but, first, the reckoning.
⎘ fic type: drabble.
⎘ pairing: gn!reader x jeon jungkook.
⎘ genre: werewolf!jungkook, unrequited love (?), implied idiots in love.
⎘ warnings: angst, smut, mating system, underdeveloped supernatural world within the fic, descriptions of v*mit, bl*od and de*th, mentions of dr*g usage, open ending !!
⎘ description: there are only three things you need to know: jeon jungkook loves you, jeon jungkook is dying, and it's all your fault.
⎘ word count: 3.3k
⎘ author’s note: my fill for the @tohokuu fantasy collab. let's not address how lacklustre this is to my past fics, or the fact i've not published anything all year, let's just rejoice i finished writing something.
deepest apologies for a posting delay due to an accidental mischeduling on atozfic's end: scheduled for the 31st of august, was actually due the 31st of july.
masterlist.
navigation.
this is all fiction. none of the events in this story truly happened, nor do they reflect an accurate portrayal of how the members would behave or feel in these situations.
© atozfic, 2022
the night is one where hands shake, bones ache and hearts break.
outside the door, there's a cacophony of noise blending together. a song's thumping bass, a drumming of hearts beating erratically within the chests of dancing drunks, a riff of different voices all growing louder in an attempt to be heard over one another. it's headache inducing, yet it's not the cause of the pounding inside his skull.
inside the stranger's bathroom, the bass is every shallow breath he pulls into oxygen-hungry lungs, the drumming comes not from jumping bodies but a sink that's not quite been turned off correctly, drop after drop clashing onto white porcelain and mixing with the red from his veins, diluting it into a sickening colour similar to the oxidation of a rusted metal.
his hands, though weak and unreliable, hold a grip on the surface and are the only thing separating his tired limbs from collapsing onto the dirty tiles below.
"five things i see..." his usual boasting voice is a shadow of it's usual self, barely above a whisper under the artificial light. "the, uh, soap dispenser, a snapped hair-tie, a half filled bin, a used razor and... me."
he's trying to remember what namjoon had told him about, the tools he'd given him to ground him in a moment like this. instead, he's stuck on the broken sight he catches in the reflection of the dirty mirror.
changes in appearance are a main symptom, he'd known that long before the aching had even begun. what he hadn't known was how drastic the change would be.
expecting tired eyes and cracked lips, the sunken-in look on his face and the growing rottenness of his flesh is almost too much to handle.
if he were to be truthful with himself, a courtesy he's unable to extend towards you, he'd been in denial at first.
it's just a stomach ache, i'm just nauseous from dodgy take-out. because that's really all it started as, nausea. at first, whenever you were near, then whenever you were mentioned, then when he thought of you, until eventually it became a permanent part of his life. he would wake every morning, the sun would rise, the clock would move forward, the nausea would dance on his insides.
the headaches were what pushed or, more accurately, forced him to unveil his predicament to the others. they'd been expecting it, waiting on it ever since they'd accidentally stumbled upon you in the little cafe, a pretty outfit and a dreamy-eyed complexion while you giggled at the person sat across from you.
jimin had been empathetic, the first to pull him in for a bone-crushing hug till he pried him off when expressing it was hurting it.
taehyung had been angry, even if misplaced, ranting over words of integrity and birth rights and defiance of fate. i told you, we all told you, that you needed to let your secret out. why won't you just be honest with your mate? why're you letting this happen over an implicit rejection? like he had any control over the way his beastily dna reacted to the feeling of heartbreak.
namjoon had been logical, pulling him out of the room for some privacy. sullen expression, he explained what this meant, what would come next, what symptons would follow those he'd begun to present. you've already progressed to the second phase, the headaches. the nosebleeds will come next, alongside the hallucinations. then, a loose control over beast and man while your insides reject your bodies own attempts to keep your heart beating, until the pressure and pain all becomes too much and... crack. your heart breaks, literally.
the remnants of dried blood coat the rim of his left nostril. pulling in a breath, he watches the image of himself reflecting back at him. a walking corpse, more dead than alive, one foot in the grave while the other idly kicks back at every one of life's painful attempts to remind him of how much he misses you, despite his efforts to convince himself otherwise.
he'd been doing so good, having the first semi-normal night in weeks. sure, his stomach had been doing more flips than a gymnast's olympic routine and his brain felt as if it were growing too big for his fragile skull, moments away from bursting out through his ears, eyes, mouth and splattering across the four walls of the cramped kitchen he'd spent most the night chugging back various cheap liquors in. but he'd been able to lose himself in the frat party, allow him to feel like not a thing had changed and he was just another student who's only stress was how to fit studying into a busy life of sex, drugs and partying.
this false reality all came to a hault the minute he caught wind of a familiar smell.
velvet oud, fresh daisies, home.
for a moment, he reminisced on the before times. on the times he'd get himself a little too drunk, a little too high, a little too everything, and someone, anyone would call you up. you'd appear before him, like a guardian angel, smile always sweet and voice never scolding as you'd let him wrap his arms around you. he never remembered the journeys home but never forgot the mornings waking up next to you, your eyes still shut and giving him the chance to fantasize about the future, the one where he no longer has to keep a secret locked in his chest that you're his other half, the predestined love of his life, the kind of future where waking up to you is a habit more than it is a gift, and seeing your eyes open promises a flurry of sleepy kisses and lazy lovemaking, rather than a growth in the distance between you and joke about how he's sweating out the alcohol all over your poor, freshly cleaned bedsheets.
the smell of something darker, a hint spice that stabs at his throat like a thorn of a rose had him tumbling back into the now times. the times where your calls go unanswered, messages no longer opened, name-calling ignored on campus.
you'd tried so hard to ignore his obvious avoidance the first two weeks. and, while he thrived at how much effort you were putting into not letting your best friend turn his back on you, he crumbled in the way he had to fight back harder to get the unspoken message across: he didn't want to see you.
for reasons you didn't know, for reasons he couldn't tell.
he could sense you growing closer, panic consumed his soul, unprepared to see you for the first time in this setting, with a drink in his hand, with pupils blown wide, with him by your side. before he had the chance to see how such a reunion would go down, a drop of blood landed in his drink.
you promised you'd let us know when it got worse, hoseok had never sounded so betrayed, eyes focused on the centre of his face, the dripping faucet of red making a mess all over his inked hand.
"jungkook," he wretched at the sound, mouth clamping shut to hold back the contents of his stomach long enough for him position himself over the toilet. a knock came to the bathroom door, as if he didn't already know there was someone on the other side. "are you in there?"
he coughs up all that he can, and when there's nothing left in his stomach, his lungs join the party. one, two, three, four chest shaking coughs and a gooey, red tinted substance splashes onto the rim of the toilet seat.
that's new, he thinks. and thinks, and thinks, mind trying to get back to the excercises namjoon had given him.
"four things i can smell," he takes a grip on the toilet lid and heaves his body back into a standing position. "blood, beer, old pauperie, you."
if the sounds he was making before weren't enough, the flushing of the toilet should be suffice in confirming his presence within the bathroom.
it hurts to breath, there's now a miscellaneous stain next to the blood on his shirt and his hands can't quite seem to get a grip on anything but, at least, when he makes his way back to the mirror on shaky legs, his skin is no longer rotting.
the hallucinations, he thinks the obvious, they're getting more realistic.
so realistic, in fact, that he sees you standing behind him in the doorframe, mouth agape and eyes bordering on crying.
"oh my... jungkook, what's-" your voice has never taken that tone with him, not even in his darkest nights when he'd be high in the clouds with no one to bring him back down but you and your caring hold. heartbroken, emotionally mirroring how he was physically feeling. "have you been using?"
he wants to lie, wants to say no, wants to shove you out the bathroom and scream at you to leave him alone.
instead, he mutters your name like it's a warning, a blessing, a curse that's been cast upon him, the feeling of missing you nearly as bad as the feeling of loving you.
your gaze burns over every inch of his skin that it inspects, from the tips of his bitten fingernails to the drained look on his face. it's instinct to look away when your eyes reach his own, so afraid you'll stare too deeply into his pool of despair that you'll fall in and drown in the sounds of his overthinking mind, have your lungs crushed under the pressure of the secrets he's trying so hard to keep.
"let me help you, kook."
you're the opposite of help, he thinks but never says. he couldn't cast out words so cruel, not to you.
never you.
always yours, and that's the problem. how can one belong to someone who's none the wiser?
"or i can just... go, if that's what you need."
he knows he should say yes, let you walk out the door of the bathroom and his life. he wonders if you'd slam it as you leave, or not quite close it over in hopes that, eventually, he'll call you back in.
but the flood gates open with no warning and every inch of paranoid heartache seeps through his blood, veins working overtime to deliver it to every fibre of his being. tiny little daggers in the shape of longing and need and gut-wrenching love pricking at his skin and all giving him one simple command: make you stay.
with energy he does not have, he moves across what feels like the ocean-wide distance between both you and him, no warning given before he's pulling you into a coffin of arms. your own remain plastered to your side.
he knowns you can hear- or, more accurately, feel the way his chest shakes with every intake of breath. and, that once you do eventually give into his embrace and drag your hands up the expanse of his back, the sweat covering every inch of his skin doesn't go unnoticed.
he wonders if you feel the drop of blood stain your skin as he burrows his head in the space between your neck and shoulder, or if you catch the hiccups he's releasing while holding back rib-shaking sobs.
he wants to ask if you're suddenly overcome with emotion too, if the weeks of no speaking took a toll on you so badly it's rendered you a shell of who you used to be as well.
"i'm worried about you." four words never hurt so much.
"i'm sorry." his lips brush over your skin as he speaks, goosebumps rise in the path the movement leaves behind.
"why're you sorry?"
"for making you worry."
you squeeze him tighter against you, and it somehow makes him whole and rips him apart. heart beating faster at the prospect of you wanting him closer than physically possible, body screaming as pain licks up his tired limbs like a fire dying to keep itself alive.
who knows how long the pair of you stand like that, arms in a tangled mess, bodies so close the tips of your feet are pressing down on his and chests rise with syncopated breathing.
he doesn't think about all the things he should, like how the stains on his ruined shirt are likely making a new mark on your own outfit or the fact your boyfriend's cologne remains a lingering scent in the hair he's currently burrowing into. instead, the cruelty of imagination takes over and images swirl behind his closed eyelids: the embrace you share morphing into lips being pressed to lips, kisses leading to confessions, confessions leading to his bed- which, in itself, brings forth images of bruised skin from your neck to his own, and hardened nipples glistening with traces of his saliva, and fingers pulling on his hair as he devours you into a crying mess, the very same fingers that scratch masterpieces into the skin along his back as he holds you in a mating press-, and from his bed to the rest of your lives, lives where you never say goodbye when it gets a little dark outside and he never has to smell that smokiness on you ever own, replacing it with his own cinnamon infused essence.
it's almost like neither of you want to address the elephant in the room, you never mentioning the fact jungkook's been avoiding you like the plague and him never uttering an apology for doing so.
there's a part of him that can't help but wonder if you know the truth, if you've known all along- taehyung had always been a little looselipped after a couple shots of tequila- and have just been playing dumb, hoping it'll go away if you never speak it out loud.
heaven knows he's been wishing that were possible.
"it's, uh," he's the first to pull back, though it kills him more than the rejection. he clears his throat, hoping you believe him to be ill instead of holding back tears. "good to see you, really."
"jungkook-"
"but you should go." he cuts you off, he has to. the sound of your voice only makes you feel more real, and that's the last thing he wants you to be right now. "back out to the party. i'm sure yeonjun's looking for you."
the pounding in his head feels a little stronger and the sick feeling increases at the mention of his name.
"yeonjun's not here."
"why not?" he sounds more accusatory than he intends to, heart becoming jaded every time your boyfriend is the topic of conversation.
"we, just... yeah." you're dancing over the topic, eyes suddenly plastered to the ground instead of his bloodshot ones. "we broke up."
his heart pauses, the music outside comes to a halt, the planet stops spinning for a blink of a moment. everything is upside down, inside out, the truth is false and lies are honest.
the sun no longer burns, he's not slowly dying and you're not dating choi yeonjun.
when the moment passes, only one of those statements remains true.
"i'm sorry, i didn't know-"
"we've not exactly been talking, have we?"
"did he at least... give you a reason?" he chooses to let you have your dig, not even bothering to give a reason behind the ignored the calls or the missed meet-ups.
"no," your eyes are now on the shower curtain behind him, scanning up the various stains along the once white fabric. the offensively bright bathroom light shines a reflection in your eyes and it reminds him of the nights spent gazing up at the night sky before you were both grown up, nights where he swore the stars would freefall all the way from outer space and land directly in your wide eyed gaze. only, he never remembered your eyes looking as sad as they do now. "i was the one giving reasons. i ended it."
"why?"
"i just... i realized he's not really who i want to be with, and it's not fair to string him along over a teen-like crush when there's already someone who i'm in love with."
this is it, he thinks, the final blow to knock his lights out for good.
if the implicit rejection of hearing the words this is my boyfriend, yeonjun were enough to send him down this path that leads to peril, heart cursed to a fate of tearing itself in two, then he can only stand in shaking fear at what explicitly hearing you name the person you're in love with will do to him.
perhaps he'll die on the spot, put an end to drawn out process.
he contemplates, for a moment, just letting it all off his chest. throw away the silly promise he'd made to himself, one where he swore to never tell you about the fated bond that had formed between your soul and his, too cautious of you fearing a life where you feel forced to be with him and too enamoured with the thought of watching you fall in love with him slowly, naturally, no outside pressure. like normal, non-canine-infused relationships do.
it's too late now, though, so he holds back the confession like always.
"who?"
you sigh out his name, eyes somehow having found their way back to his. he leans in with anticipation. he's twisted, broken, dying, and he wants to at least know who he's leaving you behind for. wants to know that, if he can't have the luxury of loving you, the person who does actually deserves it. but you're not saying anything.
you're just staring.
and staring.
and staring.
and staring.
he stares back. he blinks one, two, three, four times. on the fifth, he rubs his hand over his eyelids, wondering if that'll clear up his vision and show him reality, instead of yet another deadly hallucination.
you're still there when his eyes reopen.
"y/n." he whispers, voice trembling while he struggles to find it. he feels sick to his stomach watching you look at him the same way he's looked at you for years now, like everything begins and ends with him. longing, loving, belonging. it's all he's ever wanted from you, in the worst way it could ever happen. "oh, y/n."
because here you are, loving him, and there he is, dying.
he'd thought the fates were cruel before, when they cursed him with a mate who would never want him the same way, a whole different species that could never understand the all encomposing emotions of a lupin in love. turns out, they're far crueler than he dared to fear, letting him begin the process of losing his life to his mate's rejection, only to flip the switch and reveal his mate loves him, wants him, sees him in the same star-littered light.
he's spent so many years waiting for this moment, imaging how it could play out, yet he never expected this.
he can't talk, or think, or make sense of anything that's happening. all he can do is inch closer, lean lower, hold you closer before he finally gets a taste of what it's like to love you.
he's seen what it's like to love you, in moments where you're sweating in his living room and demanding a rematch against taehyung at whatever song you'd just done on just dance. he's smelt it, when you crash into his arms with giggles and uttered hellos in the middle of campus, sending a cloud of your perfume and natural scent right up his nose. he's heard it, too, on halloween nights where he'd drag you to scary houses and witness you call out to him every time you got scared, hand clutching onto him to reassure yourself he was right behind you. and he's felt it, in every moment his heart beats harder around you, whether you're snoring a drool patch onto his couch or you're spinning under shinning lights, with a pretty dress and a forgotten prom date.
and at last he tastes it, when lips press to lips and space ceases to exist. it's not rough, nor as desperate as he expected it to be. a hand lays flat against his erratically beating chest, while one of his own finds a resting place on your warm cheek, the stroke of his thumb over your skin mimicking the way his tongue meets your bottom lip, searching to taste more of you, all of you, in just one kiss, savouring what might be the only chance he gets.
when he pulls back, red paints your lips.