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Yoongi is a man of control. He prides himself on that.
He keeps his emotions in check and doesn’t waste time with petty feelings. In the face of adversity, he stands tall (or, at least, as tall as he can get, which is apparently not very much). He doesn’t let his sentiments overpower his ability to think straight. He gets shit done. Arguably, it’s his best trait.
His second best trait is his being able to admit to his weaknesses. Puppies, for example. Sea turtles. Capuchin monkeys. Strawberry milk. Stiletto pumps (not on him). His dorm mate Kim Taehyung.
Ah, yes.
Doll-eyed and dopey Kim Taehyung. The one that speaks in a gently accented, sonorous voice and hides a malleable face behind an impassive expression Kim Taehyung. The one with the weirdly comical laugh (that Yoongi has definitely not committed to memory, because that’s sappy and unnecessary) Kim Taehyung. The one that seeks to absolutely destroy Yoongi’s composure, unintentionally and effortlessly.
Taehyung does a lot to fuck him over. (Grinning that grin. Being huggy. Being cuddly. Coming out of the bathroom with a towel, low around his waist. Et cetera.) Though over time Yoongi’s grown kind of resistant to most of them, there remains this one thing – one fucking thing about him that Yoongi cannot, for the love of him and everything holy, turn a blind eye on. It’s his kryptonite. It’s catnip.
See, Taehyung has this habit of wearing shirts that are slightly too big for him. And the thing is that he’s not a big guy. He comfortably resides somewhere between lean and soft, with muscle tones that linger in his arms and calves while a smidgen of chub settles in his stomach, and hipbones and collarbones that are prominent enough to feel in a hug (not that Yoongi notices). So, the shirts that he buys – and fuck knows why he gets them – do not wrap around his figure properly, especially not his shoulders, and therefore there are many a times where Yoongi would try and horribly fail to work on a ditty or a five-thousand-word essay because Taehyung would bound in the room and reach down to scratch his foot or something and the shirt would casually slip over one shoulder and reveal the skin there, golden and smooth, and oftentimes Yoongi can catch a glimpse of his collarbone and it’s just –
He’s just not that strong.
Yoongi feels like his stability is being tested very, very unfairly.
“It’s a fucking curse,” Yoongi mumbles after disclosing this information to his friend Namjoon, who laughs heartily in response and gives him a hefty pat on the back. Namjoon does a double major in Economics and Business Management and has that busy businessman-like aura around him. Fuckin’ nerd.
“Oh, man,” Namjoon hoots. “And he’s a sophomore? Dude, you’re gonna end up in prison.”
Yoongi’s ears heat up. Oh, right. That’s a thing. Long story short: there was a rooming issue with the sophomores that forced half of them into the senior’s territory. Being one of the single ones, Yoongi wasn’t excluded. He never had a choice.
He nudges him away. Ridiculous. It’s not like he’s underage.
“Yo, okay,” Namjoon says. “I’ll help you.”
Yoongi silently takes a bite out of his sandwich.
“So what you wanna do,” Namjoon says, “is to go up to him and say, ‘Taehyung, listen. I’m getting old and frail, and my heart just can’t work the way it used to, and the problem is that you’re just so ravishing and I desperately want to make out with y –”
Yoongi throws an empty carton of apple juice at his head.
–
It’s Saturday today, which means no classes for either of them. Yoongi’s in the middle of slaving away on a piece for his Music Production and Engineering class that’s due in two days. The curtains in his room are drawn. The door is closed. Everything is mute. Today, it’s just him and the sheets, and the notes, and the melody in his brain. Today –
Knock, knock, knock.
Three solid knocks on his door pierces through the silence and shatters whatever semblance of focus Yoongi had earlier into smithereens. He grits his teeth and exhales. He jots down a note on his music sheet. It’s fine. He's just going to ignore it –
Knock, knock, knock.
– and the person will –
Knock, knock.
– eventually –
Knock, knock, knock.
– take the fucking hint –
“Alright, I hear you! Fuck!”
He throws his pen down onto his desk, kicks his chair for good measure, and wrenches the door open. There stands Taehyung, looking like he’s staring death in the face. It’s really not much different from staring at Yoongi in the face.
Yoongi glares at him. He’s wearing that stupid cream sweater, the oversized one, the one with the mysterious gaping rip in the shoulder. His vexation flares.
“Should – should I come back later?”
“What do you want?” Yoongi snaps.
“I left my headphones in there,” Taehyung replies meekly. “Yesterday. You were out at the time –”
“You were in my room yesterday?”
“Just for a little while, I didn’t touch anythi –”
“Why were you in there?”
Taehyung shrinks. Quite impressive for his height. “I wanted to use your computer. Because my laptop's shitty. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I promise. Please don’t kill me, hyung.”
Yoongi stomps back to his desk and sits down. “Go get them.”
Wordlessly, Taehyung scurries inside. Yoongi picks up the pen that has fallen onto the floor, eyeing him. He’s standing by his wardrobe, looking around. He then kneels and lowers himself onto the floor, inspecting the underneath of Yoongi’s bed. Yoongi diverts his attention back to his empty music sheet and stares at it for about four seconds. He closes his eyes. It’s useless. The door’s open. There’s noise. Someone’s in here with him. This is unsafe and unideal working conditions. He can’t do this.
“You found them yet?” he inquires, feeling the early onset of a headache.
“No.”
Yoongi wheels his chair around at Taehyung’s direction. He’s by the window now, busily rummaging through the inside of his drawer.
“Where the fuck did you leave them?” Yoongi questions.
“I don’t remember,” Taehyung answers, ducking his head. “I swear I didn’t bring them out with me. I’ve looked everywhere else.”
“Hurry up. I need to work.”
“I know, I’m sorry, this is really – ah, where the hell did I put them?” He lets out an exasperated cry and turns to face Yoongi. Immediately, shamelessly, Yoongi’s eyes fall onto the dip of his collarbone and the subtle downwards slope of his left shoulder. God. God. He’s supposed to be mad at him.
“Hyung, I really can’t find them.” Taehyung looks troubled.
“Not my problem,” he mutters, dropping his gaze. “You’re the one that came into my room unsolicited.”
“I’m sorry,” Taehyung utters. “I’ll make it up to you.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Make it up to me. You can make it up to me by leaving right now.”
“Don’t be like that.” Taehyung braves a grin. “Seriously. I feel bad. I’m sorry. Tell me what you want. What’s – what are your current flaming desires?”
What he wants? His current flaming desire?
“I don’t know,” Yoongi says. “I don’t care.”
“You’ve gotta have something,” Taehyung prods. “Give me something. I’ll do it, whatever it is. C'mon. This is your chance to turn it around.”
Yoongi pretends to think. Taehyung brings his hands behind his back, waiting, and the fabric slides lower. The gates of hell would probably open right under his feet if he said what he wants to say.
“I just want peace and quiet so I can do my fucking assignment.”
“Oh.” But Taehyung doesn’t fucking leave. He just stands there. “Are you stressed?”
Stress. Ah. That’s the emotion. Yoongi shrugs. “I guess?”
“You want ice cream?” Taehyung offers. “That always de-stresses me. Or… pizza. Another great comfort food. Or…” Taehyung trails off into a thoughtful hum.
Yoongi’s eyes lazily travel back to his shoulder, and it looks – it looks so nice, golden and satiny. And maybe it’s the stress thinking for him and causing the sudden pinprick of heat in his gut, but he could probably totally de-stress there. On his skin. What a thought.
“What about,” Yoongi says, slowly, through the fog of shit-all in his brain, and – wow, is he really doing this, really, “a hug.”
Taehyung pauses. “You want a hug?”
“A hug, that’s right.” Yoongi nods. Nonchalant. “It’s foolproof. And I don’t have to keep hearing your stupid voice.”
“Ouch,” Taehyung says, but he doesn’t seem to be affected at all. “Uh. Okay.” He scratches the back of his head. “Let’s hug.”
Yoongi stands and strides over to him. He really is doing this. Perhaps his emotional control isn’t as refined as he had thought. “Let’s hug.”
Taehyung blinks. “Okay.”
And they do. And it’s – solid. Yoongi’s not big on hugging, really, but he knows enough about it that it releases the chemical oxy-something which helps relieve stress. He feels marginally better. Also, Taehyung feels good. Warm. They’ve hugged enough for Yoongi to know that, to like the way he feels soft but firm.
Taehyung starts patting the back of his head. “You’ll be okay, hyung.”
At this distance, he smells like fabric softener and sweat and something else powdery. At this distance, and – God forgive him – with a tilt of his head, Yoongi can just drag his lips across the expanse of skin right there.
Sometimes, even the strongest can crumble.
So he does it. He does the fucking thing he told himself he would never ever do, and it’s quick and dirty and barely there but Taehyung stiffens, because Yoongi knows the skin there is sensitive to touch, and loosens his grip around him.
“Yoongi-hyung?”
“What.”
“You okay?”
“Not really.” Another chaste press of the lips. Taehyung lightly but firmly pushes him away.
“Are you – what are you doing.”
Yoongi raises his head and takes Taehyung’s hand that’s on his shoulder. Rational Thought isn’t quite at the top of his mind right now. It’s Taehyung’s fault. Taehyung and his fucking loose shirts and sweaters that he persistently wears all the damn time. It’s all on him. Also: stress. The real enemy. “You know what I want?”
Taehyung blinks. “You’re being weird, hyung.”
“You promised me,” Yoongi says, “that you’d do whatever I wanted. Because you feel bad.”
“Yeah, but –”
“Then.” Yoongi nudges him against the wall.
“O-Okay, wait.” Taehyung places his hands on Yoongi’s chest. “Before you do – whatever it is you want to do, can I just say something?”
“Yeah.” He ducks his head, feeling the skin there once more, lips flittering against his bare shoulder, and Taehyung instinctively emits a small sigh. Yoongi physically feels the stress stream out of his pores.
“Okay," he breathes. “So. Hyung. We’ve known each other for a – a couple months now.”
Yoongi hums against his skin.
“So… okay, I’ll keep this short. I just wanna say that I’ve always found you really attractive since the day we met and – ah, that – kind of tickles.”
Yoongi parts his lips and drags it down to the spot above Taehyung’s collarbones. His fingers find his way onto his shoulder. He presses closer against him.
“Hyung –”
“Do you ever shut up?”
He lets out a soft, strangled hum as Yoongi moves his lips over that area. “Not really.”
“You should.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
Oh Lord, he’s so putty right now. Yoongi fights the urge to throw him onto his bed.
This is all kinds of wrong and all kinds of right.
Yoongi feels Taehyung's heart thrumming wildly from where his left hand is flat against his chest. He runs it down his sternum towards his stomach, sucking on the skin on the base of his neck, a quick little thing. Taehyung cranes his neck back in response, gently knocking his head against the wall. The only thing emanating from him are soft, clouded breaths, and he's obviously trying to control himself, and it’s so much for Yoongi right now.
This kid is undoubtedly going to be his downfall.
At least he can admit to that.
Taehyung’s hand flies up to cradle the base of Yoongi’s neck, holding him close, there, more, and Yoongi shivers from the contact. He becomes more eager, feeling and sucking and kissing, lips on warm skin, everywhere. He moves and presses open-mouthed kisses up his neck, slow but insistent, to the shadow just under his jaw, and Taehyung hums.
Yoongi pulls away from him then, levelling his gaze. His usually already intense eyes have gone darker, and his lips have gone slightly slack.
“I thought you had work to do,” Taehyung manages. His voice is just above a whisper. A lovely shade of pink taints his nose and cheeks.
Yoongi inches in closer, butterfly fingers skittering across his jawline, and shrugs. “I’ve got time.”
“Do you just – do you have a thing for shoulders?”
“Nah. Just you.”
Taehyung moves to kiss him then, sudden but tender. Yoongi is slightly taken aback; he takes some time to revel in this newfound sensation and find a working rhythm, and once he does, he presses him against the wall, flush against his torso and chest. It’s a slow, sweetly-burning affair, one that harbours hidden feelings and secret pining, and – wow, how the fuck did they get here?
Yoongi almost laughs. To think that this started with Taehyung’s lack of responsibility for his personal belongings. ...And his inability to wear clothing properly. Of course.
Taehyung lets out a faint moan when Yoongi sucks on his lower lip and fondles his nipple, a glorious sound that swiftly occupies Yoongi’s brain, and Yoongi is so fucking close to turning him around and pushing him onto the bed and – but he doesn’t, because this is totally not the time (yet) and he does have control, okay.
So he kisses deeper instead, pushing his tongue in, one hand on Taehyung’s cheek and jaw and the other now flitting across his back. Just then Taehyung arches up a little and somewhat desperately guides his wandering hand towards his ass. Yoongi eagerly familiarises himself with the contours there, kneading and caressing, before grasping the back of his thigh and bringing his leg up to wrap around his waist. Thrilled, Taehyung pushes his hips forward and down, groans when his cock trails up against the inside of Yoongi's thigh, scorching. Yoongi's breath hitches. He thrusts back, into Taehyung's palm, no less, and the friction and the heat bubbling low in his stomach is too much, too much, and he knows he has to back away.
He parts from him then – God knows how he had the strength to do that – and rests his forehead against his shoulder, heart wild and erratic and full. He stays like that, breathing for a while, pulling himself back together. His mind is flocculent but sharp; he doesn’t know what to think.
Taehyung sighs, fingers carding through his hair. “That's all?”
Yoongi just grunts.
“You should be stressed more often.”
Yoongi lifts his head, putting some distance between them. Taehyung takes his hand and laces their fingers together. Yoongi looks down at it.
“What are we?” he utters jokingly.
Taehyung laughs. “Will there be a part two to this?”
“Who knows.”
Taehyung pulls him in closer, feigning exasperation. “Ah, man, I’ve planned out this entire confession scene for the future, like, a super cute one, and you come and kiss my shoulders like this.”
Yoongi takes a few steps backwards and sits down on the bed, pulling him forward. Already there are blooming dark spots around his neck. His eyes glaze over at the sight.
“I guess now you’re gonna have to wear things other than your oversized crap,” Yoongi says.
“In public, yes.” Taehyung’s eyes glint, coquettish. “But I want a part two soon, and maybe a part three and four, so never in front of you.”
Yoongi's half-hard cock twitches with interest. “Let's finish part one first.”
Yoongi is a man of control, but unfortunately there’s this one compounding factor in his life that seeks to destroy it, and it comes in the form of blank stares, a loud voice, killer kisses, offset charms, and 178 centimeters of height. He doesn’t mind, though. Not at all.