungkook up with the paddle. The light pats are okay. He can almost pretend it’s a massage instead of a doctor-prescribed spanking from a stranger. Eases the mortification a bit.
If he were better, maybe it would be enough to tie him up with pretty ropes and silk scarves, coo at him as he kneels on overstuffed pillows, the way they do with the good subs. If he went down easy, they wouldn’t have to resort to more extreme measures as Dr. Choi calls them.
Strict bondage. Floggers and canes and clamps and gloves that bite.
The pain isn’t bad. He can deal with that. Sometimes he even craves it, how it quiets the ruckus in his head.
A stinging heat blooms on Jungkook’s skin, spreading across his ass and the backs of his thighs. He hums as the brisk thwaps land faster, harder, leaning into the ache seeping into his body.
He’s sinking a little at each strike, growing pliant under his Dom’s steady rhythm. Thoughts slip-sliding out of his grasp. Falling deeper.
Melting, melting.
“Jungkook-ssi, did you hear me?”
He struggles to follow the Dom’s voice. “Hmm?”
“I asked you to count for me, please.”
The request rips Jungkook out of his fragile cocoon.
Count? But . . . why? Isn’t he being good just like this?
How many hits has it been? Is he supposed to guess? What if he gets it wrong? Will he be punished? Will Dr. Choi find out?
Will they send him away?
“Sir—I don’t—” Jungkook gasps for breath, the air whistling past his teeth. “I can’t—m’sorry.”
“Should we start over?”
“But.” Counting fucking sucks. Counting requires thinking. Thinking keeps his brain busy. Makes it hurt, and not in a nice, give-me-more kind of way.
“I need an answer, Jungkook-ssi,” the man says.
If he safewords, it’ll all stop. The paddling, the scene, the blanket-soft feeling that had begun to wrap around him. If he does as his Dom asks, maybe the pain will distract him from the numbers cluttering his mind, and the fuzziness will come back.
Maybe the Dom won’t tell Dr. Choi that he’s still not a proper sub.
Maybe.
The words tumble off Jungkook’s heavy tongue. “Y-yes, Sir. I’ll c-count. Please . . . begin again.”
“Good boy.”
The paddle connects with a tender spot on Jungkook’s ass, and he cries out, a tear escaping the blindfold and spilling down his cheek.
“One!”
***
It’s snowing when Jungkook stumbles out of the doctor’s office and onto the sidewalk. Big flakes stick to his puffy coat, his hair—shit, he left his hat inside—and the scarf he tugs tighter around his neck, covering the dark tattoo-ish spiral there.
He wishes it were a tattoo. Those you can choose. (He has plenty to prove it.) And remove.
But not his sub mark—the curse that appeared when he turned twenty-one.
And, fuck, is it sore.
He dodges two men walking hand-in-hand through Gangnam’s winter wonderland. The band of supple black leather circling the taller one’s throat makes his own seem exposed, unprotected, unnatural.
Unclaimed.
He drops his gaze to the sidewalk and trudges on through the slush.
“Warm enough, Jungkook-ssi?”
Jungkook nodded and clung to the blanket, rubbing the velvety edge of it between his fingers as he forced himself to stay pressed against the Dom’s side.
He just had to fake it a little longer. Slur his words, keep his limbs loose and relaxed, preen at any praise he was given.
With his eyes firmly closed, he shut out everything but the soothing softness of the fleece in his hands. A lifeline.
In the midst of his deep concentration, he almost missed what the Dom said next.
“You’re staying down well for me. Dr. Choi will be pleased with your progress.”
It’s good to know Jungkook can still fool someone besides himself.
Ugh. The lights from the shops are too bright. That reminds him—he meant to buy . . . something. Buckwheat noodles? Gochujang? Banana milk?
His stomach lurches ominously. Forget food. He’ll scrape by with plain rice later if his appetite decides to make an appearance.
A wave of exhaustion slams into him. Jungkook skids on the slippery cement as his knees buckle.
Fuck. Not here.
Can’t his body have the decency to wait to pass out until he gets home?
He braces for impact, throwing his hands out to try to catch himself, but a sturdy arm curls around his waist, and the ground stops shifting beneath his feet.
Maybe if he’s lucky, this random, kind soul will never let go.
“Careful,” the man tells him in a low, gentle voice. “Do you need to sit?”
Jungkook’s cheeks heat. “No . . . just give me a second.”
“Take your time.”
The stranger’s jacket is cool under Jungkook’s fingertips. He’s slightly shorter than Jungkook but solid, certainly strong enough to prop him up. Dark hair, wind-swept, on the longer side. Serious eyes—the kind that take no bullshit.
He smells nice. Rich coffee and citrus and a hint of spice.
The blend of scents helps settle Jungkook’s belly and clear his head. He breathes it in, one slow, deep breath after another, until he’s significantly less wobbly.
“You don’t have to stay. I’m alright,” Jungkook says, reluctantly shuffling out of the man’s hold.
“Can I walk you to the bus stop? The subway?” The man glances at his scarf. “Call someone for you?”
Of course. He probably thinks Jungkook is a lost sub who strayed too far from his Dom.
He’d be half right.
“No.” Jungkook puts on the closest thing to a smile he can manage. “Thanks for the save though.”
“Wait—”
“Have a good evening.”
Jungkook dips his head briefly and trudges ahead, leaving the guy in his wake.
He swears the weight of the man’s intense gaze accompanies him until he turns out of sight.