GIRL we need a devil in a new suit drabble where jungkook gets jealous pls bless usđđâ¤ď¸
[ read devil in a new suit ]
pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  kook being hilarious and naive, reader being a little frustrated but head over heels, smut in the form of: titty sucking (kook is a big boob guy in this), cunnilingus, kook wanting to love you forever.  wc.  2.1k.  author note.  i am... so in love with this couple so what was meant to be a âkook gets jealous and breaks readerâs backâ turned into... this.
Jeon Jungkook doesnât get jealous. Not because he doesnât care, or heâs unaffected, or any other negative connotation under the sun. He doesnât because heâs him, too soft and sweet and silly to believe the worst in people. (This, coming from the man whoâd steered clear of dating apps and blind dates because he was worried heâd be hurt.)
Once, youâd been waiting for him to pick you - heâd been running late, dinner with his parents and younger sister - and heâd found you chatting politely to an old fling of yours. Well, maybe not so old. A recent fling, a friend of sorts. Someone whoâd swanned into your life during your college years and had remained there ever since, popping his head in from time to time.Â
Youâd always been on good terms, caught up for lunch every six months or so when heâd return home from his overseas job. In the past, youâd found familiarity in the shape of his hands, the neon outline of his almond eyes and pouting lips. He was good in bed, as charming between the sheets as he was on the street.
But your heart belonged to Jungkook now - had, before youâd even realised it - and Taewoo was just another guy. Another face in a crowd.
Still, youâd thought your beloved boyfriend would have some sort of reaction. Maybe a quirk of his perfectly groomed brows, a certain tightness belying his displeasure in the softly peaked bow of his mouth. Youâd spied neither after extracting yourself from the hug and waving goodbye. Jungkook had been sunshine and sweetness, opening your door for you and stamping a kiss to your cheek. Â
That night, heâd loved you how he always had, with you crying his name and making a mess of his sheets.
Another time, youâd been at a work function. One of those ridiculous galas you loved, full of women in their highest heels and men in their swankiest watches. (Youâd worn Aquazzura that night, Jungkook with an Audemars Piguet loose around his wrist.) Â
Heâd stuck close to your side, far more interested in the way your dress hugged your figure, cut intimidatingly high over your thigh and revealed the swell of your ass at juuuust the right angle. Yejin had been the only one to tear him away, insisting on shots that you knew she couldnât handle. Anything went if free booze was involved.
Thirty minutes later - give or take, since you hadnât had a watch of your own on - your boyfriend had returned, flushed and adorable. Thereâd been a garden of colour creeping over the expanse of his chest, peeking around the collar of his shirt and disappearing into his neatly tousled strands. Heâd giggled his way back to you, somehow completely oblivious to the man thatâd found you at your table and settled himself into the spot labelled Jeon Jungkook.
The imposter had been affronted, gaze narrowed at the younger man who was a little too loose, a little too smiley. Wholly out of place at an event like this, where people spent too much time up their own asses, noses held aloft and business cards exchanged. Â
(One of the reasons you loved Jungkook so much. He was a breath of fresh air in a world you thrived in - found humour in, at the very least - carrying you high above the clouds with the sound of his laughter.)
âHi, baby.â Your darling boy smothered you in kisses, traced them up and over the exposed expanse of your shoulder, nosing against your skin, utterly unbothered by the man shooting him daggers, wishing him ill from the spot heâd wrongly claimed. Â
Of course, heâd thought Jungkook was making a point - claiming what was his - but that was so far from the truth youâd almost laughed when heâd spoken, voice carrying above the slightly laboured breaths of your lover. âI guess thatâs my cue to leave, huh?â
Youâd smiled, nodded with a hand threaded into cornsilk curling over Jungkookâs nape. âLooks like it.â
(Then your idiot love - your big-hearted moron, your doe-eyed baby - had come up for air, cheek resting in the palm of his hand. âWhereâs your friend?â Heâd asked, eyes so wide you couldnât doubt the sincerity of his question.)
Such was the kind of person Jungkook was, with an unwavering belief in the goodness of others, a silver thread outlining everyoneâs silhouette. You sometimes wondered what it would take to drive him to any sort of displeasure, any sort of emotion beyond quiet melancholy (seldom seen but heavily felt, when the rare occasions rose) or easygoing amicability (his default setting). Not that youâd ever push to see that, of course.
You were happy. Hopelessly in love. You wouldnât have traded him for the world - couldnât even fathom doing anything to hurt him. Â
And yet, you discover albeit by accident - itâs really not that hard. All it takes is a pretty girl.
âThis looks incredible,â she says, standing close, long dark hair falling in a fluid curtain down the line of her back. Itâs the loveliest shade, cool-toned beneath the boutique lights, and reflects colour like a waterfall. Youâd complimented her on it when youâd stepped into the fitting area, a handful of hangers set across the rolling rack.
Fingers smooth over embroidery, revelling in the feeling of it over your skin. Itâs a beautiful thing, black tulle that hangs to your fingertips. Not Jungkookâs preferred style - he much prefers harnesses and so many straps it might as well be a catâs cradle - but you think he loves it nonetheless.Â
(Youâd confirm, but heâs been stoically silent, seated in the plush chair tucked beside the privacy partition, normally soft gaze hard and trained on his phone. He doesnât seem very much in the mood to talk, hardly reacting with each outfit change. A nod here, a smile there. Not even the most scandalous of the options - a black corset decorated in Leavers lace - had elicited his usual enthusiasm.) Â
âYou think so?â Youâre not insecure about your body - know what it looks best in, which assets to play up. Still, itâs nice to hear from someone other than your doting boyfriend, the people caught in your orbit. Â
The sales associate nods, beams at you in the multiple mirrors. A hand of her own drifts over the thin strap of the slip - an innocent gesture that dislodges wayward strands of hair from beneath. âOf courseâ and Iâm not just saying that because Iâm trying to sell it.âÂ
You nod, satisfied. Even if Jungkook doesnât seem ecstatic, your own joy makes up for it, buyerâs delight spilling over. âIâll take the satin robe, the blush silk set, and this in the violet.â Â
âGreat choices,â she hums, pulling back the curtain to the adjoining change room to allow you privacy. Silence follows as you slip the delicate number off, returning it to its hanger. You donât expect when the brunette continues speaking - presumably to your surprisingly surly boyfriend. âDonât you agree?âÂ
âYep.â Heâs never been a man of few words, usually so full of excitement that he rambles when he doesnât mean to. Â
Itâs a dead giveaway - a confirmation that somethingâs wrong.
Unfortunately for you, you donât have time to broach the subject, your purchases already paid for and a firm hand on the small of your back the moment youâve stepped out of the dressing stall. âJungkookie?â You mean it quietly, just for the two of you, but falter when he slots his fingers between yours and all but tugs you out of the boutique. You hardly even have a chance to toss the helpful girl an apologetic smile, imposing glass swinging shut behind you.
âMenâmen are fine. I donât have to worry about them.â Thereâs a confidence youâre so proud to see, turning his words as solid as the weight that rests against your hip, sears burning heat into your bared skin. âNo other man is going to love you better than me. But women?â A shudder runs the length of his imposing frame, tugs his shoulders up to his ears and tingles the small of his back. âWomen are scary.â (Itâs a sentiment heâs echoed in the past. In particular, months ago when youâd insisted he dive into the dating scene.)
Hands thread through his too-soft strands, twirl the ends around your fingers as he speaks, nearly muffled into the crook of your shoulder. Heâs being so tender, giving you all the love he has to offer as he writes his insecurities into your skin, offers them with the wet of his tongue.
âA woman might sweep you off your feet and steal you away.â
You laugh then - sound snapping past your teeth before you can tuck it away. It filters loudly into the baies scented candle youâd lit when youâd gotten into his apartment. Â
Jungkook whines in response - a terribly endearing sound that makes you roll your eyes but only with affection (always with that) - and buries his face into your tits, sucking your nipple into his mouth with complete disregard for the tulle that acts as a barrier. Saliva stains the material, makes it stick to your hardened bud as he laves over it with his tongue - bites surprisingly gently - and tugs it just hard enough to have you keening.
âS-sânot funny,â he huffs, palming your other breast in his broad tattooed palm. When he continues, he bites into you like heâs got a personal vendetta against whatever lies beneath your flesh. âShe was flirting with you.â Â
Itâs less of a sigh of annoyance - more sensual, drowning in need. âShe was not.â
He nips at the delicate flesh again, spreads crimson marks all across the sensitive skin until itâs a mosaic beneath the fabric, his finest work painted by his second favourite brush. âThatâs what you think but she was.â The hand previously kneading your skin drops, flat of his palm sliding easily over your bare pussy. Â
Thereâs zero hesitation when he slots his fingers on either side of your clit, catches the delicate pearl against the webbing of his hand and applies pressure that has you bucking beneath him. Itâs not nearly as aggressive as he normally is but itâs just as good, paired with the sinful motions of his tongue and teeth.Â
âShe wants to be the one doing this,â he continues, saliva pooling across your chest, slipping into the valley of your breasts only to be licked up by the flat of his tongue. He continues even once youâre clean, skin sticky and a little gross but so erotic it makes you quiver. Then he descends, pushes the hem of your new slip higher, and licks another stripe from the joint of your thigh up to your belly button. Repeats it again, moving lower with each pass until heâs sucking your clit into his mouth. âShe wants to be the one tasting this pretty, pretty pussy.â
You reach for his hand - the one somewhere near your ribs, side of his wrist soothing against the ladder of bones - and tangle your fingers together as he drives you mad, tip of his tongue switching between sweet kitten licks and tantalising figure eights.
âBaby,â you coax, reprimand almost. Jungkookâs never this lenient, never this sweet on you (not inside the bedroom, at least). It brings you to a different high, his love folded into lovely origami cranes you tuck into your pockets and the spot youâve carved out for him within your chest.
âSing for me, sweetheart.â
He doesnât mean literally - refers instead to the sound of your voice when it leaps three octaves, bounces between sultry and singed, burnt at the edges by the fire he brings to life.Â
âTell me youâll never leave me.â Despite how the words muffle, come broken between the glide of his tongue within your fluttering walls, you can hear the sincerity in them. The earnestness that begs you to promise him this simple thing. âNot for her. Not for anyone.â Â
âI wonât leave you,â you answer, threading the vow between your fingers as if theyâre the thread binding your love story together. âNot for her - not for anyone.â
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Short... Smutty... jk drabbles??? How about cock warming... Or nipple play with jk?? Idk just some ideas đđ
[ read devil in a new suit ]
pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  kook loves boobs (part 21981290). but fr, just a lot of titty worship. wc. 0.6k.  author note. iâve also filled the cockwarming prompt but iâm not happy w it so it will sit in... my drafts....Â
The moment you stepped into his car, you shouldâve known you were a goner. Shouldâve known there was absolutely no way you were leaving the garage, no way heâd let you walk back outside. Shouldâve known you were playing with fire.
âJ-Jungkookââ Whatever youâd meant to say is swallowed up, eaten alive by the lewd sounds heâs making with his mouth, lips sealed around a perked nipple as he presses you further into your seat.
Itâs not the most comfortable position - heâs twisted all weird, hip protesting as it digs into the seat belt buckle. He doesnât care though. Canât even begin to complain about it when youâre crying out beneath him, so pretty and breathless it makes his heart skip a beat.
Thereâs a flush creeping over your skin, painting your cheeks the colour of fresh-picked apples. The same hue descends past your collarbone and sits centre stage over your tits. Practically a neon outline directing him to his preferred destination.
âCanât believe you thought you could get away with it.â Itâs a snarl against your chest, a low groan dressing the edges and turning it dark as he sucks at the pebbled bud, dragging the flat of his tongue in lazy languid circles. âNo bra, baby? Really?â The edge of his teeth glide over tender flesh, leaving little love bites and a mosaic of maroon that contrasts brightly with the soft cream of your top (currently hooked beneath your tits, thin straps hanging off your shoulders). It looks so nice blending with the heat that pools beneath your skin - a masterpiece heâd like to hang up on his wall.
âItâs notââ He doesnât know why you bother when youâre keening with every movement, unable to focus on a single thought before he tears all sensibility away with a pass of his lips. Â
One hand cups your breast - holds the teardrop that fits so perfectly within his palm - and the other presses over your back, insistent on bringing you closer, on forcing more of you into his mouth. âNot what? Not a big deal?â The sound of his laugh vibrates through your body, sets your heart on a breakneck sprint as his hands shift. Rough fingers pinch your neglected nipple. Hard.Â
When you gasp, it shoots straight to his groin, cock twitching in his pants. Oh, he wants to hear that again.
âYou can do whatever you want, baby.â And itâs true. Jungkook will never stop you - never tell you what to wear or who to see. Heâll let you live your life, even break his heart if thatâs what it takes - but you canât expect him to let something like this go. You know how much he loves your tits. Â
He nuzzles his face into your cleavage, face deep in the valley of death - what a glorious death that would be - and roughly palms both breasts, thumb and forefinger pinching at the straining buds. Your heart plays a melody he loves, tattoos itself against his cheek when he presses his ear against where it beats.
âSo, so pretty,â he coos, tongue gliding from the base of your sternum up to your neck. Itâs not exactly a nipple in his mouth but itâs just as sweet, slightly salty from the desire that burns your bones to ash. âSo perfect for me.â
          ⪠ đ  MASTERLIST :  ⍠ devil in a new suit
Moneyâs something that makes the world go around. Â Thereâs absolutely nothing wrong with securing the bag. Â You donât shame anyone for doing what they need to do. Â
That is, until you come face to face with the poor guy thatâs being suckered out of both his heart and cash. Â You simply canât let it go on.
pairing. Â jjk x f!reader.
genre + rating. non-idol!au. baby angst, lots of (somewhat cracky) fluff, explicit smut. pretty much every part in this verse involves mature content but they are marked (*) regardless.
tags / warnings. Â mentions of infidelity, kook being adorable and sad, reader being a bit of a tactless butthole, a satin playsuit (very nsfw), kook does a 180, actual baby in the streets and a freak in the sheets, soft dom!kook, and smut in these various forms: a slight oral fixation, too much spit, overstimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected sex (pls donât be irresponsible), light bondage, titty sucking/groping/worship, use of a vibrator, oral (f receiving), more sex toy use.Â
wc. 12.2k main story (complete). 22.8k total. ongoing.
author note.  i write about this couple so much i figured it was time to make a proper masterlist. đ¤  i dunno if iâll ever do a full âsecondâ part, but i will keep writing drabbles because these idiots live in my mind rent free.Â
Dude... What about a devil!jk spending his first valentine's day with her and she's all it's just a dumb holiday and he's all offended cus he's a rooooomantic đ¤Łđ¤Ł
[ read devil in a new suit ]
pairing. rich boy!jjk x girlfriend!reader.  rating.  general.  tags. the epitome of fluffy angst.  wc.  1.4k. beta reader(s). @coepiteamare, @yeoldontknow. ty mucho. â¨Â  a/n.  vday is a capitalist lie and also, this will rip your heart in half then piece it back together. happy 14th of february!  Â
There sits a portrait in the atrium of his heart. A lovely thing, a lonely thing, painted in the shades of your smile, the rouge of your lipstick, the studded dark of your stare. It never gathers dust, prim and pristine, carefully tended to with an adoration that sinks sunbeams into the shadows, sweeps cobwebs away on moth wings. Â
Itâd once been blocked off, locked with a skeleton key, brass tucked behind the cage of his ribs. Heâd guarded it like a three-headed dog, barked and bayed and keened quiet in the night when no one else was around. No one enter, heâd said, full of fear, skin of his hands hardened and rough and purpled. The flesh of a fig, hardy and thick, protecting a centre soft and chewy and terribly sweet as it stuck to teeth. Â
Heâd never been bitter - never the harsh white pith of a lemon, never tart like the yellow that burst forth and stung - but heâd been something else. Cautious, worried, scared. Full of love but with nowhere for it to go, overripe and inedible from years of hanging on the limbs of trees left to rot.
And then youâd appeared. Shot across his sky like a comet, brilliant and beautiful and fluorescent, lighting up his life like the burst of a supernova.
Youâd drenched all the grey in technicolour, turned paper leaves green, spilled colour into his cheeks. Made them rudied red and full of life, warm warm warm in the curl of your palms, scorching coals under the weight of your kisses. Filled all his cracks with the silver quality of your laughter, honeycomb smile turned gold filigree to piece back all the fragments.Â
So of course heâd showered you in affection, appeared with an armful of flowers and a smile that rivalled the sun. âHappy Valentineâs day,â heâd hummed, a heart full of hope, hands full of freesias and white roses and enough babyâs breath to take yours away. He thought youâd love it - like you loved him, with unashamed adoration and lines at your eyes, brow creasing with delight. But youâd only blinked once, twice, with a polite turn of your chin, a knife slipped between his ribs and pressed, too gentle for purpose.Â
Youâd smiled and shook your head, caught a petal between your fingers and dipped your nose to the leaves. Inhaled deep and pure and then continued on, moved along, already miles away by the time heâd caught up. Â
âDonât you like them?â Heâd asked, doubt creeping up, twining around his lungs like a rose bush, heavy with thorns. Theyâd pin-pricked his heart, spilled his insides out; your bandages were nowhere to be found, no chiming bells or liquid gold in sight. Itâd beat for you, in time with you, one to one for each of your own. Itâd stuttered and tripped, caught on its own too feet, overeager and delirious. âThe girl who helped me said freesias symbolise trust and babyâs breath mean love andââ
âTheyâre lovely.â Â
Maybe youâd meant it, for the briefest of moments, in the quiet before youâd crossed the threshold, before youâd swung open the door and turned his efforts to ash. Surely youâd appreciated them - him. Surely you never intended to hurt him the way you had. Â
âBut theyâre kind of a waste.â
A heart is a well of impossible depths, an abyss of contradictions and contrived notions. Even the brightest of rays do little to penetrate its darkness. Moonlight filters over the surface in ripples and waves, undefined and blurred. Thoughts without end and often without start. Â
He supposes he canât help the way he feels, how his shoulders turn stiff beneath your touch, the set of his mouth worn and sagging, a poorly strung noose tying his lips up. (It feels more like the thing around his neck, tattered and heavy, a reminder of all the reasons the door had been better left shut, sealed.)Â
âWhatâs wrong?â Youâre a birdsong in his ear, lilting and lovely, impossible to ignore. You hold him in your hands and press kisses to his throat, sear stardust beneath skin, and hum in hopes of an answer. Heâs stoically silent, a statue fit not for hallowed halls but mausoleums, stone cold and sad. Â
Jungkook doesnât mean for this - for the sorrow that rains down in sheets. Youâre a Monday in May, a winding path speckled with flora, springtime. His misery will surely suffocate you, tear life from limb with its torrential cast. Â
âNothing,â he says, through the pristine white cage of his teeth, untruths bleeding past enamel and staining them red. He speaks them well, well enough to fool anyone else, well enough that his lies are dressed lily white, stunning in their Sunday best. âJust donât feel well.â
Hasnât, since youâd come home, since dinner, since exactly four hours and four minutes ago. Â
âDonât lie.â Itâs not an accusation, baseless and blunt. Itâs coaxing, pleading, whittling away amber, crystallised and hard around the too-soft thing in his chest. A layer of wax giving way, melted by the warmth of your touch, the fire in your eyes. Icarusâ wings, hummingbird wings, monarch wings. Stained glass creaking and cracking beneath the weight of your words. Â
âIâm sorry.â
The apology lays itself over crushed velvet, spins itself into silk and twines into strands, a braid twisted over your shoulder. It settles, indistinguishable from the salt-sweet, his whisper finding a home within the shell of your skin. He threads his fingers with yours, twists and turns knuckles until they knock awkwardly, unkempt and unsure. Â
Your sigh is a salve, soothing ointment spread over scorched earth, dulling the sting. He still aches all over, from the base of his spine to the top of his head, a rattle in his bones when he brings you close. It trembles through the both of you, an eruption of emotion felt to the core. (But still, he feels best when heâs with you.)
âFor what?â Â
He thinks and thinks, works himself into a knot he doesnât know how to unfasten. It coils in the centre of his chest, a slipknot heâs tied wrong, whose tail has been folded in on itself. He grasps at frayed rope, seeks aimlessly for the answer. A tidal wave of emotion sweeps high above his head, an unnamed terror that threatens to upend his rowboat. He settles as the sea does, in breaks and luls that belie something far worse, in a voice small as a drop in the ocean. âFor being too much.â
âJungkook.â The way your voice breaks hits like a thousand pounds, an assault to the back of his knees, a shot to the vulnerable soft of his gut. A sound whines out - another apology - and you swallow it whole, take it in and turn it around, offering tenderness in its wake. âYouâre never too much.â
He believes you. He swears he does, even if the words come tumbling out, glass too full to hold them all. âYou didnât like the flowers.â
âSo what?â You cradle him careful with magic hands, understanding threaded between each digit. You hold him tight even as he threatens to run away, canât keep the skip of his stare from doing so. âI donât need flowers. I donât need gifts.â (Not the jewels heâd laid in your lap, stamped with an interlocked âCâ and nestled within pristine white tissue. Not the flowers thatâd poured onto every surface of his apartment, a mountain of blooms with typewritten cards nestled amongst stems. Not the five course meal heâd ordered in, because love and devotion didnât translate into a masterclass in cooking.) âAll I wanted for Valentineâs Day was you.â
Something heâs never heard before. Less an excuse and more akin to youâre enough, echoed in the quiet, repeated in a daisy chain that attaches itself to the end of his thoughts and undoes all the sadness. That unravels him in a single fluid motion and has him melting against you, leaking love from all his undone seams.
âIâm sorry.â This time, he means it as thank you.
so maybe another devil in a new suit drabble đđ maybe jk meeting oc parents or like more interactions w oc and jks parents/sister
[ read devil in a new suit ]
pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  pg-13.  tags. mentions of coconut!kook dancing (and the whole reason i wrote this tbh), cute banter, idk. just a lotta fluff, a lil bit of grinding, yâknow.  wc. 2.7k. beta reader. none other than @hobi-gif. i love you always!  author note. oh look... itâs me... posting something... after sixteen hundred years. womp womp. this truthfully didnât go the way i planned it to but i hope you enjoy regardless!
It really shouldnât surprise you. Frankly, it doesnât. Â
But it is a little funny.
There are about six girls gathered in a gaggle around your boyfriend, all desperately vying for his attention as he presents a neatly gathered bouquet to his little sister. Jisooâs all smiles, completely over the moon with pride and riding that high as she rightfully should. (Sheâd done incredibly well, closed out the showcase with a fluidity you could never even dream of.) She doesnât even notice her friends staring at her brother with hearts in their eyes, each one red in the face and not from exertion.
(That, or she doesnât care. Maybe sheâs grown used to it - the whole having-a-heartthrob-for-a-brother thing.)Â
Itâs actually quite cute, if only because you know Jungkook doesnât have eyes for anyone but you. Can feel it in how he keeps bouncing his gaze back towards you, dimple winking from deep within his cheek each time your eyes meet. Heâs like a child going back to his favourite toy, momentarily distracted by tittering laughter and his sisterâs sunny smile but always coming back to you. The knowledge warms you from the inside out, drags a satisfied smile across your lips.
You wonder whether he notices the attention or if itâs just another part of his life. (You think he must know. These college students donât really hide it well, too handsy for their own good, years of growing up in semi-close proximity instilling a certain confidence in their motions. That, and because Jungkook is quite possibly the least intimidating person youâve ever met.)
âThank you for coming!â Itâs Jisoo, flushed and excitable, round eyes as bright as her brotherâs as she crosses to you. This had been her moment - her time to shine - but you appreciate the effort she makes to include you, finding you within the crowd. âI was a little nervous butâŚâ A shrug rolls her narrow shoulders, shakes her dark hair from its loose coil. Â
Youâd seen her practice before this - watched the long videos sheâd regularly send to Jungkook - but seeing her in real life motion was an entire league of its own. Dancing was her calling, every bit of her made for it. There was just something lyrical about the way she moved, how her hips rolled, limbs seemingly guided by the rhythm of the music. A grace youâve never had, even on your best day.
âYou shouldnât have been.â Youâre beaming right back at her, sisterly reassurance on your tongue. âYou were amazing.âÂ
Whether she believes you or not - you think she does by how her cheeks grow ten sizes and her eyes are all but swallowed whole by the expression - sheâs gracious, accepting the compliment with her blinding smile. (She really was like Jungkook like that.) Â
âYou guys should come to a class one day.â By that, she means a class she helps teach every once in a while. Youâve heard about it on more than one occasion, seen the choreography posted on Instagram and YouTube. Â
Still, you donât expect that, brows shooting high. Laughter filters past your teeth, springing off your tongue. âI am not a dancer and I doubt your brotherââ
Now itâs Jisooâs turn to wear surprise like a neon sign, expression splitting with giggles of her own. âWaitâ have you not seen Kook dance?â The way she says it is incredulous, Bambi eyes sparkling with what looks like mischief.
âNo?â
âYour sister told me something.â
Youâve never seen this particular brand of worry on his face, eyes even more comically wide than usual, whatever words heâd originally meant to speak dying on his tongue. He looks like a literal deer caught in the headlights, one of his nicknames suddenly very apt.
âWhat did she say? She likes to embarrass me.â True. Jisoo and Jungkook had a textbook sibling relationship, full of teasing and mockery and copious amounts of love. âWhatever she said, donât believeââ
âShe said you used to dance.â
âOh.â Oh? You hadnât expected Jungkook to deflate so easily, relief flooding his features. âYeah, I did. In university.â Heâs utterly unbothered by this knowledge, attention back on the soondubu jjigae heâd been shovelling into his mouth. âI had some friends who were dancers, so it was good exercise.â
âI want to see.â Â
His answer is immediate, despite the heaping bite of rice and stew in his mouth. âNo.â
You whack him across the shoulder, startling him into clattering his spoon on the countertop. It leaves a messy red streak across marble but youâre dragging his attention back to you with a firm glare, fingers cradled under his jaw. âI want to see.â
Talent apparently runs in the family, you realise halfway through the third video. Jungkook moves with the same assured movements his sister does, with power and grace and a confidence that frankly baffles you. He treats the practice room like a stage, running through the motions so fluidly you almost have trouble believing itâs your man on the screen. (Not that heâs particularly ungraceful. Itâs just surprising, like watching a dog walk on its hind legs.)
âSo, what happened?â You say it so conversationally, innocently, with eyes that mimic his own. From the corner of your periphery, your boyfriend shifts, hand flexing over your knee. Thereâs the furrow between his brows, the subtle tension in his jaw. Worry.
âWhat do you mean?â Â
Your own hand waves toward the screen, where the image of Jungkook from over half a decade ago sits paused. âYou were soâŚâ Youâre not sure what you mean. There are just so many options to describe the literal baby boy on the television. Young? Confident? Round? (You canât get over his haircut, though you suppose you canât hold it against him.)Â
Jungkook simply stares at you, waiting for you to find whatever words you want to use. Despite the uncertainty that swims somewhere in the depths of his eyes, heâs endlessly patient. Always so soft when it comes to you.
âYou had a coconut head.â
Laughter explodes off his tongue, entire face screwing up with amusement. âAre you serious?â
âYou did!â Admittedly, the cut had somehow worked on him but itâs so reminiscent of grade school haircuts you canât help but focus on it, too distracted by the glossy sheen to offer much else. âI guess I get it, though.â
âWhat do you mean? Everyone had that haircutââ
âIn first grade, maybe.â He sticks his tongue out at you then; you scowl in response.Â
âWhat do you get?â As always, heâs perceptive, immediately aware of your carefully knit brow, the thoughtfulness that fits itself around your teeth like gleaming white veneers and holds his attention hostage. Heâs grown used to it over the months youâve been together - knows you cling tight to things with an iron grip, turn them over and over until youâve made sense of it in that brain of yours.Â
âThe crushes.â You look affronted, almost appalled at the realisation. He bursts out laughing, broad palm coming down upon your bare leg in a smack. (He apologises profusely when you complain.)
âWhatâre you talking about?â
Your nose is wrinkled, velvet strands dislodged by the shake of your head. âAll your sisterâs friends. Theyâre in love with you.â Jisoo had even agreed, laughed about it when youâd commented on it at the recital. Something about them having grown up with Jungkook, obsessed with the image theyâd retained of him since university. âBut you were a coconut. You wore Timberlands and drop-crotch pants. You werenât even that cute.â An exaggerated shudder slips over your shoulders. Â
âI was nineteen.â As if that makes it better. Your judgment doesnât lessen, the lines running the bridge of your nose only deepening. Â
âStill. Embarrassing.â
Your boyfriend truly is the best sport, rolling his eyes at you in the same instance he reaches for you, tugs you closer with broad palms, affection searing into your skin. âWell, luckily, no more Timbs. No more bowl cut.â He nuzzles into the warmth of your neck, spreads your knees wide over his hips. The sound of his laughter melts into your throat, dresses it in heat deposited by your breath. âAre you jealous again?â
He doesnât even get a verbal response to that. Just a heavy glare and two hands squishing his cheeks. âAbsolutely not.âÂ
It comes up again in bed, your head on his chest, his hands on your hips. He asks it quietly, conversationally, with a twinkle in his eye that makes you want to smother him with one of his many pillows.Â
âYouâre sure youâre not jealous?â
âIâm not,â you grit, paired with a roll of your eyes and a little snort from your nose. You really arenât. Those girls are inconsequential, irrelevant. Theyâll never amount to what you are to him and thatâs just a simple fact. Heâs yours - something he reminds you of day in and day out, both verbally and in action.Â
(You love him for it, appreciate it more than you can possibly begin to explain. Thereâs a certain bliss to be found in the knowledge that youâre loved. A warmth that rivals even that of the sun on the summerâs hottest day.)Â
âThen whyâre you pouting?â What he really means is why arenât you smiling. You donât pout often - at least not in the same ways he does. Â
âIâm not,â you repeat for what feels like the sixth time.Â
âSmile for me.â
You do the opposite - throwing your eyes in an exaggerated circle. It earns you a pinch to the side, a tender sting blooming beneath ink-strewn fingers.Â
âReallyââ When he looks this earnest, itâs hard to deny him, âyouâre sure everythingâs okay?â
At most, you can sigh perhaps overdramatically. Fold your awkward limbs upon his and bury your face into the crook of his neck. Youâre not jealous of those girls, no.  Â
Youâre envious of his talent - the simple fact that Jeon Jungkook is, by all definitions, a golden boy. Godâs favourite, with his heart wrenching smile and easygoing charm and grace that seems almost surreal. Thereâs not a single thing wrong with him - okay, except for his bad habit of never answering his phone and always messing up the top sheet and the fact that he absolutely never ever puts the cap back on the toothpaste tube - and itâs absurd. Utterly, absolutely unfair.Â
But you canât say that.
âBaby,â he hums, threading the sound of his voice among your hair, tucking the soft syllables behind your ears. âTalk to me.â
You relent - a little. âYouâre too good.â
âToo good?â The depth of his laughter rumbles your bones, tickling your insides when it vibrates out of his chest. âAt what?â
A hand gesticulates wildly. Youâre not sure what it looks like, how close it is to hitting Jungkook in the face. Youâve still got your face pressed to the warmth of his skin, greedily siphoning his sunny radiance with your cheek.  âEverything.â
Despite how he laughs - cackles, really, so adorable and high pitched itâs breathy - you know he knows what youâre talking about. Youâve given him a hard time about it before. Â
âIâm not good at everything, ____.â
Heâs somehow even good at making you believe youâre wrong. Thatâs a feat in and of itself.Â
âAre too.â
âAre not.â
âWhatever!â Whether he acknowledges it or not, heâs stupidly gifted. Everyone and their - even his - mom knows it. âDonât believe me then. I donât care.â
âThen whyâre you making that face?â Itâs almost comical that heâs calling you out for your expressions when heâs the king of funny faces, throwing his features into exaggerated (and adorable) masks. (Maybe heâd just rubbed off on you?)
âIâm not,â you huff, exasperated but not quite. Still soft over his skin, velvet on silk.Â
âYouâre so cute.â Sometimes, you think he really is just a child - too happy with putting you on a pedestal and praying at your altar. Devoting himself to you when youâre nothing but a bag of flesh and bone, dressed in designer fashion and wrapped up with a satin ribbon made from sarcasm and candor. (Not that you mind. Who would argue if they were offered such love?) âI still think somethingâs wrong butâŚâ
Itâs a smart tactic. He doesnât press you for an answer, opting to let it linger between you. Settle like bothersome lint until you offer it yourself. Â
When you relent - because you always do, unable to shut out the sunshine that practically pours out of him - youâre quieter. Not shy, but bashful. Uncertain in a way you very rarely are. âIâve always wanted to dance.â So much so, youâd begged your parents to enroll you when you were younger. Demanded lessons upon lessons - only to fail at all of them. Rhythm simply didnât exist anywhere in your body.Â
âReally?â
Youâre pulled from your safe haven, shifted until your entire point of view is filled with Jungkook, his starry eyes and his fluffy fluffy hair. Thereâs that look he sometimes gets - full of wonder and adoration - when he learns something new about you. As if just the smallest tidbit of knowledge opens up a whole new world. Â
âYes?â Youâre half regretting the admission. He looks like heâs up to something, all the cogs in his head turning in perfect tandem.Â
âIâll teach you.â Â
âHard pass.â
Like a hot air balloon, he deflates, mouth rounding sweetly. (If you didnât know better, youâd assume the man was made of cotton candy, semi-sweet chocolate heart where the real organ should be.) âWhy not?â
âI do not dance.â Itâs nothing but a statement of fact, firm and unyielding.Â
The pout evolves, swings down into a frown that drags his eyebrows with it. âYou could dance.â
âNo, babyââ So youâre a little frustrated, all your childhood memories pricking beneath your skin. âI do not dance.â
âWhy?â Heâs upright now, tugging you with him as if you weigh nothing. His way of turning the conversation serious, pulling you from the warmth and comfort of the bedsheets to this. (Heâs still holding you, hooking his big broad hands over your hips, so you donât mind.)Â
âNo rhythm.â Unable to keep a beat. Two left feet. The list could go on and on, according to your ballet instructor.Â
âNot true.â
Your brow quirks, mirrored by his as if in challenge. You almost swat at him - so close your hand twitches on his shoulder. âVery true.â
(Why does this conversation feel so familiar? Itâs dĂŠjĂ vu.)Â
âIs not.â Your boyfriend seems insistent, as if he knows better than you. (He doesnât.) Stares up at you with those pretty eyes and has the audacity to grin when you roll your own, ready to rebuff him.Â
Because youâre in bed, the one place where you defer to him whether you like it or not.Â
(You do like it, though. Love it, in fact. Just like you love him.)
âYouâre graceful,â he hums, bridging the gap between you with a forward roll of his shoulders. âYouâve got rhythm.â The hand on your hip grows firm, guides your knees to spread wide on either side of him. With each brush of his lips - tender little brushes, endlessly sweet and reassuring - he pushes and pulls, dragging you across his lap. âYou can do anything you want.â
Youâve almost forgotten the topic of conversation, preoccupied by how he guides you in languid circles. How the cotton of his boxer briefs feels against the sensitive inside of your thighs. The weight that grows between your legs and nudges indelicately against the soft fabric of your thong.
All part of his plan, of course.
âYour bodyâs the most beautiful thing in the world, ____.â Â
When he looks at you like this, you think he might be right. Youâd believe it if he kept saying it, sparking desire through your limbs until theyâre jellied and loose. Â
(How he sees right through you - cuts straight to the core of your insecurity - youâre not sure. It feels almost like a superpower, something unquantifiable, unbelievable. Heâs too good for you, always. So kind and loving, pressing his belief in the form of his mouth, the tender edge of his teeth when he kisses you slow slow slow.)
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How fun! For the 3 sentences game, can I suggest secret? I hope you're well bubs đđ
[ ask game: Â drop a word in my inbox ]
Youâve never been good at keeping secrets. It comes with having a boyfriend who is far, far too good at sinking your ships. All he has to do is flash you one of his patented grins - slightly overprominent front teeth, deep dimples, and twinkling eyes so bright youâre blinded with just a glance - and youâre a goner. Ten hundred leagues under the sea and spilling your heart like thatâll keep Davy Jones from tethering your poor body to his ghostly ship.
âNaughty girl.â Jungkookâs all smiles - all that stupidly intoxicating smile - as he slips you into his arms, noses along the bare line of your shoulder. Heâs playful now, the delight in his eyes painted by his pride, by the gleaming gold quality of his I-told-you-so idiocy.
âNope.â You mean to sneer, really. Mean to force that curl of your mouth that makes him back down, but it falls short. Canât form properly when heâs got you pressed against the side of a random building, warm breath spiking heat all across your skin. âDonât know what youâre talking about.â
Too bad Jungkook can read you, pry open the cover of your storybook and spy all the words you refuse to speak. Understands you like an advanced placement nerd with elevated reading comprehension.
âKnew you werenât wearing underwear the moment you got in the car, baby.â Knows it better now, as he slides a hand beneath the hem of your Little Red Riding Hood costume and collects your arousal as if itâs candy. âCould practically taste your sweetness.â
devil in a new suit drabble is soooooo so cute and sweet :( i love that couple so much... also jungkook is simply the bestest boy..... thank u for sharing that with us ur amazing as always <3
!!!!!! tysm for enjoying it and for your kind words! kook is truly the best and i love writing for this couple because theyâre just so clenches fist adorable