#but dedicating your life to this is not the answer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

norikuna · 2 days ago

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WHAT? LIKE IT'S HARD? ✶ choso kamo

abstract ✶ there are six physiological stages of having a crush. you just wish that you didn't have to learn this through first-hand experience. everyone said that choso kamo was a loser in high school, a quiet kid who haunted the campus with no friends. sure, he was brilliantly smart, but he dropped out in senior year. he even managed to break your heart, the glittering prom queen, with the world at your fingertips. imagine your surprise three years later, when you find yourself stuck with him in med school. what's worse? he's actually super hot now!

PART II. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

pairing. choso kamo x afab!reader genre tags and warnings reader is practically a blair waldorf prototype (filthy rich, a bit bratty, spoiled), bestfriend!gojo, background gojo x geto, mentions of blood and injuries, med school, MISCOMMUNICATION, angst and hurt, fluff, kissing and making out. sukuna and yuuji cameos.

word count. 17.5k! song inspiration. crush culture — conan gray

a/n. shameless med student insert i rlly projected my full heart and soul into the anatomy lab ick. art belongs to all respective artists [will add credit!] crossposted on ao3 💖

dedication. for my dear kashika, first of all happy (belated) birthday @kasukuna 💗 wanted this to coincide with ur day but i'm late, i fear!!! you hype me up so much, send the sweetest asks and you're so damn talented that i'm left begging for an ounce of your creativity and amazing mind! your fics are so witty and well thought out and i like to think that you've spawned an incredible dumbass!bf sukuna renaissance on jjk tumblr 😭 idk if you remember but i sent you an ask on creamflix so long ago like the start of december asking you to choose between characters and au's so i tried lifting this as verbatim as i could from ur answer <3 hope you had the most amazing day ever!!

mp3. ✶ crush culture makes me wanna spill my gut out, i know what you're doing! tryna get me to pursue ya <3

You refuse to speak to Gojo Satoru ever again. Not today, not tomorrow, not in this lifetime nor the next. He’s officially dead to you, figuratively, of course. Unfortunately.

The moment he stops cackling like a deranged hyena in the middle of your bedroom, you’re going to shove him out the door so hard that he’s going to see stars. You’ll block his number, you’ll delete every photo of his smug grin, and you’re going to hire an exorcist to cleanse his essence from your life.

Except right now, your best friend is sprawled across your bed, practically writhing as he gasps for air in between bouts of ridiculous, chipmunk-like squeals. He’s still in his uniform, having crashed at your place after school, with his white shirt untucked, sleeves pushed to his elbows and his tie dangling uselessly around his neck.

“You are such a child,” you grumble, shoving your sticker-laden journal off your lap with a huff, just so you can aim a precise kick at his ribs. Satoru wheezes dramatically, clutching his stomach like he’s just been mortally wounded in battle.

“It’s -” he’s snickering, slapping the fine-thread sheets with the fervour of one trying to summon a higher power, “It’s just too good. I – oh my god, I really can’t breathe! I think I’m going to pass out.”

Satoru’s rolling over dramatically, dark-tinted sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his hawkish nose, leaving him to look like a cherubic bird with a bad attitude.

“If only,” you mutter darkly, arms crossed over your own blazer as you glare daggers at the white-haired boy, “It’s not that funny.”

But Satoru just doesn’t listen, of course. His grin is wide enough to split his face in half, and every breath that he takes is another affront to your polished dignity, and every stupid wheeze is a reminder that you made the colossal mistake of trusting this man with classified information.

“Keep laughing,” you say, your tone low and menacing as you snatch your phone off your nightstand, “And see what happens when I play offence.”

That gets Satoru’s attention, as he freezes mid-snort. Grin faltering just enough to make you feel a small and petty thrill of satisfaction, “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” you say, already tapping away on your phone, scrolling past the ninety-nine notifications clogging Instagram. A certain raven-haired boy’s name hovers in your mind, one who shares the same initials as Gojo Satoru.

You’re not above sending a risky message.

Hey! Gojo’s been totally obsessed with you, ever since you bashed his head in with a spiral notebook back in seventh grade, and called him a spoilt, rich kid. He draws love hearts around your name every night. Just thought you should know, XOXO.

“Wait!” Satoru bolts upright so fast that his sunglasses fall into his lap, his grin morphing into a scowl as panic flashes in his too-blue eyes, “That’s playing dirty. Totally unfair.”

“You’re the one who laughed like a lunatic,” you say sweetly, tilting the phone towards him as if you’re about to hit send.

“You can’t be serious!” Satoru points a long, accusatory finger at you, his dramatic outrage undercut by the way his lips keep twitching, “I mean -” Another snicker escapes him as he buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking again, “Like how? Of all people, you really have a crush on that guy.”

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if it’s too late to enrol in witness protection. It was clearly your mistake, deciding to tell Satoru critically sensitive information. Revealing the name of the boy that you were crushing on.

And yes, your type has turned out to be greasy Tim Burton reject loners who wander around school in faded Lord of the Rings hoodies.

You’re just totally head-over-heels for Choso Kamo.

“Whatever,” you snap, shoving your phone into the pocket of your school blazer with as much dignity as you can muster under the barrage of Satoru’s relentless cackles, “You wouldn’t understand?”

“Understand?” Satoru shifts himself with all the casual arrogance of someone who, unfortunately, has never been truly humbled in his life, propping himself against one of your enormous plush pillows.

The velvet squishes beneath his weight, gold embroidery bunching, but he’s utterly unbothered. “Enlighten me, we’re talking about the same Kamo right? The guy who sits behind you in class, and doesn’t so much blink in your direction? The one who looks like he’d rather gargle glass than talk to you?”

Another pillow sails across the bed before you even realise that you’ve hurled it. It strikes him square in the face, with a satisfying thwump! Muffling his laugh as he flails, tangled in thick, down stuffing.

“He’s just shy!” You insist, your voice rising as you get up to pace. Your Prada loafers click against the polished floor, before you kick them off. “And he only acts like that when others are around, by the way. He talks to me when it’s just us.”

“Oh, sure,” Satoru sits up, wrestling the pillow aside with a theatrical groan. His snowy hair sticks up at angles, like he’s been electrocuted, “That’s probably because he’s plotting his escape route while you corner him, like a lion closing in on its prey. Poor Kamo’s the gazelle.”

“Just know that I’m blowing you up in my mind.”

Satoru huffs, “So, what is your plan now? Are you going to ask him to prom? Are we going to see a proposal for the ages?”

You pause mid-pace, fighting the hot flush that creeps up your neck. It burns brighter as you glance towards the gilded vanity mirror, for that is exactly what you had wanted. You just needed to hear someone’s validation, “Should I?”

Satoru’s grin falters for a second, replaced with a look of sheer disbelief, “You’re kidding, right? That kid hates social events. You think he’s going to go with you?”

“Why not?” You’re fiddling with the crystal perfume decanters, the bottles of skincare on your vanity, “I’ve been dropping hints, okay? Subtle ones, all that manifesting shit.”

“Subtle?” Satoru snorts, “You mean letting half the football team pile bouquets into your locker? The locker that’s right next to his? Oh, yeah. Super low-key. Very humble.”

“At least I have options,” you snap back, flicking on the lights as the sun begins to sharpen its afternoon glare. Warm golden light spills across the room, catching on the ceiling-length silk drapes, “Meanwhile, I hope you end up alone at prom. Making ugly, kissy faces at Geto Suguru, while he’s with someone else.”

Satoru groans, like you’ve truly pierced his heart, “Cruel. So cruel when provoked,” but he’s propping himself back up on one elbow, “But hey, if you really do like Kamo, you know that makes him my future brother-in-law or something. That’s cool.”

Your gasp is sharp, scandalised, “Excuse me?”

“But think about it,” Satoru continues, ignoring your sputters, “You’re practically confirmed to be Prom Queen. Do you really want to drag that guy up on stage with you?”

“I think you’re being judgemental,” you mutter, tugging the drapes close and blocking out the faint twinkle of the city skyline, “He’d have to be insane not to say yes to me.”

“Someone is going to deflate that big head of yours one day,” Satoru says, and his voice has softened just enough to make you glance back at him, “You do know he cuts class a lot, right?”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m not being a bitch, I swear,” Satoru holds up his palms defensively, “He shows up for only half the month, you might want to check on your boy.”

You flop onto the chaise lounge, throwing an arm over your face tragically, “This isn’t the inspiring pep talk that I need right now.”

Satoru leans lazily against the gilded frame of your canopy bed, “Hey, it’s not my place to tell you what to do. But if you are that into him, then fine! Just ask him to prom and see what happens. And tell you what? If you ask Kamo, I’ll ask Suguru.”

You narrow your eyes, “Wow, this must be serious if you’re out here wheeling and dealing like this. Are you feeling okay?”

Satoru presses a dramatic hand to his chest, his grin morphing into something faux-solemn, “Cross my heart. I’m making a binding vow, like, it’s unbreakable. Life or death.”

“Deal,” you quickly say, ignoring the sudden leap of your pulse, because there’s no way that you’re letting him see how the sudden time-pressure is making your stomach twist into ugly knots. You point towards the door with a flourish, “And as much as I love our time together, I need to get ready. So…out! Chop-chop.”

Satoru groans like you’ve just asked him to drag a boulder uphill with his teeth, slumping off your bed in exaggerated defeat. He sluggishly reaches for his discarded backpack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder, “I still don’t get why you bother with working. You and I both know that we don’t need it,” he mutters, as if the concept of responsibility personally offends him.

“It’s just babysitting,” you gently correct, shrugging on a cashmere cardigan from the back of your chair, “And anyway, you know I need a well-rounded list of extracurriculars for Pre-Med.”

“I’d rather eat my sunglasses, one lens at a time,” Satoru shoots back, adjusting said sunglasses squarely over his face, “Instead of being stuck babysitting brats all evening. We’re not meant to be saints.”

“It’s just one kid tonight. New family, new house,” you reply, grabbing your bag where it rests by the vanity, “Anyway, I expect a full report on your prom date by tomorrow, Satoru. I’m not forgetting that vow.”

Satoru pauses in the doorway, with the edges of his grin sharpened into something that makes you pity Geto Suguru in advance, “I never disappoint.”

You had finally managed to shove Satoru out of the doorway, his obnoxious laughter echoing faintly down the hall. The quiet that follows is a relief, albeit short-lived. You’re left standing in the stillness of your room, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the text with the address of tonight’s gig.

Honestly, Satoru might have a point. You, the only child of one of the country’s most obscenely wealthy families, babysitting? It’s not like you’re chasing pocket money or trying to build character. But medical school applications don’t only care about your bank account, there’s so many extra boxes to tick. Factors like being selfless or dedicated to the community.

The request had been odd from the start. Some child had called you himself, and normally, it’s the frazzled parents who handle that kind of task. His voice had been small, but determined, saying that his brother was out, and he needed a sitter for the evening. Something about the earnestness of it had softened you, though, now you were starting to regret the whole thing — seeing how far out this house was from your own penthouse.

Showing up in the Bentley with tinted windows and your chauffeur had felt a little off brand for this role. So, in the name of relatability, you had popped a piece of cherry gum and a book, taking on the bus. The sticky seats and questionable patrons had almost been enough to make you reconsider, but the suburb itself offered a strange charm.

It was quiet here, too quiet, the kind of place that might have once been picturesque, but it had gone soft around the edges. The homes were older, cozy but tired, with paint peeling in places and lawns that were overrun with weeds. You wrinkle your nose as you step off the bus, weaving through tufts of stubborn greenery and abandoned toys in the yard.

The house that you’re looking for stands a little crooked, but sturdy. It’s faded shutters are barely hanging on, and a basketball hoop leans precariously over the driveway. There’s a small, red toy car that’s entirely faded and scratched, sitting forgotten near the porch steps.

Just as your knuckles hover over the worn wood of the front door, it swings open with such force that you nearly stumble backwards. A blur of motion catches you off guard, and you’re suddenly face-to-face with a tiny, pink-haired whirlwind.

The boy’s grinning up at you, wide and gap-toothed, with big golden eyes. His hair is wild, a fluffy crown of rosy strands over a dark undercut, and his scraped knees are haphazardly patched up with dinosaur bandages.

“Wait here! I’m going to get my brother!” He chirps, his voice bright and slightly whistly, thanks to the missing tooth. Before you can get a word in, he’s gone, sprinting back inside with the energy of an overeager puppy, leaving you stranded on the porch.

You shuffle awkwardly, glancing down at the scratched paint on the doorframe. There was something endearing about the child, and you’re starting to feel less apprehensive. That is, until the door opens again, and time slows.

Your heart stutters, skips, and then plummets. As if someone’s dropped you into an industrial freezer. Standing there, with one hand resting lightly on the kid’s shoulder, and an expression that’s one part confusion and one part disbelief, is Choso Kamo.

It’s as if the universe has conspired against you, playing its most cruel and ridiculous joke yet. Tall and broad, with tired eyes that sweep over you in slow recognition. Dark mark twitching across his face, like a deliberate smudge of ink.

Choso’s blinking, startled to see you here, though his usual stoic expression has yet to crack. Meanwhile, your inner monologue is screaming a symphony of pure panic. You can already heal Satoru’s stupid squeals in your head.

The pink-haired boy tugs on Choso’s arm, “See, I got a babysitter! Isn’t that cool?”

Choso glances down at the kid, then back at you, his lips parting as if to speak.

“Uh, hey,” you manage. The picture of eloquence, the master of the verbose elite.

It strikes you, with almost absurd clarity, that you’ve never seen Choso outside the campus bubble. No dim library corners, no lab tables cluttered with textbooks, or heavy beat-up laptops parked in front of him. Gone are the oversized hoodies thrown over his school uniform, or the baggy jeans he dons when he forgoes the dress code entirely. Instead, he’s here, standing in the soft glow of the broken porch light, wearing a loose black tee and dark track pants.

His chestnut hair is free from the two greasy, spiky knots that he favours on his head, falling softer around his face. Your traitorous heart lurches, feeling a sharp pang of betrayal.

“You’re the babysitter?” Choso’s voice cuts through your spiral. Raspy as always, roughened like rock salt, but there’s something else threaded into the question. A flicker of irritation, and confusion. As if he’s struggling to reconcile you, with the person standing on his doorstep.

“You didn’t know when you booked?” You shoot back, aiming for casual indifference, but landing somewhere closer to petulant. Your eyes flick to the box he’s holding, with contents that glint faintly in the light. Suspiciously metallic, as if he’s cradling surgical tools.

Choso follows your curious gaze, exhaling sharply, and shifting the box to a nearby table, just out of your line of sight.

“I didn’t book,” he grunts, “Told Yuuji to check the ads, and pick one.”

“And I picked the best one!” The delighted chirp comes from behind Choso, as Yuuji reappears, practically bouncing with a sunny grin. His golden eyes are locked on the ribbon-wrapped box in your hands, and his expression is lit up with unabashed glee.

You glance down at the box, containing an array of decadent artisan doughnuts. Saffron glaze, coconut cream, pistachio and chocolate. All from that impossibly chic Swiss patisserie downtown. You ignore the dull ache building between your eyes, smiling as you hand the box over, “These are for you, little man.”

Yuuji’s already snapping his hands for the box, as though you had just delivered a treasure chest of gold doubloons, “Can I have one? Please? Pretty-please?”

Choso glances down at him with a long-suffering look that somehow manages to carry an undertone of fondness, “Just one,” he warns, his voice dry but warm, “For now.”

Yuuji doesn’t need to be told twice, bolting towards the kitchen and clutching the box to his chest like a sacred relic. The faint sound of icing being smacked off fingers echoes from somewhere around the corner.

Choso watches him go, before turning back to you, his posture easing slightly. “That was nice of you,” he says, his voice softer now, almost tentative, “But he’s going to crash hard after that sugar high. Good luck.”

You wave off his scepticism with a breezy smile, “I’m good with kids. I’ll manage.”

For a moment, the boy’s expression shifts. Something fleeting and unreadable flickers across his face, a hint of thoughtfulness or something heavier.

Another thought gnaws at the edges of your mind, a tiny spectre of dread wrapped in Gojo Satoru’s smug grin. Two hours ago, though it feels like a lifetime now, you made a pact.

You ask Kamo, I’ll ask Suguru.

At the time, it had seemed like an impossible bluff. But the thing about Satoru is that he’s infuriatingly reliable when he sets his mind to something. No matter the cost.

Which is why you’re here now, sweating under your cashmere sweater. The fabric is suddenly too soft, too warm, clinging to the nape of your neck. You, with half the school population ready to pen sonnets just for a chance to take you to prom. Jocks, debate captains, the crème de la crème of eligible dates. All overlooked in favour of the quiet boy that no-one seems to notice.

The boy whose locker was assigned right next to yours, empty and cold steel. While yours was glittered with Polaroids, and pastel sticky notes, and the occasional folded love letter. The boy that everyone said had no friends, but he was easily the uncontested valedictorian. The boy that you desperately wanted to ask to prom.

Choso is shuffling papers on the table, avoiding your gaze like it’s a laser beam. His movements are slow, and deliberate, but there’s an edge of tension in the way his fingers linger on a set of silver keys, before he slips them into his pocket.

“What?” His voice breaks the quiet, low and rough like gravel underfoot. It startles you out of your spiralling thoughts.

“Nothing,” you blurt out, far too quickly. You’re grasping at straws to keep the conversation going, “Where are you headed?”

Choso hesitates, a slight hitch in his movements, picking that cardboard box again. For a moment, you think he’s going to ignore your question, but then he mutters, “Work.”

You tilt your head, your curiosity outweighing your better judgement to never press Choso Kamo for more than two sentences in a conversation.

He shifts uncomfortable, and you catch a glimpse of latex gloves tucked neatly inside before he angles it out of view, “I…clean up things,” he says finally, his tone clipped as though every word is a concession, “Errands. I’m a cleaner.”

The kind of response that’s designed to kill conversation in its track. It’s vague, annoyingly so, but you let it slide, “Oh.”

You’re this close to spontaneously combusting. The pact, the reason that your hands shake when you catch yourself staring at Choso Kamo for just a second too long. It’s either now or never. Rip the band-aid before your central nervous system completely betrays you and implodes.

Objectively speaking, you’re a real catch. Second-best grades in the cohort, from an old business dynasty that rivalled the Youngs from Crazy Rich Asians, two-time prom queen with med-school practically knocking on the door. Yeah, a dream. College applications adored you. Surely, Choso would have had to be running on a clone’s brain stitched into his head to say no.

Yet, somehow, it doesn’t make your heart beat any less erratically. It doesn’t erase the hollow pit that’s clawing at your insides. And now, you’re wishing that you had asked for advice from someone with an ounce of finesse. Like Shoko, or Utahime. Not your best friend who called himself The Honoured One.

You clear your throat, the taste of artificial cherry gum still lingering, “So, are you going to prom?”

Choso snorts, the sound entirely dismissive. But he seems to realise that you’re not joking, flicking you a glance, like he’s deciding to humour you, “What’s it to you? Need me to vote for you to be prom queen?”

You roll your eyes, fighting the flush creeping up your Burberry sweater, “Didn’t I already ask you to do that, like, two months ago?”

His lips twitch, barely, like he’s holding a smile back under layers of indifference, “Yeah. You pestered me three times. And I actually did it.”

You latch onto the softer tone in his voice, “So, are you going to go, then?” You’re watching him, almost desperate for a sign, for anything other than no.

Choso’s shoulders tense, “Can’t.”

“Can’t?” The word slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, incredulous, “What do you mean can’t? Why? You need to study or something?” You’re trying so hard to sound indifferent, like you’ve got a roster of dates lined up. And well, you do. But this is the only one that you want. The panic creeping into your voice betrays you before you even realise it.

“No,” Choso replies, his tone quieter, “I really just can’t go.”

A weight drops in your stomach, heavy and cold. Is this what rejection feels like? The thought hits like a wave, leaving you breathless. Your heart’s flipping in your chest like it’s teetering on the edge of cliff, seconds away from freefalling into nothing.

You inhale sharply, steeling yourself for the words that are about to spill out.

“I want you to be my date for prom.” “I can’t go because I dropped out.”

The words slam into each other, and for a moment, everything freezes. Choso’s mouth has fallen open, the curve of his lips slack with shock. As though as someone’s hit the pause button on him, mid-thought. You blink at him, your brain becoming a skipping CD. Round and round, never quite catching the beat.

“What did you just say?” Your brows knit together in a sharp pinch, like your face can’t decide whether to wince or frown. But Choso just grimace, lips curling into a tight line as his shoulders stiffen.

“You first.”

Your fingers fidget around the cream Van Cleef that rests on your throat, tracing the cool edge of the pendant. It’s one of your mother’s newer gifts, the kind that comes with all the frills and none of the warmth. Her true transactional brand of maternal affection.

“I wanted to ask if you’d go to prom with me, as my date,” It spills out of you in a jumbling mess, like you’re tripping vowels and consonants over each other. Choso’s eyes widen, but you barrel on before he can interrupt, “I mean, I get it if you think it’s lame or boring, or you just don’t want to go. But I promise my friends are actually really nice, and you can sit with us.” The rest of your monologue trails off, crumbling to dust, “I just really wanted to ask you.”

You wish to sink into the floor, like the soft earth will swallow you whole. You can almost picture Satoru’s ridiculous proposal to Geto Suguru, no doubt involving fireworks or an airplane trailing a banner.

The air is so still, you can hear the faint crackling of Yuuji’s incessant doughnut quest from across the small house, his movements clumsy and unintentionally loud as he rips open cellophane for more than one sweet treat.

Choso’s shifting slightly, and there’s a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks. The pink hue is a stark contrast to his usual sickly pallor. Even his ears are a shade darker, and his jaw tightens like he’s chewing on something bitter and struggling to swallow it down. It’s hard to tell if he’s upset or just lost. Or somewhere in-between.

“You wanted to go with me?” His voice is low, hoarse, like the idea is too outlandish for him to even process. You don’t know whether to laugh or apologise.

“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage, your throat suddenly dry and tight.

“I dropped out of school two days ago,” Choso mutters, as he runs a hand through his dark hair. He’s glancing at you, with the ghost of an apology flickering across his expression, but the shock that you can’t seem to mask makes him wince, “Look, it’s not a big deal. And it’s nice that you asked, but…”

“Dropped out? Like, entirely out of school?” Your voice cracks, each word climbing higher like you’re stepping on a broken escalator, “Why? What happened?”

Never let anyone tell you that teenage love is simple, or wholesome. Full of first crushes, and sweet moments. Because this? It feels like someone ripped the floor out from under you, the air yanked from your lungs, leaving you stranded. And it’s not a pleasant feeling, being denied something that you want, for the first time in your life.

Choso shrugs, like he’s been answering this question a thousand times already. Though, you’re sure that this is the first time he’s said it to out loud to anyone, “Family stuff. Just had to.”

You try to piece this together, for this house does smell faintly of stale coffee, and the worn leather of the couch has clearly seen better days. You can tell, on some level, that something is off. That there’s no parental figure in sight for little Yuuji, just the harsh edges of whatever it is that Choso seems to carry on his own.

You can feel the words bubbling up again, stupid and reckless, “But you know you just can’t leave. You’ve got the top marks in the class, Choso. And you know that you were on a scholarship, right? For one of the most elite schools in the country? How are you ever going to get that again?”

The second they leave your mouth; you hear how self-righteous and insensitive you sound. You already regret it, almost reaching up to slap your hands over your face.

Choso’s expression darkens, his face tightens. Like a storm cloud rolling in, as his lips pull into a tight and angry line, “Back off,” he snaps, voice suddenly sharp enough to cut, “You don’t know a damn thing about my life.”

His sneer twists, not with malice, but something deeper. Harder, like he’s being chewed up by all the things he never got to say before, “Don’t worry, though. I’m sure they’ll make a big, shiny tiara for when they name you valedictorian. Maybe, it’ll match your prom dress.”

“Hey!” Your eyes well up, stupid heat of tears prickling behind your eyes, and swelling a thick lump in your throat, “That’s not what I meant.” You cannot believe that you’re tearing up, over this. Over wanting something that you can’t have, and someone who seems to have more to lose than you ever thought possible.

Choso’s lip curls into a half-sneer, but there’s a flicker of something else there. His posture shifts, as if he’s trying to fold in on himself. He lowers his voice, still low and uncomfortable, but careful. Careful, because his little brother is just down the hall.

“I don’t need your pity, okay? Or your help.” His fingers grip the metal of the net door, “I have to go now. Just look after Yuuji.”

The heavy clang of steel on mesh echoes in your ears, sharp and final. The sound lingers like a ringing in your skull as you stand there, utterly paralysed as your mind scrambles to catch up with the wreckage of what just happened. Your five-year crush crashing down in five minutes.

Your feet move, and you find yourself in the bare dining room. Yuuji’s perched at the table, with a doughnut half-eaten in his hand, a mess of pistachio cream smeared across his chin like a brave trooper. There’s an iPad, an old, scratched model, with a silicone tiger case, propped up in front of him. The screen is flashing with something, like blueberries. Bouncing in time with some peppy tune.

“Did Choso leave for work?” Yuuji asks, utterly oblivious to the emotional landmine that his brother left in your hands. His eyes are wide, curious, the innocence of a kid who still thinks the world works in neat, little boxes.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile, “He works a lot, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” Yuuji mumbles through a mouthful of pastry, sugar clinging to his lips, “He always gets upset when Uncle Kuna’ calls him in. Even after school.”

Choso has never mentioned an uncle. Or a brother, for that matter. But then again, why would he? You had never even asked for his number, never bothered to learn anything beyond what was right in front of you. You realise, with a strange pang of guilt, that you’ve built your entire image of infatuation with Choso, from incomplete sketches. Filling in the blanks with whatever fits into the tiny box you’ve kept him in.

“Hey, do you have Netflix?” Yuuji’s voice cuts through your thoughts, bright and eager. “I want to watch How to Train Your Dragon. It’s Fushiguro and Kugisaki’s favourite movie!”

The names are unfamiliar, but Yuuji’s excitement is infectious. You cannot help but smile at the boy, his messy hair and too-big shirt. It’s hard not to be fond of such a kid. You take the iPad from his sticky hands, logging into the app. All the while, chasing yourself around mentally with a baseball bat for the biggest fumble of the century.

If last night felt like a disaster, this morning was just the encore performance. And you were the unwilling star. Just the effort of peeling yourself out of bed felt like an Olympic event. And facing your reflection of swollen eyes and blotchy skin felt like punishment for sins that were way out of your paygrade.

Reluctantly, you’re tugging on your blazer, and clipping a barrette into your hair. There’s a sparkling, diamond tennis bracelet fastened around your wrist. All little things that you need to don like armour, to face your senior year, the student population and the empty locker that would remain untouched next to yours.

Satoru and Shoko are the first faces that you spot in the crowd, and Satoru’s practically bouncing down the hall, “Oh, yeah, I got it locked in,” he announces, cheeks flushed with an absurdly boyish grin, “I got it in the bag.”

He’s sliding his sunglasses down just enough to peer at you, wordlessly handing you his coffee cup, as is your morning ritual. The overly sweet, creamy warmth does nothing to ease the ache in your chest, and your lip-gloss stains the edge of the paper.

“What about you, eh?” Satoru chirps, but you must look blatantly devasted. Because your best friend’s grin falters, the corners of his mouth pulling down.

“Wait, you’re joking right?” His voice is marred with disbelief, and his eyes scan the hall like he’s trying to spot someone’s dark head of hair, “Where is he? Jughead Jones lookin’ ass? Shoko, do you know where Choso Kamo sits? Because I’m going to give him a real piece of my mind and —”

You cut him off, abruptly shoving the coffee back into his warm hands, “It’s fine. He dropped out school, anyway.”

Shoko hums beside you, her fingers absentmindedly twirling a strand of cinnamon-brown hair. The chipped polish on her nails catches the fluorescent light, “Prom queen and valedictorian in one year? Not a bad run for you.”

You glare at her, and Shoko’s doe-eyed expression softens. The breeze from the open window catches her sleek hair, making it sway gently, and she shifts. Voice dropping to something quieter, more thoughtful, “That really does suck, though. Sorry.” She sounds like she means it now, her usual flippancy up in smoke, “I didn’t even know you liked him like that. Not until Gojo told me, like, two hours ago.”

Your eyes snap to Satoru who, for once, has the good sense to shut his mouth.

Shoko’s voice is subdued, “I wonder if it had anything to do with him being called into admin.”

“Wait, when?” Satoru interrupts. He’s taking another long slurp of his sweet mocha, the froth giving him whiskers.

“Three days ago,” Shoko shrugs, “Some big guy rolled up to the office. Demanded to see the principal. No idea who he was, but he was important. And rich. Like you need to be super wealthy to call the shots in a school for the children of the top one percent.”

You must look tragic, because even Shoko pauses mid-chew. Her lollipop moving from one side of her mouth to the other. She looks at you, really looks at you. You can see the careful shift in her demeanour, as though she’s considering the most diplomatic answer that she can offer you to avoid making things worse.

“Well, you don’t have to go to prom with anyone, right?” Satoru says, the words hanging awkwardly in the air like a balloon that’s just lost its helium. His consolation is well-meaning, but a bit clueless. But now, his sunglasses are perched atop his head now, leaving his eyes exposed. Icy blue, framed by lashes so long that they practically flirt with his eyebrows. For once, there’s a flicker of real concern in them, clouds passing over clear skies.

“I know,” you gripe, your voice flat as you find yourself glaring at a group of juniors who are skipping by, with their phones out in unison, clicking away like it’s a competition. Fantastic. You can already see the gossip Instagram stories by lunch, wondering what happened to you. Rumours milling about the reason for your glum expression.

Shoko shifts her heavy bag onto her shoulder, patting your arm. “I’ll see you at lunch. My treat,” she says, turning her heel for the Chemistry building. Leaving you alone with Satoru, as Shoko quickly picks her pace up to catch her Honours class.

“So,” you start, keeping your eyes on him out of the corner of your vision, watching how his fingers twitch around the coffee cup, “How did it go with Geto Suguru?”

Satoru’s shifting, as though he’s trying not gloat, but clearly bursting to tell you, “It was nice,” which is an unusually subdued, sensitive explanation from Satoru. The one who can take five hours to tell a story that you could wrap up in ten minutes. “He was really friendly. More than I thought he would be.”

“That is nice.” You’re forcing some perk back into your voice, but it comes out rather weak, “Like, genuinely.”

Satoru crumples the empty cup in his hand, tossing it into a nearby trashcan. Then, he shoots you a sharper look, “Did you actually talk to Choso, like, in-person? How did that go?”

You exhale, “Turns out I was babysitting his little brother,” and Satoru’s eyes widen slightly, “He was fine. And then he wasn’t. I asked him to be my date, and told me he dropped out. I said something…stupid. And now he’s going to hate me forever.”

Satoru stares at you, his gaze sharp, as though he’s dissecting you. And you swear that he can see right through your skin, right into your bones. It’s moments like this that make you feel like maybe your best friend has a sixth sense, some secret radar for picking up on these things.

“Wow,” he murmurs, a touch of something in his voice, “It really got you bad, huh?”

You bristle, a mix of annoyance and embarrassment flooding your chest. You’re straightening your shoulders, but it’s all too obvious and so fucking frustrating, “Yeah, well, I don’t even know why it matters so much.” The bite in your voice is more directed at yourself, than him.

Satoru doesn’t flinch, just tilts his head, and he’s quiet. It’s a weird look on him, soft concern, “You genuinely really liked him that much?”

The truth sticks to your throat as your chest tightens, and your eyes blur. It would be nice to tell Satoru that you didn’t really care that much. That it was never fully that serious, but the lie won’t leave your lips. The lump in your throat is palpable, and all you can do is sniffle, “Yeah. I did.”

“Do you want to cry?” Satoru’s voice is gentle enough to catch you off guard.

You open your mouth to retort, something sharp and defensive. But before you know it, tears spill as your chest constricts. It’s sudden, like a storm that breaks on the horizon.

And just like that, your best friend pulls you into him. For once, the wild energy that crackles off him is gone, replaced by something quieter and more unwavering. You can feel his shoulder under your cheek, soft and warm, salt staining the expensive fabric. And if anyone does see you sob into Gojo Satoru’s arms, while the white-haired boy pats your back, no one says a word.

But to borrow a line from Bangtan Sonyeondan, life goes on. The next few months slip by like the kind of indie film that you’d see at film festival. It’s bittersweet, and there’s a melancholy that everyone can taste in the air, especially as you all realise that this last blue spring of youth is slipping through fingers like sand.

In this haze of time, you discover a few things that you didn’t expect. For instance, Geto Suguru is, in fact, far more than the tall and brooding figure that you once shrugged off. He’s the stillness to Satoru’s sharper teeth, the quiet that counters the blue eye of the storm. He’s soft-spoken, with an easy patience that tempers Satoru’s edges. He’s become a bit of a constant presence, as they always bicker and makeup in a sort of perpetual cycle.

Spring arrives like a first kiss. It’s hesitant, not rushing in. Just tiptoes around you, tentative enough as it coaxes you out of winter’s gloom. Before the flurry of sparkly gowns and speeches, there’s Utahime’s birthday to celebrate. It’s supposed to be a relaxed affair, she insists that she has no desire for fuss. But you all show up anyway, surprising her with a giant, pastel cake that takes up nearly half the table.

Her laugh is loud, and carefree, mixing with the salt of the ocean breeze on this beach trip. Her black hair whips around her face, even as she blushes at the attention. She’s protesting, but it’s swallowed by laugher, by the sound of waves breaking against the shores.

The awards and titles are all well and good, prom queen and valedictorian. A shiny, little stamp on your high school resume, a golden ticket to the next chapter of your life. But when anyone brings it up, or someone presses too hard on the subject, you shift uncomfortably, your fingers toying with the edge of your pre-med acceptance letter like it just might tear under the pressure of your grip. No-one talks about how you’ve been visiting your locker less and less.

Satoru, of course, loudly denies crying at graduation, even as salty, shiny tears tack to his cheeks. They’re practically immortalised in every digital snapshot that you take. But for now, he’s too busy wrapping everyone in a bear hug, clutching the group that it’s the last time he’ll ever see them. Nanami’s already peeling him off, shaking his head with a worn sigh.

It's late in the morning after the graduation ceremony, as you all pile into cars, driving to a riverside café. It’s one of those places where people with money go to prove that they have money, to prove that even their breakfasts are above the meals of the common folk. But you all sit there, with the graduation ribbons still pinned to your lapels. There’s the debate over who cried the most during the ceremony (Gojo, easily, though Haibara is a close second) and who’s the one who peaked in high school. Everyone unanimously votes for Geto, who sulks as he tosses his hair out of his face, ever the drama queen.

“Bullshit,” he’s grumbling, “Just you wait. You’ll see what I accomplish in ten years.”

Satoru grins, all teeth and lazy confidence, “Yeah, what? You’re going to start running a pyramid scheme cult?”

Utahime’s voice cuts through the chatter, her white ribbon flouncing as she leans towards you, blinking at the empty space in front of you, “Where’s your food?”

You wave her off with a smile, “It’s fine. You guys can go ahead and start, I’ll just go and check.”

You hear Satoru choke around a mouthful of food, already bulldozing half his way through his plate like a bottomless pit.

There’s a pretty glass display at the front, filled with delicate chiffon cakes that glisten in the soft light. You wonder if you should have just ordered one, perhaps to share with Nanami. You know he likes desserts like this.

“Can I help you?”

Your pulse stutters as you bite your tongue, heart crashing against the rocks. You soothe your tongue over the tang of iron that blooms in your mouth from the stupidly familiar voice.

Choso Kamo.

You’d like to say that he looks good, but the truth is, he doesn’t. The hollows beneath his eyes are far more accentuated than you remember, and his hair is pulled back into a messy knot at the back of his head. Even his pale skin has taken on a sicklier pallor than usual.

“Hello?” His voice cuts through the silence, sharper this time, carrying an edge that takes you by surprise.

“Oh, uh, hey. Choso. Just wanted to check on my order,” you say, like it’s a poor prelude to small talk. It sounds far too chipper, almost artificial.

Choso’s expression tightens immediately, in an ill-omen. It’s as if he’s irritated that you even have the nerve to recognise him, to stand there in his space. He doesn’t meet your gaze, his attention flicking back to the screen in front of him with a quickness that almost feels deliberate.

“Hello.” He’s muttering back, more out of obligation than any real interest. Like it’s a formality.

The sharp, hollow feeling in your chest expands, deeper than you’re willing to admit. The last time you saw him, you had been standing at his door, and he had slammed it in your face.

“What are you doing here?” Your question is clumsy, hanging in the air, and far too intrusive for a stranger.

“What?” Choso doesn’t even look up. But then he does, just briefly, his gaze flicking to yours with the same disinterest. He shrugs, as though the query is too trivial for any answer.

“It’s just…it’s been a while, yeah?” You’re not quite sure how to word and I want to know how you’ve been.

“I’m fine,” Choso replies quickly, dismissing your question with a wave of his pale hand, “Just working around here and there.”

It’s offbeat, landing wrong. You don’t think it’s unfair to think that everyone expected more of him. One of the smartest, most brilliant minds in your cohort, who had been a shoo-in for medicine, alongside you.

The bustle of patrons behind you intensifies, but you stubbornly dig your heels into the polished tile, “How’s Yuuji?”

The mention of his younger brother softens him, just a little. A small, bashful smile tugs at the corner of Choso’s pink lips, hesitant, like he doesn’t quite know how to let it show, “He’s good. Says you were the ‘bestest’ babysitter that he ever had. Even asks about you sometimes.”

You fight the urge to smile too openly, not wanting to seem too affected by the gentleness that suddenly lingers in the space between you two, “I’m glad. And…are you still working for your uncle?”

It’s as if you’ve thrown a switch, causing all the warmth to evaporate from his features. His jaw tightens, as his brow furrows. Settling a coldness over his expression, “Who the fuck told you that?”

You blink, surprised at the sudden harshness of his words. “Yuuji mentioned it,” you murmur, quieter now, careful. The hesitation in your voice isn’t feigned, and you realise you’ve broken the golden rule of ‘never push Choso Kamo about his personal life.’

Choso doesn’t seem keen on letting you explain, as his glare cuts through you, “If you wanted to snoop into my life, just ask me your stupid questions, okay? Don’t drag my little brother into it.”

The accusation lands like a slap, stinging you more than you expected, “What? I wasn’t snooping,” you insist, defences flaring open, “He told me that himself. I didn’t even ask him anything, and I didn’t ask anything else!”

He just stares at you, eyes burnished and unreadable, but he seems mollified by your answer. Like he knows that your explanation is sincere, but the chasm is nigh impossible to bridge, “Sure. Okay.”

You don’t know how to respond, opening your mouth to ask what on earth has made him so unreasonable. To dig the tips of your almond nails into his long sleeves, and demand that he treats you as adoringly as everyone else in your life does. But he interrupts you first, “Your order’s coming.”

Choso’s tone is clipped, colder. As though he’s already moved on, “And I’ve got a lot of other customers to serve. Nice seeing you again, or whatever.”

A dismissal, if there ever was one. The embarrassment rushes up your neck, hot and insistent, but you bite your tongue. You let your heels clack a little more loud than necessary, as you stomp away. You’re swivelling your head to deliver a final, withering stare but his gaze is no longer on you.

Choso’s looking at the table where everyone is sitting. Where your friends are laughing, leaning into one another as they snap their final graduation photos. Where Geto has his lips pressed to Satoru’s cheek in a rare display of affection, arms linked with Shoko and Utahime. Where even Nanami’s smiling, the sunlight leafing through his golden waves of thick hair.

There’s no anger in Choso’s eyes, or even that solitary, brooding stare. He looks almost…sad. Profoundly sorrowful, in a deep and aching way that makes your anger dissipate.

He’s looking at your friends, at their graduation certificates stacked in sleeves on the table, as though he’s lost something that he never had. It aches your chest tightly, a knot pulling at your heart.

Once, he was Choso Kamo — the quiet boy you liked in school. Then, he became Choso from the café. Soon, he'll be someone whose name you won't even remember in a few years, someone who's path you'll probably never cross again.

You find yourself blinking furiously, feeling as though you've just lost something yourself, but you fight back the salt that threatens to blur your vision before your friends see.

THREE YEARS LATER.

Your day had started off deceptively well, like a glass of water poured perfectly. Clear, refreshing, with no chance of spilling. The sun was shining, your skin looked like it was having its best day, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. But of course, it didn’t take long for things to spiral, as they tend to do.

It was like playing a real-life Sisyphus game, except instead of a boulder, it was a series of small, dumb annoyances that you couldn’t dodge fast enough.

First, Satoru had texted to cancel lunch. And to be fair, you weren’t that bothered. He had been talking all week about a world-renowned professor dropping in on his fourth-years Honours class, something about nuclear engineering. And you knew that Satoru lived for anything involving theoretical mass and explosions.

Then, your favourite tote bag had decided it was done with you. The strap had snapped off with a surprising, sudden violence. Your beautiful new water bottle had hit the floor with a sickening, metallic thud. Pens rolled across the tiles like little soldiers. You had been kneeling, already late for class, muttering curses under your breath when your phone had rung.

Your mother.

And you already knew that tone well enough, that voice that could cut through steel.

“You missed the charity dinner? You know how embarrassing it is for your father and I to come up with excuses, just to explain your absence —”

Yeah, like you had personally insulted her by choosing to study for your exams, instead of milling around an event hall. You tried to explain, but it was like trying to explain Satoru’s quantum physics to the wall. Totally pointless, and not worth your time and energy. And naturally, her tone escalated, because that’s what she just tended to do. Nevermind that she was calling from some ritzy hotel in Europe, crackling over the phone.

And then, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, the course coordinator paged you in for a meeting. You were still in your first few weeks of medicine, so you had been scratching your brain for what he could have possibly wanted, snapping gum as you rushed and clacked up stone steps, breezing through campus.

Now, here you were. Standing in front of his desk with your arms crossed, almost petulantly. The room smelled like old coffee, and expired textbooks as the man coughed, leaning back against his desk, littered with academic transcripts and stacked envelopes.

“Look, there’s no denying that you’re one of our most brilliant students. All the tutors and lecturers admire your work ethic,” and the professor stopped, and you grimaced. Ah, here it comes.

“But, you’ve chosen Ieiri Shoko as your partner for the past three years, am I correct in saying this?” His dark eyes are narrowed behind wiry glasses, as you frowned.

“Yes.”

Shoko had practically excelled in Pre-Med alongside you, surviving late night study rants, extreme caffeine dependency, and textbook-induced breakdowns.

“You work together well,” the coordinator adds, looking like he was trying to make this sound like a compliment, “But you need to branch out. Develop your versatility. In a noble field, such as medicine, it’s important to be able to work with others. Not rule and conquer.”

You blink at him, “Branch out? I don’t know how else to say this, but I don’t like anyone else in my class. And Shoko and I are easily the best.”

He ignores your comments, “So, I’ve thought it better to move you to a new stream. Instead of Tuesday’s clinical practice, I’ll have you attend the Thursday session, starting today. There’s a new partner for you, and I assure you, he is just as competent as Ieiri Shoko,”

You doubt it. No-one can handle the sight of infected perineum stitches like Shoko can.

It seems there’s only one card left for you to pull, “My grandfather paid for this entire wing of the building. His name is on the plaque outside.”

The coordinator doesn’t even budge, “That may be true. But you still need to grow. You will never learn if you just continue to stick with what is familiar.”

You leave the office with a sour taste in your mouth, clutching the crisp sheet of paper that’s already being emailed to your student account, no doubt.

“Collaboration,” you’re muttering under your breath, “Building character, my ass.” You’re squinting at the page, trying to decipher the name of your new stream partner, but it’s obscured by a hastily scribbled note with your classroom change.

The faint ache in your neck refuses to budge, and you roll your shoulders with a sigh. Pushing through the double doors to the anatomy facility. Immediately, the frigid air bites at your cheeks, sharp and unwelcome. These buildings always feel like high-tech mausoleums, with tables lined up like gleaming altars. Surfaces cold enough to numb your fingertips if you’re careless.

The faint, cloying scent of formaldehyde hangs in the air, sharp and chemical. It’s supposed to preserve the cadavers, but it has the unfortunate side effect of making your stomach growl at the worst times. Hunger, and embalming fluid. A combination so disgusting that you try not to dwell on it for too long.

Your lab coat is rubbing uncomfortably against your arms, and your Loewe sweater is bunched awkwardly around your elbows. It’s a long-suffering sigh that echoes the hall as you shove the heavy barred doors to the classroom.

The tutor is a stalk-like man, with perpetually knitted brows, glancing up at you as you enter, “Ah, yes. The transfer,” he’s brisk with it, “Got the note about you moving to my Thursday stream. Just sit over there, for now. Yeah, there. Your partner should be along soon. If he’s a no-show, I’ll reassign you to a different table.”

You nod wordlessly, scanning the room as you head to your non-descript, assigned corner. The faces at the other tables blur together, some curious and others indifferent. Most focused on pushing worksheets under steel clipboards.

Great. A room full of strangers with all the warmth of wet cardboard.

Sliding into your plastic seat, you pull your notebook out and flip it open, the pages crinkling and echoing in the too-quiet room. It’s a minute, maybe two of shifting uncomfortably in your chair, feeling the awkward hollowness of sitting alone at a two-person station. But the door swings open with a groaning creak.

“Perfect! Full class today, that’s what I like to see. Just head to your usual spot, and I’ll start passing the models around.”

You glance up, squinting at the figure who’s broad enough to cause a solar eclipse of the fluorescent light.

“Get out,” you blurt.

“This is my class,” Choso Kamo stares at you, equally bewildered. His bronze eyes widen briefly, flickering from your face to the lab tables, to the unaware tutor.

“Don’t care. Get out,” you scowl, speechless for a moment, “No. Don’t sit. This is my assigned stream. Don’t tell me that you’re my —”

“Partner?” Choso finishes for you, deadpan.

“Of all the people in this entire school —”

“I’m starting to feel offended,” Choso cuts in, already pulling out the chair beside you, and slinging his bag down with an air of resignation.

“What are you doing here?”

Choso’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t quite smile, “I’m getting an education. Obviously.”

Your gaze flickers away from his unfairly handsome face, following the motion of his hand as he shifts. There’s a single black hair tie, looped around his wrist.

But something just does not add up for you. This isn’t just any medical program. It’s the kind of rigorous, cutthroat, soul-consuming degree that requires three years of a top GPA from Pre-Med. It’s designed to weed out the faint hearted before the first semester is even over. Graduates here don’t just get jobs. They get titles, and invitations to Westminster where the British monarch probably bestows them with Dame, or Sir, or some other archaic title.

And Choso Kamo is a high school dropout, with nary a certificate to his name.

“You got into medicine?” It’s as blunt as you can get.

“What? Like it’s hard?”

“Don’t quote Legally Blonde at me,” You snarl, wordlessly taking the tray of silicone gashes from the tutor.

Choso blinks, as though he’s truly stumped by your hostile reaction, “Then don’t ask stupid questions.” He seems…different now. Sharper, and less apologetic. There’s a streak of confidence that’s as unnerving as it is infuriating. Is he taller? He seems taller.

You exhale sharply, a sound between frustration and resignation. It’s not like you can go up to the course coordinator now and say, ‘Oh, sorry! I can’t be in this stream because my new partner is the boy who broke my heart in high school. I cried and threw up on my best friend’s blazer for three days.’

But you’ve definitely given the group chat enough material to fuel their devious amusement for days, even weeks. You’re practically writing the jokes for them.

With a defiant swing of your arm, you hoist your bag onto the desk. The soft leather tanking against the sterile surface, like a gauntlet being thrown. You slide it firmly into position, the strap dangling just enough to make a point. That this is your line in the sand.

“Don’t move one centimetre over your side of the desk.”

Choso just rolls his eyes.

“They…modify bacterial ribosomes.”

“Wrong.”

You sigh and tap the edge of your notebook with the tip of your mechanical pencil. The rhythm is irregular, your thoughts too scrambled to produce anything like a steady beat.

“They inactive carbapenems,” you try again, your tone pitched with the kind of hope that knows it’s already on life support.

“Nope.”

Choso’s shaking his head, the movement loose and lazy, and it sends strands of his chestnut hair tumbling into his face. The harsh fluorescent lights above make his hair shine with an almost metallic lustre, and as he tugs a thick sweater over his broad frame, your gaze drifts.

The fabric of his white top is riding up, revealing a pale stretch of skin. There’s the faintest dusting of dark hair trailing downwards, and your eyes snap back to the textbook. Your cheeks flushed, for the briefest second as your resolve breaks.

“Just tell me the answer.”

Choso exhales, in a soft and patient sound, sliding the textbook your way. He’s tapping the page with his finger, his blunt nail landing on the highlighted sentence.

“Extended-Spectrum Beta-Lactamases hydrolyse a wide range of beta-lactam antibiotics, including third-generation cephalosporins. This contributes to antibiotic resistance.” His voice is smooth, but it carries that faint rasp that always makes it sound like he’s just woken up.

“I was close.”

“Close doesn’t get you any marks,” Choso replies, deadpan.

Your retort dies on your glossy lips, when a sharp shhh cuts through the air. You glance up, spotting a student two tables away, glaring at you over the rim of her stylish tortoiseshell glasses.

Your next sip of coffee is deliberate, making an obnoxious gurgle as you drain the bottom of your cup. Choso’s eyes flick to the order scribbled on the side, Caramel Crunch Latte, Extra Whip. His lips twitch, but what can you say? Satoru’s dropped a habit or two on you over the years.

This has become the routine over the past few weeks. The outright disdain you had initially felt had eroded, once you had realised that you were truly stuck with the man. It had become something closer to a begrudging truce, but ‘truce’ may be too generous a word.

The two of you found yourselves studying together. Regularly. Choso needed to interact more with people, and less with his old, dusty laptop. And you needed a study partner that could match your wits. Unfortunately, Choso seemed entirely oblivious to the reason you nursed an ancient grudge against him, choosing to accept your bad attitude in stride.

It doesn’t help that Choso is, well, hot now.

In high school, he had always been cute in that underdog way. Endearing, if not exactly the type to inspire confidence. He had been the subject of your sweet trope-like fantasy that you would nurture during long, dull classes.

You, the radiant prom queen, standing under a canopy of glittering lights, extending a perfectly manicured hand to him. The shy, awkward loser who’d clearly underestimated how gorgeous his messy hair and tendency to trip over his own words were. Ugh, now you’re not sure who had been the bigger loser.

But three years had passed, and the Choso that sat across from you now bore only a passing resemblance to that daydream. Time, it seemed had been suspiciously kind to him. Unfairly, even. His frame was lean but undeniably defined. His shyness remained, because you knew that he refused to correct the woman at the food trucks whenever she got his name wrong, but it had softened into something less clumsy, and more self-contained. Far less teenage angst.

The dark violet smudges beneath his eyes were still there, giving him that haunted and sleep—deprived look. And his hair was still the same stringy, chestnut mop that you remembered. But it was more of a deliberate statement now, instead of an oversight. It hung just over his shoulders, and you had heard many a passerby giggle and whisper about hot emos on campus. Like, get in line.

“What are you doing next weekend?”

The question comes so abruptly that your head snaps up like a spring-loaded trap.

“Huh?” You blink, the tip of your pencil teetering dangerously close to snapping against the page.

Choso stares back at you, his expression maddeningly neutral, “Like, are you busy?”

“It’s my friend’s birthday on Saturday, we’re going out at night,” you’re narrowing your eyes at him, already feeling your composure fray.

It’s Suguru’s birthday, and Gojo’s gone full-out with a surprise planned at some five-star restaurant. You managed to get your hands on a vintage vinyl turntable for him, courtesy of a Sotheby’s auction.

Choso nods, like he’s filing that away somewhere, “What about Sunday?”

“Sunday?” You repeat, dragging it out, “I’m free, I guess.” Against all reason, you find yourself answering honestly, even as some internal voice is screaming at you to lie and make up an excuse.

“Do you want to study at my place?”

There’s a pause, long enough for the air to grow heavy between you two. You wonder if he remembers the last time that you asked him to go out with you. Your eyebrows shoot up, and your mouth must be twitching in something close to incredulity.

Choso notices, for his ears go pink first. Then his cheeks, like someone’s spattered him with a splotchy watercolour paint. The flush sits pretty, just under the dark mark that crosses the bridge of his nose, “No, I mean, like really study. Just studying. It’s easier than being here…” He twitches, looking anywhere but you, “Yuuji would be happy to see you again, and stuff.”

And stuff. How ridiculous that two words make your heart trip over itself. Your three-year resolve to keep him firmly in the do not touch zone has basically cracked wide open. There’s a traitorous smile tugging at the corner of your lips, but you manage to suppress it. Barely. Playing it off with a nonchalant hum.

“Hmm. Sure, I’ll think about it.”

Choso lives in an apartment now. Not a polished high-rise with sleek fixtures and panoramic views, but a tired and unremarkable building with flickering yellow lights that cast long and ominous shadows along the stairwell. You clutch the slip of paper that he scribbled his address on, squinting at the nearly illegible scrawl. It’s barely decipherable, a penmanship perfect for prescriptions and indecipherable notes.

In your other hand, you balance a box of cream rolls from the bakery that Nanami swears by, their golden horns stuffed with airy dairy and dusted with cinnamon sugar. The smell is warm and sweet, a sharp contrast to the questionable stairwell.

The ascent feels longer than it should, each step accompanied by the faint swing of those tired lights overhead. But you bite back any judgement, you’ve made that mistake before.

Someone else is already there, a tall figure that knocks on Choso’s door with wide, lazy knuckles. Once. Twice. The man huffs, pocketing his phone and pulling out a key. There’s a practiced ease to the way he clicks the lock open, and for a moment, you hesitate, wondering if you’re witnessing a breaking-and-entering type of situation.

But there’s something familiar about the muted shock of rosy, pink hair that spikes over his head.

“What are you doing?” His voice is rough, deep, with an edge of irritation that makes you stand a little straighter. He looks over you once, and his eyes fall on the box of pastries in your hands. Disinterest giving way to a little bit of curiosity. It reminds you of Itadori Yuuji.

“Uh,” you clear your throat, “Choso invited me.”

The man’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and you’re fascinated by the tattoos that curl around his face. Even running along his jawline, and down his neck. There are silver studs littering his ear, and if you didn’t know better, you would say that there are real precious stones scattered among them.

“Didn’t know he had a date.” The man seems gruffly amused, and you stomp your heels, the sound snapping off worn walls.

“It’s not a date. We’re studying.”

“Don’t care. Didn’t really ask.”

With that, he swings the door open, stepping inside before you can. You linger in the doorway, before hesitantly following him, watching as he kicks the door shut with his heel. He seems to be making himself at home like he owns the place, peering through an empty fridge and rifling through cabinets. All before collapsing on the sagging couch like it’s his throne, sprawled out as he starts scrolling through his phone again.

You just perch awkwardly on the edge of a cold chair, as the space suddenly feels oddly claustrophobic. Your fingers toy with the edge of your notebook, as you wonder whether you need to call Choso, to see if this was all a mistake. Instead, your gaze flickers over to the man sitting opposite you.

You’re sure that he comes from money. You’ve spent enough summer holidays backstage at Milan and Paris shows to recognise the season’s latest pieces. And the crimson racing jacket on his shoulders is definitely a Dior piece that costs more than what you assume is the rent of this entire apartment complex. Plus, you had spent enough time flicking through Van Cleef’s catalogue to recognise the whirring, high-jewellery piece that sat on his wrist. A watch with an eye-like mechanism, studded with Burmese rubies. Easily the price of your penthouse.

“So, you friends with Choso?” He asks suddenly, lowering his phone. His eyes are sharp russet, locking with yours.

“We know each other from high school,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral. It’s best to leave it at that, it’s safer that way. You’re playing Choso’s game, the one where you don’t share a thing about your personal life.

“Hmph,” The sound is more of a grunt than a response, and it makes you bristle. Why bother asking a question if you’re not interested in the answer?

“Did I leave the door unlocked?”

You hear Choso’s faintly bewildered murmur, almost to himself, before he catches sight of you. It’s cute, how a bashful smile creeps over his face again, almost embarrassed at the sight of you. But it darkens instantly, sharply. His bronze eyes are fixed on the man that loiters on his couch.

“Get out.”

The man is unfazed, “Why? Am I interrupting your date?”

“It’s not a date. We’re studying.” Choso’s mirroring your exact, previous words. His tone is stiff, like you’ve never heard it before. A snarl, with irritation bubbling underneath the surface.

“I don’t know how else I can stress this enough, brat. But I really do not care what you do to get off.” The man drawls, pushing himself off the couch. He’s absurdly tall, easily the height of the ceiling. You catch a glimpse of the tattoos trailing up his forearm, dark ink that winds around his wrist. A startling splash of red staining the sleeve of the pristine jacket. It’s dried up now, crusting the edges of the fabric. Sort of like…

Weird. And impossible.

Choso grunts, “Fine. Get up. Go,” and he’s gesturing towards a door leading into another room, his jaw clenched tight. The muscles in his neck are taut, the apology in his expression at you somehow mixed with a faint flicker of regret, like he wishes you weren’t here to see this.

What happens next is an absolute masterclass on being nosy. You’ve edged closer to the door, shifting on the couch so you’re practically perched on the armrest. You can hear the muffled thrum of Choso and the stranger’s voice through the door, but it’s not enough. Curiosity is clawing her sharp nails at you, and you wonder if you should text Satoru. Or maybe drop a quick message in the group chat.

You end up leaning in closer, ignoring the way that you’re teetering on the very edge.

The conversation is low, like the rumble of thunder in the distance, but the voices are gradually building until —

“What? You did not just fuckin’ throw something at me!” The man’s voice booms so loud that you almost jump out of your skin, “What is wrong with you? Can’t even have an honest conversation these days?”

Choso’s response is tight, simmering with frustration that you don’t understand, “Nothing you do is honest. And don’t break into my place then!”

“Your place?” The man’s scoff is almost a sneer, like he’s amused at the mere thought, “Brat, let’s not forget all the favours I’ve done you.” There’s a crash, something hitting the floor with a thud, and the man’s voice bellows again, “Oi! Put that down right now. Don’t you dare throw something else at me. Fuck, you’ve got good aim, I’ll give ya’ that.”

You can hear Choso shuffle, spit something sharp in response.

“You’ve done all these things for me before, eh? Why the hesitation now? Got tired of cleaning it all up?”

Choso’s response is firm through the thin walls, “I’m done with doing your dirty work all the time.”

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating, punctuated with a low and disbelieving laugh.

“You said that last time. But you came crawling back when you couldn’t handle looking after the kid all on your lonesome.”

“Leave Yuuji out of this!”

There’s another muffled scuffle, a loud thud that makes your heart race as the stranger growls, “Can’t believe you bit me.”

The door swings open with a suddenness that almost knocks you off your seat. Choso’s practically putting his entire back into shoving the man out with a sharp grunt, like he’s had enough.

The stranger turns, giving you a lazy, bored wave. Like he knows that it will simply irk Choso off even more. And he’s right. Choso, not having it for a second, snaps at him, “Get out. And don’t come back.”

The man rolls his eyes, but not before pulling out a pricey Italian wallet, slapping a wad of thick bills down on the kitchen counter, “That’s for this month. I’ll send a cheque next month for the little brat’s birthday.”

Then he’s gone, muttering something about bitchy, little bastard children, born on the wrong side of the sheets, with sharp teeth.

Choso’s whirling around to you, his expression unreadable and blank. Like the surface of still water that refuses to betray even a ripple of emotion. You school your features, meeting his gaze with a look of equal, quiet disinterest.

“Friend of yours?” You ask, your voice cool. But there’s questions dancing on the tip of your tongue, and you can taste them in the air.

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s flicking through the thick stack of bills that the stranger left on the counter. The sound of cash shifting in his hands is oddly loud, and you whistle low, almost involuntarily. It makes Choso look up, catching your appreciative gaze. His fingers tighten around the stack, his jaw clenching, as if to keep in whatever thoughts or words are threatening to spill out.

“Don’t say anything.” His voice is a low mutter, hard.

“I didn’t.”

Choso looks at you again, his hazel eyes softening just enough that you catch the flicker of something unsure. He lets out a low sigh, “But you want to ask.”

“Will you let me ask?” You’re pushing, your voice a little softer and coaxing than you intended. You can already see the signs, the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers to the door as if he’s considering an exit. Choso’s like a clam, snapping shut, as if there is a pearl that he’s not ready to share.

“What do you want to know?” He’s saying this like it’s a chore, as if it is the last thing he wants to do.

You make your way to the kitchen counter, “What will you tell me?”

If Choso is irritated by the vague, passive nature of your questions, he doesn’t show it. He simply tugs his purple sweater down, sharply. “Yuuji will be sad if his uncle didn’t send him money for his birthday. He turns ten next month.”

“So that was…Uncle Kuna,” you ask, murmuring more to yourself than to him. But Choso’s sharp gaze flicks to you, a faint confirmation in the nod that follows.

“Mhm.”

And just like that, something clicks in your brain. A conversation that you had overheard once, perhaps a year or two ago. A rare moment that both your parents had been home, still too distracted to realise that you were listening. The realisation hits you hard, like a small shot of adrenaline, “That’s not Sukuna, is it? Ryomen Sukuna?”

Choso’s amber look is like fragile glass now, “Yeah. How’d you figure?”

In a world such as yours and Satoru’s, it’s quite hard to avoid gossip, and whispers that float around in the backrooms of business meetings, or in the too-quiet halls of private clubs. For all the older business-clans, Sukuna is quite the upstart. A man who clawed his way to the top, not just content with money, but power and influence as well. Apparently, he made quite the name for himself, building an empire with wealth beyond measure.

And all at the low price of being wanted in more than thirty-five countries and territories. A businessman, a crook and a criminal. Your father said that Ryomen Sukuna’s ledgers were written in red ink, fresh blood for both personal and financial debts that were owed to him.

“Why did he say that you came crawling back to him?”

Choso’s eyes flutter shut, and you can see that he’s calculating whether it’s worth the effort to respond.

“He’s the reason I dropped out of school,” Choso mutters, the words low enough that almost don’t catch them. They land with a soft thud, the kind that makes your pulse stutter. You stare at him, with the kind of look that people give when a ticking time bomb has just been dropped in their lab.

Choso scoffs, eyes darting away, “Yeah. He’s always been sending money for Yuuji. And I was stuck doing his…favours.”

Suddenly, you’re back in high school. On Choso’s doorstep, watching him try to hide a cardboard box of surgical tools. There’s a little corkboard map in your head connected with red strings, as you pin other things on there. The latex gloves in the box, Choso’s general lack of squeamish misery when it comes to the stickier parts of medicine, and the bloodstain on Ryomen Sukuna’s Dior jacket.

It’s almost odd, in a morbid way, that a crime boss chooses the latest Vogue streetwear, instead of a dark Godfather suit and a cigar.

Your expression must betray the pieces that you’ve put together, because Choso’s eyes widen, like he can see the cogs turning in your brain. “Look,” he stammers, voice rougher now, with a nervous edge, “I didn’t do anything wrong. Never saw what he did. Not really. Just —”

You shush him gently, a hand reaching out to land on his, a little too quickly and a little too hot. The instant your skin brushes against his, there’s a sharp feeling. Like you’ve touched something that burns beneath the surface. His face flashes a faint pink, muscles stiffening as though your touch seared him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Go on,” you hope that your tone is reassuring.

Choso swallows, his throat bobbing as his fingers suddenly curl around yours, “Anyway, I got tired of doing his dirty work, you know? Thought that if I dropped out, I could get a job. Work enough to support myself and Yuuji, without taking a single dollar from him.”

“But he’s your uncle?” Your question is tentative, like you’re testing the waters of a deeper pool, “Wouldn’t he support you, too?”

Choso’s sigh is deep and weary as he gently corrects you, “He’s Yuuji’s uncle. Yuuji’s my half-brother.”

Suddenly, Sukuna’s comment about ‘biting bastard children’ snaps into place with clarity. Oh.

You’re not sure what to say now, what words could possibly fill the emptiness that lingers between the two of you. What a misery it would have been. Being a teenager with such potential, forced to close off your own future for the sake of family, and those that you love.

You remember Choso’s face that day, after graduation, with his hollow expression as he watched your friends celebrate their youth. There’s a bitter lump in your throat, but for once, you keep it down. This really isn’t about you.

You frown, the thought sneaking up on you and settling in your chest like a splinter you can’t ignore. “He said you owed him favours.”

Choso exhales sharply, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing for something unpleasant. His voice is low, bitter. “You think high school dropouts pay their own way into med school without a benefactor?”

Right.

“So?” Choso’s voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, and you blink at him, startled.

“So, what?”

Choso shifts, unease seeping into his posture. His calloused fingers are still curled tightly around yours, like he’s afraid that you’ll pull away and slip past him.

“Are you angry?”

You’re not sure whether to laugh, or sigh, “Why would I be angry?”

He’s hesitating, dark hair falling loose around his face, “I was a jerk to you.” The words come quietly, like they’ve been gnawing at him, biting at the edges of his thoughts, “At the time, I don’t know, I guess I was just angry. Everything felt unfair, and I didn’t want anyone else to be involved.”

You frown, not fully understanding what to say, “You were still a teenager,” you say slowly, like you’re trying to convince both him and you. You hesitate, unsure whether you’re underplaying things, so the worlds come out a little jagged, not quite as comforting as you wished. “I guess…” It feels weak as your words suddenly stagger off.

Choso’s eyes flicker to yours, searching, like he’s trying to figure if there’s something else, you’re not saying, “What?”

You can practically hear Satoru’s voice in your heard, groaning and whining about screwing the long game. But you puff a breath through your cheeks, worried you’ll lose the nerve, “You know, I really liked you, right, Choso?”

Choso’s mouth drops open, as his face flickers with disbelief. The same way it had three years ago, “Like, really?”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips without even thinking, “Yeah. And you know, everyone else thought I was being, like, silly. But I really liked you. I just never knew what to say to you.” It feels so stupid, and obvious now. But back then, it had been a great chunk of your world. You force yourself to hold his bashful gaze.

Choso’s quiet for a moment, before he admits, “I couldn’t believe it when you asked me to be your date. I thought it was just a game you were playing, or there was no-one left to ask.”

And then, after a beat, “Who did you go with?”

You snicker, a little too bitter and honest, “No-one.”

Choso’s quiet, relieved ‘damn’ makes you laugh even more, threading your fingers with his.

“I just can’t believe he’s in your classes. What are the odds?” Satoru mutters, abandoning his sunglasses for the evening, his bright eyes flashing like sunlight refracted on water. He claims that his eyes are less sensitive today, but you’re certain it’s an excuse for him to freely rifle through your kitchen without obstruction. In the living room, the rest of your friends hover like a pack of starved hyenas, waiting for the snacks that Satoru is currently monopolising.

“I’m telling you, when I first saw him, my heart dropped straight to my ass,” you say, tearing open a bag of sour cream crisps with more force than necessary. The chips tumble into the earthenware bowl in a noisy cascade.

Satoru snickers, expertly arranging small platters on a big, oaken serving board, “I pity the lack of cushioning it got.”

You flick a stray crisp at him, the chip bouncing off his shoulder with a gratifying crunch. For a moment, his grin is steady, but it quickly turns rueful. That slight furrow in his brows, the way the corner of his mouth twitches downwards. There’s something else simmering under that veneer of carelessness.

“You’re not happy, Satoru?”

His expression hardens slightly, plucking a cluster of wine-red grapes, twisting them off their stems with methodical precision.

“Well, yeah,” Satoru admits after a beat, his tone uncharacteristically sober, “I’m glad that he’s, like, nice now or whatever. But he basically broke your heart, didn’t he?”

You glance away, your fingers tighten on the corner of another snack bag, “He had his reasons.” Your flat reply avoids his curious gaze, perceptive and knowing. You hadn’t filled him on the Sukuna-lore. You’re not sure what it is, but there’s bad blood between the Gojos and Sukuna, and you’re not keen to exacerbate it.

Oh, hey, Satoru! So, Choso is like Sukuna’s adopted nephew. And I think Sukuna forced him to like clean up people’s chopped fingers and arms, or whatever. But I have a big crush on him, yep. Right after I said that I wouldn’t catch feelings again.

Satoru scoffs, wagging a long finger at you. A glistening droplet of grape juice clings to his thumb like a ruby bead, “Don’t make excuses for someone hurting your feelings. You know better than that.” His tone carries the same theatrical lilt as always, but it’s underpinned with something firmer, genuine.

Before you can fire back, a new voice meanders into the kitchen, soft and unhurried, “Who hurt your feelings?”

It’s Suguru, propped lazily against the doorway, choppy layers freshly framing his sharp features. The dim kitchen light catches on the faint sheen of his silver rings as he crosses his arms.

Satoru grabs a bag of pretzels, lobbing it towards him, “Choso Kamo. Remember that emo guy I told you about?”

Suguru catches the bag with practised ease, without looking, his mauve gaze flicking to you. You silently curse Gojo Satoru for broadcasting your love life, or lack thereof, to what feels like half the city.

“What’s he look like again?”

You narrow your eyes at the tall man, “He was literally in our grade.”

Suguru shrugs, his palms raised in mock innocence, “I never saw him, okay? He was quiet as hell, never had classes with him.”

“He wasn’t that quiet,” you protest, but your words are drowned out by Satoru’s triumphant declaration.

“Hold up! I got visual aid.”

He’s whipped out his phone, unlocking it with a brief glance of his face, before shoving the dimmed screen inches from Suguru’s puzzled face. The photo, a grainy yearbook photo of Choso in junior year, gleams under the kitchen lights. You wonder if you’re going to need to fight for your life on the frontlines again.

For a moment, Suguru’s expression remains neutral. Unimpressed even. Then, as if someone’s flipped a switch, his eyes widen with dawning recognition, “This is Kamo? His girlfriend’s my neighbour.”

Half a grape travels down Satoru’s windpipe, “The villain!”

Your best friend’s exclamation ricochets off the kitchen walls, loud enough to silence whatever protest was forming on your lips. Not that you had much ground to stand on. How would you even know? Choso had talked to you about his family, not his love life. You saw him a few times a week, and then the two of you would drift away, back to your own orbits. And he was a grown man with a life that had surely moved past you.

You had told him that you had liked him, and he hadn’t said a word back that hinted at any mutual connection. How had you missed that?”

Satoru is still recovering from his near demise at the hands of fruit, “What girlfriend? You’re sure, Suguru?”

Suguru raises an eyebrow, looking like he regrets ever opening his mouth, “Hey. Don’t pin this on me. But he comes by, with a little pink-haired kid. His brother? And she’s like talkative,” and he gestures vaguely above his head, “Like, really tall. Blonde.”

Your eyes had drifted to the unopened case of vodka sitting on the counter.

Satoru clocks you immediately, “Don’t even think about it. We’re going to handle this like mature adults.”

“We?”

Satoru nods solemnly, looping his arm through Suguru’s leather jacket, “Yes. Your Choso loss is my Choso loss,” and he pulls Suguru closer, “Our Choso loss.”

Suguru sighs, not shaking him off as he looks at you sympathetically, “Why am I a part of this? No offense. You could skip all this misery, and I don’t know because I’m just spit balling here, ask him?”

The dark-haired man continues, “Or, and I know this is radical for two divas like you, you could just let it go and spare yourself the drama. If you’re going to be working in the same field, wouldn’t professionalism be better?”

Satoru scoffs, “Or! We do some reconnaissance. I mean, you’re the girlfriend’s neighbour, Suguru. Go snoop around.”

“Why is it always me?” Suguru’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Because it is always you. You’ve got the best sneaky liar face I know,” Satoru replies breezily, ignoring how Suguru mutters about the love he feels in this kitchen, “And you need to do this for the greater good. All that noble shit.”

Suguru shoots you a half-hearted glare, as if this is somehow your fault, and not Satoru pulling every string. You’re one more inconvenience away from slumping onto the counter, head in hands, a shot glass by your side.

Your mind flickers to the hair tie that Choso always wears on his wrist. It could be innocuous, sure, but the green-eyed monster claws itself up in your chest. You imagine this faceless girlfriend passing it to him, like an intimate, inside joke.

“What am I supposed to do? Corner him in the break room on placements, and interrogate him? Should I pull out the clan funds, and pay him to date me?”

“It’s what I did with Suguru,” Satoru quips, not missing a beat.

“Now who’s the liar,” Suguru murmurs.

The hospital’s looming ahead. A hulking mass of glass and steel that outline the bleak sky. It’s a bitter Monday morning, the kind that bites at your cheeks and sinks into your bones, no matter how tightly you bundle up. The drive has been long and so utterly tedious, the pale sunlight doing little to brighten the cityscape as you crawl along congested streets.

Now, on the far edge of the suburbs, you’re left squinting and fuming as you circle the parking lot for the third time. The situation is grim, spots are scarce, and every turn feels like an ill-fated gamble that only ends in someone else’s bumper.

You mutter curses under your breath, the heater in your car doing little to thaw your mood.

Choso’s already there, not a massive surprise, for his apartment is far closer than your waterfront residence, smack-bang in the city’s central district. His dark hair is loosely tied back, and he’s thrown an old hoodie over his scrubs. There’s a clipboard tucked under his arm, and a coffee cup in the other.

He extends the cup towards you without preamble, “Want it?”

You blink, catching on the incongruity of the gesture. But Suguru’s intel still echoes in your mind, he has a girlfriend.

You furrow your brow, the cup hovering between you, “Where’s yours?”

Choso shrugs, “I don’t drink coffee. Makes me jittery.”

This answer irritates you for no logical reason. Who doesn’t drink coffee? It feels like some fundamental character flaw, and you snatch the cup from his hand. Doing your very best not to unfairly glare at him, for the sole crime of having a life outside of you.

It’s hard to focus when he’s nailed your exact order. You lower the cup, the warmth seeping through the cardboard sleeve and into your fingers, doing little to melt the icy knot that sits in your chest.

Choso seems almost unnervingly chipper this morning, a far cry from his usual brooding demeanour. There’s no scowl etched on his handsome face, no trace of his typical stoicism. Instead, he wears the faintest trace of a smile, a subtle and almost tentative thing that pulls at the corners of his mouth as he glances over a nearly printed itinerary.

The sight throws you further off-kilter. It’s rare to see him like this, easy and unguarded, and you can’t help the way your lips twitch, the barest hint of a smile threatening to escape before you smother it.

“We’re starting in the ER for two hours,” he reads aloud, voice steady, “then, the paediatric unit.” He pauses to flip the page, his expression shifting to mild exasperation, “And then, paperwork in the break room.”

“Figures,” you grumble, tucking your hands into your coat pockets, “Free labour from the students, yeah?”

Choso glances at you, from the corner of his eye, an unimpressed but faintly amused look on his face, “Thought that you would start the day with a more upbeat attitude.”

You grunt in response, which only earns a shake of his head as he folds the itinerary back into his clipboard.

A beat of silence stretches between you, only punctured by the sound of light metal snapping as you clip a badge to your pocket, but he’s speaking again.

“You good?”

His bronze eyes flick to yours, clearly searching, and your pulse stutters, “Yeah. Obviously.”

Choso takes a deep breath, his chest rising and gearing up for something monumental. The way his fingers fidget against the clipboard betrays him, they tap out a staccato rhythm. There’s a flush creeping on the back of his neck, subtle but unmistakeable.

“Want to get dinner tonight?” He blurts, the words tumbling out so fast that they barely sound like a sentence.

You blink at him, confused, “Bless you.” Your automatic response, because he spoke so quickly that it sounded as though he had sneezed.

Choso’s scowl is immediate, “No.” He says it firmly, drawing out each word in exasperation, “I asked if you wanted to get dinner tonight. After this.”

Oh. Oh.

The realisation hits you like a jolt, and for a second, all you can do is gape at him. He’s looking at you now, an almost defiant sort of expectation in his gaze, as though he’s worried that you’re going to laugh at him. But before you piece together a coherent response, there’s a sharp rap-rap-rap of knuckles on the doorframe.

The ward manager is here, her expression brisk and no-nonsense, gesturing for the two of you to begin your shift placement.

Your head snaps back at him, mouth moving before your brain diplomatically catches up, “I don’t think that’s fair to your girlfriend, do you?”

Choso’s brows knit together, his expression shifting to something startled and indignant. Irritated, even, as you push past him.

He’s trying to speak to you. It’s painfully obvious, as he’s got that mildly dazed look. All that awkward, earnest attention is squarely focused on you.

You’re having none of it.

He steps to your side as you shuffle through patient charts, his broad frame taking up more than his fair share of narrow space, shadowing your elbow as you scribble furious notes. His mouth opens, probably to say something that you don’t want to hear, but you’re faster.

“Hey, Choso, what’s her blood pressure?” You interrupt, not bothering to look up from the faintly lined paper.

There’s a second of hesitation before he answers, “120 over 50. Just write that down. Got it? Okay, yeah, can you stop moving for a second and —”

You squint at the chart, cutting him off again, “Hmm, don’t you think that the diastolic is a little low?”

His shoulders slump, “Yes, but the doctors already know that. She has hypothyroidism, you told me that when you interrupted me like half an hour ago. Can’t you just —” Choso stops mid-sentence again, muttering a resigned oh my god, when you pivot away and head to the next room without so much a glance back.

It sets the tone for the rest of the shift. You make a sport of avoiding him, weaving through the emergency department like a fish slipping upstream, leaving Choso stranded in your wake. He follows, persistent in his mild-mannered way, but you’re relentless.

“Can you hand me that chart?” He’s trying again, as you’re elbow deep in filing.

“Oh, this one?” You sweetly ask, holding it just out of his reach, before conveniently remembering that you need to double-check something on it. He just huffs at you.

By hour three, it’s clear that Choso’s patience is wearing thin, and fighting a war against his professionalism. He corners you near the supply cart while you rummage for gloves.

“There you are.”

“Oh, are we low on size medium?” You cut in, loud enough to catch the attention of a passing manager, “Should we restock?”

Choso inhales through his nose, “We’re not low on gloves. We’re fine on gloves. Can you stop talking about gloves for one second?”

You flash him a smile that’s all teeth, “Gloves are important, Choso. Hygiene is crucial.”

This time, you see him run an exasperated hand over his face, before realising that now he’s just contaminated his own pair of gloves. Snarling at you as he rips the blue latex off and reaching for the size large box.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, once and then twice. Then thrice, as if whoever’s contacting you as something urgent to say. You ignore it, you’ll check it after placements.

The hours tick by, and your strategy remains the same. Stay busy, stay distant, and stay unreachable. Don’t make it seem like you’re irrationally bothered by Choso having a life of his own and having a girlfriend. Or that you actually had hope that this time round, his feelings for you were requited.

By the time you both stumble into the break room, Choso looks as if he’s experienced the full emotional spectrum, like he’s been knocked through the five stages of grief and landed somewhere in the resigned space of acceptance. He looks as if he’s clearly preparing to lecture you, to tirade you on professional conduct and —

Without warning, his phone buzzes.

You don’t even look up from cracking open your water bottle, the sound of plastic barely crinkles louder than the dull thud of your own heartbeat. Choso glances at you out of the corner of his eyes, a flash of alarm crossing his face, before he draws his attention back to the screen of his phone.

You hear the faintest scoff from his direction, and he’s shaking his head as you watch in mild interest.

“What?”

Choso doesn’t answer immediately, still scrolling through his phone.

“I’m not dating Tsukumo Yuki.”

Your mouth goes dry. You blink rapidly, wide-eyed as if he’s just spoken in an ancient, dead language.

“What?” You manage weakly, “Who? What? —”

There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you fear the cause of this slow and curling chest is a meddling duo of two men, one with dark hair and the other with snowy-white.

Choso doesn’t even glance up at you, his voice tinged with something incredulous now, “Why is Gojo Satoru texting me? He says that you’re not replying to his or Geto Suguru’s messages. And apparently, this is super urgent, and he feels like he must do his divine duty by interfering before you do something stupid.

Choso pauses, finally looking at you as if he’s truly baffled, “And you all thought that I was dating Tsukumo.”

You’re crafting a list in your head. Twenty creative ways to kill Gojo Satoru and not land in prison afterwards.

Maybe you should ask Choso for Ryomen Sukuna’s contact.

“That’s crazy,” you say, the words tasting thin and hollow in a bitter, embarrassed lie.

Choso shakes his head at you, some dark strands of hair falling across his eyes, “She looks after Yuuji sometimes. I take him over to her place because Yuki’s adopted a kid, Todo. The two of them are friends.”

“Uh.”

Choso turns back to his phone screen, scrolling through whatever nonsense Satoru is feeding him, “Have you being icing me out all day, because you thought I had a girlfriend?”

“Will you hate me if I say yes?” You’re looking anywhere but him, focusing on the chipped, lilac paint on the break-room door. Or the slightly off-centre light bulb flickering above. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re adding Geto Suguru to your kill list.

Choso’s voice is softer when he answers, almost too quiet, “Hey. You know I couldn’t hate you if I tried.” But there’s a strange mixture of amusement and disbelief in his voice, a bemused chuckle that lingers in the air, “Wow. Just wow.”

You grimace, fingers toying with the edge of the water bottle as you wrangle your thoughts into words, “Are you mad? I mean, look. I told you I liked you. And then you held my hands, so I thought you liked me back. And you got me coffee. But Suguru said you had a girlfriend, and you can’t blame me for being — Oh my god, I’m going to stop talking, you’re looking at me like I’ve gone crazy.”

Choso’s expression shifts, just staring at you. You don’t more than a split-second to process his strangely intense look. There’s no time to recover before he leans down, his hands surprisingly warm and gentle as they cradle the side of your face.

Your breath hitches, but before you can form another thought, his lips are on yours. They’re warm, deliberate and surprisingly firm. The scent of crisp green apples falls over you, as his hair envelops your face.

He pulls back just enough to study you, “Was that okay?” he asks, his fingers still lingering at the curve of your jaw, like he can’t believe he just kissed you. You can feel the sharp blush sting your face, as your heart practically goes into cardiac arrest, nodding quickly.

“Uh, I’m not really an expert in this field,” Choso murmurs, “But I can’t believe that I waited this long to do that.”

“You can do that again,” you say. Wondering if you should buy Satoru and Suguru a bouquet of flowers instead.

Choso, predictably, blushes deep enough that it nearly looks like he might combust. His eyes flicker away, avoiding your gaze in that way he does when he’s trying to sort through his emotions. But it’s hard to miss the warm flush that’s firmly planted on his neck.

“Can I do it over that dinner?” Choso murmurs, his voice dipping lower, before he quickly rephrases, “I obviously do want to kiss you now, again, that is, but if they catch us in the break room —”

You suddenly beam up at him, patting him on the cheek, “You can kiss me as much as you like over dinner.”

Choso looks as though he’s been struck with a metaphorical thunderbolt, as if he didn’t expect you to agree so straightforwardly. And then, as if he can’t help himself, he presses a quick and soft kiss to your forehead. For the briefest second, it feels as if you’re a teenager again, caught in the whirlwind of something simple and so sweet.

“Okay. So, is that a yes?” He asks, a little breathless, as if he’s not sure what kind of confirmation he’s just gotten but needing it to hear it anyway.

“If it’s a proper date, it’s a yes.”

Choso mutters under his breath, “You know Geto Suguru texted me with a five-paragraph apology, something about sneaking around my apartment. Stalking me this morning,” and here, he looks at you, utterly exasperated but fond, “Something about checking to see if I had a girlfriend. I mean, I don’t even know the guy. We never talked in school.”

You loop your arm with his, pulling him in slightly, “See, I always did say my friends were super nice. They’re going to be super nice, and normal. Trust me.”

ONE WEEK LATER.

“And to my brother-in-law, my brother-in-arms, my brother in the Constantinople Crusades of 1204,” Satoru hiccups, his words slurring together in a rambled mess, as he sways over the edge of Suguru’s arms, and for a split second, you’re worried the white-haired man is going to tip over entirely, “My new brother, Choso. We always knew it was going to happen, eh?”

Choso’s cheeks turn a faint shade of crimson in the sudden spotlight as everyone cheers, and he shifts awkwardly. Suguru’s shooting him an apologetic look, the corners of his mouth twitching as he props Satoru up, “He’s a lightweight. And we watched a historical movie last night.”

“I can tell,” Choso grumbles, his face flushed now as Satoru’s monologue drifts like an aimless plastic bag in the wind, his words growing nonsensical as you reach over to pinch at his cheeks. He yelps but continues to babble on about how he and Choso are going to be best friends now, and they’re going to go shopping together, and ice-skating, and fruit-picking. All nonsense burbles being strung together by the tequila shots that Satoru swore he could handle an hour ago.

You glance over at Choso, faintly embarrassed, but he just laughs, a sound that’s unexpectedly light and unguarded. His fingers slide into yours once more, and the motion is gentle and natural, as though this, you, are exactly where he’s meant to be. And he drapes the wide expanse of his aviator jacket over your shoulders.

Meanwhile, Suguru is wrestling with Satoru, pushing him back down from his impromptu toast to your boyfriend, before the bartender can usher you all towards the exit. The burly man is already giving Satoru’s drunken proclamations a nasty look.

Shoko, of course, is grinning at you, a tankard of beer glimmering in front of her. Her eyes gleam with the sharpness of someone who’s won a decent amount of money in a bet. And Utahime is standing back with a faintly judgemental expression that only veils her gossipy curiosity, and a glum look as she passes wads of cash into Shoko’s waiting hands.

“They really do like me,” Choso murmurs, his voice low and almost carrying the undertone of vulnerability, alongside some quiet self-awareness.

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand, leaning in to press a quick peck to the dark mark that streaks over his face, “They all have no choice. You’re my boyfriend now.”

The words slip out effortlessly, and for a moment, they hang between you like something solid and unspoken, as though saying it aloud has made it feel real in a way it never quite did before. Choso’s eyes flick to yours, and something shifts in his expression — just a slight softening around the edges.

Then, without warning, you lean in, closing the distance between you, and kiss him. It’s slow, deliberate, with none of the frantic energy of your first kiss but instead the quiet certainty of something just beginning to bloom. You feel the faintest sigh from Nanami in the background, the sound of Geto groaning as Gojo whoops with drunken delight.

The noise from the bar fades into nothing as you focus entirely on the warmth of Choso’s shy lips against yours, the gentle pressure as he presses more into you, the soft thud of his heartbeat where your hand rests over his chest. For that moment, it’s just you and him, and everything else is an afterthought.

“Okay! I’ve had enough of the lot of you snogging and yelling in my bar! And take stupid Jack Frost out with ya’!”

#choso kamo #choso kamo x reader #choso x reader #choso fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk fluff #jjk x you #choso x y/n #jjk choso #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk angst #daphworks

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dailynnt · 22 hours ago

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FRIENDS WITHIN TOUCHING DISTANCE

⊹ Summary: Jungkook and you, his childhood friend, live together in an apartment, sharing space as roommates. Your relationship, built on years of friendship, is gradually becoming strained by growing sexual tension. You decide to become friends with benefits, trying not to complicate your feelings. But Jungkook's world is not so simple. When you begin to realize that he is hiding something, you open the veil of his double life - a world of mafia, criminal activity, and risk that could ruin not only your deal, but everything you valued in each other.

⊹ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ Fem!Reader

⊹ Characters: The Reader, Jeon Jungkook, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, Min Yoongi, Kim Seokjin, Kim Namjoon, Jeon Hoseok.

⊹ 🔞 Age restrictions: 18+

⊹ 👩🏼‍❤️‍👨🏻 Relationships: ⚤

⊹ Number of part: 17/?

⊹ 🖇️ Tags: best friends, friends with benefits, slow longing, sexual tension, protected sex, unprotected sex, alcohol, drunken sex, inexperienced main character, mafia au, illegal trade, deaths of minor characters, weapons, swear words.

⊹ 👩🏼‍💻From the author: Hello everyone. Happy New Year 🎄💜 I managed to write another part for you, so consider it a gift, because I wrote it as soon as I could and when I could to make it to the 31st 🥹 I hope you like it, as always ❤️‍🔥 I also want to thank everyone who likes my story, you can't even imagine how happy I am 🤭🥺 I didn't expect such a success at all 🥹🥹🥹

⊹ 🫂Dedication: For you, my love @myjungkookthighs. You are my favorite person 😘🥰 You know that I appreciate you so much and love you🥰💜

⊹ ⚠️ Warning: English is not my native language, so there may be mistakes in the text. Please don't get mad at me too much! Those under 18, please don't read this story!

⊹ 📋Tag list: @myjungkookthighs, @notsevenwithyou, @nikkinikj, @lovelyyylunaa222, @jiminiemanura (If anyone wants to be in my tag list let me know)

≣ Chapter Index ↓

Part 17. The flame of sympathy

You were shocked by the number of dishes your mom had prepared for dinner. Fortunately, the yukkejang hadn't burned while you were busy in your room. Now it stood in the center of the table in a large ceramic bowl. Its aromatic waves spread across the room, filling it with the spiciness of chili peppers, the sweetness of green onions, and the richness of beef broth.

Your mother placed the pickled crabs that Jungkook loved so much closer to him. She presented them on a large plate, garnished with fresh red pepper rings and green onions. The main dishes on the table also included kimchi, pibimbap, pajons, rice, and pickled vegetables.

You helped set the table. Your father arrived just as you and Jungkook were going down to the kitchen. You couldn't help but think that you had finished on time, otherwise it would have been very embarrassing.

You sat down next to Jungkook on his left hand, and your mom and dad sat across from you two. Dad was happy to see Jungkook, and of course, just like your mom had done earlier, he was asking him questions. He was also interested in what Jungkook did for a living. Because the Mercedes that was parked outside your house indicated that Jungkook had a prestigious job. Your parents knew from Jungkook's mother that his job was related to security. Dad was interested in what kind of duties he had.

You were a little nervous when the conversation turned to Jungkook's job. But Jungkook answered calmly and even relaxed, lying in such a way that if you didn't know the truth, you would believe it. But heck, you were in your parents' shoes not so long ago. You believed his lies without knowing what your friend really lived.

Jungkook ate a lot. He enjoyed your mother's food because he always loved what she cooked. There was a mix in his mouth: crabs, yukkejang, pajon, rice, in a word, Jungkook ate as if he had no bottom in his stomach. You admired him unnoticed, you liked to watch him eat with such enthusiasm. You were especially mesmerized when he ate something really tasty. He never spared emotions on his face or words about the taste.

Right now, there was such a scene before your eyes. He was eating the pickled crab that your mom had prepared and was delighted. His eyebrows were drawn together, his eyes were closed, and his expression was one of absolute delight.

The first piece of crab was rated as "divine" and even received applause for its taste. All the other pieces that went into Jungkook's mouth made him almost moan with pleasure. You even blushed when he moaned several times so hard that you almost choked. It reminded you of the sounds he made during sex. Your mom was happy with Jungkook's reaction to her cooking. For her, there is nothing better than someone eating her food with such enthusiasm.

You had a delicious dinner and for dessert, you ate sunpyeon (crescent-shaped rice cakes filled with sesame seeds, honey, and beans), cakes, and donuts (for you) that Jungkook brought with him for the visit.

"Thank you for the delicious dinner!" - Jungkook said when he was finally full.

"You are welcome. I'm going to pickle some more crabs, so when you go to Seoul, stop by and I'll give you a bag to take with you." - Your mom said.

"I will be leaving city with Y/N in a few days. So I will definitely stop by for crabs." - Jungkook said. You were a little taken aback. You hadn't realized that he would want to take you to Seoul. You could have stayed with your parents longer. Celebrate the new year. Why does he want you to go with him? You didn't say anything, didn't object.

"In a few days?" - Your father asked again. Your mother was also surprised, because you hadn't told your parents that you were coming for a short time. They thought you were coming to spend some time with them and celebrate the new year.

"Yes." - Jungkook replied firmly. He couldn't leave you here without his supervision, not after what happened at the Christmas party in Niseko. Besides, his job in Seoul doesn't allow for days off. Not even on holidays. "Didn't she tell you? A friend of ours is opening a new club on New Year's Eve, and we were invited. I thought we'd together visit you and my parents after the New Year, but it turned out that Y/N left earlier. I decided that since that happened, I would come to pick her up and also visit my parents." - Jungkook said. But no one invited you to the club opening. Is he lying again? Or is it really true?

"Of course. Y/N didn't tell us anything." - Your mom said, a little sad, but smiling.

"I thought I wasn't going to go to that party because I had a quarreled with Jungkook. That's why I didn't say anything." - You supported Jungkook's lie. If he wants to take you away, there may be reasons. Either it's his "work" or Doohoon had something to do with it. Jungkook looked at you, smiling slightly. He was pleased that you didn't resist, but immediately agreed to go home together.

"Did you have a quarreled?" - You heard your father's voice.

"Yes, Taegu, I'll explain everything to you later. No need to confuse the children." - Your mom said quickly. She got up from the table. "Son, I'll put some crabs with me now for you to have breakfast."

"I would like to decline out of politeness. But they are so delicious, I won't do it." - Jungkook said. You laughed, that’s Jungkook style. Your mom laughed shyly too, because she was pleased with Jungkook's constant praise.

While mom was packing a package for Jungkook, you cleared the table. Dad and Jungkook kindly helped you. While you were doing the dishes, your mom and dad continued to interrogate Jungkook. You could hear them talking in the living room from the kitchen. It was well after 8 p.m. outside, and Jungkook was in no hurry to go home. You thought he was waiting for you to walk him to his car.

"Jungkook, son, did you find a girlfriend?" - Your mom asked. When you heard her question, you almost dropped the ceramic pot where was yukkejan in it. You didn't expect her to ask him about his personal life. Jungkook didn't flinch and answered almost immediately.

"I have a girlI like." - He said. You listened intently. Is this girl you?

"You just like her? You're dating?" - Your mom asks.

"No, we can't because of my job." - Jungkook answers without hesitation. You think it's some kind of weird excuse. "I work a lot, so she won't even think about going out with me."

"If she likes you too, it won't be a problem." - Says your father. "The main thing is that you have weekends and don't work until the morning, and go out with her every night. Then it will be fine." - your father advises. You can hear Jungkook laughing.

"Sometimes I work until the morning, or I'm gone for several days at home. My job is such that I have to accompany a client on his travels. So I don't think I'll have a chance." - Jungkook says. You can't figure out if he's just making this excuse so no one will know about you or if he really doesn't want to have a relationship with you. You're a little outraged. You need to clarify what the status of your relationship is now. Are you still friends with benefits or are you dating? Because the words "you are mine" can only mean that you are his girlfriend. The thought of being Jungkook's girlfriend makes you excited. It sounds so unusual.

"What kind of job is this that makes it impossible to have a relationship? Honey, quit that job and find something to do so you don't have to be a bachelor forever." - Your mom said. You thought she sounded harsh. Your mom sometimes says things that can hurt. But Jungkook laughed again. He didn't seem offended in the least.

"I'll make a lot of money, and then I'll quit and find a woman. I'm only 24, there's still time." - Jungkook assured. You washed the dishes and went into the living room where they were all sitting. Jungkook saw you and kept his eyes on you. He was smiling slyly. You waved him off so he wouldn't stare at you. You stood next to your father, putting your hands on his shoulders. Dad felt your hands and put his on top of yours.

"Let me walk you to the car." - You suggested to Jungkook. He stood up when he heard you say that. It was really time to go, but he wasn't going to leave without you.

"Actually, I wanted to proposed you first. I have a gift for you. But it's not in the car. We need to go to a place. So you should go change." - Jungkook said. You froze in confusion. He said in Niseko, that he had a gift, and he promised to give it to you to nightly . Is this some kind of a restaurant or something? But you just had dinner, so the restaurant is out. Where can you go at eight in the evening for a gift? You didn't have any ideas.

You agreed and went to your room to change while Jungkook continued talking to your parents. Before you got dressed, you asked Jungkook what the style should be, what if it was some expensive beautiful place, so that you didn't come dressed as if you were going to a store. He said that the style could be free, but the clothes should be comfortable. This intrigued you even more.

You put on a gray tight-fitting knit crop top with long sleeves and a rounded neckline. You wore black high-waisted cargo pants with large pockets on the sides. Your skin sometimes showed under top when you moved, but you were going to be in a car and a jacket, so you shouldn't be cold. You left your hair loose, pulling some of it into a half-ponytail at the back of your head and tying it with a gray elastic band so that your bangs wouldn't get in the way. Although the shortest strands did fall out before you went out, it looked good.

After you changed, you went downstairs to the first floor to see Jungkook, who was waiting for you. When he saw you, he looked you up and down. He looked slightly dissatisfied.

"Couldn't you have worn something longer to keep your kidneys warm? It's freezing outside." - Jungkook complained as you were both getting dressed at the door. Your parents supported Jungkook, and you clicked your tongue nervously, ignoring their words. Putting on your Nike winter sneakers and a jacket, you waited for your mom to bring a bag of crab for Jungkook and for Jungkook who instead to get dressed, talking about your top.

"I'll be in a warm car and I'm wearing a jacket so I won't freeze. Stop talking." - You said irritated. Jungkook smiled slyly at you and finally stopped grumbling. Mom brought you the crab, you said goodbye, Jungkook promised to take care of you and bring you home before the new day dawned, and you left the house.

Jungkook arrived in a Gelendvagen. When you saw this car again, you felt delighted. It always evokes such emotions. You remembered the sex you had with Jungkook here and thought that you wouldn't mind doing it again.

Looking at Jungkook, who was starting the engine and pressing something on the dashboard, probably turning on the stove, you thought that this Mercedes suited him very well. Jungkook seems to have been born to drive such a car.

Like this car, he was impressively massive and stable, while combining elegance and strength. The G-Wagon is not just a car, it is a symbol of confidence and power with which it takes to the streets. Jungkook was the same way: he easily attracted attention without trying, with a huge charisma that filled the space around him. And just like this car, his presence always left a feeling of something unusual and even majestic. The Mercedes G-Wagon evokes wonder and a desire to observe, Jungkook was someone who could not be ignored - with his appearance, his energy.

You smiled, they evoke similar emotions in you, the way you thought about it perfectly reflected how you felt about him at that moment.

Jungkook, sensing your view, looked at you. He smiled back at you.

"Why are you smiling?" - He asked as he took off his jacket and threw it into the back seat.

"I was just thinking about something." - You answer, looking at your friend or boyfriend. You didn't know for sure yet. Jungkook has driven away from your house.

"About what?" - He asked. He still had a slight smile on his lips. His eyes were looking at the road. You took a deep breath, enjoying the smell in the car. It smelled like citrus and spices. The smell was completely Jungkook's, you knew he liked citrus notes.

"I thought you were really hot driving that car." - You say leaning over the armrest. You moved closer to get a better look at Jungkook's reaction to your words.

He easily turned away from the empty road where only you were driving and looked at you. His eyes flashed with something devilish and cunning. A half smile graced his alluring lips.

"Are you trying to seduce me as soon as we only just leave your house?" - He asks playfully. You lick your lips, drawing Jungkook's gaze to them. You cast a lazy glance at his crotch. You stretch your lips into a smile and sit up straight, looking in front of you.

"Not at all. I'm just stating a fact." - You say, trying to hold back your laughter. Jungkook continues to drive the car in silence. You don't know where you're going or why. You're going to regret teasing him.

You drive in silence for a while while you check your phone for notifications. You have a text message from Suyong, an instagram notification, a group chat message from your university group, and a bunch of other notifications that you haven't read because you don't feel like it.

Your mind goes back to the conversation you heard, about Jungkook's girlfriend, and you want to talk to him. Your heartbeat instantly speeds up when you're about to ask who you are to each other. But before you dare to ask Jungkook, he is the first to break the silence between you.

"It was great of you to agree to come to Seoul with me right away. I have some urgent business that I have to finish by the 31st, and I can't leave you here alone." - He says, while overtaking the car in front of him.

"Why can't you leave me? Is it because of Doohoon?" - You speculated. Jungkook pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded his head in agreement.

"Yeah. Fuck knows what's in that stupid head of his. He might move on to more sadistic methods." - Jungkook says seriously. He pulls out onto the road that leads to the camping park.

"Why would he start doing something like this?" - You ask, and you remember when you were packing a suitcase to fly to Korea from Niseko, Jungkook arrived at the hotel covered in blood, his hands were beaten. "Did you have a fight? Is that why you came here covered in blood?"

"Yeah. I beat him up." - Jungkook confesses to you. Not that you hadn't guessed, but you were still shocked.

"Badly?" - You ask instead of asking why.

"Yes." - Chunguk answers briefly, without going into details. He recalls Doohoon’s bloody face and thinks that if he hadn't been stopped, he would have killed him. But you don't need to know that.

"Is he even alive?" - You ask ironically. Jungkook hears the irony in your voice and smiles.

"He's alive. Lucky for him." - Jungkook is not joking at all. You burst out laughing.

"Of course it's not funny. You beat him up in front of people?" - You ask, looking at Jungkook. His profile catches your eye. The way he purses his lips, the way his tongue plays with his piercings. How he can easily distract you with just one look.

"No. No one saw us, it was in front of the smoking room. Ha Young called for help. They broke us up. But I kicked his face pretty good." - Jungkook replies.

"Jungkook..." - You breathed out his name worriedly. "You might get in trouble because of that bastard. He's not going to let this go." - You said.

"Let him try, then no one will save him." - Jungkook says, irritated. You can see the muscles in his jaw rippling. You don't say anything, because your mind immediately goes to thoughts of how Jungkook will fight Doohoon. "No one will save you," his words echo in your head. What does that mean? Will he try to 'eliminate' him?

Jungkook notices that you are silent and gives you a quick glance. He meets your worried gaze and rushes to reassure you.

"I'm not going to kill him or torture him. I will deal with them carefully so that you or I don't get hurt." - He promises. You squint your eyes, not quite believing him. "I promise." - He says sincerely. You stare at Jungkook for a long few seconds and finally relax.

"Look. You promised. That asshole isn't worth the trouble he's going to cause. I'm talking about another hassle with police." - Jungkook laughed. You looked at him in surprise. "What did I say that was so funny?" - You were indignant.

"Nothing. I just don't think I'm going to get in trouble with the police." - Jungkook said, sounding amused. "There are more serious things to worry." - You raise your eyebrows and notice that you're pulling up to the checkpoint for the camping park. Jungkook buys a pass, and in a few minutes you're inside the park. It's only a 20-minute walk from your house, and Jungkook gets there in less than 10 minutes. You remember how often you used to go hiking here with your father and Jungkook.

"The police are the law. And what can be more serious than the law?" - You continue the topic. You don't ask why you came to the camping park. The intrigue of your gift is too strong.

"Money." - Jungkook says shortly and parks on a wooden platform. It has a small fence that protects it from the cliff where the river flows. The area is lit by two tall lanterns that emit a yellow, almost orange light. The park is beautiful and cozy. Large caps of snow cover the bare crowns of the trees. The place where Jungkook parks his car is cleared of snow. Does everyone here clean up their parking spaces? Or did Jungkook order it in advance?

"What do you mean? You mean that money can be used to bend the law?" - You ask, simultaneously looking for something that could be your gift. But there is nothing here. Just you, the trees covered in snow, and the sound of the river.

Jungkook finally parks the car, but doesn't turn off the engine. He leaves it running to keep the interior warm. Jungkook smiled slyly. He immediately approached you when he finished parking.

"Yes, baby." - He says in a low purring voice. You look at his handsome face close to yours. "Money is the ultimate law. Whoever has it controls everything." - Jungkook fixes the strands that have fallen out of your hair and are lying on your eyelashes.

"So you have money, so you won't have any problems. Because you'll pay whoever you need to and you won't be punished?" - You ask. At this moment, he looks as much like the mafia as possible. Powerful, self-confident and thinking that the law is not written for him.

"I have money. But it's not just about money. I also have some power. The police are my subordinates whom I can use as I please. They cannot punish or convict me. I control their activities." - To say you are shocked is an understatement. You unconsciously open your mouth at Jungkook's words. It sounds as scary as possible. You look at Jungkook's young face and realize that he has enormous power at his age because he works for a very powerful gangster. If he controls the work of the police, it's just horrible. Does this mean that the police in Seoul are corrupt to the last cop?

"Do you control the work of the police? All of it? But how? They belong to the Ministry of Defense, do you have your own people there too?" - Jungkook looks at your face in silence. You're too beautiful to sit here and ask questions about things you don't need to know. It's time to give you that gift and enjoy your tight pussy.

"I'm not the only one doing this. Taehyung helps me. I've told you enough. Enough about my work. We came here to give you a gift." - Jungkook says. He moves away from you and before he gets out of the car, he says. "Go to the back seat, I have to get it out of the trunk."

You look in Jungkook's wake in surprise. So he confirmed that Taehyung is also a member of the mafia. It's horrible, you thought he was the nicest person in the world. Sometimes appearances can be deceiving.

You get out of the car and sit in the back seat. It's warm in the car, so when you feel like you've played a good game, you take off your jacket and throw it on your front seat. It's much more comfortable now. You wait for Jungkook to come back.

Jungkook gets in the car with you a couple of minutes later. He's holding a black bag with no writing on it. You smile in anticipation of the gift. But you don't understand why you came all the way here. This could have been given to you at home. In fact, he lied. He said there was no gift in the car. But it doesn't matter. If you're here, then Jungkook just wanted to be alone.

Jungkook turns on the lights in the backseat, and then he hands you the package, moving close to you. You take it in your hands and look through it excitedly.

The first thing that catches your eye is a large box. It has an aesthetic design and when you lift it slightly, you realize that it is a set of expensive chocolates from Chocolate Tree. This set is large and has many different flavors, most of all, your attention is drawn to the description of ingredients such as gold plates and aromatic spices. Gosh, eating gold with chocolate? Isn't that too much? But you silently put the chocolate set down and see two more boxes. One is small and the other is a little bigger. They are wrapped in beautiful dark green paper that shimmers in the light.

"Open the smaller one first." - Jungkook asks. You glance at him and notice how close he is. He holds the head sit behind you with his hand, his thigh touching yours.

You listen to Jungkook and take out a smaller box. When you half-open Jungkook's gift, you realize it's a phone. You stare at the box with the latest iPhone pro max in shock, and then look at Jungkook. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, "You don't like it?". You look from Jungkook to the phone.

"Jungkook..." - You finally say. "Isn't it too expensive?" - You are embarrassed. This Athos costs 1200 dollars. That's more than 1.5 million won. He could have presented you something less expensive. But you're thrilled because you've been wanting to change your phone for a long time. You were using the 14th iPhone. You were one of those few Samsung traitors (whose research center was located in your city, by the way) and found iPhones to be user-friendly.

"Do you like it?" - Jungkook asks, trying to figure out if he's got the right gift.

"Do I like it? Yes, I'm crazy about the gift. I've been dreaming of a new phone." - You say enthusiastically. Jungkook smiles happily. A phone is always a good gift. Especially when you once let it slip that you wanted to change it. Jungkook was going to give it to you earlier, but he didn't have time to go buy it. And for Christmas, he had to give it to you. Before you open the box with the iPhone, you give Jungkook a light kiss. You opened the box and looked at the phone. It's big, the color of graphite. You like that Jungkook bought a dark color, because all your phones were either gray or black.

When you saw the phone, you completely forgot that there was another box in the package.

"Baby, there's another present for you." - You smiled guiltily and put the phone on the box of chocolate. You took out a bigger box and started to open it. Jungkook watched you with interest. His eyes were on you, trying to capture every emotion from this gift.

You tore open the gift wrapping. It was a white box with no inscription. You looked at Jungkook, who was smiling slyly, and you didn't understand what was happening. You opened the box and your face instantly turned red. A vibrator. A fucking vibrator that is a complete imitation of a man's penis. It's pale pink and big. You can't tell for sure, but it's about the size of a Jungkook, maybe a little smaller. You feel shyness and a light layer of sweat covers your back. You don't know how to react to this gift.

Jungkook is amused by your reaction. You are frozen in horror and shame at the same time. He leans down to your ear and whispers.

"I thought you should have a toy like this." - Jungkook says. His breath burns your ear. You turn to him, somehow not expecting him to be so close. Although it's obvious, because he was talking in your ear. You stare at his lips. Jungkook smiles seductively. Sparks dance in his eyes.

"How did you even think of that?" - You finally recover from your shock. You close the box with the cock imitator and put it away. You are hot and nervous. Your ears are burning and your palms are cold with excitement. Your hands are shaking. Why did he present it to you? You have Jungkook to help you with your needs. Isn't a vibrator used by women who don't have sexual partners?

Jungkook laughs. His vibrating laughter goes through your whole body. He grabs your hand and pulls you onto his lap. A scream sticks in your throat. Jungkook squeezes your hips with his hands. You feel the pressure of his long fingers.

"Easy. Sex toys are one of the most common things that make sex diverse." - You can't shake the feeling of shame and the sight of the pink vibrator in front of your eyes. "You'll be pleasantly surprised at how much pleasure it can give you." - Jungkook says in a low, soothing voice. He nuzzles your neck with his nose, slowly moving to light kisses. He kisses you with one lip, and you instantly relax. His kisses are soothing, gentle, and exciting at the same time.

"But I have you." - You say with a sigh. If he doesn't stop, you're going to get soaked through. You had sex a few hours ago. Is Jungkook that insatiable? You should admit to yourself that you are the same way. Your desire for Jungkook's touch is at the level of obsession. "You satisfy me completely." - Jungkook stops kissing your neck and looks at you with a dark gaze. You are embarrassed by his gaze and look down at first.

You don't know that you can't be shy in front of Jungkook because he gets off on it. He's excited that you're embarrassed to admit that he satisfies you. He already knew that. Jungkook grabs your face with one hand and turns you around. Your eyes look at him innocently, and he's ready to swallow you whole. He's going to fuck you again, but this time he's going to get enough of you.

Jungkook kisses your lips, skillfully and instantly shoving his tongue into your mouth. He finds yours and flies over them. The kiss is hot, deep, and his lips are ruthless against yours. This kiss makes your head spin. And you can already feel the throbbing in the upper part of your inner thighs. Moisture is soaking your underwear. You have to part your lips because you don't have enough air. Jungkook undoes the button on your pants and guides his hand along the familiar route.

A loud gasp escapes your lips as his finger touches your center. You feel his hard cock already pressing into your ass.

"I'm just going to show you how good it feels. You decide if you want to keep using it or not." - He whispers shrilly. His voice is heavy with excitement. You grip his shoulders until your fingers are white. You're also very horny right now, so if Jungkook wants to show you something new, you don't mind.

"Okay." - You agree. Jungkook smiles. He takes his finger out of your pants and you instantly get upset. His movements only increase the throbbing between your legs. Your clit needed more attention.

He puts his finger in his mouth and sucks your wetness. This gesture is so intimate and makes you even more excited. His smile grows wider when he sees you looking at his fingers in your mouth.

Jungkook pulls you in for another kiss and connects your lips. You can feel yourself on his tongue. He reaches under your top with his hand and realizes that you're not wearing a bra. What luck. He didn't notice it before, maybe because he was distracted by your bare back. He squeezes your breast with his hand and you moan softly into his mouth. His caresses are a pleasure.

Without hesitation, he pulls away from your lips and leans down to take your nipple in his mouth, pulling your top up above your breasts. After the last sex, there are small blue marks on your breasts. He thinks he should kiss you more carefully, because you are already covered with his hickeys. But your skin is so soft and juicy that he can't help but want to savor it to the fullest.

You hiss in pleasant pain when Jungkook first caresses your nipple with his tongue and then bites it. He smiles into your chest and moves on to the other one. You look at this picture of Jungkook sucking on your nipple and you get fired up with a new wave.

When Jungkook has played with your nipples enough, he sits you down next to him. He asks to see your pants and underwear, and then turns off the lights in the backseat. He also reaches for the steering wheel and turns off the headlights, which have been on all along. The light from the street lights is now the only thing that illuminates the interior of the Mercedes. And this light makes the atmosphere between you more comfortable and intimate.

Jungkook follows you and takes off his clothes. His clothes are lying somewhere on the floor and he leaves only his boxers on. You are sitting on the seat completely naked and you are not satisfied with the fact that Jungkook not naked.

When Jungkook wants to pull you closer to him, you move first. You put your hand in front of his head on the seat and put your other hand under his boxers. Now it's your turn to caress him.

You feel that he is wet too. The pre-cum has slipped through the fabric of his underwear and is dripping from the tip of his cock. You run your thumb over the tip, caressing it, and you hear Jungkook sigh in your ear. You turn your head and see the absolute pleasure on his handsome face. He closed his eyes and bit down on his piercing. You're pleased that you're the cause of this pleasure. But you are only stroking him. You should give him more pleasure.

You swirl your tongue around your lips to wet them. You pull Jungkook's cock out of the boxers. It jumps out and hits Jungkook's stomach. You try to pull your boxers down lower and Jungkook lifts his hips slightly to help you do it. When you pull Jungkook's underwear down so that it is no longer in your way, you grab the length of it in your hands and kiss it.

Your lips lightly touch the silky surface of his cock. You wrap your tongue around the tip several times, licking his semen. Jungkook jerks his cock. This shows that he likes it. You think you want to see this reaction with your own eyes. You pull Jungkook's cock out of your mouth. He's watching you carefully.

You take your jacket and throw it at Jungkook's feet. There's enough room in the back of the car for you to kneel in front of him and get comfortable between his legs. So that you have a good view of his face while you suck his cock.

Jungkook understands what you want to do and he doesn't mind at all. He spreads his legs wide and gives you a good opportunity to suck him off.

You kneel down and smile, taking Jungkook's length in your hands. He looks at you with a greedy, eager gaze. His mouth is also curved in a smile. You run your tongue along the vein that runs through his cock. Jungkook exhales heavily, probably holding back a moan. You take his entire length into your mouth and now he can't hold it back. When you pump Jungkook's cock with your mouth just a few times, he moans. You look up and look at him.

He's laid his head back on seat and closed his eyes. His mouth is slightly open. The yogi jaw line seems even sharper from this angle. It’s added him more beautiful.

Saliva curls at the corner of your mouth, and it also runs down your chin. You taste the salty taste of pre-cum. You continue to suck on Jungkook's cock, and with each new movement, you realize that it's getting harder. You touch his balls with your hands, caressing them and squeezing them gently.

Jungkook hisses in pleasure. He looks up and sees you watching him. Your eyes are innocent and your lips are so perfectly wrapped around his cock. No girl has ever looked as sexy and beautiful in his eyes as you. Jungkook smiles at the corner of his mouth and takes your hair.

He pushes your on your neck, squeezing your hair into a tight knot. He pushes his cock deep inside you and can't get enough of the sight.

"You are my dirty slut. You choke on my cock so well." - He says in a low voice and you just flow with these words. They excite you to the max and you feel a sweet ache in your lower abdomen. "These lips are made to suck my cock." - You moan as you continue to pump his length and decide to ease your torment.

You touch your clit with your hand and start to rotate it to come. Jungkook notices what you're doing and raises his eyebrows. He takes you off his cock and leans over to you. You're confused, your chin is covered in saliva mixed with Jungkook's cum.

"Don't touch yourself." - He tells you sternly. "I'm the only one who can touch you." - You are embarrassed by his tone.

Jungkook lifts you. With a deft movement, he sits you back on his lap. Only now you are sitting with your back turned to him. You rest your buttocks on his bare cock. It is wet because you were sucking it a moment ago.

Your friend touches your breasts while kissing your shoulder. He removes the hair that prevents him from accessing your neck and kisses it. He even bites you lightly and you purr in pain and pleasure.

"You are such an impatient baby. Just a little longer and your juicy clit will get the attention it deserves." - Jungkook says in your ear.

"Kook... please...." - You begin to beg him, feeling his cock underneath you, which you dream of him shoving inside you.

"Yes baby… You're begging me, but for what?" - Jungkook spreads your legs wider and touches your swollen clit. You let out something between a sigh and a moan as he begins to caress your clit in a gentle circular motion.

"Fuck me!" - You say. You didn't even think you would have sex for the second time tonight. But it seems you're even more needy now than before.

"Do you want to ride my cock slut?" - Jungkook asks you affectionately. You start moving your hips to feel the friction you need. You smear your cum on Jungkook's cock. This feeling is insane and still unknown to you. It feels so good to feel his hardness in your pussy without swallowing him. Jungkook is breathing heavily somewhere in your ear. He seems to like it as much as you do. He removes his hand from your clit and now holds your thighs to help create a wonderful friction.

You don't know how long, maybe a couple of minutes, maybe one minute of friction between your pussy and Jungkook's length and you'll feel orgasmic. That clit twitches as you continue to rub against the Jungkook's cock. Your long moan fills the space around you and indicates that you have come.

Jungkook laughs lightly, snuggling up to the back of your head. When you stop, he stops moving you too. You take a breath and straighten up in his arms. You turn your head to him and see a smile.

"That was fucking great." - You express your admiration. He reaches for you and connects your lips in a kiss. You return the gentle kiss, which turns into a passionate one as Jungkook uses his tongue with more intensity. It sets you on fire again. God, are you really that insatiable? Or is it just Jungkook who's driving you crazy?

"You didn't think it was over, did you, baby?" - Jungkook purrs against your as he parted lips. You weren't thinking. You weren't thinking about anything at all. Your thoughts are killed by a good orgasm. "It's time to go for a ride." - He says. You don't mind at all. Even though you've had a great orgasm, you want to feel Jungkook's cock filling you up. You'll never get tired of it.

You get up to move when Jungkook stops you. He pushed you back against your hips with his hands. You turn your face to him in confusion.

"You're going to ride like this. You don't need to turn around. Let's try a new angle." - Jungkook explains.

"Okay. But Kook... don't cum in me again." - You ask him. Chunguk doesn't answer. Suddenly you feel a his hand on your throat. Jungkook puts you as close as possible to his strong chest and you feel the joke of his body. He squeezes your throat with a little pressure. Your breathing speeds up, and so does your excitement.

"I'll decide if I want to come in you or on you." - He growls in your ear. Your stomach jumps. That bossy voice, the way he turned it on again. You get a thrill out of it. You know you shouldn't provoke him, but you want to.

"You don't get to decide." - You say. "If I get pregnant, you'll be sorry." - You provoke. Jungkook bites your ear. You whimper.

"You won't get pregnant, baby. Because you're a good girl who takes her medicine. And it looks like you need to buy a course of birth control so I can come inside you every time we have sex." - Jungkook says. God, the thought of him cumming in you, because as he said earlier, "signing you", makes you a little wild.

"So If I'm a good girl, then maybe you'll put me on your cock already?" - You ask with a challenge. Jungkook turns your face around, capturing it with his hand and kissing you uncontrollably. You're so hot between the two of you. It's crazy.

"I'd love to." - Jungkook replies, releasing your face. He lifts you up and you stand on your feet slightly bent over. You feel the tip of his cock pressing against your hole. Jungkook isn't stretching you like he usually does, so despite the wetness, you feel a little uncomfortable. You don't know why, maybe because of the new angle. You bite your lip, and when you fully sit down on the length of the Jungkook, you calm down. The discomfort disappears, giving way to bliss.

Your friend kisses your shoulder as you sit still, getting used to the size. He doesn't rush you, because he realizes that you are not stretched.

"Your tight pussy wraps around my cock so well, doesn't it?" - He whispers in your ear.

"Yes..." - You breathe out. You want to tell him how good it feels, but the sensations you're experiencing down there make you forget how to say it.

The new angle with which Jungkook fills you with his cock makes it seem even more painful. It seems to penetrate right into your stomach. You move your hips to push Jungkook's length out and almost instantly sink down on it. It feels like pure ecstasy. You freeze because your walls are sensitive and they contract. Jungkook is moaning behind you. He feels it too, and he needs to hold back so he doesn't come so fast.

"Fuck..." - He curses. "Fuckin' shit. You're so tight, baby." - It sounds like a compliment. You smile through your pleasure and decide that this compliment is a good incentive to continue. You start moving on Jungkook's hips. The friction is just perfect. You moan loudly and feel your friend squeeze your sides.

While you're chasing your orgasm, riding relentlessly on his lap for a while, Jungkook takes the vibrator out of the box. He turns it on and you hear the noise of vibration. Jungkook puts it against your clit and you seem to lose your head.

The vibration from the dildo spreading across your clitoris creates a feeling of euphoria. As Jungkook moves the vibrator up and down, you're desperately trying not to go crazy. It has never felt so good. After a moment, the knot in your lower abdomen bursts and you moan, stopping moving. The overstimulation is making you disoriented. Jungkook removes the vibrator and grabs you with his hands.

You fall against him, exhausted and breathing heavily. Your head is leaning against his shoulder and you are breathing heavily. Your bodies are sweaty, and the windows in the car behind you are fogged up. You think it's over, but you're sitting on Jungkook's cock, which hasn't come and is still hard inside you.

"Baby, are you okay?" - He asks. You purr to confirm that you're fine. You just don't have the strength anymore. But you realize that Junguk didn't have his orgasm, and you don't know what to do. "Get up and lie down on the seat." - He says. You struggle to get up, and you and Jungkook switch places. You lie down on the seat, almost resting your head against the door. Jungkook is hanging over you and you notice how hard and needy his cock is. He's going to fuck you lying down, it'll even be more comfortable for both of you.

When Jungkook enters you for the second time, he slides into you almost perfectly. As usual, he rocks his hips to find the right angle and starts to drive his cock into you with slow, deep strokes. You put your arms around his shoulders. You put one hand in his silk hair and enjoyed the way he skillfully fucked you.

Jungkook's movements were slow, driving his cock deep into you as if he was enjoying every stroke. You moaned into his ear. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, burning you with his breath. This moment seemed so loving. He was fucking you so gently but passionately at the same time. And you could feel Jungkook's thrusts making you feel an orgasm building up.

"Please, Kook..." - You exhale, urging him to give you a third orgasm during this sex. He lifts his head and kisses you. Your tongues dance together as if made for a perfect tandem. You see him accelerate his hips and you come on Jungkook's cock three times in half a minute.

You moan loudly and long, squeezing the length with your walls. Jungkook is chasing his own orgasm, slamming into you quickly, prolonging your pleasure. He comes inside you. Not because he wanted to, as he said before. He didn't have time again. Or did he really not want to?

You feel his cum filling you. You're not surprised anymore. Just don't let God get you pregnant. You're compelled to buy a course of birth control pills.

Jungkook crushes you with his muscular body. You are both breathing heavily and exhausted. Jungkook softens inside you and you lower the legs he was holding and put them on the sides of Jungkook's body. You lie there for a while to recuperate.

Jungkook is the first to move. He smiles at you when you open your eyes.

"Are you alive?" - Jungkook asks. He's sorry you look tired. But he enjoyed having sex with you. It doesn't matter that it's the second time you've had sex since the big quarrel in Japan.

"I'm alive." - You answer with a tired smile. Jungkook finally pulls out of you. He gives you some tissues so you can clean yourself up. He also uses them and gets dressed. When you are dressed too, you decide what to do next. Jungkook could take you home to rest, but he wants to stay with you as long as possible. You go to the city center and buy coffee.

You suggested going for a walk in the park by the lake and Jungkook agreed. He was a little angry at the way you were dressed, so you quickly reassured him off. There's no need to worry, you're not cold.

You wanted to finally talk about your relationship. Because you needed to finally know who you were to each other.

"Jungkook-ah." - You called out to him as you walked silently hand in hand along the alley along the lake.

"What, baby?" - He replied.

"Can I ask you something?" - You asked, feeling your heart speed up.

"Of course. Ask." - Jungkook replied.

"This might be a very rude thing to ask... I just want to clarify..." - You tried to find the right words for both of you. Jungkook stopped. Your nervousness is transmitted on him. His heart was beating faster too, but it wasn't as frantic as yours. He sees that you intend to ask about something important.

"Speak directly. What do you want to know." - Jungkook said impatiently. You looked at him in confusion.

"I just wanted to know who we are now. Are we still friends...?" - You were about to ask "is there anything more" but Jungkook beat you to it.

"Yes, we're still friends." - He answered too quickly. You froze and then smiled in disappointment. Of course you're not going to be his girlfriend. Why did you ever think he would want to go out with you?

"Okay…whatever." - You said dryly with a hint of disappointment in your voice. Letting go of his hand, you threw the glass of finished coffee into the trash and walked on, leaving him behind. Jungkook smiled at you as you walked away. He realized that you were going to ask not only about friendship.

He also threw the glass in the trash and caught up with you. He turned you to him, pulling you by the waist. You looked at him indifferently.

"I guess you had something else you wanted to ask me?" - Jungkook said, smiling at you. You held back your smile as best you could.

"No. Not anymore." - You said offensively, turning your head away. He used his hand to bring your gaze back to his face and kissed you. You instantly melted from this tender loving kiss with a cappuccino flavor.

"Go ahead baby, you can ask me anything." - Jungkook said. You smiled shyly.

"I was going to ask if we're still friends or more?" - You finally decided. Jungkook was expecting you to ask that. It's obvious to him that you've been a couple for a long time. He's got some pressures about it, but he can handle them. You, on the other hand, seem to need official confirmation.

"How would you like it?" - He replies with a question to a question. You can hear your heart pounding in my ears.

"I like you." - You confess. Jungkook freezes. These words you say have been his goal for years, and after all this time, you say it. Jungkook kisses you on the lips without warning. You raise your eyebrows, not expecting him to attack you like that. Jungkook took both hands to your face, and you reflexively grabbed his elbows. You gently squeezed the fabric of his jacket. The kiss deepened. Your lips moved slowly, but you could feel the growing passion with each new touch. He was warm and viscous, like honey, and at the same time awakened a hot wave in your chest that rolled from your heart to your fingertips. Your breath mingled with his, making it feel as if the whole world had narrowed down to this moment, to this touch.

"I like you too, baby." - Jungkook confessed to you as he enjoyed kissing you. You smile, your heart flutters, and your stomach is full of butterflies. "I've liked you for so long. Besides you've been mine for a long time." - He says as he nibbles on your lips. It seems like something unreal, something that would never happen for you. But here you are, confessing your love for each other.

You kiss again until you are interrupted by Jungkook's phone ringing. It's quite late, who could be calling him at this hour? Jungkook reluctantly pulls away from your sweet lips and takes the phone out of his pocket. You see the name "Jimin" in time to see it.

"Yeah, buddy." - Jungkook says as he picks up the phone.

"Hey, kid. Where are you?" - You hear Jimin's voice. There are no people around you and the park is quiet at this hour, so you can hear what he's saying clearly.

"I went to Suwon." - Jungkook replies calmly, looking at you. The two of you are still in an embrace.

"Put up with Y/N?" - Jimin asks.

"Yes." - Jungkook says shortly.

"So did you make up with her well? Like a real man?" - Jimin continues his interrogation playfully. Jungkook snorts into the phone. You laugh quietly, too. Oh that Jimin. He was always trying to matchmake you two.

"We made up." - Jungkook just says. "Why are you calling? To ask about it?" - Jimin is tensely silent for a while, and then answers.

"Kid... I tried to hide it as best I could, but I got caught up in it too... Namjoon found out about the devices. He wants to see you." - You felt everything inside you tighten into a tight knot. Jungkook's brows drew together and his black eyes darted between yours. You couldn't read what he was feeling on his face, but he seemed upset and very angry.

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#jungkook x reader #bts #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook x f!reader #jungkook smut #jungkook friends with benefits #bts mafia au

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