Work Text:
L.A. hums outside the windows—heat shimmering on the asphalt, the sky an endless blue canvas. The car’s moving slow through traffic, but neither of them care. The air-conditioning hums soft, cool against their skin. Taehyung’s tucked beside Jungkook in the backseat, one leg bent up on the seat, his phone resting lazily on his thigh as he scrolls.
It’s warm. Still. Quiet, except for Taehyung’s occasional little hum, the kind he makes when he sees something cute on his feed. His shirt is loose. Skin golden. Hair a little messy, like Jungkook’s fingers had been in it earlier.
They had.
“Should we go live?” Taehyung asks, soft and casual like he’s asking if they should stop for lemonade.
Jungkook doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”
Of course.
Because when Taehyung wants something, Jungkook says yes. That’s just how it is.
He watches him—eyes sharp, heavy with want—but doesn’t move yet. Just takes him in. The slow flutter of Taehyung’s lashes. The little crinkle of his nose when he grins at something on his screen. His knee knocking against Jungkook’s thigh without even noticing.
Jungkook breathes slow. Deep.
It’s gotten worse since Taehyung got out of the military.
Jungkook’s always been like this about him—obsessed in quiet ways. Gentle in private ways. Washing Taehyung’s hair in the shower like it’s something sacred. Pressing warm washcloths to his hips after. Whispering, You did so well for me, into the shell of his ear while Taehyung trembles under him, ruined, boneless.
But now?
Taehyung’s body has changed. It was already perfect and Jungkook could never imagine something better than Taehyung body. Ever.
But this is like crack to Jungkook
Because Taehyung can take more now. Can last longer. Doesn’t curl in on himself too soon, doesn’t go breathless too fast.
Still sensitive—God, so sensitive—but he holds on. begs through it, but takes everything Jungkook gives him and then some.
And Jungkook? Jungkook devours him.
Longer now. Deeper. Slower. Sometimes he spends hours between Taehyung’s thighs, just touching, kissing, licking, letting him fall apart again and again until his voice is gone.
He’s an animal for him.
But you’d never know it now—watching him in the backseat like this, still and soft, one hand resting lightly on the edge of Taehyung’s thigh.
He reaches for him—quiet, smooth—and takes his hand gently.
Taehyung looks up from his phone, surprised, but doesn’t pull away.
Jungkook brings his hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it, slow and full of meaning.
Taehyung flushes immediately. He’s always like this—all sweetheart coded, like he’s not the same person who just last night was moaning into the pillow, arms wrapped around Jungkook’s neck like he’d fall apart without it.
“Thank you,” Taehyung whispers, brushing his thumb over Jungkook’s knuckles. “For saying yes.”
Jungkook hums. Leans a little closer, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from him.
His heart is so full he could scream.
Instead, he tucks Taehyung’s hand between both of his, cradles it like something fragile. A kiss. A breath.
The car moves forward again.
But Jungkook stays still—eyes locked on him, hand never letting go.
And God, jungkook loves his life.
♡♡♡
The live ends with a wave and matching smiles—Taehyung’s eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed pink from laughing too hard. Jungkook barely says a word the whole time, just hums and nods and looks at him like he’s watching the sun through a stained-glass window. Like the world got lucky.
And now they’re here.
The studio.
It’s quiet, cold in the way most studios are—air-conditioned, dark, still. The door clicks softly behind them. The walls are lined with empty chairs and silent instruments. No one else is in yet. The techs said they’d be late. Manager said they had an hour before anything official starts.
It’s supposed to be the beginning of their Taekook subunit sessions.
Supposed to be.
But as soon as the door shuts, Jungkook turns, drops his bag to the floor, and kisses him.
Hard.
Not rushed, not messy—not yet—but deep. Controlled. Like he’s been holding it in all day and can’t anymore. His hand finds Taehyung’s waist immediately, pulling him in. The other lifts to cradle the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair with the gentlest ache of hunger.
Taehyung makes a soft, startled sound against his mouth, muffled and sweet. His phone almost slips from his hand as he instinctively wraps both arms around Jungkook’s shoulders.
Jungkook breathes him in like oxygen.
He tastes like vanilla lip balm and something softer, something that always belongs to him. His body presses warm and pliant against Jungkook’s chest, fitting there like a secret, and Jungkook feels himself unravel.
Taehyung pulls back just slightly, dazed. “We’re—supposed to—record…”
Jungkook shakes his head. His voice is low and hoarse. “Just—give me a second.”
Because he needs this.
He needs him.
He’s still riding the high of the last few weeks—of Taehyung back in his space, back in his bed, back in his arms every night like no time passed at all. Only it did. And Jungkook feels it in how greedy he’s become.
There hasn’t been a single night they’ve just slept. Every time Taehyung crawls into bed beside him, Jungkook’s hands start moving without thought. Under the shirt. Down his back. Between his thighs. Taehyung always melts for him. Always spreads and gasps and clutches his arms like he’s afraid Jungkook might stop.
He never stops.
Not until Taehyung’s limp, blinking up at him with stars in his eyes and no words left in his throat.
And here he is again.
In a quiet studio. In his arms.
Soft. Willing. Sweet.
Taehyung looks up at him, cheeks pink, lips parted. He’s still got that little smile—like he doesn’t even know what he does to Jungkook.
And Jungkook kisses him again.
Softer this time.
Just once.
Then he leans in, presses their foreheads together, and exhales slow.
“We’ll record,” he says eventually, voice quieter now. “I promise.”
Taehyung hums, brushing his nose against his. “You okay?”
Jungkook closes his eyes. “No.”
Taehyung laughs under his breath, brushing fingers along the back of Jungkook’s neck. “You want your cookie, jungkookie?”
Jungkook groans. “Don’t call it that in here.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll take you on the mixing desk.”
Taehyung flushes to his ears, smacks him lightly on the shoulder, but stays close. Doesn’t move. Just wraps his arms tighter around Jungkook’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder.
Taehyung shifts in his arms, lips brushing against Jungkook’s neck like a whisper. He’s teasing. He has to be. But then he says it—low, so soft Jungkook almost thinks he misheard it.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Taehyung murmurs, barely above a breath. “If you took me on the mixing desk.”
Jungkook freezes.
A beat of silence.
Another.
And then—it hits him. Really hits him.
He pulls back just enough to see Taehyung’s face. Big brown eyes, already wide, already glowing. His mouth slightly parted, like he doesn’t even know what he’s just done.
Jungkook stares at him.
And then, very quietly, breaks.
“Oh, you can’t say shit like that.”
“Why not?” Taehyung says, blinking innocently.
Innocently.
Like he didn’t just hand Jungkook his final straw.
Jungkook grabs him again, lips crashing into Taehyung’s so hard their teeth knock for half a second before he angles it right—hungry, deep, wild but steady. His hands find Taehyung’s back, pressing him flush against his chest, one arm around his waist, the other cupping the back of his neck. He kisses him like he’s trying to taste all the air in his lungs, like he’s been starving for him even though he had him last night. And the night before. And the night before that.
He always wants more.
Taehyung gasps into it, gripping Jungkook’s shirt, and suddenly his toes are barely brushing the floor because Jungkook is holding him so tightly, so closely, that his heels lift off the ground just from the sheer strength of it.
But Jungkook doesn’t stop there.
Their mouths stay locked, and his hands slide down—one, then the other—under Taehyung’s thighs, gripping the backs of them hard. And then, with one fluid motion, he lifts him clean off the ground.
Taehyung makes a tiny sweet sound, lips still tangled with his, legs wrapping around Jungkook’s waist like instinct.
The kiss never breaks.
Jungkook walks them backward, lips never leaving Taehyung’s, arms tight around him. Taehyung’s legs are still wrapped around his waist, breath coming fast between half-swallowed moans, hands gripping Jungkook’s shoulders like he’s holding onto the only thing tethering him to the world.
Jungkook finds the couch without looking. It’s low and wide and covered in soft grey fabric, the kind meant for long nights of music and mess. But tonight, it’s only them.
He kneels down slowly, lowering Taehyung with so much care it borders on reverence. Taehyung sinks into the cushions, arms still around Jungkook’s neck, mouth chasing his even as he lands.
Jungkook hovers over him immediately.
Kisses him again. And again. And again.
Like he can’t believe he’s allowed to.
His hands are everywhere—on Taehyung’s ribs, his waist, cupping his jaw like he’s made of smoke and dream and Jungkook’s the only one who can hold him here.
Taehyung’s already gone soft under him, breathless, legs falling open a little without thought. His fingers curl in Jungkook’s shirt, dragging him closer, murmuring against his lips between kisses.
“What about…” Kiss. “What about the desk?”
Jungkook breaks the kiss for only half a second, his mouth hovering just above Taehyung’s, eyes dark and dazed, lips swollen from everything they’ve already said without words.
His voice is low. Rough silk.
“The table would be too cold for your skin, baby.”
Taehyung blinks up at him, lips parting, and something in Jungkook aches at the sight. Because he knows exactly how Taehyung looks when his back arches off the sheets, when he whines at the cold of the headboard, when he reaches back instinctively to touch what’s underneath him.
“If you want it there,” Jungkook murmurs, thumb brushing over the apple of his cheek, “we can bring a blanket. Something soft. I’ll put it down first.”
He kisses Taehyung’s jaw. Then under his ear. Then back to his mouth.
Taehyung’s breath catches.
Because this—this is Jungkook.
The same man who kisses him so hard his knees give out. The same man who pushes him down and takes his time like he has all night. The same man who lays warm cloths across his hips after, brushes hair from his damp forehead, whispers I’ve got you, I’ve got you over and over like a spell.
And now he’s here.
Pressed above him, strong and shaking and trying not to break apart just from the idea of Taehyung on a cold table.
Jungkook kisses him again.
This time slower. Deeper. He settles more of his weight down, letting their bodies align
Taehyung whimpers softly into it, and Jungkook shudders like he’s trying not to fall apart.
The studio couch groans under their weight as Jungkook settles fully between Taehyung’s thighs, kisses growing deeper, dirtier—less about lips now and more about breath, about heat, about promise.
Taehyung’s shirt is bunched halfway up his chest, and Jungkook kisses the exposed skin like it’s scripture. His hands roam slow, reverent, skimming over every line of Taehyung’s ribs, his waist, the softness of his stomach. His thumb brushes just beneath his belly button and Taehyung arches, gasping.
“You’re too beautiful,” Jungkook whispers, mouth pressed to the underside of Taehyung’s jaw. “I can’t ever fucking get enough.”
Taehyung’s fingers tangle in Jungkook’s hair, tugging him down again, breath coming in shallow pulls as their hips grind—once, twice—and they both shudder at the friction.
“Please,” Taehyung breathes, already breathless.
God, Jungkook’s whole body pulses at that. Because it’s always like this with him. Taehyung’s not quiet. He gives everything—every sound, every tremble, every little plea that comes out sounding like love.
Jungkook gets Taehyung’s pants halfway down and tosses them aside.
He pressed another kiss just above the knee, then nuzzled into it with a grin so full of quiet devotion it could have lit the room. “You smell like fabric softener,” he murmured into Taehyung’s skin, like it was the best compliment he could give.
Taehyung let out a little hum, eyes barely open, a soft blush dusting his cheeks. His lips curled up, sleepy and fond, as he carded his fingers into Jungkook’s hair and scratched lightly at his scalp. “You said we’d be working,” he whispered, no real complaint in his tone.
“We are,” Jungkook mumbled, kissing up higher now. “Working on reminding you how much I love you.”
Taehyung lets out a giggle—soft, high, like sugar melting in tea.
It made Jungkook stop for a second. Just to look. Just to take him in. Taehyung’s lashes fluttered lazily, his mouth still holding that little heart-shaped smile. One hand rested gently on his own belly, the other still tangled in Jungkook’s hair. There was something so domestic about him like this—his legs comfortably parted to welcome Jungkook, his voice quiet and teasing, the kind of softness you could build a home in.
Jungkook lingers a moment longer against Taehyung’s skin, pressing one last kiss to the inside of his thigh before pulling back just enough to reach beside them. His hand finds the small drawer built into the studio console table—hidden, quiet, like a secret they both know. He opens it without looking.
The small bottle of lube rests right where he left it weeks ago. Just in case. Always for moments like this.
Taehyung watches him through half-lidded eyes, the pads of his fingers now trailing softly down Jungkook’s jaw. There’s no surprise in his expression—only something sweeter. Something warm. He knows Jungkook—knows how he prepares, how he handles Taehyung even when he’s aching for him.
Jungkook clicks the drawer shut and meets his gaze for a second. There’s something unspoken in his eyes: is this okay?
Taehyung answers with the smallest nod and a shy little smile, brushing his toes along Jungkook’s waist. His thighs part a little more on instinct.
Jungkook exhales, almost shaky. God, he’s beautiful. Like this especially—so relaxed, so soft for him. There’s a delicate pink flush to Taehyung’s chest now, and the dim light from the ceiling reflects in the gloss of his parted lips. He looks like the beginning of a love song Jungkook will never stop writing.
Jungkook leans up just enough to press a kiss to his belly, slow and full of gratitude.
His fingers run along the hem of Taehyung’s shorts again, teasing the edge, before slipping beneath with reverence. “Lift a little for me,” he whispers.
Taehyung does—without a word, without hesitation.
It makes Jungkook’s chest ache.
Once the fabric is out of the way, Jungkook settles between his thighs again, bare now, open like blooming petals. He palms the lube, warms it in his hand, then reaches down with the gentlest touch—one that makes Taehyung gasp, his hips tilting forward like his body’s chasing it.
Jungkook works him open with slow, practiced care, his fingers slick and patient. Taehyung shifts under his touch, thighs trembling just the slightest—his body already so reactive, so soft, so sensitive.
A little whimper slips past Taehyung’s lips as Jungkook presses deeper. His hips twitch up, instinctively chasing something, but Jungkook steadies him with a firm palm to his lower belly. “Easy,” he says, voice low and honeyed, but there’s a thread of command beneath it. “Let me.”
Taehyung nods quickly, lips parted, cheeks flushed. His lashes flutter like he’s fighting to keep his eyes open, trying to watch Jungkook—his Jungkook—between his legs, so calm, so focused, so maddeningly in love.
“You’re so cute like this,” Jungkook murmurs, brushing his lips over the inside of Taehyung’s knee. “You get shy, and then you shake, and you still let me do whatever I want. You know how much that ruins me?”
Taehyung’s breath catches. He turns his face into the crook of his arm, giggling, overwhelmed. “Stop…” he breathes, though his body says the opposite—hips tilted up, legs loose and ready around Jungkook’s waist.
“Never,” Jungkook whispers, lips ghosting down the curve of his thigh. “Not when you’re this sweet. Not when you let me love you like this.”
Taehyung makes another soft sound—half gasp, half moan—and Jungkook feels his whole body react. He slips his fingers just a little deeper, curling them with precision, and Taehyung jolts, his back arching off the couch.
Jungkook stills instantly, his other hand firm over Taehyung’s stomach. “Shh, I got you,” he says, gaze locked on his face. “Too much?”
Taehyung shudders, lashes trembling as he tries to breathe through the tightness building low in his belly. His body pulses around Jungkook’s fingers, clinging—too warm, too much, but not enough. He whimpers softly, the sound catching in his throat like he’s embarrassed by it.
“I-It’s not too much,” he whispers, barely able to get it out.
Jungkook stills, eyes searching his. There’s a softness in the way he smiles, but it’s tinted with something deeper—something almost possessive. “Okay,” he says gently. His voice drops a little more, warm as velvet. “Still sensitive from last night though.”
Before Taehyung can even process the words, Jungkook is already moving.
He eases his hand back, slow, careful, watching every twitch of Taehyung’s hips as he withdraws. Then he shifts up, moving with that quiet, grounded purpose he always carries when it’s just them. He fluffs the cushions behind Taehyung’s back, one hand cupping the back of his neck to lift him just enough. The other tugs the pillow beneath his spine into place, patting it like he’s making a bed.
Taehyung watches him with dazed eyes, lips slightly parted like he wants to speak, but Jungkook is already back between his thighs before he gets the chance.
There’s no pause.
No warning.
Jungkook’s hand slides down again, slick and warm and so sure. This time, he moves with even more precision, like every stroke is calculated—like he’s been memorizing Taehyung’s reactions and has decided to aim for every single weak point.
Taehyung’s breath leaves him in a soft, startled gasp. His thighs twitch, toes curling slightly. His hips lift before he can stop them, his body already betraying how desperate he is.
He covers his face with one arm, trying not to let the sound in his throat escape, but it breaks through anyway—high, sweet, shaky.
Jungkook hums in approval and presses a kiss to the inside of his knee. “There we go,” he murmurs.
Taehyung is so far gone now he doesn’t even respond—just nods under the crook of his elbow, lips trembling, chest rising too quickly.
Jungkook’s grip shifts, one hand under his thigh to keep him open, the other still working him with soft, maddening strokes. He never rushes. Never fumbles. And he never looks away. His gaze stays fixed on Taehyung’s face the entire time, watching every stutter of breath, every blink, every faint little noise he can coax out of him.
Jungkook watches the way Taehyung squirms, all flushed and trying to hide his face in the crook of his elbow like it might protect him from how loved he is—how ruined Jungkook looks just watching him.
“No, no,” Jungkook whispers, hand never slowing, his touch maddening in its rhythm. “Come on… let me see your pretty face, hm?”
Taehyung whimpers and turns his head deeper into his arm, eyes squeezed shut like he can escape the heat crawling across his cheeks.
Jungkook grins—something slow, crooked, hungry—and reaches up.
He catches both of Taehyung’s wrists with one hand, firm but effortless, and pulls them gently away from his face, guiding them down against the couch cushion above his head.
Taehyung gasps.
He blinks up at Jungkook, completely flabbergasted, lips parted, brows arched like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. His wrists are trapped now, snug in Jungkook’s grip, pinned just enough that he can’t wriggle away—held down in the most tender, devastating way.
“Jungkook—” he breathes, voice high, utterly disarmed.
Jungkook just leans in closer, his face inches from Taehyung’s, his other hand still working between his thighs with excruciating care. His breath fans across Taehyung’s cheek. “There you are,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “Look at you. So pretty when you let me see.”
Taehyung’s chest rises in a shaky breath. He tries to twist his wrists, just a little, but Jungkook doesn’t budge. He just watches him like he’s studying art, completely transfixed. Like he’s doing this just to see every second of Taehyung falling apart.
“Why’re you hiding, hmm?” Jungkook whispers, thumb brushing a feather-light circle over Taehyung’s pulse point. “Too good? Or are you just shy ‘cause you know I’m right?”
Taehyung’s breath catches again, and he shakes his head quickly, cheeks red, eyes darting anywhere but Jungkook’s face. “You’re so…” He trails off, no words, just a tiny breathless sound of frustration—part flustered, part overwhelmed.
Jungkook lets out a quiet laugh, warm and low in his throat. “You can’t even talk,” he says, pride blooming in his voice. “That’s how sweet you are for me.”
He presses a kiss to Taehyung’s jaw, then just below his ear, deliberately slow. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs against skin, then pulls back enough to look at him again—his gaze locked in.
Taehyung doesn’t even try to look away now.
His lips are parted, body shaking just a little beneath Jungkook, wrists still trapped, breath catching with every precise stroke of his hand. His pupils are blown, and there’s something soft and vulnerable flickering in his eyes.
And Jungkook?
He looks like he’s about to lose his mind from how much he loves him.
he leans in and kisses the side of his face, warm and slow. “Good boy,” he breathes against Taehyung’s temple, voice low and steady. “You’re doing so well for me.”
And Taehyung—God, Taehyung—he turns his face just enough to nuzzle into Jungkook’s jaw, brushing the tip of his nose along his cheek. Not saying anything. Just that small, wordless gesture. Sweet. Homey in the way that matters most: soft devotion folded into instinct.
Jungkook’s grip on his wrists loosens slightly, not to let him go—just to hold gentler. Even gentler than he had before. Like he knows Taehyung’s already given him everything
Jungkook’s jaw clenches, a breath leaving him like it physically hurts to hold back. His hand works faster now—still controlled, still careful, but there’s something rougher under the surface. Something that cracks through his calm, coiled like a growl in his throat. Not anger. No—need. Worship. Madness.
Taehyung whines, trying to pull his arms down, and Jungkook grips them tighter—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him who’s holding him there. “No,” Jungkook mutters, voice breaking, raw at the edges. “Stay. Don’t move.”
Taehyung obeys instantly. Of course he does.
His eyes are blown wide now, glazed, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead, damp from heat. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, the line of his waist visible, fragile, vulnerable. Every inch of him is trembling and open.
And Jungkook? Jungkook looks down at him like he’s watching something sacred. Like he’s on his knees at an altar.
Jungkook can feel it—every flicker of tension beneath his skin, every helpless jerk of his hips. He leans in, chest almost pressing against Taehyung’s as he murmurs, “There it is. Come on, baby. Come on. Let me have it.”
And Taehyung breaks.
He lets out a cry so beautiful Jungkook could cry with him, his body trembling hard as the release rips through him. His fingers curl into fists where Jungkook’s still holding them down. His legs quake, hips jerking up, mouth falling open as he spills over Jungkook’s hand—hot and helpless and so devastatingly pretty.
Jungkook holds him through it, never looking away. He eases his touch just slightly, guiding him down gently, riding the waves with the kind of care only someone ruined by love can give.
He kisses his shoulder, then his chest, then the center of his sternum, right over his heart.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Always. I’ve got you.”
Taehyung doesn’t speak. He just lies there, boneless and glowing, eyes wet, lips parted, chest heaving. And even like this—completely undone—he still has that softness. That sweetness. That natural grace that makes Jungkook want to give him everything he’s ever owned.
Jungkook lets go of his wrists and kisses each of them, like apology, like reverence.
And then he lies down beside him, pressing their foreheads together, fingers brushing gently over Taehyung’s waist like he can’t stand not touching him.
The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets as Jungkook moves. He’s already pulled the blanket over Taehyung’s legs, tucking it in at the sides like it might matter, like it could help. His hands are still trembling a little — not from exhaustion, but from the unbearable flood of emotion he hasn’t managed to shake off. He reaches for the warm, damp cloth he’d set on the bedside table and sinks onto his knees by the couch again, eyes flicking over Taehyung’s body with something that borders on reverence.
Taehyung doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask. Just lets his arm fall to the side and rests his head against the cushion, hair slightly tousled, eyes fluttering shut like he trusts Jungkook to do what needs to be done — because he always does. His lips are slightly pink, his cheeks still flushed, and his breathing is soft, steady, completely at ease.
Jungkook starts with his collarbones, the cloth warm against his skin. He wipes delicately, like he’s afraid of hurting him, even though he knows Taehyung isn’t fragile. It’s not about weakness. It’s about worship.
He slides the cloth across Taehyung’s chest, down his stomach, never rushing, his other hand following to hold, to steady, to soothe — fingers splayed wide and warm. His jaw tightens when he notices a tiny scratch on Taehyung’s side — something he must’ve missed in the moment. He kisses it without thinking.
Taehyung hums, barely audible. He shifts, tilting his head so he can watch him.
“You’re kneeling,” he murmurs, voice slow, heavy with fondness.
“I should be,” Jungkook says, barely meeting his eyes. He sounds dead serious.
Taehyung smiles at that — a knowing, quiet curve of his lips — and lets his arm drape lazily around Jungkook’s shoulder. Not pulling. Just holding.
Jungkook continues, now wiping down Taehyung’s thighs with absurd tenderness, pausing every so often to press kisses to his skin — his knee, the inside of his thigh, the space right above his hip. Like he needs it. Like his mouth is the only apology worthy of touching Taehyung.
“You okay?” he asks, voice cracking slightly with how gentle he’s trying to be. Not because he thinks Taehyung isn’t. Just because it’s a ritual now — like prayer. He needs to hear it.
Taehyung nods, fingers trailing lazily through Jungkook’s hair. “I’m perfect,” he says softly, like it’s fact. Because it is.
Jungkook leans forward and rests his forehead against Taehyung’s belly for a moment, breathing him in, letting his eyes fall closed. It’s quiet again — the kind that wraps around them, safe and warm. Taehyung stays still beneath him, his hand in his hair, his other arm tucked beneath his head like he’s resting on clouds.
After a while, Jungkook lifts his head and reaches for the soft cotton shirt he brought over earlier. He pulls it gently over Taehyung’s arms, careful not to jostle him, letting his fingers linger on every inch of exposed skin before it disappears beneath fabric.
Taehyung doesn’t help. He doesn’t need to. He just lies there, eyes half-lidded, letting Jungkook take care of him like he always does. Like he knows Jungkook needs this just as much — maybe more.
Once he’s dressed, Jungkook tugs the blanket up again, brushing his knuckles across Taehyung’s cheek, and then his lips. One last kiss. One more. And another. Like he can’t stop. Like he never wants to.
Taehyung exhaled slowly, lids still low, hair a halo across the pillow. His skin had that glow to it—the kind that only came from being loved stupidly and thoroughly. One of his hands rested over his stomach, rising and falling with each breath, the other lazily brushing Jungkook’s wrist where it lay protectively across his hip.
“I should be mad,” he murmured, voice soft like crushed velvet. “You made me a mess here. Again.”
Jungkook’s brows dipped immediately, genuine offense flashing across his face. “You’re never a mess,” he said, voice quiet but full of certainty. “You’re beautiful. Always.” He leaned down to kiss just below Taehyung’s eye, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Like he was trying to soothe the insult away—as if Taehyung had actually insulted himself.
Taehyung smiled a little. He knew this routine. This was Jungkook after. Gentle. Worshipful. Touching like he was afraid Taehyung might break—but also like he was the one falling apart.
Jungkook shifted down slightly, the blankets rustling as he peeled them back with careful fingers. “Your tummy okay?” he asked, already slipping his palm over the smooth skin of Taehyung’s stomach. “You were tensing so hard earlier.”
Taehyung nodded, a bit breathlessly now. His lashes fluttered as Jungkook began to rub small, slow circles over his abdomen. Not rushed. Not teasing. Just real, sweet care.
“You don’t have to—” Taehyung started, but Jungkook shushed him with a kiss to his jaw, and kept rubbing.
“Lemme take care of you,” Jungkook mumbled, fingers spreading warm over his tummy.
And Taehyung… well, he didn’t argue. He never did. Because this was part of their rhythm too—Jungkook loving with his hands, with every ounce of his being.
A few minutes passed like that, Jungkook alternating between soft tummy rubs and slow kisses to Taehyung’s temple, like his body couldn’t decide which part of him it wanted to stay close to. Eventually, he broke the quiet.
“What do you want to eat, baby?”
Taehyung giggles under his breath. “I need to watch out, remember?” He lifts a brow. “You know. Diet.”
Jungkook stares at him. That softness in his eyes never leaves, but it flattens just a little. Turns sharper, like he’s choosing to breathe through it.
His hand moves back to Taehyung’s belly, thumb brushing slow and firm across the place that had clenched earlier. “Hyung. You’re eating right now.”
Taehyung’s eyes are already closed again, lips parted like he’s about to say something cheeky. But the tone in Jungkook’s voice stops him.
He opens one eye.
Jungkook is serious. He’s so serious it’s almost funny—his entire energy is wrapped tight around Taehyung like armor. Like nothing else matters except this moment and his care.
“…Okay,” Taehyung finally says, voice light.
He lets his fingers drag down Jungkook’s cheek, brushing his jaw. “You always win.”
“I’m not trying to win.” Jungkook lifts his gaze and kisses the inside of Taehyung’s wrist. “I’m feeding my lovely spouse.”