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creepyn00dles · 18 days ago

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OML TYSM THIS IS PEAK

THINGS UNSAID, THINGS HELD | JJK MULTIPLE [DRABBLE]

SYNOPSIS - despite the doubt that gnaws at you relentlessly, he always finds a way to silence it. with every gesture, every word, every subtle, careful touch, he could just always bring you back from the edge of your insecurities. and you love him for that.

CONTENT- multiple! jjk characters x insecure! reader, satoru x reader, sukuna x reader, suguru x reader, choso x reader, domestic! jjk bfs au, fem! reader, mentions of getting cheated on, insecurities, bodily insecurities, angst-comfort, established relationships, and most importantly, fluff.

WORD COUNT 3.462

based on a request by @creepyn00dles, enjoy!

listening to candy says - the velvet underground

PART 1

GOJO SATORU

“okay,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “we’re not going out today.”

you tug at the hem of your halter top, fingers brushing the smooth fabric like you’re trying to will it to feel right against your skin. it’s a sleek white piece that hugs your curves just so right, at least it's supposed to be. it's one of those outfits you’d usually feel good in. but right now, the mirror feels almost unforgiving as it reflects back all the little doubts that have been clawing at you.

satoru’s head immediately pops through your doorway, his expression a mix of confusion and mild disbelief.

“what? no way. i’ve got everything planned, baby! i was so excited—first the aquarium, then a picnic. oh, and wait ‘til you—”

“i’m sorry, ‘toru. i just... don’t feel good right now.”

you avert your gaze, mumbling. his excitement��so sweet, so childlike—makes your stomach twist. guilt curls in your chest. the truth is, satoru has been swamped with work lately. it feels so selfish to just take away the one day you’ve finally carved out for yourselves, especially after weeks of looking forward to it.

the brightness in his eyes softens immediately, and he crosses the room in a few easy strides, his long fingers finding your shoulders with a gentle touch.

“hey, hey... you feeling sick?”

he leans down, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lower and surprisingly careful.

“want me to grab you something? medicine? hot chocolate? one of my shirts?”

you look away, your face warm with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

“no, it’s... it’s not that. i just don’t feel good about... myself.” you mumble as you look away.

at that very second, gojo just can’t quite comprehend that you could not feel good about yourself.

he thinks—how could you not see it?

the way your eyes catch the light like something holy.

the way your laugh curls up at the edges, soft and unexpected, like the first warmth of spring.

the way your presence shifts the air in a room, quieting the noise in his head like nothing ever could.

to him, you’re gravity. you ground him in a world that often feels too fast, too fragile, too fake.

you’re the realest thing he’s ever known.

he watches you fold in on yourself, and it doesn’t make sense.

because to gojo, you’re everything.

and the idea that you’d ever see anything less in the mirror feels like some kind of cosmic error.

silence falls for a moment, and you can almost hear his thoughts whirring behind those crystalline eyes. then, with a softness that just feels his, satoru hooks a finger under your chin, guiding your gaze back to him. a faint, knowing smile curls at his lips.

“you know,” he starts, lips curling into that boyish, teasing smile, “you could wear a potato sack, and i’d still think you’re the most gorgeous thing to ever walk this earth.”

despite yourself, a small laugh escapes, and satoru’s smile widens, triumphant.

he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. seeing your reaction pushes him even more.

“and it’s almost criminal how you’re underestimating yourself right now. you’re absolutely gorgeous—like, objectively. if beauty were a contest, everyone else would have to find a new hobby.”

you roll your eyes at his dramatics, but he doesn’t miss the way your shoulders relax just a little. satoru notices everything—even the things you don’t say.

“you’re just saying that.”

you huff it out, but he only shakes his head.

“seriously. i’d bet my sunglasses on it—and you know how much i love those. you’ve got this way of making everything brighter just by existing, and it’s a little unfair to the rest of the world.”

he tilts his head, his voice lowering to that rare, earnest timbre.

“look, we don’t have to go anywhere if you’re not feeling up for it. but just so you know... i’d still like to spend the day with you. i’m pretty sure watching movies in bed while you wear my hoodie sounds just as fun as the aquarium.”

he winks, squeezing your shoulders like he’s grounding you to the moment, his expression still holding that boyish charm, but now tinged with something softer.

“and if you ever forget how breathtaking you are, i’ll just have to remind you. repeatedly. relentlessly. until you get sick of me.”

the hint of a smile finds its way back to your lips, and he beams, clearly triumphant.

as you lean into his touch, he presses a quick, featherlight kiss to your forehead, his breath warm and reassuring.

“see? there’s that pretty smile i love. now, how about breakfast? i’ll make pancakes. you, me, and a day with just the two of us--whatever that looks like.”

you nod, finally allowing yourself to melt into his embrace, and he hums contentedly, already thinking out ways to see your beautiful smile for the rest of the day.

GETO SUGURU

it starts with the way you look at your reflection.

not hatefully. not even critically.

just like you’re searching for something, something you think should be there and isn’t.

but suguru sees it.

you don’t say anything when you step out of the bathroom. just towel-dried hair, a hoodie that isn’t yours, and that silence. that soft, invisible weight you think you’re hiding.

you dry your hands. exhale once, long and slow. and open the door.

he cheated because you weren’t enough.

because you stopped being exciting. because someone else was better.

you should’ve known. you should’ve seen it coming.

the apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of the air purifier and the quiet flipping of a page. suguru is exactly where you left him: on the couch, half-tucked into the corner, one leg folded underneath him, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. he looks impossibly serene, black hair half-tied, jaw slack with ease. the kind of peace you still sometimes feel like you’re borrowing.

“you’re doing it again,” he says, without looking up.

you pause mid-step. “doing what?”

“looking at yourself like you’re a puzzle.” he casually flips a page. and you know he’s right.

you exhale, eyes flicking down. “you make it sound dramatic.”

he hums, finally looking at you now, eyes soft and unreadable all at once. “it is. because it’s you. and i don’t like when you go quiet like that.”

you don’t say anything. maybe because you don’t know how to explain it, the way the echoes of your past still show up uninvited. that ugly, lingering voice in the back of your mind: he cheated because you weren’t enough.

because you weren’t pretty enough. exciting enough. good enough.

you sit beside him, legs folded just shy of touching his

“i don’t want to be the insecure girlfriend,” you murmur eventually, half into your sleeves.

suguru closes the book with a quiet thud. sets the mug aside. and shifts to face you fully.

“then don’t be,” he says simply. “be mine instead.”

you blink. “that’s the same thing.”

“nah,” he smirks faintly, brushing the damp hair that slips out of the towel back behind your ear. “my girlfriend gets to feel things. even the shitty ones. especially the shitty ones. she also gets forehead kisses on demand, hoodie privileges, and my last piece of gum. so really, she’s winning.”

you huff a laugh and suguru grins.

but then, softer, his hand lingers at the side of your face. his thumb traces the curve of your cheek like it’s familiar ground.

“you know,” he says quietly, “he didn’t cheat because you lacked anything. he cheated because he did. because some people don’t know how to hold onto good things when they have them. and you... you're the kind of good people spend lifetimes trying to find again.”

you stare at him, throat tightening. even without saying it, he just knows, he knows you lack the back of his hand.

“you say that like it’s obvious.”

“it is.” he leans in. “and if you ever forget again, i’ll just keep saying it. out loud. annoyingly. maybe even in public.”

“suguru—”

“oh, don’t test me. i’ll pull a megaphone on the train. ‘ladies and gentlemen, please look at my girlfriend, the love of my life, the reason the sun even bothers to rise—’”

you swat him with a pillow, the smug grin on his face only widens, like he’s won something. like your irritation is a gift he’s been waiting to unwrap.

“see? knew i could make you laugh,” he says, ducking another half-hearted swing with the grace of someone who’s used to dodging curses and flirty retaliation alike.

“you’re insufferable,” you mutter, though you’re smiling now, and he sees it. he always sees it.

he raises his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “and yet, here you are. voluntarily trapped on the couch with me. must be something in the hair.”

“it’s definitely not that.”

“rude.”

reaching across the narrow space between your bodies, and finds yours-his fingers slip between yours so easily it feels like something you’ve done a thousand times. maybe you have.

his palm is warm. solid. reassuring in a way that words never quite manage to be. he doesn’t squeeze right away. he just holds it. lets your hand settle there in his like it’s always belonged.

and when he does give the slightest squeeze; thumb brushing over the back of your hand like a spell—you feel something shift inside your chest. like maybe the pieces don’t hurt so much when they’re held like this.

“i’m not him,” he says.

you squeeze his hand.

“i know,” you whisper. and maybe this time, you really do.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you don’t mean for him to hear you.

not really.

it’s just a slip of a whisper, not even words, at first. a half-voiced sigh, the kind that carries weight without sound. but sukuna’s ears have always been sharp. nothing escapes him. especially you.

you’re standing at the edge of the bed, back to him, fingers fussing with the hem of your shirt — or maybe your skin beneath it. he can’t quite tell. your reflection in the darkened mirror looks like someone bracing for battle.

“you’re staring,” you murmur, quiet and strained.

he doesn’t bother denying it. “of course i am.”

you hesitate, shoulders drawing up. the shirt falls from your hands.

“you don’t have to,” you murmur, almost too low for human ears. but you forget who you’re speaking to. “you don’t have to pretend.”

there’s a pause. his brow shifts, barely. “pretend what?”

“like i’m still…” you falter, lips parting soundlessly before closing again. the words wedge deep, too sharp to drag free easily. “…like i’m enough for you. like you still want me.”

the silence that follows is heavy. not absence — presence. thick with something unnamed, and watching.

then his voice cuts through it. low. and calm.

“are you fucking serious.”

you turn slowly, shoulders stiff, your face a carefully guarded mask. but the tension gives you away, the way your eyes don’t quite meet his, the way your posture coils like you’re expecting a blow, even if it’s only verbal. not from him. from the fear that maybe, somehow, you’re right.

he sits at the head of the bed, one knee drawn up, forearm slung over it lazily. like a king on his throne, but his gaze is far from idle. it pins. holds. not with rage. something quieter. something older.

sukuna tilts his head. there’s an edge of disbelief in his expression, tempered by a kind of dispassionate patience that makes you feel smaller than you’d like.

“woman. do you think i keep you here out of pity?”

you open your mouth. try to explain. but your voice sticks. the doubt’s too loud in your chest.

"it's just...i..maybe i am not enough, 'kuna."

he exhales, it almost sounds like a laugh, but it's more of a scoff twisted in disbelief. “i’ve erased bloodlines for lesser insults.”

“excuse me for being—human,” you snap, voice rising despite the sting behind your eyes. “i’m allowed to have doubts.”

he lifts a brow, unbothered. “doubts, yes. but let’s not confuse them for delusions.”

you turn away again, arms crossed tight over your chest, like you’re trying to hold something in — or hold yourself together.

“god, you’re such an asshole sometimes.”

“mm,” he hums. “and you’re sulking in the moonlight like a tragic little thing. do you really expect me to ignore it?”

“i’m not sulking.”

“you’re absolutely sulking.”

your spine stiffens. you whip around, jaw clenched. “why do you even care?”

he’s on his feet before the words finish echoing, fast and fluid, like something coiled finally springing. you barely register the movement before he’s standing before you, too close. towering. calm.

his hand lifts, slow, almost cautious. the gesture contrasts the weight of his presence; all fire and ruin. his thumb brushes your cheek. just barely. like he’s testing the edges.

“i care,” he says, soft but firm, “because it offends me to think anyone else has ever made you feel uncertain of what’s mine.”

your breath catches, unsteady.

his touch trails lower, to the curve of your jaw, anchoring you. his voice dips into something quieter. he doesn’t raise it. he never has to.

“you think some idiot who didn’t know how to hold you gets to decide how you see yourself now? after everything you’ve endured? after surviving me?”

there’s heat behind your eyes, and you hate it. but it’s there. he sees it. of course he does.

he leans in — not enough to touch, not quite. but close enough that the space between you feels intimate. unavoidable.

“i want you,” he says. “every version. every scar. every fury and ache and tenderness. i want you when you’re sharp and untouchable. and i want you when you’re unraveling.”

his thumb tips your chin up. not a demand. a nudge.

“do you understand me?”

you nod, slow, trembling beneath it all. but it’s not enough for him.

“use your words.”

“…yes,” you breathe.

his eyes narrow, testing.

“yes, i understand.”

he studies you a beat longer. then, apparently satisfied, he exhales through his nose and tugs you forward until your forehead rests against his collarbone. his arms curl around you, slow, sure, possessive.

“good,” he murmurs. “now stop sulking before i decide to strangle you for real.”

a muffled laugh escapes you before you can stop it as his arms tighten. he’s pleased. like he’s claimed something.

maybe he has.

because when he walks you back to the bed, not forceful, just certain, when he pulls the covers over your limbs with finality, when he gathers you into him like a crown too precious for the world to touch, something inside you finally lets go.

you’re not too much.

you’re not not enough.

you are his.

and in sukuna’s world, what’s his is sacred.

KAMO CHOSO

the apartment settles into quiet like it always does, the hum of the heater, the faint clink of dishes cooling in the sink, the silence pressed soft and heavy between two bodies that haven’t spoken in a while.

you’re still in your going-out clothes. makeup smudged, jewelry half-removed, hair pulled back like you couldn’t stand the weight of it anymore. your reflection in the blank tv screen looks tired. stretched thin at the edges. like you were holding something in all night and now it’s coming loose.

you don’t know why it hit so hard. the party wasn’t bad. no one was cruel. everyone smiled at the right moments. choso stayed close, his hand on the small of your back, his expression unreadable in that way of his, not cold, just hard to reach.

but somewhere between the sixth inside joke you didn’t understand and the third time someone interrupted you mid-sentence, something small in you began to crack.

and now it’s all rushing out at once. not in sobs. not in tears.

just in the quiet, gnawing doubt you thought you’d buried years ago.

you sit on the couch, knees pulled up, eyes unfocused. choso is in the kitchen, rinsing the last of the glasses from earlier — sleeves rolled up, movements slow, methodical. like cleaning gives him something to hold on to.

he doesn’t speak right away when he comes back. just stands in the doorway for a beat too long, watching you. you don’t have to look to know. he’s always watching when you go quiet.

you hate how much that makes you want to cry.

you don’t mean to say it aloud.

but you do.

“i must’ve seemed off tonight.”

he doesn’t answer right away. just watches you, the way he always does.

so you go on. too soft. too fast.

“i don’t blame you if you were embarrassed.”

his brows draws together like he doesn't understand. because of course he doesn't, not in the way you do, where you've been second guessing yourself since you were thirteen.

he moves then, slow, silent steps across the room. the kind of movement that would startle if it weren’t so careful, so practiced. like he’s always had to be mindful of how much space he takes up. he sinks onto the couch beside you, his weight pulling the cushions down. you feel the shift. the warmth. he doesn’t touch you. just sits close enough for the heat of him to remind you you’re not alone.

still, he says nothing.

you glance sideways. he’s staring at the floor.

his jaw is tight. the silence stretches, soft and sharp. like the space between lightning and thunder.

and then he lifts his head. slowly. looks at you like he’s just heard something he doesn’t understand , something that doesn’t make sense in a language he thought he was fluent in.

his brow furrows.

not in confusion.

in disbelief.

he blinks once, like trying to clear it. like he’s checking if you’re serious.

“embarrassed?” he echoes, voice quiet. “by you?”

you draw your arms tighter around your legs. press your cheek to your knee. and you hate how you feel yourself closing in, folding smaller and smaller. like if you keep still enough, the lingering doubt won't bloom even further the way it always does. like you can trap it in your lungs and exhale it later.

“everyone else is so easy,” you say. “they talk without thinking. they laugh and it sounds real. i’m just… trying not to say the wrong thing. or too much. or not enough.”

and then he laughs. not because it’s funny. not because he’s mocking you. it’s short. breathless. a sound cut from the middle of a scoff. like something in him can't quite process the absurdity of it.

he rubs a hand down his face. then over his mouth. still shaking his head, eyes dark.

you feel your chest tighten, shame curling in your throat. you don’t know why it hurts more that he’s reacting like this — like the thought alone unsettles him.

then, softly:

“is that really what you think?”

he turns to face you, full now. and you can see it all, up close: the flicker of frustration, the rawness underneath it. but it’s not aimed at you. not even a little.

he looks at you like someone trying to remember how to breathe.

and suddenly, you realize —

he doesn’t know how to do this. not the talking, not the gentle, not the naming of feelings. but he’s trying. hard.

you nod. just once. small. shame creeping up your neck.

his hand moves before he even seems to decide it — just a touch to your arm, the back of his fingers grazing your sleeve. like he wants to make sure you’re real.

“you were the only person in that room,” he says,“who didn’t want something from me.”

you look up.

his eyes don’t flinch.

“you weren’t trying to be impressive. or charming. or easy to like.”

he swallows.

“you were just being you. and i couldn’t stop looking.”

your breath hitches. it’s not the words, it’s the way they sit in the air between you. like they were carved instead of spoken.

his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, hesitant

and then quieter, he says almost to himself, “i didn’t know it was possible to want someone this much and still think it’s not enough.”

you don’t mean to cry, but your eyes burn. his other hand comes up slowly, touches your jaw. his thumb rests just under your cheekbone, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.and he leans in, not to kiss, but just to rest his forehead lightly against yours. grounding. still.

“i’m not that good at this,” he breathes.

you nod. whisper, “i know.”

“but i’m not leaving,” he says.

not a promise. not a reassurance.

a fact.

he draws you in, finally, arms wrapping around you like a barrier against the rest of the world. not tight, but firm. like the way people hold onto the only thing that’s ever made sense. you press your face into his shoulder, and he smells like laundry soap and warmth and the faintest trace of clove from the candle.

neither of you speaks after that.

he doesn’t need to.

the room hums around you: gentle, lived-in, dim.

and for the first time that night, you let yourself belong.

#jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x you #jjk x reader #fluff #comfort #light angst #drabble #gojo satoru x reader

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