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creamflix · 4 days ago

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MY BOY ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief he's such a pretty liar — and by that, you mean he swore he’d change, really change, this time. but when an argument cracks the routine open, he starts seeing things he never noticed before — about you, about himself, about the damage that was never really fixed. w.c 6.6k

risk assessment established relationship, female reader, mentions of violence, (resolved) angst with comfort, teeny mention of sex, insensitive jjk men, semi-canon divergence, arranged marriage/marriage of convenience, true-form sukuna, sexism & zenin family misogyny, somewhat ooc characters sorry </3, ft! gojo, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna, naoya

a/n thank u to the anon who requested this! i'll be writing a smut sequel/alt version of this sometime this month :P for now enjoy the fluff & feels

☆ GOJO SATORU

It starts, as all things do, with your fiancé Gojo Satoru not taking you seriously.

Not out of cruelty, not out of malice — but with the thoughtless ease of someone who’s never been told no in any way that mattered.

He says it in passing.

"That dress again?"

He’s got a half-laugh in his voice, the kind he uses when he thinks he’s being cute, elbow nudging yours like it’s some inside joke between you two. "We really gotta get you something new. C’mon, let’s do a shopping day this weekend. Whole spree. My treat."

You don’t even catch it at first. Just a flash of confusion as you look down at the fabric — faded navy cotton, stitched with little forget-me-nots along the hem, a little loose at the sleeves now. You’ve had it for years, since university, as a matter of fact. A group gift from your closest friends on your birthday, who pooled what little they had just to see you smile. A dress you wore to your graduation, to your first job interview, to a night out when you didn’t feel like yourself and needed something to anchor you.

You brush it off at first. Maybe he didn’t mean it like that. Maybe he didn’t know. But when you bring it up later — tentatively, cautiously, like stepping barefoot over glass — it’s worse.

“That dress?” he blinks, expression unreadable for half a second, before a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Wait, seriously? Baby, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

You don’t say anything, just sit with your hands curled into your lap, thumbs pressing into the soft fabric.

“It's not about the dress,” you murmur eventually, but he’s already waving you off with a laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Look, I get it,” he says. “Your friends bought it for you, and that’s sweet and all. But if it means that much, they can get you another one, right? Hell, I’ll give them the card myself.” he grins. “You’re not gonna tell me you're actually attached to that old thing? When you could have literally any dress you want?”

You lift your eyes to him. Not angry, not hurt. just... tired. And God, that look — he can’t name it at first. Doesn’t understand why his stomach turns, why something ugly coils in his chest. You don’t even look mad. You just look… disappointed. Like you were expecting something more from him, and he came up short. And that? That lands sharper than anything else could’ve.

His smile falters. His laugh dies in his throat. You look away, standing up slowly, brushing invisible dust from the dress as if to gather yourself back into it.

“Not everything can be replaced, Satoru.”

You don’t say it like an accusation. You don’t say it with heat or spite. You say it like a fact. And he just sits there, blinking, the silence stretching, prickling at his skin.

because he knows he’s not good with sentiment. He's never had to be. everything in his life was disposable, interchangeable, fixable — shattered glasses, broken bones, lives even. There was always more. Another version, a better one. What was the point of clinging to something old, something worn, when you could just get a new one?

But he forgot you weren’t like that. Forgot that some things matter not because of what they are, but because of who gave them. When. Why.

He sees your back as you walk away, the slight slump of your shoulders, the way your fingers tighten around the hem. And for the first time in a very, very long time — he feels sick. Like he’s missed something irreversible. Like he might’ve broken something not even he can buy back.

Later that night, the apartment is quiet in the kind of way that feels deliberate — like it’s holding its breath. No hum of the TV, no rain tapping at the windows. Just the soft rustle of clothes being folded and the sound of your fingers brushing over fabric, smoothing it down like it could ease something knotted in your chest.

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, folding one of his shirts. He watches you from the doorway for a while before stepping inside, socked feet dragging slightly like they used to when he was a boy too tall for himself, trying not to be heard sneaking into places he shouldn’t be. He's got that same awkward energy now — a man who could level cities and doesn’t know how to enter a room where you won’t look him in the eye. He clears his throat. “Hey.”

You glance up but say nothing. Keep folding neat, careful lines.

“I was thinking,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should… maybe take a trip. Visit your friends back home. You haven’t seen them in a while, right? Could tell them about the wedding, make it a thing.”

You pause for a moment, blink once, then keep folding. He swears he sees your shoulders relax, just a little.

“Might be good,” he adds, fidgeting with the hem of the hoodie he forgot he was wearing. “Some air. Some space. From… me.” He means it to be light, maybe even self-deprecating, but it lands like a wet stone.

You don’t laugh. You just fold the last shirt and set it aside, hands resting flat on your thighs. He exhales sharply, flopping down onto the edge of the bed beside you like gravity finally got its way. His elbows go to his knees, head in his hands. He looks like a man breaking and trying not to admit it.

“I don't get it,” he mutters, voice muffled. “Not ‘cause I don’t care. I just… I don't get it.”

He lifts his head, turning to look at you. His eyes are tired, open.

“It’s not just a dress,” he says, like he’s testing the words out on his tongue. “It’s — it’s what it means. Who it came from. What you felt when you wore it. I know that now. I just didn’t know how to say that earlier. I don't really know how to say it now.”

You stay quiet, watching him. Waiting. Not for excuses, not for him to stumble over his guilt. Just for truth. He frowns down at his hands, then up at the closet. Your side. The little things you’ve kept—notes, keepsakes, photos tucked into shoeboxes. Things that never mattered to him before, but now feel like landmines he’s been stepping over blind.

“I never had to hold onto things like that. I think I forgot people could.”

There’s a pause. A long one. He's chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes glossed over with thought.

“When Suguru died, I couldn't even keep his coat. Couldn’t keep anything. It all felt like too much and not enough. Shoko still has his lighter, I think. I never asked for it.” he exhales. “I didn't know how to carry something that used to belong to someone who wasn’t coming back.”

You turn your head, just slightly. Not fully facing him yet, but listening.

“So I got used to throwing things out. Not letting them mean too much.” his voice drops. “And now here I am, saying dumb shit about a dress I didn't understand.”

He looks at you again, and this time — his expression isn’t cocky or distant or flippant. It's raw. Humbled.

“I'm sorry,” he says. Not a grand performance, not dramatic. Just those two words, laid plain between you like an offering. He leans back on his palms, head tipping toward the ceiling.

“It's a good dress,” he adds, almost like a peace treaty. “You look beautiful in it. You always do.”

You don’t smile, not right away. But your eyes soften. And he sees it, the way your fingers ease from their fists. The way you finally lean back beside him, the warmth of your shoulder brushing his.

It’s not forgiveness, not yet. But it’s something.

And Gojo Satoru, who has lived through the worst of loss and still come out laughing, feels this quiet shift as something sacred. Something worth remembering, something not to be thrown away.

☆ NANAMI KENTO

There are times you wonder if Nanami Kento even likes you.

Not in the way a husband is supposed to, not even in the way that makes the word affection stretch out and soften in your chest. Maybe just in the way someone appreciates a quiet presence, tolerates it. Like a painting in a room they’ve grown used to. Something familiar. Something that doesn’t make noise.

You’d both agreed to the marriage out of a quiet, mutual understanding. Family friends. Old classmates. Polite nods at weddings, idle conversation at funerals. The kind of person you wouldn’t mind spending your life with simply because they would never ask too much of you.

And when he returned to being a sorcerer — voluntarily, of all things — right around the time the engagement was announced, you took it as fate’s quiet concession: at least it’s someone you already know.

You didn’t expect romance. Didn’t expect flowers or whispered secrets in the dark. But you had hoped for something softer. Something kind.

So when you show up at his office during your lunch break, carefully packed bento in your hands, already nervous about being too much, you tell yourself it’s not about proving anything. Not about being the perfect partner. Just — something nice. You even knock. Twice. You hear him sigh before he answers.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says as soon as he opens the door. You blink, taken aback. “I brought you lunch.”

He stares at the bento box like it’s made of explosives. He doesn’t move to take it. “I told you not to overexert yourself,” he says, frowning. “You work too much already.”

“I—it’s just rice and grilled mackerel. It didn’t take long.”

He closes his eyes, breathes in slow through his nose. “That's not the point.”

Your hands are still outstretched, holding the box. His eyes finally land on you, and there’s a flicker of something sharp in them. Annoyance, irritation. Like he’s been caught in something he doesn’t want to feel.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again, quieter this time.

You draw your hands back. "Okay," you murmur, like a child scolded for something they didn't know was wrong.

He doesn’t say thank you, doesn't ask if you ate, doesn’t touch the lunch box.

You leave and the fish gets cold.

The next day, you play it safe. You don’t step into Nanami's office building. You don’t pack a carefully balanced bento with pickled sides and pressed napkins. You don’t even text him in the morning. You tell yourself you’re listening, respecting boundaries, giving space. Letting the neat lines he draws between things remain untouched.

But around noon, you feel it gnawing at you.

Guilt? No—maybe pity. Not for him, but for yourself. For the quiet ache in your chest, the soft ache of not being wanted in spaces you hoped to belong to. You linger by the fridge, eyes scanning for anything edible. Half a tray of grilled tofu, leftover rice, a handful of wilted greens. Not much, but enough.

You don’t arrange it prettily — no sauce cups. no handwritten note. You wrap it in a tea towel and leave your office fifteen minutes before your own lunch ends. By the time you get there, you’re rushing,crossing the threshold of his building like a ghost. The elevator ticks down with an unbearable slowness.

12:55. Five minutes left.

You knock once and open the door.

Nanami's already standing. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He glances up and then immediately—immediately—frowns.

“You’re late.”

You blink, still holding the food between your hands. A flush rises to your cheeks, slow and uncertain. “I wasn't going to come,” you say, voice cautious. “You made it pretty clear yesterday…”

“And today you decided to show up when lunch is already over?”

There's a sharpness to his words, the kind that doesn’t raise its voice but cuts all the same. He's staring at you like you’ve done something irrational, inconsiderate, even. You look down at the tea towel in your hands. The food’s still warm. Barely.

“I wasn't trying to interrupt. I just thought… you might want something to eat. I threw something together. It’s not—”

“You should’ve come earlier.”

Something small crumples in your chest. Your hands tighten around the cloth. “I didn't think you wanted me to come at all,” you say, quieter now.

Nanami's mouth presses into a firm line. His jaw twitches like he’s about to respond, then doesn’t. Just exhales, slow and long, and walks past you to shut the door behind you with a soft click. The silence that follows is heavy, full of things neither of you knows how to ask.

He reaches for the lunch, takes it from your hands wordlessly, and sits down at his desk. He doesn’t eat right away, just rests his hand over the towel, thumb smoothing out the edge like it might explain your intentions better than you can. You stand near the bookshelf, not sure what to do. The air between you prickles with something unfamiliar—frustration, maybe. Or the growing tension of expectations unmet, confused for resentment. Finally, he says, without looking at you,

“I don't dislike when you bring me food.”

You tilt your head. “Then why—”

“I dislike not knowing when you’ll come. Or if you’ll come at all.” his fingers press into the wood of his desk. “I dislike thinking you won’t come. And then you do. Late.”

He finally looks up at you then, and it’s not anger behind his eyes. It’s… conflict. Confusion. Like he’s struggling to piece together a puzzle that changes shapes every time he gets close to solving it. “I'm not used to people doing things for me,” he admits, voice lower now. “I'm used to being left alone, or being expected to handle it myself.”

You feel something twist in your chest, a sting of realization. He's not angry at you, not really. He's angry at himself for wanting something he doesn’t know how to ask for. You step forward, slowly, gently. “Then maybe you could just say it,” you offer. “Say you want me here.”

He doesn’t, not yet. But his hand reaches out, uncovers the food, and he begins to eat. You sit beside him in silence, the tension slowly dissolving into the steam from the rice. He doesn’t thank you, but he eats every bite.

☆ CHOSO KAMO

You’re starting to think social protocol should be implanted in everyone at birth.

Just the basics. The unspoken etiquette of not talking through a mouthful, or not cutting lines, or — perhaps most relevant to your current situation — not complimenting another woman’s perfume while your girlfriend is holding your hand.

Choso, for all his softness and sincerity, missed a few memos on the human experience. Which is ironic, because he tries. God, does he try.

He listens to everything you say like it’s scripture. Nods when you explain the importance of making people feel seen. Tries to mimic the tone you use when complimenting baristas and bus drivers and kids with crooked laces. He's eager, warm, just a little awkward—but people love it. You still remember the proud look he gave you after telling a teen at the skate park, “You look so balanced, like a predator watching its prey,” and you’d had to gently steer him toward less feral metaphors.

You’ve guided him since, helping him shape compliments with a little less edge. And you’ll admit — it’s endearing. The way he admired that old lady’s sunflower hat, eyes sparkling like it was the most brilliant invention he’d ever seen. But today, today is something else.

You’re standing next to him in a café. Warm hand holding yours, your pinky tangled with his, your face tilted toward the pastry display. And the barista — a tall woman with kind eyes and long auburn curls — smiles as she hands him the receipt. And choso, like he’s narrating a thought as it passes, says:

“You have very soft lips. The color is… nice.”

You freeze mid-step, her smile stretches awkward. “Uh… thanks?”

He doesn’t even flinch. He turns to you, eyes expectant, like did I do good? You blink.

“Choso,” you say slowly, “What did we say about… complimenting strangers?”

He tilts his head. “To be specific. And polite. And not scary.”

“Right. And were you being… specific and polite just now?”

His brows draw together like he’s doing math. “I didn't say I wanted to kiss her lips. I just said they looked nice.”

You drag him by the sleeve to the corner of the café, behind a ficus plant, heart doing that rapid spiral between jealousy and sheer disbelief. “Okay,” you whisper, “You can’t say things like that to women when I'm standing right next to you.”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “But you told me it’s kind to compliment people.”

“Yes, but—” you exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Some compliments give off the vibe that you’re… interested in the person.”

His frown deepens. “But I'm not.”

“I know that,” you hiss, waving a hand between you, “You know that, but she doesn’t.” He glances at the barista, then back to you. “So… she thinks I like her?”

“Maybe a little!”

“But I don’t.”

“But she doesn’t know that, Choso!”

His expression twists, hurt and disbelief slowly pooling there. “But… that’s not fair. If I'm being nice, and I don't mean it like that, why is it bad?”

“Because it looks like you mean it like that,” you say, helpless. He folds his arms, sulking now. “So I can’t say a woman smells good, or has nice hair, or lips. even if I’m just appreciating it. Even if I’d never leave you. Even if I said your lips were better.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You didn’t say that last part.”

“I thought it really hard.”

You fight back the sigh. He's pouting now, shoulders squared stubbornly, lower lip jutting out just a bit. like a kid told he can’t have candy before dinner.

“Choso.”

He doesn’t look at you. “It's still dumb.”

“Social cues are dumb,” you agree. “But they exist.”

He mumbles under his breath, “Shouldn’t exist if they make you hide compliments.”

“You’re not hiding them. You’re… redirecting them.”

He mutters something like, “feels like censorship,” and you just stare at him, stunned by how deeply he’s taking this. You press your lips together, watching him glower at the fern beside the espresso machine like it personally wronged him. Then finally, you whisper—

“Just promise me you’ll keep the lip compliments to me from now on?”

He gives you a very reluctant nod.

“…But only because your lips really are the best,” he mumbles.

And you let out the breath you were holding, squeezing his hand. You’ll call it progress. Kind of.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

Sometimes you wonder if it’s in your karmic debt to be tangled with men who don’t know what to do with basic affection.

You never asked Toji where he was going, never asked what he was doing, who he’d kill, what he’d be paid. He'd drop the money on your kitchen table like a lazy thank-you card — some loose bills, a few coins if he felt generous. It clinked against the bowl of sewing needles and antiseptic like a ritual. And you’d patch him up silently, routinely. A cycle you both slipped into like an old sweater that still held the scent of someone else’s cigarettes.

You had history. A past. But calling it a relationship? Maybe in another timeline where men knew how to sit with the ache of being wanted. So god forbid — god fucking forbid — you hand him a glass of water as he’s slipping his cursed tools into his jacket, your fingers brushing his as you press the cool glass against his palm. “It's hot today,” you murmur, “Don’t dehydrate. And—” your voice softens, “—watch your footing this time. That last jump from the balcony nearly tore your quad.” He takes the water but doesn’t drink it. And then, as if your words poisoned it, he sets the glass down without a sip. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “Don’t need you fussin’ over me.”

Your brow twitches. “Fussing?”

He exhales sharply, slow and impatient. “I didn't come here for pity.”

And something inside you snaps. Not like a wire, but like a stretched rubber band finally losing tension — a dull, slack kind of tired. “That's not pity,” you mutter, stepping back, your hand brushing against the door. “That's human decency, Toji.” He shrugs. Shrugs, like you’d just offered him a second napkin he didn’t need. “Whatever it is, I don't need it.”

“Oh? Then patch your own wounds from now on. Sew your own flesh. Hydrate your damn self.”

And you open the door and slam it so hard it rattles the frame. He just stands there on the other side, staring at the door like it betrayed him. His hand hovers mid-air, still partially curled around the sheath of his weapon, like he doesn’t know whether to knock again or keep walking.

Toji Fushiguro has taken stabs to the gut with less confusion than the sound of a door shutting on him after a glass of water.

And maybe that’s the problem. He's been surviving so long he’s forgotten what it means to be cared for without condition. But you? You’ve learned enough to know that care without appreciation isn’t love. It's labor. And you’ve worked overtime.

It takes him three hits to the stomach. Three clean, deliberate punches from men who didn’t live to brag about it, and Toji finds himself standing in front of your door again. Not knocking, not limping. Just…standing.

Like a big, wet, blood-specked dog who’s too proud to whimper but too injured to run.

And when you open the door — half-expecting a package, a neighbor, a miracle — your eyes nearly pop out of your skull.

“Are you kidding me?!”

You don’t even let him speak. Your fingers clamp around his wrist, yanking him in with a strength he knows better than to question. You march him straight to the bathroom, muttering under your breath like a storm ready to hail hell. He’s not even fully through the door when you’re tugging at his ruined shirt, peeling it off him with all the grace of a garbage disposal. He lets you, mostly because resisting you never ends well.

“You couldn’t have just — I don’t know — gone to a hospital like a normal human being? Oh wait, that would require being normal.”

You slap a wet towel against his chest

“Did you stab them first or were they just really, really enthusiastic about rearranging your insides?”

He's quiet. There’s a faint twitch at his jaw, like he wants to say something, but a bottle of antiseptic in your hand shuts him up real quick. You scrub like your life depends on it, like if you clean him hard enough, the last week will vanish off his skin too. Soap and dried blood swirl around the drain in a gruesome little ballet. His knuckles tighten around the edge of the tub when the antiseptic hits open flesh.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Take it easy—”

“Oh I’m sorry,” you snap, slathering another handful with absolutely zero sympathy, “Did the murderous mercenary just ask me to be gentle?”

He doesn’t reply. Because frankly, the soap in his wounds is making his eyes sting more than any blade could. And maybe — just maybe — that’s not the only reason they’re burning.

“You know,” you mutter, tone softer now, “You act like showing up here isn’t a confession in itself.”

He glances up at you. There’s blood drying at his temple, one gash near his ribs. His voice, when he speaks, is gravel caught in hesitation.

“...Didn’t know where else to go.”

You pause, just for a second. Then you sigh — a long, bone-deep exhale that tastes like surrender and soap.

“You’re a goddamn idiot, Fushiguro.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, wincing as you dab his side. “You say that every time.”

“Maybe if you apologized once in a while, I wouldn't have to.”

He tilts his head at you then. eyes calm, mouth twitching like he’s fighting off something between a smirk and a grimace. “This is me apologizing,” he says, voice low. “You think I'd let anyone else see me like this?”

It hits you then. Not just the words, but the weight behind them. And it’s stupid — it’s so stupid — but even drenched in his blood and your bathwater, even half-naked and so frustrating you want to dunk him into the toilet, you reach up and flick his forehead. Not too hard, just enough to say don’t be such a jackass next time. He grunts, and you mutter, “Next time you don’t show up for a week, I’m leaving you on read.”

He nods, like that’s fair. You finish cleaning him up in silence. And neither of you says it — not out loud — but maybe this is love in your own, terribly specific, catastrophically bloody way.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA

There are times when you wonder if the internet was right: Never date a man older than you.

And not just older. Your boyfriend—no, courter, as he insists, like it’s the Feudal era—is Sukuna. A walking fossil. A man who pre-dates the invention of glass windows. Someone who’s spent centuries collecting knowledge like magpies collect shiny things.

At first, it was kind of cute. He’d run his fingers through your hair and mutter things like “You know, oak trees like that one were used for sacred offerings in the old capital,” and you’d smile up at him like, wow, what a charming bit of historical trivia. He’d gesture vaguely at your matcha latte, proud as a cat, and say “Tasted the first batch. It was better then. Earthier.” you hum and sip, amused, entertained. It felt like dating a strange, hot encyclopedia. A relic with biceps, even.

But the charm starts to crack around the edges when he watches you cook and breathes through his nose like you’ve personally offended ten generations of farmers. Like now.

You’re standing at the kitchen counter, chopping green onions for a stir-fry. And it’s not even that you’re doing it wrong — you’re just doing it your way. And yet, from his perch against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable, comes the familiar, grating hum of—

“You’re holding the knife wrong.”

You don’t look at him. “I've done this a thousand times, Suku.”

He makes a quiet noise, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “And incorrectly, each time.” Your grip tightens on the handle. You focus on your breathing. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

“If you cut them diagonally,” he continues, stepping closer like a predator circling its prey, “You increase the surface area. Better flavor absorption. Even a child from the Southern provinces knew that.”

You stop chopping.

“Well, I'm not a child from the Southern provinces,” you say, evenly. He leans over your shoulder, fingers ghosting over yours — not gentle, just correcting, pressing them into what he deems the proper hold. “No, you’re not. Children back then were more attentive.”

That one hits. You pull your hand away, stepping aside and set the knife down.

He blinks. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, too fast. “I'll just… let you do it.”

He looks at the cutting board, then at you. Then scoffs again. That same infuriating little sound. Not mocking, not amused. Just — condescending. Like you’re some soft, dumb thing that tries hard and always fails. And the worst part? He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He’ll hold your hand like it’s made of rice paper, trail kisses down your arm, call you petal and little one and say things like “you’re mine to protect.” but he doesn’t see you. Not really, not as an equal. Not as someone who exists in the same frame of experience.

You’re just… small to him. Young. Naive. Ephemeral.

“You’re angry,” he says now, head tilted. You bite your cheek. “I'm fine.”

He narrows his eyes, steps closer again. “You’re not. You’re bristling like a cat.”

“Do you hear yourself?” you ask, finally turning to face him. “Do you ever stop and think about how you talk to me? I made a mistake cutting a damn vegetable, and you acted like I burned down a monastery.”

He straightens, face blank. Then cold. “I'm only trying to teach you,” he says, as if that’s supposed to make you grateful.

“I don't need a teacher,” you snap. “I need a partner.”

His jaw twitches. “And I need someone who listens.”

You stare at him, the silence stretching.

There it is. Not a misunderstanding, not a lost-in-translation moment from someone born before democracy. Just a bitter, stubborn truth.

You’re not equals. You’re a fleeting flame to him. A girl with knives and heat and too many opinions. And he? He's eternal, ancient. And always, always right. You turn around, quietly gathering your things. His voice doesn’t follow. Not yet.

You’re sitting in the backyard now, arms folded, jaw set, full-blown sun glaring down like even it knows you stormed out without checking the weather. Your phone’s inside, your pride is up here with you, and the back of your shirt is beginning to stick to your spine. You hear the shoji door slide open with that gentle hiss. His voice follows, smug and echoing off the stone:

“You know,” Sukuna calls out, “This is the part of the day when the earth’s axial tilt brings the southern sun directly overhead. You’ll overheat soon, petal.”

You ignore him. Dramatically. You close your eyes and lean your head back like you’re immune to axial tilts. And then—

The sun spikes in intensity like it’s been listening to him. A bead of sweat slithers down your temple.

You last about thirty seconds before you’re bolting upright, stumbling in your too-hot socks across the stone path, bursting back into the cool house like a fugitive from your own ego. Sukuna’s waiting, naturally. Leaned against the frame with arms crossed and a smile so arrogant you can feel it searing through your soul.

“Oh shut up,” you mutter, peeling off your shirt like a defeated wrestler. He chuckles but doesn’t gloat, not really. His smile lingers, but there’s something else behind it — soft, thoughtful, almost... restrained.

“Petal,” he calls quietly.

You freeze. He only ever uses that voice when his hands are around your waist and the rest of the world has fallen away. You turn, arms crossing over your chest again, less annoyed now, more cautious. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first. Instead, he picks at the hem of his sleeve like it’s telling him what to say.

“I don't mean to make you feel small,” he starts, slow and measured, the words clearly coming through thorns. “I've spent years — centuries — knowing things no one wants to hear. People die, people forget. And then there’s you.” He lifts his gaze, finally meeting yours. “You listen. Even when you’re annoyed, even when you’re fighting me, you listen.”

Your chest tightens, stubborn anger still curling in your gut like it doesn’t want to give up that easily. He steps forward, voice gentler now. “I should be thanking you for even giving me that. For letting me talk. Letting me—” he hesitates, then exhales through his nose. “Share. I've been hoarding this knowledge for lifetimes. But now I get to pass it to you.”

You blink. You hadn’t realized how quiet it’d been in his world before you entered it, full of tangents and mistakes and kitchen errors. “…You could say all that instead of acting like a patronizing know-it-all,” you say, squinting at him. He shrugs, unapologetic. “You’re prettier when you’re irritated. Brings color to your face.”

You huff. But some part of you — some mushy, well-hydrated core — is starting to warm. Maybe you’ll never really be on equal footing. But he wants to hand you every piece of him, and if that’s not love in its own way — what is? And then—because he doesn’t know when to stop while he's ahead—he smirks. “Our children should hear these things too. Pass it down, generation by generation.”

You deadpan. “We don't have kids.”

He grins wider. “Not yet.”

A stalk of green onion whizzes across the room and bounces off his shoulder. “Tch,” he mutters, plucking it off the floor. “Poor cutting technique, by the way.”

You launch a second one straight at his face.

☆ NAOYA ZENIN

You’re starting to realize that behind every successful man is a woman.

A woman holding a knife.

And being Naoya Zenin’s wife means you live in the tightrope space between bloody respect and bloody disrespect, and frankly, it depends more on whether his mood is sour than anything you’ve done. Today, it’s the latter. And today, you’re the idiot.

You hear it from a maid first, in passing — something about “Master Zenin’s ingenious restructuring proposal.” You think it’s a joke. It has to be. You’d mentioned that idea last week, softly, while rubbing the tension from his neck, your lips close to his temple, your voice even closer to a whisper—

“You know what would streamline the clan’s expenses?”

And now here it is. His plan, his innovation, his genius. You weren’t called into the meeting, weren’t even informed. And the best part? People act like you should be impressed.

“I thought you’d be proud,” Naoya says when you finally find him, post-meeting, lounging like he owns the air. He's twirling a calligraphy brush between his fingers, careless and smug. “It went over well.” Your throat feels tight, like every breath is wrapped in gauze. “You didn’t even tell me you were going to pitch it.”

He blinks up at you. “You told me, didn’t you?”

You stare.

“So?” he adds with a smirk. “What's mine is yours. And yours is mine.”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny — because if you don’t, you might scream. Or throw something. Or drive that calligraphy brush straight through his arrogant eye.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter. He shrugs, standing with the same irritating grace he carries into every room. “I'm a Zenin.”

You fold your arms. “And what am I?”

His gaze narrows slightly, as if the question confuses him. “You’re my wife,” he answers plainly, as though it should satisfy everything. “You’re mine.”

You could eat glass and it would go down smoother than that sentence.

His fingers trail down your arm like he’s granting you affection, not brushing you off. “You give me your thoughts, I bring them to life. I don't see the issue.”

“You don’t see the issue,” you repeat, voice flat. “You didn’t even mention my name.” He frowns a little, like you’re overcomplicating things. “Why would I? The elders don’t care. They barely respect me. why would they listen to a woman?”

Your jaw clenches. He notices the shift, of course. Naoya’s many things — sexist, self-serving, endlessly smug — but he’s not stupid. “Look,” he says, tone lilting into placation. “You’re angry. Fine. I'll give you credit next time.”

You don’t want credit. You want your name said with pride. You want your words to carry weight without being dressed in a man’s voice. You want to be more than the soft-spoken strategist in the shadows of his throne. Sometimes, when he says “we’re one,” you wonder how many pieces of yourself are left unsaid, unthanked, unrecognized — just so he can stand taller in front of his men. And sometimes? Sometimes you wish you weren’t his anything at all.

It takes a week — seven full days, down to the damn hour — for Naoya Zenin to notice something is wrong. Not wrong in the way that he’s cut during training or that the weather’s dreary or the maids used the wrong incense in the bath again. No.

Wrong in the energy of the house.

Wrong in the way that every time he steps into your shared chambers, things are in place — dinner laid out neatly, his clothes pressed, his favorite tea at the exact temperature he likes. You even still massage his shoulders when he sits on the mat with a grunt, still trail your hands up his spine like your fingers remember the pattern of his vertebrae better than you remember your own schedule. If he’s lucky, he gets a fuck out of it. Mechanical, but there. Like clockwork. But the silence? That's what’s eating at him now.

No updates, no gentle commentary, no amused huff about how one of his cousins tripped on his own hakama or how the elders butchered a clause in the last contract. None of your insight, your brilliance, that cutting wit hidden under all that practiced poise. You’re just… quiet.

It hits him one night, like a blunt object to the chest. You’re folding your robes across the room, preparing for bed without waiting on him, without your usual retort to his offhand comment about how “the clan couldn’t survive without his guidance.” Usually you’d hum, or scoff, or mumble something clever about how you’re the one guiding the clan by proxy. This time? Just a blink. A soft, flat, unimpressed hum.

And you keep folding.

He clears his throat.

“...You didn’t mention what you thought of my handling of the merchant issue,” he tries, casually, like he’s not begging.

“You solved it,” you say. Three words — no tone, just a statement of fact. “Yes, but,” he pushes, frowning slightly. “Was it good? Bad? Tell me what you would’ve done.”

You don’t even turn to look at him. “It's your clan.”

Naoya blinks, jaws working. It should’ve felt like praise.

It doesn’t. He shifts uncomfortably, eyes trailing over to where your futon is — neatly laid out. across the room. Far, as if he’d give you frostbite by breathing too close. You’ve never slept that far before. Not even when you fought, not even when he forgot your birthday and tried to make up for it with a ruby that didn’t match any of your jewelry. “…What’s going on with you?” he asks eventually, voice sharper than he intends.

You shrug, settling under your blanket with your back turned to him. “Nothing.”

“You’ve been quiet for days. No opinions, no ideas, no…” He stops. Swallows.

“...No talking.”

You don’t answer. He sits up, shoulders stiff, his hair a mess from laying down. His voice cracks around the edges, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “Is this about the meeting? About the idea?”

Silence.

“Look, I—”

He exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. I should’ve told them it was yours. I should’ve — fuck, I should’ve —”

You turn, just enough to look at him. Eyes tired. Not angry, not cold. Just... dulled from exhaustion.

“I'm not angry because you used it,” you say, voice finally sliding into the room like warm oil. “I'm angry because you didn’t even consider me. Because in this house, I'm not a person. I'm your reflection. And worse, when I disappear, you don’t even notice what’s missing.”

That hits him square in the chest, and he sits there, stunned, like someone’s pulled the floor from under him.

“…Sorry.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t expect it — because it’s probably the first real apology you’ve heard from him without the word “but” attached.

“I don't know how to fix that,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Not in this house. Not with… them.” he means the elders. The clan. The entire system of misogyny he was raised in like a second womb. “But I can start with this. With you.”

You sigh. Not in defeat, but in release. And you pat the space beside your futon.

He blinks again. Slow, cautious.

“…Can I?”

“I'm not warming your bed tonight.”

“I'll take it.”

And maybe things aren’t fixed. Not the deep, knotted root of sexism still wrapping itself around the household like a noose. But for tonight, there’s an apology. A shared blanket. A woman who is no longer invisible.

And a man who, for once, listened.

a/n hello!! this was initially meant to be a make-up sex post but the education system hates me and i had no time to write what i wanted, so i had to cut this fic short by a lot. i'll be publishing a part 2 around the same topic, but maybe with different scenarios for each character :) thanks for reading!

#★creamfics.#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #gojo x reader #nanami x reader #choso x reader #toji x reader #sukuna x reader #naoya x reader #jjk comfort #jujutsu kaisen comfort #jjk x fem!reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x female reader #jujutsu kaisen x you

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saerotonins · 1 year ago

Text

biggest scandals they have faced

ft. actor!nanami kento, fushiguro toji x wife!reader (separated)

content warnings: fluff, light angst, jjk actor au, celebrity issues, cheating allegations, divorce allegations, none of them are true, misogyny, mentions of infertility, just cruel stuff based on the issues i see online, slightly suggestive (making out), toji and wife call each other "ma" and "pa", mentions/hinting of sex, internet trolls, horrible people online, pls don't read if these issues are triggering to you, shitty article names lol

wc: 2052

note: this got too long, will do other parts for the other actors instead <33 happy holidays, everyone!

NANAMI KENTO:

Jujutsu Kaisen Star Nanami Kento Facing Trouble in Paradise: Leads to Divorce

to say he was irritated when he saw the headlines from the tabloids was an understatement, he is beyond livid. but the comments just made everything worse.

user_1: wow aren't they married for years already? maybe his wife can't conceive any babies? LOL

user_2: must be, or maybe nanami's just realized his wife is just using him for his actor money

user_3: the wife doesn't know to make a sandwich i fear

user_4: maybe he got tired of his wife's ugly face, no wonder he hides it from the internet hahaha

kento doesn't give a fuck if people were dragging his name left and right but god forbid it involves you, his loving wife who has been nothing but utterly supportive of his career. for someone who stuck by his side for years, it angers him that people immediately assume that you were the problem. he knows the news isn't true, he literally just cuddled with you last night, so to say that you were getting a divorce almost makes him laugh if it weren't how stupid this situation is.

when his manager informed him about the situation, he immediately cancelled every schedule that he has for today, he will call the lawyers to settle this later but for now, his main focus is you.

you are someone who is used to the privacy of your own space which is why you opted to keep your face off his socials and remain anonymous to the eyes of his fans. kento hates it that your peace is getting disturbed due to his stardom, so he is willing to drop everything just to go home to you and comfort you. no one knows who you really are but the way it made people talk like they do, makes him angry. no way his wife is going to be disrespected like this.

the moment kento opens the door the your shared home, he's panting, sweat evident in his forehead and worry present in his eyes as he looks at you across the living room, sitting on the couch with your phone in your hands.

"shit," he thought, he knows you already saw the news, and worse the comments. he can tell just by your body language. your eyes sunken in sadness and your lips form a frown. he doesn't see it but he knows your heart is breaking too.

"honey," kento breathes out as he walks towards you. he knows you heard him, but you stay in your position, disbelief flooding your senses. suddenly, you came back to reality when you feel kento's warm embrace, his large and quick hands getting rid of your phone before placing it on your head and immediately feeling his chest against your head.

his breathing his ragged, unstable deep breaths as he tells you, "it's gonna be okay," and a thousand apologies to go with it. you nod instead, finding yourself difficult to talk. you opt to rub onto his arm, a silent reply to his comforting and kento seems to understand your gesture. he then kisses the crown of your head as he pulls you tighter in his embrace.

"am i holding you back, kento?" you asked, your voice quite muffled as you speak through his button down blouse.

"oh god, darling you will never hold me back, if anything, you keep me moving. don't listen to them, alright? i'm happy and contented to where we are right now, don't worry about it." he lets go of the embrace and cups your face with both of his hands. he looks at you with loving eyes as he brushes your lower lip with his thumb. you close your eyes as he leaned closer, then you finally felt his lips against yours. he gives a peck, another, and then a third one before he crashes his lips onto you for the last time as he takes his time to explore your mouth.

kento knows a lot of ways to apologize, and this is one of them. he is gentle, but his love is loud as he allows his tongue clash against yours, the wet squelch filling up the room as he allows himself to be drunk with your lips.

when kento lets go, his breathing is heavy but satisfied. "i'll take care of everything from then on, okay?" he says as he caresses your face and a smile creeps to his face when you lean towards his touch with a nod. "will you be releasing a statement?" you ask.

"yeah, i'll contact our lawyer about it and then we'll see what we can do." his answer earned a curt nod from you. kento noticed pursed your lips, obviously thinking about something.

"are you still bothered by the comments?"

"no, i mean, i'm a bit upset about how people were talking about me online but i'm just curious as to where all this came from."

"hmm, yeah, we'll take care of that too, for now, just rest your pretty mind and always remember that i will never leave you. that okay?" his gentle voice makes your heart feel full, and that's you know that your husband will always be at your beck and call. "yeah." you answered as you give his lips a quick peck, "i love you," you added.

"i love you too."

not a even a day later, the JJK LABEL had released a statement and an article regarding the fake news that had surfaced.

Nanami Kento Slams Fake Divorce Article: "Don't project your problems in your love life through me and my wife."

"the article itself and the comments are horrible and people are stupid enough to believe something that came from a tabloid known to release fake news. maybe this just tells about how gullible and stupid people are for believing groundless rumors and not my relationship." the artist stated.

"to everyone involved in the release of this article, we will see you on court and i hope you have any evidence about your claim. to the people who threw disgusting comments about my wife, please worry how alone you are instead of snooping around our relationship." he adds.

that day, kento's fanbase rejoice as the tabloids finally got their karma when it was reported that their company was finally shut down.

FUSHIGURO TOJI:

it was a normal day in the fushiguro household until megumi bursts in through the door with a loud and resounding—

"dad, what the fuck?"

"megumi, language, please!" you warned him.

your word goes through megumi's ears and went to his dad who is currently lounging in the living room reading his script. he paid his son's words no mind and gave him a raised eyebrow, urging him to continue.

"your name is all over tabloids because of a forum post. look," megumi says as he faces his phone screen to toji's face. to say that he's horrified to what he just saw is an understatement. so, with a worry mind, you go behind toji's lounging chair and read what's on the screen.

Acting Veteran 'T' Caught in An Affair!

At the night of Tuesday, Actor 'T' is caught leaving a hotel with a seemingly younger woman clinging on his arms. The two are being lovey-dovey in their Shibuya rendezvous. Actor 'T' is currently married with a child which makes everything even more scandalous. What would actor 'T'’s wife and child think about this? Seems like the man really took a liking towards sneaking away with younger women.

Actor 'T'’s identity will be released by [MM/DD/YY] so stay tuned! For now, let us know your thoughts below.

user_1: actor veteran and the code is T? must be toji then?

user_2: this is definitely toji lmfao he looks like someone who would fool a younger woman

user_3: his wife must be so rusty now so he's running to the younglings LOL

user_4: respect for having the balls to cheat on his wife after this long, ik his ass is itching

user_5: @user_4 LMFAO should've done it sooner! bet he doesn't want to pay child support so he's staying 😂

user_6: NOOOO the GOAT got caught damn we were rooting for u 👑

"what the fuck?" both you and toji's voice were erupting in the whole room. out of shock? anger? rage? megumi is not sure but there is one thing he's sure of, both of you are being scary right now and the red in both of you and husband's eyes are almost showing due to the high range of emotions you were both feeling right now.

despite knowing that toji is utterly in love with you and he was actually with you that day, it scares him that his father is facing this kind of scandal. people are horrible out there trying to ruin his father's career that he worked hard on and this is the proof.

toji might be used to having false rumors spread about him all over the years he is in the acting industry, but what he can't take is people talking shit about his wife and thinking less about her. the comments that he just read just woke up the rage inside of him.

"mom?" megumi had called you since it's been minutes when you had gone quiet. the sight before him broke his heart.

your eyes are trying not to let your tears fall, but the comments are too hurtful to ignore, too cruel to set aside. even though you know that it's covered with a codename (barely), you exactly know it's your husband that they are talking about. you're hurt about the comments but you're most scared of your husband's career coming to a screeching halt.

you suddenly feel your husband hug you so tight and you let it all out. his shirt might get damped but toji doesn't care, comforting his wife comes first. he then tells megumi, "call our lawyer, tell him what we just saw, they'll know what to do," megumi frantically nods and gets out of the house to do what toji had said.

"come on, ma, let's go and get some rest." toji had urged you to go with him.

"pa, this is so ridiculous, i know you know how to deal with these but this is just too much, they're targeting our family now." the sadness in your voice and the tears that flow through face break toji's heart. you don't deserve this. these assholes needed to be taught a lesson, and he knows he won't be nice about it. "i'll take care of this, 'kay? i love you and megs so much, angel."

toji's voice somehow calmed your senses and you let yourself cry in his arms until you're left with no tears. "i'm sorry, i'm too old to cry like this." you said as you try to wipe the remnants of your tears from your face.

"no one's too old to cry, darling," toji coos, glad that you're finally able to calm down, and caresses the back of your head. then, a sly smirk forms on his lips, "you know what else we're not too old for?"

genuinely curious, you look up to him, "what?" you asked.

toji leaned down and whispered, "another child, think we can give megumi a sibling?" and gave you a mischievous look.

"toji!" you exclaimed as you smack his chest, flustered of his words.

"gross, get a room, and is now really the time for this?" you suddenly let go of yourself from toji's grasp the moment you heard megumi back in the living room. toji chuckled, "i got it all covered, both of you rest up and i will deal with all of this." toji walked towards where megumi is standing and gives his head a gentle pat, "no one's gonna ruin us, alright?"

the conviction in toji's voice made it clear to both of you and megumi that he already has a plan in mind, and you trust him enough to believe him. he has never let the both of you down, after all.

the next day, news break out the the person who posted the rumor on the online forum is caught with other criminal charges aside from the defamation he just attempted to do. the horrible comments also seem to magically disappear.

Fushiguro Toji Busts Down Anonymous User, Other Criminal Charges Involved

"I hope this serves as a lesson to everyone else. I'm not backing down until everyone gets what they deserve for ruining the names of the people I care about. I will not let go until every single horrible person who rises their tongue against my family is punished." Toji stated.

"Be careful what you read and comment online, please don't forget that the people you talk about are not just subjects, but real human beings." The veteran actor added.

the fake news spreader should have really known not to deal with a veteran who is powerful enough to protect the people he cherishes.

edit: i just noticed that i wasn't able to add the ending to toji's part 😭 my apologies, i fixed it now!

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reignpage · 6 months ago

Note

Hi!! If you have the time- how would the jjk guys react to the reader giving them the silent treatment?

I hope you're having a wonderful day!

Gojo:

Would try to make you laugh at first When that doesn't work and he notices you're just getting more irritated, he'd start bribing you Buys you flowers, handbags, dresses, jewellery you name it If you're still silent, then he'll go deadly serious Would confront you in the dark, sitting on the sofa like he's been waiting for hours 'Is there nothing I can do? Are we done for good? Are you leaving me too?'

Geto:

Gets snarky Two can play that game He's not the calm and patient guy everyone thinks he is He just reacts in subtle ways Makes passive-aggressive comments But eventually will get tired, sighs and just asks you straight up what he did wrong 'Alright, what happened? Let me inside that head of yours.'

Choso:

Keeps asking you what's wrong Gets really sad and depressed Very much kicked puppy vibes Just follows you around everywhere Until you crack 'I didn't know what I did but I'm sorry. Please talk to me? I'm scared'

Toji:

LOL LMFAO ROFL This man would be soooo annoying He'd be smug as hell at first Says shit like 'It's nice to have peace and quiet here' 'You should get mad at me more often ma' BUT eventually realising you're not gonna crack He'll start to get nervous Starts cleaning up after himself Double checks to make sure the trash is out, he hasn't left any dishes in the sink, didn't miss any appointments or anniversaries etc etc Would send Megumi in to get a feel for your mood 'make yourself extra cute kid' 'ask her why she isn't speaking to me. no don't tell her I told you to. whose side are you on?'

Nanami:

Would ask you immediately if there's something wrong Is so mature and healthy it's irritating 'please communicate with me, darling. I can't apologise and fix whatever I ruined if you don't talk to me.' Eventually, he'll give you space But then you'll start feeling really bad because he'll assume that you hate him or something Like, he'll start buying sandwiches to take to work cause he thinks you won't make lunch for him like normal or sleeps on the couch eats dinner and watches shows by himself so you cave first and the smile he gives you is so worth it

Sukuna:

Doesn't notice a thing at first He isn't the type to be clingy, he's not the affectionate one, he mostly returns it So there'll just be a period of silence Until he begins to feel your absence in which case he'll seek you out and then becomes the clingy one 'it is a pleasant day out, would you care to join me for a stroll? gets sooo offended if you don't say anything 'no? would you prefer to stroll with someone else? tell me who and they will be killed. in fact, continue to remain in silence and everyone will be killed.'

Yuji:

Confused :0 asks Nobara for advice 'you're a girl, she's a girl. so tell me what's going on' 'is it the time of the month?' uses loads of different tricks to make you break performs dances and skits gets Gojo involved tries to get Megumi involved (no chance) he's so stupid you just have to cave and explain he's an idiot and he'll nod happily

Megumi:

yeahhhhhh you'll be having a silent off for days and weeks you'll both continue to co-exist in silence it's just not smart

Inumaki:

annoying as hell texts you shit like: 'when she copies you' 'ho is u good?' 'can you be original at least?' when that doesn't work he'll break into your social media or gaming accounts right in front of you and threatens to release a post pretending to be you like 'you know, hitler wasn't that bad' or an ugly picture of you then you'll have to cave and he gets so caught up in the victory, he'll accidentally post it yep, he's a dead man walking

#jjk reactions

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justarkive · 2 months ago

Text

TABLE 3 | JJK ch5

“For good service and cute waitresses”

pairing: pre military!jungkook x secret fuckbuddy!oc

contents: profanity, eventual smut, fluff, humour, celeb au, THEY FIX THINGS!, deep talks, jk talks about his life, alcohol consumption, nari!, oc has some inner conflict ar some points. JUNGKOOK AND OC GO ON DATE!! YAYAYYA

wc: idk yall but its long (im sry checking wc is so long)

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

taglist: @dreamersparacosm @jenniebyrubies @darklove2020

a/n: lowk hate this chapter. enjoy though :) ALSO SMUT IS COMING IN THE NEXT 2 CHAPTERS PROBABLY! KEEP HOLDING ON GUYSS!!

masterlist < prev | next >

The apartment feels hollow in a way that has nothing to do with its size. The walls stretch high, the corners dark, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. You curl deeper into the couch, knees tucked to your chest, as the words from earlier loop in your head. You lied to Nari about being busy tonight. Sometimes you just want to be alone, even though you know that being with her would make you forget about that whole… ordeal. But sometimes, it’s better to face things head-on.

“I mean, to be fair, you saw what happened last time. The whole social media thing? That was a mess. He’s probably trying to avoid another situation like that.”

Nari had said it so casually, as if it were obvious, as if it didn’t sting. As if it didn’t make your stomach tighten with something complicated and ugly.

Was that all it was?

Jungkook wasn’t cold because of you, because of whatever unspoken thing had been threading between you both for a while now. He was just—avoiding a mess. Dodging headlines, hashtags, speculation. And maybe you should feel relieved about that, but instead, it settles in your chest like a weight pressing down, down, down.

Because isn’t that worse?

If he had been upset with you, if you had done something wrong—though you can’t think of anything wrong other than leaving him on read—you could fix it. Apologize. Make it right. But this? How are you supposed to fight against something as intangible as his reluctance to be seen with you?

You exhale slowly, pressing your forehead against your knees.

You replay the moment from earlier, the way he barely met your eyes, the way his words had been clipped and distant—like he had already decided you weren’t worth the trouble.

It shouldn’t matter this much.

And yet—

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, lighting up the dim room.

You don’t move at first. Just stare, watching the letters of the name glow on the screen. Unknown number.

He’s already called twice tonight. You let it ring both times, watching the screen dim until silence swallowed the room again.

But this time, your hand moves before you can stop yourself. A deep breath. Then, you swipe to accept the call, pressing the phone to your ear.

Silence.

The kind that stretches, thick and uncertain.

You swallow. “Hello?”

Still nothing. Only the faintest sound of his breathing on the other end.

Your fingers tighten around the phone. “Jungkook?”

Then, finally— “I’m sorry.”

His voice was quiet, rough.

“I’m so, so sorry. I— I swear, it wasn’t what you think. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole, I just—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” You cut in, frowning. “Slow down.”

He exhaled sharply, like he was trying to get his thoughts in order.

“I— I should have explained. I should have just—fuck, I don’t know, said something. I didn’t mean to push you away, I just… I panicked. Everything felt like it was spiraling, and I—” He sighed. “I didn’t want it to turn into a thing.”

Your fingers curled around the blanket on your lap.

“I get it,” You murmured.

“You do?” His voice was hesitant, like he didn’t quite believe you.

“Yeah. If you had just told me in the moment, I would have understood. I wouldn’t have been upset. But instead, you just…” you let out a humorless laugh. “You just left me standing there.”

A long silence stretched between you both.

“I know,” he said finally, voice small. “I messed up.”

You closed your eyes. “Next time, just… tell me. Trust me enough to let me handle it. Okay?”

Another pause. Then, softer—

“Okay.”

For the first time since that night, your chest felt a little lighter.

And then—

“Wait, is that Nari?”

Faintly, through the speaker, You heard your best friend’s distinct voice snapping—

“Took you long enough, you absolute idiot.”

You blinked. “What the—”

Jungkook groaned. “She’s at work tonight. She saw me come in looking for you and started yelling at me.”

He looked for you? Your heart beats a little faster at that but you dont let it show.

“GOOD,” Nari called. “You deserve it.”

You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh. “I’m hanging up,” Jungkook muttered.

“No, you’re not,” Nari retorted.

You hear a muffled thunk—probably Jungkook dropping his head onto the diner table.

“This is what i have to deal with now,” he grumbled.

You shake your head, a small smile curling at your lips.

“Yeah, well… You kind of deserve it.”

The silence between you and Jungkook lingers, stretching just long enough to make your fingers tighten around the phone. You don’t know what you’re expecting him to say next, or if he’s even going to say anything at all. Maybe this was a mistake—answering. But then, his voice, quieter this time, cuts through the static.

“I just… I- Can we meet?”

You blink. Meet? Your mind stumbles over the word, and suddenly, it feels like too much. The last time you saw him, he couldn’t even look at you properly. The last time you saw him, you stood there, waiting for some kind of explanation, while he brushed you off like it meant nothing. And now he wants to meet?

You hesitate, biting down on your lip. Your first instinct is to say no. Maybe not outright, but to come up with some excuse—I’m busy, I have work, I don’t think it’s a good idea. You have every reason to refuse, every right to tell him that he doesn’t get to just fix things on his own terms.

But then you exhale, and the anger—the frustration—doesn’t hold as tightly as it did before. Because the truth is, you do want to hear what he has to say. You want to know why he acted the way he did, why he’s calling you now, why his voice sounds the way it does, like he’s hoping you won’t say no.

Still, you hesitate a second too long, and that’s when Nari—who has been not-so-subtly eavesdropping this entire time—erupts into an excited squeal loud enough for you to hear.

“Oh my God, did you just ask to meet?!”

Your stomach drops. Yeah, you aren’t hearing the end of this from her.

There’s a quiet chuckle from the other end of the line—low, barely there, but unmistakable. It’s the first time you’ve heard Jungkook laugh in days, and for some reason, it makes your heart do something stupid in your chest.

You groan, tipping your head back. This is so embarrassing.

“You’re on a break right now, right?” Jungkook says after a moment, still amused. “Are you coming back to work tomorrow?”

“No,” you mumble. “I have a little time off right now.”

You don’t know why you tell him that. Maybe because part of you thinks he’s about to ask if you want to meet now, and you need to shut that down before it starts. But he doesn’t.

“Tomorrow, then?” he asks, quieter now. “Whenever you want. Just tell me where.”

There’s something careful about the way he says it, like he’s trying not to push. Like he’s letting you decide whether this happens at all.

You breathe in, pressing your fingers against the curve of your phone.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Tomorrow.”

There’s a beat of silence after you agree. Apart from Nari’s frantic squeals in the back, you’re sure your boss is absolutely not having this right now. Your own words settle in your chest, heavier than you expected. You’re really doing this. Meeting him. Letting him explain.

But then a different thought creeps in, one that makes your stomach twist.

“Wait,” you say suddenly, shifting the phone against your ear. “Are you sure this is a good idea? What if we get seen?”

Jungkook doesn’t respond immediately, but when he does, his voice is different—lower, smoother, edged with something infuriatingly smug.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, slow and deliberate. “I’ll handle it.”

Your breath catches.

Heat prickles at your skin, and you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice. He’s teasing you—you know he’s teasing you—but that doesn’t stop the way your stomach swoops, the way your grip tightens around your phone like it might steady you.

“Jungkook—”

“Mm?” He hums, all faux innocence, and you know he’s enjoying this.

You scowl, even as your face burns.

“Just—just text me the time,” you mutter before promptly hanging up, your heart pounding.

A cut off Nari-screech has you giggling at your phone before you freak out. You are actually meeting Jungkook outside of work. This time he isnt your customer, and you arent his waitress.

You groan, shoving your face into your hands.

Tomorrow is going to kill you, in a good way and a bad way.

——

Tomorrow comes faster than it should.

You’re pacing your apartment, stomach in knots, while Nari lounges on your couch with her legs crossed, watching you spiral like it’s her favorite pastime. For once, she’s at your place instead of the other way around—probably because she knew you’d need the support. You tug at the hem of your sweater, staring at your reflection in the full-length mirror near the door, then groaning as you grab a different one.

“Are you seriously changing again?” Nari deadpans. “Babe, it’s a casual date. Casual. You know what that means?”

You shoot her a glare through the mirror. “I know what it means, Nari.”

“Then why the fuck do you have, like, six different outfits lined up like you’re about to walk a runway?” She shakes her head, biting back a smirk. “You could show up in a garbage bag and he’d still drool.”

Your stomach flips at the thought, but you try to play it cool. “It’s not a date.”

Nari snorts. “You’re meeting up with a guy who has been acting like a human pretzel of regret for the past 24 hours, and he made sure to find the most secluded restaurant possible so you guys wouldn’t be interrupted. Babe, it’s a date.”

You don’t argue, because—well, yeah.

Still, the nerves are relentless. You fuss with your hair while Nari leans forward, propping her chin on her palm. She watches you carefully, something unreadable in her expression.

After what felt like an eternity, you finally settled on a simple yet flattering outfit- A denim skirt, which you’ve managed to dress down with a white crewneck hoodie and some tights since it’s cold. Nari helped with your hair and makeup, which turned into an oddly sentimental moment.

“You know,” she murmured as she curled a piece of your hair, “he was really freaking out about you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That night at the restaurant.” She hesitated for a second before meeting your eyes in the mirror. “When he called you, I’ve never seen him like that. He looked—panicked. Like, genuinely scared he’d fucked up for good.”

Your heart squeezed.

Nari put the curler down and turned you to face her. “I promise you, you have nothing to worry about.”

Her words settled something in you, but there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, something she wasn’t saying.

Because what she didn’t tell you—what she kept to herself—was what Jungkook had admitted that night.

I think I like her.

She didn’t say it because it wasn’t her place. But as she looked at you now, biting your lip, filled with doubt you shouldn’t have, she wished you knew.

A buzz interrupted the moment.

Your head snaps to it, but you don’t move immediately. It’s only when Nari gives you a pointed look that you snatch it up, thumb unlocking the screen.

[ iMessage ]

Jungkook [10 mins ago]: I’m outside. Take your time :)

And yes, you did change his name.

You stare at the message, a flush creeping up your neck. You hadn’t even noticed.

Nari peers over. “Ohhh. He didn’t want to rush you. What a gentleman,” she teases, bumping her shoulder against yours.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t ignore the little tug in your chest. Instead of texting back, you call him. The phone rings once before he picks up.

“Hey,” you say. “I—wait, are you seriously just sitting out there?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, hesitantly, he says, “I… don’t know if I should come to the door.”

Nari snatches the phone before you can react. “You will fucking come to the door,” she says, voice dripping with authority. “Okay?”

You can hear Jungkook stammering on the other end. “I just—if someone sees—”

“Oh my god,” Nari groans, exasperated. “Her neighborhood is literally filled with old people. None of them care, trust me. Get your ass out of the car, Jungkook.”

You reclaim your phone, shaking your head. “You don’t have to,” you say, voice quieter now. “If you really don’t want to”- A pause.

Then, a deep breath. “No, it’s fine,” he says. “I’ll come.”

The moment you hang up, Nari smirks. “See? Easy.”

When the knock finally comes, it’s softer than you expect—hesitant, almost.

You pull the door open before you can think twice.

And—

Jungkook is standing there, bathed in the soft glow of the hallway light, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. His hood is pulled up, shielding most of his face, but it does nothing to hide the way his eyes widen slightly when he sees you. The way his lips part—just the smallest bit, like he’s forgotten how to speak.

He’s staring.

Like he wasn’t expecting you to look like this.

Like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t allow himself to want.

His gaze moves—slow, almost unwilling—from the curve of your jaw to the slope of your shoulders, to the way your sweater hangs loosely, bunching slightly at your wrists where your fingers are curled into the fabric. And then, finally, back up to your face, lingering on your lips before flicking to your eyes.

“You look…” He swallows thickly, fiddling with his lip ring, his voice lower than usual. “Really pretty.”

You weren’t prepared for this.

You can feel the warmth creeping up your neck, your pulse thrumming under your skin. “Oh. Uh-. Thanks, you too.”

Jungkook exhales a quiet laugh, like he can’t believe himself. He glances away for a second, rubbing at the back of his neck, and you notice the way his fingers tense slightly—like he’s trying to ground himself.

Behind you, there’s a not-so-quiet shuffle.

You don’t have to turn around to know Nari is still there, probably grinning like she’s witnessing the climax of a rom-com.

You grab your bag and throw on your high top converse, about to step outside when—

A hand clamps down on Jungkook’s shoulder.

He startles.

“Listen up, buddy.”

Nari’s voice is saccharine sweet, but there’s an edge to it. She leans in slightly, tilting her head with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “If you fuck this up, I will personally remove your balls, okay?”

Jungkook blinks.

She pats his shoulder, fingers squeezing slightly for emphasis. “Good talk.”

And then, just as quickly, she’s beaming at you. Giving you a hug and pressing a peck to your cheek, “Have fun, babe!”

You’re mortified.

Jungkook looks like he’s just had a near-death experience. He clears his throat, jaw working like he’s trying not to laugh. “Remind me never to piss her off.”

“That’s probably for the best,” you mutter, shutting the door behind you.

You glance up at him, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you are, the way the night air carries the faintest trace of his cologne—something warm and clean and a little bit dangerous.

Jungkook watches you for a moment longer, then offers his hand.

“You ready?”

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, warmth bleeding into your skin.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Let’s go.”

You step out onto the quiet street, the night air crisp against your skin. The neighborhood is still, the only sound the distant hum of a car passing a few blocks away. Jungkook’s hand is still wrapped around yours, his grip firm but not forceful, like he’s giving you the option to pull away if you want to.

You don’t.

But as you both start walking toward his car, you can feel it—his hesitation. The slight way his fingers tighten around yours. The way his pace slows, just barely.

And then he speaks.

“Listen,” he starts, voice quieter now, like he’s trying to measure his words carefully. “I think I know what’s going through your head right now.”

You glance up at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. His jaw is tense, his brows furrowed like he’s fighting an internal battle.

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair before gripping yours again, firmer this time. “I promise you, I won’t get you into that mess again, hopefully no-one in this neighborhood gives a shit about me. And if they do—” he hesitates, lips pressing together before sighing, “if this is really messing with you, I can just… act like I don’t know you until we get to the car or whatever.”

That makes you stop.

Your grip on his hand slackens slightly, and Jungkook notices immediately, his head snapping toward you. His expression flickers—something uncertain, something almost pained—before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says quickly, like he’s realizing his own mistake. “No, fuck that. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to make you feel like that, not again.”

You swallow, unsure of what to say.

“I just—” he exhales sharply, glancing up at the darkened windows of the houses around you before lowering his gaze back to you. His voice is firm now, determined. “Fuck what they think. I’m a grown-ass man, what the fuck am I even doing? Ah sorry-“

But you can hear it—the frustration in his voice, not toward you, but toward himself. And that’s when it starts to creep in—guilt, twisting low in your stomach.

Because it’s not about you.

Not really.

It’s about whatever past shit he’s been through, whatever weight he’s been carrying for so long that even something as simple as holding someone’s hand in public makes him hesitate.

You shift slightly, voice softer now. “Jungkook…”

He looks at you then, properly, his gaze locking onto yours like he’s bracing for whatever you’re about to say.

And when you don’t speak right away, he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I promise you, it’s not you,” he says, more certain this time. “It’s just—” he pauses, shaking his head slightly. “All this shit… the rumors, the speculation… it fucks with you. After a while, it’s like—you stop seeing yourself as a person and more like some kind of… public spectacle, and- I don’t want you to feel the way I do.”

Your chest tightens.

He exhales, dropping his gaze. “I really don’t want to fuck this up again.”

There’s something so raw about the way he says it—like he’s already afraid he’s ruined whatever this is before it’s even started.

And maybe that’s why, without thinking, you squeeze his hand.

Jungkook blinks, looking down at where your fingers are intertwined. Then he looks back up at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

“We’re fine,” you say, voice steadier than you expected. “I promise.”

Something in his shoulders loosens, just slightly.

And then, finally, you reach his car.

Jungkook hesitates for only a second before letting go of your hand, moving around to open the passenger side door for you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Chivalry.”

He scoffs, shaking his head as he gestures for you to get in. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it.”

But when you settle into your seat and glance at him through the window, you catch it—that small, barely-there smile tugging at his lips.

And somehow, you think—maybe he needed this moment just as much as you did.

You settle into the plush leather seat, fingers instinctively grazing over the sleek, expensive interior. The door clicks shut beside you, the faintest scent of cologne and something warm, something distinctly him, wrapping around you.

And then it really hits you.

This car—this wasn’t just any car.

This was luxury. The kind of car that had no business looking this pristine, no business existing outside of some overproduced commercial where men in tailored suits sipped whiskey and talked stocks. It was sleek, powerful, effortlessly expensive—more than you could even begin to guess.

And suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of just how different your worlds really are.

You exhale, glancing around before letting out a quiet, half-disbelieving laugh. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath.

Jungkook smirks from the driver’s seat, one hand draped over the wheel, the other adjusting something on the console. “What?”

You gesture vaguely, sinking back into the seat. “Nothing. Just… I think I’m sitting in, like, ten years of my salary right now.”

His grin deepens, amusement flickering in his eyes. And then, without warning, he revs the engine, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through your bones in a way that makes you jolt slightly in surprise.

He glances at you, smug. “You like it?”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “Don’t get too flattered. Just a little.”

Jungkook hums, clearly pleased with himself, as he shifts the car into drive, easing out of your neighborhood with a smoothness that shouldn’t be possible.

The streets pass in a blur of soft yellow streetlights and quiet suburban houses. The city in the distance glows faintly, a promise of movement, of something bigger just beyond reach.

For a while, it’s silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional swish of passing cars. Then, Jungkook shifts slightly, one hand drumming against the wheel.

“Are you gonna tell me more about yourself?” he asks, glancing at you briefly. “Because, if I’m being completely honest, I don’t really know much about you.”

You blink, surprised by the sudden turn in conversation.

Then you narrow your eyes. “That’s kind of your fault, isn’t it?”

His lips quirk up, amused. “Okay, fair. But still. I feel like I should know more about you by now.”

You tilt your head, considering. “We can save that for later.”

Jungkook exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Fine. Later.”

The traffic light ahead flickers red, and the car slows to a smooth stop. It’s only then that you feel it—the weight of his gaze on you.

You glance over, catching him just as he looks away, jaw tightening slightly like he’s been caught. But then, after a beat, he lets himself look again, this time unabashed, his voice softer.

“You really do look pretty tonight.”

Something stirs low in your stomach, a warmth creeping up your neck. You look away quickly, staring out the windshield. “Shut up.”

Jungkook grins, tilting his head slightly. “What? I can’t compliment you now?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You’re—”

But before you can finish, a familiar melody drifts through the speakers, low and smooth, a gentle jazz tune filling the space between you. It’s old—something timeless, the kind of song that lingers even if you can’t name it.

And then—softly, almost unconsciously—you hear him.

Jungkook hums the melody under his breath, tapping his fingers against the wheel, voice so natural, so effortless, that you almost don’t catch it at first.

But when you do, your brows lift in surprise.

“You know this song?”

He glances at you, brow arching. “You do?”

You nod, leaning back slightly. “Yeah. My dad used to play this kind of stuff all the time.”

Jungkook’s expression shifts—just slightly, but you catch it. A flicker of something more than just casual conversation. Something familiar.

“My mom, actually,” he admits, voice quieter now. “She loved this kind of music.”

And just like that, the air changes.

It’s not just flirtation anymore.

It’s something else—something warm, something real, something shared.

And as the city lights blur past the window, the song plays on, filling the spaces between words that don’t need to be spoken.

After a few more laughs, some teasing remarks, and an effortless flow of conversation, the car finally pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant.

And suddenly, you don’t want to get out.

Not because you don’t want to go inside, but because—this? Sitting here, just talking with Jungkook, letting the city hum around you, the low music still playing in the background—this feels like enough.

Like maybe you could stay in this moment just a little longer.

But then, he unbuckles his seatbelt, and you shake the thought away. You reach for your own, but before you can move, Jungkook’s already opening his door, stepping out into the night.

You turn slightly, glancing over—

And immediately regret it.

His shirt lifts slightly as he stretches, just enough to reveal a sliver of tanned skin, the faintest hint of defined abs underneath.

Your brain betrays you in an instant.

Heat rushes to your face, mortifying and all-consuming.

You snap your gaze away so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash, eyes darting straight ahead, willing your thoughts to shut the hell up.

But then, before you can spiral further, the passenger door opens beside you.

Jungkook stands there, one hand gripping the top of the car, the other extended towards you. His dark eyes flicker with amusement, but he says nothing, just watches as you blink up at him.

“Are you gonna sit there all night?” His voice is low, teasing.

You clear your throat, taking his hand before your own hesitation betrays you. “Shut up,” you mutter, letting him help you out.

The cool night air does nothing to ease the warmth in your face, but thankfully, Jungkook doesn’t press further. Instead, his fingers tighten slightly around yours as you start toward the restaurant.

It’s a Korean barbecue grill, sleek and modern, but still cozy. The scent of sizzling meat and rich spices wafts through the air as you step inside, immediately wrapping around you.

Jungkook sighs dramatically. “I could die happy here.”

You snort. “It’s that serious?”

“You don’t get it,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Korean barbecue is life. I’d probably combust without it.”

You roll your eyes. “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Jungkook grins, pulling you a little closer as a waiter approaches. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

And then—before you can even process it—he squeezes your hand, just briefly, just enough for you to feel it.

Your stomach flips.

This man is going to ruin you.

The waiter, a young girl with a bright smile, greets you both and starts leading you toward a table near the back. It’s a secluded booth, dimly lit, with a grill built into the center. The perfect spot to disappear from prying eyes.

Jungkook lets you slide in first before settling across from you.

And then, suddenly—

It hits you.

Because now, there’s nothing else. No car ride to distract you, no outside world pulling at your attention. Just Jungkook. Just the space between you. Just—

Him.

And somehow, this is worse.

Because now, you can see him properly.

His face—sharp jaw, dark lashes, lips that should not look that good just existing—somehow looks even better up close, even better than anything you’ve seen online.

Which is unfair.

It’s criminal, actually.

Your eyes flicker down to the table, to the menu, to literally anywhere else.

Jungkook tilts his head slightly, watching you.

And then—slowly—he smirks.

“You’re staring,” he says.

Your head snaps up. “I am not.”

His smirk deepens. “You totally were.”

Your eyes narrow. “Maybe your ego needs to be checked.”

Jungkook leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Maybe you’re just bad at hiding things.”

You glare. He grins.

The tension between you is charged, playful, but undeniably thick. And you hate that he knows it. That he’s revelling in it.

You’re about to throw back another remark when the waiter reappears, notepad in hand.

And immediately, you notice.

The shift in her posture, the slight batting of her lashes. The way her voice is just a touch softer when she turns to Jungkook.

“And what can I get for you?” she asks, lips curving.

It’s not aggressive. Not rude.

But it’s obvious.

And maybe—just maybe—you hate that you notice.

Jungkook, however, doesn’t seem to care. He barely looks at her, just gives his order in the same easy tone he used before. No extra charm. No effortless flirting. Just—normal.

And that’s what catches you off guard. Because you remember how he was when you were his waitress.

The way he had teased, the way he had looked at you, the way he had lingered just long enough to make you question everything.

And now—now it’s different.

It’s different with her.

And that means something.

You just don’t know what.

The dim light overhead casts shadows across Jungkook’s face, making every sharp line and curve even more defined. His jaw—sculpted, almost unreal—tightens slightly as he shifts in his seat, dark eyes flickering over the menu before landing back on you.

His features are striking up close. Strong brows, slightly furrowed in thought. A straight nose, perfectly proportioned. And his lips—plump, slightly parted as he exhales. It’s frustrating how effortless it is for him to look like this, like he was crafted with too much attention to detail, like the universe took its time with him.

And the worst part?

He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

The way he watches you, eyes gleaming with something teasing, something unreadable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to look at him again, waiting for you to fall right into whatever spell he’s weaving.

You refuse.

Mostly.

The drinks arrive before either of you can say anything else, the waiter setting them down with a small bow before retreating.

Jungkook reaches for his glass, swirling the liquid slightly before taking a sip. He hums in approval, then leans back in his seat, his gaze finding yours again.

“So,” he starts, tilting his head slightly. “Are you gonna tell me more about yourself?”

You arch a brow. “What do you mean?”

He sets his drink down, resting an arm on the table. “I mean, I don’t actually know that much about you.” His lips twitch slightly. “Apart from the fact that you make a mean iced Americano and that you secretly like my music.”

You scoff. “I never said I liked it.”

Jungkook smirks. “You didn’t have to.”

Your face warms, but before you can argue, he exhales deeply, his expression softening. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs. “I wanna know more.”

You hesitate for a moment, then shrug. “My life isn’t that interesting.”

“Try me.”

You pause, biting the inside of your cheek. “Only if you go first.”

Jungkook raises a brow, but then, surprisingly, he nods. “Alright.”

You swirl the straw in your drink, watching the ice spin lazily. Then, with a teasing lilt in your voice, you glance up at Jungkook.

“So,” you start, lips quirking up. “What’s it like being Mr. Famous?”

Jungkook looks at you, amused. “Mr. Famous?”

You shrug. “Yeah. You know, world tours, flashing cameras, private jets. What’s it like?”

You expect him to smirk, to lean into the playful banter, maybe say something cocky like Oh, you know, just the usual—waking up to millions of people screaming my name.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales, rolling his glass between his fingers. “It’s… complicated.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you were expecting.

Jungkook leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “At first, it was everything I wanted,” he continues. “The music, the performances, the fans—it was exciting. It still is, in a lot of ways.” He pauses, eyes lowering to his drink. “But sometimes…”

His voice trails off, and his fingers tighten around the glass.

“Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t Jungkook.”

Your stomach twists.

Jungkook lets out a small, humorless laugh. “I know it sounds ungrateful. I have everything—fame, success, money, whatever. But it’s like… I don’t even know who I am outside of all of that. Outside of what people expect from me.”

His words hang between you, heavy. You don’t say anything—just listen.

“Do you ever regret it?” you ask softly.

He hesitates. Then, “No,” he says. “But sometimes, I wonder who I would’ve been if I never did it.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So instead, you reach for your own drink, taking a slow sip before speaking.

“Well,” you murmur. “My life is a lot different from yours.”

Jungkook huffs a small chuckle. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s… simple. Maybe even boring to someone like you.” You swirl the straw in your drink again. “But I don’t think I’d change it. I like the little things—the slow mornings, the quiet nights. I like having my regulars at the diner, knowing exactly how they like their coffee. I like walking home and seeing the same old couple sitting on their porch every evening.”

Jungkook watches you intently, his eyes searching yours.

You glance at him. “I think if I lost all of that, I wouldn’t know who I was either.”

He stays quiet for a moment. Then—

“I envy you.”

Your breath catches.

Jungkook leans back slightly, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “I envy how content you are with what you have.” He tilts his head, eyes dark and unreadable. “You don’t need the world to know you to feel like you exist.”

The air between you shifts.

Heavy. Intimate.

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything.

Jungkook doesn’t either.

He just looks at you.

And for a second, it feels like he’s seeing you the way you just saw him—like he’s not just looking at you, but through you. Like maybe, somehow, you’re exactly what he’s been missing.

The silence lingers until— “Your food is ready.” The waiter’s voice snaps you both out of it, and just like that, the moment is gone.

Jungkook clears his throat, blinking as he straightens up. You quickly reach for your drink again, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your hands shake slightly. But when you glance up, he’s still looking at you. And somehow, you know— That moment wasn’t nothing.

He uses his barbecue skills and cooks your meat for you, and for a while, you eat in comfortable silence.

There’s something about it—the soft clinking of chopsticks against plates, the occasional glance exchanged between you, the faint hum of the restaurant around you—that feels… nice. Like there’s no rush to fill the space with words, no pressure to entertain.

Just being here, just sharing a meal with him, feels enough. Until

Jungkook interrupts it.

“I think we need drinks.”

You glance up, chopsticks pausing mid-air. “Oh?”

He nods, already flagging down the waiter. “Yeah. Beer. We’re getting beer.”

You squint at him, amused. “You sound very sure of that.”

“I am.” He leans forward slightly, grinning. “You weren’t gonna drink tonight, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Not particularly.”

“Mm.” He tilts his head. “And yet, I have a feeling you’re about to.”

“You aren’t driving?”

“Nah. i’ll get someone to pick us up.”

You scoff, shaking your head. But when the waiter comes over, Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. “Two beers, please.”

And the funniest thing happens.

“Can I see your ID?” the waiter asks.

You freeze, eyes widening as a slow, wicked smile stretches across your lips. Jungkook blinks, then lets out a small breath of disbelief. “Are you serious?”

The waiter just nods, waiting expectantly.

“Oh, my God,” you murmur, biting back laughter. “I remember when you asked me to ID you at the restaurant.”

Jungkook groans, pulling out his wallet. “I can’t escape this.”

“No, you absolutely cannot.”

You watch as he slides his ID over, sighing dramatically. The waiter glances at it, then hands it back with a small bow. “Thank you, sir.”

Jungkook mutters something under his breath, and you can’t help but giggle. “This is amazing,” you say.

He gives you a flat look. “Laugh it up.”

“Oh, I will.”

The beers arrive a moment later, and you clink glasses before taking a sip. It’s cold, crisp, a little too easy to drink.

Jungkook smirks at you over the rim of his glass. “Not so bad, huh?”

You shrug. “Don’t get cocky.”

And then, somehow, the conversation turns playful again. You tease him about his ID mishap, he teases you about how you nearly choked on your drink earlier, and the laughter between you is effortless, bubbling up naturally like you’ve known each other for years.

At one point, Jungkook does an impression of a particularly dramatic customer from your restaurant, and you nearly spit out your beer. “Stop,” you gasp between laughs, pressing a hand to your stomach.

He grins, eyes crinkling. “What? It’s accurate.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. But there’s warmth in your chest, a lightness in your limbs. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s him.

By the time you finish eating, there’s a pleasant buzz in your head, and judging by the way Jungkook’s leaning back in his seat, grinning lazily, you think he’s feeling it too.

Neither of you move to leave.

It’s time to go, you know that. The plates are empty, the drinks are nearly gone. But you can’t will yourself to get up. Not until he does.

And for some reason, he doesn’t seem in any rush either.

Eventually, though, he sighs, stretching his arms above his head. “Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the door. “Let’s go outside for a bit before we head out.”

You nod, following him as he weaves through the tables, out the front doors, and toward the small smoking area near the sidewalk.

And then, Jungkook pulls out a cigarette.

You don’t know why it makes something inside your lower stomach to flutter. Maybe it’s the way his fingers move, the effortless familiarity of it as he places it between his lips. Maybe it’s the way he tilts his head slightly when he flicks the lighter, the flame illuminating the sharp line of his jaw for a brief second.

Or maybe it’s just the simple fact that, for some reason, watching him smoke is insanely attractive.

He exhales slowly, the smoke curling in the air around him. And all you can do is watch.

Jungkook notices.

His lips twitch. “Something wrong?”

You blink, tearing your gaze away. “No.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Right.”

You sit down on the ledge of the sidewalk, and after a moment, he joins you.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The street is quiet, only a few people passing by, the occasional car rolling past. It’s peaceful in a way you weren’t expecting.

Jungkook doesn’t talk right away, his expression unreadable, but his gaze drops to his hands, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the napkin in front of him. “I don’t really know how to explain it,” he says quietly, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “… With you, it just feels different. I feel like I can be myself.”

Your heart skips a beat. You blink, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. “Be yourself?”

He nods, lifting his gaze back to you, the hint of vulnerability creeping into his eyes. “Yeah. I don’t feel like I have to put up any kind of front. Not with you.”

“You know,” you murmur, “behind all of the celebrity stuff… I think you’re just a regular person.”

Jungkook glances at you.

You shrug, staring ahead. “I mean, yeah, you’re famous. People see you as larger than life. But at the end of the day, you’re just… you.” You turn to him then, meeting his gaze. “You’re just Jungkook to me.”

Something flickers in his expression.

You don’t know what it is—something vulnerable, something almost startled—but it makes your chest tighten.

Jungkook exhales, tapping his cigarette against the concrete. “You’re doing something to me, you know that?”

Your breath catches.

And then—

He looks at you, something unreadable in his gaze. “You’re really something different, Y/N.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

But somehow, you know that whatever he means, it’s deeper than the words themselves.

So you don’t say anything at all.

You just lean your head against his shoulder, basking in eachothers company.

And for a long, long time, neither of you move.

Until—

Your phone buzzes, and it’s a message from Nari.

You quickly text her back, asking her to pick you guys up, considering you feel Jungkook’s already done more than enough tonight. It’s not like she’d mind, she’d never mind. And you have a feeling this debrief is gonna be interesting- in a good way.

It’s been a few minutes. Jungkook’s cig is long gone, yet he’s still holding on to the tip of it, you figure its cause he wants something to do with his hands, but you don’t question it.

You’re equally as nervous as he is, though it’s not as extreme as it may have been a few hours ago, you feel better- reassured.

His speech is slightly slurred when he looks over at you, your head still resting on his shoulder, and he cant help but smile, “Did you really not know who I was? You know- Not to sound cocky, but my band is pretty big.” He winks, and you laugh.

“Nah, i’ve never really gotten into K-pop too much, sure- ive heard of BTS, Who hasn’t? But Nari- God Nari- she’s the one to talk to- I mean she likes that one band- What is it? Stray kids? Something like that- Yeah she loves them. She told me all about you when she first showed up, you should’ve seen the look on her face when I told her ‘Whats the big deal?”

“Ah- That’s cool, so what kind of music are you into anyway? Have you checked out any of my songs before? If you want i-“ He hesitates, but continues anyway. “I can play some for you, you can come to my studio, and i’ll sing for you.”

He begins to protest,and you forget he can’t see your face, considering you have the fattest smile on it right now. “If you want- You don’t have to-“

“No, I’d love to.” You look up at him, and your breath catches in his throat. You don’t need to say much more, you know you don’t.

You look at each other for a little longer, ignoring the nervous flutter in your stomach from the eye contact, until a car horn beeps at you.

You look up, Nari’s here.

As soon as you slide into the car, Nari throws you a look. It’s not full-on dramatic, but it’s enough to say, “Ohhh, I see what’s going on here.”

She doesn’t freak out, though—just snorts as she pulls away from the curb. “You two spent the whole night staring at each other or what?”

Jungkook just grins, stretching out in the backseat beside you, his knee knocking against yours. “Maybe.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth creeping up your neck betrays you. “Shut up.”

The car fills with easy laughter, and for a while, the conversation is just…nothing. Nari’s talking about some drama at work, you’re chiming in with sarcastic remarks, and Jungkook?

Jungkook is just looking at you.

Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable—far from it. He’s got that lazy, lopsided smile, eyes half-lidded from the buzz of the night, and every time you meet his gaze, he just smiles wider.

And God, you’re not even really talking, but somehow, you are. Just in the way he nudges your foot with his, or how his fingers drum lazily against his knee like he’s trying to match the rhythm of the car radio.

Nari catches it in the rearview mirror, the way you two keep exchanging these quiet, tipsy little looks, and she just shakes her head, smiling to herself. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.

Jungkook’s apartment building is ridiculous.

That’s the first thing Nari says when she pulls up to the entrance, eyes sweeping over the sleek, modern exterior, the kind of place that probably has a concierge that greets you by name and a lobby that smells like wealth.

“Damn,” she whistles, leaning forward over the steering wheel. “I knew you were rich, but this? You really live like this?”

Jungkook just huffs a tired laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not that crazy.”

“You probably have a fridge that talks to you.”

“…Okay, maybe.”

You snort, glancing over at him, but your stomach twists a little when you realize this is where the night ends.

Nari shifts into park and turns to you. “Go walk him, come on.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything, but when you look at him, you see it—that flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his shoulders tense just slightly. He doesn’t want to tell you no. You can tell.

And then it hits you.

Of course, he doesn’t want to be seen with you out there, right in front of his building. It’s not about you—it’s about them. The people who actually know where he lives. The ones who would take one picture and turn it into something you’re not sure you’re ready for.

So you shake your head, offering him a small smile. “It’s okay. I’ll stay here.”

Jungkook looks at you for a second longer, and then—there it is. That quiet, relieved smile, like he didn’t even need to explain himself, like you just get it.

“…Okay,” he says softly.

But neither of you move.

You’re both sitting there, waiting, stretching the moment out just a little longer, even though you know it has to end. Your hands twitch in your lap. His fingers flex against his jeans. You don’t know what you want to say, and maybe you don’t need to say anything, but—

“Jungkook,” you say, barely above a whisper.

He looks at you, tired and warm and so beautiful, and you swear he’s about to say something too, but then—

Knock knock.

You both startle.

Nari, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. “Are you getting out or are you moving in?”

Jungkook laughs under his breath, but when he turns back to you, it’s not the same easy teasing smile as before. It’s something softer, something you can’t quite name.

“I’ll see you soon?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

And finally, he opens the door.

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pseudowho · 1 year ago

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Defending Your Honour

A series in which the JJK guys stick-it to the creeps and perverts bothering the reader.

A multi-fic in a series ❤️🫖☕

Part 1 (Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, and Todo Aoi) link here!

Part 2 (Higuruma Hiromi, Ino Takuma and Itadori Yuuji) link here!

More JJK men and women to come

Trigger Warning: unsolicited dick pics, upskirting, catcalling, threatened sexual assault/reader followed into bathroom

Gojo Satoru

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"Baaaaabe," Satoru whinged from the sofa, at the exact pitch required to set your eyes rolling. You walked back to him, blushing as you felt his eyes roll languidly up and down your bare legs beneath his oversized t-shirt.

Plopping the popcorn bowl down, you sat on the sofa beside him, lazily draping your legs over his lap, tilting your head inquisitively towards him as he teased his long fingers over your thighs. He felt you look at him questioningly, and smirked.

"Nothin'," he shot, "s'too late. Was gonna ask you what movie you wanted, but you're too late. I picked already."

"Oh, really?" You teased, swirling a finger on his pecs, "And what did you choose?"

"Only the cult-classic noughties Anne Hathaway gem...the Princess Diaries. Two." You clapped, squealing with genuine delight as Satoru laughed, pulling you closer onto his lap by the legs.

The movie rolled, and you cuddled under Satoru's arm, taking turns, giggling as you fed each other popcorn. Your phone buzzed, once. You ignored it. Your phone buzzed, again. You ignored it. It buzzed again-- again-- again--

"Someone's popular tonight," Satoru teased, "you wanna get that?" You squirmed uncomfortably under his arm, your lip curled in disgust.

"No, just leave it. Nothing to worry about." Satoru raised an unconvinced eyebrow, but tucked you closer, deliberately missing your mouth with the next piece of popcorn he offered you, shoving it at a nostril instead. You laughed, batting him away.

A few minutes passed, and the incessant buzzing of your phone began again. Satoru felt you tense under his arm. He sat forward, pausing the movie and turning to you.

"Look, you know I won't push for an answer, but...is everything alright?" You turned away from him, lips curled up again, upset.

"This guy from work..." you started guiltily, fidgeting, "...he just keeps messaging me. Won't leave me alone, I-- I've been ignoring him for weeks." Satoru's face pinched in pain and concern. He reached out a hand, threading his fingers through yours.

"Babe...you could have told me." You shrugged, eyes tearing up now. You reached out for your phone, unlocking it.

"I didn't want you to think it was my faul--" you cried out in disgust, dropping your phone into your lap with a jolt, sniffling, face crumpling, "--I'm so sick of this, Satoru."

Satoru slowly reached a hand out to your phone, hesitating for you to stop him. You shook your head tearfully, gesturing loosely at your phone for him to take it.

Satoru's face morphed into something ugly as he scrolled through photo after photo of another man's penis, sometimes flaccid, sometimes hard, held in his hand, covered in cum, in different lighting, at different angles--

"This," Satoru spat, "is not your fault. None of it is." Satoru dropped your phone on the coffee table, turning fully to you again, "Do you know where this guy lives?"

You frowned at Satoru, nodding slowly, considering; "What...are you going to do?"

Satoru's lips quirked at the edges into a dirty little smile; "Nothing for you to worry about. Don't sweat it. I'm the strongest. You know it."

An hour or so later, the owner of the unwanted penis stepped into his apartment, still buzzing after sending you so many good photos, and from the office no less, it was so filthy, so naughty, he just, just knew you'd love it--

"Hey there, guy. I've been waiting for you."

Grabbed bodily by this unreasonably strong, tall, white-haired man, your assailant cried out in terrified indignation as Satoru threw him onto his sofa. Satoru sat on the coffee table opposite him, eyes covered by a black blindfold, spidery legs spread and blocking the man's exit.

"Unlock your phone," Satoru commanded, sounding almost cheerful. The man glared, snarling.

"I'm not unlocking my fucking phone--"

"Unlock your phone," Satoru ordered again, now cold, methodically dangerous, "now."

The assailant reached for his phone with a trembling hand, unlocking it. Satoru held out his own hand expectantly. The man hesitated. Satoru clapped his fingers against his palm, in a display of impatience. Begrudgingly, the man handed over his phone to Satoru, who hummed as he flicked through the disgusting messages the man had been sending you.

"You know," Satoru said conversationally, his words sending shivers of fear up the man's spine, "I kill monsters for a living...did you know that? Probably not." Satoru sucked his teeth, preparing a multi-participant messaging list on the man's phone.

"Got any sisters? Brothers?" Satoru inquired. The man nodded, uncertain. Satoru smiled, as if delighted by the man's cooperation, "Names?"

Shakily, the man reeled off their names, his stomach sinking lower and lower as Satoru asked for more names-- his boss, his best friend, his best friend's wife, his solicitor...

With a happy sigh of finality, Satoru clapped his hands together, throwing the phone back onto the sofa.

"Hope they like your photos, anyway," Satoru chirped to the man, who stared at his frantically buzzing phone as if it were an unexploded bomb, "no takey-backsies!"

Satoru stood, walking to the front door. He paused, turning back slowly, the very air within the flat seeming to crush in around the man with some inconceivable force.

"And if you ever go near my girl again," Satoru offered, calculating, menacing, "the next monster I'll kill is you."

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Megumi and Nobara

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"She doesn't want to go to the book shop with you, she wants to come with me, there's this dress I think she'll look really cute in--"

"--she's my girlfriend Kugisaki!" Megumi snapped, tugging your hand in his so they sat flush against his thigh. You hummed, pretending to consider your options.

"I dunno Megs...if the dress is cute enough, maybe I'll be Nobara's girlfriend instead." Megumi spun to you, appalled, and you laughed as he and Nobara bickered with each other on the way to the escalator.

Ginza was busy, buzzing with the animated, vibrant ebb and flow of the wealthy, and the excitable tourists, and the perfectly-coiffed fashionistas. You, Megumi and Nobara tumbled through the crowd, being reshuffled by the constant bump of passers-by, and you ended up entering the escalator two people ahead of them.

Leaning round to shoot them an apologetic smile, you saw Megumi and Nobara remained embroiled in their sibling-ish argument. You rolled your eyes, facing forward, eyes up to the twinkling lights of the shopping centre.

You thought very little of the twitching of the back of your skirt, so close was the crowd. You heard a cough behind you, loud, barking. You heard another cough, and another, and another.

"Hey-- hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?" You tried to turn at the sound of Nobara's voice, but failed, shoulders bracketed by the press of the crowd.

"Megumi-- that piece of shit took photos up your girlfriend's skirt! He's covering up the camera noise with coughs!"

"Bastard!"

You cried out as you were shoved forwards, your fingers cracking painfully against the metal of the escalator, and a man in a baseball cap forced his way past you, phone in hand. Nobara and Megumi shouted, in pursuit, Megumi pulling you to your feet as the crowd decompressed at the top of the escalator.

You were confused, humiliated and all turned-around as you staggered at the top of the escalator. Pitying eyes glazed over you in passing, the flow of people giving you a wide berth. You blushed, and clutched the hem of your skirt, feeling so exposed, pulling down the hem at the back.

Megumi had stumbled ahead in chase, but turned back and grasped your hand, his eyes beseeching you to chase with him. Nobara tore off ahead, rounding a corner. You nodded, sniffling, and Megumi raised your clasped hands to his face, pressing a kiss to your palm.

You sprinted together after Nobara and found her pinning the capped man against a wall, effortlessly gripping the front of his hoodie while he squirmed. She was going through his phone, lips twisted in distaste at the intimate photographs he had taken of you.

Megumi approached, fists clenching and unclenching, his nose scrunched in disgust. Nobara held the phone close to her chest, eyeing him inquisitively. Megumi shot you a sideways glance, and shook his head at Nobara.

"Save them for the cops," he snapped, "but for now..." Megumi turned to you; "What do you want to do with this bastard?"

Your lip trembled, and you bit it between your teeth to still it. You felt violated, furiously vengeful.

"I think," you shook out, "we should find this guy a skirt." With matching satisfied, wicked smiles, Megumi and Nobara rounded on your assailant.

The sales assistants manning the changing rooms did not dare approach the scene that was unfolding behind the curtains, some time later. While the capped man frantically sobbed, his knobbly-kneed hairy legs woefully exposed by the cute miniskirt he wore, Megumi kept him arm-locked against the wall, endlessly berating and insulting him, while Nobara knelt, taking miserably unflattering photos of his taint under the hem of his skirt.

You stood back, grimly satisfied as your assailant wept his apologies. As you wiped away tears of mirth, Megumi paused in his bullying for just a moment, to smile at you, eyes soft, warm, full of sincere adoration.

You mused to yourself as Nobara slapped the back of the man's thigh, making him shriek; it's not strictly morally just, you thought to yourself, but I don't strictly care.

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Toge Inumaki

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You found yourself so nervous, the first 'first date' you had had in quite some time. Your date, Inumaki, seemed equally unsure, but rolled with a quiet mischievous confidence that sent butterflies through your tummy.

You had approached him, your outfit suddenly seeming so overdone compared to his hoodie and jeans, and you opened your mouth to apologise for being overdressed. The words stopped in your throat as Inumaki's eyes glimmered with joy, and he gestured up and down your body with one finger, before clasping his hands over his heart and tipping his head back towards the sky.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, blushing, and Inumaki stepped forward to grasp your hands and bring them away from your face, swinging them affectionately in his own. You bumped the side of your head against his, realising with a curling warmth, that he had plaited his fingers in yours as you walked together down the street.

The day passed, in a flurry of arcades, street food, souvenir shopping, buying small gifts for each other...the whole day had been spent in wordless gestures, familiar and comfortable. Inumaki's heart stuttered each time he managed to tease you into a twinkling laugh.

Heading home, hands still swinging together, rich steam and hoppy beer aromas tumbled out of the closely packed ramen shops. You and Inumaki found yourselves pressed uncomfortably close to a pack of young men as you squeezed through the crowd. One man squeezed pricklingly, unnecessarily against you as he passed, the street wide enough to render his intimacy completely unjustifiable.

Inumaki paused, watchful eyes seeing as you drew your shoulders up in defence.

"Oh hey baby! You on a date? Hey bro, your girlfriend just tried to feel me up!" You blushed in furious mortification as your shoulders drew even closer towards your chin, pulling your jacket around yourself, keeping your head down and hoping the assault would just go away.

The young man's pack of friends, four of them, laughed and jeered, taking swigs from cans of beer and turning to join in the game.

"Nice outfit babe! Think I've seen something like it on a street corner near here..."

"Yeah, that jacket ain't coverin' much, sweetheart!"

"Aww, you cold? C'mere baby, I've got something nice and warm for you in my pocket."

As the pack continued to laugh and jeer at you, your happiness shrivelled, and you were reduced to nothing, a pecked worm between birds.

Inumaki raised his hand, slowly drawing his mask down, revealing his unusual facial markings. The pack of men paused, then laughed harder. The original perpetrator raised his beer to Inumaki, and began to speak as Inumaki waggled his tongue in preparation.

"Think you've got a bit of Sharpie on your face, ma--"

"Kiss each other-- like you mean it."

Gripped by something other than his own thoughts and desires, the young man stopped, dropping his can to the floor with a metallic wet thunk...before turning to his friend and grasping his face, pressing a passionate, staggering kiss to his lips. The kiss was enthusiastically reciprocated, and two of the others fought each other for the right to lock lips with the final man.

"Put your hands down his pants."

The crowd around the young men hooted and whistled at the show, as the enforced make-out session grew steamier, beer spilling onto the floor around them, wet kisses sounding through the air, hands down pants, groping.

"Keep going-- really enjoy yourselves."

As the scene before you unfolded into something increasingly erotic and debauched, your jaw dropped, all of your own embarrassment forgotten, and Inumaki raised his mask with a cough. Pulling you to wind through the crowd of onlookers and raised, clicking phone cameras, Inumaki turned and shot you a wink.

You laughed, desperately appreciative, and already planning your second date.

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Fushiguro Toji

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"Toji-- Toji-- I mean it, slow down, I need to pee!"

Toji sighed, brisk and pissed-off (his factory settings), and stopped pulling you along by the hand. He shot you a withering look, until you batted your eyelashes, clasping your hands together as you wiggled at him.

Despite himself, he smirked, glancing away so you didn't see (though you already had), and started scouring the street for public bathrooms.

"Come on, pea-bladder," he mocked, his deep voice slow and drawling, "let's find you somewhere to piss."

"Toji, don't be so gross--"

"Don't be so needy, jeez, or you're payin' for your own dinner." You rolled your eyes, punching his shoulder affectionately. Rounding a corner, a set of public bathrooms appeared opposite a row of shops.

Raising Toji's hand to your face, you pressed a kiss to the back of his enormous fist. Toji pinched your chin lovingly, before spinning you by the shoulders and planting a hefty slap to your bum.

"Hurry up kid. If someone prettier passes while you're in there, I ain't stickin' round." Toji laughed as your jaw dropped, aghast, and pushed you towards the bathrooms.

Toji chuckled to himself as you skipped away, his eyes only briefly registering the figure loitering outside the bathroom as you headed in.

A few minutes passed and you stepped, relieved, out of the stalls and walked to the sink to clean your hands. Sidling from his hiding spot round the corner, a heavy-jacketed man looked towards you as you gasped, immediately backing yourself away against a wall.

"All alone, baby?" The man challenged, tongue sliding across his front teeth as he approached you, a flick knife clacking in his hand. Steeped in terror, your eyes filled with tears, and you were miserably trapped in the corner against a toilet stall. You opened your mouth to beg for your life, but were interrupted by a low, dangerous voice.

"Nah, man. She ain't alone. But you are."

In abrupt, bloody violence, Toji swung a fist, shattering the man's nose and front teeth in an instant. The man's head snapped back and you screamed, spats of blood splattering down to mix with the stale-water-toilet-paper-mulch of the public bathroom floor.

Toji drew his fist back again as the man staggered, Toji's face twisted in filthy, murderous rage; "Chickenshit little coward, I'll fucking gut yo--"

Toji stopped stock-still at your pale little face staring up in terror...at him now, not your would-be assailant twisting like a maggot on the wet floor. Toji felt a hot rush of shame at having been the cause of your terror.

"Babe..." he started, lost for words. You trembled before him. Toji gulped, turning away from you, unable to look you in the eye. As your frightened heart slowed, Toji took a deep, measured breath in through his nose, and out of his mouth.

"I...frightened you. I'm so--" the words caught in Toji's throat, so alien to him. He took a deep breath and tried again; "I'm sorry. Let's finish this guy off together, huh? Before we take him to the cops."

You hesitated, before nodding, tearful eyes smiling up at Toji, sending his belly tumbling. Lifting the bloodied man up by his collar, Toji grinned devilishly at him.

"Swirly..." Toji began to chant, raising his voice as you started to join in, clapping in rhythm, "Swirly, swirly, swirly--"

Other passers-by found alternate public bathrooms that day, put off by the sounds of repeated flushing and strangled wet sobs.

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Ahhh. I managed to find a bit of love even for Toji, who is so SHOCKINGLY in looks and character like my older brother 💀💀💀🫠

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comradekarin · 4 months ago

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you absolutely right and that’s why this post is here to show that we were DAY ONES. this fandom stay trying to gaslight like that man ain’t a work of art. dickhead or not (he is), that’s gege’s goated character design. true form sukuna will always be famous trust!

why do I have to defend sukuna’s face card so much in this fandom…. mind y’all, true form sukuna alone out mogs 90% of the cast so what now? jjk fans turn into kendrick when it comes to sukuna. he’s a piece of shit and every nasty thing you can think of, but baby girl is NAWT ugly chile ijbol and I’m talking about all versions, even meg!kuna. i’ll be dammed if yall insult yuuji’s face card too! junichi suwabe as his VA alone makes him one of the hottest jjk men. yall gonna switch up when he gets animated trust……..

#won’t forget all these posts and memes calling him ugly #meg!kuna stans gonna get the last laugh TRUST (me and like three other people)#heian sukuna been beautiful I won’t forget the switch ups when they happen!#sukuna #jjk

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suntoru · 1 year ago

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─ ✰ COUNTDOWN TO YOUR LOVE!!

✧˚ · . 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 most definitely does not have a crush on his best friend. so what’s this feeling when somebody else is planning on confessing to you?

— warnings: oblivious gojo af, fluff, mild violence, might be ooc, please be nice i have only watched like the first episode of jjk, idk what else

— author’s note: is it shittily written? yes. but is it finished? also yes. HAPPY NEW YEAR MY LOVES <;33

“guys, guys, brace yourself for the tea i have!! nanamin is gonna confess to y/n tonight at the new years party!!”

“huh?! seriously?” nobara gasps theatrically, her eyes widening in interest. she springs up from the couch, tail -imaginary or not-wagging in anticipation as she eagerly leans in for the juicy gossip.

*chokes* "...what?" gojo gags on his tea, coughing violently. he's surely joking. there's no way. "y/n, as in like, my best friend, y/n?"

“i know, right? i was surprised too!! after all, i was sure mister nanami was more interested in marrying his paperwork than finding real love, but that’s what i heard!” yuji spills, enthusiasm radiating from every word.

"that's... great." gojo manages to mutter, and for once, he has nothing ese to say.

“it’s about time, he’s pushing thirty, and he’s still single… as the youngsters say, he has… L rizz.” nobara laughs boisterously with her hands on her hips, thoroughly entertained by her own joke. meanwhile, yuji cocks his head in confusion at his friend's delusions. …is she going senile?

“well, aren’t you also single…?”

'hush, yuji! the point is, there's gonna be some spicy drama!" nobara squeals, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "we're talking romance unraveling like a well-scripted k-drama!! get ready for some flashy love confessions, and hopefully, a heart-fluttering kiss scene!!"

11: 56 PM

fuck, why can't i focus? gojo groans as he loses yet another round of mario kart to nobara. the image of you lingers in his mind from earlier that day, engaged in conversation with the blonde. he can't ignore the subtle indications; your flustered demeanor, a slight tint of pink on your cheeks, your refusal to make eye contact. clear signs of a crush. you surely like him back, there's no denying it.

and he should be happy for his friend— should be, but all he can feel is an unexplainable tightness that grips his chest, like a weight he can't shake off. he can't quite put a pin on it, it's an unknown emotion, but it all feels ugly nonetheless. it must have been something he ate earlier. ...yeah, that's it.

as he tries to ignore the overwhemling feeling of dispair, his attention flickers to the lively scene, and there you are, donning one of those goofy 2024 glasses that make your whole demeanor even more endearing. a lopsided smile graces your face as you engage in cheerful banter with megumi, and just like that, a fuzzy feeling envelops him, coaxing a smile to creep up on his face involuntarily. but before he can revel in the moment, a sudden flick on his forehead disrupts his thoughts.

"hey— ow, what was that for?" he whines, rubbing his forehead and directing a puzzled gaze towards utahime.

"you're so dense." she huffs in annoyance, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes at his apparent obliviousness. he looks up at her, confusion etched across his features.

"i- huh? whaddya mean by that?" he stares at her in confusion. utahime sighs in exasperation, irritation visible. "how stupid are you? do i have to spell it out for you? you. like. y/n." the words hang in the air. ...i ... like... y/n...?

and then it hits him like a brick wall. the reason behind stinging feeling in his chest. you being with nanami meant no more midnight snack runs, no more drunken gossip sessions, no more attempts to fluster you. those simple pleasures, the serotonin rush sparked by your mere smile, threaten to slip away.

the thought of losing you; his best friend, his one and only, shakes him to the bottom of his core. his heart, like a drum, pounds in his chest, a resounding beat of denial and awakening. ...no way... he couldn't... does he...?

could he truly say that the way he always seems to gravitate towards you in group gatherings, the way his eyes subconsciously find their way towards yours, the sudden surge of warmth he gets when you praise him was all truly platonic? perhaps he didn't acknowledge it before, but his heart has long declared what he only now comprehends: he loves you. he loves you.

he's loved you ever since you were five and he was seven, when you announced proudly to everyone that you were now his best friend for life. he's loved you when you were eleven and he was thirteen, when you sought refuge in his arms, tears streaming down your face because of a bully. he's loved you when you were eighteen and he was twenty, hung up on some random jerk who didn't even treat you right.

his eyes dart over to where nanami is, pacing closer towards you— he's going to lose everything if he doesn't move.

he can't lose you.

so he runs across the large room, dashing towards you, heaving and huffing. "FIVE!" everybody begins to chant. "gojo?" you good? need something?" "FOUR!" your voice is soft and sweet, like a honeyed daydream, etched with concern. how could he not have realized, it was you all along? it was always going to be you. "THREE!" "hey." he says breathlessly. "yeah?" you mumble, curious as to what he was about to say next. "TWO!" "slap me if you hate it." "hate what?" "ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!"

he pulls you towards him, using both hands to grab your face, planting a passionate on your plush lips, your eyes widening as everybody else cheers knowingly.

bonus!! earlier:

"you like him. gojo."

nanami simply states, a ghost of a smile on his lips. you feel your face heat up. how did he know? was it that obvious? that's so embarrassing... oh my god. you can't look him in the eye, you just want to shrivel up and disappear in the ground... "you're both so stupidly oblivious." he mutters under his breath.

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angellesword · 11 months ago

Text

Baggage l JJK (01)

Summary: Drowning in debt and blood, Jeon Jungkook knows he's better off alone, lest he brings people down with him.

But one drunken night changes everything.

In a blink of an eye, Jungkook found himself drowning not only in debt and blood, but also in dirty diapers and judgmental stares from you, a.k.a his long-lost love and the guardian of the son he didn't even know existed.

Genre and warnings: best friends to lovers, co-parenting, idiots in love, slow burn—really slow burn, mutual pining, angst, fluff, implied smut, kissing, minor character death, slight getting back together, OC cusses excessively so watch out

Pairing: dad!Jungkook x adoptive mom!Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

→ Next Chapter (02)

***

You know it's New Year's Eve when people flock to Incheon's Chinatown. Some were rushing to buy gifts for their families and friends, while others ate in a fancy restaurant or watched fireworks and the famous lion dance.

As for Jungkook, he knew it was New Year's Eve when he could earn double.

"I said I don't want to take a picture!" The loud wail of a little girl could be heard through the vast street of Chinatown. Many shoppers looked at the kid and her father with disdain. The child was crying hard, yet her father simply laughed it off, urging the child to take a picture with Jungkook or, rather, with Ronald McDonald.

Jungkook was wearing the infamous mascot costume of that red-haired clown of McDonald's.

"Come on, Wonyoung-ah. Just one picture, please?" Seokjin, the child's father, batted his eyelashes, acting cute. It worked on his partner Namjoon. Unfortunately, it didn't have much effect on Wonyoung.

"No! He's so ugly and scary!" Wonyoung stole a glance at Jungkook. The mascot looked so hideous that Wonyoung couldn't help but throw her ice cream at Jungkook.

"Wonyoung." Namjoon, who had been quiet all this time, grimaced when he saw Jungkook stilled—as if the ice cream that hit his chest also froze his heart.

Namjoon usually tolerated the young girl's brattiness, but seeing that Wonyoung crossed the line and even hurt someone older than her, Namjoon couldn't help but scold his daughter.

"Apologize to him." Namjoon tilted Wonyoung's shoulder, compelling her to face Jungkook, who was still rooted to the ground.

Jungkook had never liked kids. He thought they were annoying and full of shit. What happened today totally embarrassed him. Not to mention, many people witnessed the jarring scene.

"I don't want to! Why don't you listen to me! He's a bad clown! He scares people!" Wonyoung refused to look at the mascot. Honestly, Jungkook couldn't refute the kid's reason. He, too, was aware of how ridiculous he looked. Most of his co-workers went on vacation leave. No one was around to help him apply his Ronald McDonald makeup. He had to do it himself.

Jungkook had no talent when it came to makeup. He had accidentally put on too much white face paint—even his manager laughed at him. But despite feeling helpless, he still swallowed his pride and went out to entertain customers. It's just for one night. Someone who needed money to survive couldn't be picky with the little opportunity available.

Not everyone was lucky enough to throw away food like it was nothing. Wonyoung was a young heiress; throwing ice cream at Jungkook was considered throwing tantrums and not wasting food. They had money. They could buy people's silence.

That's precisely what happened. Namjoon was hellbent on making his daughter apologize, and after a long time of coaxing, Wonyoung finally (although reluctantly) managed to say she was sorry.

Namjoon apologized on behalf of his child, too. Conversely, Seokjin gave Jungkook some hush money after promising to 'discipline' Wonyoung at home.

Jungkook could only nod, once again forced to swallow his pride and accept the money offered to him. Poor people like him didn't only have fewer opportunities; they had no self-preservation either. He endured long hours of smiling as kids cried seeing his face. The brave ones were a little easy to deal with. They only clung to his legs, asking their guardians to take more pictures with him.

It was already late at night when the last customer bid him goodbye. Jungkook was exhausted; the cold winter wind made his body shiver. He was itching to go home.

"What happened to your costume?" The manager who laughed at Jungkook earlier couldn't laugh anymore, not when he knew it would cost the restaurant money to clean off the stain.

The chocolate ice cream thrown by Wonyoung heavily stained the costume. Jungkook explained what happened. Unfortunately, the manager only shook his head.

"Nope, that can't be. It's your fault you didn't dodge. I'm gonna have to deduct the laundry fee from your salary."

Jungkook's hands balled into fists when he heard about the salary deduction. There was ringing in his ears, and as if that wasn't cruel enough, the manager added, "I'm not going to double your payment this day. Half of it goes to dry cleaning."

The strong urge to grab the manager's collar and slam him on the wall made Jungkook's hands twitch. Who even dry-cleans a fucking mascot costume? A whirlpool of profanities at the bottom of his heart threatened to swallow him whole. Jungkook wished he could just disappear from this world.

Logic sided with him in the end, though. Jungkook needed a job. He couldn't leave even if he wanted to because if he did, where would that leave those people to whom he owed money? He couldn't escape his responsibilities. Yes, it would be satisfying to smack the hell out of his manager, but after all that gratifying feeling came the consequences: he would lose his only source of income, face a civil case, and be forced to look for a new job.

The last one was the hardest thing to do. No one would want to hire someone like Jungkook. He was a failure, and almost all business industries knew about it.

For the third time tonight, Jungkook swallowed his pride. He held the crook of his manager's elbow and beamed, "Manager Bang, have mercy on your poor employee, would you? You promised to pay me double today."

Jungkook struggled to steady his voice. He swore he never cried, not even when losing millions of assets. But things were different now. Back then, he lost everything because of his own decisions. But today's case was different. He didn't ask any of this. He didn't ask that stupid brat to throw ice cream on him. None of these was his choice...because sadly, he only had one choice:

It was to beg.

"Please? I-I need money. I need to..." Jungkook choked on his bitter spit. He shook his head. Never mind his needs, never mind his reason. It wasn't like others cared. He could only compromise, "What if I wash the costume instead? You don't have to pay at all."

Jungkook was so passionate about his proposal. He kept spouting nonsense. It was a pity, really. Even his manager couldn't bear looking at his face. It was such a cringe-worthy juxtaposition to see a happy clown almost crying.

"Okay, fine!" The manager cut Jungkook off. He had never seen someone desperately beg for money. It made him uncomfortable. "Do whatever you want. Just get out of my sight."

The manager shuddered again, but Jungkook smiled, almost kowtowing as he received his compensation.

"Thank you, Manager Bang!" Jungkook smiled at his manager before finally leaving the food chain. He didn't change his outfit, realizing that things were better off like this. It was winter, and he had no money to buy coats and boots. He had to make do with this clown costume.

With little compensation in hand, Jungkook walked around Chinatown, spending his transportation fee on food instead.

It was New Year's Eve, after all. He felt like he at least deserved to eat something delicious. Jungkook originally wanted to buy crabs but could only afford five sticks of chicken skewers and a bottle of the cheapest soju.

Jungkook had low alcohol tolerance. It had been many years since he last drank, and the consequences of that night had been awful—so awful he decided to never drink again.

Tonight was the only night he'd break his promise. It was New Year's Eve. He had no one by his side; he could only rely on alcohol to give him warmth.

As expected, Jungkook's vision doubled after just a few sips of soju. He couldn't stop drinking, though. The alcohol burned his throat and stomach, but it was nothing compared to his bitterness as he looked at the building before him.

The Bighit building.

Out of hundreds of restaurants and food stalls in Incheon, Jungkook had no idea why he chose to dine in a place where he would have a clear view of Bighit. He did so well trying to avoid going to this part of the city for years, so what changed tonight? Was the embarrassment he experienced earlier not enough?

Did he need to be reminded of the pain and humiliation he went through at the Bighit back then?

Or was it because he missed someone?

Jungkook's heart throbbed just thinking about that someone. It had been long since they last saw each other. Things had changed already. Take Bighit as an example. It was called HYBE now.

Some people left, including him. But some things never changed. The building was still as magnificent as ever.

Jungkook felt nostalgic. He couldn't stop himself from walking toward HYBE. Years ago, he could go in and out of this building as he pleased.

Everyone would bow down and smile at him. What a pity that he could only stare at the façade of this company now.

Jungkook wasn't the same man years ago, but the alcohol clouded his mind. He felt as if nothing had changed. He thought he could stand outside the building, smiling like an idiot as he waved at an angry girl leaning against her car, a frown decorating her lips while rolling her eyes.

Jungkook smiled despite himself. How shameless of him to think about that girl? To think that he could drink alcohol and pretend like he could turn back time?

Oh, how he wished he could turn back time. He would do anything to see that girl roll her eyes again, to hear her scream one more time.

Jungkook laughed bitterly.

He missed the girl.

The snowflakes fell, followed by tears falling from his eyes. The tears he thought had frozen over time.

And then he heard the sound of the fireworks before seeing it illuminate the dark sky.

It's New Year.

He heard the sound of her voice before seeing her face-to-face.

"Jungkook."

The fireworks enveloped his ears, but it was nothing compared to his loud heartbeat.

Jungkook looked at the person who had just uttered his name.

Did time really freeze? Was this some kind of New Year miracle?

Or was the alcohol still messing with his brain, making him believe that he was still the Jungkook from the past? The Jungkook could see the girl, also known as you, any time he wanted.

Jungkook blinked, chuckling.

It was absurd.

How drunk was he to see your car again parked in front of Bighit?

Jungkook was drunk, but the image in front of him wasn't a fragment of his imagination.

You were really here to pick Jungkook up.

Just like before.

***

NEW JJK ONESHOT HERE

→ Next Chapter (02)

This fic is originally a soukoku fic which I'm posting/revamping as a JJK one (I don't know, man. I feel like I have to change the characters to eradicate my writer's block. This fic has been on hiatus for many years. This will probably have 8 chapters in total. (I've written 4/8 already, so stay tuned!) This is also for those few readers who never fail to message me, asking if I will be writing more JJK fics. Here you go, I guess? Hehehe

I appreciate COMMENTS the most <33 I love you, guys. Thanks for reading.

#jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #ficswithluv #jungkook bts #bts fic #daddy jungkook #parent jungkook #jungkook x yn #jungkook x oc #pseudo cheating

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