Title: “Uncharted Harmony”: BTS fanfiction ( poly )
Pairing: BTS x Reader Male ( poly relationship )
Genre: Hurt/Comfort | Romance | Slice of Life
Warnings: Mild medical detail, injury, light swearing.
Summary: When Kim Taehyung is rushed to the ER after a backstage accident, an American doctor—new to Seoul and mostly unaware of BTS’s global fame—ends up treating him. While Taehyung recovers, the rest of the group keeps a watchful eye, both protective and curious. What starts as a tense hospital visit quickly turns into something more... unexpected.
The ER was quieter than usual for a Saturday night in Seoul, and you were grateful for the break. Being an American doctor practicing abroad was already a challenge, but the language barrier, the cultural curve, and the sheer volume of patients had made this hospital a second home—sometimes literally, when you were too exhausted to go back to your apartment.
You were mid-sip of what had to be your fourth coffee of the shift when the red light above Room 4 blinked to life.
“Male, 27. Laceration to the head, possible concussion. Arriving in five minutes.”
You straightened up and grabbed your gloves. “Alright. Let’s see who tried to win a fight with gravity.”
The gurney burst through the ER doors right on schedule, flanked by a small entourage that was… weirdly stylish. You blinked. The guy on the stretcher was clearly out of it—blood at the side of his forehead, eyes half-lidded, murmuring incoherently in Korean.
And the six men around him looked like they’d either stepped off a magazine shoot or were about to start one.
“Hyung—hyung, it’s okay, just stay with us,” one of them whispered, holding his hand. Another kept pace beside the stretcher, eyes locked on yours as if daring you to screw up. The tension radiating from them could’ve stopped time.
The nurse started reciting vitals. You nodded, taking control. “What happened?”
“He slipped backstage after rehearsal,” said one of them—tall, sharp-jawed, voice like a command. “Hit his head on a speaker edge. He blacked out for about fifteen seconds.”
“Was he nauseous afterward?”
“Yes,” someone else added, “and he hasn’t been making sense. He said he was married to a lamp.”
“…Yup. Possible concussion.”
You wheeled the patient toward triage, motioning for the rest to stay back. They did not listen.
“Gentlemen, I need space to work.”
“He doesn’t like strangers,” another said softly, this one with warm brown eyes and a trembling voice. “He panics. Just… let us stay.”
You looked at the unconscious man on the table, and then at the six sets of pleading eyes.
“Fine. But no talking. I mean it.”
They quieted immediately.
You set to work cleaning the wound. It wasn’t deep, but it had bled a lot. Classic scalp injury. As you worked, you kept glancing at the six. The energy was strange—cohesive. Intense. Protective. Like you weren’t treating just a patient, but their family.
You finally spoke up. “You guys… roommates? Brothers?”
“No,” one said with a lopsided grin. “We’re... closer than that.”
The man on the bed groaned suddenly, blinking up at the bright lights. “Tae?”
“I’m here,” the one closest to his head murmured, stroking his hair. “You’re safe. Just stay still, okay?”
Your patient flinched and muttered something about giraffes, clearly still not all there.
“Classic concussion symptoms. I’ll keep him overnight for monitoring,” you said, checking his pupils. “Should be okay with rest.”
A breath of relief passed through the room.
You gave a small smile. “He’s lucky to have you guys watching out for him.”
“He’s our heart,” one of them said quietly. “If something happened to him…”
You finally took a closer look at your audience. There was something oddly familiar about their faces. “You all in a band or something?”
Their eyes widened in surprise.
“You… don’t know who we are?” asked one, the smallest one, in genuine shock.
You gave a shrug. “I work twelve-hour shifts, six days a week. If it’s not on a prescription label, I probably don’t know it.”
They laughed softly—more out of disbelief than amusement.
One of them stepped forward, tall and broad-shouldered. He looked you up and down. “You’re American?”
“You look like you bench press cars for breakfast,” said another, grinning. “Are all U.S. doctors like this?”
You chuckled. “Only the good ones.”
They all laughed, even the quietest among them, who’d barely spoken until now. “Well… we’re BTS.”
“…Like… behind-the-scenes?”
“Bangtan Sonyeondan,” one corrected. “Idol group. Seven members. World tours. Grammys.”
You blinked. “I think I’ve heard of you. My niece probably has a poster.”
That made them laugh again, more relaxed now. Their injured member had dozed off, breathing steady. You took a step back from the table.
“I’ll have the nurse set up his room,” you said, peeling off your gloves. “You can stay the night, but only one or two at a time.”
All six exchanged a silent conversation. Then the tall, soft-spoken one stepped forward. “We’d like to talk more. After he’s stable. Maybe… buy you a coffee?”
You raised a brow. “Because I didn’t fangirl?”
“Because you didn’t treat us like glass,” said another gently. “And because Tae’s already muttered he likes you—he called you his ‘muscle angel.’”
You looked down at your patient, snoring softly.
They chuckled, but their eyes were still on you. Like they were assessing something.
“You single, doctor?” the one with the deep voice asked, casual but careful.
You eyed them, trying to read the vibe. Seven men, ridiculously close, affectionate, sharing the same protective energy over their injured bandmate. The math was mathing.
“Let me guess,” you said, arms crossed. “You’re all dating each other.”
They nodded without shame.
“And now you’re testing the waters to see if I’d ever date seven men at once?”
“…Hypothetically,” one said with a sly smirk.
You laughed—long, low, genuine. “Well. Let’s get him stable first. And maybe, maybe after that, I’ll consider the coffee.”
And for the first time that night, you felt something warm settle under your skin.
