Chapter Text
It was like biting a cherry clean in two.
A quick break, a rush of sweetness, and a bright stain on the tip of his tongue that he would carry for the rest of the day — if he were to describe the first time he crossed paths with Jungkook.
Taehyung is heading down the stairwell with a roll of drawings tucked under his arm when he first sees him. He’s rushing out the door for class, half awake, thinking about a model he still needs to fix, when a soft voice carries up from the landing below — bright and energetic, filling the narrow space and the stale air in the building.
The stranger is standing halfway down with two moving boxes balanced on his knee, dressed in a white baggy tee and washed-out jeans. He’s talking on the phone, one hand gripping the edge of the top box while his hip keeps the other steady. On his bottom lip, there’s a silver ring and a faint trace of ink near his shoulder — Taehyung inhales the sight of him faster than the air in his lungs.
A laugh slips out of him at whatever he hears on the other end of the line, and it brightens his whole face — eyes creasing, cheeks rising, a warmth that comes naturally. He readjusts the phone, and a small, unruly lock of hair falls forward, giving him a velvety charm that, in a way, feels almost practiced.
Taehyung stays rooted to the ground as the other male moves past him without so much as a glance, the moment slipping by before he can think to speak or even offer help. He only watches, letting the impression linger in the back of his mind — this boy with fluffy hair and a sort of careless vitality that is too fresh for a neighborhood as shitty as this.
He’s the new tenant of apartment sixty, Taehyung concludes, and rushes out in hopes of getting to his class on time.
He doesn’t.
Wednesday night changes everything.
The basement is hot when Taehyung walks in; it always is at this time, on a night like this. The walls hold the temperature from outside, and the low ceiling keeps the air still as the machines rumble against the tile floor in a steady, rhythmic beat.
This late at night, the laundry room is usually empty.
Tonight, it is not.
The stranger from the stairwell stands in front of one of the washers, loading clothes from a mesh bag. He’s dressed like he came down just to be — comfortable, black booty shorts that ride too high, a cropped tank that exposes a strip of his flat stomach. There are a few lines of ink on his arms, heavy designs that somehow feel simple and pretty on his skin.
When the boy moves, Taehyung notices the quick shimmer of a glittery piercing on his belly button, catching the light — and that’s when he feels his palms starting to sweat.
Well, fuck.
The other turns his head, catches Taehyung in the doorway, and lets out a small, pleasant smile. It has a sweetness to it, an ease that suggests he’s accustomed to winning a room before he even speaks.
“Oh, hey.” He greets, voice coming out airy and soft — softer than what he heard a few days ago, yet somehow exactly how Taehyung expected it to be.
He clears his throat and offers a simple nod, “Hey.”
The stranger glances over his shoulder, turning only partway, still folding something at the edge of the washer. His boyish youth is the first thing Taehyung notices; fresh skin, big bright eyes, a softness to him that hasn’t worn down yet, twenty, twenty-one at most.
“You good?”
“Huh?” Taehyung’s mouth parts, but nothing useful comes out as he keeps staring at the stranger.
“I asked if you live upstairs?” he repeats.
“Ah — shit, sorry,” he shakes his head, “Yeah, Third floor, Taehyung,” he says his own name, and the stranger repeats it as if he’s mouthing on the taste, then he continues.
“I’m also on the third floor, the opposite block, though, you know, the one across from this one? I moved in last week.” He slips the last bit of laundry into place and wipes his hands on his teeny shorts. When he looks up, his cheeks are flushed from the warm room, and he has a grin on that comes with a hint of mischief
“Charmed, third floor Taehyung.”
He draws out the word “charmed” with a faint curl of amusement, closes the washer, and turns it on. Then, he hops onto the machine beside Taehyung, settling with one leg bent and the other hanging loose. Taehyung's vision narrows on the vast extent of the smooth, milky skin on his bare, toned thighs.
“I'm Jungkook.” His heel is tapping lightly against the metal. And for the first time, Taehyung notices, he’s — barefoot, slippers abandoned somewhere next to the noisy washer.
What a strange, strange kid, soul-crushingly, life-ruiningly gorgeous, but very strange nonetheless.
“Nice to meet you.” Taehyung offers a polite smile before he starts loading his washer. It’s something simple to focus on, something that keeps his hands moving instead of letting him get caught staring. Jungkook’s presence makes the room feel suffocatingly hot.
“You always do your laundry this late?” Jungkook asks.
“Usually.”
“Why?” The question slips out too quickly, his open gaze making him look impossibly young.
“Fewer people.”
Jungkook’s smile tips upward, faintly delighted.
“Guess I ruined that for you now, huh?”
“Not really,” Taehyung snorts under his breath and shakes his head. “Your block has its own laundry room, though,” he points out harmlessly. “You could use that. It would be more convenient, I’d assume.”
“I know, but it’s shut down for maintenance or whatever. The landlord told me to use this one.” Jungkook lifts his hand, inspecting his nails with a careless glance — trimmed short, nail polish chipped and uneven. Taehyung turns his eyes away, suddenly hyper aware of how small the room is.
“What do you do for a living?”
“College, I’m an Architecture student.”
“So you design buildings and shit.”
Pretty with a foul mouth.
“That’s the job description.” Taehyung raises a brow, “So yeah, more or less.”
Jungkook whistles and leans back on his palms, elbows angled behind him. “Sounds impressive, you must be super smart.”
The tank rides up again, flashing the small bar at his navel, his pebbled nipples pressing behind the fabric as two hard points, and Taehyung notices — again.
He shrugs, humble. “I get by, I guess.”
“I’m an art major,” Jungkook explains, like he’s offering a piece of himself before he’s asked to do so.
Somehow, Taehyung’s not surprised.
“Fits you,” he says without thinking. “Although you’re not gonna find much inspiration around this neighborhood.”
“You think so?” Jungkook tilts his head, studying him with a lazy smile on. “'Cause I’ve already run into an edgy architect and he’s kinda cute, too.” When Jungkook calls him cute, his grin is wider, and he pops the gum that Taehyung somehow never noticed he was chewing.
“Okay — Alright.” He looks at the washer dial as if it needs his full attention. Praise never lands gently on him; it sticks like heat on the back of his neck.
He rubs his nape silently and then places his hand on the top of the machine,
“Cool.” Jungkook pops his gum again, a sharp little sound in the quiet room.
He slips off the machine and bends to scoop up his laundry basket with one hand, while the other catches his slippers off the ground. There’s an absurd number of rings around his fingers and dried ink on one of his knuckles, barely distinctive from his tattoos.
When he straightens up, he glances at Taehyung again.
“Same time next week?” He asks softly, nearly hopeful — it’s confusing,
“Ah — Probably.” Taehyung tears his gaze off the other male’s long fingers. “Yeah.”
Jungkook’s smile widens. “Good.”
He adjusts his basket again and heads toward the stairs, giving Taehyung a light wink on his way out. The door closes softly behind him.
The room goes still.
Taehyung stands there for a moment, letting his focus return to the steady churn of the machines. The quiet doesn’t feel the same as before. It carries something leftover, the aftermath of the stranger’s presence.
Like the memory of Jungkook’s eyes, nearly magical, and his feet tapping on the tiles as he left the basement, climbing down, still barefoot.
When the next Wednesday comes, Taehyung convinces himself that the laundry can wait. No cotton shirt is worth subjecting himself to his new neighbor’s — bizarre, whimsical spirit, once again.
Taehyung escapes Wednesday, but something far more grand comes down on him on Thursday instead.
All of him, all of his new neighbor, Jungkook.
The first time Taehyung notices the windows line up with apartment sixty, he’s closing his own curtains for the night. The building across the narrow gap holds the same floor plan as his, mirrored. When the lights are on, his glass becomes a dark pane, and anything lit across from him is displayed clearly. All it takes is one glance to realize the bedroom opposite belongs to the new neighbor — Jungkook.
At first glance, his bedroom wasn’t anything extraordinary for an art major. It was the sort of cluttered interior Taehyung had come to associate with would-be artists like Jungkook.
Taehyung could tell that much even after two brief encounters — he has an instinct for these things, he knows the type: Restless dreamer, soon to be crushed by the mundane reality.
Taehyung only caught the sight of Jungkook once or twice during the past few days; the other seems to wake up only after he’s left for school and comes back home after Taehyung’s already gone to bed, but during the gaps in between, he’s taken a minor curiosity in his sort of neighbor’s method of being
His room is usually dim. Jungkook leaves the bedside lamp on even when he isn’t home. An unnecessary number of lotions and perfume bottles crowd the dresser, sketches lie scattered under a half-finished canvas, and there’s always some abandoned dessert on his nightstand — half a strawberry tart, a bitten lemon one, and other sweets Taehyung can’t name.
Taehyung takes it in quietly as he smokes by the window. Jungkook must have a sweet tooth.
That and — the fact that Jungkook leaves his curtains open. Always.
And tonight, he’s home earlier than usual.
Taehyung tells himself he’s only out for a smoke. He should shut the curtain and go to bed. But his hand stays on the fabric while he watches the room across from him.
Jungkook walks into the frame with a towel around his neck and his phone in his hand. He taps on its screen a couple of times, then places the phone face down by the lamp.
He stands a little to the side, in the center of the bedroom, where the light from his bedside lamp casts a halo on him. When he reaches for the hem of his shirt, Taehyung’s chest tightens.
Jungkook pulls the shirt up. His torso comes into view inch by inch, skin slightly flushed, presumably from the shower. Even from this distance, Taehyung can make out the sight of his nipples being rather swollen and stiff from the air on them, jutting forward.
Jungkook drops his shirt on the bed and rubs the towel along his chest, across his stomach, then up along the line of his long neck, torturiously slow. His fingers catch at his piercings as he dries, a quick brush at the lip, the brow, the tiny bar at his navel in the center of his narrow waist. The room’s light glows on the metal rings and holds it there.
Taehyung expects what comes next, yet his breath heats up in his lungs when Jungkook hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his sweats and pauses — only for a beat.
Jungkook pulls the waistband down.
Taehyung’s breathing grows shallow.
The sweats slide over his hips and down his thighs. Jungkook steps out, one foot, then the other, leaving the fabric pooled on the floor.
And as simple as that, he’s completely bare before Taehyung’s ravenous gaze.
His ass is plush, the kind that moves a little when he shifts his weight, full enough to cup in both hands. Jungkook bends to pick up the sweats, and the view opens — soft flesh that parts at the base, a smooth, puckered hole below, the faintest line where it twitches when he leans too far.
Taehyung’s hand tightens on the curtain, but he doesn’t pull.
Jungkook tosses the sweats onto the bed and stands side-on. His thighs are thick in a way that shows he hits the gym, and yet they seem soft to the touch, inner skin pale where the sun doesn’t reach.
There’s a particular tattoo in the shape of a tiger lily on his side, extending all the way to his hip bone, the vibrant orange and the soft green almost shimmer. Taehyung can’t physically take his eyes off the tattoo or Jungkook’s thighs.
Between them, Taehyung happens to see the one thing that he knows will be the bane of his existence for a lifetime.
The swell of a smooth cunt is obvious even from across the gap — slightly paler than the rest of Jungkook’s body, with plush outer lips and glossy from water and something warmer perhaps.
When he shifts, the lips press and separate, a small peek of his cute little clit at the top before the lips settle again.
Taehyung’s breath breaks in waves.
Jungkook isn’t posing. He just exists in his orbit, moving through an easy routine of gliding strawberry lotion across his smooth skin and casually ruining Taehyung’s life.
It’s been months since Taehyung has had sex. College takes its share; work takes the rest. He tells himself to look away, that he’s not the man who stares at a neighbor’s window.
He keeps the lie going for one breath longer and then another when his cock finally begins pushing against his boxers.
In the meantime, Jungkook has made his way to his dresser, and he’s holding a pair of underwear that he hasn't put on yet.
Jungkook traces under his stomach, nails skimming to the crease of his thigh. His fingers graze his cunt in a way that looks — accidental, two knuckles brushing the outer lips, a soft pull, and a tiny spread.
His mouth parts a little at the contact, then eases closed.
“Fuck.” Taehyung curses breathlessly; his cock is already heavy in his sweats. He presses his fingertips onto it and stands still while the pressure builds.
He should close the curtains. He should step back.
He doesn’t.
Jungkook climbs onto the bed and sits on the edge of it, knees loose. His willowy thighs fall open smoothly. Taehyung can’t see as clearly anymore, but when Jungkook tilts his hips in his direction serendipitously, he ends up with a full view before his devouring eyes.
Jungkook’s pussy settles in between, lips naturally full and pillowy from the shower. He rubs a towel through his hair and shakes it out, and the movement rocks his hips a little. The lips shift with it, his clit peeks and then hides again as his thighs change angle.
Jungkook drags the towel across his chest and pauses to pinch one nipple through the damp cloth. His expression remains unmoved as though this is routine.
It still pins Taehyung to the spot.
Taehyung closes his hand around his cock. Heat spikes behind his sternum in mean waves, the kind that starts in the guts and then climbs.
He bites his lower lip and strokes along the thick length with the heel of his palm, loose and then tighter. Taehyung keeps his gaze on Jungkook’s cunt, occasionally ascending to his gorgeous face
Across the gap, Jungkook finally stands and turns partly away, bending to pull a shirt from the chair. The curve of his ass fills the window again. The movement lifts and parts him. The ring of his smooth rim shows, pink and pretty, like the rest of him.
Taehyung bites the inside of his cheek to keep quiet.
He watches as Jungkook slips the shirt over his head but doesn’t tug it down all the way, leaving his stomach bare. He rests a hand on his hip and runs two fingers along the upper seam of his slit, absent, like he’s checking that he’s dry. The fingers catch on a lip, and he gives a small, lazy adjustment. The view jolts through Taehyung like a hit.
With each hard stroke, Taehyung’s breath grows shorter and more labored. He keeps his other hand against the wall to steady himself as he strokes from base to tip, thumb swiping over the head to spread the pre-cum.
A moment later, Jungkook steps closer to the window, now no more than a pace away. He pushes the shirt up with his wrist and rubs a palm over his chest, thumb circling a nipple until it hardens more. Then he lets his hand trail down under his belly again. Jungkook cups his full mound carelessly and breathes through it.
And that’s when the question sparks like a glowy firefly in the back of Taehyung’s mind. Is — Jungkook putting on a show?
Jungkook tilts his head, and this time, he looks out. His doe eyes bore into the dark. He can’t see him, Taehyung’s sure of that, but he holds the line as if he can.
His racing mind lets him be for now — so, Taehyung holds his gaze on Jungkook’s lips as he strokes faster. He thinks about the first night in the laundry room, the sound of Jungkook’s voice, then pictures how it’d sound if it were his hand cupping that cunt. Taehyung imagines the feel of it on his tongue, the weight of Jungkook’s thighs on his shoulders, the taste of sweat mixed with his slick, and nearly senses strawberry on his tongue.
Jungkook finally pulls the shirt down and steps into his underwear. He holds the fabric open and slides it up gently, past his thighs and past the swell between his legs, snugging it in.
The cotton presses his lips together, then lets them sit heavy under the hem. He smooths a hand over the front, fingers settling at the top where his clit would sit under the fabric. He gives himself a quick press and exhales. Then he turns his head toward the dark one more time.
“Ah — Fuck.” Taehyung cums with his jaw clenched and his hand locked in place. He spills over his fist and wrist as he tries to keep the noise in his throat; his windows might be tinted, but they’re not soundproof.
Across the way, Jungkook lets his hand fall, flicks off the lamp, and walks out of frame. The room goes dark. The window returns to a clean reflection.
The whole ordeal ends like it never happened.
Taehyung sits there like he’s rooted to his chair, his chest heaving, his hand sticky, and his mind empty.
Then the guilt catches up. He pulls his sweats up, wipes his hand with the edge of a T-shirt, and finally closes the curtains with the outline of his neighbor’s divine body, branded on his mind in its bare glory.
For a few days, Taehyung thinks he imagined it.
The lamp across the gap has remained dark more often than not. The strawberry shortcakes and lemon tarts that used to sit half-eaten on Jungkook’s nightstand vanish. The room that used to glow warmly, cluttered behind the glass, turns into a flat, unlit rectangle. No dreamy boy wandering around with a towel on his head and a dessert in hand.
His logic argues that he should be grateful the universe has temporarily removed the very living proof of his insanity from his immediate vicinity. He should be relieved he doesn’t have to worry about what will happen the next time they bump into each other, whether Jungkook’s eyes will catch his and narrow in quiet recognition: I know what you did.
Instead, most nights, right before bed, Taehyung finds himself standing by the window with a cigarette and a stupid, stubborn hope that there will be a warm square of light across from him.
But, it never is.
For days, Taehyung has been carrying a single line around with him whenever his stomach turns: There’s no way he saw you.
The window is tinted — he proved it to himself in the courtyard at dusk, staring up at his own room like a stranger. Only his dim reflection met him. All he could see was his reflection and a vague hint of furniture.
Jungkook shouldn’t have seen a thing.
This is what he clings to when the memory hits, his hand around his cock, Jungkook touching his body while Taehyung came in his hand, sat on his chair by the window — like an absolutely deprived creeper.
It crosses his mind often these days, heading to the other block and knocking on the door of apartment sixty, Taehyung never goes through with that. Cowardice wears the same face as caution in his mind, so he lets himself pick the more flattering one and forgets about the whole thing.
As finals creep closer and more deadlines land on his desk, Taehyung finds himself spending long hours hunched over his work, redrawing the same line three times because his concentration keeps leaving the full papers and sticks to the memory of Jungkook’s body glowing in the sunlight-warm dim of his bedroom.
His one indulgence is the corner coffee shop — Green Oak. A small place with pale wooden tables and a pastry case where the baked goods always promise more than they deliver. Taehyung goes alone now and buries himself in his routine. Headphones in, laptop open. Work, caffeine, and then come home and collapse, before the whole thing begins again.
Friday wasn’t supposed to be any different.
The bell above the door chimes when he enters. The warm air greets him immediately. It’s too hot inside but fragrant with coffee, sugar, and fruity aroma from the pastry case, so it’s pleasant.
This place isn't particularly a hot spot for college kids, but finals week is always desperate times, so Taehyung isn’t surprised when he spots a couple of students crowding the table in the back where he usually sits.
“Perfect,” he mutters under his breath, feeling exhaustion settling lower on his shoulders.
Taehyung orders his coffee to go, resigned to drinking it while speed-walking back to campus, and stands off to the side, scrolling aimlessly through his notifications. The cup warms his palm when he picks it up, and he turns toward the door to leave.
“Not so fast, Third floor.”
Taehyung looks over his shoulder, and although he could recognize the voice almost instantly, his breath hitches anyway.
Jungkook — is sitting by the window, basking in the weak rays of the November sun. His chin is propped in one hand, and he’s beaming as he watches Taehyung, so bright and so sure, as if he’d been waiting for Taehyung to turn around.
“Are you gonna stand there like you’ve seen a ghost or come sit?” Jungkook asks with his head tilting slightly. His eyes are wide and sparkly in a way that Taehyung remembers. “C’mere. Sit before I get offended.” He continues as he makes a vague gesture to the empty seat across from him.
Three desserts sit in front of him. A strawberry tart, a lemon bar, and something covered in chocolate that Taehyung can't name. All half-eaten and abandoned mid-thought, like he never finishes anything he doesn’t absolutely love.
His feet carry him to Jungkook’s table before he can think better of it. He settles down on the seat, Jungkook watches and trails his every move like he’s doing the most amusing thing in the world. Taehyung puts his bitter Americano on the table, a dull addition next to the colorful pastries.
“Hey.” Taehyung smooths a hand through his hair, trying to appear collected. “How long have you been sitting here?” He sinks into the seat and lifts his cup, aware of Jungkook’s gaze skimming over him like a warm draft of air.
“Mm.” Jungkook gives a contemplative hum. “Long enough to watch you order your boring coffee.”
Before Taehyung can defend his coffee, Jungkook reaches out and plucks the cup from his hand with ease. He takes a generous sip; the reaction comes instantly — his nose scrunching, his whole expression folding in despair. “Fuck. Ew — this is awful, how the hell do you drink this shit?”
How dramatic.
“How the hell do I drink normal coffee?”
“It’s fucking vile.”
Taehyung raises a brow in pure judgment, his gaze dropping to the pastries littering the table like a sugary riot. “You consume sugar like it’s air, constantly. How the hell are you even alive?”
“Oh?” Jungkook blinks as though genuinely considering the question, then his mouth curves in a slow, dawning grin. Taehyung watches in quiet panic as the piercing on his lower lip glints. “Now, how would you know that I eat sweets constantly?”
Taehyung feels something in him stutter — a small drop in his stomach, a terrifying sensation lodged right under his ribs. Fuck, He can’t exactly confess it’s because he’s been keeping watch on what goes on in Jungkook’s bedroom, on the pastry boxes sitting brazenly on his nightstand, and on Jungkook himself — that one time.
Taehyung gulps as the panic brings that memory back to the surface, his one and most shameful sin, on which he just outed himself. Fuck, he’s an idiot.
“I—“
But Jungkook makes it easy for him.
“Oh,” he gasps dramatically, eyes narrowing in accusation. “You’ve seen me here before and didn’t come say hi, didn’t you?”
Taehyung exhales like someone just saved him from possible death. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Once or twice, I was in a rush.”
“How rude,” Jungkook clicks his tongue, leaning back so his spine meets the edge of the table, arms stretching along its sides in a way that makes the pose look careless. The pastel blue of his knitted sweater blends neatly with the navy chair — Taehyung finds the sight absurdly pretty.
“And here I thought we were friends, y’know?” Jungkook goes on, his grin gentle, boyish. “Thought we bonded.”
“Haven't we met like — only once?” Taehyung says with a small laugh, wrapping both hands around his coffee as if the warmth might anchor him. “In the laundry room, doing laundry?” His gaze drops momentarily when his brain is purged with the memory of Jungkook’s naked form.
Taehyung wants to ask where Jungkook disappeared to for ten days, but what he just said reminded him of why he can’t; they’re strangers. At least officially. The kind of strangers who shouldn’t know half the things Taehyung does about Jungkook, like the shape of his ass under golden lights and the Tiger lily he has tattooed on his hip.
Jungkook shrugs in response, “Well, laundry is as good as anything to bond over, don’t you think?”
Before Taehyung can gather a reply, the waiter arrives, balancing a tall cup buried beneath a small mountain of whipped cream and what seems to be caramel.
“Caramel cloud latte with double syrup, extra drizzle and—” The waiter consults the receipt with a narrowing gaze. “— marshmallow foam?”
“Yep.” Jungkook lights up. “That’s me.”
The drink is placed in front of him with a soft thud. “Anything else?”
Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. “Oh! one of those mango tarts, please?”
“Jesus Christ,” Taehyung leans back against his seat and watches in near astonishment. “You’re insane.”
“I think I might have a bit of a sweet tooth.” Jungkook lets out a breathy giggle and shakes his head, his fluffy hair catching Taehyung’s gaze.
“You think?”
Jungkook laughs again, a soft thing in the crisp air of the coffee shop, “Anyway.” He leans forward, the straw loose between his fingers. “Speaking of friends — I’m throwing a housewarming party on Saturday, I want you to come.”
Taehyung is quiet for a beat, studying the sudden gravity on Jungkook’s face, the way he says it like an invitation and a certainty at once.
“Saturday as in — tomorrow?”
”Yep.” Jungkook hums softly, “Why? You have somewhere to be?”
“Uh. No, but I have my finals this week,” Taehyung sighs, tapping beneath his eyes. “You didn’t notice the bags?”
“You think I didn’t notice?” Jungkook’s head tilts, big eyes blinking up at Taehyung, disarmingly. “But, you’re coming anyway.”
Jungkook decides for him before he can say a thing — and whatever protest he can gather dies in his throat when Jungkook’s lips wrap around the straw. When he pulls away, there’s a smudge of whipped cream clinging to his lower lip, a faint trail sliding toward his chin like something painted on for effect. Taehyung would give out an arm to lick that clean, and the realization disturbs him beyond all ends.
“Alright,” Jungkook says, almost innocently, “See you tomorrow night. Eight sharp, look pretty.” Before Taehyung can answer, Jungkook is already on his feet — practically springing up, snatching a tote bag Taehyung hadn’t even noticed hanging from his chair. His caramel cloud latte and his pastries sit abandoned on the table.
Taehyung exhales, defeated. There isn’t a universe in which he says no to him. “Okay.”
When Jungkook leaves, Taehyung is still sitting there, he’s pressing his palms around his cup. The cup is still warm, but his palms remain cold.
“Your mango tart?” the waiter asks, back with yet another pastry in his hands.
His mouth falls open. Jungkook didn’t even pick up his fucking order.
“Yeah, uh, can I please get that to go, actually?”
The waiter nods carelessly and drifts off with the order. Taehyung lets his gaze fall to the rim of the cup in between his palms — a pale red, glossy crescent of Jungkook’s lip gloss remains pressed there, a soft reminiscence.
Taehyung closes his eyes and lifts the cup to his mouth. He parts his lips over the mark and lets them hover there for a second or two before he drinks — guilty as sin.
Taehyung isn’t entirely sure how he ended up here or if Mango tarts should be a thing.
There’s a model on his desk waiting to be finished, three presentations due next week, and a sketchbook he abandoned sometime on Monday. By all logic, he should be at home, asleep, or at the very least pretending to be responsible. Instead, he’s standing in line at a corner store, a cheap red wine tucked beneath one arm and a mango tart, neatly boxed and painfully fragile, in the other.
The wine is tacky, he knows that, he buys it anyway, and the dessert box is still cold from where he’d stored it in his fridge. It is foolish, he knows it, being here, standing in front of apartment sixty, sweating in the middle of winter, is foolish. But Jungkook had smiled at him in the café, in a way that rearranged Taehyung’s priorities.
“Fuck it.”
He raises his hand to knock, but the door swings open before he has the chance to, releasing a wave of warmth and noise that slaps him right on the face. Taehyung shoulders his way in, the apartment is small, almost defiantly so — and yet it’s packed to the edges with bodies, red cups, and a kind of reckless joy that has nowhere to go but up the walls.
Jungkook must’ve invited way too many people.
The first thing that catches his eye is a gaming table sitting right in the center of the living room, too large for the space. Plants descend from mismatched pots covering almost every wall, and threads of fairy lights loop messily between the bookshelves.
Jungkook’s apartment is exactly how he pictured it.
Taehyung looks around awkwardly, but it’s Jungkook who spots him first. One moment, he is navigating through the wave of strange bodies, and the next, Jungkook is cutting through the room toward him with unmistakable excitement.
“Third floor!”
He’s dressed more casually tonight — a black jacket that still has wrinkles from wherever he pulled it from, ripped jeans, and a plain white tank that makes him look disarmingly young. Boring outfit, but it’s anything but that on Jungkook.
“You made it!” Jungkook’s voice is bright as he walks to him, hand closing around Taehyung’s forearm as if they’ve known each other far longer than they really have. He doesn’t hesitate; he pulls him forward, weaving through the bodies and noise.
The skin under the weight of Jungkook’s fingertips tingles.
“Gosh, you brought me something?” he asks softly as he keeps dragging. His eyes fall to the bottle, the tacky red wine. Jungkook looks unexpectedly touched, as if Taehyung had brought something actually nice, already snatching the bottle from his hold.
“Yeah, I figured I wouldn’t wanna show up empty-handed.” He answers honestly, gazing around to see a guy covered in blue print somehow, eyes narrowing in confusion.
“How polite.” Jungkook smiles, sounding a bit breathless. He pulls Taehyung by the arm again. “Come on! You have to meet my friends.”
Jungkook leads him through the crowd until they reach a small bunch, standing around the gaming table, right next to a tall stack of books and a lamp wrapped in — dried flowers of all things.
They look up the moment they approach, like they’ve learned to sense Jungkook’s presence.
“Guys!” Jungkook chirps, breath still warm against Taehyung’s arm. “This is Taehyung — my neighbor.”
The taller one steps forward first.
“Namjoon,” he says — voice deep and surprisingly gentle. His hand comes out for a shake, fingers stained midnight blue, not just smudged but dyed, like he’d been elbow-deep in some ink experiment minutes before the party. Taehyung shakes his hand, smiling politely.
“You sure have left quite an impression on our Jungkookie. I’m Seokjin, but you can call me Jin, it’s cuter.” The other one asks, extending his hand with a breezy kind of confidence. “Is third floor your real name?“
“Uh-” Taehyung smiles awkwardly, feeling his other palm sweating against the cool cardboard of the mango tart wrapping. “No, I don’t usually go by Third floor, no.” He hates how unsure he sounds, but he reaches out and shakes the other’s hand anyway.
“Gosh, look at your face.” Jungkook giggles softly, tugging on his sleeve. “Dad jokes are kinda Jin hyung’s whole personality.“
Jungkook is leaning into his space when he’s talking, and he’s so fucking close, so close that Taehyung can see his sweater having tiny burn holes near the cuff.
Fucking weird.
“I am funny.” Seokjin runs his hand through his ridiculously perfect hair and leans closer to him. “But, you are handsome.”
“Okay, darling, I think you’ve scared our new friend enough.” Namjoon chuckles in his gentle voice and places his hands on Seokjin’s waist, like they end up there often. Then he faces him once again. “What do you have there?” Namjoon asks, pointing his head toward the box Taehyung’s holding.
“Ah, this-” Taehyung shifts the box carefully, offering it toward Jungkook. “Your mango tart from yesterday? You forgot to get it.”
Taehyung’s lips break into a lopsided smile when a loud gasp makes its way out of Jungkook's full lips; his whole face lightens, so goddamn pretty, it makes Taehyung want to give in right there and then, and goes in for a kiss.
“You — brought it for me?”
Taehyung feels his palms warming up, he gazes toward the other two listening in the conversation before looking up at Jungkook's face again. He shakes his head. “It’s not a big deal, I didn't even know mango tarts are a thing-” he adds awkwardly, followed by a breathy laugh that comes out thin.
“Anything can be a tart. Just gotta have a little imagination, y’know?“Jungkook hums, looking genuinely happy, eyes sparkling with a sort of earnest wonder.
“That's — objectively false.” One of Jungkook’s friends disagrees, but Taehyung doesn’t catch which, being way too enchanted by the glow on Jungkook's face to pay attention.
Jungkook sends a knowing look in their direction before facing Taehyung again. “I’m gonna put this in the fridge. I'll be right back. You're safe with my hyungs.”
Taehyung nods, heartbeat loud in his ears — painfully aware that he is now alone with the people who inhabit Jungkook’s orbit, the people who get to see him every day, the people who already know the sound of Jungkook’s laugh without having to memorize it.
“So,” Namjoon says, once Jungkook disappears into the kitchen, “Nice apartment, don’t you think?”
The question draws Taehyung back from wherever his attention had drifted — from the place Jungkook had occupied moments earlier, from the warmth still lingering on his arm. He nods in Namjoon’s direction.
“Yes,” he agrees, looking around. “Jungkook has definitely poured a great deal of personality into it.” He adds, gazing away from the strange lamp placed right behind Namajoon.
Seokjin smiles at that, lifting his glass. The liquid inside is cloudy, unfamiliar, but Taehyung can sense the sweetness all the way. “He’s an artist after all,” he says. “That’s what artists do.”
Taehyung nods, not knowing what else to add, so he tosses a smile in the other’s direction. This is exactly why he doesn't bother showing up to an ordeal like this one, filled with strangers carrying forgettable presences, and Taehyung being absolutely shitty at making himself fit in whatever this is.
“So, you live next door?” Namjoon finally asks, breaking the silence.
“No,” Taehyung answers. He pauses momentarily when Seokjin presses a drink into his hand. “The block across from this one, third floor.”
“Yeah?” Namjoon continues, sounding genuinely interested. “Is it nice?”
Taehyung considers the question longer than necessary. “Sure, it’s comfortable for a complex building like this,” he says at last. “It’s okay for what it is, but my place is definitely not as—” His gaze falls on the dried flowers again. “As sophisticated as this one.”
“A couple of weeks back, Jungkook didn’t care much for this building, either.” Seokjin remarks. “He talked about leaving right after he moved in.”
”Did he?” Taehyung takes a sip from his drink.
“Yeah, something must’ve changed his mind, I guess.” Namjoon smiles knowingly; his dimples only add to his charm.
Taehyung nods his head in acknowledgment, his chest tingling with the thought of the possibilities.
A brief silence settles, Taehyung listens to the song playing in the background, realizing that he doesn’t recognize the track or the artist.
“Jungkook said that you’re an architect?” Namjoon fixes his glasses; his fingers are covered in tattoos, just like Jungkook’s.
“Yeah, almost there,” Taehyung replies. “It’s my last year.”
“So you’re sorta an artist,” Seokjin says lightly. “With an eye for beauty and all that.”
“Sure, add on a lot of deadlines to that.” Taehyung lets out a short laugh. It comes out drier than he expected. “But true — I do enjoy the artistic aspect of what I do.
Seokjin watches him for a moment, with the kind of attention that makes Taehyung feel faintly transparent.
“So,” Seokjin says at last, eyes lightening up, “Do you find Jungkook beautiful?”
Taehyung’s brain stutters. He lowers his drink slowly. “Pardon?”
“Jungkook,” Seokjin repeats, grinning sharply. “You think he’s hot?”
“Ah.“ Taehyung gulps slowly. “I mean, sure, he’s alright.”
“Why don’t you ask him out then?”
“Jin-“ Namjoon laughs softly, resting a hand on Seokjin’s shoulder. “Spare the guy.”
“Fine, fine.” Jin laughs, raising his hands in mock defeat. He then bends across the massive table in between to lower his voice. “Although Jungkook is not the type to be tied down, he never sticks around in one place, you know? Kindled soul and all.”
“Right—” Taehyung nods, his fingers tightening around the glass before he repeats it, as if testing the weight of the words. “Kindled soul and all.”
“They scared you off yet?”
Jungkook’s voice comes like a rush of sugar up and down his spine, injected straight into his veins. Taehyung moves his head in its direction without thinking, taking in his sight, standing with his pretty smile on, balancing a tray of — are those blueberry muffins?
“Blueberry muffins.” Jungkook chirps excitedly, setting the tray down on the table and nudging aside a couple of abandoned cups. “My favorite”
The other two grab one right away, Taehyung skims over the muffins instead, uneven and heavenly, they look homemade.
“You baked?”
“Don’t sound so offended,” Jungkook laughs softly.
“It’s just unexpected, is all.” Taehyung inhales, and the sweetness hits him too sharply, the butter, the fruit, and the heat all at once. It makes him feel unsteady. “Alcohol and baked goods feel like a bad combination.”
“They taste good though, did you put pot in these?” Seokjin asks, already chewing. Namjoon nods along, as if the matter has already been settled.
“Maybe?” Jungkook grins before facing Taehyung again. “C’mon.” He points his head to the tray. “Try one.”
“I’m pretty sure these are gonna fuck up my stomach.” Taehyung chuckles, shaking his head no. “I’m gonna pass.”
Jungkook leans in instead of listening. He braces one hand on the table and takes a muffin with the other, the movement languid enough that Taehyung becomes aware of it way too late. The warmth reaches him first, the sweet taste of cocoa brushing his lips. Then, Jungkook’s knuckles rise to his chin, steadying him there, holding him in place without pressure.
For a brief, broken moment, nothing else seems to exist. The room blurs at the edges, and Jungkook becomes the center of the universe. His big eyes stay on him, open and gorgeous. Taehyung feels the detrimental pull of being this close to someone who has already troubled him beyond reason.
“Don’t be a pussy.”
Taehyung’s eyes follow the movement of Jungkook’s mouth as it calls him a ‘pussy’, the dance of it around the word. His lids stutter in sweetened defeat.
He gives in and takes a small bite.
The taste spreads slowly, sweet and soft, and Jungkook watches him like he’s watching something grand happen. His hand doesn’t move. The pressure at Taehyung’s chin stays constant, grounding and undoing in equal measure.
“Good?” Jungkook murmurs, eyes unblinking,
“Ye-”
Taehyung is about to answer when someone crashes into him from behind. The impact is strong enough to jolt him forward, causing his drink to spill down his chest, soaking through the fabric and snapping him back into the room, back to the reality that is not his lips smashed against Jungkook’s.
“Fuck.” Taehyung curses as he gazes down to assess the damage.
“Oh my god.” Jungkook reacts before anyone else does, and in a blink, he's there, hands hovering uselessly for a second before they land, palms pressing lightly at Taehyung’s shoulders as he looks him over. The front of his shirt is drenched, darkened with the spill.
“Fuck, sorry, man,” someone says behind him. Taehyung only nods dismissively, too busy whipping his shirt with a random tissue he found in the pocket of his jeans.
Jungkook’s attention stays fixed, brows drawn together, mouth turned down in a way that feels strangely intimate, like he’s about to make this into a bigger deal than what it actually is.
“You’re drenched,” he says, stating the obvious like it’s a problem he needs to solve immediately. “That’s — no. Come on, I’ll give you a shirt.”
“It’s fine,” Taehyung argues immediately, already tugging uselessly at the fabric. The shirt sticks to him anyway, heavy and uncomfortable. “It’s just a wet patch, it’ll dry.”
“It’s the middle of winter, Taehyung,” Jungkook says, glancing down again, then back up, eyes sharp with concern. “You're wet, and it’s freezing.”
“I live like — five minutes from here, remember?” Taehyung adds quickly, because he can sense the direction this is going. His chest tightens. “I can just go change. It’s really not a big deal.”
“I’ve got shirts, y’know?” Jungkook cuts in, already halfway to a decision as he tugs on Taehyung’s sleeve. “I'm not gonna let you walk home like that, not when it’s snowing.”
Taehyung hesitates. The thought of his bedroom lands fully now, unavoidable. His feet in that room, that has never been just a room, not really — but a place Taehyung has already known in the most unpermitted way. The memory of the weak light seen from his own window, the slow movement of Jungkook’s body inside it, and the gorgeous sight of his bare body.
Taehyung feels the cold of his drenched shirt seeping fast against his skin.
Well, fuck.
“Alright,” Taehyung exhales. “Just a shirt.”
Jungkook’s smile is immediate — a brief, bright thing that passes across his face before he turns. “Okay. Come on.”
Taehyung sends a nod in Seokjin’s and Namjoon’s direction to be polite before following Jungkook, feeling quite bare under their gaze, strangely knowing.
The air feels different when he steps into Jungkook’s bedroom, stickier, hotter against the surface of his lungs.
It’s quieter too, insulated from the party by a closed door and a thin wall, the noise is reduced to a distant thrum when Jungkook closes the door behind them.
“I knew it was going to be packed,” Jungkook says, half to himself, now rifling through hangers in his closet. “I told myself not to invite that many people, and then I did anyway.”
“It’s really fine,” Taehyung assures, taking another step. The light is on — it always is, a soft mango glow that settles into the corners. For a moment, the sense of déjà vu is overwhelming; it makes his chest tighten.
“It always happens,” Jungkook continues, tugging out a shirt, then pushing it back. “I think I underestimate how many people will actually show up.”
Taehyung watches him from where he stands, the way Jungkook leans into the closet so casually, his shirt riding up to reveal the dimples at the bottom of his spine, it feels oddly intrusive and achingly close at the same time.
Taehyung licks his lips wet and looks away. “Do you throw a lot of parties?”
“You could say so.” Jungkook turns his head briefly. “What is ‘a lot’?”
“One would be a lot for me,” Taehyung answers with a playful smile on, trying to sound as casual as possible given the circumstances.
Jungkook only hums in acknowledgment before finally chirping. “Here,”
He finds what he’s looking for at last, a simple black t-shirt, soft from wear. Jungkook turns and holds it up like an offering. “This should fit,” he adds, eyes running over Taehyung’s form.
“Yeah, thanks.” Taehyung reaches for it, fingers brushing the fabric. It’s warm, faintly scented with detergent, and quite soft to the touch.
“So, one party is ‘a lot’ to Mr. architect, huh?” Jungkook smirks, a hand resting on his hip. “Where do you go to get laid then, Taehyung?”
Taehyung stiffens at the sudden question. Getting asked strange or inappropriate questions has been a recurring theme every time he's been in Jungkook's presence, but it never gets easier.
“I get by.” He lies, and Jungkook keeps staring at him with an almost smug smile on his face, as if he knows.
“Bet you do.”
Taehyung doesn’t answer, fingers still curled around the shirt, wondering if he can survive this, being this close to the center of Jungkook’s orbit. He stands nearby, a quiet gravity. When Jungkook’s gaze lowers, it does so absentmindedly, and Taehyung feels the attention bloom across his body with a belated, almost shameful warmth.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Jungkook hums lightly. He passes a look over Taehyung’s damp shirt, the darkened fabric clinging in places it shouldn’t. “Take off your shirt. Change before you get sick.”
“Yeah, I should-” Taehyung’s hands come to rest at the hem of his shirt, hesitating there for a second. The cotton is still damp where the spill, and when he begins to lift it, the realization is almost surreal — the slow release of warmth, the brush of air along his abdomen and up to his ribs, the quiet grasp of himself being uncovered before Jungkook’s eyes and in a room that belongs to him.
Taehyung finally pulls it off his head and lets it fall behind him.
Jungkook does not pretend not to look. His glance settles openly now, following the line of Taehyung’s shoulders and the pattern of muscles beneath skin as if committing it all to memory.
Taehyung moves the new shirt toward his head, pausing momentarily when His eyes drift and find a small stack of blueberry boxes set beside the bed.
“Are those blueberries?” he asks, the question slipping out more judgmentally than he intended.
Jungkook hums, head moving to follow the line of Taehyung’s gaze. “Oh, yeah.”
“Why do you keep those in here?”
“Because they're pretty?” Jungkook smiles, crossing his arms against his chest. “Because I like their scent.”
“In your bedroom?” Taehyung asks, disbelief threading his voice. “They don’t even have a scent.”
“They do,” Jungkook argues, still smiling when He steps closer, the distance between them closing so gently that Taehyung only realizes that he’s still shirtless when Jungkook is already there, standing right before him, a couple of inches away.
“You just have to pay attention.”
Taehyung lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he reaches for the shirt again. His fingers are less steady now. Jungkook is too fucking close.
“That’s not how scents work.”
He tries to argue as he lifts the shirt over his head, but then Jungkook places a hand on his chest, right upon his left pec. The touch comes without ceremony — his tattooed fingers spread and brush lightly at first, exploratory. The contact sends a cutting, almost painful awareness through him, a bright magnetic thing — Taehyung’s mouth falls agape for a moment, eyes transfixed on Jungkook’s long tattooed fingers, on his torso, pale in contrast to his skin.
“You’re so lovely, so strong,” Jungkook adds, head tilting to the side as he caresses, smiling faintly because he feels the goosebumps over the skin. “I’d love to tattoo something on you one day.”
He withdraws his hand before Taehyung can respond, turning away swiftly. Jungkook moves to the bed and sits, familiar with the space, reaching for one of the blueberry boxes like nothing has happened.
Taehyung stands frozen for a beat. He has to raise his hand and touch where Jungkook's hand was a minute ago to make sure all of that actually happened.
“You, um-” He finally says, unable to stand the silence anymore. “You’re a tattoo artist too?”
Taehyung settles beside him on the bed to finish changing, not sure if his knees are going to give out. The black shirt slides over his head, catches briefly at his shoulders, then settles against his skin.
“Uh-huh,” Jungkook answers, voice airy like a breeze. He picks a blueberry and brings it to his mouth, biting down slowly, watching Taehyung as he does. The dark fruit stains his lips just slightly, a detail that draws Taehyung’s gaze, and he lets it happen helplessly.
Then, Jungkook smiles. “Do you want?” he asks.
“A blueberry?”
“Sure. A blueberry.”
Taehyung is about to answer, but his breath gets caught somewhere behind his ribs, and the words never come because Jungkook is so achingly close, close enough that he can sense his sweet scent, see the pink of his lips under the blueberry stain, watch the faint glitter over his eyelids shimmer under the dim light that illuminates half of his face.
If he wants a blueberry, Jungkook asked, Taehyung needs it to mean something — Something grand.
“Yeah.” He breathes out, his voice already deeper. “I want it.”
Jungkook smiles.
He reaches down once again, fingers dipping into the open box, lifting a blueberry between them. For a moment, he holds it there, suspended in the air, in the narrow space between their bodies, close enough that Taehyung can smell it now — its ripe sweet scent, mingling with the warmth of their breathing in the lived-in air of the room.
“Open,” Jungkook says quietly, his eyes glint brightly when Taehyung obeys.
He presses the blueberry past his lips, cool against the heat there, firm before it touches his tongue. Jungkook’s fingers follow just enough to guide it in, his fingertips touch the tip of his tongue before they withdraw, brushing the corner of Taehyung’s mouth, leaving behind the taste — juice blooming slowly, staining his tongue blue, and the fleeting taste of Jungkook’s skin.
Taehyung swallows.
He doesn’t have time to say anything else.
Jungkook leans forward, the bed shifting beneath his weight, his proximity closing in a way that feels inevitable now, like a thought finally reaching the end of itself, a fucking gold rush.
Taehyung’s eyes fall shut, and he feels it before it's there — Jungkook kisses him.
It is unhurried, expected in the most excitable, anticipating way, like every decision Taehyung has ever made was to lead him to this moment, sitting on Jungkook’s small bed, in a shitty apartment across from his, wearing another’s shirt, lips pressed to Jungkook’s.
Taehyung hums into the kiss and leans closer. The sweetness of the blueberry is still there, and Jungkook seems to taste it without surprise, pressing closer until Taehyung feels the heat of him fully, chest to chest, breath slipping out of him in a way he hadn’t meant to allow.
Taehyung’s hand comes up without thought, fingers settling at the narrow curve of Jungkook’s waist, grounding himself in the reality of it — the heat, the weight, the impossible fact of being here, with Jungkook’s tongue licking into his mouth so shamelessly.
“Mm, good kisser.” Jungkook comments with a soft playfulness in his voice. “You’re full of surprises, Taehyung, aren't you?”
Taehyung huffs out a snort before pulling Jungkook back in. He’s still beaming when Taehyung kisses him again, this time his hunger more apparent. Jungkook seems to like it; he moans softly into his mouth when he brushes the underside of his tongue with his own.
Jungkook’s hands rise slowly, his palms cup Taehyung’s face, warm and soft, thumbs brushing lightly along his jaw as he tilts his head. His lips never leave his mouth, but Taehyung feels them everywhere — tingling, setting on a current that moves up and down his body.
He finally breaks the kiss to give them a moment to breathe. Their foreheads push together, and Jungkook keeps brushing his thumbs over his cheeks, palms still resting on Taehyung’s face.
“Jesus.” Taehyung huffs out a short laugh, opening his eyes to find Jungkook’s already open. This close, they’re even bigger, shinier,
Jungkook doesn’t say anything. His hands slide down to hold Taehyung’s wrists, which are resting on his waist. He guides them upward, slipping them beneath the hem of his shirt until the fabric lifts, the skin is revealed inch by inch, and Taehyung’s fingers meet every inch, the hard of his hip bone, and the feel of the fine hair at Jungkook’s sides raising faintly beneath his touch.
Taehyung’s breath stutters. His gaze drops. There, just above the line of his jeans, there’s the tiger lily tattoo — orange and vivid against his skin, petals flared open and bright orange. It looks almost fresh, the color deep and warm. Except, Taehyung knows that it's not, that it’s at least a couple of weeks old.
“Do you like it?” Jungkook whispers, eyes on Taehyung’s face. “I did it myself.”
Taehyung nods, licking his lower lip. His mouth is still wet, his lips swollen from the kiss. “Yeah, I like it.”
Jungkook watches him for a beat longer than necessary, and when Taehyung looks up, he smiles.
Something shifts. It’s subtle — a darkening in his chocolate-glazed eyes, a knowing, playful thing in a way that feels lethal. Taehyung picks up on that.
“Did you like it,” he asks gently, his smile widening until the white of his teeth shows. “The first time you saw it?”
Taehyung blinks, eyes furrowing in confusion. “The first time?” The word comes out rough; his mouth is still wet from the kiss, and it makes his thoughts slow to catch up.
“Huh.” Jungkook’s smirk lingers; he blinks slowly and tilts his head to the side. He takes Taehyung’s hand again, squeezing once, almost affectionate.
“Come here,” he says. “Let me show you something.”
He rises from the bed, already turning toward the window, the room shifting with him — like everything is somehow rearranging.
Taehyung follows.
Jungkook keeps a hold of his hand as he moves, gentle but unyielding, guiding Taehyung toward the window with a familiarity that makes his stomach twist. The room seems to move itself around them — the bed falling away, the light thinning, and the party behind the door disappearing — until there is only the glass ahead and the cool air pressed close against it.
Jungkook steps in behind him. The proximity is immediate. Taehyung feels his lips floating somewhere close to his ear, the warmth of his body at his back, the ghost of Jungkook’s breath on the side of his neck.
“Look,” Jungkook says simply, breathing it into his ear. “Tell me what you see.”
Across the narrow distance between buildings, his own room sits fully exposed. The window frames it clearly, illuminated by the city glow and the small bedside lamp he has left on, the same exact one he had on that night — the same lamp, angled toward the wall, casting a soft light across the bed. The sheets are visible from here. The chair with clothes draped over it. The familiar geometry of the space he knows by heart.
It is unmistakable, as bare as his sin is now.
“Jungkook.” He breathes out helplessly, not knowing what will follow.
“Tell me.” This time, he sounds more demanding, less patient. “What do you see?”
“My room, I see my bedroom,” Taehyung answers quietly as the sight lands with a physical force, his chest tightening, breath turning shallow as the realization rushes in. He remembers the angle he sat in, the exact spot, and he’s looking at it now.
What the fuck, what the actual fuck.
“Did you think,” Jungkook asks, a mocking tone in his voice, quiet and even, “That you were the only one who could see?”
Taehyung’s mouth opens, but His throat locks around the words.
“You sat right there,” Jungkook continues, pressing his words into his ear. “I could see the lamp.” He drags his words, injecting them right into Taehyung’s circulation. “Could see the unmade bed, the sheets, the shape of your fist around your hard cock.”
Jungkook drags his hand over him, touching his way down until it settles on the small of his back.
“Did you like the show?” Jungkook purrs. “Did you enjoy jerking it off like a little bitch to the sight of my cunt? Did you think about my voice? about the night we met in the laundry room?”
Taehyung’s hands curl into fists, his pulse hammering against his chest. It’s pathetic — that in the most shameful moment of his entire fucking life, his cock’s getting hard because Jungkook has his body flushed against his and his lips on his ear.
Jungkook clicks his tongue. “Good, harmless, Mr. architect, who would’ve thought he’s a filthy little pervert?”
Taehyung gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing rather violently as he does so. The dim light of the room feels blinding all of a sudden, the sensation of his clothes on his skin, Jungkook’s lips hovering close, all feel lethally overwhelming, like he might pass out.
“Jungkook.” He finally turns, facing the other. There’s sweat running down his forehead; he sees Jungkook’s eyes following the trail of a droplet falling off his face.
“Are you going to faint?” Jungkook sounds amused. He casually reaches to brush a strand of damp hair off Taehyung's forehead, like all of this is an amusing game for him rather than an offensive catch.
He is. The moment doesn’t feel dreamy anymore; it’s violent and pressing on all the sore spots.
The moment feels fragile, and soon, it fractures at the sound of someone knocking on the door.
It’s careful at first, then firmer, followed by the sound of Namjoon’s voice on the other side of the door, lowered as if he already senses he’s intruding. Jungkook turns his head slightly, irritation flickering across his face before smoothing out again.
“Yeah?”
The door opens slowly. Namjoon’s gaze moves quickly when he steps in, instinctively, taking in the room in a single sweep — the lamp still on and Taehyung is standing too close to Jungkook for comfort, a different shirt, and messy hair. Namjoon’s eyes linger for a second longer on Jungkook himself, on the flush along his cheekbones, the shine at his mouth, lips swollen in a way that doesn’t require explanation.
Something unspoken passes through Namjoon’s expression.“Fuck, Sorry to interrupt,” he says quietly, already half turned away, already giving them privacy he knows has come too late. “We need you for a minute. Someone kinda threw up your table?”
“My gaming table?”
“Your gaming table.”
“Shit.” Jungkook huffs out, ruffling his own hair, but his frustration seems shallow, rather fleeting.
Jungkook nods once and steps away from him. Before he leaves, he looks back at Taehyung, the hint of a smile on his mouth. “Stay, will you? Don’t be a pussy.” Jungkook says lightly before following Namjoon out.
Taehyung stands there, the air suddenly too heavy to breathe properly, his heartbeat remains loud and erratic in his ears. The lamplight feels merciless now, casting its warm circle over everything he wishes he could erase. He drags in a breath that catches halfway, then another, his hands braced against the bed as the floor seems to tilt beneath him.
How the fuck is this possible?
The memory of it all presses in at once — the window, the words, the certainty in Jungkook’s voice, panic blooms in his chest.
He can’t stay.
Taehyung grabs his jacket with shaking hands and slips out of the room, moving quickly through the bodies packed in the apartment without lifting his head, and rushes out of the apartment without looking back. Turns out, he is, indeed, a pussy.
Later that night, Taehyung yanks his curtains closed, probably permanently. He sits behind his desk, lights a cigarette, and hopes the taste of Jungkook’s lips and the blueprint of blueberries on the tip of his tongue is gone by tomorrow.