Chapter Text
no one’s keeping score anymore.
not when the only one that mattered — 2–1 — is already burned into memory, screamed into the night as bodies slammed together on the field.
no one’s counting in this house — not the buttons coming undone, not the shots poured down throats, and not the kisses stolen by slick mouths, devoured whole. restraint is an afterthought in the wake of victory, slung on coat-racks like discarded jackets.
the air smells like alcohol and sin, thick with heady perfume and the musk of sweat, desire sticky sweet on skin. music pulses through the house like a live thing, a deep throb that matches the rhythm of bodies gyrating together, flickers of strobe lights painting them in blurry flashes of neon and shadow.
on the stairs, a girl taehyung vaguely recognizes is pressed up against the banister with her head thrown back, face open in a gasp. her partner leans into her, his hand vanishing under her dress and clearly not idle.
the beer pong someone had set up in the kitchen sits half-abandoned. a guy leans in to lick tequila off another’s neck, salt catching on their lips and the tang of lime traded between tongues. a wicked laugh rings through a second later, followed by the metallic clink of a belt buckle that draws whistles from the crowd.
SNU’s celebratory spirit has gone bacchanal real quick, the proverbial scoreboard smudged with lipstick. everywhere there’s noise, pleasured sighs hidden in corners and up the stairs undercut by the cold crack of beer cans opening.
taehyung lounges in the middle of it all, long fingers idly tracing the worn leather of the sofa. his choice of poison sits forgotten on the table, still glinting with remnants of its contents. some of it had ended up trickling down his throat, the skin there glistening, traces of the very drink sloshed over its rim and dripping along his neck from a collision with an impressively drunk hoseok.
jiwoo is draped next to him like a silk scarf, his legs sprawled wide enough for her thigh to slip between his. she smells expensive, like vanilla and something darker. he doesn’t mind it. she’s pretty, gorgeous even, in that polished, deliberate way. she knows how to dress, knows the way it clings for him to peel it off. knows to slink into taehyung’s space, to press up the plush swell of her breast against his side.
“you’re awfully quiet tonight,” jiwoo purrs, voice laced in a teasing pout. “aren’t you’re supposed to be celebrating?”
taehyung’s lips twitch. “i am,” he hums.
the lazy curl of his palm on her bare thigh is more instinct than intent, a careless touch only a man like him can afford. but it burns all the same, the heat of his hand heavy on her skin. jiwoo shifts beneath it, body responding with a preen.
across the room, jeongguk laughs from where he’s decked out on a beanbag. taehyung is clearly checked out, his mind god knows where, and jeongguk sees right through it.
jeongguk’s smile is pure provocation, like he’s got taehyung’s brand of distraction all figured out. he tilts his glass to jiwoo, who’s draped more like decoration than company, as if to say, not your best work, hyung.
taehyung ignores him, but the little fucker isn’t doesn’t let up. he strides over and drops down right next to him, shoving taehyung with a folded knee.
“you’re distracted,” jeongguk goads. his shirt is damp, sticking to his skin, and the loose stretch of his smirk is a dead giveaway — guy’s probably been passing blunts for hours. “looking for something, captain? or someone?”
taehyung’s mouth lifts into a slow smirk, edged with something playful. he rolls his eyes.
“it’s rude to insinuate that when i have company,” taehyung retorts.
jeongguk’s grin widens. “and yet,” he says, “your eyes can’t seem to stay put.”
taehyung studies jeongguk’s bloodshot eyes, the younger’s gaze stupidly hazy, and snorts. “yeah, well, at least i can hold mine open.”
jiwoo skims the sharp line of taehyung’s jaw, clearly tired of being left out. manicured fingers graze over taehyung’s skin as she tips his face toward her, equal parts pleading and demanding.
“what’s on your mind, if it isn’t me?” she wonders. there’s a bite to the way she caresses the words, sharp as the curve of her nails. “pay attention to me, taehyung-ah.”
“i am,” taehyung echoes. he parrots the two syllables he’d said to her within the hour, this time with an edge of amusement.
his gaze flickers back to her, attention settling with a deliberate, almost lazy shift. jiwoo’s lips are painted jewel-red, specks of glitter dusting her shoulders. taehyung’s lips lift in a slow, indulgent smile, catching the way her eyes draw to his mouth.
“good,” she breathes.
jeongguk snorts, the taunting sound cutting through them. it lingers, needling, and jiwoo falters, her face tightening for just a second.
“yeah, keep telling yourself that,” jeongguk mutters.
taehyung doesn’t bite the bait—but the low exhale, that slight quirk to his lips, betrays he’s entertained. he shifts to re-centre, steering away from jiwoo with a lazy tilt. his intention is clear, the stretch of his neck deliberate: a sharp retort sits right on taehyung’s tongue, ready to be tossed to jeongguk’s face.
but the words never make it past his teeth.
instead, his gaze flickers past jeongguk’s shoulder and catches, snagged on the doorway.
there, framed in the low-lit fever of the party, yoongi stands.
no one’s keeping score anymore — no one but taehyung.
he’d been wandering, tallying bodies, curiosity steeping with each new face, his mind tracing a single burning thought of whether one person in particular will show.
the moment taehyung’s gaze catches on yoongi, the count stops.
the party fades, distilled into the space between them. taehyung’s worldview hones into yoongi like a flame finding its wick; the air quivers in soft distortion, boundaries of objects melting into another.
and yet, yoongi stays impossibly vivid, outlined into startling focus — glowing, like cherry red sparks reflecting off a blunt jeongguk’s probably smoked.
he hears jeongguk whistle. taehyung’s throat works, exhaling through a low, rattled laugh.
he stares, subtle as a hurricane. tearing his eyes away would be a betrayal, a death sentence; he can’t afford to, not when yoongi looks the way he does.
so taehyung looks, etches those delicate features, from the gentle slope of that button nose to those sharp-slitted eyes — dark and catlike, so deeply engraved into the skin around his eyes they could throw off sparks.
something about him, half drenched and glowing under the low light — is as mundane as it is otherworldly.
hazy strokes of purple spill on yoongi’s skin like moonlight staining porcelain, the doll-like curve of his lips drawn out, exaggerated.
tousled strands of ink-black hair spill over his face in soft waves, brushing the slender curve of his neck and shoulders. it wasn’t styled so much as it was artfully ruined, the kind of mess that came from hands dragging through it.
taehyung gaze lingers, imagining the feel of his fingers threading through that dark silk. imagines the way it’d look, that face pretty and debauched, tipped up with a tug for taehyung to drink in — skin flushed and mouth parted, those eyes sweetly wanting.
he’s beautiful. something like a dream, and just as softly ruinous — a kind of allure that stirs a pull to chase.
and taehyung’s always been good at chasing.
“there he is,” jeongguk says. he jerks his cup toward yoongi, inhibitions all but ash tapped loose from a blunt’s end. his eyebrows lift, surprise melting into vague interest — like desire casually worn. “didn’t think he’d show . . damn.”
yoongi’s leather jacket hangs loose over him, smooth and weathered from years of use.
and then he sheds it off — hangs it on that coat rack slung with everyone else’s reservations.
taehyung’s eyes dip low, lower — dangerously slow, half-lidded, heavy with it. something in his eyes shutter, goes dark, slack in an inward groan at what he sees.
and there is a lot to see.
the first thing taehyung sees is skin — so much creamy skin it shouldn’t be allowed, laid out on display like an offering. what had been a glimpse — the delicate dip of his collarbones, the pale expanse of an exposed neckline — now stretches into more, his skin halogen under the light; bare shoulders and slender arms, the little strip of his navel when he reached up to hang his jacket.
yoongi’s wearing a satin camisole, the fabric shimmering in shades of faded blush and champagne that spill over him like liquid light. lace overlays frame the bodice, the top looking like it’s been plucked from another time, and then dragged into the now by someone who knew exactly how to wear it wrong. taehyung wonders at the feel of it, fingers twitching to slip under delicate satin and trace at the soft skin there, maybe brand the long shapes of his fingers across the narrow span of him.
taehyung’s gut drips wild, desire tight and molten, licking at his restraints like fire devouring coal. it pools low — lower — dark heat curling into the shape of prowling, clawing hands.
the satin clung to his tiny, tiny waist like indecent hands — prowling, clawing hands — the kind of drape that felt like it was meant to be removed more than worn, begging to be touched and let slip.
it’s a flimsy thing, fabric taehyung could undo with a tug. the contrast is suggestive; satin that peeked through worn leather, the delicate material buried underneath something that looked almost harsh in comparison, rough and heavy on a wispy frame.
yoongi’s jeans, distressed to near indecency, hung low on narrow hips, his waist so small they’re barely held up by his valiant belt. pale skin teased through the rips in the denim, exposing torn fishnets that clung to his thighs like second skin. it’s the smallest things — the jagged threads, the tension of fabric that stretched over his thighs — that made everything so titillating.
taehyung’s mind wanders. how easy it would be, to slip a finger in and stretch out a hole in the mesh, graze at that soft heat until a finger becomes a palm, and a palm becomes the press of his cock in between those hips.
“jesus,” jeongguk mutters, eyeing taehyung. “you done fucking him in your head?”
jeongguk’s seen that look — seen what it what could do. he’s seen taehyung level a stare just like this, dark-gazed and predatory, with a smolder he knows people would love to catch on fire with. he’s seen legs press tight from the intensity, pupils blowing wide.
rinse, cycle and repeat — women leaning closer, the lines of their bodies squirming, and men with their lips parted, caught between the sweet indecision of fleeing or falling to their knees.
jeongguk can’t decide whether to pity yoongi, or envy him.
“why haven’t i seen him in parties?” taehyung asks.
he ignores jeongguk’s question entirely. it’s rhetorical at this point; his captain’s gaze doesn’t leave yoongi once.
how can it? how can it, when yoongi looks like something that shouldn’t exist outside fantasies taehyung carves on nights he can really drag the friction of his palm out?
“not his thing,” jeongguk shrugs. he glances at jiwoo, masking his amusement into the rim of his cup. “doesn’t usually show up, no matter how many times we ask.”
taehyung hums, rolling his neck. there’s that slant to his lips — intrigued, almost a faint smirk, if not for the strange way his gaze has softened.
“makes sense. with the way he looks . .”his voice trails off at its tail, the sweep of his eyes a languid, deliberate thing. “letting him loose in a crowd like this? they’d eat him alive.”
jeongguk snorts into his drink. “like you’re not planning to do the same.”
“is that min yoongi? the council president?” jiwoo interjects, curiosity landing like a blade. she traces the shape of taehyung’s belt buckle, letting the ghost of them linger there. “didn’t know he could look like this.”
“like what?” jeongguk asks.
jiwoo follows taehyung’s gaze. presses close, fingers hooked into the clasp. a hair’s length from undoing. “looks —“
“pretty,” taehyung murmurs, that deep voice a low, intimate thing. jiwoo’s hand falls limp.
the word is said soft, absent-minded, like a thought that’s escaped before he could catch it. but it lingers, heavy and charged, a single word that lands like some unspoken claim.
because yoongi is pretty — maddeningly pretty. and soft, in a way that makes taehyung want to close the distance, to press him against the nearest wall and see if that softness yields, test how pliant he could make yoongi, find out whether those lips part for something else than a drink.
yoongi’s a vision of silk and sin, pretty in all the ways taehyung wants him undone.
jeongguk sees the the way jiwoo’s cheeks clench. he doesn’t say a word, just extends a lazy hand to pass her the rest of taehyung’s drink.
it barely makes it to her grasp before it’s downed into her throat. jeongguk’s mouth twitches.
taehyung keeps him there, keeps yoongi pinned under his stare. he counts to three.
one. two —
jiwoo gasps softly.
this one’s taehyung’s fault. it’s his fault, because the moment those elusive eyes flicker over, taehyung’s grip tightens, fingers twitching on jiwoo’s thigh.
he sees the way yoongi’s gaze strays to his palm. sees the tiny nudge to a trimmed brow, tongue darting out to wet his lips — a habit taehyung’s starting to notice. even at the field, that tongue flicked out habitually, yoongi playing with it, licking off the edges of taehyung’s control.
all it does is drag taehyung’s eyes to that pretty mouth — soft and tempting, the gloss catching the light like it’s begging to be kissed. he can almost taste the burst of cherry on his tongue, trapped in between his lips and sucked clean.
taehyung’s gaze slides — hot and honeyed, up to yoongi’s eyes. yoongi’s head tilts, gaze unreadable, mouth a soft part. taehyung’s lips tick into a half-smile, and he pulls his hand off jiwoo.
jeongguk huffs, his glance knowing.
“what’s the matter, captain. cat got your tongue?”
taehyung’s eyes bore into yoongi, at that damn little tilt, the elegant line of his neck exposed and begging for teeth, and thinks —
yeah. he got me, alright.
⚽︎
yoongi’s back is turned to him.
taehyung had been content to watch a little longer — it didn’t take much before yoongi was hauled into the chaotic circus that is jung hoseok, who’s somehow even more plastered than when his head had nailed taehyung’s chin earlier. there’s something endearing about it, watching yoongi get tangled in hoseok’s jumble of half-finished sentences, jimin hanging on every word like it spun pure gold. yoongi blinked once, then twice, a faint furrow creasing his brows that paired charmingly odd with his patient little smile.
taehyung’s transported back into the field for a moment, the glare of the floodlights softened in his vision the moment he saw yoongi’s dreamy little smile — bashful and unguarded, taehyung’s chest tight in a sweet-tight ache. a thought blooms, unbidden: could he draw out that smile again tonight? maybe even sweeter this time, something only taehyung could bury into.
could he coax more out of him? a soft gasp, maybe, or a breathless little whine. that soft, raspy, drawl, a travesty of itself around the shape of taehyung’s name?
when taehyung finds him again, yoongi’s edges are softer, a little loose from whatever hoseok and jimin roped him into. his hair, black and unruly, is framing his face in a haphazard halo, strands falling just out of place in a way that makes taehyung’s fingers itch. he’s a little undone, but it suits him — dangerously well, if taehyung’s being honest.
he sees the faintest trace of a pout on yoongi’s mouth — it’s subtle, a soft brush of a thing, but taehyung’s long acquainted with the shape of yoongi’s mouth from all his staring.
yoongi’s hand drifts to his arm, rubbing absently — like he’s cold, or maybe finally aware of how bare it feels. the movement is small, mindless even, but it hooks taehyung’s need to warm him up, trace a pathway of heat on that skin with his palms until yoongi melts.
taehyung wraps his hand around yoongi’s arm the moment they’re close enough, long fingers grazing over the same patch of skin yoongi had brushed, and gives him a playful tug.
except, he’s miscalculated — his own strength, or yoongi’s unsteadiness, maybe both.
either way, the force of it sends yoongi stumbling straight into taehyung, proximity halved in a single pull.
with hoseok, taehyung had just laughed; steadied him on his two feet and sent him on his merry way.
but this is yoongi — so taehyung keeps him right where he is, pressed close to taehyung’s chest, that waist cradled firm in a big palm.
it’s just as he imagines, holding yoongi’s waist; taehyung’s fingers cover more of yoongi than even he anticipated, the contrast dizzying. yoongi feels small, feels achingly delicate in his grip — easy to move, easy to pull close.
if taehyung used both hands, he could swallow that waist whole.
time suspends itself into the liminal hours between midnight and dawn, nestled into the meagre space between bodies that curl into each other like quotation marks.
everything hovers in that dangerous space — face, lips, breath — yoongi’s head tips back instinctively, throat bared, spine curved in a soft, wanton arch. dark, feline eyes peer up at him through silken lashes, and taehyung’s throat dries.
it hits him, suddenly — there’s no mistaking it for anything but deliberate. it’s hard to miss, now that taehyung knows what to look for, these calculated acts of interest; the way those lashes quiver, yoongi’s lower body so sweetly pliable.
this is yoongi flirting.
this is him throwing his name into the ring, long, beautiful hands wrapped graciously around controller no. 2. this is yoongi toeing the centre line, wondering if taehyung will take the shot.
taehyung’s mind doesn’t race; it sprints, a flood of filthy supercuts in his head — yoongi’s sweat-sheened body beneath him, silky thighs clamped and shaking around taehyung’s hips. pretty eyes dazed, rolled back under those lashes, and that mouth swollen, shiny with taehyung’s spit.
whatever it is that yoongi sees on taehyung’s face makes his breath catch — taehyung can feel it, the soft, uneven hitch that travels through yoongi’s ribs, rippling beneath taehyung’s thumb. without thinking, he strokes.
“careful there,” he murmurs, the skim of his deep voice low, teasing.
yoongi blinks, this pretty shade of startled, before his expression smooths out. his gaze lowers to taehyung’s hand on his waist.
“you could lose a hand that way,” he drawls mildly.
“i’ll take my chances,” taehyung says, a corner of his mouth raised. his voice dips, something just for yoongi. “hey.”
the older man shifts, just a fraction, enough for taehyung’s palm to slip off his waist. still, taehyung keeps his grip on yoongi’s arm. yoongi doesn’t pry that hand away.
“hi, taehyung-ah.” a beat, and then he teases, that low rasp like a scrape of velvet. he throws taehyung a private little smile. “congratulations on the win. so you’re an alright player.”
taehyung’s lips twitch, tugged into a half-smile, one brow arched in mock incredulity. “an alright player?” he echoes. “that was an alright compliment.”
yoongi smiles, laughs, even, and taehyung’s pulse jumps, chasing that sound.
he must be staring again — the cut of his gaze angled right where he has yoongi pinned. he must be, because yoongi’s stare wavers, eyes flitting away, unable to hold the weight of it.
taehyung feels his gaze soften, something low and quiet burning in his chest.
“i was wondering if i’d run into you tonight,” taehyung muses, voice low-lilt warm, tracing the outline of each facial feature like he’s sketching. “to what do i owe the pleasure?”
“jimin,” yoongi supplies, simple, weighted. he wears fond disgruntlement just as well, the curl to his lips just as sweet. “he wears you down after the third try or so.”
“ah,” taehyung makes an immediate sound of understanding, a near-snort pulling his lips. “my condolences, truly. i’ve been there.”
yoongi shakes his head, that small slip of a giggling smile like champagne upended, and taehyung’s brows raise, impossibly taken.
and yet, there’s a soft tendril of concern at the glazed quality to yoongi’s smile — no matter how lovely — or the slur to his speech that’s become more pronounced. he has no clue how much yoongi’s had to drink, no knowledge of any pre game drinks or cups thrust into his hands since taehyung last lost track of him. it makes him wonder how much of it is booze, and how much is just yoongi.
“hyung,” taehyung hums. he bends down a fraction, keeping their eyes levelled. “are you drunk?”
yoongi answers with an angelic little smile.
“just tipsy,” he says quietly, blinking in tiny, deliberate flutters, like he’s trying to convince taehyung. “not enough to skew my decisions.”
taehyung’s mouth flits in amusement, his gaze searching yoongi’s face. “yeah? and what kind of decisions are you planning on making today, hyung?”
yoongi’s countenance flickers, suddenly wrapped in shy hesitancy. his gaze lowers. taehyung follows, intrigued.
“jimin said some interesting things,“ yoongi murmurs, breathy. a soft rasp. his gaze darts around taehyung’s face. “and i’m still deciding if i want to find out.”
taehyung’s fingers flex against yoongi’s skin. he takes his time, dark eyes roaming slow, indulgent.
his focus drifts to the way his hand circles yoongi’s arm with ease, fingers meeting without much resistance. there’s barely any distinction in circumference between his arm and forearm, the shape of it tapering seamlessly, taehyung able to slide down to his wrist without pause.
taehyung’s struck by the sharp reminder of just how slender yoongi is, something he’d always known but never truly registered until now.
he feels fragile under the large cradle of taehyung’s palm, a subtle squeeze teetering into the realm of too rough, too callous.
the gut-curl in taehyung’s stomach rumbles, twists into a molten pool of heat. yoongi’s disarmingly delicate, almost begging to be handled.
it’s enough to stir something protective, something like a gentler shade of ruin, a primal shade of sweet. the thought unfurls, slow and lewd: how easy it would be to fold yoongi into his lap, to bend him, spread him open, hold him up like he weighed nothing.
how pliant would yoongi be, movement shaped by taehyung’s grip — he thinks of thready wrists pinned into place, of yoongi pressed down into the mattress, of the needy stir of yoongi’s hips guided by taehyung’s coaxing palms, lifted up only to be sunk down deep.
“so tell me, mister president,” taehyung murmurs, a slow stroke of honey. “what’s the verdict?”
because it's clear that yoongi's made his choice. hasn't he?
he’s standing right here, tucked close to taehyung’s heat, his leather jacket hung and abandoned by choice. his arms are conspicuously bare, dressed much too sheer for the air conditioning, body untouched by substantial fabric and hitched in something between a burn and a shiver.
yoongi doesn’t immediately respond, his eyes dropping to the space between them while he considers his next words.
“i’m still thinking on it,” yoongi finally murmurs.
he doesn’t meet taehyung’s eyes. doesn’t give him the easy way in, instead letting his lashes brush coyly against his cheekbones, a subtle tilt to his head.
taehyung leans in, keen to the way yoongi’s body subtly shifts in response.
“are you sure?” taehyung asks, deep voice pitched low against yoongi’s ear, a dizzying blend of soft and husky. “because you look cold, hyung. you look like you could use my jacket.”
and there it is — the bet taehyung left graciously unsaid finally brought to the table, loaded as a shot of whisky.
yoongi exhales. taehyung’s drawn to the contradiction; the light scoff tucked in the corner of his smile, the lovely flush on his face that looks warm to the touch.
“i was waiting for you to gloat,” yoongi teases.
taehyung quirks a brow. “don’t be a sore loser, hyung,” he replies smoothly. “i won fair and square.”
he steps back, and yoongi visibly breathes out. taehyung’s mouth slants into a tiny smirk, dark eyes fixed on yoongi as he shrugs his jacket off. it slips off each shoulder in a slow, deliberate roll, toned muscles shifting with each fluid motion.
yoongi’s eyes lower, tracing the stretch of taehyung’s broad chest from the movement, the strip of warm, gilded skin. when his gaze flicks up, taehyung holds it, moving closer.
“come here,” taehyung murmurs, cadence sweet — at odds with the lazy scrape of teeth against his lower lip. it cuts through a heated smile, his gaze warm and heavy. “i want to see you in my clothes.”
yoongi looks up, gaze subtly veiled under his lashes. taehyung drinks in the diffused shadows spilling atop his cheekbones, the way his skin shimmers under the moving lights, a pale canvas painted violet.
this close, the soft pulse of music hushes into a lull. everything blurs into a hazy, erotic sheen — yoongi is dangerous like this, face crafted from porcelain but worn like sin, the kind of allure you want to ruin and worship both.
he smells good, too, clean and citrusy, cologne wrapped around taehyung’s senses like an invitation.
taehyung drapes the jacket over yoongi’s shoulders. his fingers linger a little too long along the delicate curve of yoongi’s neck, brushing just beneath his jaw before settling against his collarbone. he keeps it there, fingertips memorising the softness, the heat of his skin.
“this looks like it should never be worn outside the bedroom,” taehyung comments lightly, thumb skimming along the scalloped edges of satin.
yoongi cocks his head, musing. “are you shaming me?”
“on the contrary,” taehyung assures, his tongue slowly dragging over his lip. "i'm in a much more admiring mood."
something in his chest seizes, yanked out of his lungs by the way yoongi tilts close, expression sin-soft — head tipped up, eyes shiny and half-lidded, something pleading in the way his lips pries itself open around a shallow breath.
it’s like he’s offering himself up, too proud to be outright, waiting for taehyung to make a move — whether consciously or not, taehyung’s all out of mental capacity to figure it out, clarity stolen by the way yoongi blinks.
“you look good,” taehyung praises, watching the way yoongi’s cheeks bloom pink.
it stirs something reckless, something dangerous — but taehyung allows himself this, allows the soft brush of his knuckles along that lovely blush. he was right; it is warm to the touch.
“well, this is cozy.”
they both look to find jimin standing there, face split into an obnoxiously smug smirk.
“don’t stop on my account,” he continues wryly, voice carrying just enough amusement to draw blood. “i was just getting invested.”
taehyung, to his credit, doesn’t waver — he just sighs out a smile, turning to humour him.
“what do you want, jiminie?”
“nothing,” jimin hums, eyes glittering with a mix of curiosity and something smug. “just sightseeing.“ a red solo cup dangles in his fingers, which he carelessly waves at the jacket with. “right, well. let’s cut to the chase. what’s all this then?”
a soft pink creeps up to yoongi’s ears. he takes an instinctive step back, like a half-inch could somehow spare him from jimin’s pestering.
“why is he suddenly British?” yoongi grumbles under his breath.
taehyung flattens his mouth, suppressing a snort.
“i won a bet,” taehyung explains simply. and then, muttering quietly to yoongi, “he does that when he’s a few drinks in.”
yoongi’s lips twitch.
jimin’ brows lift, eyeing the jacket with renewed interest. taehyung just raises a brow back, the two of them locked in a wordless standoff — possessive, kim. what’s going on in that head of yours?
taehyung can’t really blame him. the jacket’s a tangible claim, the weight of it unabashed.
taehyung can’t quite explain it either.
his curiosity started with a flicker; they first met at the campus lounge, yoongi perched on the couch like a lazy dream — pale, dainty ankles crossed on the floor, one palm buried under his cheek and the other tucked between his thighs, sweater-sleeve snagged in a loose grip. dark, catlike eyes — framed by lashes so long it seemed unreal — flicked up to him with lazy interest; or maybe disinterest was a better word, the way they quickly darted away. his voice, unexpectedly low, slithered out of him in a sugar-coarse grit that didn’t match his pretty face.
the flicker caught on like dry kindling to a flame.
sure, taehyung liked them pretty. but pretty didn’t come in a shortage. pretty alone couldn’t account for the inexplicable need to drag his fingers through yoongi’s hair just to see it fall out of place. pretty alone wouldn’t make taehyung wonder what it’d sound like — what it’d taste like — having yoongi laugh through a moan.
pretty alone couldn’t possibly make taehyung stupid with the need to make yoongi smile, to finally figure out what had all his friends so enamoured with yoongi.
jimin backs down, breaking the stare with a quick grin — taehyung’s stare isn’t something even jimin dares challenge often.
“interesting,” jimin drawls, voice low and sing-song. “somehow, this bet feels a lot more scandalous than peeling a layer off.” then, “well, don’t let me stop the foreplay.”
yoongi makes a soft sound in his throat. “it’s not —“
“oh, it absolutely is,” jimin interrupts with a grin, lifting his cup as if to toast. “at least have the decency to make out in the hallway like everyone else.” he gestures broadly at the room around them. “like, really? right here? where the beer pong table’s got a direct line of sight?”
“you’re so dramatic,” yoongi grumbles, while taehyung just regards jimin with a lazy sort of amusement, the curl of his smile indulgent.
“nobody invited you to watch, you know,” taehyung muses. “and yet, here you are. front and centre.”
“you know i can’t resist a good show, jagi,” jimin hums, eyes gleaming. “just holler if i need to clear the coffee table for you — wouldn’t want any accidents.”
jimin shoots another glance at yoongi, whose face is flaming in earnest now. then his gaze flicks to taehyung with a shit-stirring grin taehyung instantly distrusts, all too aware of jimin’s penchant to stoke the coals under taehyung’s ass.
“oh, and yoongi hyung,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. except he doesn’t once stray his eyes away from taehyung. “a couple of yonsei kids just rolled in. one of them’s looking for you.”
there it is — jimin must’ve caught it; that split-second of taehyung scoffing, licking at his cheek while his eyes rolled.
“me?” yoongi asks, his tone laced with surprise. he pauses, before a glint of recognition crosses his face. “ah, it’s probably jaehyun.”
jimin must’ve, because his whole face lights up deviously, the kind of grin he gets when he knows exactly how to poke the proverbial bear with his proverbial little stick.
“oh, he’s cute,” jimin purrs, stretching through the syllables with a glint. his eyes ricochet between the two, before continuing. “anyway, i’ll leave you two to it. got a real celebration waiting for jeon.“
he tosses them a wink, the bastard, flipping a lazy salute before wandering off to the kitchen.
yoongi watches him for a beat. “should i tell him he’s going the wrong way?” he says dryly. “i saw jeongguk heading the other direction.”
“he’ll live,” taehyung says with a flick of his hand, voice flippant. “the world could do with a break from tweedledee and tweedledum.”
he’s rewarded with another laugh — soft, muffled by a tug of teeth, but sweet nonetheless.
“so… jaehyun,” taehyung murmurs; hooks two fingers into the pocket at the hem, thumb circling.
“mm.” yoongi hums. he cocks his head just slightly. “what about him?”
taehyung’s palm flattens against yoongi waist, fingers finding the jut of his hip through fabric. the response is immediate—yoongi’s body sighs under his touch.
“the striker, right?” taehyung muses, his tone light, but his gaze lingers, raking over Yoongi’s face before arching a brow. “planning to say hi?”
yoongi tilts back just enough, eyes sharp and assessing. “why?” he counters smoothly. “do you want me to?”
taehyung exhales a low laugh, deep and breathy. “not particularly.”
“are you jealous?” yoongi teases. it’s a breathy thing, his voice, the upper dip of his lips curled playfully.
“jealous?” taehyung repeats, slow and deliberate. the smirk tucked in his mouth turns wolfish, and his voice deepens, pulled into low silk. “is it that obvious?”
yoongi’s gaze stutters, and his head tilts; coaxes itself to bare his neck like yanked by a string. taehyung’s unsure if yoongi himself is aware of such deference — but the heat in taehyung’s stomach twists hard and sharp.
“are you planning on stopping me?” yoongi asks, words rolling off his tongue in a dangerous lilt.
taehyung’s hand slips into the space under the jacket, tracing over satin. they venture somewhere bolder, sliding under to brand against bare skin, the graze of his fingers unhurried.
“do you want me to stop you?” he murmurs, his voice husky, the words brushing between them like smoke.
yoongi’s lips part, but no sound escapes. it’s just this — just the soft-warm pink tinting his cheeks, the slow, fluttering lashes.
when yoongi doesn’t answer, taehyung lets out a low, playful hum. his fingers tighten slightly, a gentle squeeze just above yoongi’s hip, enough to draw a soundless hitch. “didn’t think so.”
it’s addictive — the glass tint in yoongi’s gaze, the soft furrow belying eyes that could cut. those eyes flick up to him, sharp-slitted dark beneath the sweep of his lashes. “you’re so full of yourself,” he chides, low and drawling.
it’s a flimsy attempt at exasperation; yoongi’s voice drags slow and thick, like the words are sticky in his mouth and he wants them licked off.
taehyung could do exactly that. could lick into that mouth and trace the way yoongi shapes his mouth around vowels — it wouldn’t take much, to pull yoongi closer, to feel that lazy, drawn-out voice vibrate against his mouth. but just as he’s about to, something over yoongi’s shoulder catches his eyes. or rather, someone. it’s entirely accidental — just the sharp clink of beer bottles being rummaged through, the flicker of a body hauling itself upright once they’ve acquired their choice cut of alcohol.
the figure takes a swig of his prize. it isn’t until his hand drops, fingers wrapped around the bottleneck, that taehyung finds himself staring straight at jaehyun.
as if sensing taehyung’s stare, jaehyun’s gaze snaps right to him — then roves down, right where yoongi is.
well, shit. speak of the devil.
taehyung traces the movement, then meets jaehyun’s gaze head-on.
his mouth flits, a lazy flick of a biting smirk.
his chest stirs. it’s a feeling he’s familiar with: the sharp buzz of competitive spirit stoked. it’s the heady thrum in his veins, raw and electric, like tasting ozone in his lungs. except this isn’t the field, and the stakes aren’t goals anymore — it’s yoongi, unwitting, the subtle tilt to his head casting jaehyun in perfect line of sight.
taehyung knows exactly what to look for: traces the tension down to the taut grip of his fingers around the battle, the slow, practised jerk to his neck. jaehyun’s face is unreadable, but nothing can smother the low flame in his eyes, the near-imperceptible furrow between his brows while he figures it out.
no matter. taehyung lets him stew.
“tae?” yoongi’s calm voice calls to him, the words slurring just enough, only a tinted haze betraying his tipsiness.
taehyung, impossibly, caves. hums, angling his stare down to catch, all over again, how pink yoongi’s lips look. yoongi shifts, cocking his head, the motion causing the jacket to slip off one shoulder. from across the room, jaehyun’s eyes drag downward, trailing over bare, inviting skin. he isn’t subtle.
taehyung leans in, voice brushing against yoongi’s ear. “jaehyun’s watching you.”
“what?” yoongi stiffens, his spine arching instinctively. surprise flashes across his face, but there’s something else there — something of a soft give, a little flicker of interest that’s quickly tucked away.
taehyung arches a brow. something in his stomach grows claws, scraping at his ribs.
“your striker,” taehyung hums, traces of something playful —something dangerous — in the way his smirk drips. “he’s watching you.”
“let him.”
“hm. should i?”
taehyung lifts his hand up to yoongi’s exposed shoulder. he drags his thumb over the curve, before dipping down to press a kiss just above the ridge of bone, the brush of his mouth soft but searing. yoongi’s breath catches, quiet but sharp — a shudder taehyung feels more than hears.
taehyung pulls the jacket back up. smoothes it over yoongi’s shoulder, and drags his fingers down — traces the thv stitched on the back while he stares jaehyun down, features whittled into stone.