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Taehyung’s still high off the hype of an especially good concert, the fanchants seeming to rise on his name, the signs with his name on them seeming to have doubled. He can still hear the fans screaming even from backstage, amongst the disorganized rigging and unpainted walls which are really what being an idol looks like, the staff rushing around carrying mics and props and ordering the rest of the members around. But for once, the discrepancy between what the fans see and what BTS sees doesn’t irk Taehyung. He practically skips down the hall to the changing room. He even has a smile reserved for the cranky ahjumma who always yells at him for being messy as he bounces by. She eyes him suspiciously.
Jimin appears out of nowhere, roping an arm around his neck. “Great concert, huh?” he says, grinning. He’s sweaty and his bangs are matted to his forehead, and, to be honest, he kind of stinks, but Taehyung doesn’t mind at all. He grins back and leans his forehead briefly against Jimin’s, then breaks away as the stylist noonas make a beeline for his friend, fussing about how his makeup isn’t off yet and if he leaves it on he’ll get pimples.
Jimin. Bright, happy Jimin. Always dependable on for affection when Taehyung most needs it, or when he doesn’t need it at all.
He heads to the room BTS uses for makeup and changing into their outfits, where he sits down on a chair and lets the makeup noonas fuss over him. They really caked on the makeup this time because it’s the height of summer and they knew the sweat would wash it away, so it takes them all longer to get the makeup off, but Taehyung’s still the last in the room because he was the last to arrive.
The other members file gradually out of the room, chatting and bickering amiably the way only BTS can. Taehyung feels tired, so he sits in the chair and stares at himself in the mirror even after the stylist noonas have all packed up and left, pleasantly drained the way he only is after concerts.
He doesn’t really look different with and without makeup on. Some of the other members have makeup issues—Jimin and Jungkook look different when it’s on and when it’s off, and Yoongi was criticized publicly by B-Free for wearing makeup “like a girl”—but Taehyung’s never really been preoccupied with it. When he’s wearing it he’s wearing it, and when he’s not he’s not. That’s it.
Eventually, he gets up and heads for the dressing room cubicle. He hasn’t changed out of his stage clothes yet, and he feels icky and gross. There’s only so much you can do which can substitute an actual shower.
The dressing room cubicle is a tiny, portable structure the staff bring around in the van for them to change into their outfits, the walls and door made of rickety, white-painted wood, with just enough space for them to wriggle into a sweater and hang two items of clothing on drooping hooks. It doesn’t consist of a ceiling, and they only have one.
It’s ridiculous, Taehyung knows it is. They live in a house with seven bedrooms and four bathrooms and they won Best Album of the Year and the Daesang award at the Melon Awards, but they only have one miserable cubicle to change in which is only as large as an airplane lavatory.
Taehyung’s in a good mood, though, so it doesn’t really annoy him now. Just as he stops outside the doorway, he hears a tortured gasp, then a small moan. He halts as something akin to a muffled sob comes from inside the cubicle.
Oh, damn, he thinks, sympathy radar running high but energy reserves running low. Taehyung imagines himself as a pesticide-spraying aircraft flying over fields sometimes, only the pesticide is replaced by happiness and the fields are replaced by BTS. Is someone having a crisis in there right now?
He knocks on the door. The structure rattles, and the soft, snuffling sounds stop immediately. “Hello?” Taehyung asks tentatively. “Is everything okay in there?”
He waits. No reply.
“Do you want me to come in?” Taehyung asks again. He’s never understood people who say they want to be alone when they’re depressed, perhaps callously, but it’s the way his mind works. In his opinion, everything can always be made better by human contact and communication.
The cubicle door stays closed. Undiluted silence emanates from inside, the sound of someone very, very carefully keeping quiet.
“I’m coming in,” Taehyung says, advancing cautiously, his overwhelming sense of goodwill and concern for every single thing in the world overriding common sense. “I need to make sure you’re okay.”
He opens the door. Immediately, he’s obstructed by a warm body which already takes up most of the cubicle, but, thankfully for him, flesh is soft and yielding, and he manages to push the person up against the wall of the cubicle before shutting the door and locking it, because he understands that if someone’s sad, they don’t want everyone to see it.
He senses a slight misalignment with this understanding and his determination to come in and talk to this person. But he doesn’t think about things like this.
The person blinks wide, surprised eyes at him. Taehyung finds himself staring into Jungkook’s face.
“Oh, Jungkook,” he says, relieved. “It’s you. I thought you were in trouble or—”
Jungkook bites his lip. His cheeks are flushed, and he seems to be trying to shuffle as far away from Taehyung as he can.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Jungkook angles his body away from Taehyung. “I’m okay,” he mumbles to the wall, cheeks burning furiously.
“Why do you look so red? Do you have a fever?” Taehyung tries to put his hand on Jungkook’s body, but he jerks away into the little space he has. “Geez, you’re jumpy.”
“I’m fine, Taehyung, just leave.” He sounds a little defensive now.
Taehyung sighs. “Again with the no hyung.”
“It sounds stupid. Taehyung-hyung.” He sounds more like the maknae Taehyung knows now, defiantly bullying his hyungs.
“Okay, whatever,” Taehyung says, then spins around to deliver one last parting statement. “But please don’t commit suicide, I heard you crying and we love you very much, and it would be a loss to the world because you’re a wonderful person and—”
“I’m not depressed,” he says, sounding angry and aggravated and embarrassed all at once. “I was just…”
Taehyung blinks at him. He looks him up and down, really looks at him, at the high flush on his cheeks and his hands guiltily tucked behind his back and the open zipper of his pants. He squints, and then it finally hits him.
“Oh, Kookie,” he groans, shielding his eyes and turning around, because Jungkook deserves his privacy however good he looks. “You half-hard, hormonal maknae. Could you not control your horniness until we got home?”
“I haven’t cum in a month,” Jungkook grumbles, an ashamed, muttered admission. “And we’ve been so busy there’s never time.”
Taehyung pretends to glare at him, but it’s really so he can rake his eyes up and down Jungkook’s body and commit it to memory. The red staining his cheeks. His undone fly. His slightly parted lips. It’s always worth looking to add to the repository of memories to jerk off to—what Taehyung likes to think of as the spin bank.
“Alright, I’m leaving,” he says, deciding that there’s nothing more to be achieved from staying. “The van leaves soon, so hurry up and finish if you haven’t already.”
“No, wait,” Jungkook says, stumbling as he tries to catch at his arm. The cubicle creaks ominously and he’s forced to move forward, pressing up against Taehyung so the entire structure won’t burst in an explosion of plywood. Taehyung didn’t notice how big he’s gotten until now, when he feels small against his more built frame (damned maknae and his hitting the gym, damn him) and Jungkook’s practically blocking out the light.
He’s thought about it, sure, about how big Jungkook’s bulge looks outlined in his damn sweatpants when he’s just woken up and no one feels like telling him about his own morning wood. Personally, Taehyung doesn’t know how you could be unaware of boners that big, but he supposes that Jungkook is suspended in such a limbo of horny half-awareness all the time that he doesn’t notice the difference.
The members have stopped looking at anywhere below the belt when it comes to Jungkook, too, because they made a silent agreement that if Jungkook has a raging hard-on and a member spots it, that member is bound by oath to tell him painfully and awkwardly, for the sake of Bangtan’s reputation and the ovaries of Jungkook’s fans, so that Jungkook still has time to sneak away and jack it before they go onstage. Sometimes, they try their best not to look, resulting in Jungkook having racked up the highest number of stages performed while hard in his pants out of all of them.
The stylists noonas always know, but they don’t have the heart to tell him. They usually clear their throats, look mildly excited if they’re young and both mildly excited and scandalized if they’re old, and enlist another unfortunate member to tell him to tuck it in his waistband.
He hesitates. “I—I haven’t finished yet,” he says falteringly. Taehyung can feel his breath on his lips, the heat radiating from his cheeks.
“Right, okay,” Taehyung says, avoiding his eyes and the panting puffs of air coming from between his parted lips. “Get to it, then. In the name of urological health and all.”
“Help me,” he whines desperately, tugging on Taehyung’s arm like a bellpull.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Taehyung says adamantly. “We put on shows of skinship for the fans, but that’s it. It doesn’t go deeper than that. And you can’t believe what the fanfics say about us—”
“I don’t,” he says, eyes caught in a half-aroused, utterly dazed look. “They don’t have to be true. Just...just...help me along.”
Taehyung eyes him critically. “Jeon Jungkook, I am not jerking you off in this tiny fucking cubicle while fanfiction is probably being written about us at this very moment.”
“Oh, shut up, you know Jimin gets off on reading them. And it doesn’t have to mean anything.” Jungkook’s pulling Taehyung against his body, close enough that Taehyung can feel his thighs and flat, taut stomach and chest pressed to him. “Just help me finish.”
“Do it yourself! You have hands! God gave you hands! Not for this purpose, probably, but the point is that he did!” Taehyung’s more protesting on automatic now; what he wouldn’t give to have any kind of sexual encounter with the maknae is extremely limited.
“I know you want me,” Jungkook mumbles, the blush on his cheeks burning at a high flame. “I see you looking. I know you make excuses to come into the bathroom when I’m showering so you can peek. I know why you try to cuddle me so often even though I refuse nearly all the time. I know why you always try to convince me to let us shower together because we’re ‘short on time’.”
Embarrassment at being caught out coils in Taehyung’s belly, but he shoves it away. “I do, Jungkook, but it’s probably more curiosity than anything, and that doesn’t mean that I’ll actually help you get off.”
“Oh, goddamn, come on,” Jungkook says desperately. “This doesn’t have to mean anything. You can finish me off and I can forget about it and you can jerk off to it.”
“I don’t jerk off. I’m 22 and I keep my hormones under control.”
“Says the guy who contaminated the laptop with Naruto porn?”
“That was Namjoon!”
“Taetae,” Jungkook says, breathing his name, tongue flicking on the T and panting on the ae. His hands are already wandering all over Taehyung’s body, creeping under his shirt, spreading over his stomach, pressing him into the wall of the cubicle, with his long, lithe, hard yet soft body. “Just give in.”
Taehyung kisses him.
It’s weird. He can’t say that he’s never thought about kissing Jungkook before, thought about a lot more than that to be honest, but he’s always known deep down that he shouldn’t mess around with his feelings like that even if he does feel something because they can never be a public thing existing beyond a ship. But he’s begging him for it now, and with his body all pressed up against Taehyung’s like this, his hands everywhere, everywhere, there’s only so much he can resist. So Jungkook, Jungkook with his thick neck perfect for slinging his arms around, Jungkook with his broad chest perfect for placing his palms on, Jungkook with his soft lips perfect for pressing his mouth to, will just have to take it.
Taehyung’s never been one for predictable storylines. He likes to think that he catches life off guard. And this moment, stuck in a cubicle with the maknae who turned into a man way too fast, where Taehyung would be the reluctant one and Jungkook the pushy one, seems like the least likely moment and most likely moment ever to kiss Jungkook. So he does.
Unfortunately, and unpredictably, much diminishing Taehyung’s faith in the brilliance of life surprising you, Jungkook pushes him away. Which is a pity, because Taehyung’s chest was just beginning to warm from the heat of his body on his.
“This is crazy,” he gasps.
“I’m glad you’ve finally seen sense,” Taehyung says sweetly, and he presses his mouth against Jungkook’s again. He feels the way you do at 3 a.m. in the morning, when the world doesn’t exist beyond your phone screen and the confession you just sent to your crush via Snapchat so you’ll know if they screenshot it. Like anything and everything and nothing is possible. Like the consequences can always be put off until morning.
Jungkook pulls away again. “Stop,” he pleads, his hands caught tighter in Taehyung’s shirt than he could ever hope to disentangle, his body straining towards him and trying to inch closer, make the space between them even less.
“Okay,” Taehyung says, and kisses him again, because nothing makes sense now and nothing he says can add to the nonsense of the world any more, anyway.
He really pulls away this time. “I don’t want this, I don’t want you…” And then he swears and pushes Taehyung back into the wall of the cubicle, a hand fisted in his shirt at his shoulder, his tongue already darting out to lick his lips. Taehyung follows it like a cat with its eyes on a light, the flash of pink against pink. “But, holy shit, I want...I don’t know what I want.”
Jungkook kisses him this time. It’s just unpredictable enough to make Taehyung forget himself and float in the happy thought that life can still surprise him, and pleasantly. He tangles his fingers in Jungkook’s hair and listens to the soft sounds of their lips coming together and coming apart, coming together and coming apart. And the harsher sounds of Jungkook pushing him into the wall when he moves too slow for his liking, the hard clench of his hands on his waist, the bulge Taehyung thinks he sort of understands digging into his stomach.
“I haven’t cum in a month,” Jungkook groans into Taehyung’s ear, reminding him rather unnecessarily, somewhere between the kisses he leaves like a necklace of burns on his neck and the frantic bucking of his hips against Taehyung’s leg.
“Okay,” Taehyung says, eyes closed, head lolling against the wall of the cubicle, wondering whether he’ll remember how Jungkook’s lips feel on his shoulder when this whole dream is over.
“I need a blowjob.” Jungkook’s large hands spread over Taehyung’s lower stomach and push down, and his eyes fly open. He was always a slut for pressure on his stomach. He doesn’t know why, but sometimes even lying on his stomach is enough to give him a hard-on if he’s in the right mood. “Please.”
“Okay.” Jungkook smells nice when he’s this close. Like a stack of fresh towels. Like lying in bed after your alarm has rung, burying your nose in the pillow and trying to forget the demands of an impatient world.
“Does that mean yes or no?” He mouths at Taehyung’s ear, his jaw, teeth scraping over the thin skin under it. Taehyung tips his head to the side and back until Jungkook laps his tongue over it, soft and wet and sinful.
“Oka—yes.” He’s sucking at his skin now. It makes it hard to think. Taehyung never thought about how easily a desperate tongue can wipe away all coherent thought until now, when he...when he didn’t think.
“Get on your knees.” Jungkook’s moved back to his mouth, and he’s licking into it, tongue swiping over the roof of his mouth and the tops of his teeth. He pulls away, and Taehyung chases after him in a half-aroused trance. “Now.”
The order is just enough for him to comprehend. Taehyung sinks down to a kneel, Jungkook’s feet between his knees due to how damn small the cubicle is, the strained crotch of his jeans an inch away from his face. Taehyung’s long fingers dance over the zipper, then the button. Jungkook shudders. Hands tangle in Taehyung’s hair.
Taehyung finally gets the button undone and yanks his jeans down with difficulty past his thick thighs, revealing plain white boxers wet at the front. He knows he should really focus on what they contain, but he can’t resist touching Jungkook’s thighs, palming the fat and muscle and slapping them slightly to watch them jiggle. He rests his cheek against one of them, then kisses it, biting down just to see the skin redden. He hears Jungkook gasp.
The hand in his hair tugs his head back harshly to Jungkook’s crotch, his nose colliding with the clear outline of Jungkook’s cock. More out of instinct than anything, Taehyung attaches his mouth to it, sucking and licking through the boxers, coaxing a fair amount of wetness to soak into the front of them. He looks up. Jungkook’s head is thumping slowly into the wall of the cubicle as his eyes fall shut, and his abs tense and relax rhythmically. Taehyung’s never done this before, but judging by the guilty, pleased flush on Jungkook’s cheeks, he’s doing it right.
He’s always been someone who finds it hard to say no.
He yanks the boxers down, the waistband eventually winning the fight against Jungkook’s thighs and dropping to his ankles. He rubs his thumbs over the V of Jungkook’s hipbones, the curve of his hips. He wants to savor this moment, this body. He might never get to experience it again.
The hand in his hair pulls hard again, and Taehyung’s parted lips drag along Jungkook’s flushed cock. He hears a half-suppressed moan above him. Deciding he’s had enough time to admire, he tilts his head and takes the head in, marvelling at how warm it feels on his tongue, how it dribbles tanginess from the slit every time he sucks on it.
He thinks he can take more. He fists the base and pushes his head forward, letting more of it slide into his mouth along his tongue. He’s surprised when the back of it hits his throat and there’s still about a third he can’t take in and has to compensate by stroking instead. Porn stars make it look so easy.
He can feel the vein, throbbing hot and fast against the flat of his tongue, and he can feel precum dripping in a steady trickle down the back of his throat from the head of Jungkook’s cock. He swallows around it, not too keen on choking on the maknae’s precum (how would that look on his autopsy report?) and Jungkook makes a beautiful sound above him, a whimper and a sob and everything in between.
Taehyung bobs his head.
He doesn’t know how long it takes. All he knows is that Jungkook’s hips buck harder and harder, and his moans get filthier and filthier, and his cock slides in deeper and deeper, and before long Taehyung is hardly moving at all and it’s just Jungkook holding his head steady with a hand tight in his hair while his hips fuck into Taehyung’s mouth. Taehyung keeps his eyes open, watches the various expressions of ecstasy chase each other across Jungkook’s face like a movie. He likes it, he realizes. He likes feeling used, Jungkook’s hand yanking on his hair and Jungkook’s hips forcing his cock down his throat.
Taehyung can tell when Jungkook’s close. His eyes screw tightly shut and his mouth opens wide as he grasps for his release with trembling fingers.
It’s time for Taehyung to do the work. He pulls off and licks up and down Jungkook’s warm, heavy cock, sucks the head, licks the precum out of the slit. And then Jungkook gives a shout and without warning, there’s cum spurting across his face, in his lashes and on his lips. Taehyung closes his eyes automatically and lets Jungkook shove his cock into his mouth again, lets him roll his hips deeply and slowly into his bruised throat to milk the most out of his orgasm. He does his best to swallow until Jungkook is half-whining at the oversensitivity and pulls out.
He tips his head against the wall of the cubicle, chest heaving. Taehyung watches his sweat-slicked Adam’s apple move up hungrily as his throat works.
“Oh,” he mumbles to himself. “Oh, fuck.”
He pulls Taehyung up. Taehyung lets him crush their mouths together, teeth clicking together, tongues wrapping around each other.
Hi,” Taehyung says into the secret space between their mouths when Jungkook pulls away to draw breath. And because he’s the world’s biggest, brightest cliché gone supernova, he says next, “Have we met?”
“Cliché,” Jungkook mutters accusingly, just like Taehyung knew he would.
Jungkook moves for his mouth again, and they kiss some more, swaying slightly with Jungkook’s hands on his hips pulling them flush against each other so there’s no space left between their bodies. Taehyung lives for the bare skin of their bellies pressed against each other where their shirts have ridden up, for the calm urgency of their hips beginning to grind against each other again. He lives for the quiet moments after, for the kissing and the touching and the secret language of two mouths moving against each other.
“I’m not gay,” Jungkook says, the next confession to be breathed into the air between them composed entirely of their mingled breaths.
“Sure,” Taehyung says.
They look at each other for a while.
“Meet me in my room tonight,” Jungkook says. “You can sleep in my bed.”
And he walks away, pushing the door of the cubicle open and leaving Taehyung behind. Taehyung is thankful for the warmth which remains spread in his chest.
~
His stomach is boiling with the tight anticipation usually reserved for opening up Pornhub on his laptop when he pushes the door of Jungkook’s room open. It’s the only room with light still seeping from the crack at the bottom of the door. Everyone else is asleep, minds lost in dreams, but Taehyung is lost in a dream of his own.
Jungkook is sitting up on bed, body not quite turned towards the door. He still has his ring earrings in, which is strange, because he doesn’t usually wear his piercings in the dorm. Instead of his usual baggy white shirt, he wears a black V-neck with a stretched collar that shows off more of his collarbones than should be legal. Taehyung recognizes it as the shirt he wore in the Christmas version of Run.
It’s a pity that the stylist noonas took the leather pants back. Taehyung’s had a fun few 2 a.m. mornings spent with his fingers up his ass and thoughts of Jungkook’s thighs jiggling in those pants riveted in his head.
He doesn’t think that he likes Jungkook, per se. He just has a thing for his body.
He’s pretty sure they have a tacit agreement. Jungkook lets him glimpse the silhouette of his body through the shower door or walks around the dorm in a tiny pair of boxers every once in awhile, and Taehyung is sated with enough visions to add to his repository of mental images to jerk off to.
Taehyung isn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this. He isn’t sure what to do. So he closes the door carefully, locks it as an afterthought, and walks towards the bed, sitting down across from Jungkook.
Jungkook looks at him, bunny teeth just visible between his parted lips. God, Taehyung wants him so badly that he can feel the ache in his gut.
Jungkook shuffles closer, actually gets up on Taehyung’s lap, spreading his legs so he can wrap his thighs around his waist and cup his face with his large hands which have Taehyung melting into mush. “Hey,” he says.
Taehyung kisses him, hard. The gentle hands on his face turn into insistent pressure on his abdomen (damn Jungkook and his ability to root out his deepest kinks like a pig looking for truffles) and the soft, parted lips on Jungkook’s mouth turn into teeth yanking at his ring earrings, just the way Taehyung’s always wanted to. He dips his tongue through them, running it over the cold, cold metal, and wonders whether Jungkook feels the same about him.
They fuck. Jungkook doesn’t have lube, and Taehyung doesn’t feel up to going back to his own room to get his, and anyway, Taehyung doesn’t think he’d really know what to do with it even if he had it, so Jungkook eats him out a little uncertainly, hands spreading him apart and mouth working at his ass. Taehyung didn’t think he’d be able to cum just from a tongue up his ass, but he manages anyway, cock spurting streaks of white over the sheets and hips bucking convulsively back onto Jungkook’s mouth until he’s utterly spent and exhausted.
He still finds it in himself to do a 69 with Jungkook, though. They both know just enough about how to go about it to make it work, and when Taehyung cums with his mouth and throat stuffed full of Jungkook’s cock, legs shaking from the mind-blowing pleasure, he thinks that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be in the world.
Taehyung doesn’t want to stagger back to his room after, so he curls up with Jungkook’s chest pressed to his back, radiating a comforting, drowsy warmth, as close together as possible to avoid falling off the edge of the bed. Jungkook’s arms are wrapped around his waist, hands resting on his belly, and his leg is slung over his hip. Taehyung’s hands are curled into fists in his chest like something precious. They fall asleep tangled together, legs in between legs and backs against chests, and when they wake up, they go to breakfast without saying a word about it.
Jungkook manages to convince a friend to buy them lube—it would be disastrous, as an easily recognizable idol, to do something like that himself. The friend delivers it to the dorm wrapped in a parcel, mask pulled up to hide his face, and Jungkook waits at the door to receive it, shuttling it back to his bedroom at top speed as if it’s a time-sensitive bomb.
Jungkook presents it to Taehyung later, eyes bright and proud as if to say See, I do know some things. Taehyung looks into his earnest face and laughs, tugging at his earrings with teeth gentle as summer breezes.
Jungkook is bigger than Taehyung, less open to new experiences, and has never even contemplated fingering himself whereas Taehyung likes to think he’s bypassed that stage, so Taehyung bottoms and Jungkook tops.
Jungkook moves on top of him, hips between his legs, mouth kissing Taehyung deep and hard. Taehyung likes the weight of his body pressing him into the mattress more than he’d like to admit. He’s not sure where to put his hands, so he rests them on Jungkook’s back, cupping his shoulder blades, losing himself in the sweet love of lips and teeth and tongue.
They’re both clean, so they don’t use condoms. Jungkook clicks the lube open and immediately spills a fair amount on the bed.
“Kook,” Taehyung chastises, exasperated.
“This stuff just squirts out when you squeeze the tube, even by accident,” Jungkook mutters, face reddened with embarrassment. “I wasn’t prepared.”
“ I am.” Taehyung takes the bottle from him and drizzles a generous amount onto his fingers, reaching down to finger himself. He doesn’t really need the prep—he’s already stretched enough after many, many nights of working himself open with his back arched against the mattress—but he enjoys studying Jungkook’s face as he watches him finger himself, the tentative hunger in his eyes.
“I thought you’re right-handed,” Jungkook says.
“I am.”
“So why are you using your left hand?”
“It feels better that way.” Taehyung thumbs at the head of his own cock, pressing a nail into the slit and exhaling as heat throbs in the pit of his stomach. “And it gives me a free hand to jerk off with.”
“You do this often, don’t you?”
“I do, actually.” Taehyung grins, pulling his fingers out and tugging Jungkook closer by his bare, muscled shoulders. He bites down on one shoulder, relishing the way the muscle jumps under his teeth and then relaxes as he licks over the mark. “Stop wearing V-necks and maybe I’ll stop.”
“No way. Me in V-necks is what won us half the awards we have.” He takes his own turn, sucking a hickey into Taehyung’s neck as he arches his back like a cat, tipping his head back. They can leave marks. The stylist noonas never ask, just dab on an extra layer of concealer.
“Mmm.” Taehyung can’t concentrate enough to keep up the banter as Jungkook licks at the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, his mouth so close and so, so wet.
“You’re not listening to me, are you?” He works at his skin, pushing his face into the crook so he can suck a bruise into the skin.
“Not really.” Taehyung runs his hand over Jungkook’s collarbones, wrapping a hand loosely around his throat for a moment just to get a feel of it before letting it drop. Jungkook doesn’t flinch. He trusts him. “God, I love your collarbones. I’d fuck them if I could.”
“You can still fuck my mouth.” Jungkook inhales sharply as Taehyung’s hand trails down over his chest and brushes his nipples. He doesn’t miss it—he raises an eyebrow and tugs at a nipple with his teeth. It lengthens and hardens almost immediately.
“I already have. And has anyone ever told you you have really sensitive nipples?” Taehyung sucks at it, and Jungkook’s whole body shudders. He takes his mouth away just to see what he’ll do, and Jungkook chases after him with his whole body. He chuckles and attaches his mouth to it again. He likes the feeling of it pebbling against his tongue.
“I don’t need anyone to tell me, actually,” Jungkook forces out through clenched teeth.
“You’re so fucking sensitive.” He scrapes his teeth over it, then flicks his tongue against the hardened nub.
“I know, Taehyung.” Taehyung’s hands wander down and squeeze his thighs, then his ass. Jungkook jerks, and he grins devilishly at him.
“You’re so innocent,” Taehyung marvels. “In a sexy kind of way.”
“You make no sense.” He grinds down on Taehyung just to re-exert control, and Taehyung’s smirk changes to a gasp. He palms at Taehyung, hand slipping on his length due to the precum dripping from the head, and Taehyung’s eyes flutter, a moan trickling from his mouth. “And you sound so fucking filthy.”
“Don’t swear, Kookie,” Taehyung pants, canting his hips upward into his hand, jerking to find friction. “You’re still innocent.”
“I am not,” he says irritatedly, “innocent.”
“You’re a virgin.”
“So are you!”
“Nope. Lost mine in junior year.”
Jungkook narrows his eyes. “Impressive. But you weren’t made a trainee when you were fifteen.”
“Details.” Taehyung waves his hand dismissively. “I bet I would’ve been able to lose it even if I had been.”
“Shut up. Who’s the one on the bottom now?”
“Ooh, Kookie’s trying to be dominant,” Taehyung says, grinning, deliberately provoking him. “Go on, little baby. Everyone’s got to learn.”
He sees annoyance flash over his face. “I’ll show you dominant,” he snarls, and without warning, he thrusts up straight into Taehyung, right to the hilt.
His expression becomes slack-jawed. “Oh,” he pants, grinding down on Jungkook, “you’re thick.”
“Really.” Jungkook pulls out and sinks back in again, rolling his hips to get as deep as possible. His pupils are blown wide, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. He looks like a drug addict in the middle of a high. A shiver shoots through Taehyung at the thought that he caused that, he’s Jungkook’s high.
“And long,” he adds hopefully, checking whether compliments are the road to just the kind of sex he wants right now: rough, animalistic, skin slapping on skin, finger-shaped bruises on his hips in the morning kind of sex. Jungkook obliges, rolling his hips in, filling Taehyung up so deliciously that he thinks that he might scream. Then he snaps his hips in, fast and hard, pounding right into that magic, sweet bundle of nerves, and Taehyung does scream, quickly muffled by Jungkook’s mouth clapping over his.
“Are you crazy?” he hisses. “The others can hear.”
“Mmfh,” he mumbles, body shaking after sustaining a direct hit like that, pleasure coursing through his system in electric waves. Jungkook’s mouth pulls away with an obscene smack, and he gasps, “I’ll try.”
Jungkook looks over his shoulder at the locked bedroom door, then focuses his attention back on Taehyung, eyes dark and intense.
They end up with Taehyung’s legs on Jungkook’s shoulders, his hips jerking hard enough for Taehyung’s toes to curl with every thrust. Jungkook leans down to muffle his moans with his mouth, stretching Taehyung’s flexibility to the limit.
Taehyung comes like that, uncontrollably, right after Jungkook’s hand has wrapped around him and only stroked him twice. He spurts ribbons of white all over his own stomach, whimpering Jungkook’s name into his mouth, hips pushing back desperately against his. The resulting clenching sets Jungkook off too, and Taehyung thinks the sound Jungkook makes when he cums is unbearable, like he’s being torn apart.
They fall asleep wrapped in each other again. The moon rises and sets, and even when sunlight falls across their pillow and slides down the strands of their hair like honey, they don’t wake up.
Eventually, though, Taehyung rises before Jungkook. He unravels himself from Jungkook’s arms and goes to put on his clothes, opening and shutting the door to leave for breakfast. He doesn’t look back.
Jungkook’s eyes stare vacantly at the opposite wall, wide open, wishing Taehyung wouldn’t leave him once he’s done with him as if Jungkook’s nothing more than a discarded toy. He’s supposed to be the dominant one. But Taehyung’s right. He’s only learning. Only on training wheels.
He curls into himself, around the space Taehyung should occupy. One day he’ll make Taehyung want him. One day he’ll be the one breaking hearts in the wake of his departure.
But for now, he’ll just have to accept that he’s nothing more than a distraction.