Chapter Text
Ever since Jungkook was little, he’s never been invited to go out with Yoongi and his friends.
Granted, they do have a good five years on him. But, even though he was the little nuisance middle-schooler in a room full of teenagers, being shoved away felt nothing less than utter brotherly betrayal.
Now that he’s in his second year of undergrad and has made plenty of his own friends, the punch of fomo hurts a lot less. Besides, what’s he got to do with a flock of grad students, anyway?
The most that Yoongi has ever done for him is let him move in.
With student debts stacking up and classes flooding the older’s schedule, Jungkook thinks his brother probably just realized it’s easier to split payment and share a bigger space rather than live in a small one-room residence. The younger had patted himself on the back for getting that job at Hoist the Dough.
But living together didn’t change their brotherly dynamic much. Yoongi still considers Jungkook too much of a kid to go out on long nights with him and his friends. Not that it matters. He doesn’t even know what they do out there for that long.
Besides, Jungkook could always go clubbing with his own friends, but he doesn’t think it would be the same—not when he sees the way Yoongi makes it home closer to early morning limping like his joints can barely function and yet still be smiling dopily.
Jungkook bites his tongue a lot, but he wants badly to know what that feels like.
Just not the part where your best friend holds you by the arm as you haul your guts into the toilet. He’s never had anyone he trusts that much anyway. Not in the way Yoongi trusts Taehyung.
Those two work like cogs in a machine, can’t function without each other. Closer than brothers—closer than Yoongi and Jungkook, which is something that even their parents have said.
They’ve known each other for years, and yet, Jungkook still hasn’t been able to shrug that look off from Taehyung.
That tight, disapproving frown.
Like he still sees a 22-year-old Jungkook as that annoying little brat who wouldn’t leave them alone on Street Fighter nights.
The truth is that younger Jungkook didn’t mind just getting to sit silently on his brother’s bed and stare at the back of Taehyung’s scruffy black hair for however long they hung out. He didn’t even want to play that stupid game. He wasn’t even gonna talk to them!
But Yoongi tapped at the ‘Teen Zone’ label hung up on his dark blue door, then pushed Jungkook away for him to whine and stomp into his own bedroom. And he’d cry into his pillow, embarrassed because Taehyung watched the whole ordeal with an irritated furrow in his brows.
But god did that face make his cheeks flare up. In shame, anger, butterflies.
Butterflies especially. Taehyung has always given him butterflies.
Attention, however, he’s never given. Not a single bit.
Jungkook could walk by him every single day of the week, could be standing right in front of him, stare at him, and Taehyung still wouldn’t care to acknowledge him with even a damn nod, let alone a smile.
It could just be a mirroring of Yoongi’s equally dismissive behaviour over the years. Or perhaps Jungkook has just never been interesting enough for Taehyung to care.
It’s not an insult. Not really. It’s just the point-blank truth about Taehyung; there aren’t many things that interest him.
Jungkook can’t recall the last time he’s seen the guy smile for a reason that has nothing to do with Yoongi, hookups, or Friday nights. Taehyung’s resting face is a constant dip in his forehead with downturned lips. So unfortunately sexy, it drives Jungkook mad.
Though after a while of pining and drawing senseless pictures of him in his notebook and making up stories in his head, Jungkook found himself helpless to the point of deep shame and self-pity. He decided to move the fuck on.
Because he’s fucking hot too, and he can pick up anyone he wants.
But this idea quickly becomes his worst when the first dude he finds is actually a loser just like him. Or, somehow, worse.
Said loser hooks onto Jungkook’s shoulder with an arm, babbling some bullshit into his ear as they take the path back to his house.
It’s pitch black out now, the streetlights buzzing overhead. A hot, overstimulating breath keeps feathering his cheek because his boyfriend just won’t stop talking. He thinks retelling the story of how he repaired a pair of spark plugs is attractive or something.
Breathing the cheap, pungent cologne that settles like acid at the base of his throat, Jungkook thinks he should probably push the loser’s arm off. But it’s only been a couple days and he’s kind of good at Calculus, so this ‘whatever’ between them needs to last for at least a month longer.
Loser pauses, feet halting on the gravel.
Jungkook’s eyes widen.
Taehyung.
He’s rigid in the dark. A hand is stuffed in the pocket of loose black sweatpants, and the way he stands in front of Jungkook’s room makes it look like it belongs to him. And, of course, his shirt is all sweaty and clinging to his body like he just came back from the gym—it starts reminding Jungkook of a wet dream he had a while ago. The one where he already had that sticky shirt torn off, and Jungkook pressed against the door.
The third person ruins that possibility.
Keys jingle in Taehyung’s palm, and Jungkook recognizes them as Yoongi’s by the little calico cat chain attached. It’s not unusual for his brother to give Taehyung keys to their place. Sometimes he goes to pick something up for him, other times just to get there before Yoongi does on a late night.
Though most often, he and Jungkook don’t collide like this.
It’s exciting.
Taehyung’s eyes squint between the two, and it makes Jungkook a little giddy. The random attention. The barely-there intrigue on a raw Tuesday night.
And then, Loser. “Who the fuck are you?”
The arm on his shoulder feels heavier with Taehyung’s eyes on it.
“Who are you?” he echoes. Low.
Streetlights flicker.
Jungkook raises his chin, anticipation bubbling up his stomach. “He’s my boyfriend,” he states with more pride than he actually has, but it’d do him some good for Taehyung to know that he is desirable.
And yet, Taehyung doesn’t even try to hide his scoff as he goes back to jamming the key in the door, and Jungkook’s stomach sinks. Just that one motion somehow feels worse than rejection.
Loser, however, doesn’t simply pretend not to hear it.
“The fuck was that about?”
Taehyung pushes open the door but doesn’t step inside.
“Jungkook,” his boyfriend spits at him, “you hooking up with this guy?”
“No! What the hell? He’s my brother’s friend.” His heartbeat quickens. If only it were out of anxiety rather than the idea of having sex with Taehyung.
“Yah!” Loser aggressively waves in the older’s direction. Taehyung lazily peers over from the doorframe, the familiar look of exasperation on his face. That deep Jungkook-is-a-hindrance curve to his eyebrows.
“I asked you what the fuck that laugh was about. Something funny to you?”
“Seriously, man—”
“Shut up, Jungkook.”
Jungkook shoves the arm off, rolling his eyes. He honestly blames himself for putting ‘high GPA’ over ‘washout’ in this guy’s pros and cons list. Maybe he shouldn’t have even started dating in the first place.
“Yeah, actually.” Taehyung’s voice drops to a taunt. Something in Jungkook’s gut swoops when his eyes flicker to his for a split second. “Because we are hooking up.”
The silence lies heavy in the air after the door shuts.
Loser’s head turns to him slowly.
“You fucking serious?”
“He’s lying.” But Jungkook’s skin is burning so red at the thought, and it’s so not a good time.
“Jesus christ, you’re awful.”
With that, Loser—or the name Jungkook can’t quite remember—disappears into the damp night.
“What is your problem?”
Taehyung’s busy sifting through their Netflix account, eyes plastered on the TV screen from the couch when Jungkook barges in. Just like usual, he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even consider it. Jungkook grits his teeth.
“He was going to help me pass Calc! I’m gonna fail the exam now. Did Yoongi put you up to this?”
After another short beat of silence and the corner of Taehyung’s lip drawing down, the older utters, “Sure,” and Jungkook is fucking fuming. Of course there would be no other reason for Taehyung to concern himself with anything to do with Jungkook unless Yoongi told him to—and why does that piss him off more than Taehyung literally breaking up his relationship?
“Fuck you both.”
Jungkook stomps to his room, twisting his hair as he flops into bed.
He knew Taehyung would be the reason he and Loser broke up; he just didn’t expect it to occur like this. Now he’s got to get off to the idea of hooking up with Taehyung while also seething at the very thought of him.
Jungkook already knew that, obsessing over a guy like him, desire and frustration must come hand-in-hand.
Taehyung definitely doesn’t make liking him easy.
𓏵
Breakups after that incident went a little differently.
Jungkook would often get himself into situationships. Maybe fuck here and there, and he’d let it go on long enough for the other person to potentially get attached, then he’d disappear like it was nothing. And they’d cry and scream at him for a week in his DMs, but eventually get over it.
He enjoys the pleasure that comes with knowing he’s wanted. Squeeze every last drop of praise and appreciation from faceless boys until they’re too dry to keep anymore.
But he’s kind of sick of having to force himself to bother, even if for a short while, knowing he’s going to fail anyway.
The longest he’s been in a relationship is a maximum of six weeks. That went on for three weeks too long simply because the guy was amazing in bed, but he was starting to kiss him a bit too often.
And Jungkook is honestly so tired of wet dreaming about his brother’s best friend. He catches himself sometimes imagining Taehyung’s slender, veiny hands pressing at his hip, teasing him, urging him.
Then, he wakes up, and the real Taehyung ignores him. Or frowns, or huffs, or bumps into him without realizing, and Jungkook grits his teeth at the growing heat that remains whisking around his gut. As if his body is telling him he’s into it when he’s not. It actually makes him want to tighten his fist and knock the guy out.
𓏵
It’s a Sunday. Early.
Yoongi should not be scolding him this damn early.
To be honest, it is noon and he doesn’t have anything to do, but he doesn’t want to deal with his brother’s annoying crashouts on his day off.
“You can’t just pick up after yourself?”
Swallowing his ramen, Jungkook’s eyes roll. Like, he does get it, he would be upset about it too, but Jungkook is just super not in the mood to accept his fault right now. Just wants to eat his soup then fuck off to his room and game all day.
“Relax, whatever. I was literally going to right after—”
“Jungkook. This is the third time I’ve caught you. Don’t act like you didn’t blame the clothes on me last time. It’s gross, man. Why do I have to see your undies every time I gotta shit?”
A snort erupts from the couch.
Fucking Taehyung and his crown of lucious irresistible hair pressed up against his furniture like he lives here and pays the rent, having the audacity to laugh at his humiliation.
Jungkook’s face heats up, tongue licking his cheek.
Yoongi gruffs at his lack of response and tosses the Calvin boxers that he was waving around onto one of the dining chairs.
His brother straps his work bag on, straightening his collar—the only time he looks sturdy and stable aside from everything else about his life—and Jungkook’s heartbeat quickens as he approaches the front door. “I’m heading out then. Clean up your shit,” he snaps at Jungkook, then turns to the other presence, “and you be a good babysitter, yeah?”
He’s teasing. Even when they were younger, Jungkook has never needed Taehyung to babysit him. Nor has the latter ever wanted to. So Taehyung just laughs again and flips him the bird.
But he doesn’t make a move to leave the place with Yoongi like usual.
The door clicks shut, and the air thickens.
And it’s ridiculous. Taehyung is a whole five meters away from him, paying all his attention to a TV show with not enough music. Jungkook can hear his own breaths. It’s so much more embarrassing that the heavy tension is all in his own head.
Taehyung probably just stayed to finish this episode. Of course. Yes.
After what feels like an hour to Jungkook but was probably only a couple of seconds, he clears his throat. “You, uh—want anything to eat?” Stupid. Stupid question. Taehyung always just grabs something from the fridge himself if he’s hungry. Never needed to ask.
There is no response, obviously. No acknowledgement. Because Jungkook has no reason to open his mouth in the first place.
Taehyung does get up, however, walking to the kitchen like it just occurred to him that he hasn’t eaten. It lessens Jungkook’s shame by just a fraction.
A soda can crackles open.
Jungkook is glaring into his empty bowl of soup, swirling the spoon around in the leftover oil at the bottom, stalling so he doesn’t have to go back to his room. His lower lip gets gnawed at, tearing at the corner before his mouth drops open.
Nothing comes out for a second.
Taehyung sips.
“That’s mine.”
Jungkook’s cheeks grow so warm. So fucking warm, for what? He’s just stating the truth. Taehyung grabbed his drink, he was saving that for later. Jungkook needs to learn to stand up for himself in front of the guy.
His chin doesn’t lift.
Jungkook thinks that Taehyung just gulped behind him. If the older weren’t the only thing Jungkook’s mind zeros on when he’s in the vicinity, he wouldn’t have known what movements he was making just by sound—that Taehyung gulped, just shifted on his leg, and is now running a hand through his hair.
“Those also yours?”
Heart kicking, Jungkook’s head snaps up. “Huh?” he sputters, ineloquent, childish. For the first time in a long while, Taehyung started a conversation with him, and Jungkook feels 12 years old again.
The older nods his chin in a direction, then sips at the pop. Drinks it slowly this time, making direct eye contact with Jungkook. It makes his chest click with anxiety—or another molten sort of thing that he can’t explain—as he follows where Taehyung had gestured.
Undies.
Jungkook’s. Hung on the chair.
His jaw ticks. Neck dripping, hot.
“Fuck off.”
Another snort, and Jungkook is so so done. “It’s not funny.”
“Kinda funny.”
“You ever gotten yelled at by Yoongi?”
Taehyung makes a phew sound. “Loads. He’s scary when he’s mad, but it’s funny to watch him yell at you. Satisfying, kind of.”
“Seriously?” Jungkook glares, abashed.
Taehyung tilts his head, feigning being in thought.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Seriously.”
The younger’s gaze is so deep he could burn holes. The sound of tapping spurs him—tick tick tick—against the counter as Taehyung takes another loud sip of the soda. It’s rhythmic, slow, taunting, and his eyes peer at Jungkook over the rim of the can.
“You’re a dickhead, you know that?”
To think this is the best conversation he’s had with Taehyung isn’t even surprising. To think being amusing is the closest thing to a compliment Jungkook has ever gotten.
“Really?”
“You don’t even fucking talk to me.”
“Talk to you?” Taehyung raises an eyebrow, like that’s such a surreal thing to be mad about.
Jungkook exhales through his nose. He should stop this conversation here, it’s only getting worse. But Taehyung is a drug, he’s already established that. And he’s getting way too much of it right now—his gaze, his attention, everything, on him. Even while trembling with anger, he’s desperate for more.
“Right. Why would you talk to me? Not like I’m another human being—not like I’m Yoongi hyung’s brother or anything.”
He hates how ridiculous his whole spiel is starting to sound. Taehyung’s laughter cuts through his chest. “Do you really need me to talk to you? You got no friends, kid?”
The can is set on the counter, fizzling in the quiet.
Taehyung’s demenour is starting to shift to something less laid back. He’s becoming something bigger, meaner, and Jungkook should walk away. “Shit, you should’ve started with that. No wonder you dated a dud.”
Jungkook lifts from his seat as casually as he can, but his legs are barely keeping him up. “I didn’t even like that guy.”
“I know,” Taehyung says through a mean grin, “you looked miserable.”
“I wasn’t miserable.”
“No, but you were miserable enough to want to talk to me.”
Jungkook gnaws his lip.
Fuck. Did that show on his face?
“I just meant—You just—Fuck, you barely even look at me sometimes! I could talk to you directly and you’d just stand there and pretend I don’t exist—”
“Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung interrupts, mellow and calculated, and he wonders if his name sticks like syrup in Taehyung’s mouth after saying it, or if that’s just a Jungkook thing.
Then, “Do you want me?”
The world flips.
“Eat shit,” he says, with his ears ringing and eyesight fogging up.
Taehyung’s hand combs through his hair as his shoulder’s shake, and Jungkook’s whole body feels like jelly. Indents form in his palm by the tight quivering clench of his fists, but he doesn’t know what else to do other than just stand there and hope one of them stops talking—or maybe, that they never stop.
“Just tell me now if you want me. It’ll be easier to turn you down.”
“Fucking full of yourself,” Jungkook mutters. Then he asks himself why he’s muttering, why he can’t openly call Taehyung’s shit out for what it is. Why he hasn’t yet.
So he does.
“You just think anything that you can stick your dick into is the only kind of thing worth talking to, is that right?”
Taehyung hums, fingers slowly wrapping around the pop. Jungkook feels a drop of sweat fall off the side of his face at the same time the can’s condensation dribbles over Taehyung’s knuckle. There’s a prickle at his lip where his teeth tear into it. The room seems like it’s getting smaller, but Taehyung feels miles away. “Forgot how mouthy you are,” the older grumbles.
Smog fills the air, a tension that suffocates Jungkook like cotton in his lungs, and he wonders if Taehyung can sense it this time too. If he can read through his expression and see how pissed he is—how turned on he is. How even though this could be the most humiliated he’s ever felt in his life, his cock is stirring in his sweats.
And the worst fucking part of it all, everything Taehyug is saying is true.
He’s a loser. He dates duds.
And he’s obsessed with Taehyung so much, he actually can’t breathe sometimes.
And the way Taehyung’s looking at him now, this newfound degradation in his eyes, like he’s peeling the layers of Jungkook’s skin and finding those cold, dark, hidden parts beneath, is so so sexy.
So fucking irritating.
“Whatever,” says Taehyung with a little scoff. Just like Yoongi. His eyes fall back to the soda. He sips at it while moving around the kitchen counter back to the couch. And.
Nothing.
They’re back to square one.
Jungkook’s head fogs, ears burning, chest shrinking into something small and utterly stupid, because he’s nothing once again.
An unsteady glare follows Taehyung as he drifts across the room and pretends that he’s alone.
Something about it—the utter disposal of a conversation that’s going to keep Jungkook up for months, pulling this deeply concealed emotion out of him and just leaving him bare, naked, exposed.
Something about it enrages him.
He lets himself feel it. The small tear in his heart growing bigger every time Taehyung drags him across the dirt with words, or the lack thereof, and brushes him off like he’s lint on his shirt. Like he doesn’t deserve to be acknowledged, let alone be spoken to.
The feeling is disgusting, and derailing, and he wants to punch him so hard in the face.
So he does.
He swings, and it lands.
Doesn’t even remember moving across the room to get to him—only realizes what he’s done when Taehyung’s head snaps back hard from the hit, and the corner of his mouth splits and bleeds.
Jungkook’s entire body goes still, terror creeping up his spine as he carefully steps backward, watching Taehyung—his brother’s best friend, a guy five years his senior that could probably toss him over his shoulder like a sac of potatoes—blinking back into consciousness, trying to understand what just happened.
Then, all too sudden, his sharp, dark eyes find him. Jungkook stumbles back onto the kitchen chair with his hands already raised in surrender. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“
Taehyung ascends, and Jungkook hears a thunderstorm in his ears. “I’m sorry I’m sorryImsorrymsorrym—“
He goes silent when Taehyung grabs his jaw and forces his chin up.
Jungkook is so dead. He’s caged now, legs between Taehyung’s, trapped against the chair with a large hand, no escape past the looming figure.
It’s rough, the way the older moves his head around, twisting it at whatever angle he wants. Jungkook’s skin burns under the aggressive touch. All he can do is bite his lip and wrap a fearful hand around Taehyung’s wrist. He squirms when Taehyung’s face comes close enough to feel his faint breath, too drunk on the skin-to-skin to care that he’s probably about to have his teeth knocked out.
But shit, Taehyung looks so hot with a bleeding lip. Makes him wanna do it again just to see that ticked-off gaze. At least he’s looking at him.
And it’s not until he notices the elder’s eyes scanning across his face, noting every detail in a way he’s never cared to before, that Jungkook realizes he’s actually being scrutinized.
It’s proven when Jungkook goes to lick at his lip piercing, and Taehyung’s attention dips down to see it.
A thumb rolls across the corner of his lip, tugging at the lip ring. His pants tighten.
“When’d you get this?” the older asks, low and soft, a contrast to the painful grip on Jungkook’s jaw.
“Two years ago.” His voice is muffled through the tight squeeze.
Taehyung smirks, and his eyes glint a little as he leans down closer. He definitely catches the way Jungkook squirms.
This newfound attention is killing him from the inside out.
“Looks good.”
His heart flutters with new beats. Suddenly so so unsure of himself.
“Thank you.”
“Did you learn how to punch two years ago too?”
Jungkook tries shaking his head, but the grip tightens and makes his cheeks squish, so he breathes out a response. “Didn’t mean to.”
“Sure as hell felt like you did.”
“You don’t take me seriously.”
“You want to be taken seriously?”
“I want you to take me seriously.”
This time, when the grip tightens, Jungkook tastes blood.
“Yeah?” Taehyung’s gravelly timbre of a voice makes his insides sizzle. He suddenly doesn’t care anymore, how desperate he looks. How foolish and insecure and starving. This moment has been envisioned in his head a million times over, Taehyung’s fingers keeping him locked by the jaw, his thumb pressed at the corner of his lip.
“Yes,” he breathes. Oh, Jungkook is so gone already.
“You a big kid now?” the older taunts, voice dripping with a sick condescension. “Gonna take what I give you?”
Yeah. Fuck.
Jungkook huffs, mouth dropping wider when Taehyung’s breath hits his bottom lip.
The breath, he then realizes, was actually a laugh. His heart plummets to his gut when Taehyung slowly pulls away, a few more laughs tumbling from him.
“Cute.”
Fucking hell. Jungkook will be damned if he lets Taehyung get away now.
He drops to his knees, he shifts the hand around his jaw to splay over his hair, and Taehyung goes completely still.
“What the fuck—“
“I want you to take me seriously, hyung.”
Jungkook’s never called him hyung before. Taehyung never asked him to.
Jungkook takes advantage of it now, blinking up at him, curling his tongue around the word sweetly.
“Jungkook-ah. Jungkook,” he whispers.
The younger breathes over his slacks, jaw propped open and ready. He’s trying to push Jungkook away but his hand slips through the strands and ends up at the back.
Jungkook melts, getting hot. He could take it to the back of his throat; he’s practiced.
Taehyung needs to know that.
The elder swears under his breath, the hand in Jungkook’s hair tightening. He hopes Taehyung can feel how silky the strands are—how easy they are to grab, to pull.
How easy Jungkook is to control.
The older’s other hand stops at the zipper of his slacks, and Jungkook almost chokes up in desperation, his gaze now dropping to the slow drag downward, following it, click-click-click goes the zipper, his own cock is aching, leaking.
The hallway echoes with the sound of a door opening. A set of keys jingle in the quiet, and Taehyung’s eyes go wide.
Jungkook is quickly shoved back into his seat on the kitchen chair.
Of fucking course.
Yoongi, his certified cock-blocker, trudges into the kitchen with a ridiculously unappealing groan. “I left my laptop.”
The moment is over. Fucking Yoongi.
Jungkook pushes off the kitchen chair and moves to leave. He doesn’t stomp this time, but instead makes sure to catch Taehyung’s horrified gaze to send him a little grin, then fuck off into his room.
𓏵