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jincapableoflove · 3 months ago

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the lunchbox delivery | drabble

A PART OF 'THE HOUSEHUSBAND DIARIES' DRABBLE SERIES

pairing: jungkook x (f.) reader

genre: househusband! jungkook, corporate office worker! reader, established relationship, flufff.

summary: jungkook, your soft yet badass househusband, goes on a city-wide mission—apron and all—to deliver the lunch you forgot in your morning rush.

word count: 2.1k+

warnings: flustered husband!jungkook, soft domestic moments, jungkook in a manbun (a warning in itself), office gossip, pda, shy but devoted husband, theyre so in love with each other.

inspired by: the way of the househusband (manga)

a/n: i have so many wips but i had to upload this 😭 i'm working hard on hoc and tggpp i promise. writing this reminded me of jungkook saying he'd make a great housewife while washing dishes in that one weverse live. requests are open for this couple! feel free to send in what ifs and drabble ideas!

the kitchen is bathed in soft golden light as the morning sun peeks through the curtains. it’s quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rhythmic chop of a knife against the wooden cutting board.

"when i see your face… there’s not a thing that i would change, ‘cause you’re amazing… just the way you are…"

jungkook sings along to just the way you are by bruno mars, his voice a little raspy from sleep but still effortlessly smooth. his lips curl into a small smile as he sways lightly on his feet, the melody slipping from his lips as he focuses on the task at hand.

your lunch.

he carefully scoops a mound of warm, fluffy rice into his hands, the heat seeping into his fingertips. with practiced ease, he shapes the grains, pressing and molding them until they take form—two perfect little bear faces, their tiny ears rounded just right. he sets them down gently into the bento box and tilts his head, inspecting them with a critical eye.

something’s missing.

jungkook reaches for a small sheet of gim, the dark seaweed paper crisp under his fingertips. with a tiny pair of scissors, he delicately cuts out little circles for the eyes, a small curve for the mouth. he sticks them onto the rice bears with chopsticks, making sure they align perfectly.

he grins in satisfaction before moving on to the rest of the bento. rolled eggs sit neatly beside the rice bears, their golden layers stacked just right. a handful of heart-shaped strawberries adds a pop of color, followed by small sausage octopuses lined up like tiny soldiers. the finishing touch, a few neatly arranged kimbap rolls, sliced precisely.

he carefully closes the sanrio-themed lunchbox, running his fingers over the pastel blue lid where cinnamoroll smiles back at him. he knows how much you love this lunchbox you picked out, giggling over how cute it was in the store.

jungkook double-checks everything, making sure it’s perfectly packed before setting it on the dining table. he even places a pair of your favorite chopsticks next to it, feeling proud of his work.

"when you smile… the whole world stops and stares for a while…"

bam watches from his spot near the couch, his head tilted in curiosity.

"you think she’ll like it, bamie?" jungkook asks, ruffling the dog’s ears. bam wags his tail once in response.

jungkook chuckles. "yeah, she better."

meanwhile, in your room, everything is quiet except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan mixing with the distant chirping of birds outside. the warmth of the blankets wraps around you, and the pillow beneath your head is impossibly comfortable.

suddenly, your phone alarm blares.

your eyes snap open. there’s a beat of silence and then there’s sheer panic.

"shit, shit, SHIT!"

you bolt upright so fast that the blanket tangles around your legs, nearly yanking you back down. your heart pounds as you grab your phone, squinting at the time.

7:45 am.

OH MY GOD.

your early morning meeting.

the realization crashes over you like a bucket of ice water.

you fling the covers off and practically hurl yourself out of bed, making a beeline for the bathroom. toothpaste, face wash, a half-hearted attempt to fix your hair, it’s all done in record time. you throw on your blazer, barely managing to shove your arms through the sleeves as you stumble back into the bedroom.

jungkook, still in his apron over his pajama pants and a loose white t-shirt, leans against the doorframe, watching you with a frown. "you okay, baby?" he asks, his voice thick with confusion.

"no," you groan, hopping on one foot as you struggle to put on your shoe. "i forgot i have an early meeting today—i’m so late!"

jungkook opens his mouth to remind you that you still have fifteen minutes but you’re already dashing past him.

you snatch up your bag from the couch, nearly knocking over the cushions in the process. your blazer is half-buttoned, your hair is still slightly damp from your rushed washing, and you’re 90% sure you forgot to put on perfume.

jungkook barely gets a chance to say good morning before you spin around, eyes wild, and grab his face between your hands.

his lips part in surprise just as you press a quick, rushed kiss to his mouth.

"i love you—BYE!" you say in a single breath, already turning toward the door.

jungkook blinks. "wait, baby, did you—"

but you’re gone.

the door slams behind you, the sound echoing through the apartment.

for a moment, there’s silence. then, with a small sigh, jungkook resumes his everyday tasks, putting on gloves before turning to the sink. once the last plate is set on the drying rack, he moves on to the laundry, gathering the neatly folded clothes into a basket.

woof!

bam, lying on his stomach near the couch, lifts his head and barks toward the dining table. his ears twitch, and his gaze flicks toward jungkook as if expecting him to do something.

jungkook follows his dog’s line of sight.

and there it is.

your cinnamoroll lunchbox, still sitting exactly where he left it. untouched. forgotten.

for a moment, he just stares at it, blinking in disbelief.

then, panic sets in.

"oh, shit."

without wasting another second, jungkook moves. he grabs the lunchbox with one hand and snatches his helmet with the other, practically sprinting toward the door.

within seconds, he’s outside, straddling his harley davidson, the engine roaring to life beneath him. the wind tugs at the loose strands of his tiny man-bun as he pulls his helmet on, securing it hastily before gripping the handlebars.

the city blurs past in streaks of neon and morning sunlight as jungkook speeds through the streets, the deep rumble of his harley davidson cutting through the early rush hour buzz. he leans into the curves with practiced ease, the sharp black of his leather gloves gripping the handlebars as he weaves between cars. the wind tugs at the loose strands of his hair, his tiny man-bun slightly coming undone beneath the helmet. he looks every bit the part of a street racer, dangerous and intense.

except.

there’s a pink apron still tied snugly around his waist.

and strapped to his back? a cinnamoroll lunchbox filled with rice bears and heart-shaped eggs, all carefully prepared for his wife.

the contrast is almost ridiculous but jungkook doesn’t care. his only mission right now is getting this lunch to you before your day gets too hectic and before you end up skipping your lunch due to your deadlines.

a few pedestrians stop to stare as he flies past, some doing double takes at the sight of a broad-shouldered, tattooed man speeding through the city with a pastel-colored lunchbox clutched under his arm. at a red light, an older woman on the sidewalk squints at him, eyes flitting from his dangerous-looking bike to the cute apron still tied neatly around him.

jungkook pretends not to notice.

but when the guy in the car next to him rolls down his window, giving him a once-over and raising an eyebrow, jungkook lets out a slow sigh before muttering under his breath,

"it’s for my wife, bro."

jungkook strides into the lobby of your corporate office, the heavy glass doors sliding open as he steps inside. the sleek modern interior, polished marble floors and employees in crisp suits moving with purpose make him stick out like a sore thumb.

not because he’s out of place.

but because he looks like the world’s softest yet baddest househusband all at once.

the contrast is undeniable. his back boots echo against the floor, tattoos peeking from under the sleeves of his t-shirt, his posture confident. but then there’s the pink apron still tied snugly around his waist, its soft fabric a stark contrast to his sharp jawline and leather gloves stuffed in his pocket. in his hand, a cinnamoroll lunchbox, clutched almost too carefully as if the very fate of the world depends on its safe delivery.

the receptionist, bright-eyed and clearly entertained, has to stifle a giggle the moment she looks up.

jungkook notices.

his grip tightens slightly around the lunchbox as his ears start burning, a telltale shade of pink crawling up his neck. he clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and raises a hand to awkwardly push back the loose strands of his man-bun.

“uh—” he clears his throat again. “i—i’m here for my wife.”

the receptionist blinks, amused. “your wife?”

jungkook nods, shifting uncomfortably. “yeah. y/n, she, uh… forgot her lunch.” he holds up the lunchbox like it’s exhibit a. “can you, um… call her?”

the receptionist definitely giggles this time, eyes flicking between jungkook’s sharp features and the adorable lunchbox in his hands. she doesn’t even bother to hide her amusement when she picks up the phone.

"of course, sir. one moment."

jungkook exhales slowly, standing there, trying so hard not to fidget. his fingers twitch against the strap of the lunchbox, his gaze flicking around the office, avoiding eye contact with passing employees who definitely noticed him.

he swears this is the longest minute of his life.

the moment your receptionist notified you, you practically sprint to the lobby, your heels clicking sharply against the floor as you weave through your coworkers.

jungkook stands near the reception desk, looking utterly adorable despite the fact that he should look completely out of place. his man-bun is slightly messy from the wind, a few strands escaping to frame his face. his fitted shirt clings to his frame just right, tattoos peeking from the sleeve. but then there’s the apron, still snugly tied around his waist, the soft fabric completely at odds with the harley davidson keychain dangling from his fingers.

and in his other hand? your cinnamoroll lunchbox.

your heart melts on the spot.

"jungkook," you breathe, slowing down as you approach him. his big, round eyes lift to meet yours, relief flickering across his face the second he sees you.

"you forgot this," he murmurs, holding out the lunchbox like it’s the most important thing in the world.

something about the way he says it makes your chest ache with warmth. without thinking, you grab the lunchbox and then, before he can react—

you kiss him.

right there.

in front of everyone.

jungkook stiffens instantly, his brain short-circuiting as your lips press against his. it’s quick but firm, filled with gratitude and affection, and when you pull away, his expression is priceless.

his ears are so red.

actually, scratch that—his entire face is red. his doe eyes blink rapidly, mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but can’t.

a few feet away, the receptionist giggles. several coworkers definitely noticed. someone even lets out a low whistle, murmuring, “damn, wish my wife loved me like that.”

jungkook malfunctions.

“i—y-you—” he stammers, gripping the back of his neck. “y-you didn’t have to—uh—”

you grin up at him, amused by the way he’s physically incapable of forming a proper sentence. “i did have to.” you shake the lunchbox playfully. “you came all the way here just to bring me this. what kind of wife would i be if i didn’t thank you properly?”

jungkook sputters, still blushing furiously. “b-but—”

you kiss his cheek this time, just for good measure.

his soul leaves his body.

the moment jungkook steps out of the office, the gossip erupts.

“oh my god, that was adorable.” “who knew your husband was such a softie?” “damn, does he have a brother?” “i swear, that was straight out of a drama.”

you shake your head, grinning as you make your way back to your desk, ignoring the knowing looks and teasing winks from your coworkers. no matter how much they tease, you don’t care because honestly? you love how much they saw. you love that they know just how sweet your husband is.

as you sit down, you run your fingers over the lunchbox, warmth blooming in your chest. jungkook had woken up early just to make this for you, chased you down just to deliver it. it wasn’t just about the food, it was about him, the way he always thought of you, always made sure you were taken care of.

at lunchtime, you carefully open the box, and the sight of the tiny bear-shaped rice makes your heart clench. he even arranged everything neatly, just how you liked it.

with a giddy sigh, you pick up your phone and type out a quick message.

you: you are the best husband in the world i love u sooo muchh 😭💖

a few seconds later, your phone buzzes.

kookie 🎀🐰 : damn right i am. you better eat all of it.

you roll your eyes, chuckling to yourself as you take your first bite, savoring the meal he made with so much care.

yeah. you were so lucky.

taglist open!! lmk ur thots <3

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skzstarl0ver · 1 month ago

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𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚90 Days

Jeongin x reader / co-workers / slow-burn / smut / bet

**involves!!** strong sexual tension, cursing, dirty talk, inappropriate touch, strong language, sexual content

enjoy xx (request open)

★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★

The office was colder than it had any right to be at 9:04 in the morning.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you stood by the front desk, trying to figure out if the receptionist had given you the wrong floor. Your ID badge hung awkwardly from your neck, and you were already regretting taking this 90-day temp assignment.

Paper-pusher. Data entry. Eight hours a day in a room with no windows and coffee that tasted like burnt regret.

Someone coughed behind you.

"New temp?" came a voice, amused.

You turned — and immediately felt your gut twist.

He was tall, all lean lines and a devil-may-care slouch. His black button-down was rolled to his elbows, revealing veins and slim wrists, and his lanyard was tucked into his pocket like he didn’t give a shit about protocol. He had the kind of face that didn’t belong in a place like this. Sharp jaw. Full lips. Dark, knowing eyes that flicked over you like he was trying to place a bet.

"I’m Jeongin," he said, offering you a lazy, one-handed wave. "Also a temp. Also trapped in this soulless office graveyard. You’ll love it."

You blinked. "You’re way too cheerful for someone on a contract job."

He smirked. "What can I say? I like to suffer with a little flair."

Your eyes narrowed slightly — not out of annoyance, exactly. He had that thing. That careless, insufferably attractive thing. The kind of guy who knew he was hot and witty and liked to poke at people just to see how long it would take to get under their skin.

You didn’t shake his hand. Just turned back toward the elevator, muttering, "Ninety days. That’s all I have to survive."

From behind you, you heard a low whistle.

"Counting down already? Damn. You’re colder than the printer room."

You ignored him.

But you also didn’t miss the way his eyes followed you as you walked away.

The office was worse than you expected.

Gray carpet. Beige walls. Monitors the size of microwaves. And the people? Mostly lifeless, polite smiles and flat laughter. You tried to focus on your spreadsheet training — but it was hard to concentrate when he was seated two desks away, spinning in his chair and humming quietly to himself.

By lunch, he’d already made himself known.

You were eating in the breakroom when he appeared beside you, biting into a granola bar and flopping into the chair across from you with no invitation.

“So,” he said. “Where’d they drag you in from?”

You chewed slowly. "...Temp agency. You?"

He leaned back, arms stretched behind his head. "Freelancer. Usually graphic stuff. This is my ‘I need rent money’ gig."

His shirt lifted slightly with the stretch. You tried not to look. Failed. Looked back at your sad pasta salad.

“Anyway,” he said, licking peanut butter off his thumb. “I like you. You’re mean.”

"I’m not mean."

"You haven’t smiled once."

"Maybe you’re not funny."

He grinned. “See? Mean. I’m keeping you.”

You stared at him.

"Jeongin, this is a 90-day contract. Not The Bachelor."

He leaned forward, chin in hand, eyes dancing.

"Exactly. Ninety days. Let’s make it interesting."

It didn’t take long for him to become the most tolerable part of your day.

Not that you’d admit it out loud.

He was constantly showing up at your desk — under the pretense of “asking for a stapler” or “needing backup” when talking to clients. But he never stayed on topic. It was always jokes, quips, a constant stream of banter laced with something… warmer.

Something that made your stomach turn in the best possible way.

You caught yourself laughing more than usual. Blushing when he looked at you a second too long. You told yourself it was just boredom — office life was so dull that any distraction would feel like a spark.

But the truth was, Jeongin wasn’t just charming. He was thoughtful in subtle ways. He memorized your coffee order. He slid your favorite pens onto your desk without a word. He’d whisper stupid things during team meetings just to make you smile behind your hand.

And he was always watching you.

Quietly. Casually. Like he already knew exactly what kind of thoughts were starting to creep into your head every time he leaned a little too close.

You hated how much you noticed him.

The smooth stretch of his throat when he laughed. The way his fingers drummed rhythmically when he was focused. How his voice dipped when he got serious.

God. You were in trouble.

It came to a head in the stockroom.

Week three. You were reaching for toner. He was there — again — pretending to “supervise,” because apparently flirting counted as a workplace hobby.

Your fingers brushed as you reached for the same box.

You froze.

He didn’t.

Jeongin leaned in, so close you could smell him — that warm scent of cedar and citrus and something subtle that had become your new favorite weakness.

"You always get this breathless when I’m around?" he asked, voice low.

Your hand tightened around the box. "You’re in my space."

His lips quirked. “You’re in mine.”

You turned — and suddenly, the shelf was at your back, and his body was in front of you, close enough to feel heat in every inch of air between you.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.

"You gonna stop me if I kiss you?" he asked.

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t say anything.

So he did.

It wasn’t gentle. It was heat and want and frustration all tangled in a kiss that felt like it had been waiting for weeks. His hands found your waist, yours curled into his shirt, and you gasped when his tongue slid against yours, slow and teasing.

You were halfway to climbing him when he pulled back.

His breathing was rough. So was yours.

But he only smiled.

"Not yet," he said softly. “That’d be too easy.”

And just like that, he left you in the stockroom, heart pounding, lips tingling, thighs pressed tight.

You could still feel the ghost of Jeongin’s lips on yours hours later.

It was ridiculous. You had a job to do, spreadsheets to finish, and yet every time you looked at your computer screen, your mind rewound to that stupid, reckless kiss in the stockroom. The way his hands had settled on your waist, firm but not too tight — the way his breath had caught when you’d pressed closer.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But you’d been lying to yourself since Day One.

Jeongin didn’t make things easier.

If anything, he made them worse.

He was suddenly everywhere.

Leaning into your personal space during meetings. Whispering dirty jokes that made your cheeks burn. Sliding his fingers dangerously close to yours under the table, his touch a mere brush — enough to electrify, not quite enough to break the fragile boundary.

That morning, he sauntered into the break room, wearing a grin so crooked you suspected it was a challenge.

“Got a minute?” he asked, voice low, sliding onto the chair beside you.

You glanced around. “Shouldn’t we be working?”

He shook his head. “Nah. We have time. And I have an idea.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Let’s make a deal.”

Your interest piqued, despite yourself.

He pulled a pen from his pocket and clicked it thoughtfully.

“I propose a bet. We’re stuck here, counting down these miserable days, right?”

You nodded.

“So,” he said, leaning closer until you could see the shimmer in his eyes, “no sex until Day 90.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Think about it.” He smiled wickedly. “If we make it without breaking the rules, on the last day — I get to ruin you.”

You laughed — nervous, breathless, because you knew he wasn’t joking. “Ruin me?”

He brushed your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering too long. “I want you so desperate by then you won’t know your own name.”

You swallowed hard.

“You’re insane.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m good at winning.”

The days that followed were torture.

Jeongin’s touches became teasing — light grazes on your arm, fingers tracing patterns on your back when he passed by. His whispers were promises and threats woven together.

“Bet you’re thinking about me right now.” “Don’t even pretend you didn’t want me to kiss you again.” “You look like you need a release, and I’m the only one who can give it.”

You tried to focus on work. You really did.

But the ache between your thighs was becoming impossible to ignore.

Every glance, every brush of his hand set your skin on fire. You caught him watching you, hunger smoldering in his eyes, and you had to bite your lip to keep from falling apart right there.

One night, two weeks before Day 90, you found yourself texting him.

This is torture.

His reply came almost instantly.

You love it.

You hated him.

You loved him.

And then finally...

Day 90 arrived.

You clocked out.

Jeongin’s hand found yours in the parking lot.

His eyes were dark, full of that same reckless promise.

“Ready to be ruined?”