Lots of Jungkook hurt/sick one shots. There will be many many triggers and I will put every trigger at the beginning of the chapters .
If you have requests , just text me and I'll write them as chapter .
My English isn't the best but I'll try to m...
This story includes trigger warning like eating disorder and pills.
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Jungkook pulled his hoodie tighter around himself as he sat on the balcony, overlooking the Seoul skyline. It was just past midnight, and the city was still very much alive beneath him, bright lights casting shadows, the occasional sound of a car horn rising from the streets below. He drew his knees to his chest, the edges of his hoodie sleeves frayed from where he'd been nervously picking at them for months now.
The cold, dry air of winter crept in, but Jungkook barely noticed. He felt empty inside, not from hunger, but from something far deeper—an absence that no number of carefully counted calories could fill. The harsh wind bit into his skin, but he welcomed it; the physical sensation was preferable to the dull ache gnawing at him from the inside.
On the small table beside him lay a half-empty bottle of pills, bright white capsules strewn across its surface like scattered marbles. The prescribed label had long since worn away, faded from his constant touch. There was another bottle, too—a smaller one, filled with vitamins and protein supplements meant to replace what he couldn't bring himself to eat.
His meals had become a delicate balancing act, an equation calculated on the basis of perfection. He would measure each grain of rice, every gram of protein, each piece of vegetable, until he was certain it was enough to sustain him, but never too much. He knew he had a duty—a body that people adored, idolized, and critiqued with surgical precision. He was Jungkook, the golden maknae. The one who could do everything, and do it well.
But lately, that title, that perfection, had become a curse.
He'd noticed the changes in himself only a few months ago. The way his energy dwindled, how even the thought of getting out of bed left him feeling more tired than ever. The schedules were packed, relentless, and it felt like there wasn't a second to breathe. Days blurred into one another—performances, rehearsals, interviews, fan meets. The love from fans was something that had once fueled him, igniting his passion for music, but now the cheers and smiles became another expectation to fulfill, another persona to maintain.
He had always been the strong one, the one who could bear it all with a smile. So when he began feeling like the ground beneath him was slowly crumbling, he hadn't told anyone. Not his hyungs, who were busy dealing with their own struggles, each weighed down by the pressures of being at the top. Not his manager, who only saw what they needed to see: his flawless performances, his perfectly sculpted frame, his unending charisma. And not his friends—he didn't want to be a burden.
The pills had seemed like a solution, at first. A simple way to keep himself in check—to keep his energy up when food felt like too much. They were prescribed, after all, to help him through those particularly difficult times. But "difficult" had become a constant state of being, and now he found himself leaning on them more and more, popping a pill just to make it through a dance routine, another to handle a two-hour interview. And soon it wasn't just one or two.
