GIRL we need a devil in a new suit drabble where jungkook gets jealous pls bless us😭😭❤️
[ 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 “kook gets jealous and breaks reader’s back” turned into... this.
Jeon Jungkook doesn’t get jealous. Not because he doesn’t care, or he’s unaffected, or any other negative connotation under the sun. He doesn’t because he’s him, too soft and sweet and silly to believe the worst in people. (This, coming from the man who’d steered clear of dating apps and blind dates because he was worried he’d be hurt.)
Once, you’d been waiting for him to pick you - he’d been running late, dinner with his parents and younger sister - and he’d found you chatting politely to an old fling of yours. Well, maybe not so old. A recent fling, a friend of sorts. Someone who’d swanned into your life during your college years and had remained there ever since, popping his head in from time to time.
You’d always been on good terms, caught up for lunch every six months or so when he’d return home from his overseas job. In the past, you’d 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 you’d even realised it - and Taewoo was just another guy. Another face in a crowd.
Still, you’d 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. You’d 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.
That night, he’d loved you how he always had, with you crying his name and making a mess of his sheets.
Another time, you’d 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. (You’d worn Aquazzura that night, Jungkook with an Audemars Piguet loose around his wrist.)
He’d 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 couldn’t handle. Anything went if free booze was involved.
Thirty minutes later - give or take, since you hadn’t had a watch of your own on - your boyfriend had returned, flushed and adorable. There’d 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. He’d giggled his way back to you, somehow completely oblivious to the man that’d 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.
(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.)
“Hi, baby.” 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 he’d wrongly claimed.
Of course, he’d thought Jungkook was making a point - claiming what was his - but that was so far from the truth you’d almost laughed when he’d spoken, voice carrying above the slightly laboured breaths of your lover. “I guess that’s my cue to leave, huh?”
You’d smiled, nodded with a hand threaded into cornsilk curling over Jungkook’s nape. “Looks like it.”
(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. “Where’s your friend?” He’d asked, eyes so wide you couldn’t 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 everyone’s 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 you’d ever push to see that, of course.
You were happy. Hopelessly in love. You wouldn’t have traded him for the world - couldn’t even fathom doing anything to hurt him.
And yet, you discover albeit by accident - it’s really not that hard. All it takes is a pretty girl.
“This looks incredible,” she says, standing close, long dark hair falling in a fluid curtain down the line of her back. It’s the loveliest shade, cool-toned beneath the boutique lights, and reflects colour like a waterfall. You’d complimented her on it when you’d 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. It’s a beautiful thing, black tulle that hangs to your fingertips. Not Jungkook’s preferred style - he much prefers harnesses and so many straps it might as well be a cat’s cradle - but you think he loves it nonetheless.
(You’d confirm, but he’s been stoically silent, seated in the plush chair tucked beside the privacy partition, normally soft gaze hard and trained on his phone. He doesn’t 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.)
“You think so?” You’re not insecure about your body - know what it looks best in, which assets to play up. Still, it’s nice to hear from someone other than your doting boyfriend, the people caught in your orbit.
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. “Of course— and I’m not just saying that because I’m trying to sell it.”
You nod, satisfied. Even if Jungkook doesn’t seem ecstatic, your own joy makes up for it, buyer’s delight spilling over. “I’ll take the satin robe, the blush silk set, and this in the violet.”
“Great choices,” 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 don’t expect when the brunette continues speaking - presumably to your surprisingly surly boyfriend. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yep.” He’s never been a man of few words, usually so full of excitement that he rambles when he doesn’t mean to.
It’s a dead giveaway - a confirmation that something’s wrong.
Unfortunately for you, you don’t have time to broach the subject, your purchases already paid for and a firm hand on the small of your back the moment you’ve stepped out of the dressing stall. “Jungkookie?” 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.
“Men—men are fine. I don’t have to worry about them.” There’s a confidence you’re so proud to see, turning his words as solid as the weight that rests against your hip, sears burning heat into your bared skin. “No other man is going to love you better than me. But women?” A shudder runs the length of his imposing frame, tugs his shoulders up to his ears and tingles the small of his back. “Women are scary.” (It’s a sentiment he’s echoed in the past. In particular, months ago when you’d 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. He’s 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.
“A woman might sweep you off your feet and steal you away.”
You laugh then - sound snapping past your teeth before you can tuck it away. It filters loudly into the baies scented candle you’d lit when you’d gotten into his apartment.
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.
“S-s’not funny,” he huffs, palming your other breast in his broad tattooed palm. When he continues, he bites into you like he’s got a personal vendetta against whatever lies beneath your flesh. “She was flirting with you.”
It’s less of a sigh of annoyance - more sensual, drowning in need. “She was not.”
He nips at the delicate flesh again, spreads crimson marks all across the sensitive skin until it’s a mosaic beneath the fabric, his finest work painted by his second favourite brush. “That’s what you think but she was.” The hand previously kneading your skin drops, flat of his palm sliding easily over your bare pussy.
There’s 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. It’s not nearly as aggressive as he normally is but it’s just as good, paired with the sinful motions of his tongue and teeth.
“She wants to be the one doing this,” 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 you’re 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 he’s sucking your clit into his mouth. “She wants to be the one tasting this pretty, pretty pussy.”
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.
“Baby,” you coax, reprimand almost. Jungkook’s 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 you’ve carved out for him within your chest.
“Sing for me, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t 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.
“Tell me you’ll never leave me.” 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. “Not for her. Not for anyone.”
“I won’t leave you,” you answer, threading the vow between your fingers as if they’re the thread binding your love story together. “Not for her - not for anyone.”
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 🤣🤣
[ 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. ✨ 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!
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.
It’d once been blocked off, locked with a skeleton key, brass tucked behind the cage of his ribs. He’d 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, he’d 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.
He’d never been bitter - never the harsh white pith of a lemon, never tart like the yellow that burst forth and stung - but he’d 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 you’d appeared. Shot across his sky like a comet, brilliant and beautiful and fluorescent, lighting up his life like the burst of a supernova.
You’d 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.
So of course he’d showered you in affection, appeared with an armful of flowers and a smile that rivalled the sun. “Happy Valentine’s day,” he’d hummed, a heart full of hope, hands full of freesias and white roses and enough baby’s breath to take yours away. He thought you’d love it - like you loved him, with unashamed adoration and lines at your eyes, brow creasing with delight. But you’d only blinked once, twice, with a polite turn of your chin, a knife slipped between his ribs and pressed, too gentle for purpose.
You’d 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 he’d caught up.
“Don’t you like them?” He’d asked, doubt creeping up, twining around his lungs like a rose bush, heavy with thorns. They’d pin-pricked his heart, spilled his insides out; your bandages were nowhere to be found, no chiming bells or liquid gold in sight. It’d beat for you, in time with you, one to one for each of your own. It’d stuttered and tripped, caught on its own too feet, overeager and delirious. “The girl who helped me said freesias symbolise trust and baby’s breath mean love and—”
“They’re lovely.”
Maybe you’d meant it, for the briefest of moments, in the quiet before you’d crossed the threshold, before you’d swung open the door and turned his efforts to ash. Surely you’d appreciated them - him. Surely you never intended to hurt him the way you had.
“But they’re kind of a waste.”
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.
He supposes he can’t 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.)
“What’s wrong?” You’re 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. He’s stoically silent, a statue fit not for hallowed halls but mausoleums, stone cold and sad.
Jungkook doesn’t mean for this - for the sorrow that rains down in sheets. You’re 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.
“Nothing,” 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. “Just don’t feel well.”
Hasn’t, since you’d come home, since dinner, since exactly four hours and four minutes ago.
“Don’t lie.” It’s not an accusation, baseless and blunt. It’s 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. Icarus’ wings, hummingbird wings, monarch wings. Stained glass creaking and cracking beneath the weight of your words.
“I’m sorry.”
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.
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 he’s with you.)
“For what?”
He thinks and thinks, works himself into a knot he doesn’t know how to unfasten. It coils in the centre of his chest, a slipknot he’s 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. “For being too much.”
“Jungkook.” 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. “You’re never too much.”
He believes you. He swears he does, even if the words come tumbling out, glass too full to hold them all. “You didn’t like the flowers.”
“So what?” You cradle him careful with magic hands, understanding threaded between each digit. You hold him tight even as he threatens to run away, can’t keep the skip of his stare from doing so. “I don’t need flowers. I don’t need gifts.” (Not the jewels he’d laid in your lap, stamped with an interlocked ‘C’ and nestled within pristine white tissue. Not the flowers that’d poured onto every surface of his apartment, a mountain of blooms with typewritten cards nestled amongst stems. Not the five course meal he’d ordered in, because love and devotion didn’t translate into a masterclass in cooking.) “All I wanted for Valentine’s Day was you.”
Something he’s never heard before. Less an excuse and more akin to you’re 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.
pairing. jjk x reader. rating. general. tags. none, really. just a short comfort fic inspired by my comfort song. wc. 0.6k. beta reader. all of my mistakes are my own lmao. author note. i am baaack! and ofc, i have to kick off my return with some sadness. 🤠
He finds you like this: curled up in bed, wrapped so snug it’s more of a cocoon than anything else, with the stuffed rabbit he’d gotten you throttled in the iron shackle your arms. There’s something playing quietly through the speakers of your laptop, screen dimmed, words unintelligible. You barely register his presence, stare trained on some indiscernible point against the far wall.
It’d be perfectly fine - if it weren’t just past noon on a Friday and you weren’t supposed to be at work.
Instead, it’s the last piece of the puzzle, knocking his entire world off its axis, sending it on a downward spiral and him right there alongside you.
He slips in beside you, carefully peeling off his socks and pants, leaving them in a discarded pile by the foot of the bed. The worn fabric of his sweater follows, pulled over his head in the same motion as his shirt. (He’ll deal with all of his clothes later - toss them into the laundry hamper or hang them up as needed.)
As expected, your acknowledgment is weak, the barest adjustment of your body to allow him into the space you both call his.
“You okay?” It’s not a question that begs an answer. Still, he poses it gentle as can be, depositing the words into the linen that holds you close.
There’s no response, just one hand that creeps out from its hiding spot and curls tight over his, warm palm pressed to the back of his hand, fingers weaving between his own. He pulls closer instinctively; you don’t even need to say anything.
Like this, molded to your back, he can’t see your face. It’s impossible to read your expression, buried so into your pillow, hidden from view by how your shoulders hike up around your ears. (His do the same when he’s excited, but he knows this isn’t that.) Somehow, he still feels it all - the melancholy blue that paints the entirety of you, turns blood into the sea and spills saltwater from your eyes. It crests above you in an intimidating wave, threatening to drown you.
He knows this because you’ve told him before. The sadness you can’t seem to escape, that seems to have wound itself between your bones, replaced muscle and bone with its own shapes and structures.
(You’d always made it sound so poetic, as if there was beauty to be found in your pain, something more than skeletons in your closet. There was no beauty to be found in this sort of heartache, that filled you up and consumed you whole, bringing you crumbling to the ground, lost beneath a thousand leagues to swim among sharks and get lost in the dark.)
(But you hated when he worried - told him he didn’t need to. It’s just one of those days, you’d tell him with that smile of yours, that pretty thing you’d perfected through years and years of practice.)
Jeon Jungkook’s heart aches for you.
“How can I help?” He asks because he always asks, because it doesn’t feel right not to. He asks because maybe, one day, you’ll find an answer somewhere beneath the sea. (He doesn’t expect you to but he hopes for it.)
You say nothing for a long time, framing his patient silence in more of the same. That’s okay, too.
He’ll stay like this with you for as long as you need - hold you through the blue and grey.
tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle
so maybe another devil in a new suit drabble 👉👈 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, y’know. wc. 2.7k. beta reader. none other than @hobi-gif. i love you always! author note. oh look... it’s me... posting something... after sixteen hundred years. womp womp. this truthfully didn’t go the way i planned it to but i hope you enjoy regardless!
It really shouldn’t surprise you. Frankly, it doesn’t.
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. Jisoo’s all smiles, completely over the moon with pride and riding that high as she rightfully should. (She’d done incredibly well, closed out the showcase with a fluidity you could never even dream of.) She doesn’t 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 doesn’t care. Maybe she’s grown used to it - the whole having-a-heartthrob-for-a-brother thing.)
It’s actually quite cute, if only because you know Jungkook doesn’t 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. He’s like a child going back to his favourite toy, momentarily distracted by tittering laughter and his sister’s 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 it’s just another part of his life. (You think he must know. These college students don’t 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 you’ve ever met.)
“Thank you for coming!” It’s Jisoo, flushed and excitable, round eyes as bright as her brother’s 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. “I was a little nervous but…” A shrug rolls her narrow shoulders, shakes her dark hair from its loose coil.
You’d seen her practice before this - watched the long videos she’d 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 you’ve never had, even on your best day.
“You shouldn’t have been.” You’re beaming right back at her, sisterly reassurance on your tongue. “You were amazing.”
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 - she’s gracious, accepting the compliment with her blinding smile. (She really was like Jungkook like that.)
“You guys should come to a class one day.” By that, she means a class she helps teach every once in a while. You’ve heard about it on more than one occasion, seen the choreography posted on Instagram and YouTube.
Still, you don’t expect that, brows shooting high. Laughter filters past your teeth, springing off your tongue. “I am not a dancer and I doubt your brother—”
Now it’s Jisoo’s turn to wear surprise like a neon sign, expression splitting with giggles of her own. “Wait— have you not seen Kook dance?” The way she says it is incredulous, Bambi eyes sparkling with what looks like mischief.
“No?”
“Your sister told me something.”
You’ve never seen this particular brand of worry on his face, eyes even more comically wide than usual, whatever words he’d 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.
“What did she say? She likes to embarrass me.” True. Jisoo and Jungkook had a textbook sibling relationship, full of teasing and mockery and copious amounts of love. “Whatever she said, don’t believe—”
“She said you used to dance.”
“Oh.” Oh? You hadn’t expected Jungkook to deflate so easily, relief flooding his features. “Yeah, I did. In university.” He’s utterly unbothered by this knowledge, attention back on the soondubu jjigae he’d been shovelling into his mouth. “I had some friends who were dancers, so it was good exercise.”
“I want to see.”
His answer is immediate, despite the heaping bite of rice and stew in his mouth. “No.”
You whack him across the shoulder, startling him into clattering his spoon on the countertop. It leaves a messy red streak across marble but you’re dragging his attention back to you with a firm glare, fingers cradled under his jaw. “I want to see.”
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 it’s your man on the screen. (Not that he’s particularly ungraceful. It’s just surprising, like watching a dog walk on its hind legs.)
“So, what happened?” 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. There’s the furrow between his brows, the subtle tension in his jaw. Worry.
“What do you mean?”
Your own hand waves toward the screen, where the image of Jungkook from over half a decade ago sits paused. “You were so…” You’re not sure what you mean. There are just so many options to describe the literal baby boy on the television. Young? Confident? Round? (You can’t get over his haircut, though you suppose you can’t hold it against him.)
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, he’s endlessly patient. Always so soft when it comes to you.
“You had a coconut head.”
Laughter explodes off his tongue, entire face screwing up with amusement. “Are you serious?”
“You did!” Admittedly, the cut had somehow worked on him but it’s so reminiscent of grade school haircuts you can’t help but focus on it, too distracted by the glossy sheen to offer much else. “I guess I get it, though.”
“What do you mean? Everyone had that haircut—”
“In first grade, maybe.” He sticks his tongue out at you then; you scowl in response.
“What do you get?” As always, he’s 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. He’s grown used to it over the months you’ve been together - knows you cling tight to things with an iron grip, turn them over and over until you’ve made sense of it in that brain of yours.
“The crushes.” 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.)
“What’re you talking about?”
Your nose is wrinkled, velvet strands dislodged by the shake of your head. “All your sister’s friends. They’re in love with you.” Jisoo had even agreed, laughed about it when you’d commented on it at the recital. Something about them having grown up with Jungkook, obsessed with the image they’d retained of him since university. “But you were a coconut. You wore Timberlands and drop-crotch pants. You weren’t even that cute.” An exaggerated shudder slips over your shoulders.
“I was nineteen.” As if that makes it better. Your judgment doesn’t lessen, the lines running the bridge of your nose only deepening.
“Still. Embarrassing.”
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. “Well, luckily, no more Timbs. No more bowl cut.” 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. “Are you jealous again?”
He doesn’t even get a verbal response to that. Just a heavy glare and two hands squishing his cheeks. “Absolutely not.”
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.
“You’re sure you’re not jealous?”
“I’m not,” you grit, paired with a roll of your eyes and a little snort from your nose. You really aren’t. Those girls are inconsequential, irrelevant. They’ll never amount to what you are to him and that’s just a simple fact. He’s yours - something he reminds you of day in and day out, both verbally and in action.
(You love him for it, appreciate it more than you can possibly begin to explain. There’s a certain bliss to be found in the knowledge that you’re loved. A warmth that rivals even that of the sun on the summer’s hottest day.)
“Then why’re you pouting?” What he really means is why aren’t you smiling. You don’t pout often - at least not in the same ways he does.
“I’m not,” you repeat for what feels like the sixth time.
“Smile for me.”
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.
“Really—“ When he looks this earnest, it’s hard to deny him, “you’re sure everything’s okay?”
At most, you can sigh perhaps overdramatically. Fold your awkward limbs upon his and bury your face into the crook of his neck. You’re not jealous of those girls, no.
You’re envious of his talent - the simple fact that Jeon Jungkook is, by all definitions, a golden boy. God’s favourite, with his heart wrenching smile and easygoing charm and grace that seems almost surreal. There’s 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 it’s absurd. Utterly, absolutely unfair.
But you can’t say that.
“Baby,” he hums, threading the sound of his voice among your hair, tucking the soft syllables behind your ears. “Talk to me.”
You relent - a little. “You’re too good.”
“Too good?” The depth of his laughter rumbles your bones, tickling your insides when it vibrates out of his chest. “At what?”
A hand gesticulates wildly. You’re not sure what it looks like, how close it is to hitting Jungkook in the face. You’ve still got your face pressed to the warmth of his skin, greedily siphoning his sunny radiance with your cheek. “Everything.”
Despite how he laughs - cackles, really, so adorable and high pitched it’s breathy - you know he knows what you’re talking about. You’ve given him a hard time about it before.
“I’m not good at everything, ____.”
He’s somehow even good at making you believe you’re wrong. That’s a feat in and of itself.
“Are too.”
“Are not.”
“Whatever!” Whether he acknowledges it or not, he’s stupidly gifted. Everyone and their - even his - mom knows it. “Don’t believe me then. I don’t care.”
“Then why’re you making that face?” It’s almost comical that he’s calling you out for your expressions when he’s the king of funny faces, throwing his features into exaggerated (and adorable) masks. (Maybe he’d just rubbed off on you?)
“I’m not,” you huff, exasperated but not quite. Still soft over his skin, velvet on silk.
“You’re so cute.” 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 you’re 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?) “I still think something’s wrong but…”
It’s a smart tactic. He doesn’t press you for an answer, opting to let it linger between you. Settle like bothersome lint until you offer it yourself.
When you relent - because you always do, unable to shut out the sunshine that practically pours out of him - you’re quieter. Not shy, but bashful. Uncertain in a way you very rarely are. “I’ve always wanted to dance.” So much so, you’d begged your parents to enroll you when you were younger. Demanded lessons upon lessons - only to fail at all of them. Rhythm simply didn’t exist anywhere in your body.
“Really?”
You’re pulled from your safe haven, shifted until your entire point of view is filled with Jungkook, his starry eyes and his fluffy fluffy hair. There’s 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.
“Yes?” You’re half regretting the admission. He looks like he’s up to something, all the cogs in his head turning in perfect tandem.
“I’ll teach you.”
“Hard pass.”
Like a hot air balloon, he deflates, mouth rounding sweetly. (If you didn’t know better, you’d assume the man was made of cotton candy, semi-sweet chocolate heart where the real organ should be.) “Why not?”
“I do not dance.” It’s nothing but a statement of fact, firm and unyielding.
The pout evolves, swings down into a frown that drags his eyebrows with it. “You could dance.”
“No, baby—“ So you’re a little frustrated, all your childhood memories pricking beneath your skin. “I do not dance.”
“Why?” He’s 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. (He’s still holding you, hooking his big broad hands over your hips, so you don’t mind.)
“No rhythm.” Unable to keep a beat. Two left feet. The list could go on and on, according to your ballet instructor.
“Not true.”
Your brow quirks, mirrored by his as if in challenge. You almost swat at him - so close your hand twitches on his shoulder. “Very true.”
(Why does this conversation feel so familiar? It’s déjà vu.)
“Is not.” Your boyfriend seems insistent, as if he knows better than you. (He doesn’t.) Stares up at you with those pretty eyes and has the audacity to grin when you roll your own, ready to rebuff him.
Because you’re in bed, the one place where you defer to him whether you like it or not.
(You do like it, though. Love it, in fact. Just like you love him.)
“You’re graceful,” he hums, bridging the gap between you with a forward roll of his shoulders. “You’ve got rhythm.” 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. “You can do anything you want.”
You’ve 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.
“Your body’s the most beautiful thing in the world, ____.”
When he looks at you like this, you think he might be right. You’d believe it if he kept saying it, sparking desire through your limbs until they’re jellied and loose.
(How he sees right through you - cuts straight to the core of your insecurity - you’re not sure. It feels almost like a superpower, something unquantifiable, unbelievable. He’s 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.)
Can I request more smut for A&A couple?? I love sexy jay and jinny RYFUIOOIDEWETYUKOJK
[ read angels & airwaves ]
pairing. jjk x f!reader. rating. explicit. tags. gamer!jjk deserves his own warning. but also cockwarming and a gross amount of love between these two. wc. 1.5k. beta reader. @hobi-gif because she is the pb to my j. author note. this is probably less sexy and more soft, but i hope you enjoy and i’m sorry it’s so late! ✨
He’s playing Overwatch - unwinding after a long day, dressed down in sweats and little else - when his chair starts rolling back, pulled by an invisible hand. (Luckily, he’s only in queue, not yet matched into a game. It’s easy for him to leave, exit out of the waiting screen as he continues his journey away from the desk, releasing his hold on his mouse, letting his keyboard hand fall into his lap.) Feigned surprise trips across his expression, a subtle widening of his eyes, the softest hm? slipping like sandman’s dust from his lips.
“Play with me,” you say in that way of yours, deceivingly sweet, lilting like the chorus of his favourite song. (He thinks that’s what you’d be if you were anything else, played over and over in his thoughts, quiet in the background of his everyday life. A kind reminder of your love, of your giggles and that cheekiness you offer in spades. A heartfelt melody in A minor.)
(Jungkook wants to write something for you - because of you - he realises. Of course he does.)
He echoes your words back, pairs it with a quirked brow and a sing-song laugh that makes his eyes crinkle, long grooves dug into the bridge of his nose. Sunshine pours between his teeth, lights up his entire face. “You wanna play?”
Your answer is a shake of your head, freeing tousled strands from the haphazard bun you wear - the one that goes up any time you’re half-asleep (or gaming or simply too lazy to do anything else) - too many pieces askew to be sophisticated. (It’s cute still, one of his favourite looks on you. Messy, sleep-addled, real.)
“I want you to play.” The way you enunciate, throw heavy meaning into your words has him curious, chin canting when you round the chair, step to the side and brush a delicate hand through his crown of curls. You push velvet away from his face, tuck it neatly behind his ear and smile so prettily he swears his heart might leap out of his chest. The same hand falls over his with meaning, your own eyes the size of saucers. Were you trying to communicate as if you were psychic? He thinks you must be when you stare for longer than you need to, mouth pulling and pursing adorably, a wavering wall against whatever you want to offer but won’t.
When he relents, it’s with his hand curled around your wrist and a gentle tug of you closer. (Because he always wants you closer.) “Let’s play then.”
It takes you no time at all to settle into his lap, legs dangling around the back of his gaming chair, arms locked around his neck. He imagines it isn’t the most comfortable position in the world but, well, Jungkook’s not going to complain that his girlfriend wants to cuddle. Can’t even fathom the thought when you’re so warm and your weight feels like some sort of top-tier blanket.
“Good?”
You simply nod into the small of his neck, cheek cold against his shoulder. Maybe you’re just tired. You haven’t been sleeping well the last few nights, if you could even call it that. They were more midday cat naps, laid up in his arms on his free days.
(Don’t worry, you’d said. He did, anyway.)
When he wins his next three games, he thinks you might be a lucky charm - his own personal blessing, all his good karma offered in the form of victory. The headshots are clean, the flashbang-right-click combos flawless. Gold damage is his the entire time; he’s racking up gold medals left and right with you there with him.
(It’s almost as good as when you play together, your damage boost enabling him to obliterate the enemy without worry. Granted, the Mercy on his team isn’t bad either - but she’s no you. Not the girl that makes his heart pitter patter in his chest, play some silly crescendo that feels like a sugar high.)
But then he begins losing, missing shots that should be easy, sends them into the dark, strangely distracted. He doesn’t realise by what until it’s too late and the next roll of your hips makes him whine, the sound tripping off his tongue in a whimper.
“Angel.” The word is practically choked out, broken despite being only two syllables. You’re still snuggled into his chest, seemingly innocent, unaware of the tension that grows, turning bone to brimstone. He’s half-worried he’s getting riled up over nothing - turned on by only your closeness - when he feels the damp of your teeth, the sharp edge tickling over muscle. For what it is, it shouldn’t flood his stomach with heat, have electricity tracking up his spine as if struck by lightning. “What’re you doing?”
“Play with me.” You repeat the words into his hair, thread them between the midnight strands as you stamp a sweet, chaste kiss right below his ear. He thinks he might be able to resist you - until you’re tugging lightly at one of the silver hoops that line his ear, laving your tongue over the sensitive spot that has him seeing stars.
He parrots the words back to you but it isn’t a question this time. More a promise, tenderness turning his smile soft, needy, utterly in love.
“Let’s go to bed.” Not because it’s late - though it is, half past two in the morning now - but because he wants to feel you wholly, watch you fall apart in the comfort of your bed. No more distractions, just the two of you. Just how he likes it.
“No.” That surprises him, throwing him off his axis. He’s halfway to a pout when you press a kiss, steal his brattiness away with one sweep of your lemon-lined mouth. “You keep playing.”
Oh.
The time you take to slide his sweats down - taking his boxers with them, fingers hooked into the black band that hugs his hips - should be criminal. It’s as if you’re doing it on purpose, tugging the material down carefully, balanced above him by his hands on your waist.
(He steals the softest touches while you’re there, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts, fingers laying themselves into the rungs of your ribs.)
When they’re halfway down his legs, he kicks them off, lets them gather in a pile somewhere by his feet. Forgotten - because he’s got much more important matters to attend to. “Your turn,” he hums - almost begs - when you settle back against him, straddling him as you had before, still dressed in his favourite grey shirt and your plain black thong.
“Nope.” You’re smiling down at him, more devil than angel, smile so sinful he feels his cock twitch against his stomach, hard and leaking pre-cum from the tip.
“But—”
The turn of your head further dislodges strands, has shadow throwing your features into muted light. That’s not what has his attention, though.
It’s your hand dipping between you, curling light around his length. Pad of your thumb massaging over his head, slicking arousal until the glide is easy. With a gun to his head, Jungkook couldn’t help himself from moaning, a keening sound that tickles your cheek and has heat flooding his own. (You’ll be the death of him, he swears.) “Baby, please—”
“Play,” you repeat.
He does, rolling himself forward, finding his mouse and keyboard with trembling hands.
It’s cruel, what you’re doing. (It’s also everything he could ask for, offered by the hand of the girl he loves most. Even through the haze of desire, there’s affection that paints him pink, lights him up like a Christmas tree.)
(All he wants to do is fill you, fuck you full until you’re coming apart, crying his name out in that breathy way that drives him wild. Playing his favourite song again again again.)
But he’s a good boy for you - always is - so he says nothing as he queues once more, tries his damnedest not to make a sound when he feels the press of his cock against your cunt, the heat that engulfs him when you take him in one fluid motion.
It’s as if his brain short circuits, as if you’ve rewritten all the code that makes him who he is. He chokes a sound - a whine, a laugh, a cry - when you sink fully into him, curl those arms back around his neck. You’re absolutely perfect, wet and warm. Split wide open by how deep he is, clit flush against his pelvis, velvet walls yielding to the fullness.
Whether he wins or loses his next games, Jungkook doesn’t care. He’s already got everything he could ask for.
tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle
Fboi!jk WHO’s lowkey in Love with oc🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺
[ request a milestone drabble ]
pairing. jjk x f!reader. rating. general. tags. infuriating college antics and mentions of drinking. that’s about it. wc. 0.9k. beta reader. n/a. author note. ty for the request! i hope you enjoyed, even though it’s a little sloppy and disjointed. 😐😐
Jeon Jungkook is many things: campus heartthrob, surprisingly smart (but exceedingly lazy), the guy who works the front desk of the university’s gym. He drinks too many coffees a day, keeps a photo of his dog in his wallet, and has a surprisingly big following on social media. (For his photography and not his thirst traps, which is perhaps the most surprising thing about him.)
He’s also the guy who shamelessly played you during his first year, wrapping you around his freshman finger as easily as a Red Vine at the movies. It’s why you don’t like him now, barely tolerating him each time you’re in the same vicinity.
(Unfortunately for you, your friend group overlap is massive - the worst kind of venn diagram.)
“Stop,” your best friend chides, legs hooked over her boyfriend’s lap, the tip of her finger digging deep into your side, assaulting the sensitive side of your ribs. You almost knock over your drink with how much it startles you, leg making forceful contact with the bottom of the table.
Beer sloshes out of its glass, three heads whipping to stare in your direction. “Sorry!” You play it off with a wave of your hand, gaze bouncing to Mina’s, brow knit tight over your stare. “Stop what?”
“Stop glaring at him.” The way she says it makes it seem stupid - as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. You resent her for it, though not nearly as much as you resent him for existing.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” It’s two voices at once, Hoseok chiming in with his girlfriend.
You resent Jung Hoseok too. He’s the whole reason you’re stuck here on this Friday night, seated in the kitchen of the frat house. He’s the one who’d tangled everything together, turning your group of girlfriends into literal girlfriends. (You’re happy for them, you swear. Joon is a sweetheart and Yoongi might always seem like he’s bothered but he’s nice too. Even Hoseok is actually okay.)
“He’s being an attention whore,” you retort, probably more petulantly than you need to, with needles sticking out of syllables, two year’s worth of history slipping alongside vowels.
“He’s literally just sitting there.”
Mina’s not wrong - but he’s also flirting. Shamelessly. With one of the girls that seem to always be at these things, all chiming laughter and brilliantly white teeth. You’ve seen her a handful of times, almost always at Jungkook’s side for at least some portion of the evening.
“Give it a break, ____.”
You wish you could. In fact, you’d like nothing more than to not care about Jeon Jungkook and his infuriating antics. It’d save you a lot of frustrations, make it so much easier to exist on the same campus as him.
Because as it stands, it’s next to impossible not to be reminded of him, to go a single day without hearing about how great he is with his stupid boopable nose and sparkly eyes. Every day, from friends or strangers, it’s simp central.
You hate it.
Jeon Jungkook is good at many things: passing classes he barely attends (which isn’t that many, because he is actually pretty studious all things considered), making jungle juice that could knock out an elephant, dying his hair pink.
He’s also apparently really good at pissing people off when he doesn’t mean to. Call it a skill of his.
One he’d honed with you, nearly three years ago now. Back when he’d been young and stupid and uncertain, when he hadn’t quite grown into well, much of anything, when he’d had his priorities all messed up.
Maybe he shouldn’t have broken up with you within two months - citing needing to focus on school - and then dated someone shortly thereafter. Maybe he shouldn’t have seemed to find himself in every class of yours, sitting across the lecture hall listening to the professor drone on and on about statics. Maybe he shouldn’t have introduced one of his fraternity brothers to someone he knew you knew.
(He says maybe but he knows they were all bad choices made by an underveloped brain, too addled by Thursday night pub crawls and a grass is always greener on the other side mentality.)
Sometimes, he feels bad. He doesn’t miss the way you pointedly ignore him when he’s around, how your expression seems to be stuck in a permanent scowl any time you catch sight of him.
(He’d have to be dumb to not notice all of that and while Jungkook is many things, dumb isn’t necesarily one of them. Immature maybe. Impulsive definitely.)
“Where’d ____ go?”
Someone else asks the question he wants to but keeps caged behind his teeth, hidden past his molars.
Mina sighs dramatically, pats her boyfriend’s cheek, and shrugs. “Who knows.”
But Jungkook knows. Thinks he knows, anyway. You’ve left, because you always leave when he does things you hate. (And you hate everything he does.)
One day he’ll get the courage to apologise to you, to explain that he still misses you. He knows it won’t be well-received (why would it be?) but he’ll offer it anyway, awkward and stilted and not nearly as apologetic as it should be.
wait !!!! find her jk with that prompt the other anon sent!!! can u plssss that’s literally something find her jk would actually do🥺🥺🥺🥺
[ read finders keep hers ]
pairing. jjk x (named) f!reader. rating. general. tags. idiots in love. like, that’s all there is to say. angst central, my dude. wc. 2.4k. author note. i meant to make this short and end with some tender lovemaking but... i cannot be trusted near a keyboard so you get this word vomit instead. xoxo!
You love Jeon Jungkook. Have, you think, since before you knew what the word love meant.
(Maybe since you were children and you’d still stood a chance against him, bursting with pride from a job well done, young enough that your parents’ kind words felt better than anything in the world. Before he’d turned into the president of the Casanova Club and he’d just been your and your brother’s best friend. Little Jeon with the unbelievably big eyes, always so curious about everything.
Or maybe since your tenth grade White Day, when he’d bought you your favourite candies and pressed them unceremoniously into your hands, too many to hold so they fall to dirt and tumble around you. He’d stooped to snatch them all up, shoving them into the pockets of your coat. “Because we’re best friends or whatever,” he’d said with this toothy, silly smile.
More likely during university. That time you’d maybe (read: very) foolishly made out, liquor fueling the tangle of your limbs and how utterly good he felt within them, a nectarine dream in his brand new G Wagon. You’d thought he’d laugh in your face, mumble something about no, we can’t - which he had - but he’d also taken you home, tucked you in and climbed in beside your inebriated self.
Definitely once you’d started seeing each other, spending more time in his bed than anywhere else. It’d been nearly impossible to separate head from heart, falling deeper and deeper into the Jungkook-shaped black hole that seemed to eclipse everything else. You’d fallen head over stupid heels, leaving bits of yourself hidden among his things. Your lip balm in his trouser pocket, perfume on the collar of his favourite turtleneck, shape of your mouth alongside monogrammed initials.
You hadn’t meant to.
Love him, that is. It’d simply happened in between all the laughter, the eye rolls, the smiles. Threaded between each action and cemented by the thud of your heart, beat into the ground like a drum.)
Sometimes, though, you don’t like him. Oftentimes, in fact.
You and Jungkook are as different as can be.
You’re in business development at a tech firm; he’s the technically unemployed son of a real estate mogul. You invest most of your money; he spends his as if it’ll never run out (which it likely won’t). You grew up with an older brother; he’s got two younger sisters. You drink to celebrate, to wind down; he drinks to prove a point. You believe in love - have to, looking at your parents and feeling how you do about him; he knows it exists but up until recently, had zero interest in it.
You wonder still, seated at the table with your group of friends and their partners, whether that still rings true. (Deep down, you know it doesn’t. You know he loves you, wants you in a way he’s never wanted anyone else before, but your brain is a fickle thing, playing tricks when it shouldn’t.)
Would he be happier without you? Better off without you?
Your thoughts mock you - just as he does, roguish smile turning his entire expression into sunshine. Inescapable, all-encompassing, so blinding it’s almost hard to look at. Trained on the girl he’s chatting up at the bar.
This is what Jungkook does. What he’s always done. You should be used to it, really. The man’s charm is always turned up to eleven, always in full effect even when he doesn’t mean it to be. It’s simply part of who he is- young and rich and devastatingly, heartbreakingly handsome.
Still, you can’t help the emotion that swells somewhere deep in your stomach, jostles the meal you’ve just had and turns your insides into a sea of nausea. You know when he’s just being friendly and you know when he’s flirting. It’s a terribly thin line but one you recognise, intimately familiar with the two sides of his personality.
Right now, he’s flirting. Doing that thing he does, one arm folded on the counter top, unblemished hand resting somewhere along his hip, silver of his rings acting as a beacon beneath the dim restaurant lights. His other hand slots itself into the pocket of his coated jeans, tattoos thrown into stark contrast against his skin and the black of the denim. There’s that smile of his, more a smirk but sunny, radiant, beautiful. It lights up his entire face, steeping his expression in something warm. The dimple in his cheek winks with each laugh - you can only imagine the one on the other side does the same, cut deeply into his skin.
Don’t be mad, you tell yourself. He’s your Jungkook, bad habits and all.
You love him. You love him. You love him.
If he notices your stoicism, he doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong or if you’re okay or what’s up. Barely even speaks to you, save to toss his arm around your shoulder and tug you close, practically tug you into his lap while his friends share stories of their week.
It’s your usual Friday night dinner. Something you’ve done with this ragtag group for as long as you’ve known them. An excuse to go out and drink and eat some damn good (and often free) food.
You wish you could enjoy it like you normally do. Instead, you’re preoccupied by the way a perfume that isn’t yours lingers on his collar - seeps beneath the fabric and marks him up like a possession. It’s too sweet - cloying sugar apples and coconut - nothing like your usual earthy wisteria and dewy rose. It stings your nose when you inhale too deeply, nestled into the familiar shape of Jungkook’s frame, settled between the vertebrae you know best.
You hardly notice when he does speak to you, rousing you from thought you can’t quite place any longer.
“Ready to head home?”
The rest of your friends are going about their business, slipping their coats on and exchanging ideas for plans the following morning. (Saturday brunch is a very popular thing, though it tends to lean late lunch versus true breakfast-brunch.)
You nod and slip from beneath your lover’s arm, plucking your purse up as you rise. You’re ready to get out of here, ready to scrub away the melancholy that lingers like a thin film across your skin.
He must have realised sometime between your silence in the car and your lacklustre kisses in the elevator. You think he must, as he nearly slams the front door of his penthouse shut, kicks off his Chelsea boots and lets them tumble together just off the welcome mat. (Not the reaction you’d expected, but you’ve learnt to never expect anything from him. As much as he might be your best friend, Jeon Jungkook plays by his own set of rules.)
He doesn’t wait for you to undo your own shoes, carefully undoing the straps of your Jimmy Choos and setting them where they belong before you follow the sound of his footsteps.
When you find him, he’s stripping off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly across the back of his desk chair, keys and wallet and phone dropped none-too-gently upon wood. He says nothing even as he crosses to his closet, steps inside and slips off each piece of jewellery: assorted rings and his Rolex - everything but the bracelet you’d gotten him for graduation.
His belt goes next, set back within the confines of its velvet lined drawer. Through the hole goes the button of his jeans, down goes the zipper, and then he’s in nothing but his vaguely sheer dress shirt, boxer-briefs, and silly printed socks (yellow bananas on black fabric, for reasons), looking every inch the adonis he is.
You still haven’t said a word, carefully hanging your dress in the small space you’ve carved out for yourself. You don’t really know what to say - how to approach his apparent frustration when you don’t know where it comes from.
Is he upset with you? Had you, somewhere along the line of your own sadness, done something to upset him?
You’re running through all the scenarios, lost in thought, when his voice breaks the quiet. Snaps forth and hits its mark - a perfect shot. “Seriously?” There’s a fickle quality to his tone, a pettiness that you recognise when he hasn’t gotten his way, when he’s not quite sure what to say but knows he wants to have something. (It doesn’t come out often with you, but you’re intimately familiar with it still. His I-want-to-fight voice.)
“Pardon?” You’re not expecting him so close, close enough to reach you but far enough that you can tell he’s purposely put this distance between you. It feels strange - further apart than it is.
“You’re not going to say anything?”
You blink. Once, twice, three times. When you speak, it’s full of confusion, paired with your brows gathering in a little knot of bewilderment. “Anything about what?”
“What happened at dinner.”
He sounds so utterly deadpan, you can’t help but laugh, a sound of disbelief rather than amusement.
“You mean you flirting with that girl?” Even saying the words feels awful, makes you want to crawl into bed and forget about it all.
Jungkook, on the other hand, looks like you’ve just handed him the answers to all of life’s questions. His entire face rearranges, all the pieces matching back up to form a proper puzzle. There’s a certain smugness to it now, caught in the round of his cheek and how it ticks higher with his grin. “So you did notice! I fucking knew it.”
“Of course I did.” You want to be appalled. Know you should be. (But it’s Jungkook and you love him.) “Kind of hard not to.”
He’s the devil in disguise, snapping you to him with a flex of his arms, hands curled around your waist. It’s clear he’s pleased, absolutely tickled pink that you’d fallen for his silly little trick. “Gotta keep you on your toes,” he croons, eyes twinkling, mouth wobbling with the strain of keeping his laughter hidden.
He expects you to agree - maybe roll your eyes and pat his cheek, laughs along with him and give him some sort of shit about how he’s an idiot - and visibly starts when you push yourself away, two palms flat against his chest.
“Sure.”
One word. Nothing like he’d imagined.
“Baby?” You’ve made it two steps - two whole steps, which is two too many to Jungkook - when he’s pulling you back, trapping you against his chest with his arms looped around your shoulders. “Where you going?” He’s kissing along your shoulder, trailing warmth everywhere he touches.
He still smells like that girl’s perfume.
“Can you get off me, please?” You’re more polite than you normally are, working hard to keep calm when he only tightens his grip. Of course he thinks you’re kidding, thinks you’re pouting and playing just like he had when you’d returned home.
When you repeat yourself - a little harder, a little quieter - he seems to realise how wrong he’s read the situation.
“Angel—” You’re swept around, left to stare into the neat white of his shirt as he peers down at you, waits for you to meet his eyes. You don’t, staunchly focused on the buttons of his Oxford, how they strain over his broad chest. “Baby.” Now he’s the one full of reprimand, disapproval colouring the single word that’s normally so sweet.
“What?” It’s just as bratty as he was earlier but somehow worse, touched blue.
“What’s wrong?” Jungkook seems genuinely perplexed, concerned and maybe, just a tiny bit frustrated. He’s not used to you lashing out like this, soft and yet unyielding, hidden behind a door he’s fumbling with the keys to.
“You.”
“—me?”
You’re not one to throw out things you don’t mean, carefully picking and choosing your words. It’s something you’ve always done - far more responsible than your idiot best friend who’s never had to worry about a thing in his life.
The line of his mouth dips, pulls into a frown as he studies you and tries to crack open the windows to gain some insight. It doesn’t work well; he’s faced with a stone wall.
“Why’re you mad?”
You want to laugh. Do, actually, so short and abrupt it’s more of a scoff. “What’s wrong with me?” You’d pull away if you could. (Realistically, you could, but you’ve always been too soft for him.) “You spent almost all of dinner flirting with someone else.”
“Yeah— to make you jealous.” As if that makes it better. As if that doesn’t tear a giant hole right in the centre of your chest, launches your poor heart out of the airlock to fend for itself in the emptiness of his expression.
You don’t know why it feels worse to hear it out loud. You’d figured as much.
(Jungkook had done this in the past, though always jokingly. He’d rarely been invested enough in a girl to go to such lengths but you’d seen it once or twice. Always the age old adage of wanting what you can’t have.)
You wish you could separate the then from the now. Remind yourself that he does care, that this is his twisted, stupid way of showing his affection - of keeping you around. (You know he’s just as vulnerable as you - maybe more, sometimes - but he shows it poorly. Pushes you away when he tries to pull you in.)
Tears are welling, spilling across your lashes faster than you can yank them back. Something about being an angry crier.
“Good job,” you mean to snap, to make him feel how you do. (Small - so very, very small.) Instead, it’s terribly quiet. A whisper that gets lost to the cotton poplin. “Now I’m jealous.” And miserable and insecure. All things you usually aren’t, that only Jeon Jungkook manages to bring out in you.
“Baby,” he tries again, crushing you to his chest, jut of his chin resting atop your head. His hugs had always been your favourite - swallowing you whole, making you feel safe - but it’s too much now, a prison cell rather than your familiar bed. “I’m sorry.” He’s kissing again, stamping his affection into the dark of your hair, brushing over and over with the soft of his lips, his rounded adorable nose, “I thought—”
You know what he thought. Know where he’d been coming from (a place of immaturity, a gilded golden room with Jeon Jungkook stamped across the door) but it doesn’t make it any better.
pairing. jjk x f!reader. rating. general. tags. fluff. the barest hint of angst if you squint really, really hard. wc. 0.9k.
Love is scary. It’s never been something you could look at and say “see, that’s love.” It existed in too many forms, presented itself in too many ways.
It terrifies you - and Jungkook can do nothing about it. He tries though and with time and patience and all of his shitty corny jokes, things have gotten better. You’ve softened, fallen in love despite yourself.
Sometimes, you’re still a little out of reach - just a little too far. (On more than one occasion, he’s wondered if he’s asking for too much.)
It’s easier when he thinks how much progress you’ve made.
“Your number in exchange for my troubles?”
“No.” You’d said it so clearly, not an ounce of hesitation. Even with him dressed in your coffee, you’d refused him. “Sorry.” You hadn’t sounded very sorry.
Imagine his surprise when he’d met you again, a week later, at a mutual friend’s birthday.
“Can I have your number now?” Jungkook was nothing if not persistent.
You had refused to budge, sipping politely at your cranberry vodka and studying him over the rim of the glass. “No.”
It’d only been at the end of the night, when you’d been making your rounds - saying goodbye and swinging hands around shoulders - that you’d finally said yes. Probably because you were maybe, just a little, slightly under the influence.
When you’d smiled, though - he could’ve sworn you were just as happy as he was.
It was the first snowfall in the city, nearly three months since you’d started seeing each other. You’d pouted and whined, staring out the huge industrial windows with your chin in your hand.
“Snow sucks,” you’d huffed, puffed like a big bad wolf.
“Let’s go away then.” He’d been meaning to ask - had looked at tickets just that morning, in his free period before his students had come milling into his classroom babbling about their weekends. There’d been a deal somewhere tropical, somewhere you’d mentioned once in passing when he’d been looking at the weather forecast.
“Or not.”
“Why not?” His insistence was the same as it always was, creeping up your spine and sitting comfortably around your shoulders. A woolen scarf that’d keep you warm even on the coldest of nights.
“That’s like…” You’d shrugged, pushed your way out of bed to busy yourself with something in the kitchen. He could read you like a book even then, practically mouth the words you’d speak next. “Kind of serious.”
“We’re kind of serious, aren’t we?”
He hadn’t expected the look you’d tossed his way, fleeting but terribly clear in the dim light. Worry.
You’d said yes, again, by the end of the night. Even when you tried, you couldn’t say no.
“Move in with me.” It’d been your sixth consecutive hour in bed, a lazy Sunday morning that’d stretched into the afternoon. You’d even cancelled your standing brunch reservation, opting to stay cozied up in bed together. He’d held you like you were precious, treasure, the most important thing in the world.
You’d done the same, though you pretended not to. You hated being vulnerable.
“Why?” For once, not a no. He remembers the surprise, the lack of an outright denial spurring his eyebrows into his hairline. You’d scowled at him, whacked a hand across his pec as if aiming for the thing that beat for you. (Only you.)
“You’re always here anyway.”
“You just want someone to help you with rent.” Well, that’d been true. As much as he loved you, you took too long showers and always forgot to turn off the light when you left. His bills had somehow skyrocketed.
But that wasn’t why. The why was you. It was always you.
It’d taken another two weeks but you were moved in before summer, all your hangers hung up beside his, your unnecessarily extensive skincare routine taking up all the real estate on his bathroom counter.
He’d thought it’d happen how it always did, starting with a no and ending with a yes.
For once, Jungkook was surprised. You’d packed your bags and left, taking his heart with you and leaving the little velvet box on the counter.
“I’m not marrying you,” you’d said with an air of finality he’d never heard before.
He’d thought that’d be the end. He was wrong then too.
“Baby.”
You’re half asleep on his chest, book having fallen out of your grip sometime over the last half hour. He’s been stuck watching YouTube autoplay, too afraid of waking you up to try to grab the Apple remote stuck under your butt.
“Hu-u-uuh?” You’re bleary-eyed, beautiful. When you speak, he feels the little puddle of drool on his skin spread, pushed around by the shape of your mouth. The sound you make is hilarious - decidedly not very sophisticated, a world away from the you that sees the rest of the world.
“I want a baby.” Jungkook’s nonchalant about it because he’s learnt what the worst case scenario is and knows you’ll never be back there. You’re stuck with him forever now. You’d promised.
Even in your exhaustion, you’re incredulous, staring up at him like you’re not sure whether everything’s a fever dream or reality. “You want a baby?”
“Yeah.”
“You are a baby.” It’s not a no. He latches onto that with his teeth, bares them in his adorable bunny smile he knows you can’t resist.
“I’m twenty-eight, actually.”
“Baby.” You’re mocking him, dropping your head back against his heated skin. He can feel you smiling, even as you try to hide it.
