Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s something about the family mansion saloon which Taehyung always hated―and it’s hard to tell why, really, but the constantly glimmering gold of the large portrait frames, the legs of otherwise glass tables, even the seams to the sofa cushions which have the privilege of having his ass set upon them at the moment―all of this is rather distracting, tasteless.

The same can easily be said for this entire family… assembly, called together a measly two days after their grandfather’s funeral. Taehyung’s almost forgotten about the nature of the event, really, with how grand and almost ridiculous the entire thing has been―though, that certainly depends on whether serving nineteenth century champagne after a burial is considered as such. 

“So,” Taehyung eventually breaks the silence, amidst the occasional flutter of papers their lawyer is looking through, leaning over to dip half of a vanilla biscuit inside the cup of his Da-Hong Pao tea. He glances up, eyebrow quirked, “Will we discuss what is that we’ve been called over for or not? I’d rather we settle this sooner than later.”

Silence, a meek resonating clink of Taehyung settling his teacup back on the porcelain coaster, then their lawyer clears his throat―quite awkwardly, one could say, with how uncomfortable his expression settles during this particular meeting. From across the spot where Taehyung’s taken a seat, his older brother scoffs loudly, so much his broad shoulders shake under that tailored Armani suit.

“We know what this is about, don’t we?” He proceeds to drawl, a frown pinched between two perfect eyebrows as he glances about the room and feigns a shudder; adjusting in what could only be an antique chair, probably the one their grandfather both of an auctioneer for two million won a decade prior. 

Seokjin then clicks his tongue, dragging his palms across the linen of his trousers while complaining, “It’s so cold here, too. Has no one taught to lit the fireplace?”

“That is the least of our concerns right now,” next speaks the eldest child of the Kim family, their only sister Yubin. She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, much like their father had always done. Brushing a stray piece of blonde hair behind her ear, she then turns to their lawyer, “Now that we’ve settled the majority of our stock exchange discussion, can we move on to the inheritance, if you will?”

“O–Of course!” Their lawyer quickly nods in agreement, although with a flush of embarrassment creeping down his neck. He starts opening a tightly sealed case―which takes him an annoying two minutes to accomplish―then pulls out several high quality papers. “So, this would be your grandfather’s, the late Kim Myungdae’s, last will. It’s… certainly an interesting proposition.”

Seokjin is the one who speaks first, then, high-pitched voice echoing about the tall saloon. “He’d better left me the mansion estate back in Busan,” he declares with a haughty huff. “I’d been growing the most gorgeous Lisianthus in the back gardens for years. Lord knows these two here would cement them immediately.”

Though Yubin doesn’t spare him a second glance, Taehyung can’t help the slick of irritation that licks at his stomach. “Don’t we have gardeners for that?” He drawls, with a mock tone, though it falls to much of a whisper when his sister raises an eyebrow his way.

However, Seokjin’s not so keen of the ridicule, “Some of us have more humility, Taehyung-ie,” is what he says, dragging the last syllable to the nerve. “And we’re not afraid of getting our knees dirty.”

Taehyung huffs a laugh, he reaches for his tea once more. It’d began going cold at this point, but the smell still lingers when he brings the cup to his lips, pinkie gracefully tipping the bottom of it. “Oh trust, dear brother mine, I’d gotten my knees dirty plenty.”

When an evident flush rises to Seokjin’s cheeks upon the implication, Yubin finally drops her cigarette tin―one made of solid twenty-four karat gold―on the glass table, making them all flinch. She stares her siblings down into a silence, then tells their lawyer to continue.

The man gulps, adjusts his glasses. “W–Well, as I was saying…” He mumbles, voice still quite subdued at this point. “Your grandfather had made quite the… interesting decision, choosing to leave his entire property – which includes three chain business, a billion worth of stock in the mining and oil refinery industries, as well as an insurmountable amount of real estate – to only one grandchild.”

Taehyung would’ve laughed, really, upon the way Seokjin chokes on nothing but rose scented air, causing his mouth to dry and words to splutter; and at first, he’d thought it’d been a bad attempt at a joke, perhaps to get a raise out of them. But then, it sinks in, the fact that their lawyer had been too much of an anxious mess in the last two hours to turn this into a some sort of jest―couple this with their late grandfather’s unpredictable nature, it might as well be true.

Just when Yubin is about to spout a demand of an explanation, the man is shaking his head again. “He didn’t specify which one,” he chooses to emphasize, sensing the seething room grow narrower on all of them. “His direct quote from the testament is, “for whoever is to put family first and elope, they shall receive all the blessings of my life’s worth of hard work.” He further specified below, that this refers to the entirety of his lifelong property and should be succeeded in two months following his passing.”

Honestly, Taehyung hadn’t felt his whole life flash before his eyes in such ways since he’d been seven years old and almost drowned on a family vacation in Bali. And speaking of family…

“Elope?” Taehyung finally says, he feels jitters follow up his spine and settle unpleasantly around his neck, making it rather hard to formulate a proper sentence even, “As in, marry?”

“What else?” Seokjin hisses out, doing nothing but thwart the lawyer’s attempt to say more once again. Despite how ridiculously this situation is escalating, Taehyung takes great pleasures in watching his prissy brother’s collected façade fall. “That’s atrocious―hasn’t that old man ever learned how easy is to just get married for the sake of finance these days? We should put the clock for when the race starts to the court house.”

“Actually,” the lawyer finally gets a word, he tries to smile and does so very tightly, to the point the corners of his mouth crinkle. “Your grandfather’s will has a condition on the aforementioned marriage―it has to be approved by your mother.”

For the first time, a collective, agreeing groan of pure exasperation falls over the room from all three siblings. This is slowly evolving into more of a nightmare as this continues on, even getting their mother involved, of all people. That old man always spoke so highly of family, but didn’t leave her a single trace of his property or titles, figures.

Then again, considering his high appraisal of marriage and its importance, it’s no wonder with how much he disproved of his daughter’s choice of husband. Apparently, he considered one’s secret eloping to their pool boy quite a scandal, but Taehyung supposes his mother had never been a blinding sign of excellent taste. No offense to his father, of course, they have gotten their good looks from somewhere.

Though, at this point, this is all quite irrelevant. This is, unfortunately, a one of a kind scenario where having a pretty face won’t pull Taehyung through the trouble. 

Finishing his tea, he then clears his throat, “So, let me get this straight – in order to inherit either anything or nothing, we must get our marriage approved by our mother―whose lunacy extends to believing in destined souls―and do so in two months… with not any of us having actual partners at the moment?”

The lawyer looks down at his paper, then nods, surely stating, “Yes, it says it must be carried out in the next sixty days following his funeral.”

A pause―long, slow and languid―and then, a shrill, “What the fuck?” from none other than Seokjin. For the first time in his lavish life, Taehyung finds it hard to disagree with his brother, considering how absolutely preposterous this entire thing is. A marriage, in sixty days?

“Did he even say what were to happen if we don’t fulfill his wish?” Yubin asks next, she tries hard to keep her voice leveled and yet it keeps shattering, because even she is in nothing but a state of shock. With heavy breaths, they all watch the family lawyer shuffle through the papers, only to smile quite nervously and meekly a minute later answer, “No.”

Quite honestly, Taehyung doesn’t even want to think about the possibility right now. What he knows for certain is that he needs the money and will do anything to get it―call it cunning, but his methods are rather flexible and he’d rather not work decades for such a fortune, when he could just put his acting skills to good use instead.

Silence lingers again, aside to Seokjin’s quickened breathing, before Taehyung raises his almost empty teacup in a cheers sort of fashion, half a smirk hanging from his lips. “Well then, let the race begin?” He inquires, not as jokingly as he’d wished. “And may the best Kim win.”

₩₩₩

“Left, right, right―left, watch your feet!” Shouts echo in the sweat-swatted, humid practice room, following by a series of punches, which all make Jeon Jeongguk’s vision a tad bit hazy. He grounds still in his soles, then aims for the reddened center of the mitts his trainer is holding up. “C’mon, again! Left, right―harder, Jeongguk, harder!”

This goes on for a while, enough for his triceps to start aching, his forearms in much need of a rest. His coach―a lovely and handsome young man known as Tilt in the world of boxing, but goes by Namjoon amongst close friends―breathes heavily alongside Jeongguk and leans over to pat his back, once the younger crouches over in exhaustion.

“That’s it for today, Jeon. Good work,” Namjoon praises, then taps the side of his exposed arm as a warning. “Straighten up, you ain’t gonna get any air in those lungs crunched like this.”

“Yeah, yeah, got it…” With a sore mumble, Jeongguk unwraps his gloves, then plops out the mouth guard which made his entire jaw sore for the last two or so hours. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, how long this entire thing takes―Jeongguk trains a lot, morning to night, in different intervals of either strength or godforsaken cardio. Namjoon always insists he even gets some running in, usually in early mornings.

And speaking of the dashing Namjoon―currently crossing the ring to hand his punch mittens to another of his pupils, clad in a see-through sleeves, which really doesn’t leave much to the imagination―it looks about certain Jeongguk will be getting in some serious trouble in the nearby future. At least with the way Namjoon stalks over with his eyebrows furrowed together.

Though, Jeongguk barely notices with those muscled legs on display―from an outside perspective, it is almost odd for a professional boxer, of all, to be jealous of another man’s physique―but Jeongguk can’t help it, he simply adores this man (in the most non-sexual, puppy love sort of way).

“Jeongguk-ah,” Namjoon stops his train on thought, going to cross his arms and proving to be even more of a distraction that before. Upon hearing the suffix of endearment, Jeongguk forces his eyes upwards and gulps down the saliva that build in his mouth due to anxiety, breathing out a shallow, “Yeah?” which leaves his throat as dry as quicksand.

With what would be considered an apologetic, almost pitying sort of sigh, Namjoon cats his eyes about and contemplates for a whole two minutes before speaking, “We need to talk about your funds for the future games. We’ve come into a tight spot here.”

Wincing, Jeongguk’s randy thoughts disappear in an instant. He gulps again, this time more parched, before nervously asking, “Even for tomorrow’s game?” And though his desperation is quite obvious, he can’t bring himself to feel any shame for it now, even when his coach’s gaze only grows more forlorn. “But I’ve been practicing for this one for so long, if there’s anything I can do to–”

“We’ve got it covered,” Namjoon’s soft voice interrupts, he reaches out to pat his shoulder again. But then he squeezes it, almost as a warning, bottom lip caught taut between his teeth for a moment, and then, “Hoseok said he’ll help out, but―you can’t afford to lose anymore. We lost all sponsors when Kwon beat you to a pulp last season―and you can’t last here without even making it through preliminaries, Jeongguk, you know this.”

Jeongguk jerks, but he nods in agreement because―well, it’s obvious. Last time, his condition was way worse, his temper not so controlled and eagerness to win entirely misplaced. And when you do this for a living, having it as your only source of income, literally everything depends on how smartly you choose to play the game―both physically and mentally, of course.

Just as he’s about to affirm Namjoon’s statement and attempt to convince him, promise him―although he doesn’t have to, as actions do speak louder than words, in this case―both their names are being called from the other side of the ring. Walks over the owner of the gym, Min Yoongi, swirling his tongue around a soft piece of candy, “Get over here, I got something that might interest you.”

Exchanging looks, the two do as requested, with Jeongguk lifting the red rope bound around the square-shaped platform―sliding right beneath it, Namjoon’s the first to jump down on the ground. “Hyung?” He prompts, eyebrow raised, “Wassup?”

Yoongi hums around his chewy stick, then sits his pretty ass – clad in some cute, black short shorts – on the side of the ring. Jeongguk notices he’s on his phone, scrolling through what appear to be text messages, before promptly sitting himself right aside in await of an answer.

“Well, Jimin is coming to Busan tonight,” is what they get told, followed by a petty scoff, then, “Don’t even dare look at me like that, Kim Namjoon―you never bring your phone, so no wonder your own boyfriend has to text me about your whereabouts all the damn time. Keep that thing on you in the future, understood?”

Namjoon mumbles an apology under his breath, but the excitement is hard to ignore upon his features―he brightens up the minute he hears Jimin’s name, which Jeongguk can’t honestly even blame him for. He likes Jimin too, with caring mannerisms and rather sly ways, though his friend group certainly isn’t Jeongguk’s favorite. And speaking of that…

“Here’s what might interest you, though,” Yoongi says, licking the candy off his pink lips and giving a meaningful look towards the other two, “He might be bringing a friend of his along―y’know, the one whose business magnate of a grandfather just recently passed and possibly gave his inheritance to? Yeah, that one. He could help out.”

Seeing as he’s quite obviously referring to Jeongguk’s lack of sponsors, the younger already feels another bead of sweat build at the temples of his head. Why else would he mention the grandson of a business magnate right here, right now, if it weren’t about the capitalistic unit their society determines personal worth by?

But hell, Jeongguk doesn’t even think about the rich, for the sake of his own mental clarity. He hasn’t heard of many magnates in South Korea as it is, so this must mean the man has to be exceedingly rich―or, well, had to have been.

“You mean… oh. Oh!” Namjoon says, realization settling. His face, however, suddenly blooms with quite an expression of uncertainty. “Ah, but hyung, he is a little… you know…”

Both of his companions raise eyebrows at this, with Yoongi’s voice going incredibly sour, “He’s a little what, Namjoon?”

The coach gulps, then rubs a hand across his nape, the nervousness of his action matching that of his voice, “Out there―extremely out there. Plus, how are we supposed to know he’s willing to help?”

“Namjoon, his family owns half of Seoul. And don’t even get me started on the sorts of fingers they stuck in other neighboring pies,” Yoongi huffs, going to cross his legs and in return having the cotton of his shorts tightly cling to his pale legs. “Throwing a couple of bills on this won’t hurt him, trust. And having his pretty face around during matches might help with Gguk’s reputation around here.”

For some reason, the combo of money and pretty already stirs in Jeongguk’s gut, makes him know exactly who this is―and yet, he prays so hard it’s not true, not until Namjoon sighs with frustration and exhales, “He and Jeongguk literally despise each other,” and yup, it’s him, alright.

“What the fuck, why?” Yoongi’s questions rings at the same as Jeongguk’s groan of misery does, because hell, this couldn’t have been worse. Yoongi appears to be most definitely confused, turning to Jeongguk with vivid bewilderment, “You hate each other? I literally thought you sucked his dick last year, with the way you two were going at it.”

Namjoon coughs reflexively to cover his sheer embarrassment upon such a bold statement, to which Jeongguk’s eyes turn to saucers and cheeks immediately go aflame. “Sucked his―” He’s about to repeat this ridiculous accusation, but can’t even bring himself to say such crude and unimaginable words back. “Hyung, he literally told me to change careers because, apparently, kneeling in defeat is the only thing I’m good at.”

Yoongi pauses for a moment, blinks and then stares at his telephone screen, as it will offer him an explanation. “Huh, I thought that was a sexual innuendo on his part,” he murmurs, rubbing at his chin. “Though, I did find it quite odd, with how Taehyung tends to be prefer being on the receiving end of dick sucking and all―”

“Hyung,” Namjoon stresses with nothing but a wish of a slow and painful death, just as Jeongguk makes a gurgled noise of surprise in the back of his throat, hating how his mind immediately conjures the image of just that. Has Taehyung changed, he wonders? Is his hair still blond, slightly curly, falling over his eyes when he lowers to his knees and…

Not going there, not going there, Jeongguk shoos the thoughts away, then takes a deep breath. “I’m not accepting his help,” he definitively says, body going stiff just at the impaction of being indebted to that posh asshole, fuck.

“Well, it’s not like you’re in the position to reject any offers,” Yoongi points out, licking the leftover candy from the tips of his fingers. Jeongguk laughs at the proposition, although it’s true―he shakes his head no, however, then says, “bold of you to assume he’d want to do it at all,” and no one can even argue to that.

Namjoon sighs at this, then reaches out and runs his fingers through Jeongguk’s sweaty, curly black locks and ruffles them up messily. “Either way, kiddo, Kim Taehyung or not―you gotta win tomorrow,” he says, efficiently changing the subject, “C’mon, hit the showers now. You could use some good rest.”

₩₩₩

“―and then, she says “oh well, I suppose if you don’t find your destined one now, it’s never been meant to be,” or some rubbish like that! Can you even believe it, with how absolutely ridiculous it sounds?” Taehyung says, legs propped on the opposite-end seats of his limousine and swirling a tall glass of champagne, tsking, “The nerve of that woman, Jimin, I can’t deal with this.”

From the other side of his phone-line, his best friend gleefully laughs. Taehyung can just imagine his pretty face twisted in amusement while he’s―what was it again, getting a pedicure or something? It’s hard to recall. “I told you, come to Busan with me tonight,” he chooses to say again, voice slow and dragged. “Babe, you could use a nice break from all this shit, c’mon.”

With a sigh, Taehyung can’t help but agree, because he’s tired – ever since he’d went to meet his mother, separate to his siblings, and she’d told him nothing useful about the life-changing decisions laying in her hands right now. Instead, she’d started to go on a dreamy mumble of words, sounding much alike to middle school poetry, awing about how their destined ones will show when most needed.

Except, that’s not how it exactly works. And when Taehyung questioned her views on the possibility of this not happening right now (when most needed), she just smiled rather pitifully and declared, “then maybe you’re not destined to inherit all this responsibility, Taehyung-ie,” and fuck all if he takes that as an answer.

“I know, I know,” Taehyung agrees, taking a long sip of his alcoholic beverage and catching a raspberry between his lips―right, he forgot those are even in there, no wonder the champagne tasted so sweet. “But what I need more is a boyfriend―one which will propose to me in two months time.”

Jimin laughs again, although softer this time, as if he’s feeling sorry for him. “Just find a fake one! Offer them a sum of money and payment for all the divorce expenses once this entire shitstorm is over,” he suggests, a grin in his voice, “But really―how fucking weird, for all of that property to go to one of you? I always thought Myungdae had favorites.”

Taehyung huffs a giggle, sipping again and languidly letting his head tilt back to watch the stars of the custom galaxy headliner. His limo wouldn’t feel the same without it. “Thought so too, honestly―but he probably knew none of us would be getting married in the future,” he points out, then raises in an eyebrow at the earlier proposition, “And seriously, a fake boyfriend? It sounds vexing.”

“Just because your standards are too high,” Jimin reminds him.

This draws a groan from Taehyung, who can’t even deny it―it’s just troubling to even think of having to find someone whom he can trust with something like this, someone who’s in such dire need of money they won’t even think of fucking him over. Eventually, he exaggeratedly whines, “Ugh, wish I could it with you.”

Giggling, his best friend agrees, but knows he can’t do much. “Your mother would see right through us,” he points out. “And, if reminder needed, I’m already dating now.”

Taehyung huffs at this, “What kind of boyfriend can he be, if he couldn’t settle for some good, old-fashioned family fraud in order to obtain financial stability?”

“He’s moral like that. Love that ‘bout him,” Jimin sighs dreamily, much to Taehyung’s dismay, “Puddin’, please―please, come with me, I swear I’ll make it worth it. If you don’t like the places I bring you to―or Joon’s gang, whatever―we can ditch that and go wherever you please. Even Haeundae Beach, in the middle of the night.”

At this, Taehyung is incredibly tempted. He debates with himself for a bit, weights the pros and cons in his head, but ultimately, his decision has been quite obvious from the start. “Alright, alright. Just lemme finish up this Nylon spread today―and you’re driving, by the way,” he says, not able to fight off the grin when he hears Jimin cheer in delight.

“Of course, anything for you, my dear―and oh! Dig out your old closet and find those ratty band tees from high school, you might need them for the places we’ll be going to,” his friend further adds, tone a teasing lilt. “Trust, I won’t let you off without getting laid in the next few days.”

Finishing his champagne, Taehyung clicks his tongue again, basking in the melodious bounces on his taste buds. “Mm, means I’ll have to find my old jeans again―y’know, those tight black ones? Wonder if my ass can still fit in those,” he laughs. “God, I could use some dick after all this monstrosity today.”

“Cheers to that!” Jimin chuckles along. “Besides, I think I got the guy just meant for you, you’ll see.”

₩₩₩

“Those fucking imbeciles, I can’t even believe―shit,” Namjoon is running about so efficiently, so swiftly, Jeongguk’s eyes have a hard time catching up within the cloud of anxiety that has manifested in front of his eyes. Namjoon is scowling, a manner which really doesn’t suit his usually calm, kind face. “They put you up against Kwon, again.”

Jeongguk chuckles, but it’s all humorless. “Aiming to increase the humiliation tenfold, I suppose,” he trails off, but is strayed from an overwhelming sense of self pity when Jung Hoseok―his friend dearest, currently taking it upon himself to work through the knots that made their home at Jeongguk’s shoulders―intentionally squeezes an expanse of skin over his neck.

“Oi, don’t get down on me now,” he says, lighthearted and soft, as he immediately smoothes his hand across the surface which previously reddened under his touch. He ruffles the back of Jeongguk’s hair, then laughs a bit, “Y’know how we say―hard work pays off. You got this, yeah? Just go out there and beat that clown’s face in.”

This bit, right here, might be the sole reason Jeongguk prefers Hoseok’s pep talk more than anybody else’s―there’s no “you have to do this” or “your entire future depends on tonight,” which although is true, doesn’t do anything more than damage to his nerves. Jeongguk works well under pressure without crippling life decisions hanging over his head.

From the other side of the small square space they’re contained in, he hears Min Yoongi whistle. The man kicks his legs, more exposed than covered as per usual, then throws a glance over his shoulder. “Yo,” he drags, words lulled as he pulls the cherry lollipop out his lips. “Guess who the kitty just dragged in?”

Jeongguk’s brows knit in confusion, a hint of curiosity surging upwards and distracting him from the upcoming match; instead, he watches Hoseok walk over and lean his forearm just above where Yoongi’s head is resting against the doorframe. He then laughs, full of air and disbelief, “Holy shit, damn.”

The interest is too hard to resist, so he makes his way over, slightly blinded by the lights coming from the main room. There’s paparazzi out there, sports news anchors or whatnot, along a crowd of people already cheering eagerly for tonight’s round of punches – and yet, as Jeongguk stands there, his eyes can only follow along the line of blond and pink making their way down the sidelines.

He recognizes Jimin at first, of course; handsome Jimin, with a blinding smile capable of bringing a dozen men to their knees in an instant, studded jacket and ripped pants, eighties vibe all over him. Next to him, a tall glass of nothing but blond ambition, perfection, all the way from the heels of worn combat boots, jeans of black faux leather, to the loose tee of a band well before Jeongguk’s years and the prettiest face of famed supermodel, Kim Taehyung himself.

Fuck, holy―fuck, thoughts running, the younger boxer can’t quite grasp what he’s seeing. Kim Taehyung, in the flesh, no overly long Givenchy jackets or diamond rings which suggest a fortune of luck and opportunity, no, this is the sort of guy Jeongguk yearned for in his years of teenage sexual discovery, all roughed up around the edges and beautiful enough to match.

“Well,” Yoongi’s the one who speaks first and honestly, Jeongguk’s not even noticed how uneven his breathing has become up until that point. He’s jabbed in the side by the smaller man, who then whistles appreciatively, “You sure about not wanting to suck his dick now, huh?”

Hoseok laughs from the other side of him and though trapped between two different types of mockery, Jeongguk’s jaw sets tight, not willing himself to answer. Been a while since his gaze laid upon that pretty face, you can’t blame him for being tempted―well, the striking outfit is surely distracting him from how absolutely snobbish Taehyung acted with him last time.

Seeing there’s no response, Hoseok’s jabs his other side. “Well, Jeongguk-ie, all the more reason to impress this guy tonight,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the two babes, who’d already gathered enough attention by attempting to find their seats in the enormous chaos of a boxing tournament.

Impress him, fuck yeah, Jeongguk thinks, a rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. He’s eager, overly so, to impress the guy who literally called him a good for nothing just around three hundred days ago – not for the purpose of getting a look inside those tight jeans, of course not, he wants to show he’s worth something. Whatever that prissy model expects of him tonight, he’ll do more.

But hell if Taehyung isn’t a sight to look at, terrible personality aside.

“Kiddo. Jeongguk,” Namjoon is calling him now, whistling into the fingers bent between his lips. When Jeongguk looks at him, his coach jags his nose in the direction of the ring. “You’re up next, in ten. Make it worthwhile.”

Nodding as quickly as he can manage, Jeongguk throws a last glance over his shoulder, watching Taehyung―how he chitchats away, laughing in a way it suggests he’s got no idea what awaits him tonight. Licking his lips, Jeongguk can’t help but give in to temptation, “You bet I fucking will. Let’s go.”

₩₩₩

Taehyung can’t decide which is worse, really, between the woman behind him continuously kicking the back of his seat and screaming―something along the lines of “will they got out here so I can collect my fucking money already”―and possibly being near the possibility of stabbing his nape with her short heel, or the rowdiness of the entire place, reeking of sweat, old won paper bills and desperation.

“Your taste, Jimin-ah,” he drawls at a certain point, watching his friend giggle around the wrapped blunt of his cigarette, legs propped up on the chair in front of him. Like he’s drunk almost, cheeks overly flushed. “Impeccable, truly.”

Jimin hums, choosing to ignore the sarcasm and instead leaning over to speak at a level only Taehyung will hear at. “Babe, listen. We came to find you a husband tonight,” he says, almost managing to feign seriousness, if not for how wide he’s smiling at the moment, “And you like athletes, yeah? Plenty o’ those around tonight.”

Huffing, Taehyung can’t quite deny this―he likes the beefy, rugged type, just from easily they could possibly manhandle him about. Sue him, he’s a slut like that.

“Besides,” his best friend further stresses, pink hair already falling from the slickness of a sexual pushed back look, into the humidness of the air. He proceeds to blow an air of smoke into Taehyung’s flawless face, grinning, “You need one to fuck you just right, so… what better place to find someone with good stamina than here?”

Taehyung scoffs and out of spite, kicks Jimin’s legs off the seat. He’s not even the smallest bit amused when Jimin only laughs again, proceeding to just lean over and put out his cigarette where his feet had just been. “I told you,” the model sighs, lagging back into his chair, “You should’ve been my husband instead.”

“We haven’t fucked since high school, honey,” Jimin giggles, before his eyes blink enthusiastically upon a familiar bell ringing. “It’s starting, it’s starting! Look!”

Although somewhat lazily, Taehyung drags himself up just enough to watch the match. The referee is first introducing some Kwon guy, with a boxing name Taehyung hasn’t quite heard the pronunciation of; from where they’re sitting, he’s kinda cute, brunet with a built body, surely making it easy to bend someone in half and keep them up all night, but… he’s just not that appealing. Not interesting, charismatic, despite having the sort of hands Taehyung would like wrapped around his throat.

And then, as his eyes drag to the other side of the ring with much difficulty, the referee yells out something that sounds like JJ, though Taehyung cannot be quite sure―as he’s quite distracted by, you guessed it, the other boxer in the ring, whose black locks are pulled into a bun sitting at the ridge of his nape, eyes fiery and focused, his body… ah, fuck.

“See? That’s my baby’s boy, right there,” Jimin points the tip of his shoe in said boxer’s direction, earning a complaint about obscuring the view from behind rows. He ignores this, then gives Taehyung a peculiar look, “Jeon Jeongguk, you remember him?”

“What the―that’s Jeongguk?” Taehyung’s starting to become warm just at the thought of it. “Funny, I thought he’d quit after last year’s humiliation of a match.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow, as if he knows this is an obvious attempt at ignoring the elephant in the room. “Tough luck, babe. He’s playing against the same douche tonight,” is what he replies, playing along, “He’s changed a bit, though, hasn’t he?”

A bit would be somewhat of an understatement, in this case―well, it’s not like Taehyung took a particularly hard look at Jeongguk the year prior, but had he really been sporting that entire tattoo sleeve back then, along the… prominently muscular physique? Well, he is a boxer, exercising health must be his top priority, but still.

The match begins, yells start to echo and Taehyung can’t quite keep up. He’s not familiar much, with either the terminology or mechanics of boxing, but it’s hard to swallow just watching Jeongguk take the other guy on with nothing but expertise, bringing him to his knees over and over again. It doesn’t look like he’ll be losing this year around as well.

Jimin’s cheering, for whatever reason it may be – possibly with his lover’s favorite pupil being on show right now – but Taehyung can’t even bring himself to think, breath catching whenever Jeongguk’s hit across the face and in turn, only staggers from it, throwing an even harder punch right back. He’s playing smart, calculating every move before making it, accentuating every step by grounding his feet just right, bending his shoulders in ways it allows him to breathe more proficiently.

“Holy shit,” Taehyung can’t even help but voice, but it’s hardly comparable to the sorts of thoughts running through his head now. The deciding round is starting, Jimin’s voice is turning shrilly, the crowd’s noises are harsher, deeper and Jeongguk’s focused, bouncing on his feet and ready.

He’s glorious, with an air of a champion, before he even becomes a real one. Body taut like a string, almost graceful compared to the sort of sport he takes part in, muscles lightly built in all the right places, shaped and filled out in the most mouthwatering way possible. Taehyung’s mouth is suddenly, achingly, empty.

Lord, he’s never liked the prick, with his obnoxious hatred towards anyone more fortunate (and to be fair, Taehyung’s never made it easy to be liked right away), but now―like this, Jeongguk’s more attractive than he ever should’ve been, even with the steadily bruising and sweat-sheen body.

When the winner’s announced, Jimin jumps from his seat and screams along the public. Kim Namjoon―who Taehyung well recognizes even from afar―jumps into the ring and lifts Jeongguk into a hug of pure joy. The boxer, the infuriatingly hot boxer, is smiling and breathless, gorgeous.

With a deep settling feeling in his gut, Taehyung’s well too deep into the realization how badly he wants Jeon Jeongguk at that moment. And damned will he be, if he doesn’t get him tonight.

₩₩₩

As expected, the celebration comes in the form of a somewhat rustic dive bar, with cheap beer and cozy acoustic music. The lights are a warm orange, cascading down the wooden interior in what can only be considered an achingly rural ambiance, but it’s comfortable―always has been, whether it been home to small victories or big loses.

Jeon Jeongguk, currently basking in the post-glow and aftermath of tonight’s qualification for the next stage of the local tournament, doesn’t indulge himself in no more than some cold, low-quality variation of a mojito, while still listening to the waves of encouragement coming from his team.

“God, can you believe it?” Hoseok’s laughing, with no actual incredulity to his voice, but he’s saying it more so to express how fantastical this had turned out to be, “A perfect fucking knockout, wow! We’re so proud, Gguk-ah.”

Flushing, from either the slow onset of alcohol in his system, or rather the sheer timidity of not ever quite getting used to receiving compliments as this, Jeongguk then clears his throat, “W–Well, thank you? I still can’t get used to it, though, just how―how it all went down.”

Namjoon, also just a bit tipsy at this point, presses a broad hand over his back and taps, perhaps harder than he had to. Jeongguk chokes up a bit, but can’t help laughing at his coach’s enthusiasm. “You killed it out there, kiddo,” Namjoon says, slow and dragged, “And we got quite a few sponsorship offers at hand, so…”

The amount of relief which washes over the young boxer upon this statement alone is indescribable. But before he’s had the chance to even ask for more inquiry, Jimin’s slurred giggle is cutting their topic somewhat short, “My, my, guess you won’t be needing Taehyung-ie to help, then? What a shame.”

He’d lost his jacket at some point of the night, it seems, leaning over into his chair so far he might fall over; legs propped up in Yoongi’s lap who, to be fair, doesn’t even appear to be bothered by it. Jeongguk swears the two empty tequila bottles on the table are the doing of those two alone, resulting in some blinking gazes and barely comprehensible late-night suggestions.

“Where’s the minx, anyways?” Hoseok is asking next, pretending to look about, though he’s only lazily tilting his head in many different directions. “He could’ve just sat his pretty ass down with us, I don’t see the deal.”

Jeongguk’s eyes drag towards the bar where, on a high stool, long legs―elegantly crossed―swinging over the edge, the poise of that gorgeous body absolutely mismatched within the bucolic walls, Kim Taehyung sits with a glass of water. Or perhaps it is vodka, who knows, with the model’s face not betraying the disgust one gets upon tasting the awful beverage whenever he takes a sip.

His tee shirt is ragged with pulled seams along the neckline, as if it’d been tugged harshly over the head one too many times across the years; it reveals clavicles protruding against tan skin, one which shines even better under the dim lights. Jeongguk licks his lips, albeit unconsciously, wiping the remaining bits of the cocktail off them.

“Gguk-ah,” Hoseok calls again, apparently noticing the more than obvious staring. With the buzz of excitement thrumming in his veins, Jeongguk finds it hard to be embarrassed, only humming in acknowledgement, “Get us another round of drinks, yeah? And call Taehyung over, he’s supposed to sit with us tonight.”

Jeongguk almost agrees the split second he hears this, but realization settles quickly. “Yeah―wait, why me? You’re the only who isn’t even tipsy yet, you can get the next round just fine,” he says, promptly ignoring the underlying implication of his disdain towards the supermodel in question.

“Exactly,” Hoseok grins, pushing against his shin under the table. “C’mon, I could use a mocktail or something – and ain’t you the one who first proclaimed drinks on me tonight, as soon as we left the ring?”

Huffing, Jeongguk’s cheeks flush. Well, of course he did, how else do you toast to a new victory and some newly, well-earned money? Isn’t that what people do when getting a good salary, treating their friends to drinks?

He looks towards Taehyung again, carefully considers his options and then dawns the rest of his mojito in one go. By the time he gets up from his vastly uncomfortable chair, Jimin’s hooting with encouragement and Yoongi mumbles a good luck wish between a stick of sour candy, all of which drowns out from Jeongguk’s ears the closer he gets to the bar.

Surprisingly, Taehyung’s the one who looks at him first―though with a mockingly raised perfect eyebrow, his eyes aren’t exactly subtle while following against the line of Jeongguk’s body by the time he comes over. From the looks of it, he’s either checking him out, or has a great disdain for the cargo pants Jeongguk’s decided to sport after his match.

“Another round of drinks for table six, please,” he tells the bartender, the one littered with tattoos who makes the best cocktails around the block; then leaning his forearms on the mahogany bar, side-eyes the person sitting next to him, keeping his voice leveled, “Wanna join us this time around, Kim?”

Taehyung laughs against the rim of his glass, long and graceful fingers holding it up to his lips, distracting to look at, before he answers, “Jeon. I’m not too fond of alcohol, as you can see. I’d rather get some peace and quiet before Jimin and that coach of yours start drunkenly making out.”

At this, Jeongguk’s teeth grind and he takes a slow breath, “His name’s Namjoon.”

“Yes, yes. I know,” Taehyung waves it off, as if the correction wasn’t actually meaningful of the mistake on his part. “I can see he’s done a nice job with you, at least for tonight.”

This sort of thing catches the boxer slightly off guard, an indefinite line of a compliment slivering between their slowly fueling tension. “Huh,” he mumbles, almost more to himself, earning just another laugh from the pretty blond. Jeongguk’s ears redden, voice straightens, “You enjoyed the match?”

“I generally enjoy half-naked men brawling it out. Reminds me of my college years,” Taehyung drawls, all slow and sensual, the way he swings his crossed leg and places his glass on the bar suggesting nothing but the elegance one is taught by walking while balancing books on their head. “Then again, I don’t find the act too impressive either.”

“The act of it? Boxing?” Jeongguk can’t help but laugh, edges of his eyes just slightly blurring by how loudly his heart is thumping right now, just being near the blond. He glazes at the exposed side of his neck, sun-kissed and unmarked, saying, “Ah, right, why would you find the act of making someone kneel in defeat even slightly impressive?”

Catching upon the reference of his own words from the prior time they’ve interacted, Taehyung’s smile only widens. His lips are plump and pretty, covered with a pinkish gloss that makes Jeongguk’s entire mouth dry just by looking at it, wondering how it tastes.

“Why would I be impressed?” Taehyung tilts his head, gaze following down for a mere moment, tongue peeking out to wet his lower lip; Jeongguk gulps, even before their eyes meet. “Jeon, dear, I can make them kneel just by looking at them.”

At the exact time Jeongguk’s breath gets midway strangled in his throat, the bartender places his ordered drinks down on the wooden surface, which also happens to be the only reason Jeongguk’s standing right now, instead of – embarrassingly enough – kneeling from a mere look, as the model suggested.

Taehyung drinks the rest of his water with feigned force to it, a small drop slipping from the corner of his mouth and running down his jawline, over his neck. Jeongguk promptly thinks how much he’d like to lick it right off, a moment before Taehyung drags the side of his wrist against it, smearing a sheen on his beautiful skin.

“Meet me out for a smoke, Jeon,” he says while slipping off his chair, lips dangling with a smirk because apparently, this wasn’t a question to begin with. “And oh, bring me Jimin’s jacket. Might be a bit cold outside right now.”

He leaves just like that, with a sense of self-righteousness and satisfaction Jeongguk’s tempted to play down by not following his wishes, but fuck―he finds it in himself too hard to resist at this point. With a thankful nod towards the bartender, he gathers as many drinks possible and brings them to his friends’ table.

Before any of them can utter another word, Jeongguk’s letting his tongue go loose. “Hey, Hoseok-hyung, can you get the rest of the round? I gotta―I have to go out for a bit, just to…” He fumbles while grabbing his own mackinaw, vision still slightly blurry, “And yeah, Jimin-ssi? Kim asked for your, uh… jacket.”

The table goes silent, part the mere shuffling Jimin does while yanking his studded leather off the arms of his chair. He throws it to Jeongguk, then grins all slow and teasing, eyes knowing as he says, “Don’t get it too dirty, though. Have fun.”

With a keen noise of embarrassment, Jeongguk mumbles a thank you and scurries off. He saw Taehyung had went into the direction of the back entrance, which is, unofficially, quite a hotspot for… those sorts of meetings. Jeongguk doesn’t give it too much mind, not when he opens the door and steps outside into the slightly cold spring air, cornered in a dead-end old alleyway.

He finds Taehyung leaning against the brick wall of the bar establishment, puffs of breaths mingling with the smoke of his cigarette. “That was quick,” he mumbles, not sparing Jeongguk much of a glance as he pushes himself from the wall and rolls his shoulders in slow circles, straightening them out, “Eager, huh?”

The implication doesn’t do much for how flustered Jeongguk’s steadily becoming in his presence, but the boxer attempts to keep his cool―kicking the door closed with his foot, then offering Taehyung the jacket borrowed from his best friend. “Here,” he says, ignoring his words altogether.

Taehyung, however, turns his back to Jeongguk and extends his arms in a way it expects of Jeongguk to help him put it on in a gentlemanly manner. Although with a scoff and high temptation of just blowing him off, the younger obliges.

Their bodies are suddenly, incredibly and unnecessarily close; so much Taehyung can probably feel Jeongguk’s breath against his nape, perhaps why the skin there suddenly turns so prettily pink. “You’re used to being pampered, aren’t you,” Jeongguk says, voice unintentionally rough, and it’s not a question.

Taehyung laughs, then turns to look at him, shrugging the jacket on him until it fits just right. Being so near, Jeongguk thinks he can count every eyelash, every pore and every blemish; especially every pretty mole he wants to put his mouth all over.

“I love getting what I want,” the model says, voice dipping a lilt of teasing, of something light and relaxed, yet it does nothing but thicken the tension between them. He fishes something out of his back pocket, then lifts it into Jeongguk’s eyesight when their gazes don’t waver. “A cig, Jeon?”

Just to avoid those protruding irises, Jeongguk shakily nods―and he doesn’t even smoke, he really dislikes it, actually, but being so close to Taehyung is proving to be more detrimental to his health than inhaling any fine cut tobacco. He puts it between his lips, lets Taehyung light it for him and breathes.

Immediately, he’s coughing, his throat raw and drier than it ever should’ve been. He hears Taehyung laugh from beside him and a fresh wave of shame washes over him, as if he’d just humiliated himself in front of his crush. “Not a smoker, eh?” He’s prompted, teased, which is something Jeongguk is – terrifyingly enough – getting quite used to.

“Not healthy,” the boxer responds briefly, deeming no further explanation necessary. He catches the way Taehyung’s head tilts, eyes reflecting under the only illumination source above them, which happens to be an old light bulb that flickers every five minutes or so.

“Yes, of course, I should’ve known. Kind of a health nut, aren’t you?” Taehyung hums into his own cigarette, scowling when he has to sigh at himself. “Frankly, I don’t like these either, they taste like shit. Not my favorite thing to blow, that’s for sure.”

Another choke, this time not from the tobacco. Jeongguk’s thrumming, dancing along the edges, not sure where to step – how much of this is a game, a ploy; how much of it is actual, genuine attraction? Because you can never know with Kim Taehyung, he’s too hard to read.

Jeongguk can’t handle it anymore, he looks at him and barely manages, “What’d you really call me out here for, Kim?”

And he doesn’t know what he’d expected to hear, to see, but nothing would’ve prepared him – either way – to how intense those several seconds are; from Taehyung throwing his still-burning cigarette on the cold, stone pavement, to him plucking Jeongguk’s own out of his hand and then pressing close, closer.

Perhaps Jeongguk shouldn’t be surprised, because who else would have such confidence; someone able to keep their pride intact while handling the collar of their enemy’s jacket, lithe fingers curling against the checkered material, grin lopsided and slow, words hot as dripping wax, “I’m pretty sure you know, Jeon.”

Then, they kiss―by all means, is all too slow, with how gentle those glossy lips are, followed by a soft tongue that pries Jeongguk’s mouth open with nothing but a little flick. And Jeongguk feels slightly dizzy, his body takes a moment to move; when it does, his palm comes up, covers Taehyung’s cold cheek – a contrast to his lips, hot and eager on his own.

Taehyung presses in, sighs with pure content against his mouth, and Jeongguk’s groaning into the kiss, lust coiling in the pit of his stomach. Before it escalates, the model pulls away just enough to put an inch of air between them. The nightly wind whistles along their broken breathing, but also makes them yearn more for touch, for heat.

“Hm,” Taehyung hums with what does sound like some sort of satisfaction, for how lazy his smile is, lips already bruising so easily. One of his hands works under Jeongguk’s jacket, finds way to grip at his tattooed bicep. “So, the great Jeon kisses men too. The more you know.”

Jeongguk would’ve laughed, really, but he’s much more busy with handling Taehyung’s waist in order to hold him stiller. “I’ve kissed plenty, Kim,” he murmurs and captures those lips again, drawing an undoubted whine from the other male, slowly going pliant in his arms. “When they’re as pretty as you, at least.”

Taehyung giggles against the kiss, winds arms around his neck and though his eyes dance with mischief, Jeongguk cannot bring himself to regret passing such an honest compliment. Not when Taehyung blushes so daintily, despite the nature of his next words, “Then you haven’t been with many. Bet they don’t even taste as good.”

Although he’d very much like to poke at the blond’s inflated ego, Jeongguk’s nether regions have other ideas. “Can’t be too sure,” he mumbles between eager presses of lips, but his hands are slow as they make their way down Taehyung’s buttocks and squeeze, eliciting a gasp of rapture. 

Jeongguk, pleased with the reaction, leans to Taehyung’s ear―catches the lobe between his lips, voice rough with a need he hasn’t felt for anyone else in a while, “Not until you sit on my face and let me eat out this pretty ass of yours. Then, I’ll know for sure.”

It’s mesmerizing to watch, honestly, the way Taehyung’s falling apart for him, bit by bit, shattered lust red all over his body. Jeongguk would’ve assumed, on the base fact of Kim Taehyung being nothing but a spoiled brat, that he’d be quite demanding―but, as it turns out, his neediness manifests differently that he’d anticipated.

“We can fix that,” Taehyung’s hot breath hits Jeongguk’s skin, though – contrary to his words – his hands work on Jeongguk’s belt, not his own. His voice then sounds urgent, rugged, “Fuck―fuck, want your cock in my mouth first. Can you fuck my mouth, Jeon?”

Actually, Jeongguk might just scratch his earlier sentiment of him not being insistent, even if it doesn’t make quite a difference with Taehyung’s mouth on his neck, small bites here and there, followed by a tongue which soothes each mark carefully, slowly.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jeongguk tries to play nonchalant, slapping Taehyung’s ass lightly as nothing but a playful tease, but he ends up with the other quivering against him and oh―he might have to save this for later. “Get on your knees first, Kim.”

Surprisingly enough, Taehyung drops within a blink of an eye. It’s almost embarrassing, how intensely the wave of want washes over Jeongguk at the mere sight of the pretty blond – their country’s fucking top supermodel – just nuzzling up his thigh until his teeth find the zipper. Their eyes lock and Taehyung has the audacity to smirk, illegal as it is, and then he pulls, all too slow.

When his cargos fall, the cold air of nighttime spring hits Jeongguk’s skin, making him awfully aware of how actually hot he’s feeling, struck with enough of a haze to make him consider he’s actually imagining all of this. There’s no actual way the Kim Taehyung is about to suck his cock right now.

Well, not until said Taehyung cups him over the boxers, then presses his lips over the already leaking head of his dick, poking against the material. Jeongguk, undoubtedly, gasps with somewhat of a high pitch and tangles his fingers in the blond locks―yup, feels pretty real.

“You feel thick,” Taehyung mumbles, highly intelligible, but his voice still sends tremors through Jeongguk’s body. His fingers then dip beneath the waistband, already sitting low on the abdomen, making for quite an alluring sight. “Mm, I like that.”

“You do?” Jeongguk inquires, feeling the breeze hit his stomach next, once Taehyung pulls up his shirt and licks over his abs. His muscles clench on reflex, from how burning the touch is. “Like getting stuffed all nice and proper?”

Leaving a mark on the right side of his protruding v-line, Taehyung nods far too quickly to only be teasing. “Like feeling full,” he’s saying while pulling the underwear down, something akin to a whimper barely leaving his throat at the sight of Jeongguk’s dick. “Oh well, I suppose my mouth will do for now.”

Before he can even think to mock the posh sort of wording Taehyung uses with that slurred southern accent of his, Jeongguk feels wet heat envelop his cock and shit, it shouldn’t feel this good, but it does. Taehyung’s arrogant, snooty mouth feels warm, all too good to be true.

His tongue works leisurely at first, around the crown and dipping downwards, slender fingers long enough to wrap themselves around the weighty girth and work around what his lips haven’t reached yet. Jeongguk sighs with relief, almost, receiving not only the best head he’d gotten in a while (though he wouldn’t give Taehyung the pleasure of letting him know), but also the slightly twisted, overwhelming sense of satisfaction from having him like this.

Gently rubbing the pads of his forefingers behind Taehyung’s ears, occasionally whirling blond strands about them, Jeongguk can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous this entire situation is. Once he receives a questioning look upon his sudden outburst of joy, Jeongguk grins, “C’mon, you can fit more in that proud mouth of yours, can’t you?”

Sufficient tease and the boxer cannot tell if it works well, or if perhaps Taehyung’s had enough of his own teasing as much as Jeongguk has. Just a monotonous second later, he lowers his head more and more, just until the tip of his nose hits the patch of black hair at Jeongguk’s crotch.

“Oh fuck―fucking hell,” Jeongguk curses, possibly having another few ingenious proclamations follow suit, though he can’t quite hear them with his entire dick down Taehyung’s throat. “Fuck.”

Taehyung would’ve probably liked to poke at his eloquence, but now, he only bobs his head and moans deliciously around the length. He pulls away just enough to let his tongue trace the vein travelling up Jeongguk’s cock. “Close?” He asks and when Jeongguk finally reigns enough sensibility to look down, he sees the model’s own cock already out, one hand covering it and working slowly.

The thought alone, of prestigious Kim Taehyung who’d mocked him the season prior, being on his knees right now, getting off just from having his mouth stuffed sends tingles up Jeongguk’s spine, breathing hitching because yeah, he might be close now―all too soon.

And yet, he still responds, “Not yet,” proceeding to tug Taehyung’s by the hair until those pink, swollen lips are on his cock again, “Lemme fuck your mouth first.”

Obliging, Taehyung’s mouth slides down, but it’s all too slow―Jeongguk cants his hips forward experimentally, rewarding with a hum of approval that travels straight down his dick, so he doesn’t pull on being gentle anymore. Holding Taehyung still by the hair, he lets him focus on his own orgasm, using his mouth as leverage to fuel his own.

And when Taehyung’s throat tightens around him, his eyes squeeze shut, willowy body goes taut―Jeongguk knows he’s finished, even before he sees his cum hit the ground. It’s dirty, almost shallow, but all of this is enough reason for Jeongguk to keep thrusting, keeping pulling, broken words leaving his lips to signal his climax and yet, Taehyung doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he stays there, palms braced over Jeongguk’s thighs and he swallows. He gulps it down, too filthy for how pretentiously proper he tends to be, and Jeongguk’s barely gasping for air by the time all of it is over. When the pleasure ebbs away, it slackens, weakens – both their bodies, along the atmosphere.

Taehyung sits up, tucks himself back in, then raises an eyebrow in the direction of Jeongguk’s crotch, inclining him to do the same. While he embarrassingly struggles to do so, Jeongguk can’t help but keep his eyes focused on Taehyung’s mouth, his lips, the way he wipes away the nonexistent traces of their earlier activities.

“Not too bad,” is what he’s told and it might’ve been infuriating under any other occasion, but Jeongguk’s too strung along to care right now. Taehyung smirks, despite his eyes being red-rimmed, eyelashes still wet, then says, “I’ll take you up on that face-sitting offer another day.”

He drops a kiss on Jeongguk’s cheek, kicks the door open with the heel of his boot and leaves, almost like nothing happened. Taehyung leaves Jeongguk standing there, alone in the cold spring air.

₩₩₩

It takes Taehyung two days. Two whole, forty-eight hours pass, days―and granted, one cannot exactly be surprised; with him being so accustomed to having men chase him around, battle for his attention, do ridiculous things to earn even a blink of his in their direction, you can see how baffled Kim Taehyung would be, when his last sexual encounter doesn’t contact him for two days.

So, instead, he does next what he deems fit – goes to pay a visit to a known, familiar boxing gym, just in the neighborhood of the hotel Jimin and him are vacancing at. And perhaps, another time, it’d hurt his pride to actually approach a man who quite possibly won’t have a desire to be around him anymore―but then again, he is Kim Taehyung, shameless extraordinaire.

He struts inside, with the same poise he’d use to enter meeting rooms to meet new designers, exclusive, Michelin star restaurants when gathering with friends for a night out, in places people usually bring spouses to―right, he’d have to change this soon, if all goes according to plan.

By the reception, he – thankfully enough– sees a familiar face, the one of slanted, pretty eyes and jet, undercut hair. Min Yoongi, dressed as if the highest heats of summer are overwhelming right now, raises one spectacularly trimmed eyebrow and lets a taunting smile draw to his face, “Ah, I was wonder when you’d come knocking.”

And though he makes a show of rolling his eyes, opting it as an answer to the quite obvious statement, Taehyung still tips down just enough to drop a kiss of greeting on Yoongi’s cheek. “Yes, I’m as ecstatic to see you as well,” his tone’s dry, but somewhat humorous, earning himself a pretty laugh in return. “Busy today?”

“Not more or less than usual,” Yoongi shrugs, first makes a gesture to the receptionist, then makes just as vague one to Taehyung, possibly suggesting to follow him while heading deeper inside the establishment. “You’re here to see Gguk, yeah?”

Taehyung doesn’t hear him at first, faintly distracted by Yoongi’s accent, the one around which he grew up in, in his father’s hometown―then, he sees, feels, how large the gym is; all the equipment he can’t quite name, the sort of tension and desperation he’s not quite used to seeing, sensing like this.

And then, he sees him. Jeon Jeongguk, in nothing but basketball shorts, shirtless, as he takes it to the punching bag with all his might. Apparently, he doesn’t even mince in practice, pouring everything in correcting his form, practicing his hits, looking absolutely, unnecessarily attractive as he does so.

“Why would I be?” Taehyung responds belatedly, perhaps suggesting Yoongi had been right about his assumption. Still, Taehyung’d rather not make a fool of himself by admitting so, instead gesturing to the bag he’d slung over his shoulder, when thinking of a proper excuse to come here. “One would reckon I’d come to a gym to exercise.”

From his peripheral vision, he sees Yoongi’s brow arch once more. “I highly doubt staring is considered as such, but oh well―” He mumbles around his lollipop, which he then proceeds to replace with two of his fingers. The whistle gathers attention all around, “Gguk-ah, c’mere for a sec!”

When, after a moment, a tall brunet is making his way over instead, Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Not you, Namjoon, for fuck’s sake―go help Seok in the back room,” his voice raises, followed by not in the least bit intimidating huff, “Jeon Jeongguk, get your ass over here in an instant. I need you to show a newbie around.”

People are staring, quite a few of ‘em, everything from puzzled to appreciative looks peering all over. Yes, Taehyung gets it, he’s a supermodel, not really the type to make habit of visiting downtown gyms during Busan getaways; but where else does one else find Jeon Jeongguk in such a state, all disheveled and gorgeous as so. Even as he, most woefully, covers his glorious abs by a shirt on his way over.

“Hyung,” says the boxer, taking off his gloves and tucking them under his armpit, though Taehyung’s eyes follow along the line of muscle across his bicep instead. When their eyes meet, Jeongguk’s rushing fingers through his hair, straightening it out. “Kim,” he greets, voice a tad bit lower.

“Jeon, a pleasure,” the model drawls with all but a beat of delight to his tone. Adjusting the overly embellished collar of his newest Givenchy jacket, Taehyung then grins, “Show me to the changing room, will you? I cannot possibly do vigorous movement in this, can I?”

From the left side, he hears Yoongi laugh, all light and airy, perhaps a bit incredulous. Jeongguk, however, looks anything but pleased. “Yeah, it’s be too much trouble if you lost any of those stones on you. How else would be people know of your status,” he says, exaggerated dislike dripping all over, yet he moves aside to gesture down the hall, spreading an arm in mockful respect, “But by all means, follow suit, princess.”

Smile not faltering in the slightest, Taehyung does as so―after, of course, nodding thankfully in Yoongi’s direction, though he receives nothing but a goodhearted eye roll in return. “Quite presumptuous of you to assume I’d wear such cheaply constructed garments, to the point I’d lose Swarovski from the smallest movement,” he tells Jeongguk, who only laughs whilst opening the door, like a true gentleman.

“Oh, I can think of several ways to make them drop during enthusiastic activities,” he replies, voice smooth as butter, though with a cutting edge of a warm knife. Taehyung catches his eyes follow along the line of his body, just before he adds, “And last time I saw you, you wore common clothes, didn’t you?”

The shower rooms are scented of fresh, clean peppermint and underlying musk, from wherever it may be. It’s empty, echoing all footsteps, all movement, especially when Taehyung drops his bag on the wooden bench.

“Yes, yes, I’d presume my jeans had become rather cheap now,” he sighs, from feigned relief, the jacket sliding off his shoulders like November rain. “After I got the knees dirty from sucking your cock, I mean.”

Taehyung hears the hitched breath before he even glances over, lips lopsided and fingers slowly working at the front of his button down, designer shirt. “It’d been pretty good, hadn’t it?” He adds fuel to the fire, though his relationship to the boxer is nothing but oil being poured to warm water, “Yes, Jeon?”

Jeongguk’s eyes resist following, but they still do―first, at the exposed plane of Taehyung’s shoulder blades, broad and unblemished; leading to a narrow, small waist just meant to be covered, yanked with large hands ( Jeongguk’s large hands ); then, curving at pretty hips, hidden by the waistband of navy jeans.

And then, he clears his throat―gaze averting, but only to Taehyung’s face; cheeks just slightly flushed. “What sort of game are you playing at, Kim?” He grounds out, rough around the edges, strained, all under such simple ministrations.

Taehyung licks his lips, lets the shirt fall to his elbows, the soft material hanging and swaying at his sides as he takes a step closer, closer, closer―until their chest are mere centimetres apart. “What’d you think, hm?” Taehyung hums, reaches out to take Jeongguk strong hands, guiding them to his own body, under the shirt, over his buttocks.

Looks at him, smiles gleefully, dares to ask, “How do you call this kind of game, Jeon?”

And Jeongguk, he’s careful, studying Taehyung’s face with utmost restraint, although his hands are on Taehyung’s ass, as they’d been two days prior. After a moment, he scoffs―or perhaps laughs with pure disbelief, with the way his eyes gleam―and then, quite unexpectedly, rises his palm and waits a small second before bringing it back in a slap.

Taehyung gasps and, swear to god, almost collapses forward into Jeongguk’s chest, from the sheer surprise and embarrassing arousal which spreads through him like wildfire. But he doesn’t, no, he stays put and looks at the younger with a trembling, jutted lower lip, “You are―”

“―assigned to show you around the gym? Yes,” Jeongguk, the cheeky bastard, has the audacity to interrupt. He taps over the cheek he’d previously spanked, eyes languid with a need he pushes down, “Now, get this thick ass of yours in some proper workout attire. I’ll wait for you outside.”

And so, he just leaves. Taehyung’s baffled, infuriated, humiliated―and worst of all, most definitely turned out. Resisting to relish in how delightful the touch had been, as if he’d been given water during a draught, Taehyung continues to curse under his breath while undressing out his everyday designer pieces, replacing them with his exercise appropriate designer pieces.

As said, Jeongguk’s waiting for him by the door, hip leant against the wall, arms crossed; hair now caught in a ponytail, as it would be during a match. He looks Taehyung over, gaze lingering a second longer at the sight of his rather exposed legs. “Well, this isn’t too bad,” he murmurs, but quickly averts the topic, “Anyways, what sort of equipment do you need showing to? I have to go back to my training after I’m done with you.”

Hearing this, Taehyung can’t help but immediately interject, “I assumed you showing me around included replacing my personal trainer for the day.”

Jeongguk laughs this time, then offers a surprisingly sassy eyebrow lift, “Why would I? Will you have trouble getting around alone, Kim?”

“I find ways around anything, Jeon; I just presume, since your coach is nowhere in sight, you’d have some time to spare,” Taehyung says, but then sighs and dramatically drops his shoulders, “But oh well, I guess finding a more able man to help me out won’t be too hard. I can already see several interested ones―reckon they’d follow me to the hotel later, if I asked nicely enough?”

Jeongguk’s lips draw tight, as do his eyes. The crossed stance of his arms tightens for a fraction of a second and then, he’s pushing himself off the wall and showing Taehyung to the other side of the gym.

“Ah, didn’t think of you as the jealous type,” the blond sings while following along, “Can’t stand the thought of seeing another man handle me, is it?”

“Hardly anyone can handle you, Kim,” Jeongguk rolls his eyes and look at him―who thought he has such charm, such nonchalance to his words, “But with anybody else, you’d get nothing done. And y’know me, I love doing charity work.”

Giggling with nothing but amusement, Taehyung’s not to give him satisfaction of succumbing to that; then again, that doesn’t appear to be Jeongguk’s goal either, he seems to be genuinely teasing him, even as he further adds, “Now, is there a routine you do, or are a few reps of squats enough?”

Yes, most definitely teasing, about his rather sumptuous, plump, irresistible (if he says so himself) derriere nonetheless. Taehyung draws his lips to an exaggerated pout, lifting the front of his shirt just lightly and pretending to fan it―eyes are gathering, he senses, but Taehyung’s own gaze is on no one but the man in front of him.

“My rear is quite fine without any exercise to begin with, but thank you,” he huffs, pulling out his phone and a rather familiar, tremor-inducing notes list he keeps there. He tosses it to Jeongguk, whose―unsurprisingly incredible―reflexes help him catch it without any sign of accidentally dropping it. “This is what I do on my breaks.”

“Breaks?” Inquires Jeongguk, eyes fastly skidding across the sort of exercise written out, the amount of reps done on each side and extra, bolded reminders of the sort of form one is to keep while doing so.

“Yes, breaks,” Taehyung emphasizes, tucking his front shirt inside the waistband of his shorts, voice a hollow explanation, “When I’m not in the midst of a busy season―as I do tend to be―I still have to work. You might not believe it, but it takes effort to look like this.”

Jeongguk raises a tentative eyebrow, lips curved to a small, rather surprised grin. “And here I thought being pretty would come rather easily to you,” he says all too simply, like it’s clear as the freshly spring sky and yes, it is; still, being complimented by someone who otherwise doesn’t tend to acknowledge any of your other qualities feels… better than it should have.

Swirling the too expensive of a telecommunication device between two of his fingers, Jeongguk eyes keep sliding up and down Taehyung’s body―almost as an assessment―not succeeding in being subtle. His voice isn’t any less suggestive as he comes closer, “And on days you do work, how often is it?”

“Monday to Saturday, one rest day and so on, again and again,” Taehyung responds, he watches and observes the boxer, the glint in his eyes and the curve of his tongue barely swiping across the seam of his top lip. Something inside him trembles at the sight. “If I can’t meet my personal trainer, I go on hikes. Or indulge in equestrianism―turns out, I’m quite good at riding.”

Jeongguk visibly gulps, but then laughs it off, hitting the side of his foot against Taehyung’s. “I’d figure you are. C’mon, start your dynamic stretches,” he says, coming up behind him, out of Taehyung’s sight. The model rolls his eyes, but listens and begins his warm up. “From your plan, I see you mostly do circuit and cardio. Not a lot of weight?”

Just briefly, Taehyung hopes, as he does his lunge―with a twist of rotating his torso on each side―to accidentally kick Jeon Jeongguk for speaking so formally, so professionally, as if he’s actually his fucking trainer (and though Taehyung asked for such, they both know it’s never been his actual intent).

“I’m to be lean, not bulky, Jeon,” Taehyung drawls, slurring the last word in attempt to remind himself whom he’s exactly speaking to. He then glances up, sees the younger male standing by his side, eyes stuck to the extension of his bare calf―and then Jeongguk’s eyes find his, red coating the tips of his ears.

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, chooses not to comment on the protruding gaze and instead moves to the next stretch. “You see, I’m a runway model―my job is to wear the clothes, not take them off. Thus, they must fit spectacularly,” haughtily, he continues to remain polished, even now. “You might be delighted to find out, however, that I also do boxing. A nice full-body workout, isn’t it?”

“Ah,” is Jeongguk’s brief response and as Taehyung straightens up, he surprisingly finds him to be rather close, a hot breath hitting the sensitive spot just beneath his ear, Jeongguk’s voice low, “Then I’d know exactly what do with you.”

With a sharp intake of air, body going through a tremor, Taehyung’s gaze is quick to snap and his tongue loosens, “You’d known from the beginning, Jeon. But will you run from me again, like a coward?”

“You left first that night,” Jeongguk reminds him and out of sight for everyone else, his strong, rough hand cradles Taehyung’s hip, makes him shudder. His voice is still a whisper, “Don’t think I wouldn’t have had you up against the wall back then, fucking you open with my tongue until you were a dripping mess, Kim. But you chose to leave.”

Dear gods up in heaven, if any there are, just the image alone―generously provided by Jeongguk’s apparently talented mouth―washes away any doubt, any second-guessing Taehyung might’ve had prior to all of this.

“I’ll give you another chance, then,” he murmurs back just as lowly, words playing on him being in control here, the superior here, even if Taehyung’s steadily realizing all of it will slip from his hands soon. And boy, oh boy, couldn’t he be more delighted about it.

Something edging comes from Jeongguk’s throat, a sort of chuckle which might sound too dry, too taunting, too delicious. “I’ll think ‘bout it, blondie,” he only acknowledges, the absolute smartass, releasing Taehyung’s hip and proceeding to gently pat it. “Let’s exercise first.”

Taehyung gives him a look of disbelief and despite his flustered state – everything from his cheeks to his knees quite a rose red – he’s still cheeky, sighing with a barely hidden smile, “Alright, but don’t think I won’t have stamina left to spare.”

₩₩₩

‘Weird,’ Jeongguk is thinking several hours later, as they stumble through the door of quite a lavish hotel room―in his state, however, it’s hardly easy to pay attention to surroundings, to the chandelier or Juliet roses, not when he’s hoisting Taehyung up the door, lips on his neck, ‘He’s got a hefty drive, huh?’

Not that Jeongguk is complaining, per se, not now. Taehyung appears to be perfectly content – if his high-pitched whimpers are anything to go by – handled about and carried, though he does eventually kick his legs like a brat. “J–Jeon―fuck, c’mon,” he groans, tugging at the back of Jeongguk’s shirt, perfectly manicured nails digging through the material, “The bed. We have fucking silk sheets for a reason.”

“Yes, yes, your majesty,” Jeongguk’s saying, but he still keeps the blond pressed to the door, at least until he’s satisfied with the handiwork upon his neck―lord, red looks gorgeous on that skin; Jeongguk wants to mark him all over, which is an urge he hasn’t experienced with anybody else, not even people he’d actually been in a proper relationship with.

Taehyung’s canting his hips forward, grinding his hardening cock against Jeongguk’s abdomen, voice strained and staggering. “Fucking―” He hisses, kicking the heel of his foot against his partner ’s ass, earning a yelp in return. “Silk sheets, Jeon! Get on with it.”

“Okay, okay, I got it,” Jeongguk tries not to giveaway his exasperation too much, seeing as the mood is good now; and then again, he likes them a bit bratty. Holding Taehyung up by the backs of his plush thighs, still clad in wax coated denim, he brings him to the queen sized bed, waiting for them all prim and proper, luxurious.

With a sigh of relief, Taehyung falls against the silk, the beige sliver to the material only making him look more ethereal. Jeongguk’s unzipping his jeans before he even realizes, searching for much needed relief. “Clothes off,” he says, nothing more, nothing less. The hurry causes a blur in his vision, mellowing out any doubts.

What, however, he does observe and see clearly, is Taehyung’s movement―the undone buttons of his shirt, slow and deliberate, revealing inches of skin which should be worshiped, yet to blemish under Jeongguk’s lips; delectable collarbones, perky nipples; a thin, lithe waistline… god, anyone ’s wet dream. Here, in bed, for Jeongguk’s eyes only.

Once the jeans are off, Jeongguk grabs Taehyung by the ankles―not relishing too much in the quite adorable yelp he lets out―and hauls him inward, meets his chest halfway, kneeling on the bed and taking a nipple between his lips, sucking and nipping ‘til it’s sore.

“Y–You… shit,” Taehyung doesn’t sound like he’s complaining in the slightest bit, his body quivering as Jeongguk makes his journey down his midriff, mouthing at his hip bones and eventually engulfing the tip of Taehyung’s cock between his lips. “Hnng―! Jeon, c’mon, just get inside me, mm, already.”

Jeongguk attempts to nod, but more so bobs his head down Taehyung’s length, up and down, up and down; just until Taehyung’s writhing and his toes are probably curling in, panting and drooling from how sensitive he’s being. Sue him, Jeongguk likes men, so of course he loves sucking dick―especially when garnering such reactions.

“God,” Taehyung’s gasping, possibly in vain, head fallen back on the bed and yet, back still archen desirebly. One of his hands holds a vice grip on Jeongguk’s hair, rivalling the one Jeongguk’s having on his hips, holding him still and swallowing his cock whole. “Holy shit―fuck, you actually know to give good head?”

This time, Jeongguk does pull back, only to show him how incredulous he might look. “I mean, I am gay. Does that give you a hint?” He drawls, almost amused by how much of a disbelief Taehyung appears to be in; his body is still twitching, especially when Jeongguk’s firmly strokes his dick again.

“I–I assumed you’re bi,” Taehyung tries to interject, defend his previous, rather ridiculous statement; and even then, with his legs being quite easy to part under Jeongguk’s hands, Taehyung manages to give him an accusatory look, “And you’re not?”

At this, Jeongguk can only shrug. “Eh, unspecified – doesn’t really matter to me, I fuck who I wanna fuck,” he says, rather conversationally for the obscene way he pries Taehyung’s cheeks apart, thumbs skimming across his twitching hole. Jeongguk leans down, brings his mouth to it, breath hot, “Which, right now, would be you.”

Whatever Taehyung had wanted to say falls short as soon as Jeongguk fucks his tongue into him―and may say, he’s never had a bed companion as eager to be rimmed. Which is a delight, in its own way, because Jeongguk enjoys opening him up like this, feeling those tight walls constrict around him and wondering how they’ll feel around his cock.

Glancing up, he sees Taehyung grasping at the sheets for dear life; by the time Jeongguk rolls him onto his side, pulls his knees upwards and plunges two fingers into his channel, Taehyung appears to be nothing but delirious and needy, just ready to take whatever’s given to him. 

And Jeongguk can see he’s prepared himself beforehand―most likely in the gym showers, which he’d complained about without abandon on their way here―but though his fingers slide in so easily with just spit, they still need lube. “Got any condoms on you?” Jeongguk has to ask, almost dreading to end this with how absolutely debauched Taehyung is.

With a shaky hand, the blond points to his bedside drawer, of course, and Jeongguk makes sure to grab the appendages as quickly as possible. The sheets ruffle and from the corner of his eyes, he sees Taehyung contour his body differently, settling on his knees and forearms. With a sigh of content, Jeongguk places a palm over one exposed cheek, kneading the skin, fingers leaving lasting imprints.

“Mm, get on with it,” Taehyung’s mumbling, voice trailing by the end of his demand, once Jeongguk tips down to press broad kisses over hs clenching hole. Keening, Taehyung attempts to kick his legs again, make it seem as if he’s dissatisfied, as if Jeongguk can’t see his cock dripping precome all over the silken sheets. “Jeon.”

“Say please,” Jeongguk takes the opportunity to tease, circling his tongue around the reddened rim, a pretty shade he’s left all over the model. Taehyung groans with frustration, but his hips still buck back against Jeongguk’s ministrations, which are soon stilled by the boxer’s hand on his hip, “Taehyung.”

“Please!” Taehyung’s voice breaks, partially from the cold lube poured right where Jeongguk’s tongue just was. And Jeongguk enjoys the sight, he drinks it up; watching it dribble down those peachy thighs, twitching and quivering, all too eager.

With a bit of maneuvering, Jeongguk attempts to position himself and yet only manages to slip slightly. “Fucking silk sheets―more likely to break my neck than fuck anybody on these,” he’s mumbling while clumsily sliding a condom down his dick.

Jeongguk swears, he hears Taehyung roll his eyes far before he speaks, “I’ll have you know, they’re excellent for a sensual atmosphere–”

Leaning down, Jeongguk presses their bodies flush, captures Taehyung’s earlobe between his lips, “Kim. Shut up.”

And then, he pushes inside. Perhaps all too slow, too careful―considering their relationship―and it is too much, but it’s―fuck, it’s absolutely perfect. Taehyung wraps around him like he’s meant for him, made and shaped to take Jeongguk’s cock right then and there, spread for him and panting, wanting.

Head a whirl of emotions he won’t place a name on, Jeongguk struggles to breath, to ask, “Good?” And when he does, it comes out strained and unbelievably hot, straight to Taehyung’s ear and down to his still erect cock, bobbing against his stomach as Jeongguk experimentally rolls his hips forward.

“F–Fucking perfect,” Taehyung voices his thoughts with no shame and maybe he’s too far gone to realize the weight of his words, but neither of them can stand to care now. “I’m―’m so full, Jeongguk, please―please, please, take me, just use me―”

Jeongguk can’t even listen to more than this, finding something incredibly intimate about being called, calling and referring to each other, on first name basis (and it’s ironic, almost, how it feels more personal than the sex itself); he pushes in, thrusts as deep as he can go and curses, damns the entire world for allowing Kim Taehyung to exist, to be spread like this for him.

It’s the sweaty, wet, squelching and loud lube, post-workout, afternoon sort of sex. Almost lazy and also eager, shying across the edges and brinks of climaxes for them both, again and again. At some point, Jeongguk flips Taehyung onto his back, momentarily mesmerized by the pleasure-struck, lustful expression across his face; and then, he plunges back in, hard.

“W–Wait, I’m―” Before Jeongguk can even consider he’s done something wrong, Taehyung’s back arches off the bed and body violently ripples into continuous shivers; cock twitching against his belly and as Jeongguk lifts his lower body by the thighs, his hole does too.

Jeongguk watches, breathes slowly, brows knit in confusion and then―oh, it’s like that. “Huh,” he barely acknowledges this at first, on the mere fact it makes him unexplainably aroused, “Dry? You came early just ‘cause I put my cock in you again?”

Taehyung’s forearms fall over his tear-stained face, but his trembling lower lip is still visible. “S–Shut up, you―you absolute, inconsiderate git,” he rambles and Jeongguk can’t even bother to correct himself about finding this to be oddly cute. “Just… m–make me come f’cking properly.”

“Your wish is my command,” and so Jeongguk does; pinning Taehyung to the bed and taking him with no mercy, nothing more than reckless lust surging through every thrust, the next harder than the other, deeper than the other, until their room is nothing but lewd, vulgar language and noise, accompanied by the warm setting Sun.

Jeongguk’s not sure, either, when both of them come, but they do―Taehyung’s first, spilling all over the hand Jeongguk had, at some point, wrapped around his dripping cock; and then Jeongguk follows suit, releasing into the condom when Taehyung’s walls squeeze the climax out of him.

He’s also pretty unsure about the reason, the turn of events, one might say, which made them kiss through the entire thing. Like they’ve been afraid of letting go.

₩₩₩

“Ex-fucking-scuse me,” two hours later, Jimin’s voice is blaring on speaker. Taehyung briefly thinks his phone might’ve vibrated on the bathroom sink from the sheer bewilderment and no doubt, a sense of righteousness. “You, Kim Taehyung – the man of the pickiest, most unreasonable standards on the globe – let Jeon Jeongguk fuck you? What?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t like ‘im,” Taehyung mumbles around his electric toothbrush, but the silence he receives makes it seem he’s not being convincing at all. With a groan of disbelief, he rinses his mouth and aggressively pats it dry with a towel of Merino wool. “Oh, please, it’s not like I’m in fucking love with the guy!”

“Sure,” Jimin’s feeble drawl suggests nothing more than unlikeliness. “But hey, you could play in love, y’know? Bet your mother could easily be fooled with the sort of natural chemistry the two of you have.”

Taehyung pauses, carefully considers what he’d just heard, although the sort of idea his friend is proposing seems outright outlandish. “You’re joking,” he states so surely, as if it’d be ridiculous otherwise. “Jimin, I’m not―god, I’m not bringing this guy back home with me, hello? To fucking marry him, of all people?”

“Hear me out!” Jimin’s shrill interrupts any second guessing Taehyung could’ve had about hanging up the call right then and there “See, this is why I brought you to Busan! I knew you’d hit it off with him―plus, like, he needs the money. I don’t think he’d refuse if you asked.”

Coating his leg with a generous amount of pure vanilla, vegan body lotion, Taehyung gnaws his bottom lip with his front teeth, brows tightly knit together. As he lifts his leg on the edge of the large bath―his bathrobe, big as it is, slipping down both his shoulders―he chooses to entertain the thought, “Hasn’t he received sponsorship offers already? Who am I to mindle.”

This time, Jimin’s laughing as if Taehyung is the crazy one here, the one spouting absolute nonsense, “I don’t think any of them can offer nearly as much as you could, babe. From what Joon-ie has been telling me, Jeongguk’s got a lot of potential, but no resources to go above local level―but you, beautiful, you can make that kid into a fucking star.”

Taehyung laughs in a way it suggests Jimin’s being completely absurd again, but something blooms inside him at the mere scheme of it, of bringing someone to the highest of success, showing them what the life of the wealthy, the affluent looks like―especially to someone like Jeongguk, whose knowledge of opulence probably extends to jewelry shop displays of cheap, knock off diamonds.

“Yes, yes, as wonderful as it may sound, we don’t quite get along,” Taehyung sighs, undoing his robe to pour lotion across his chest, his stomach and it’s then he catches sight of himself in the full-body mirror. With a bite to his lip, he presses a finger over the bite mark around his nipple, slightly wincing, “And god, he’s a fucking brute―made it look like he literally tried to eat me.”

“Hasn’t he?” Jimin sighs with the air of a disappointed parent, probably picking his nails at the other end of the line, “Please, you act as if hadn’t liked it! Not getting along my ass, you just fucked!”

“Oh, do you marry every person you happen to have intercourse with? I don’t think so,” Taehyung replies snootily, quickly applying the lotion, covering his body and shying it away from his own eyes; the way he’d started to throb at the reminder of Jeongguk’s earlier actions upon him is nothing but highly alarming.

Once more, Jimin sounds tired, worn out from even attempting to have this conversation at any point in time. “Let me remind you, darling, time is not in your favor here. This is someone we can trust; he won’t be able to run off with the money, nor will he mess this up for you when it’s mutually beneficial―do you really have the means to look for somebody else right now?”

Well, put it like that and it doesn’t really leave Taehyung with much of a choice. And granted, though he’d have the resources to throw a grand bal on another occasion, in order to find a soul his mother would believe is destined for his, he’s limited now. Very limited, as well as extremely busy.

Still, Jeon Jeongguk? Taehyung’s tongue is itching to rebuttal this, “Even then, how’d we act it out? We don’t exactly like each other.”

Lords, it’s most likely a wonder Jimin hadn’t hung up on him by then. “I don’t know, Taehyung-ie, but trust―I’d find a way around anything if that sort of inheritance is the endgame goal. Plus, isn’t the sex good?”

This interaction ends on a pretty fair point; the bathroom smells of rose water and shea butter, all luxurious, comfortable, something Taehyung’s accustomed to. He shrugs the robe back on, clips back his hair with some stray jeweled pins he’d happen to have laying around, all before he exists the room, freshly cleaned up.

He’d told Jeongguk earlier – as the boxer had been given the privilege to shower first, with Taehyung being unable of feeling his legs for quite a bit after their vigorous bedroom activity – how, if he wishes to, he can choose to stay the night and maybe even have dinner with him. Perhaps the post-coital haze had been too fresh in Taehyung’s mind at that point.

Thus, he’s not surprised to find Jeongguk awkwardly pacing about the room; he looks rather nervous, as if he just hadn’t fucked Taehyung’s brains out prior, kicking his legs occasionally and murmuring something troubling under his breath, as if the maroon curtains had somehow personally offended him.

“My, are you always this restive after coitus? I must say, it’s not really charming of you,” Taehyung can’t help but comment, making his way to the hotel room phone, sitting on the table by their―his bed. From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Jeongguk accidentally hitting his toe against the leg of the sofa, making a pained expression similar to someone who’d just had their testicles kicked.

Resisting to laugh, Taehyung cocks an annoying perfect eyebrow and asks, “Macarons and champagne, Jeon?”

Apparently, it takes a moment for Jeongguk to realize he’s being offered this, at which point he painfully struggles out a meek, “S–Sure.” Seriously, one would think―with his extensive familiarity of being hurt on the regular―a boxer wouldn’t take much to a twist on the pinkie, but oh well.

Half an hour later, they find themselves in bed again, this time in quite a different scenario. Jeongguk’s still slightly stiff, only swishing his champagne about the glass, watching the alcohol whirl and leveling his breathing across the unexplainable tension between them.

“So,” Taehyung chooses to start, fingers dancing over the strawberry macaron for a bit, before he actually pulls it from the box. Jeongguk’s watching his every miniscule movement, so little it might be missed, yet he appears to be a bit mesmerized―interesting. “You can’t make it past locality in boxing, can you?”

Jeongguk’s eyes finally meet his, lips forming a scoff, “Oh, are you regretting not sleeping with someone of higher caliber, Kim?”

Taehyung’s pretty sure his eye roll had been really indicative of his stance on that, but it only deepens Jeongguk’s frown. “Don’t flatter yourself, Jeon; believe it or not, I’ve been fucked by the lower class plenty,” he huffs, going to cross his legs, bare and open on the silk sheets, not missing how Jeongguk’s eyes―despite their current disagreement―still follow along the movement.

“Really,” the boxer’s voice, however, doesn’t sound much convinced. His fingers only tighten around the champagne glass, lips bitten bright red and voice a tad bit annoyed, “What else reason do you have for bringing up my incompetence, then, princess?”

Cheeks blooming, Taehyung slowly sinks his teeth into the macaron, licking the cream slowly and letting it melt on his tongue, sweetening the currently quite sour situation. “I might have a suggestion,” he eventually says, lets this sit for a small moment and then, boldy questions, “How do you feel about marriage?”

Jeongguk most definitely took the wrong time to sip on his beverage, as Taehyung’s pretty sure it travelled up his sinuses from how harshly he inhales, then splutters at the apparent proposal. With a sigh of admissal, the blond takes note on the wrongful approach, “Okay, I might’ve put it wrong―I’m just in a bit of a… sticky situation, one might say.”

Curiously, though with a shaken voice and raw throat, Jeongguk stills grumbles a small “you?” in suspicion, which would’ve been a bit amusing on another occasion.

“My recently deceased grandfather, Kim Myungdae―South Korea’s notorious business magnate, as you possibly know―left all of his belongings, real estate and wealth alike, to only one grandchild,” Taehyung attempts to simplify it, though his disdain is still quite clear.

Jeongguk looks, for a lack of better word, confused. “Um… that’s an issue, I take it?” He inquires, particularly interested, for whatever reason it may be. “Do you have siblings?”

“Two elder ones, yes,” Taehyung nods, taking a slow, mournful sip of his champagne, lips coated sweetly and tone just as mellow, “That isn’t the problem however―our grandfather, desperate for family values as he’d always been, especially after mother ran off with his pool boy on her first marriage, cleverly decided that whomever is to elope first gets all the inheritance.”

This, apparently, gives Jeongguk a lot of pause. He is still to reach for the macarons, but then again, he’d barely drank alcohol as it is―perhaps for the sake of his form, who knows? Taehyung’s awfully content with emptying half the box himself because wow, pistachio is a pleasant taste to distract from how unusually biting the air is. 

Eventually, Jeongguk clears his throat, “So… what you’re saying…”

“If I want any chance of inheriting a fortune which promises me a life of the finest luxury for the rest of my time, I’ll have to elope,” Taehyung clarifies with another sip, gulping down heavily and then adding, “In the next two months.”

Jeongguk makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, possibly having whiplash. “Okay, so you’re―uh, we…” Words falling over one another, Jeongguk’s nervously tonguing at his right cheek and then, eyes piercing, asks, “You wanna marry… uh, me?”

Thank the gracious heavens Taehyung hadn’t been drinking, otherwise he’d positively choked. And despite the sort of tingle that covers his body all over, he manages to uphold poise. “Certainly not when you propose like that,” he scoffs, throat dry. “Listen, Jeon, it is nothing but a suggestion―a mutually beneficial deal, in a way. We’re both quite aware, aren’t we, of your career being in need of a boost.”

Setting his jaw, squaring it, Jeongguk doesn’t seem too take too kindly to this statement; at first, he laughs to himself, shaking the hair out his eyes and standing from the bed, words somewhat distant, rueful, “Fuck, I should’ve known you’d start acting like this again―the day has been too good to be true, ‘til now.”

Something inside Taehyung twists, as does his mouth, forming a pretty frown, “Oh please, you wanted me from the very beginning, Jeon, despite how absolutely horrid you assumed I’ve been on any other occasion.”

“Assumed―what the fuck is there to assume, Kim?” Snarls Jeongguk, words edged by a heavy, local dialect, “D’you even realize how absolutely insufferably pretentious you can be? Once things don’t go your way immediately, you start spouting nonsense and picking fights.”

Taehyung reddens with a burn of humiliation, one he is not so familiar with, which spirals this conversation even deeper, fresher, for him; as if scabbing, picking at old wounds, “If so, why are you here? We fuck once and oh, now you have reason to stick around and insult me, as if my personality fucking matters when you take to my ass as fish take to fucking water.”

Now, Jeongguk’s positively fuming, his ears bright while his hands are quick and hasty in tugging on his shirt, unlike to what they are whilst boxing―and yes, he still is attractive, even when angered, even like this.

“You’re unbelievable!” Jeongguk’s voice is pitching up, fingers furiously working at the zipper of his jeans. He glares at Taehyung, long and hard, then, “You just asked me to fucking marry you! Of course it matters, Kim, how the fuck―how do you think it would work?”

At this, Taehyung sneeres, reaching for his box of macarons before Jeongguk’s violent brushes against the silk sheets cause them to slide off the bed. “It would only be a legal marriage, mind you, nothing more than that,” he proclaims confidently, almost assuring, “We’d divorce right after both parts of our deal are fulfilled, then continue to our marry ways.”

Jeongguk stares at him in ways which suggest Taehyung’s grown several more heads. “What the―do you rich folk not understand what marriage is? Kim, we will spend time together; people will expect of us to act as a married couple! Are you so up your own ass that you don’t even comprehend the consequences of this?”

“The only consequence would be me inheriting a fortune,” Taehyung consciously, by choice, glosses over the acting as a married couple part. When the boxer only huffs, unconvinced, Taehyung further adds, “And you making it to championships―well, if you work hard enough.”

Now, there’s another pause, one which Jeongguk is the first to break now, “...What?”

Giving an eye roll to the lack of manners, Taehyung brings a chocolate-orange macaron to his lips. “You heard me,” he clarifies, “I can take you to a national level, Jeon―or beyond, if you want; it’s all futile money for me, be it thousands or billions. I’ve seen what you can do, I’ve been told you’ve got potential, but no resources―so here, I offer my sponsorship to you.”

By all means, Jeongguk must be in a state of doubt right now, with how ridiculously easy it all sounded. “You… are offering to be my sponsor, if only I accept to be your husband by doing so?” And thus his voice comes out ragged, breathless, almost needy with dripping desperation.

Taehyung nods, hums with delight, “Exactly.” He brings the champagne to his mouth again, yearning for sweetness to overtake his senses, overtake any wish he’s having about wiping that dumbfounded expression from Jeon Jeongguk’s face by tasting him instead. “Call it a debt, if you will. I’ll be indebted to you.”

Jeongguk’s lips are twitching to laugh, but he resists; instead, bringing a hand to cover his own face, he turns and continues to grab his appendages. “I’d hope so. Marrying you warrants an award, doesn’t it?” He murmurs, to himself, yet it’s loud, falls as more than a hush. “God, I hope it’s worth it.”

At the mere implication of Jeongguk accepting his proposal, agreeing to do this for whatever sort of gain he will desire in return―all of it, it’s almost electrifying for Taehyung, a hot, small drop to the heat pooling in his belly. “Can’t say whether I am worth it or not, but trust me, dear―everything’s got a price,” their eyes meet, words languid, “And I know mine all too well.”

With either a scoff or laugh, Jeongguk throws his jacket across stiff shoulders, then he leaves the room without finishing his champagne.

₩₩₩

“I’m sorry, he asked you to what?” Namjoon’s voice rings through the pizzeria, the famous one of downtown Busan; they make the best margherita you can find anytime, anywhere―though, this doesn’t appear to matter to Namjoon, whose slice is dripping cheese down his dropped jaw, “And you answered what?”

Yoongi’s the one who huffs as loudly as one can possibly manage, prior to him kicking Namjoon under the table, to warn him of rising his level of surprise too much. “You heard him,” he drawls in a way, in a tone it resembles Taehyung all too well. “They’re getting married, Namjoon.”

With his coach choking on tonight but pastry and tomato scented air, Jeongguk steps in on the conversation, his face positively aflame, “I said I will think about it.”

“Might as well have said yes, at that point,” Yoongi hums against the straw of his second milkshake―strawberry this time, is it? Hard to tell anymore, as Jeongguk’s pretty certain everything around him starts spinning once this particular subject is brought up; which is why his condition worsens as Yoongi continues, “I mean, hasn’t it been a week? You’ve left the man hanging for so long, he might’ve found a sound replacement.”

Those words bare no actual bite, with Yoongi’s tone being rather indifferent, in means to tell Jeongguk it’s not worth hitting his head over―however, it does feel wrenching, it does feel as everything it shouldn’t; Jeongguk isn’t supposed to care, but the devil’s tempting, the promise of his hard work paying off almost irresistible, despite the cost it comes with.

Crunching one of the fries between his fingertips, Jeongguk feels himself slightly shaken, “He wouldn’t,” is what he says, but it comes out too discouraged, as if all the best life will offer is slipping between his fingertips, “Fuck, I―I don’t know anymore, this entire thing is ridiculous. I’m… I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it.”

From behind their booth, a voice joins them, “You will, trust,” a slow, familiar sort of dialect; unintentionally, sickeningly sweet voice, following ripped denim and fashion basics, toppled with expressive eyeshadow. Park Jimin, glorious as always, drops a kiss to Namjoon’s cheese-covered lips before sitting by him, lips lazily stretched in a smile of greeting, “Still thinking, Jeongguk?”

Seeing as the he might be too caught by surprise to actually answer, Yoongi decides to speak for him, “I think your friend has left him in quite a fit. Figure there’s anywhere to fix it before they walk down the aisle?”

As Jeongguk’s blush deepens, from pink to crimson; spreading from cheeks, to ears, to neck, Jimin’s grin only widens―he crosses his legs, orders a cola from the waitress who merely dropped by, then says, “I mean, money might not buy happiness, per say, but it can offer much more.”

Namjoon clears his throat then, dabbing any dripping gruyere by a cheap napkin, “Actually, I’d argue happiness is the ultimate, most–” The beginnings of one of his philosophical fulminates are interrupted by Jimin lovingly stuffing his mouth with more fries, whispering a gentle ‘not the time, dear,’ before he turns to Jeongguk again, “Are you nervous?”

Jeongguk gnaws his lips, clearly just that―extremely nervous, anxious, fidgety; you name it, all of it is pooling through him, it has been for the last week, ever since Taehyung proposed (in the literal sense, of course). “It just… caught me off guard, I guess,” he tries to elaborate, “I mean, hell, how am I supposed to step inside his world? On top of it, we don’t even get along!”

Jimins hums at this, in apparent understanding. “See it like this―it’s strictly business; you win some, you lose some,” he says, taking a break to thank the waitress for bringing his drink, from which he takes a large gulpful. Then, with a clear voice, he adds, “In this case, the loss is that Taehyung-ie can be quite difficult to handle―a feat you’ve proven yourself to possess, yes?”

When Jeongguk fumbles and flusters, Yoongi places a comforting hand on his shoulder and rubs steadily. “I’m sure he’s easier to handle in bed than in other… areas,” he supplies to Jimin, whose amusement is only growing more apparent, “But we’re not used to the fine life, sweetcheeks, so it can be quite a shift for someone to just marry into the rich, no matter how short it may be. Why doesn’t he find someone more… adjustable for this task, then?”

For whatever reason, this doesn’t sit right with Jeongguk―the thought of his rejection driving Taehyung to another man’s arms is oddly irking. From across the table, Jimin’s smile falters and he huffs quite loudly, crossing his legs at the side of the booth.

“I grew up two blocks down from here, hyung, don’t tell me ‘bout the fine life,” he snarls with no actual malice, his tone deepening from the heavy satoori. Jimin pauses, then continues, “And tell you the truth, all of this has been mostly my idea. Seeing as Taehyung’s mother has to approve of the marriage for it to even happen, our choices are quite limited here; at least, to the people we know to trust.”

“Ah, so his mother is the issue here,” says Yoongi with all the knowledge of the world, fingers thrumming across Jeongguk’s tightened shoulder blades like a slow ballad. “So, she has to believe the marriage will be a genuine one?”

Jimin gives him a rather flat, disinterested look. “That’s hardly the worst of it―the woman believes in destined souls or whatnot. Ridiculous, I know, but I’m certain she will not validify any marriage, from either Taehyung or his siblings, if whom they’re marrying isn’t their destined one.”

Thinking back, to Taehyung’s own descriptor of his parent―“ ran off with grandfather’s pool boy on her first marriage,” he remembers―Jeongguk can’t quite conjure an image of how the woman might be. She sounds about stubborn, as Taehyung himself is, only with a drop of delusion; or perhaps, wishful, longing desire of star-crossed lovers.

Which, upon accepting the proposal, they might have to reenact – may the lord take the wheel.

“He’s offered everything, by the way,” informs Jimin after a minute of nothing but silence and doubt, his own voice knowing as it can be, giving Jeongguk a peculiar look, “He will pay for everything, your gym and equipment, training, promotion―even an entire team, if you need it, if only you fulfil your part of the deal.”

Jeongguk’s tempted, drawn by the idea of succeeding, making his loved ones proud, not having to worry about finance, which always limited him to no ends; it feels like freedom, of all, is at the grasp of his fingertips. “May I bring my own team?” He asks, for courtesy sake, but throws a glance Namjoon’s way―his poor coach still appears to be flabbergasted.

Hearing this, Jimin’s pearly whites flash and voice almost sings with delight. “Anything, Jeongguk, as long as you have the acting skills to back it up,” is what he says, bringing his cola up to a cheer motion, cheekily adding, “Just think of it as a friends with majorly sufficient benefits sort of deal―or, oh well, enemies in your case. Either way, you get the money.”

He doesn’t know why, not yet, but Jeongguk lifts his own drink too, in agreement. After all, what is the worse which could happen?

₩₩₩

“Kick it back, boys!” Taehyung hears from the near sidelines of Haeundae beach, the coasts fresh and clean, somewhat crowded with folk of the sun-kissed look. The words follow quite a bit of noise, of Jimin tumbling all the luggage in the back of his several years old, four-by-four, Jeep Gladiator, “Hyung! Pass me that hideous pink thing over there, yes―Taehyung’s is the heaviest one.”

“Jeongguk, help me up,” Hoseok’s voice follows, drawn out by a disgruntled groan of failure, “Damn, what’s he got in here? Some fur coat to match the weather?”

Jimin’s laugh rings as annoyingly as the awaiting call sitting by Taehyung’s ear―it’s been ten seconds now, or even fifteen, of him preparing to drop a sob story to his mother’s awaiting claws, attempting to convince her of the impossible. “Oh my,” a voice suddenly yelps from the other side of the line, shuddering Taehyung’s heart into a nervous hum, “Taehyung-ah, my darling! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gods, everytime he hears her, Taehyung’s reminded of his brother; this slow, genuinely interested sort of tone, biting words sitting back at the edges of the palate and awaiting their right moment. “Mother,” he greets back, carefully leveling himself, “I’m sorry I haven’t reached you lately, I’ve taken a sudden trip to Busan.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve been told so―ever since you’ve met with the lawyer, all three of you have been awfully quiet!” She says, sighing with utmost exaggeration, though Taehyung can just imagine her lounging about her mansion in a silk robe and some whiskey, with minimal distress. “And since you’ve left my place in such a hurry, so pale, I thought―”

“Mother,” Taehyung interrupts, recognizing the pending moments of her long, diabolic monologues. “I’ve left early because I’ve had a shoot to get to, I’ve told you this, haven’t I? Nonetheless, I’m calling to talk to you about something more important―and I’ll try to make it quick, seeing as I’m about to leave the city.”

He receives a passive hum of acknowledgement, “Well then, dear? Go on.”

Taking a deep breath, thoughts running with doubt and uncertainty, Taehyung tries to focus on the inheritance, the fortune he’s doing this for. “I have to apologize first,” he says, voice falling to a hush, eyes wandering to other people, to his friends, to Jeongguk. “F–For... doubting you, when you said I will find the right one when I need them the most. Because I think I have.”

He waits, a second, then two. By three, his breathing slows, world swirls and then―bam! A glass shatters to the floor, from his mother’s side (of the presuming cognac she tends to carry about the house), quickly followed by what can only be described as a wail of pure joy.

“Oh darling!” She shrikes dramatically, like an actress of the twenties falling right into her lover’s arms. “Oh, my sweet, loving child, have you really? I almost cannot believe it.”

Of course, his mother―even high on delight―is cautious of what she’s hearing from her son, who just cursed her talk on destiny less than two weeks ago. “I know, it’s so, so surreal, mother, but―it feels so right, he feels so right for me,” Taehyung says, with a melodramatic tone for some flare, “You’ll see, when you meet him. I’m bringing him to Seoul with me tonight.”

Joyous above bounds, she cries again, “That’s wonderful, we will have to arrange for a meeting right away! What is he like, darling, is he everything you could’ve ever imagined for yourself?”

Stealing a glance towards Jeongguk, watching his tatted, muscled arm hold Jimin by the waist when he lowers him from the back of his Jeep; seeing his hair, dark and messy, falling across the lines of that pretty face and that gorgeous laugh, which echoes and stands out amongst others―no, it’s nothing Taehyung’s ever thought he’d want; and he doesn’t, but he will act as so.

“He’s more, mother, he’s so much more,” Taehyung murmurs, albeit the source of his breathlessness is uncalled for, he still sees a wave of hands in his direction. His voice cracks then, just a little, breaking his train of thought, “I have to go now, to start my trip. Will call soon, okay?”

“You’d better not forget,” his mother warns lovingly, a sigh falling from her lips, “Greet your lover for me, tell him I can’t wait to see you two together―my, I’m sure you’ll make for a fabulous pair!”

Lips drawn tight, Taehyung tries not to chuckle too clearly, too amusedly, “I’m certain he is just as eager to meet you, mother. Be well.”

With the sense of pure self-satisfaction, the exhilarating freedom of an accomplishment well done, Taehyung walks to his friends―well, a friend, some acquaintances and his to-be husband; proven to be quite an odd group all together. He slips the phone inside a pocket, feeling it weight down the right of his jacket; much like his chest turns heavier when Jeongguk sees him approaching, cocking an eyebrow upwards in question.

Jimin – currently sat at his residual driver’s seat, legs dangling out the car and plump, pink lips wrapped about a sweet he’s most likely gotten from Yoongi – speaks first, almost giddy, “Had a good chat with your mommy dearest, Taehyung-ie?”

Rolling his eyes, Taehyung can only shift from one foot to another, avoiding a knowing gaze all over him. “She took it well enough―but well, that’s to be expected, with my acting skill at hand,” he explains, as briefly as it can be, “Swear to god, the woman started weeping when I’ve told her I found my fated one.”

Though Jimin laughs with nothing but amusement, the other folk have more sense and manners to at least look concerned. “Uhm,” Namjoon is the one who speaks, almost afraid of infringing upon something personal by asking, “You’re sure she’ll be alright?”

The model waves a hand of dismissal at this, certain there is no more than his mother’s broken glass of alcohol to be concerned about. “She’ll continue to bawl into her bottle of billion won worthy rum, but other than that, no other danger will impose upon her shock,” he drawls, almost mockingly, “But good lords, she’s a mess―” oh, I cannot wait to meet him ” my ass, she’s skeptical and still trying to psych me out about it.”

“She sounds like a lovely woman, if you ask me,” Yoongi speaks next, his hand somewhere on Jeongguk’s back in seeming ways of helping him not break down any moment now because gracious spirit, Jeongguk’s looks about perplexed as he does terrified.

Before Taehyung even has an opportunity to interject (and also reject the idea of his mother being anything other than a demon in marvelous disguise), Jimin’s hopping out his car and starting to say his goodbyes to everyone, as they’re around nearing noon and Taehyung would rather they be in Seoul sooner than later.

Joining them on their trip is Hoseok, who’d proclaimed earlier this week he has some family to visit in the other side of the country, thus Jimin promptly offered to drive him along. Taehyung thinks that, somehow, in the back of his mind Jimin partially used this as an excuse to sing, “get in the back, lovebirds!” whilst pushing him and Jeongguk to their seats.

Perhaps out of nothing but politeness, Jeongguk opens the door for Taehyung and waits for him to get in first―the blond scoffs, but doesn’t argue, lifting himself inside the car and sighing with relief when his ass lands on the comfortable, warm seats of the Jeep. They leave once Namjoon’s finally able to let Jimin ago, promising to see him in a week if “all goes well,” his tone suggesting a doubt of his entire marriage proposal turning out to be nothing but catastrophic.

They aren’t talkative until hitting the highway, at which point Hoseok breaks the silence by a elongated sigh, “What a day!” and he’s clearly referring to nothing in particular, saying things just as means to fill silence. He stretches his arms upwards, enough for them to hit the top of the car, conversationally adding, “So, when’s the wedding?”

Between Jimin’s cackle and Jeongguk’s blanched expression, Taehyung settles on being the rational one, explaining, “If all goes according to plan, we’ll most definitely elope rather than outright marry. There would be, fortunately, not enough time to plan and hold an entire wedding ceremony.”

“Ah,” Hoseok acknowledges, looking over his shoulder; mostly at Jeongguk, honestly, with how frightened the other ‘groom’ appears to be by the mere prospect of something he agreed to―Taehyung hasn’t got the opportunity to point this out as Hoseok continues, “D’you think your mother bought the story?”

Nerves spiking the slightest bit, Taehyung tries to shrug with seeming nonchalance. “No, not yet. As utterly clueless and love-obnoxious as that woman can get, she’s still clever―I must’ve gotten it from someone, you see, as my father is not the brightest when it comes to scheming,” he drags, even clicking his tongue for good measure. “The family will be hard to fully convince, especially my siblings.”

Jimin hums through his stick of candy, only having a single hand on the wheel, as the experienced―and reckless―driver he sometimes is, adding, “Y’know, you should probably give a little rundown on your ménage, so to say, to your future husband, yeah? It’s less likely to go to shit if he’s a bit prepared.”

As opposed as he is to the idea of discussing anything concerning his genealogy, Taehyung is very sure of Jimin’s idea being better than his usual ones, seeing as it actually includes planning; and despite how nervous Jeongguk might look when Taehyung mutters an agreement under his breath, while reaching for his phone, the young boxer never objects, following along.

It takes a bit to find the most appropriate, well-presented family photograph to showcase to his supposed ‘partner in crime’ (in this case, crime being the more suitable term); but when he does, Taehyung presents it with a sigh, “Here you have it, darling, your future in-laws. Take the phone, c’mon; look closely, they don’t bite―not through the screen, at least.”

As if the smallest of teases brought Jeongguk back to life, he regains enough energy to throw a glare in Taehyung’s direction, but it hardly has actual malice in it. Then, he takes a good, hard look at the Kim family, even squinting. “What the―is this some sort of genetic fraud?” He voices, lips jutted in confusion, “I can’t even tell who’re the parents and who’re the kids―are your folks even in the picture?”

The front seats must’ve shook with chortling and honestly, Taehyung can’t help but laugh a bit as well, though with an edge of disbelief. He leans towards Jeongguk’s side some more, until their shoulders are centimeters from touching. “Can you tell which one is me, at least?” Taehyung can’t help but further poke.

Jeongguk huffs, his cheeks slightly red as his shoulder finally, finally sag with a bit of relaxation, ease. “I can, just by the pinch between your eyebrows,” he says, hovering his thumb over the Taehyung of several years ago, clearly displeased by the family photo-shoot―and it’s a joke on Jeongguk’s part, clearly, as many of their family members don’t resemble each other in the finer details.

“Let’s start from the top,” Taehyung crosses his legs to get more comfortable, choosing to ignore how affectionate Jeongguk’s words would be, if they were actually together; he presses his fingers to the screen, zooming in on the two people who are most obviously the eldest ones in the family. “These are my passing grandparents, from mother’s side.”

For a moment, Jeongguk is awfully quiet. Almost like he’s observing every inch of their faces, intrigued by the slight of wrinkles and worry past their golden years. “They’re both passed?” He eventually says, sympathy evident in his voice. “I… I’m sorry. For your loss, I mean.”

Blinking slowly, Taehyung eventually swallows a lump settled in his throat. “Thank you, I suppose. Granted, I haven’t been around them much, with how busy they’ve always been. I barely remember grandmother’s passing, as I was busy with university at the time,” his voice softens, thus he has to clear it, breaking the oddly vulnerable atmosphere. “But yes, they’re not the ones you should worry about.”

Giving a close look to the other side of the family circle, Taehyung heaves a heavy sigh. “Here, this is my mother,” he gestures, observing her delicate, traditionally beautiful features; how they fit against her flared dress, rosy blush, her calculated and yet somewhat unintentionally graceful stance. She stands out in the midst of men surrounding her, to which Taehyung gestures, flatly stating, “And these would be byproducts of all her unsuccessful marriages, I’m afraid.”

Jeongguk’s lashes flutter, an awkward sort of noise getting stuck in the back of his throat briefly, before he voices out in a squeak, “Uh, all three of ‘em?”

“It’s clearly because she believes in destined souls,” Taehyung’s sarcasm drips from his tongue, with no actual venom. It’s more so from the fact how his mother―unreal as she is―has always been above and beyond the men she picked, but spent most her days being helplessly in love. “Here, this man here―yes, this is my father. Well, a father to all three of us, to be exact.”

The wheel bumps across something on the road, the Jeep shaking for the slightest bit before Jimin quickly recovers, resuming his conversation with Hoseok as if nothing’s happened. However, the evidence lays in Taehyung’s stumble to the side; his arm pressed to Jeongguk’s, palm spread across the thigh he instinctively grabbed to balance himself.

Catching sight of his friend in the rearview window, his cheeky grin, eyes betraying mischief―of course, he did it on purpose. Taehyung doesn’t give him the satisfaction of being embarrassed, of slipping in such a manner; instead, he removes his hand calmly, blush mainly hidden under his fitted clothing.

Jeongguk doesn’t seem to be too affected―which is, simultaneously, both relieving and disappointing (for unbeknownst reasons)―eyebrow raised in scrutiny, before he says, “Huh, you… really resemble your father, actually.”

Catching upon the lilt of the last word, Taehyung questions, “You sound surprised. Did you not expect of me to take after my parent, appearance wise?”

Now, Jeongguk does redden in the cheeks, evidently gulping whatever bout of anxiety washed over him. “These your siblings, then?” He asks, moving the picture to the three young heirs, exuberantly dressed and perfectly positioned, almost like sculptures―god, Taehyung remembers how vehemently he hated wearing that chiffon.

“The two here, yes,” the model plays along, choosing not to linger on the subject of family no longer than necessary. He taps over his sister’s face, barely recognizing her with the inky locks, which all the household members had at the time―grandmother’s great wish for traditional and natural values, they called it; Taehyung thinks it was nothing other than her undeniable urge to have gripping control of all people in her life.

Pushing away the stray, irking memory, he continues, “This would be the eldest, our sister, Kim Yubin. Seeing as she’d been around the right age for our grandparents to get their claws on her and shape her to what they considered ideals of a Kim child to be, you can only imagine what an utter perfectionist that woman is.”

Jeongguk sinks further inside the seat, shoulder bumping against Taehyung’s. His expression is suggesting he’s thinking rather hard about whatever is mindling inside that head of his; after a grave silence, he finally asks, “Um, she wouldn’t be the one they call The Lioness of Seoul, right?”

He slips inside a dialect so heavily it sounds rather distressed. Taehyung considers this, then ah ’s in realization―often enough, the mere fact his sister is the cause of tremendous strife, fear and turmoil within the Seoul refinery industry slips his mind completely.

“Ah right, there is some ridiculous nickname for her going around, yes? I must say, it’s highly inaccurate,” Taehyung drawls, as bored of discussing this as one can be. “You’ll see, she’s just a bit assertive, which is highly commendable on my part. Nothing to be frightened of.”

From the driver’s seat, Jimin’s laugh booms over their conversation, “Didn’t she threaten the existence of your ex’s entire bloodline, once she found out he’s only been dating you as means to climb up the ranks in her company?”

Jeongguk’s face considerably pales and Taehyung scowls loudly, straightening his leg enough to kick Jimin’s seat with the small platform of his Givenchy shoe. “Noona never went through with it, she’s not in all intents and purposes that ruthless―it was but a threat for that airless idiot, which served him right,” he clarifies, though Jeongguk doesn’t appear to be eased by this elucidation of his at all.

With but a small sigh, Taehyung lolls his head on the boxer’s shoulder―hears his breath hitch, even stutter when Taehyung’s hand returns on his thigh, fingers thrumming across the seams of worn denim. “You’ll see, my hyung can be a bit troublesome as well,” he attempts, desperately, to keep the conversation going, “On the side―no, Jeon, my left side; yes, right there, that’s my brother, Kim Seokjin.”

Not budging an inch, Jeongguk manages to ask, “T–Troublesome, you say?”

“Insufferable, sometimes,” Taehyung adds lazily, feeling afloat and cozy; if only he could sleep right now, just like this. “He’s too kind at heart, honestly, which leads him to be a bit naïve. I doubt this will make him the easiest to be fooled, but we’ll see how the family dinner goes overall―should give us a hint if all of this is worth going through to begin with.”

Lifting his head as quickly as he’d put it there, Taehyung shuffles to the other side of the seat, distantly. From the corner of his eye, he catches Jeongguk watching him, observing his expression; then, he hands him back the phone, tone alight with a challenge, “Having second thoughts, Kim?”

And Taehyung, he laughs―because, as unnerving as it all is, maybe it can work. “With you, Jeon?” He replies wittily, with the usual charm and chaff alike, buzzing as their gazes lock, “Never.”

₩₩₩

The mirror in front of Jeongguk appears to be oddly… distorted, slimming even; though, it may just be a sign of his discomfort in a new gym, being overly focused on adapting to the point he’s hyper fixated on every minute detail within unfamiliar surroundings. He tosses his bag on the bench, then sits down as well.

“―so, I was finally able to get in touch with these old acquaintances of mine, y’know, the ones I met first at the scene, back in twenty-eleven or something? And yeah, I asked them about you, told ‘em what we have in store,” Namjoon’s still speaking through the phone, like he’s been for the last twenty or so minutes, “Seems you already got a good name on yourself, Gguk, nothing to worry ‘bout.”

Rubbing a towel across his sweat-swatted forehead, Jeongguk can’t help but laugh, emptying his lungs of any air left. “Of course, especially after the way I lost last season,” he says, more to himself than his coach―this sense of self-pity itches at him lately, “It’s a wonder they let me keep my licence after that shit-show.”

While taking time to pack all of his personal equipment―water bottles and boxing gloves alike―he hears Namjoon sigh rather heavily, most likely in some sort of weariness, even a tinge of exasperation. “It wasn’t that bad,” he ultimately says, “You can make a grand comeback, yeah? And in a different weight class, since we’re going pro.”

Dabbing at his neck next, Jeongguk’s rather late to realize this. “Right, seventy kilo is considered middleweight now,” he says slowly, as if only now it’s dawning to him, all of this; how ultimately, at the moment, he will be going into professional boxing, a career path he’d been yearning for since mid teenage years―which now, after all the trouble, seem so long ago.

Jeongguk is getting what he’d always wished for, but at what cost?

As usual, Namjoon almost echoes his thoughts. “Jeongguk,” he starts, expectantly careful and all too conscious of his effect, the impression his next words would give, “Are you okay? Is Seoul treating you right?”

“Is my husband-to-be treating me right, you mean?” Jeongguk corrects, which he does on rare occasions with Namjoon―but alas, his coach is cautious and though Jeongguk may mostly appreciate his sense of empathy, there are times beating around the bush doesn’t give room for them to capture the core issue.

Thankfully, the gym is empty. Jeongguk takes his sweet time packing, reconsidering how to fill Namjoon’s awaiting silence; until, he eventually settles down a sigh, “Hyung, I’m fine, I’ve told you already. It’s been three days of nothing but scouring the hotel, from my room to the gym and so on. The only acquaintance I’ve made is with the Greecan bath.”

He can just imagine Namjoon pinching the bridge of his nose right then, perhaps even removing the glasses he so often replaces with contacts. “Jeongguk,” he repeats, this time a considerate warning. “I swear, no matter the time Jimin’s explained this to me, I still can’t grasp the fact that you will be marrying Kim Taehyung, of all people!”

“Trust me, I keep reminding myself every morning. It’s easy to forget when he doesn’t stick around,” Jeongguk mumbles, though loudly enough; when Namjoon goes quiet once more, Jeongguk can’t help the urge to roll his eyes and exclaim, “It was my choice, alright? And I haven’t regretted it yet, so leave it be for now.”

The silence elongates, all the way to the elevator. When the doors slide together, followed by a sounding ding echoing about the golden, velvet-smothered walls, Namjoon finally says, with a twinge of guilt, “Alright, I won’t bother you about it anymore – and I’m sorry, if it worried you too much. You told me, earlier, that he accepted all the terms of your deal just fine?”

Deciding not to dwell on the floating emotions of doubt on his way to the twelfth floor, Jeongguk clears his throat, “Y–Yeah, he… he’ll pay for everything, including your stay here, the gym, all the promotion,” he says at first, then laughs at the flash reminder of his conversation with the pretty blond, “‘Me showing at your uncouth events will the greatest ad you can get,’  he told me.”

Although airlessly, Namjoon probably laughs with agreement and not at his awful impression of Taehyung’s posh words and nature; soon affirmed by him saying, “That is true. Our country’s greatest supermodel at your fights, cheering by your side, will reach great lengths, I’m sure. He’s sort of a handful, though, isn’t he?”

“I think that would be putting it lightly,” Jeongguk mourns at the thought of bearing through this, for at least the next sixty or so days. “He’s… difficult, to say the least. I can only hope it will become easier as it goes on.”

The doors open just when Namjoon makes an uncertain noise from somewhere in his throat, as if inconvenienced about telling a child they can’t have sweets prior to dinner. “I–I hope so too,” he replies tightly, obviously meaning to say ‘I highly doubt that,’ but Jeongguk’s doesn’t pay it much mind, “God, Hoseok’s calling me again―must be ‘bout the new match tomorrow; and ah! Did you ask him yet, to be your manager and all?”

Something inside Jeongguk twists, especially as he steps out the elevator. Even after his first workout, everything feels all too silent and groggy in the unholy morning hours he wakes up to, still present now. “I’ll call him tonight,” he murmurs, digging through his pocket for the room card. “Right now, I need breakfast and a nap.”

“Don’t forget to have your early run,” Namjoon reminds him, mostly as force of habit.

“Yes, yes, I will also make sure to get some proper recovery afterwards,” Jeongguk finishes for him, opening the door with a sound sigh, stepping inside the warmth, “I have a feeling the taunting beauty will visit me today, anyways, so I’ll use all the rest I can get ‘till then.”

₩₩₩

Taehyung waits a wholesome, rather patient ten seconds before he knocks again; this time, he hears Jeongguk’s voice from behind the door, some shuffles and several unintelligible curses, another five seconds passing so, prior to the door finally, soundlessly opening.

Quirking an eyebrow at the ratty, worn short-sleeved shirt―coupled with the sort of washed-out sweatpants which just draw one’s eyes to downstair, forbidden areas―Taehyung dwelves no further on Jeongguk’s usual set of clothing, moving past him to come inside.

“Good evening,” he greets with utmost politeness, despite the fact he entered one’s room without sound invitation to do so. Glancing around, Taehyung finds the place to be awfully pristine; as rough as Jeongguk may sometimes look, he’s still very tidy. “Well, I see you’ve settled in nicely. Is the hotel to your liking, Jeon?”

Behind him, he hears the door close, key turned inside its lock, closely followed by the sound of naked feet against the tawny vinyl flooring. “You know I could’ve done with something less expensive than this, Kim,” Jeongguk says, sounding just the slightest bit bothered, though Taehyung figures that’s granted whenever he comes around.

“Oh, but I’m not the type to let my poor fiancé just sleep on the streets, am I?” The model hums, spreading his arms in a way it suggests a need of assistance for removing his spring-embroidered Saint Laurent utility jacket. Even with a grunt of disagreement, Jeongguk follows through; suddenly, unexplainably near, enough so Taehyung can get a whiff of his aftershave, a strong musk which suits oddly, yet fittingly, against his vanilla shampoo.

Jeongguk draws the jacket off his arms, voice too close to Taehyung’s ear to be anything but intimate. “Are you, really?” He says, not a whisper, yet unnecessarily quiet in the empty room, “Cause, to me, you’re the type to prefer being spoiled, rather than doing the spoling. Isn’t that right?”

With a huff―and undeniable shudder (which he detests because lord have mercy, why does Jeongguk even affect him in such ways, still )―Taehyung walks to the sizeable bed amidst the clean room, setting himself down upon it. “Fortunately for you, I’ve come with the spoil of our love-story for tomorrow’s dinner,” he remarks with needless arrogance, an attempt to hide the instinctual reactions his body’s coming to have around Jeongguk.

The boxer pauses, pretending it’s for the purpose of rightfully setting Taehyung’s jacket on the hanger. Then, he walks to the intricately designed drawer set right under the plasma television screen, leaning his lower back against the wood. “The family meeting, I’m guessing?” He voices, crossed arms suggesting how closed he is to the idea.

“Yes, I’ve finally been able to arrange it―well, with how incredibly busy everyone’s been, no wonder,” Taehyung clicks his tongue, pouring through dissatisfaction of how troubling it’s been to make this happen as soon as possible. “At least you will be able to meet the entirety of the family in one setting. It’d be too vexing otherwise.”

Jeongguk, clearly, hadn’t expected this at all – if the way he fumbles for a bit, then almost slips over his own grounded feet shows anything. “Less vexing―Kim, I thought I’d meet just your mother at the start, not your entire household!” He says, voice gaining another pitch.

“Don’t sound surprised, we’ve discussed this already,” Taehyung says, deliberately much calmer, though his eyebrows are pinching in a slight frown upon the implication. With a scoff, he turns his head and gaze away, “It will be much easier to deal with them all at once, I’ll have you know.”

“Right, it would’ve been easier in general if we were actually dating! We’re pretending, need I remind you?” Jeongguk says, but the fire in his voice is slowly, gradually dying out. And granted, perhaps Taehyung should’ve consolidated with him right away, but― “Fine, whatever. I hope you have a good story to back this whole thing up.”

Taehyung has enough sense to look mildly offended, though when his eyes fall back on Jeongguk, they keep zeroing in on his… crotch area, which is proving to be rather distracting―curse whomever invented sweatpants, the godforsaken piece of clothing. “In the light of my mother believing in destiny, of all things, I dare say it wasn’t so hard to make something up,” he decides to say, eventually.

With inquiry, Jeongguk inches a perfect eyebrow upwards, one of his hand slipping to the singular item on the drawer, which happens to be a glass bowl of fruits; he grabs an apple which, up until then, Taehyung really assumed it’d just been for decorative purposes.

Jeongguk takes an unnecessarily harsh bite out of it, using the back of his hand to wipe excess juice dribbling down his chin. “Lemme guess,” he starts, with an unfairly attractive sense of weariness, “Love at first sight? I chased you around like a lost puppy until you finally decided to give my great affections a chance; and once you did, we couldn’t be separated and decided to get married?”

Taehyung can’t help but quirk a smile at this, going to cross his legs in a simple manner, yet Jeongguk’s eyes follow along the lines of his calf quite noticeably. “Mm, close,” he hums, tapping elegant fingers over his bent knee. “We are not yet engaged, keep in mind, not until mother approves―we’re boyfriends now; fake ones, at least. We met over mutual friends for business associations, then ended up being more than that.”

Jeongguk considers him for a moment, watching, up and down, up and down―god, his gaze almost burns through Taehyung, heavily so. “Is that how you’ll excuse paying for all my work expenses here in Seoul?” He then says, awaiting Taehyung’s nod of confirmation to simply hum, taking another bite of his apple and simply adding, “Clever.”

Fingers grasping at the opaque sheets, Taehyung feels himself going slightly warm. “Are you surprised?” He decides to taunt, observing how quickly Jeongguk finishes the snack and puts the stem back, bitten all over; he gives Taehyung an awaiting look then, slow and expectant, almost as if he wants to eat him as well.

“Not really,” the boxer answers, a nonchalant shrug to the shoulders, despite the somewhat tense atmosphere. “But did your witty head not think of them, most likely, seeing me as just another lover of yours who only sticks around for the money? You hadn’t given me a better reason to date you, anyways.”

Tense and somewhat chest-tightened, Taehyung rolls his eyes for show, dramatically so. “Oh yes, heaven forbid, rich and sophisticated folk like us have anything but people pretending to like us for financial gain! Trust me, Jeon, we’re used enough to those sorts to recognize them on the spot,” he says somewhat harshly, “Is us growing impeccably closer over the course of a week-long Busan trip, falling in love over the simplest things, so outlandish for you?”

With almost a mocking sort of laugh, Jeongguk stuffs his hands inside the pockets of those annoyingly fitted sweatpants; they sag even lower, as if intentionally diverting attention. “For me? No,” he responds, then looks at Taehyung again, eyes dropping to where his collarbones peek over the fabric of his Bogner shirt. “But for you―falling in love over the simplest things, when you’re not willing to get fucked on anything but silk sheets? Are you kidding?”

Seething with cheeks as red as they can manage, Taehyung’s soon standing up with outrage and a bare sense of excitement. “Oh, were the silk sheets anywhere that first night, when I sucked your cock right outside that rusty, old bar? Funny, I haven’t noticed them then,” he fumes, voice edging on teasing, “But tell me again, Jeon, about the simple things.”

The gulp which travels down Jeongguk’s throat is rather evident, so Taehyung’s gaze naturally follows across the swell of his Adam’s apple; the slightest bit of wetness still there, presumably from the shower he took prior to the model’s arrival. Jeongguk stands there, arms still crossed, still looking―ogling.

And then, his chuckle breaks, somewhat dark and shudder-inducing. Jeongguk runs fingers through those long locks, then tucks some behind his ear, lifts a peculiar eyebrow and says, “The simple thing right now, Kim, would be for you to shut that pretty mouth and put it to better use, yeah?”

Though highly tempting―almost unbearably so―Taehyung holds his ground, levels Jeongguk as if considering a prey; then, speaks while taking wilfully alluring steps forward, “I thought we were quite busy here, discussing the matters of our foreseeable and unlikely future, then you just require of me to suck your cock? How crass.”

“Yes, the topic of my dick down your throat will be of most importance at tomorrow’s dinner,” Jeongguk purposefully slurs the accent, mocking Taehyung’s own. When the blond is close enough, his voice is hot, heavy, “I’m sure your mother wouldn’t be surprised to find out it’s the only thing you’re good at.”

Feeling the first, fresh wave of arousing embarrassment, but also irking annoyance, Taehyung doesn’t hesitate to tuck his fingers at the front of Jeongguk’s shirt, using as means to pull him in; lips finding his ear. “You’re treading on fine lines here, Jeon,” he says lowly, “Don’t fucking tempt me.”

A minute―and then, Jeongguk laughs, breath warm and tickling; grip vice when his fingers wrap Taehyung’s wrist, thumb pressing against his irregularly beating pulse, “Get on your fucking knees, Taehyung.”

Shameful as it may be for him, Taehyung whimpers; especially when Jeongguk slots one of his legs forward, between Taehyung’s quivering thighs and just lets him rut there, lets the pretty blond jut his hips forward until his arousal strains against the zipper of his Cavalli trousers.

Jeongguk handles him by the chin―a tender and yet, somewhat of a strong grip―but doesn’t kiss him, no, he only stares, continues to look and Taehyung can imagine himself, feel himself turn redder by the second, the blush spreading from his cheeks and ears, down to his neck and beneath his shirt.

With a steady thumb putting pressure on his jaw, Taehyung’s mouth drops open; there’s a hint of complacent smile on Jeongguk’s face, when he slides a finger across the seam of Taehyung bottom lip, rubbing at the tender skin. He proceeds to hum, a tilt to his head in observation, then dips it inside his mouth―almost experimentally, one might say―smoothing across Taehyung’s tongue and (no doubt) feeling the lithe body stutter against his thigh.

It is not as if Jeongguk himself is entirely unaffected – Taehyung notices, all too well, the dilation of his pupils, the sprinkle of pretty pink across his cheeks, he drinks it in, the sight of Jeongguk evidently consumed by lust; but he’s slow, as always, contrary to Taehyung’s hurried hands working at the waistband of his bottoms.

Taehyung plunges his hand inside the sweatpants, only to find Jeongguk exceedingly, unexpectedly bare underneath. Between wrapping his fingers, decorated with an abundance of rings, about the hard length of Jeongguk’s dick―where it sits against his palm warmly, driving the model to points of salvation―Taehyung hardly registers anything else, not the hardening grip on his chin, nor the deep grumble of satisfaction which leaves Jeongguk’s throat.

And then, they’re kissing. Hurried, heavy, a tangle of lips and teeth―impatient and hungry, seeking to mark each, make each other hurt, maybe even bleed, all too eager.

Jeongguk holds him there, stable and firm, then pushes forward; Taehyung doesn’t stumble (a gracious act in the course of lightheadedness), but the backs of his knees soon hit the mattress―a minute later, Jeongguk is gripping him by the hair, a sort of sting which sends a delicious tremor through Taehyung’s spine, using the grasp to press him towards the ground.

Though there is an edge of freedom there, for Taehyung to protest, he doesn’t―gods, why would he, when he’s got that (admittedly, unfortunately) gorgeous cock right in front of him, flushed with arousal because of him?

“Hm,” he hears Jeongguk hum and when Taehyung directs his gaze upwards, he sees the bastard smirking, the kind of smug, cocky shit he’d love to wipe from his mouth―nevermind how incredibly attractive it looks. Taehyung hasn’t realized he’d leaned in to nuzzle his cheek against Jeongguk’s dick until the younger laughs, boastful and dry, “Not much to say, Kim? Your mouth is too empty for my liking.”

“Ah, do you prefer my chatter, then?” Taehyung regains enough composure to speak, pressing his tongue to the side of Jeongguk’s cock, teasing the vein running upside it; he then hums, “Fellatio comes easier to me than talking, but I’ll indulge whichever you prefer, darling.”

Jeongguk may have rolled his eyes, but there’s a hint, just a sliver, of a smile there―the genuine, lighthearted, lovely sort of expression he rarely makes around Taehyung. The model feels fingers dig further along his scalp, rubbing a sensitive spot behind his ear, touch as lingering as Jeongguk’s voice of, “Just get it wet ‘nough to fuck you with, Kim.”

And of course―seeing as Taehyung has manners, excuse you―so it follows; although, it’s different than the first time, different than the second, much more deprived. Taehyung swallows down to the hilt with no foreplay, bracing his palms across Jeongguk’s bare thighs, leaving crescent-shaped marks against the skin, letting his throat get taken until teardrops grip at his eyelashes with the same sort of desperation Jeongguk’s fucking into him, again and again.

A minute or two so goes by, then he’s yanked off, perhaps harsher than necessary. Through a blurry vision, Taehyung sees Jeongguk kick off the remains of his clothing. “Fucking―clothes off. Now,” he says, sounding eager himself.

Taehyung follows through, removing his garments with utmost care and perhaps he’d even fold them on another occasion, but Jeongguk’s quick to come back with a bottle of strawberry lube in hand, the packet of a condom strung between his teeth―and seeing as he’s nothing but a gentlemen, he handles Taehyung by the waist and bends him across the bed.

With a sound imitation of a disproving grunt, Taehyung scrambles to grab at the sheets; they’re polyester, he notes, probably switched from fine silk by his husband-to-be dearest. “You can’t possibly expect of me to stand while you―” Taehyung begins, but it becomes gurgled when cold lube is poured down his indecently exposed cleft, Jeongguk’s fingers following suit.

“Can’t handle it, Kim?” His voice is gradual, with a slight lilt of amusement; a great contrast to how quickly his digits rub across Taehyung’s hole, even slipping below the ring several times before he manages to push them inside, all welcome and slick.

Taehyung feels his knees buckle at the sudden intrusion, a fact which seemingly isn’t escaped by the devil behind him; probably why a chuckle follows, suddenly very close to his neck, “Afraid of hurting these pretty legs of yours, are you?”

A witty response comes a whole ten seconds too late, with Taehyung’s vocal cords losing much sense upon the flimsy brushes against his prostate―the bastard, when’d he find it so easily? “I’ll have you know, Jeon, these pretty legs are insured for more billions than you’d be able to account for,” he spites with little actual venom, then curses when Jeongguk only laughs against his nape, “Just―shit, you absolute scoundrel, will you fuck me already?”

With a hum of acknowledgement, maybe affirmation, Jeongguk scrapes his teeth across the skin of Taehyung’s shoulder, his shoulder blades, soon followed by a tongue soothing the imprints. He removes his fingers obligingly and before Taehyung can even begin to set more than one knee on the bed, Jeongguk’s lined up and slowly pressing inside.

It’s annoying, how astonishingly good it all feels; the length, the width of him all but perfect, sinking Taehyung further and further down a whirlpool of stringing emotions, desires he can’t help but voice in cracked syllables of Jeongguk’s name while he gets taken, over and over again.

Jeongguk’s fingers are diligent, strong as they hold Taehyung’s hips still; his gaze somewhat burning, in the way Taehyung feels settle on the intimate places where they’re continuously connected. “F’cking look at you, god,” the younger says with the tone one would use to reprimand said god for misdeed. His voice is short of a growl, then, “So, so easy to open up for me, Taehyung-ah.”

And this, the way he speaks his name, almost like a prayer, like the world could collapse and he’d be happy to have him here, in his arms―it’s too much. Taehyung shakes his head, in attempt to shoo such thoughts from his ardour mind, attempting a laugh at his own incredulity, “How’d you know it’s not because of a man I’d taken before coming to you, Jeongguk?”

Taehyung’s perhaps twisted, for saying so―for kidding about with such things, though it shouldn’t matter to either of them―but then he’s actually being twisted, turned to his side and made to meet Jeongguk’s ferocious gaze. “You wouldn’t,” he whispers with unexplainable certainty, kissing him silent of such presumptions.

And each time, any time they’d indulged one another, Taehyung assumed he’d be taken mercilessly, thrown aside and kicked without regard―it’s why he left, the first time at the bar―yet Jeongguk proves him wrong, giving him more than he’d ever want from a man who’s supposed to fake his love for him.

An accumulation of all this sends spasms through him, his words break through sobs against Jeongguk’s lips; it pulses inside him, this arousal and need, feeling, hearing Jeongguk gasp through climax and still proceeding to fuck him in aftershocks of pleasure.

“Mm, I can’t―Jeongguk, I can’t―” Taehyung isn’t sure what he’s begging for, why he’s crying, but Jeongguk is rubbing his delicate skin, smoothing lips across his jaw and whispering assurances while fucking him through it, stroking his cock and milking his orgasm of every last drop, until Taehyung is aching, incredibly empty.

They breathe for the longest of moments, then kiss again―soundless, wordless, hopeless. Taehyung never wants to be held like this again.

₩₩₩

Jeongguk wakes up to the sound of running water coming from the bathroom―he’s all but groggy, lightheaded and thrown by the mellow atmosphere, accompanied by the blinking digital clock displaying hours past midnight. Jeongguk groans, hugs his pillow closer, spreads his legs across the unsurprisingly empty bed.

‘He must be in the shower,’ Jeongguk’s brain supplies, both satied and disgruntled at the thought. It’s a tickle of discomfort, knowing Taehyung is still here – and by the looks of it – has only awoken recently in order to clean himself up, not even bothering with the light (either as not to wake Jeongguk, or so he could leave the room without notice or sound; who knows).

By the time both the lamp and television screen are on, as to give more life to the eerily quiet room, Jeongguk busying himself with checking emails, the bathroom door opens – and out steps Kim Taehyung, dressed in clothes Jeongguk’s ordered him to discard six to seven hours prior, thrown somewhere across the room with no regard.

Taehyung appears to be distracted and only takes a singular limping step before he notices Jeongguk, then says, “Oh, you’re awake,” as the only acknowledgement of his presence. His voice sounds raw, almost vulnerable and whatever thought Jeongguk had about giving him a piece of mind earlier, it all disappears within an instant once he sees those glassy eyes.

“You took a shower?” He blurts out instead, as second thought and apparently, Taehyung has no more energy than to lift an eyebrow at his clever observation. Jeongguk’s cheeks flame, hurried to explain, “I mean, I cleaned you up after―uh, after you… fell asleep. Do you not remember?”

This time, Taehyung is the one to redden, as though the reminder of him passing out (no, not falling asleep ) just reemerged, as though he took the shower in denial of the memory of Jeongguk’s fingers caressing, washing him and tucking him back to sleep.

“I remember,” the model attempts to grit out, but it comes across as more weary than it should be, despite having slept his required need. It’s why he tries to laugh next, voice scratchy, “I couldn’t be too sure, however, seeing as I awoke naked―might I require an explanation, Jeon?”

“You didn’t bring any pajamas,” is the first thing Jeongguk says, despite the thought never having crossed his mind before. Putting away his phone, he then quietly adds over the sound of Breakfast at Tiffany’s running in the background, “And you–… you looked tired, so I didn’t want to wake you. A shame not to get your beauty sleep, right?”

He isn’t certain if Taehyung actually found this humorous, or had he laughed for the sake of it. The blond makes way to the nightstand and starts taking all of his belongings, his wallet and keys, his phone and just as Taehyung is about to grab at his coat as well, Jeongguk finds himself blurting out, “Aren’t you staying?”

There’s a slow pause, before Taehyung faces him knit eyebrows of confusion, “Why would I?”

“It’s three in the morning,” Jeongguk states the obvious, not sure, doubtful of himself, of why he’s asking him to stay to begin with. And yet, he continues talking in conviction, faking nonchalance, “I mean, doing the walk of shame probably won’t suit you, will it?”

Next second, Taehyung’s – until then – powerless irises light up, fuming and fiery. “Oh, is that what I would be doing?” He snarls, face now flushed for altogether different reasons. “But of course, I could only be ashamed after sleeping with someone such as you.”

Jeongguk’s chest tightens, perhaps a bit of humiliation, packed with some self-degrading bullshit―because his head, now, is screaming at him, why did he even say that? Taehyung’s as unnerved as he is, clearly lost and just as uncomfortable, riling him up won’t do any good to either of them.

Still, Jeongguk cannot help but say, “You said it yourself, didn’t you, how you fucked the lower class plently? I must be just another punch in the belt, probably not the first one you’d be ashamed of sleeping with, fiancé or not.”

Regret overflows instants before Taehyung scowls, a pinch in his frown which suggests not only offense, but affliction. In the early, lifeless hours of Seoul, in the dim lights and a soundtrack of a sixties movie, Taehyung looks far more broken than he should be―especially for such a minute insult, which, on another occasion, would’ve been brushed off as easy as dust. And Jeongguk doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how it happened, but it’s it shouldn’t have.

Because, the sight of it, of Taehyung’s trembling jaw and just as shaky hands, it twists Jeongguk’s gut in the most uncomfortable way possible. Taehyung looks out of place, different, with bleary eyes and everything is rushing back, their argument, their bickering – how it all led to this – and Jeongguk cannot take it, reaching out and grabbing Taehyung, quickly saying, “Stay.”

“Stay?” Comes the incredulous reply, grating Jeongguk’s ears. Taehyung doesn’t shake off his hold, but the tight gaze remains and it’s becoming harder for Jeongguk to watch, to see him so blemished and pretty from the marks his teeth had left, peeking above Taehyung’s shirt, a reminder of their night together, the way they held each other.

Jeongguk shakes such memories away, his fingers tightening the slightest bit around the blond’s wrist, lithe and so, so slim. “Stay,” he repeats for unbeknownst reasons, blaming his incredible urge for Taehyung to remain here on guilt, on regret. “Why bother going anywhere at this hour, when you could sleep instead? You’re paying for the room, as it is.”

Taehyung is more than obviously cross, head turned in a way Jeongguk only sees the tips of his red-coated ears. Without sparing him another glance, Taehyung says, “Fine, but don’t dare come near my side of the bed. And I hope you have a nice set of pajamas to spare, as well―freshly washed.”

At this, Jeongguk’s lips lift the slightest bit, “I wouldn’t mind you sleeping nude either.”

Though he still cannot catch glimpse of Taehyung’s expression, Jeongguk’s pretty certain the blond must’ve rolled his eyes, voice dropping to a drawl of, “I’m positive you wouldn’t,” an affirmation so him, so characteristic and familiar, it immediately puts Jeongguk at an unwavering ease, enough to release Taehyung’s wrist and let his touch linger.

And as they keep a nice distance at bed, as they should, as they agreed, there’s a suspecting reason Jeongguk is coming to have about Taehyung’s easy obligation to the request; he’d been rather immersed in the Audrey Hepburn starring film for the last thirty or so minutes, a pillow hugged to his chest, lips bitten sorely, pink and plump.

‘Cute,’ Jeongguk cannot help but think, ravelling in the childlike, innocent manner of Taehyung’s current appearance; the unruly hair, striped pajamas – which are an accidentally designer set Jeongguk thrifted about three years ago – none of it screams supermodel, as it tends to, as Jeongguk is used to.

The stark difference is almost mind-boggling, so much Jeongguk barely notices how suddenly exposed his bare midriff is. He makes a quick attempt at grabbing his part of the, belatedly realized, shared bedspread and tugs, saying, “Stop hogging the covers, Kim.”

Taehyung glares, then has the nerve to kick Jeongguk’s shin as a warning. “Get your own,” he huffs, with the bratiness of a child who hadn’t been denied anything, ever in their life. His body seizes up then, an exaggerated tremble, “Why’s it cold as a glacier in here, good lord? Are you trying to freeze yourself half to death?”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, more goodheartedly than he’d like to admit. “No, I just thought it’d suit your dead, cold heart,” he mocks, earning himself no more than a confrontational leer; Jeongguk sighs, next, willingly succumbs and says, “Fine, I’ll get you some more coverage and put the heater on. I seriously can’t even imagine actually being married to you.”

“Tough luck,” Taehyung replies all too easily, waving a hand to make Jeongguk stay out of peripheral from the television screen when he goes to cross the room. Searching for the unforgiving, loved silk sheets he’d thrown to the backs of the closet as soon as he moved in, Jeongguk hears him add, “Even if we eloped out of love, you’d still listen to my every word, Jeon.”

What a funny word this “love” is, amusing and gut-wrenching enough so Jeongguk humorously hurls the fine material across Taehyung’s lap; he goes back to bed, half-clad, without bothering the overall room temperature via heater. “It’s much tolerable than hearing you whine, Kim,” he replies. “And is that the persona your family expects tomorrow? They must be used to the spineless boyfriend act by now.”

With the mellow, refined song of Audrey Hepburn tuning strings between the atmosphere, Taehyung settles uncharacteristically quiet. He picks at his nails, Jeongguk notices, a not so classy habit on his part. “You say this, however, no word of your family has come up yet,” the blond says then, sparing him a glance and raised brow, “Why’s that?”

Jeongguk, he pretends to take interest in the movie, in the handsome expressions of the male lead, the tawdry dialogue garnished with posh cadence, anything as a mere distraction; and after some consideration, he says, “I don’t want to talk about it,” simple and clear as the night they’ve awoken in.

Thankfully, this doesn’t push Taehyung to pry even more, to wonder about instances he won’t recall in a month’s time. “Let us keep such topics off the table, then,” he speaks, head tilted to spare a pretty, blinking glance or two. His lips appear as plump, sore when curling to a frown, “Until this horrid dinner is over with, at least.”

“Wow, you sound incredibly delighted about me meeting your entire family,” Jeongguk points. He adjusts his boxers, but takes more interest in watching Taehyung teeter and turn within all those sheets.

With evident―and annoyingly endearing―irritation, the blond eventually settles, says, “I wonder how’d you figure so, Jeon,” without much vein to his voice, “Am I that transparent?”

“It’s your eyes,” Jeongguk is blurting out and once it’s out there, it is but hard not to speak the entire truth, “They’re just… I don’t know, telling? Whenever you get bothered, you have this look―like when you begged me, last night―”

Taehyung hits him with a pillow in an instant. Jeongguk can’t help but laugh, finding this even more amusing once the model’s scandalized expression comes in view, blush spreading under the dip of pajamas at his collarbones, nipples pressing to the thin material.

“Asshole,” he proclaims, a snub so simple it might as well have only been told to keep their relationship leveled, at surface of supposed enemies. “Let me watch this classic in peace, will you? I’ll send you a fruit basket as reprimendence.”

This, all of this is an ease Jeongguk hasn’t ever imagined experiencing in such hours, especially not with Kim Taehyung. “In that case, know I’m very fond of papaya,” he hums, lays a bit more comfortably and sighs in a fluttering, fleeting manner, “Sweet dreams, then, Taehyung.”

A pillow hits again, as does a faint giggle―this somehow, easily lulls Jeongguk to sound sleep.

₩₩₩

Taehyung wakes with sound chippers of his alarm, taut body all sorts of sore and limp. Fingertips are pressed across his tailbone, where apricot tints are pouring from sunrise; Jeongguk’s scent is that of fresh lotion, somewhat minty, with a zest of lime, hitting his senses marvelously as Taehyung finds himself―unsurprisingly enough―in the arms of said boxer, wilfully asleep.

Though a knee-jerk reaction, on any other occasion, would be to pull from this morning bliss right away, this time, Taehyung finds it much easier to feel, to intake and bask. Because it does feel nice, soft; the hands holding him by the waist, the firm ( indecently exposed ) chest and most of all, Jeongguk’s expression―the parted lips, accented cupid’s bow at the top, beauty mark at the bottom; his eyebrows, nicely trimmed, furrowed when he mumbles in his sleep and even the tranquil, serene flutter of lashes once he finally awakens, doe eyes staring right back at Taehyung’s own.

At first, he doesn’t say much, or anything at all. He blinks, then tucks his head in Taehyung’s neck and yawns. 

“Morning,” Jeongguk mumbles, he pulls Taehyung in some more by the hips, eliciting a squeak of surprise. Taehyung’s quick to balance himself by grabbing hold of those sturdy shoulders, the mouth to his skin continuing to implore, “Slept well?”

“Slept well―Jeon, I demand to know how we ended up like this,” Taehyung’s saying while making no conscious effort to actually remove himself from said position. It’s been at least a year, perhaps two, since he’d found himself in such… homely circumstances, making it hard to leave.

Jeongguk hums, takes Taehyung’s lobe between his lips, teeth grazing a bedazzled earring. “You started clinging to me first, Kim,” he informs him with a sound chuckle, sending tremors downward Taehyung’s spine. “And when being the bigger spoon didn’t suite your appeal, it came to this.”

“I―…” Taehyung begins, realizing something settling in his gut, in his stomach, fluttering. He pushes at Jeongguk’s chest, but tips his head forward to hide an increasing blush. “I am not clingy.”

Jeongguk laughs and shakes the hair out his eyes, in an unfairly sexy manner. He lets Taehyung out his grasp and the blond, as moments go on, is becoming more and more desteful towards his own inclinations, his own yearning, wishing to have those arms back around him, those lips on his skin again.

“Six-thirty, is it?” Jeongguk yawns once more, lifting himself from bed and as apparent habit, begins tying his hair. Taehyung catches sight of the mole his breath had been against just minutes prior. “It’s not too late to have an early run, then. And about the fruit basket you promised―”

Taehyung makes a frustrating noise at the back of his throat, proceeding to march around the other side of their―Jeongguk’s bed, only to pluck the hair tie out his hand. “Head down,” he demands, scoffing loudly once his fiancé only seems about confused. “You failed to make it proper at least six times by now, I cannot stand to watch it anymore. Head down.”

This time, Jeongguk obliges. It reminds Taehyung, makes him reminisce, of being seventeen again, of combing his first boyfriend’s hair, taking enjoyment in composing a proper bun, being hopelessly in love – but now, it’s Jeongguk, of sweet-scented shampoo and pink hair ties, someone as uncertain as a hurricane coming in Taehyung’s life to wreck havoc, just to put him back together the same day.

“Thank you,” he’s told, a statement as usual, as sincere as it is unexpected. All is threading but on lines here, their relationship generally inconsistent and falling across wordless apologies―much like Jeongguk’s fingers are now, dancing across Taehyung’s knee before jerking away.

When their eyes meet, he finds Jeongguk looking up at him, even more striking with his hair pulled tight; his skin glows under the warm sun, gaze searching and, “Hey, Kim,” he begins, tone drifting, uncertain, “We’re… friends, right?”

Taehyung’s hands drop from those gorgeous locks, fingers a tad bit trembling. Something wraps itself around his throat, like a tender string. “Yes, we’re friends,” he agrees, settles because it sounds safe – as does flicking said friend ’s forehead, in mere warning. “You are also my husband-to-be, need I remind you, so be ready for dinner by five.”

Once he moves out of sight, Taehyung lets himself get overwhelmed for a singular moment, by all those frail, young emotions; he moves to ridden of Jeongguk’s clothing on his body, his scent and touch all still persistent to stay. And then, he’s asked, “You’re leaving?”

“Fortunately for the both of us, I have business to attend. A commercial screening, to be specific.”

“Oh,” acknowledges Jeongguk and daresay, he sounds somewhat disappointed. “I thought we could–… y’know, do a gym session together? It’s pretty empty at these hours.”

Taehyung’s throat is incredibly dry, regretful. “Maybe another time, Jeon,” he dismisses. “I’ll make sure to send extra papaya, however, for the night’s humble services.”

“Ah, so you’re a sugar daddy now as well,” Jeongguk’s laugh is stifled, disbelieving, then cheeky, “Well, in that case, figure you have a suit to let me borrow? I didn’t bring any, plus, I have the impression your mother doesn’t have a liking for basketball shorts.”

Whatever it is, now between them, Taehyung can handle it – a sprinkle of friendship, companionship certainly won’t aid to any harm – and yet, at the forefront of all his worries, something is itching, bothering. Because in many a way, it is all too well, to actually be lasting or real.

₩₩₩

“Three days. No, don’t even dare get that tone with me, I won’t settle for anything less than seventy-two hours,” continues the insistnet chatter, reaching the thirty minute mark―courtesy of, yours truly, central Seoul traffic. Taehyung clicks his tongue loudly, holding his phone harshly enough for it to tremble between his fingers, “Don’t question me.”

Jeongguk attempts – (rather unsuccessfully) – to distract himself by consistently adjusting the belt of his trousers to the same loop, over and over again. Unfortunately for him, with the suit being a result of an improvised shopping spree just several hours prior, it’s perfectly tailored to every inch of his body―hence, there is not much, if any, issues for him to fix.

Taehyung presses the pointy tip of his dressing shoe against Jeongguk’s knee and when the boxer looks up, frazzled and anxious as he might be, he only meets the warning look of his partner sitting right across, on the other side of the sleek limousine.

‘Stop touching it,’ he mouths vaguely, barely understandable, but Jeongguk obliges all the same. He watches how Taehyung’s look turns more sour by the minute, voice adapting a similar taste, “Need I remind you, February has been at our trails a near few months ago.”

Jeongguk’s brows knit, not understanding the context of such a statement―and by the seething look Taehyung takes on, apparently so didn’t the person on the other end of his call. “What do I mean?” He asks, incredulous and bordering on the tone of someone who fires people on the spot. “I mean that Fashion week had just passed, as has runway season! And I am not getting runway ready in less than a day, unless it is Versace themselves asking for me, do you understand?”

The vehicle comes to a halt and when the pause is followed by no other sign of movement, as well as the absence of car honks and Ilsan dialect shrills, it’s presumed they’ve arrived to the desired location. Soon affirmed by Taehyung’s driver chiming in, “Sirs, we’ve reached the Estate.”

And honestly, Jeongguk wasn’t certain what to exactly expect – he could only imagine, only presume the sort of luxury a daughter of a business magnate lives in – but when the door opens for him, when he steps out, there’s most definitely a resemblances to what he’d assume great heavens would look like.

The gardens are nothing short of extraordinary, planes of marbled pathways leading around the estate as tangled vines, through trimmed bushes of exotic flowers, fountains of the cleanest waters and―no joke―actual swans, of the most gorgeous feathers.

Standing there, nonetheless dumbstruck, Jeongguk barely hears Taehyung speak, “Have some manners and close your jaw, at least. We have proper etiquette to follow in this household.”

View disrupted by the snarky sort of tone, Jeongguk’s vision finally clears; though, once again, the entire Estate is nothing short of stunning, the sort of beauty one would strive to observe each day. “You should’ve brought someone with more class then, Kim,” Jeongguk responds without much energy, proceeds to offer his arm and quirk, “Shall we?”

Taehyung’s look is nothing short of skeptical, at best, but he obliges; he slips his hand across Jeongguk’s forearm, a gentle grip with all but acknowledgement of their current scenario, before proceeding to show him the way to―what can only be described as―the great Manor.

Really, the view is spectacular, the type of housing you’d see the greatest of celebrities possess; the white, intricate lines of the architecture, the pillars and fences made of stone, it’s the undeniable inspiration taken from sculptures of ancient Greece which make this all the more breathtaking.

Stairs lead to the humongous entrance door from each side of the Manor, empty spaces filled and stricken with dark roses. Jeongguk is the first to spot a woman there, whom he’d assumes is one of the maids, with how… modest she appears to be, clothed by a singular-colored dress and even simpler heels―and then he feels Taehyung pinch the skin of his wrist, whispering a low, “Be careful. ”

“Taehyung-ah!” The woman is all but loud, excited, perhaps thrilled and when they’re finally at close distance, the features of her gentle face, her long eyelashes and plump, pink lips are an all too familiar sight. She hurries over, saying, “My sweet, gorgeous angel, I’ve longed to see you again!”

“Mother,” Taehyung greets rather tightly, taking her hands in his, eclipsing a warm embrace while planting an even warmer kiss upon her cheek. He then glances at Jeongguk, pretending, one could say, to smile in a genuine manner, “Apologies, Jeon―gguk has taken a bit longer with his practice today, so we’ve left late and gotten stuck in traffic.”

Though Jeongguk doesn’t miss the obvious slip of almost being referred to by his last name, Taehyung’s mother appears to be too frazzled to even notice, immediately walking towards Jeongguk with an elegance to her posture. 

“Oh my, look at you!” She exclaims with a shocked whisper; before Jeongguk gets the opportunity to ask Taehyung via eyebrow raise if she’d been positive or negative about it, Mrs. Kim is the first to grasp his hands and tilt her head up enough to kiss both his cheeks in greeting, adding, “What an absolutely gorgeous young man you’ve gotten here, darling! Ah, but I shouldn’t have expected less.”

Her perfume is surprisingly musky, woody and for whatever reason it may be, it smells expensive―quite a contrast to her appearance, of which the only sign of decadence comes from pearly earrings, shining under the warm evening Sun.

“I might’ve acquired your taste, mother,” Taehyung hums, throwing glances about and quite obviously avoiding Jeongguk’s helpless gaze. With a sigh, he then asks, “Isn’t it rude of you not to introduce yourself, however?”

“Ah yes, apologies!” The woman says quickly, before Jeongguk can even think the model had been referring to him instead; she grasps his hands tighter, smiles wider and then says, “Kim Hanna, I am ecstatic to be meeting you, Jeongguk-ssi! Most especially after all the wonderful things Taehyung-ie has told me about you.”

“Has he?” Jeongguk attempts to laugh it off, push the topic aside, but his cheeks still redden―and from the looks of it, so do Taehyung’s, giving him a touch of humility, of embarrassment which always looks so, so fresh on him.

This gives Jeongguk a bit of ease, enough for him to feel slightly bolder; bringing Hanna’s hands to his lips, he kisses atop her knuckles and smiles in the most gentleman-like manner he can think of, “His photographs haven’t really done justice to your beauty, madam. And please, just Jeongguk is fine.”

Through a squeak, Hanna’s eyes widen and cheeks positively flush through the flattery―the kind a woman of her caliber must be rightfully accustomed to―prior to her turning around, flabbergasted to the nth, “My, what a gracious man you’ve found!”

Tight-lipped, enough so his gloss-stained lips purse against the forced smile, Taehyung eventually manages to haughtily laugh this off, diminishing the kindly words with a wave of his hand, “Please, mother, you’ve only just met him. Has your approval always been so easy to earn?”

The glimmer of her irises, the singular eyelid fold she has, bits of beauty marks scattered about her face―up close, Taehyung does resemble her more than Jeongguk had initially thought. Especially as Hanna mimics ignorance, embellished with a dramatic sigh, “I’m afraid we have too much at stake now, for me to be so lenient. Let’s head inside, shall we? The hors d’oeuvres ought to have been served!”

While making way towards the incredibly―unnecessarily so―tall, sinuously carved woodwork separating them from the warmth of the mansion, Taehyung makes show to quickly grab at Jeongguk’s bicep once more. His nails dig harsher this time, through the excellence of cashmere, voice lower, “Having fun, hm?”

Jeongguk shrugs, finding himself oddly at ease; in most ways, he’s definitely still at the brink of anticipation, but perhaps it is more exciting than he’d initially assumed it would be. He leans closer, enough so his lips rest a breath away from the model’s ear, “Isn’t your mother’s approval what we’re here for, Taehyung?”

Hearing an audible gulp, it’s almost delightful; Jeongguk notices, the specs of red across Taehyung’s lobe, the way his breathing shattered the tiniest bit. With a huff, he tugs at his arm more abruptly this time, hissing, “Don’t get too brave, Jeon. We have a long night ahead of us.”

Hanna’s been too busy having chatter with the maid, the one who opened the door for them and showcased the interior of the mansion, decked in gold and jewels; she doesn’t notice their conversation, thankfully, perhaps even mistakes their whispers for some sweet nothings or assurances.

“We’ve almost missed the starter dishes!” Says Mrs. Kim, as if the one holding power over tonight’s dinner isn’t she herself. With a heartfelt, yet somewhat foretelling smile, she then adds, “And everyone is all but eager to see you two together, I’m sure!”

Taehyung, albeit barely noticeable, goes tense; he raises an eyebrow then, suggesting more of an elaboration, “And by everyone, you’re meaning…”

Whatever he’d meant to say, it’s drawn out, falls to background at the bedazzlement of the chandelier, cascading light of a heavenly hue down the entry hall―in most ways, the beauty is indescribable, the kind you see belong to televised film shows about great dynasties. The space is outstandingly large, so much Jeongguk’s eyes can barely keep count of royalties.

However, it’s rather empty of life; save but a man standing by the stairway―one of the two, on each side of the room, leading to the upper floor; the railings to them appear to be golden, spotless and gleaming to indoor illumination―the man whom, when he sees the guests, one could say, hurries over with the most amazing expectancy and elation.

“Welcome, welcome,” he is quick to say, shaking their hands with such urgency, it only succeeds in making the champagne glass he holds vigorously sway along. For a man of most definite European descent, one could say his Korean is fairly solid, as well as formal, “It’s a pleasure to be meeting you!”

Frazzled by the turn of conversation, Jeongguk only regains his senses when a servant comes along and offers to take his coat; Jeongguk takes it off by himself, then hands it over with a respectful bow of his head―the butler looks confused, but doesn’t question this.

Taehyung’s own is removed by another maid, with him being too occupied speaking to do more than roll back his shoulders for the heavy fabric to slide right off, “A pleasure, indeed. Pardon us being late, we’d been caught in business and traffic along the way.”

Another member of personnel offers them champagne, served on silver platter. Although Taehyung takes a glass, Jeongguk declines with a polite shake of his head, “Ah, no―uh, thank you, but I don’t drink.”

“Nonsense! It is a special night, you could humour us for a little,” the man says and the more Jeongguk observes him, the thick and dark eyebrows, meticulously trimmed, a vivid shade of green to his eyes and a rugged set of facial features, the more he resembles one of the men in the family photograph.

“He is quite right, darling, you’re ought to have at least a glass. To be polite,” Taehyung hands him the champagne, with a look of warning resting deep beneath his gaze. The endearment drips as hot vax against Jeongguk’s skin, when he hurriedly tries to apologize and Taehyung steps on his trail, “I beg your pardon, Viktor, my partner has habit of… declining indulgences for the sake of his profession.”

The same butler from before politely interrupts them, a saving grace as he is, saying they should head to the dinning room to take test of tonight’s appetizers; he says this with the sort of wording, the sort of lexicon Jeongguk’s only come to learn from Taehyung himself.

Barrière Viktor―whose name Jeongguk recognizes to belong to Taehyung’s current step-father, the head of a major conglomerate family back in France―is quick and easy to fall in topic, “Oh yes, boxing, is it? I’ve been told you’re quite… ah, what is the word? Devoted to your work.”

“Ah,” acknowledges Jeongguk, not sure what to make of this statement. He takes a long sip of champagne, delighting in the sweet note hitting his taste buds; he chuckles a little, then, saying, “Well, I believe nothing’s out of reach as long as you’re passionate enough to grasp it.”

Hanna makes some sort of noise, maybe a susurration, akin to brustling of leaves or the lullabies of birds. Her eyes are most definitely calculating, taking in every inch of Jeongguk’s form, poised and cool as she asks, “That how you’ve come to catch my son, I presume?”

Taehyung nudges his mother by the elbow, most likely attempting to avert the conversation as they enter the dining room. And yet, with the air of confidence Jeongguk is coming to get familiar with lately―driven by the sight of Taehyung’s flustered cheeks―he still manages to answer, “You know, as well as me, madam, that he requires much more than just passion to be caught.”

With a fleeting sight of a smile―a genuine, almost surreal one this time―Hanna’s quick to cover this with a laugh, grabbing upon her husband’s arm. “I see,” she says, voice lighter than it’d been before, “I’ll leave you two to it, then. I’ll be telling your siblings to find you, darling.”

The model must’ve acknowledged this one way or another, with him not speaking up to a moment later, “Your sudden sense of charisma astounds me,” and when he does, it sounds dragged, slow and all the usual―and Jeongguk would’ve believed he is unaffected as it may sound, until he actually looks at Taehyung, scrutinizes every spot of red on his face.

“I’m glad you finally find something worthy in me for this task,” Jeongguk’s voice is nothing but sarcasm, cheap and short; though, his touch remains gentle, when he reaches to caress a finger over Taehyung’s nape. Tucking a strand of blond behind a red-tipped ear, Jeongguk watches the Chanel earring flicker with a hue of gold.

And somehow, the luxury, the vanity of it isn’t as magnificent as Taehyung’s gaze is―the bits of brown shadow covering his eyelids, the bronze against his cheeks, inviting, luscious and reddish lips, capable of bringing anyone to obey to his whims; he’s breathtaking, something that shouldn’t rattle Jeongguk’s core as much as it does.

“At least your acting is up to par,” Taehyung’s voice cuts through him, sweet and dolce in his characteristically condescending means; a blush is gracing his skin, however, and he doesn’t move to get away from Jeongguk’s touch, further saying, “It almost appears as if you’re actually in love.”

Something thrums inside Jeongguk―he still doesn’t move his hand, though his other one is trembling around the champagne glass. They go silent, the both of them; while making way towards the buffet of appetizers, drawn and ordered across a linen cloth, over a table which extends from one side of the room to another; they eat, pretend to be interested in the chatter about them, meet the family.

In Jeongguk’s eyes―as much as they strain from having to continuously crinkle against his forged smile of greeting―Taehyung’s family is generally okay, if but the two or three cousins which had no issue in making their distaste of Jeongguk’s occupation or lack of university degree rather clear.

“Goodness gracious, is this a banquet?” Kim Seokjin is saying while gesturing to a nearby butler to pull his chair, which happens to be next to Jeongguk’s; his long fingers unfolding a generously large napkin whilst scowling, “One would assume it’s an actual engagement party.”

Seeing as all the staff is much busy with serving the main dishes, Jeongguk opts for doing the task instead―Seokjin’s only question is an inquiring eyebrow lift, but he sits. He then adds, voice as light as the hand-woven, fine piece of linen he’d just thrown over his lap, “How convenient, I must say. A sudden lover, rescuing the damsel in such rough times, is it?”

Jeongguk almost slips when he attempts to sit down, though with Taehyung’s steadying hand on the shoulder, the nearer danger appears to be his knack of baring nails at Jeongguk’s skin whenever convenient―and it matches his tone, one could say, “Hardly a damsel, dear brother, but yes! Rough times, indeed. I’ve been so fortunate to find just the right remedy, wouldn’t you say?”

Across the table, Kim Yubin settles in her chair; she’s all but the Lioness they depict her as, hair of gold to her waist, sharp edges to a matching designer suit, paired with an even stronger gaze. “Be quiet,” she says, much in the voice of someone who says so frequently, “Dinner is starting.”

The main course is lobster―granted, not just lobster, it is paired with the unnamable sort of French-inspired cuisine, from crab cakes to other complimentary sealife; Jeongguk, at least, recognizes a green salad, as well as vegetables which have, mostly likely, been sauteed in alcohol of a cost-range he wouldn’t like to imagine.

Taehyung nudges his side, gains his attention―his eyes gesture to the way Jeongguk’s holding his fork, then towards his own dinner etiquette. Jeongguk flushes, tries to unnoticeably fix his supposed lack of manners, when someone chimes in, “So, Taehyung-ah. Is this serious?”

It’s an aunt they’d encountered before, who hadn’t been really pleased with the knowledge of Jeongguk’s supposed background. The woman sits next to Yubin, whom – fairly enough – appears to be rather inconvenienced while attempting to have a sound meal.

“I hope you’ll elaborate on what you’ve exactly meant there, aunt dearest?” Taehyung says, dabbing at the corners of his lips with a napkin, just in order not to smear his clear gloss. Jeongguk’s eyes are fixated, drawn to him naturally, it’s almost embarrassing to be alerted to by the aunt’s intentional cough.

“You know what I mean, Kim Taehyung! This, here―!” She wildly gestures in Jeongguk’s direction with an affronted hand, as if it almost offended her to do so. When Taehyung provides no more than a hum, she appears and sounds flabbergasted, “Someone of your caliber can surely find a decent man, honey.”

If Jeongguk hadn’t known better, he’d say Taehyung’s unbothered, mindless; but the twitch of his eyebrow is a telltale sign of annoyance, he’s come to notice. “On what basis are you calling my man not decent, may I ask?” He grounds out, tension rising, as if he’s genuinely offended.

The woman huffs, a becoming characteristic of a Kim; she slams a hand to the table, enough to rattle the Bourbon in Yubin’s glass. “You ask, as though it’s not glaringly obvious!” She states, high-pitched enough to draw more attention to their part of the table, grating to the ears as she speaks, “A–A man of such a violent profession with no educational background, whatsoever! How low have your standards gotten?”

From beside him, Jeongguk catches glance of Seokjin’s face cross with sympathy, with concern―a fitting look on those royal features of his, one might say, yet Taehyung doesn’t seem nearly as troubled.

“My standards have remained quite fine, thank you,” he says slowly, lowering his glass of champagne after a small, mostly visual-intending, gulp; then, he clicks his tongue soundly, “Yours, however, after having been caught as a mistress to Mayor Yoo, must be shattered. Tell me, is it exciting to be a second choice? I can’t imagine.”

The aunt turns a brilliant shade of red, to a point one should rather check her blood pressure to make sure she’s in sound condition. There’s squabble about the table―ranging from awkward coughs to even odder pauses―until Yubin eventually calls for a maid to escort their relative to the bathroom.

Apology laying at the tip of his tongue, Jeongguk doesn’t get a chance to utter anything but a small gasp of surprise, once Taehyung’s hand envelops his under the table; it’s an affirming grip, as well, almost like an order Jeongguk soundlessly wishes to follow.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” remarks Kim Yubin, the frown between her brows noticeably deeper than before the dinner had started. She brings the glass of whiskey to her mouth, sighs against the rim, “Apologies on our aunt’s behalf are in order, of course. She tends to act out every gathering we have.”

“It worsens each time, can you believe it!” Adds Seokjin, sounding particularly offended on Jeongguk’s behalf, though he hasn’t made any clear intent of actually taking a liking to him.

At the table head, Mrs. Kim is the one whose laugh breaks the tense sort of mood, as she – daresay – almost appears to be amused. “But it does make for compelling dinners, don’t you think?” She says with a singing note to her merriment, eyes on Taehyung in a barely concealed, calculating manner.

“I’d say it only showcases how tedious your side of the family is, mother,” the blond speaks, nowhere near touching his meal at this point, hand still not retreating from Jeongguk’s―now, rubbing soft fingertips across his knuckles, almost in a soothing fashion.

Kim Hanna sighs, almost mournfully so, bringing a piece of glistening lobster to her lips, “You are of my own blood too, Taehyung, so I wouldn’t gather you as much different.”

The aunt from before doesn’t return to the table and when a butler comes about to whisper something in the ear of the host, Jeongguk assumes she must’ve packed to leave right after, most likely in unjustifiable fury. She misses the marvelous desert, though, the likes of a cake Viktor says originated in the region of France he grew up in.

Contrary to what Taehyung had believed, it goes well―a few questions, here and there, nothing too out of the ordinary; they’re prepared, after all, though not much is requested in grave detail to begin with. Seokjin remarks how tiring the entire ordeal is every fifteen minutes, filling the breaks by describing – in exceptional specifics – how marvelous his garden is; Yubin mostly converses with family members directly involved within the business they own, otherwise not saying much to Jeongguk himself.

With late evening closing in, everything’s drowned within senseless chatter to the ears; Jeongguk’s had enough drinks to feel a bit lightheaded, yet mostly aware of his senses, and by the time the great grandfather clock rings cold midnight, everyone but the tightest circle of family has taken their leave.

“Taehyung-ah, dear,” says Hanna, moving languidly about the room as the personnel cleans the remains of dinner and restless hours of discussing childhood tales and bucket list wishes. “How about sleeping over tonight, you and Jeongguk? It’s already far too late in the night.”

Jeongguk steals a glance towards his boyfriend, sees the gnaw at his bottom lip―it’s meant to look as considering, even if he knows Taehyung is just stalling in order to escape the offer as less suspiciously as possible. “I’m afraid I have work early morning, mother,” he tries to excuse, smile tight.

“Well, all the more reason for you to stay! You’ll rest properly, at least,” Hanna insists, moving considerably closer so her voice falls just above a whisper, “I am to have a discussion with you, alone. It is better for us to do it sound-minded, is it not?”

There’s a shift there, something unexplainable, unreadable in Taehyung’s gaze―but his smile, it doesn’t waver the slightest bit, staying composed as he agrees, “Of course, yes. I’ll have them set our room.”

When he disappears out of sight, Taehyung doesn’t miss to reach and squeeze at Jeongguk’s bicep in passing; perhaps it looks affectionate on the surface, as if he cannot hold himself from touching when they’re around one another, but it’s most certainly, definitely a warning.

Soon so admissioned by Kim Seokjin, because the time he chooses to speak is the most convenient, “Do you know each other enough to sleep in the same bed, even?”

Jeongguk, albeit a bit too flabbergasted, too flustered to answer right away, gathers himself enough under the scrutiny of the three family members and a handful of butlers. Before he can interject, however, Yubin scoffs faintly and nudges Seokjin in the abdomen side, declaring, “Crude,” making the conversation cease there.

Hanna is lounging with a glass of dark-colored rum in hand, not much drinking it as she only swivels the drink around. “I find it hard to believe, honestly,” she then speaks with words that might’ve been alarming, if her gentle tone didn’t give an impression of innocence, “I’d always reckoned Taehyung as someone needing more time to fall in love―and, well, as someone who is difficult to love, at first meeting.”

Whatever implication lies underneath this, all falls silent. Jeongguk rubs fingertips across the seams of his shirt sleeves, breath shallow and heart thundering. “It wasn’t easy,” he eventually says, imagining how it would be like to desire Taehyung at first sight, for pure purposes. The thought proves to be exceedingly difficult, as Jeongguk continues, a bit breathless, “But it felt right.”

He barely gets the opportunity, the time to observe the facial, bodily responses to his words – which all, for whatever reason, came from unknown sources secluded in his mind – because Taehyung comes back, once more grabbing at Jeongguk’s bicep for leverage (and now, his touch burns even more so).

They say goodnight to the family, head upstairs; on some part of them going up, their fingers interlock, despite the fact no one could see them displaying affection there―it puts Jeongguk at slight of an ease, as he’d probably feel less comfortable with touching the spotless railing, rather than holding Taehyung’s hand when there is no reason to.

Their room is unfairly large, near in size of the small apartment Jeongguk grew up in, with tall walls leading up to a renaissance-style painted ceiling; if possible, it’s even more than what he’d imagined it to be, all the details small and complex, from the frame of the king-sized bed to the not yet used candlesticks, golden and reflecting.

Taehyung immediately starts to undress, sighing with an abundance of relief once the buttons of his shirt are popped open. “Make yourself comfortable. It is my room, after all,” he says, intonation tireless to allow any animosity to spill through, “I’ll take a shower first.”

Jeongguk, drained himself – from both, (at the time), endless hours of seeming interrogation by the family and his own whirling thoughts – does no more than nod, settling on the bed and feeling it slightly bounce under the weight. Briefly, it makes him wonder if Taehyung ever indulged in his childhood, jumping on the mattress until all air escaped his lungs.

He chuckles because it’s an amusing scenario to imagine―seeing as Taehyung had probably only indulged in tutoring lessons as a child―but his small laugh falls over the quiet rustles of the model removing his clothing, earning him an eyebrow raise in return, “Something funny, Jeon?”

His heavy, southern dialect makes Jeongguk think, makes him wonder if it comes from the father he hadn’t been able to meet tonight. “Just thinking,” the boxer replies, sifting through the memories of the dinner to make a quick excuse, “You defended me.”

Taehyung pauses, hands over the belt of his tailored trousers, his candidness in appearing topless marking a feast of tan skin for Jeongguk’s eyes. His face, however, reads confusion; until Jeongguk elaborates, “From your aunt. I thought you’d agree with her, of needing a man of your own calibur.”

‘He is difficult to love at first meeting,’ Kim Hanna had said and perhaps Jeongguk would agree on another occasion, yet now―with those pretty eyes, that pretty mouth turning to a scowl upon the implication that Jeongguk is lesser than―it’s unbelievably, so hard to think of anything but how untrue that must be.

Spreading the wings of the small cabinet at the corner of the room, Taehyung draws a silken robe from its depths. “Thinking now, it could’ve been a test of loyalty on mother’s part, to see if I’d stand by your side. Maybe that’s why she kept aunt around,” he thinks outloud, soft-spoken in the tenseless room.

Thinking now, meaning – back then – Taehyung didn’t do it to play the game, to beat his own parent at scheming, plotting, no; he stood up for Jeongguk, because he felt like doing so, he wanted to. It’s as though a swarm of butterflies is tickling at Jeongguk’s stomach, his heart and everything inside him which flutters at the thought.

And then, Taehyung laughs, like his own mind had amused him for a moment. Sliding off his bottoms next, folding the material, he voices this while heading to the bathroom, “And, well, you’re my future husband―I’m obligated to defend you, aren’t I?”

Surreal, coaxed by those wicked lips and incredible wit, Jeongguk thinks he might be falling. It should scare him, perhaps, and yet he finds himself looking forward to it instead.

₩₩₩

With how well the night prior played out – despite its fair share of sassy table banter, judgemental glances and unexplored emotions – the morning which comes after is exceedingly worse, so much Taehyung is particularly seething whilst getting ready to leave the mansion.

Jeongguk is doing the same, with the smallest bit of trouble in properly adjusting his trousers, to the point Taehyung would rather come over and do it for him instead―but he doesn’t, staying put and watching the boxer fumble with his clothing as much as he does with words, “So… uh, Namjoon-hyung is arriving today.”

Taehyung acknowledges this with but a mere hum, his usually conversational and exceptionally quick glamour falling out of place after the early morning conversation he’d had with his mother.

If Jeongguk takes his silence as a sign to worry, he doesn’t much voice it, instead clearing his throat in hopes of making the air around them easier to breathe. “Jimin-ssi will probably be at the station to wait for him, as well,” he then adds, voice falling bit by bit, “So, uh, I was wondering if you’d want to come with? We could catch some lunch afterwards.”

Something inside Taehyung heats at the proposal – for unbeknownst reasons, the same ones he’d been working hard to avoid, ignore for the previous several weeks – and yet he can’t bring himself to be less than irritable, voice gritting a simple, “I’m busy.”

They continue to get ready; Taehyung sits by the small compartment of his beauty studio, settled in one side of the room and faced away from the bed. In the oval-shaped mirror, he catches glances of Jeongguk, his infuriatingly attractive face, a charm between handsome and pretty written all over him; there is wonder in the innocence of his countenance standing stark against the tattoos inking his skin, the sort of self-expression which seems to fit him perfectly.

While cuffing the sleeves of his brandest dress shirt―the Balmain piece Taehyung made him wear to the family dinner―Jeongguk finally, finally dares to speak again, his voice more distant than before, “I have a game next week, down in Ilsan. The first round of Nationals.”

The slow dabs of bronze Taehyung had been delivering to his eyelids stop, just so he can flutter them open and look at his partner much clearer. “Good luck, then,” he drawls, tone perhaps more mocking than it ought to have been when actually humorous, which is probably why it itches, uncomfortably so.

Jeongguk’s face pinches to a frown, in a distasteful manner. “You’re supposed to be there, Kim,” he proclaims, as though it is the gospel truth, something so obvious Taehyung should be an idiot not to notice. “It’s a part of the deal.”

Taehyung tries to lower his brush with the least amount of force, but his hand trembles too much to do anything but slam it down. It’s barely audible, honestly, yet it falls over their silence like the drop of a pin.

“Right, the deal―the one we might as well kick to the curb, seeing as mother has about figured us out,” Taehyung says with barely concealed spite, teeth gritten and eyes ablaze in the reflection of the mirror. “God, why’d I even think this―the two of us―would actually work out! I must’ve been mad.”

Jeongguk’s scowl further deepens. “What are you even on about?” He dares to fucking ask, as though Taehyung is not about to fall apart, rip at the seams at the forefront of his own eyes. “Figured us out? Does your mother know, Taehyung?”

And there he goes, using his first name again, no honorific because their respect for one another is but blurred lines of pleasure and distantly discreet gazes, no surname-adression with the cutting edge of an enemies-with-benefits relationship―no, he says Taehyung, as if the model actually fucking matters to him.

“She might as well!” Taehyung grips at the edge of his table, fingernails blunt and scraping at the wood. It stings, but keeps him from gashing, tearing his own pride. “She had us fucking tracked, Jeongguk! She knows you weren’t at my place since we’ve arrived to Seoul, nor with me in fucking general. What else is there to put together? Even a half-wit would’ve realized it by now!”

“How is that my fault? This is how you wanted things to play out,” Jeongguk points out and good lords, his voice – the deep undertone, of all a ferociousness Taehyung’s only seen him have in the ring – is still considerate, leveled, “What could’ve I done different?”

Sitting up as swiftly as he’d sat down and rejected any proposal of progressing their barely possible friendship (seeing as those bounds have long been crossed), Taehyung turns to look at Jeongguk – his supposed lover, Jeon Jeongguk – and finds himself being barely able to speak, as though his tongue had twisted and prevented him from doing so.

Chest heaving, up and down, up and down, Jeongguk’s expression eventually cracks; the crinkle of his brow, the exasperation, longing, it all washes from him as fresh waves. “What should have I done different, Taehyung?” He repeats, taking a step closer, heaving, “Tell me!”

“You should’ve pretended better!” Taehyung yells back, his entire body taut and straightened in order not to appear small, not weak, yet it’s all futile when Jeongguk looks more broken than he could imagine him being―and so, he tries again, “Maybe… maybe then―”

“Pretended better?” Jeongguk interrupts as he does tend to when their arguments brink and snap, linger across edges and cut through the air between them; their breaths shorten the closer they get, “How can you say this now, when just last night you told me you were fucking astounded by how good I was at pretending to actually be in love with you?”

Taehyung’s bottom lip trembles and the white liner across his tear ducts must’ve smudged, because his vision is blurry, incomprehensible when his hands flay and hit at the front of Jeongguk’s chest. “S… Shut up, shut up,” he repeats over and over, like it will help, but Jeongguk only allows him do so for a little bit before grabbing at his wrists, a tight grip of a bruising blue, markful purple.

“Look at me, Taehyung,” his voice tremors and when Taehyung only shakes his head, tipped towards the woolen-carpeted ground, Jeongguk’s voice falls, tightens, “Look at me.”

“This is your fault,” Taehyung whispers and he does, heavens gracious, he looks at Jeongguk―it’s why his voice shudders, the same sorts of trembles travelling up his spine, tingling at his skull―fuck, Jeongguk looks sorry. “You… you did this to me.”

Before he can take a moment to realize the weight of his words, the ones he hadn’t said with a deliberate, snobbish audacity, premeditated boldness and confidence; no, the ones he spoke in the moment, as he never does―Taehyung’s back meets the walls, his lips taken by Jeongguk’s eager mouth and searching teeth.

God, it stings, it hurts, no matter how Jeongguk’s tongue follows suit; the taste in his mouth is metal, copper, blood, it’s fucking glorious. Everything from the bruising touch of lips, the soft linger of Jeongguk’s palm across his neck, thumb pressing upwards his Adam’s apple, making his gasp right down his throat―he’s making Taehyung melt, exhilarated by a high of lust, of… emotions he can’t bring himself to name, something which feels more right than it should.

They fumble and touch―as horny teenagers, tipsy strangers would―up until the point Taehyung’s voice breaks to a whimper, a resonating sound of a desperate plea for either continuation or full stop and Jeongguk takes it as the latter, stepping from Taehyung’s body like the touch had finally delivered its intended burn.

Wide eyed, he doesn’t say anything, too breathless to speak. When Taehyung reaches, presses a thumb to his own lip and feels the wet tinge he can taste between his lips, Jeongguk tries to say, “I… I didn’t―I’m,” and so his words shorten, uncertain and confused, perhaps edging on an apology Taehyung doesn’t wish to hear.

“You’ve had breakfast in bed, yes?” He asks instead, not elaborating how he knows, how he went to the kitchens asking for a morning meal heavy on carbohydrates to be delivered to his partner, his boyfriend while he speaks to mother, it doesn’t matter, not now, not anymore.

Jeongguk’s expression draws from a sense of intimate, personal rage to a more settled hesitation. “I, uh… yes?” Is what he says, like a wrong answer could exist.

“Good, then we shall leave,” Taehyung says, moving despite how weakened his legs have become, avoiding touching, even looking at Jeongguk when he grabs his jacket, says, “I’ll take you to the station,” then leaves his room, which doesn’t feel like his own anymore.

₩₩₩

According to Jimin, the discomfort written all over Jeongguk has been obvious since Taehyung (figuratively) kicked him out from the back of his limousine at Ansan Station; worst is, Namjoon had noticed even quicker, as soon as he’d stepped foot out of the subway.

He greeted Jimin by whispering sweet nothings in between kissing his cheeks, their love fresh and bright, but once the trainer took a single look at Jeongguk, the first words he uttered were, “You look awful, what the hell happened?”

Between dismissal and turnabouts during serious, demandable conversational topics, they do eventually decide to have some barbeque in style of old school Korean cuisine. After a posh dinner and heavily garnished breakfast, the spicy sauce which reminds Jeongguk so much of home falls like heaven upon his palate.

“So,” Jimin is the one whom starts, nibbling down a rib piece neatly held between wooden chopsticks. The red seasoning stands flush against his full lips, especially when he parts them to speak, with an inquiringly raised eyebrow, “Lemme guess, Taehyung?”

‘Who else?’ Jeongguk’s mind cleverly supplies, wandering to the early morning of their sudden flux in emotion, escalating to an argument he secretly feared they’d have―about being find out, blown on their cover as boyfriends, as star-crossed lovers. Yet, this worries Jeongguk considerably less than how distantly cold Taehyung had been when he left.

Taking his silence as the affirmative, Jimin hums as though it is not only not surprising, but almost expected, “I figured so; what’s bothering you, if you don’t mind sharing? Was his family too much, lifestyle far more than what’d you expect?” He lists, then grins cheekily, “Or are you starting to actually fall in love?”

Seeing as Namjoon about chokes on his own soju at the suggestion, Jeongguk takes the opportunity to cover his own embarrassment through a laugh―though, he suspects, Jimin will see right through it. “I wish,” he finds himself saying, too honest in a moment of weakness, “It would make this entire thing easier to bare.”

Jimin’s gaze considerably softens, all but a small sigh escaping him; pinching the bridge of his nose, he then says, “I’m sorry,” which, when greeted by a look of confusion from yours truly, he sighs heavier, “It’s hard, I know, Taehyung can be fucking difficult. And it takes a while to know him past all the surface level display he puts on.”

The boxer laughs again because, well, why wouldn’t he? “You’re telling me his sense of self-righteousness and arrogance is just an act,” he states, doesn’t question.

He’s given a particular look by Jimin, neither a warning nor sympathy, an odd mixture of both. “I’m not. I’m only telling you he’s more than that, as I’m sure you’ve seen,” he says, slow and considerate, eyes telling, “You will see once he cracks, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk takes a gulpful of water, absent of alcohol as result of prior night’s champagne glasses; feels the slightly warmed liquid slither down his throat, freshen his taste buds, gives him time to count and breathe. They continue to eat, he continues to think.

‘Crack, huh?’ He has to wonder, stricken by the image of Taehyung – red-rimmed at the eyes, blue rings of Jeongguk’s grip around his wrist, lips cherry from a drop of blood – and he wonders, was it just that; was this morning the sign of Taehyung’s façade breaking at the edges?

₩₩₩

“―the game is today and swear to god, if you don’t show up your ass right on time, I will personally drag you there,” Jimin’s voice is a slow, quiet hiss through the phone, “Pull you out of the shower, out of bed, if I have to. Don’t fucking test me.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue, pours himself another glass of flavored sparkling water, proceeding to tip the jug in Seokjin’s direction; whom, as it appears, made himself comfortable enough at Taehyung’s own suite to dismiss him with but a wave of hand, like he would to a servant.

Scowling silently, Taehyung speaks as soon as Jimin’s inhales in a cautionary way, “I wasn’t testing you, mind you, I just said I will not be going. That is all.”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow, a silent question, in great contrast to how exceptionally angered Jimin appears to be. “Don’t even fucking lie to me, you coward. A deal is a deal, Taehyung, and I am one of the main reasons the poor thing is even involved in this,” he bites out, sounding a tad bit guilty, “Don’t make this difficult for him.”

Lowering the glass, Taehyung then pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Hyung is here,” is what he eventually settles on, as obvious as the excuse may be, “I will call you later.”

Before Jimin can utter another word, as his sharp intake of breath suggested, the blond hangs up the call; with a deliberately slow, sorrowful and inconvenienced sigh, Taehyung proceeds to pull the tightest sort of a feigned smile he can manage.

“Apologies, dear brother,” he says, not actually sounding the least bit regretful―seeing as he’d only chose the lesser of two evils to deal with first. “I’m rather busy lately, you see.”

“Of course, what else am I to suspect?” Seokjin’s mimics his tone, pinkie finger dipped under the ceramic, floral patterned cup of English tea. With a hum, he then asks, “I see your beloved isn’t in close proximity. Have you broken up already?”

Unknowingly, the suggestion stings, but Taehyung excuses it on his rational fear of losing a fortune-promising inheritance, by losing Jeongguk in turn. “You ask silly questions, hyung, considering you’re the one who attempted to out us to mother,” he says slowly, minimizing on every small change of expression upon his sibling’s face.

He’d known, of course, since the beginning – and granted, their mother hadn’t been exactly subtle, slipping her second child’s name several times while questioning Taehyung’s decisions to drop his supposed boyfriend at a Gangnam hotel, instead of sharing living space as destined ones would.

“I only mentioned it in bypass, Taehyung-ie. A little worm of doubt, because it’d been so obvious,” Seokjin sighs, then fixes him with the look of an older sibling, the sort of all-knowingness gaze Taehyung’s loathed since childhood years. “Seriously, have you got no class, no care? Especially under the suspicion you two held to begin with.”

Taehyung’s tongue itches to say, to speak, excuse himself or make one his usual commentaries which derail the topic at hand―he can’t, however, finding himself thinking about how right Seokjin is (as rarity as it is for him to admit so); why hadn’t Jeongguk stayed with him, what had he been so afraid of happening, if they were to spend―by his means considered―unnecessary times together?

Shaking his head, as though the thought will escape his mind as he does, Taehyung manages to ask, “You planted your worm, hyung. Why are you here now?”

Seokjin scrutinizes his apparent turmoil, but still proceeds to pull a piece of A4 paper from the briefcase he so unceremoniously dropped by the sofa upon arrival. When Taehyung makes no move to look at the document, Seokjin rolls his eyes, telling, “Unless you want me showing photographs to mother, of your darling boy in the hotel, I suggest you sign this.”

They’re a formal family, grown inside business arrangements and exclusive dinner parties―Taehyung recognizes contracts from a mere glance, with the usual telltale sign being the benefactors eyes, all too eager to gain.

Still not touching the paper, Taehyung huffs a barely concealed laugh of amusement, disbelief. “How big of a part do you want, hyung?” He asks, condescending enough to make Seokjin’s cheeks flare. “Fifty percent, perhaps even more? Either way, the answer is no. If I get the inheritance – seeing as I’m the only one to stand chance to do so – I will decide what to do with it.”

Seokjin tips the point of his shoe against the glass table separating them, legs crossed in a grace they’d been so well taught. “It’s not just for me, Taehyung, it is for noona as well,” he explains slowly, like he’s taken to lecturing an uneducated, stubborn child. With a huff, Seokjin then adds, “God knows what would’ve been of our business if the two of us had run it! We most likely would’ve shot decades worth of family wealth to the ground.”

Lips tightly sealed, Taehyung refuses to agree quickly, yet he can’t help but to―Yubin is the prodigy child of industry management between the three of them, having been personally trained by Kim Myungdae himself. Taehyung had never thought to take the reigns from her, even if he gains the legal rights by fulfilling their grandfather's last will.

“What about you, then?” He questions, on the habit of sensing, expecting ulterior motives behind every action in existence. When Seokjin remains suspiciously silent, awaiting an affirmation himself, Taehyung laughs, “Right, yes! The estate back in Busan―or was it the one we have in Daegu?”

“Both,” Seokjin stresses, placing his pointer finger across the part of the contract which would suggest this. He raises an eyebrow when Taehyung finds himself to be particularly amused, “Don’t giggle, you brat. Those mansions have been figuratively and most literally dead for the last twenty or so years, I only wish to make them useful and presentable.”

Presentable would be about the right word for it, seeing as Seokjin is but the most meticulous, detail-oriented architect Taehyung had ever the pleasure of meeting―he doesn’t doubt his ability, no less his intentions of giving their family property some fresh air to breathe, a redesign.

“Sure,” Taehyung affirms this, taking a heavy gulp of water; tastes like mint and lemon, with a label which makes it cost more than it's worth. His phone buzzes again, displaying a message from his best friend dearest―with a lick of lips, Taehyung considers his options then, “You attempted to out me to mother. And then, you come here and threaten me.”

Seokjin rolls his eyes at this, clicking his tongue loudly, “God, you’re being so dramatic―!”

“Let’s go,” Taehyung interrupts, swiftly rising from his chair; the satin of his robe flows against his skin, smooth and relaxing, contrary to his heartbeat singing as a hummingbird. When Seokjin looks nonetheless confused, Taehyung is quick to ask, “You’ve never been to a boxing match, have you? First time’s for everything.”

At this, his brother’s eyes considerably widen. Before he can interject, Taehyung is humming along his way to a personalized closet room, dancing at the edges of anxious anticipation. “Not a word, hyung. You said earlier, just before all this drama, how you aren’t busy today,” he references dryly, looking at him quite pointedly, “Now, tell me―how does an original, vintage Guns n Roses tee sound?”

Seokjin positively squeals in protest and Taehyung only laughs in return, taking this as a delighted yes.

₩₩₩

“Jeongguk. Jeongguk!” The pitch raises as do the noises of the crowd, permeating through the back rooms and making everything inside Jeongguk thrum, churn and turn with excitement, with exhilaration and so much more. When he looks up, he sees Yoongi by the door, biting against an ice cream cone, comprehensively saying, “Your boyfriend’s here.”

Pausing―one breath, then two and three―Jeongguk feels his throat go instantaneously dry and head incredibly cloudy. “Huh?” He eloquently repeats, hearing Hoseok echo the same from the other side of the room. Yoongi raises an eyebrow at this, before Jeongguk clears his voice, “Um, I mean… where?”

Throwing a glance across his barely-clad shoulder, Yoongi then shrugs it. “In the crowd, where else? I think he might be coming over,” he says, voice lingering at the end and head tilting in a tantalizing manner. “He’s bringing a looker with ‘im, though, what a sight.”

Jeongguk’s body itches, a continuous question of ‘who?’ wandering around his head―has he brought someone new, a new pretend boyfriend to rub in my face?―and it goes up until the point there’s a heavy knock on their door, as though made by weighty rings, before it opens and there he is.

It’s been a week, maybe even eight days or so, and Jeongguk is almost ashamed by how surprised he is each time he sees Taehyung, amazed by the flare he adds to his natural beauty. Like on his first show, back in Busan, he’s shredded and jaded―ripped leather and studs, pretty earrings and glossy lips, an absolute dream.

Next to him―the apparent looker, turns out―is Kim Seokjin, in similar fashion enough so he looks slightly out of place, but not terribly so. One must curse those incredible genetics of theirs; though the Kim’s may not look alike, Jeongguk’s noticed, their particular charm and essence pull them together as a recognizable bloodline, a family.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Taehyung says, treating the entryway like a catwalk. Jeongguk finds himself staring quite a lot at those long legs, clad and covered in tight denim, until Taehyung clears his throat to catch attention, “Sorry to bother, but is it possible to have a chat with Jeon before the match? Promise not to take too much of your time.”

Hoseok is the first to jump in, joyously exclaiming, “Of course, we’ll give you two some room.”

Yoongi struts over with nonchalance, regarding the piece of work and beauty by Taehyung’s side―the blond then seemingly remembers, pulling Seokjin in by the arm; cloth by a band-themed shirt that couldn’t have been in Seokjin’s possession prior to this. 

“Ah yes, this is my brother dearest, Kim Seokjin,” he introduces, tone too mischievous not to have underlying intentions, “Yoongi-ssi, would you mind showing him to the sidelines? Jimin’s got our seats there.”

With a hum and another lick of ice cream, Yoongi nods and nudges Seokjin by the side―and though Seokjin might look highly baffled by being the dismissive treatment, he’s nonetheless also quite flustered. “C’mon, stud, let’s give these lovebirds some time to talk,” Yoongi says, light and slow, “Remember Gguk, showtime’s in thirty. Don’t be late.”

“Y–Yeah,” Jeongguk’s belated reply falls after the door shuts closed; despite Taehyung asking for some alone time, one could say, he doesn’t appear to be much conversational, only strutting around the room and observing the equipment, the gum packets and torn magazines.

He picks one up, thumbing at the cover page; with a small laugh, Taehyung then raises an eyebrow in Jeongguk’s direction, “A Vogue issue of mine from two years ago, seriously? Never reckoned you as the type.”

Sensing the warmth rush to his cheeks, Jeongguk attempts to shrug it off, though his shoulders feel heavy. “We always have these backstage―not that I’m not interested in whether denim bell bottoms are coming into season again, but… y’know,” he pauses then, sighs, “Boxers usually like supermodels, don’t they?”

Maybe it’s his vivid, desperate imagination, but Jeongguk would like to believe he sincerely made Taehyung blush so alight, even under the dim lights of the small, squared room. With a half-laugh and half-huff sort of sound, the blond then says, “I guess that explains a lot.”

And his words, his tone―so small, barely a whisper and yet pouring at the brims with meaning―it’s all too much, more than Jeongguk can handle before such an important even in his life; an event he has because of Taehyung. “Kim,” he says, shamefully hearing his own voice crack, “Why are you here? To call off the deal?”

The silence gives no more than pause, less than strumming fear. Taehyung brushes broad, perfect hands down the plane of his worn shirt – a distracting sight, it is – and then takes a deep breath, as well as a step closer. “Jeongguk,” he addresses by first name basis instead. “The deal isn’t off and it won’t be. I am… I am here to apologize.”

Assuming by his positively gaping expression, Jeongguk must’ve appeared as quite shocked―it’s most likely why Taehyung scoffs as loudly as he does, but it almost sounds… amused, perhaps loving. “Close your mouth at least―goodness gracious, yes, I can apologize,” he says, sounding a bit off-put, “I overreacted, back at the mansion. I’ll try not to do it again.”

Closing his lips, as told, Jeongguk blinks severely slowly; well, Taehyung does look fairly apologetic, taking on quite the pitiful sort of expression Jeongguk’s never seen on him before (“he’s more than surface level; you will see once he cracks,” Jimin’s told him and maybe now, it is all but a grand show of just that).

And after a long, long intake of oxygen―just until his lungs had no more room for it―Jeongguk approaches, closing in on an intimate space, observing Taehyung; every eyelash, every beauty mark, the quiver to his lips and addled eyes, confused and fiery.

“Alright. Apology accepted,” Jeongguk says, much more breathless than he accounted for, but he can’t help it – not when Taehyung looks like this, looks at him like that. Jeongguk reaches out, flicks a blond hair behind his ear, briefly touches the diamond earring, “Is everything okay, now?”

Taehyung takes a hold of his wrist, directs Jeongguk’s hand to his cheek instead―it’s red under his palm, seeping warmth through skin and causing Jeongguk to shakily exhale. “Are you referring to our deal, or to us?” Taehyung implores, leaning against the touch with a content sigh, “Because, honestly, neither are conclusive.”

It’s been a week, yet his lips taste the same, feel the same as they do now, when Jeongguk tips and closes their distance with a soft, searching kiss. Taehyung sighs again, languidly this time, presses in and in until Jeongguk’s savoring the flavor, a point of fruitiness.

“Mm,” Jeongguk’s brows furrow together; he sucks Taehyung’s bottom lip between his teeth and then releases it with a lewd, wet pop. “You… you taste like strawberry.”

“Don’t I always?” Taehyung laughs, a kind of genuine happiness written all over his gorgeous features, a glitter of hope, perhaps even developing love. Jeongguk feels a bit faint, earlier troubles briefly forgotten when he sees Taehyung – it is only Taehyung, it’s been only him since their eyes first met back in Busan and now, seemingly, it will always be so.

Well, ‘till a knock upon the door interrupts them; it’s followed by Namjoon’s voice, sounding almost apologetic, “The game’s in five, Gguk-ah, c’mon!”

Never had―in the entirety of his boxing career―the thought of a match being a disturbance crossed Jeongguk’s mind but, with Kim Taehyung, he’s apparently losing many of his firsts.

Taehyung’s grin is wide, heartfelt and maybe even profound, blinding; he comes closer once more, tastes  his lips with a bit more ferociousness, desire. “Here, a good luck kiss,” he whispers, breathing slowly, “Go kill it out there, darling. If you show up, I might even root for you.”

Ridiculous as it may be, it’s all the drive, all the will Jeongguk needs―and who else is more of a lucky charm than one’s lover?

₩₩₩

“D’you think it was alright to just… leave, like that?” Jeongguk’s voice is lulled, soft and lingering, a result of a singular beer pint and the fruity cocktail Taehyung made him drink back at the mandatory bar celebration, as cheers to a game well-won. “Will your brother be fine?”

Taehyung laughs, tips his head backwards and drinks his water in a down-a-shot fashion. It spreads relief through his body, on which clung loose pieces of his clothing; shirt well out of sight, possibly on the floor, jeans unbuttoned and yet still grasping at his shapely legs.

“Hyung-ie will be okay,” he affirms not so convincingly, though Jeongguk hadn’t sounded so worried to begin with―sure, leaving Seokjin with their chaotic, disassembled group of friends and acquaintances might’ve not been the best idea in hindsight, but the air around them had been too tipsy to allow rational thought.

Contrary, Seokjin might even take a liking to the old, dirty streets of downtown Seoul, who knows? Taehyung will get an earful tomorrow, either way, although it doesn’t really matter now―not when he struts towards Jeongguk, carefully sat at the edge of his bed, still sheen and exhilarated from his boxing match.

They are both tipsy, not enough to impair their judgement, nor cloud their desires, but enough to lower their guards, make unrivaled, unapproached emotions bubble against the surface of the crackling air―Taehyung knows this, he’s aware of their vulnerability, the collective bout of memories they’ve chosen to ignore; however, he takes the risk.

Because, after all, Jeongguk is and has always been more than what’d Taehyung wanted, what he needed. Jeon Jeongguk, sat there with legs spread wide, in the same hideous print of camo, the same style of cargo pantalones from that first night; but a black shirt, doing justice, glory to his physique, his hooded, longing eyes―lords, he’s too much.

Taehyung’s hazy, body unhurried and apathetic, throwing a leg across Jeongguk’s lap and seating himself down―their calves rub together, as do their breaths mingle. Jeongguk doesn’t say much, settling his warm, large palms across Taehyung’s ass as though they belong there and for a moment of pleasure, need, the model only presses forward with a pleased sigh.

“You’re a great, grand asshole, y’know that?” Taehyung murmurs, lazily rolling his shoulders, undoing knots; all that is futile once a soft, slow pair of lips is on his collarbones, nibbling and searching. With a grunt, Taehyung rolls his hips, adds, “It’s why you haven’t called, right? You were waiting for me to apologize.”

Jeongguk laughs patterns against his chest, makes way to his exposed, perked nipples and licks―perhaps Taehyung’s a bit sensitive, stuttering when Jeongguk’s teeth graze the hard bud. “Right,” the boxer drawls, all dripping sarcasm Taehyung would’ve otherwise been proud of. “I… I was waiting for you to kick me to… to the curb, or whatever. To call off the deal, tell me to fuck off. Not look for me again.”

Arching against the touch, against the so honest, unfiltered and truthful mouth leaving blemishes to his honey skin, Taehyung bites at the insides of his lips, feels his thoughts swim and unfold. “‘M not―not a jerk, Jeon. I keep my word,” he breathes, senses it settle deep in his gut, “I have no reason to get rid of you, not yet.”

There’s a giggle, touching and fervent, a disparity to the digging fingers against the blond’s ass. “Mm, I’ll thank destiny for that one,” is murmured as an afterthought, to himself or said fate; just before Jeongguk holds Taehyung by the chin and kisses him slow, hard in ways it makes Taehyung think he’s chasing the thoughts of destiny right out his own head.

Grinding against each other, edging and abiding pleasure, lust, wordless actions and terms they never could’ve justified; all of this, it’s there, it waits for them and stays, as Taehyung cradles through the strands of Jeongguk’s dirty hair and cups, inhaling his musk sharply and gasping against his lips.

“Jeongguk,” he says, far more desperate than he has the will to shame himself on. “Remember… remember the first night, back in Busan? You haven’t fulfilled your offer, still.”

Maybe it’s his slurred, slow accent, or perhaps it is Jeongguk’s alcohol-impaired memory which causes the delay―and then, Jeongguk is inhaling swiftly as well, grabbing Taehyung by the hips and keeping him from moving, even as he orders, “Clothes off. Now.”

Taehyung’s a tad bit delirious, from the point onward of slithering out his jeans―(no underwear on to begin with)―then somehow ending up with him bent to grasp at the wood of his pink ivory bedpost, knees shaking where they’re locked around Jeongguk’s head as the younger, quite frivolously, one might say, eats him out.

Yes, delirious is the correct word for it, because – although Taehyung had always received quite the enthusiasm for his derriere, mind you – this isn’t as often of an occurrence to him as it should be, thus he’s grown sensitive, reactive to the smallest of nips against his inner thighs, little alone Jeongguk’s tongue continuously fucking in and out of him with no tire.

When he does no more than gasp and splutter incoherently, Jeongguk pulls away with a lewd smack of lips, licking and sucking at his balls next, just until the model outright sobs. “Taehyung,” Jeongguk says, voice coarse, one hand working over his dripping cock with the same vigour, the same heat found in his words, “You wanna ride my face, yeah? C’mon, dollface, I’ll make you come just like this.”

The promise, it rings and stings all the same, Taehyung’s dizzy with the edges of climax, blurring the lines of tears around his eyelids―he nods, then realizes Jeongguk most likely doesn’t see it, or wants to hear him beg, “Y–Yes, please, please, I’ll―”

He’s fucked open again, held apart, broken in pieces and then put back together by Jeongguk’s eager touches, licking Taehyung open, filling him breathless and incomprehensible. Taehyung’s fingers dig against his bedpost, he takes a deep breath―lets the wave of pleasure gently, slowly wash over him―and then, then, finally starts moving.

Gods, it’s glorious, vulgar and pornographic, oddly intimate and everything which makes the world around him spin. There’s a buzz in his head, somewhere, and Taehyung can’t think, he can’t, vocabulary shortened to fewer syllables of Jeongguk’s name and poetically creative curses (although, those also eventually stop existing altogether, fucked out of him along his sound mind.)

And then, when all pools down, Taehyung’s heating body rings alarm through his raw throat, choked and gasping, “J– Jeongguk, please, I cannot―I’m coming, please, please―!”

Jeongguk only hums, acknowledges this through vibrations against Taehyung’s body; flicks his tongue just a bit deeper, twists his hand a bit rougher and Taehyung’s moan is purely guttural, body convulsing as he comes, trickling down Jeongguk’s fingers, hips stuttering and voice breaking.

Once his initial high settles, Taehyung realizes – with a glance across his shivering shoulder – that Jeongguk hadn’t even pulled his own dick out, little alone came alongside him. Even through a half-lidded, blurry vision, Taehyung sees well, how hard he is, how much it yearns for pleasure, for affection.

With a bit of a stumble, he quickly fumbles through the supplies of his bedside cabinet, then moves to straddle Jeongguk’s lap as a throne. The younger makes a strangled sort of noise, head lifting from where it rest on Taehyung’s overly large, silken pillow, eyes narrowed down the sight, “Kim, what’re you―”

Taehyung either hushes him, or doesn’t hear the rest of his question altogether, already slicking up Jeongguk’s cock and lowering himself down with a swift thrust and content sigh. “Oh, fuck,” Jeongguk’s exhale is shaky with realization, palms coming to Taehyung’s hips, voice broken and yet mellow, “You sure you can, after just coming now?”

“‘S fine,” Taehyung slurs, leans over and kisses him, bites Jeongguk’s bottom lip between his teeth. The cock inside him hardens impossibly so, making the blond laugh, “It’s―not gonna take you long, anyways, it seems.”

Jeongguk’s cheeks redden, eyes suddenly gleaming and oh, Taehyung hoarsely squeaks when a sharp, quick sting is delivered across his ass; Jeongguk grips it harshly then, guiding him up and down his shaft. “A little more, Taehyung,” he whispers to his lips, “Just a bit more, princess, so perfect.”

Already too sensitive, overstimulated, the jabs to his prostate are perhaps more than Taehyung thought he’d be able to take―once Jeongguk’s cock pulses inside, climax testified by the groan against their kiss, Taehyung’s pretty certain he comes again, dry this time, whimpering and asking for wordless promises as they hold to each other tightly.

His vision collapses, as does his body; somewhere, at the forefront of his mind, Taehyung thinks Jeongguk pulls him to his arms before sleep overtakes them both, safe and sound from the world.

₩₩₩

‘It was nice while it lasted,’ Jeongguk briefly thinks the following morning when they’re – (no surprise, at this point) – fighting again; or, well, arguing may be the better word for it, for their colorful insults and passive-aggressive assertiveness midway through the conversation.

Taehyung is insistently tugging on a clean pair of Burberry socks, slanted with stripes at the tops and reaching just an inch below his knees; his back, broad and slim all at the same time, tan and pretty just like the rest of him, faces Jeongguk while he complains loudly, “What the fuck was I thinking, what the―”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, lounging at his side of the bed, vision a bit bleary. “Fucking c’mon, it’s been thirty minutes, stop mopping,” he groans, having been struck with a headache as soon as he woke up with arms full of South Korea’s prestigious supermodel―who, at the moment, doesn’t take a second to shut up. “It’s one job.”

“One job!” Taehyung shrills, turning to look at him with an incredulous, crazed look in his eyes. His hair is all messed up, pieces of blond sticking in all sorts of directions, face paler than usual, eyeshadow smudged, lips chapped―a state no one otherwise sees him in, little less Jeongguk.

And when the boxer does no more than lift an eyebrow, Taehyung’s cheeks flare furiously, “It was a Lotte advert, you halfwit, one of the most important projects I was supposed to do this year!”

His voice echoes around the apartment, around the large and spacious bedroom, in the same ways his moans, his pleas had last night; Jeongguk’s dizzy with the mere reminder, attempting to distract himself by soft sunlight peeking through Victorian-esque curtains, by the bowl of organic strawberries sitting at the nightstand, by the leftover smell of Valentino perfume he can almost, still taste between his teeth.

Taehyung is fuming, red to the tips of his ears; he’s hurriedly tugging on a dress shirt of simple, white cotton, with such haste it makes Jeongguk’s vision both burn and swim and before he knows it, he laughs. “You’re Kim Taehyung,” he mocks, still hoarse. “They have no reason to reject having your name on their ad. So what if you were an hour or two late, or missed it altogether? I’m sure taking two or three pretty pictures can be rescheduled.”

Leaving his shirt unbuttoned, Taehyung’s eyes are quick and sharp on him, perhaps even hurt. “Two or three pictures,” he repeats like a cracked record, matching the quality of his voice, “It takes me hours to take photographs, you fuck, little alone to do a whole fucking advert! But god, how dare I imagine someone of your profession to understand the work of aesthetics and elegance?”

Jeongguk groans loudly because fuck, here goes this again. “Kim, you walk for a living. You wear clothing for a living―and not even that, you don’t need this job, you’re loaded as it is!” He exclaims, hand covering his face in a show of exasperation, when he just avoids Taehyung’s eyes instead, even as he says, as he admits, “Your life is a fucking dream, okay? You’re a privileged, spoiled princess.”

It’s awfully, incomprehensibly silent.

And then―soft as bedsheets, shriveled and messy as their feelings for each other are―Jeongguk hears sniffles. His heart thunders, freezes all the same, before he painfully slowly, in a bout of fright, removes his hand and sees Taehyung again; sees his expression, his trembling lips and glistening, teary eyes and god, what the fuck had he done?

“Don’t―” Taehyung inhales, covers his mouth quickly and breathes. Jeongguk’s struck with shock, unable to move, not until Taehyung’s eyes refocus on him, lips snarky, “Don’t you fucking dare call me that after last night, after you used it when you held me like you did, you fucking asshole.”

Jeongguk’s breath is shortened, almost sickly so, but he is unable to respond either way. Taehyung is silent some more, doesn’t say much until he laughs through tears, rubbing his eyes clean with the crisp, embellished sleeves of his shirt. “A dream, is it? My name, is that how you think I got my job?” He asks, almost wishful for a no, desperate for it, but Jeongguk can’t deny him anything, not anymore.

Lifting his legs―those troubled, billions worth legs―on the bed, Taehyung then hums, breathing ragged. “I began doing this at barely fifteen, because I had no fucking identity outside the privileged, spoiled brat everyone perceived me to be―including you, it seems,” he says and gods, it stings. “And maybe, who knows, I am all of those things―but no one can fucking tell me I haven’t worked like hell, because I sure damn know I have.”

The silence stretches, elongates, tightens and burns; Jeongguk’s grasping at the sheets, rattled by the makeup runs on Taehyung’s sleeves, shaken by his vulnerability and desperate to fill the gaps between them. This, all of this, the arguments of personal offence and insults of thinly-veiled jealousy, it had never been as gut-wrenching as it is now.

For the first time in his life, Jeongguk feels as though he needs a shot of vodka, something to burn all the regret straight down his throat. “Taehyung, I’m...” Be begins, pauses, considers what the apologies on his lips are for and he can’t begin to name it all, “I’m… sorry.”

The blond sniffles again, acts nonchalant by shrugging his shoulders, although he’s evidently tearing at the seams. “I’m the idiot here, the fool, for thinking that―” Taehyung starts, then pauses for a little more, gaze turned away, “For ignoring something so important, just to come to your game instead, go drinking, putting myself second―”

Jeongguk can’t help but feel crossed, hurt, “Why did you come then, if it was so important?”

He hadn’t meant to ridicule, to deride and poke fun at Taehyung being so distressed, but Jeongguk really, actually is aching at the thought of the blond hating, regretting spending the night with him, just because it came with a, then unknown, cost; something which they could’ve avoided if―

“Because I wanted to see you, you dolt! I wanted to,” Taehyung’s voice raises above Jeongguk’s thoughts, a multitude, magnitude of pain coursing the air like swift arrows. Taehyung’s panting, hand on his head, fingers digging against the scalp and tangling in blond locks, “I―I… I wanted to invite you here, to live with me. Because… because I wanted to stop being afraid of what might happen if you do.”

Afraid―a word of shattering perception―and Jeongguk’s lightheaded, with regret, with confusion and yet, he’s happy. Taehyung had been scared, frightened of what might become of them if they got closer, in ways they haven’t still crossed, all because he knows something can happen.

Jeongguk breathes in slow patterns, focuses, reaches out to place a palm over his lover ’s arm. “Taehyung,” he calls softly, growing louder when he gains no affirmation, “ Taehyung, come here. Please.”

Taehyung’s shoulders fall from their stiff stance, he doesn’t look towards Jeongguk, but still inches towards his touch. He lets himself get pulled to bed again, although with an emotional distance, with his back still turned towards Jeongguk and eyes, telltale sign, out of sight.

They remain as this, mostly nude, barely touched by silk covers and sheets, remains of last night still fresh on their skin; Jeongguk’s shallowly, gently kissing across Taehyung’s nape, an act of undeniable intimacy, circling fingers around his waist, his hips, his tummy―just until the model’s breath stutters, body pressing close, seeking.

“Jeon,” he says, surname falling from his lips as a force of habit, or perhaps intentional avoidance; he continues moving until Jeongguk’s cock presses between his cheeks, across the tail of his already wrinkled designer shirt. “Can–...can you, now? Fuck me?”

Seemingly, all else goes unsaid. Jeongguk doesn’t know if he can, if he can even manage to harden under these circumstances, despite how much he wishes to―however, he won’t deny Taehyung anything, not now, nor ever. He barely nods his head, tucks one arm under the side Taehyung laid on the bed, the other under his knee, lifting, exposing him.

Mouth still at Taehyung’s nape, he whispers for permission, “Condom?”

And Taehyung’s whining, high and keen, subtly shaking his head no. With a tentative, trembling hand, he reaches behind himself to grab at Jeongguk’s cock―the touch is nothing short of electrifying, a sudden burst of pleasure, of devotion and fondness―directing the head towards his own, already spent, hole; whispering a soft request of, “Do it bare, I wanna feel you.”

Jeongguk’s world flips and turn, churns around enough to make him dizzy; feeling his hot breath across Taehyung’s neck, making the tan skin flush, holding him close, legs apart, pushing inside at a magnificently slow pace―it’s a lot, just feeling how Taehyung wraps around him, so easy and willing, wanting and yearning this raw touch of intimacy.

He can’t see his face – not his pretty, glistening eyes, nor his bitten, sore lips – but Jeongguk thinks it might be less of a punishment for him, more of a way for Taehyung to keep to himself, to separate, to disconnect. And now, while taking him slow, deep, so unlike many of their prior encounters, Jeongguk’s falling, and he’s falling deep.

Taehyung’s nipple is perked even before he takes it between his fingertips, his heart is beating thunders before his touch can even reach, his voice – as every other part of him – had long been desperate, longing before Jeongguk started to… not even fuck him, in primal ways such as before, no; he’s making love to him.

Making love, as though it hasn’t already been made, forged and hardened between them, enduring many strikes under curling fire and only coming out more solid, stronger. This thought sends all of Jeongguk’s rationale downstream, his voice breaking by the time he fucks Taehyung, wraps a hand around his cock and hears him plead for release.

They climax together, unsure of when or how; Jeongguk’s head pulsing with realizations, with the fulfilment coming together by unbelievable awareness, holding at Taehyung so weakly and yet definitively.

“I―I… I like you,” Jeongguk says, gasps, feels Taehyung twitch under his touch. He holds tighter, repeats himself, “I like you and I want you so, so bad.”

Taehyung doesn’t respond and remains so for a long while―and then, he slips out of bed, out of Jeongguk’s arms, cum dripping down his thighs and body bruised with marks he’d cried to recieve; he still doesn’t look at him, only buttoning his shirt as he leaves, wordless, to the bathroom.

₩₩₩

At the family mansion – the same at which the first word of Kim Myungdae’s last will had come up – a meeting of the ménage is held once more. Taehyung’s arrived at approximately three-thirty in the afternoon, thoughts riddled and tangled not only with Jeon Jeongguk, but with the stakes at hand―seeing as the sixty-day due time for the inheritance is in no less than eleven days.

In the saloon, he sits with Kim Hanna. His mother had greeted him with a fairly innocent smile, matching elegance to her fingertips wrapping around the handle of her cup of Taiwanese coffee; her welcome includes a slow, meek “afternoon, honey” and just then, Taehyung realizes no one but him has yet arrived.

“Oh, it seems I am here early,” he drawls, not as a mere observation, but more so as an inconvenience demanding explanation, seeing as this cannot be a mere coincidence―in this family, such things never are.

Hanna hums, placing down her beverage, a resonating clink throughout the subdued room. “Sit,” she tells him, going to cross her legs underneath a flared Yves Saint Laurent dress; a glassy heel comes in sight, tipping towards the seat across the table from hers.

Taehyung’s gaze merely narrows in suspicion, but he obliges. He seats himself down, catching glimpse of another coffee already served for him, in await of arrival. ‘So, it has been planned,’ the blond confirms to himself, letting the realization mellow down his approach to the subject.

“I’m a scheduled man, mother,” Taehyung speaks first, seeing as she is not about to. When an inquiring eyebrow is raised his way, the model proceeds to, perpetually slowly, deeply sigh, “I’d rather we not beat around the bush and come straight to what your point in inviting me here first is suggesting.”

“Shame, have you no time to spare for your poor mother?” Hanna equals his impatience by dragging, pausing, taking a considerable time in saying what she’d initially wanted all along, “I’m sure you know as to why you’re here, alone. You possess a singular thing none of your siblings do.”

At this, Taehyung feels something within him curl, twist. “A lover, mother, not a thing,” he corrects, either out of habit, or genuine distaste for Jeongguk being called anything but what he should be. He looks away, cross with himself, “You want to discuss him?”

“The inheritance is due soon, sweet darling, and it is up to me to determine whether your efforts are sincere in taking it,” Hanna reminds him, almost as though an underlying warning, swift and barely noticeable in her mannerism, “Especially concerning your supposed business association.”

Taehyung tongues at the side of his cheek, leant across to circle a fingertip around the rim of his porcelain cup, the surface warm against his skin―just as Jeongguk’s mouth, hands, have always been, even gentler. “Mother,” he begins, slow as his dancing nerves, “Jeongguk, he―he is my friend, first and foremost, before all else. I will do for him as I do for Jimin, or – so to say – everything.”

He tends to say things for dramatics, for amplification and conviction, though this, it feels different; however, he’s afraid to put a finger on it, a name on it, when he perceives no need to. “If you have any reason to doubt so, it is all on you,” Taehyung says, no need of effort to play tired, since he actually is―incredibly so, especially after all which happened between him and the person in question.

Hanna either doesn’t take notice, or (more likely) does see it, but abstains from making comment on it. “Friend, you say,” she eventually speaks, with an intentional air of suspicion about her, “See, I’ve recently went through a few of your recent covers; I particularly liked those for Seoul Magazine and what is it, Grazia―no, wait, was that last year? The swimsuit photographs, for promoting androgyny, yes?”

She knows, always remembers all to the smallest of details, so Taehyung doesn’t indulge by answering; thus, Hanna only speaks further, with no indication of her true intentions, “You’ve done many a great, amazing things in the course of your career, darling! I am but concerned, honestly, of his true purpose here; or his aim, so to say.”

Taehyung’s lips press to a thin line, treading carefully along his words, “Are you implying he’s using me?”

Both of Hanna’s eyebrows raise, a hand complacent upon her chest. “My, shouldn’t I? It’s happened to you more times than I’d be able to count,” she points out, truthfully enough―and still, the mere thought of Jeongguk being just another exploitive boyfriend, although he isn’t an actual lover, is making something within Taehyung irritably itch, a growing infatuation spreading all across his skin.

“This aside,” Hanna continues, waving a vague, dismissive hand gesture, “He’s but a small boxer, right? Barely got a name for himself before you meddled, as far as I know.”

Taehyung’s manicure digs, drag across the cushioning of the armrest. “I told you,” he repeats, more hisses than speaks, “We’ve first met for business association, mother, why wouldn’t we―”

“Ah, yes!” Hanna exclaims, the dazed look she directs towards the chandelier giving Taehyung the impression some liquor might’ve been slipped inside her coffee. With a thinly veiled giggle, she then asks, “Business association, friends; that is why you’ve only met him when needed, for us, for me to see?”

It’s bubbling, bursting as a bottle of champagne, a loud pop from temple of his head to another; Taehyung’s intake of breath is somewhat ragged, fallen from grace and after all of this―sophisticated dancing around the subject at hand, sparkling euphemisms and the passive arrogance of knowingness all of their family members own―after all, Taehyung’s spent.

He’s been worn so, so much lately, only to begin tearing at the seams, feeling as though he’s on the edge of being thrown to trash as an old piece of clothing, along his issues and aspirations; and to mind still comes Jeongguk, the same Taehyung had left at his bed, empty and with no answer.

‘I like you,’ he said, the confession still sending stutters through Taehyung’s chest. ‘I like you and want you so, so bad.’

Taehyung’s thinks he might’ve been his all along.

“So, you know,” he delivers to the room of nothing but silence. When Hanna finally, actually looks his way, Taehyung can’t help but break to a laugh, “You know.”

Her mouth twists to something unreadable, as she quickly scrambles to slightly, somewhat obscure footing and goes to sit next to her son. “Oh, my sweet, poor darling. Of course I know,” she’s cooing, in the same ways she read bedtime fairy tales upon his early age; then, grasping his hands and saying, “He is your destined one, I knew all along.”

A click of her heel hitting against the glass table, Taehyung’s breath quickly catches, “What?”

Kim Hanna clicks her tongue, shaking her head almost apologetically; she brings one palm to caress his cheek lovingly, the other still rubbing circles across his knuckles. “Dear, you are far too easy to rile when he is the subject of badmouthing,” she explains, still talking as to a child, “You’ve been sitting red-cheeked here for a bit now; your show at the dinner just last month had been much more collected! You must’ve fallen deeper in love, to get so easily upset.”

Spinning with reasoning, Taehyung cannot begin to explain himself, until a small, “destined one?” chokes past his lips. It’s incredulous, to a point, despite his mother smiling in complete normalcy, a bit fair-blushed in the face.

“You’ve been saying so since the beginning, Taehyung-ie, have you forgotten? Oh, the way you’ve been absolutely giddy the moment you told me this...” She sighs wishfully upon the reminder, a subtle shift of softness to her tone, “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, darling, it cannot be rivaled to anything but true love. A knight in shining armor, your Jeongguk is! A prince, ton chavalier!”

Though she’s shown a solid take on the French language while under the influence, her words are still, nonetheless jarring. Taehyung shakes from her grasp, heart beating up to his throat, “My knight―but mother, the inheritance, I assumed―”

“Oh, hush! You’ve assumed nothing,” she silences him with a sound tsk, the edge of her diamond ring – a gift from her late father – rubs across the Taehyung’s skin, somewhat rough to the edges. “It’s been yours since the beginning, dear, you’ve only failed to realize so. And see, I’ve told Seokjin―multiple times―that there’s no need for a contract on equal splitting of property, nor stock or all else. We may be cunning, but loyalty always lays in family.”

Taehyung remembers being taught so by Hanna herself, by his late grandparents and all immediate family, but has lack of ability to voice this; to say he knows, he recalls and has abided by the rule for long enough to make it an instinct. Just for this, he grips his mother’s weak hands a bit tighter.

“Distribution is the least bit of our worries, barely worth paying any mind,” she continues to say, words a fraction more slurred than they’ve been a minute ago. Might explain why her smile happens to be so radiant, but then again, she’s always remained joyful, hopeful; an abundance of subdued wealth and addictive, mellow energy.

Hanna then shakes her head, like a memory just resurfaced, “But, you know, a reception for your marriage should be in order! I’ve never had a proper one with your father, which is still such a shame―although, he hadn’t been really keen of it either… How about Jeongguk, do you think will he prefer a more tight-knit, close circle for the ceremony, hm?”

Taehyung’s vocabulary is bubbling because lords, he’s succeeded; he will be taking the inheritance, if his mother’s tipsy, high-spirited behavior has given him any clue, thanks to a singular trip to Busan, a fateful meeting at the bar (in case one can say destiny’s been in Jimin’s hands all along); a physical attraction grown to affection, to love, the short amount of time in which it happened giving Taehyung absolute whiplash in hindsight.

Jeon Jeongguk, the man who brought him to an accomplished goal, who followed him to Seoul, who whispered confessions against his skin, the man he will marry―his future husband, he’s the only one Taehyung can think of right now.

A combination, accumulation of all this sends Taehyung’s tears spiraling, dripping―he ends up sobbing against his drunken mother’s chest until Yubin and Seokjin arrive, both frazzled as they try their best at comfort; just until Taehyung laughs, presses a finger to his own chest and exclaims, “The best Kim has won, see?”

And it’s good, so, so good.

₩₩₩

For lack of better word, Jeongguk had been absolutely, astonishingly miserable. For about no less than forty-five minutes, he’d been prancing around the dining room, alternating between taking gulpfuls of water and doing impulsive exercise in order to lessen the worsening of his pounding headache.

At around six-thirty, looming afternoon and mere two hours away from Seoul sunset, his phone rings. Jeongguk almost slips on his own feet trying to grasp it as quickly as possible; while yanking the device off its charger, he spots the bold letters across the screen, reading ‘Joon Hyung’.

“Jeongguk!” Is the first thing he hears once the call is picked; Namjoon’s voice is breathless in ways it’d be after the countless half-marathons he partook in over the years, which gives Jeongguk’s solid pause. “You won’t―holy shit, you won’t believe what just―please, tell me you haven't seen today’s cover of Seoul Shinmun yet?”

Gnawing at his bottom lip, Jeongguk feels his anxiety increase tenfold, despite how apparently excited Namjoon sounds. “No―uh, not yet,” he answers, immediately grabbing his laptop nearby and placing it upon the kitchen island, hands trembling, “Bad news?”

“No, no, it’s―fuck, you were on the front pages, Jeongguk. With Taehyung,” he’s told by his coach, at which Jeongguk’s fingers momentarily pause in typing his password. “I think it’s from the last game, y’know, the first round at Nationals? They caught sight of him there, then followed us to the bar and uh―you’ll see, have you got it up yet? It’s on the top of Naver searches right now.”

Pounding heart, itchy skin, it’s all more taking place over his previously impending headache; Jeongguk doesn’t know what to think, what to make out of this sort of attention (which, by all means, sound absolutely ridiculous, as well as unfeasible to begin with), working quickly to find the daily newspaper at hand.

Namjoon’s breathing is even less laggered than his at that point, once Jeongguk’s eyes fall on the photographs, the front pages – first, strong, large letters reading ‘Supermodel Kim Taehyung Spotted at Boxing Tournament’ is the less jarring part, because (coupled with his pretty face on display, deliberately put there to catch attention of bystanders looking for newspapers to buy), there is also a clear sequence of them together, hand in hand, heading out the bar.

Jeongguk isn’t sure whether he has much to say, or does he have nothing to say at all; looking at himself, the way he’s holding at Taehyung and leaning to whisper at his ear, catch the his lips in a searing kiss, it’s all so loving, so honest, authentic to the point anyone would think they’re in love at first glance.

Caught by his own surprise, Jeongguk barely manages to utter, “Why… why now? It’s almost been a… a week since the game.”

“I don’t know, Gguk-ah, someone probably sold these pictures to Shinmun, maybe they held onto them for a while to see where they get a better offer to sell ‘em―and to be honest, doesn’t matter now. Do you realize what sort of publicity this is?” Namjoon’s quick in speaking as never before and truly, Jeongguk understands, he is just as flabbergasted.

His lack of response earns another earful from his coach, “Jeongguk, they looked into your game too, okay? You’re not just Kim Taehyung’s potential lover, you’re the next potential champion and that’s huge.”

At this, Jeongguk cannot help but laugh, chuckle filled with nothing but harshly exhaled air. “That’s an overstatement, hyung,” he mumbles, gaze still fixated upon the image on his screen. “They’re only setting me up high because it’s on the news.”

“Like hell they are! You won in the first round with a knockout, are you serious? Jeongguk, your hard work is finally being appreciated,” Namjoon keeps saying, more expressive in his joy than Jeongguk can imagine himself being. With a slow breath, his coach then adds, “Listen, Hoseok’s gonna give you a call later, I’m just warning you and all because―well, GQ Korea contacted him. And they want you on the cover for next month’s issue.”

Jeongguk’s knees are suddenly, unexplainably weak. “What the fuck, GQ magazine? I’m not a celebrity!”

“Apparently, you’re quite the looker,” Namjoon laughs, still sounding bewildered. He pauses, then, giving them both time to breathe and let these news settle, before adding, “I’m just so… so proud of you, Gguk. Not even all this publicity stuff, you’ve just… grown, so much, ever since we came to Seoul. I’m proud to be your hyung, your coach, I really am.”

Chest squeezing and softening all at once, Jeongguk can’t help but – ( for the first time ) – feel satisfied, sated himself. “Thank you,” he whispers, rubbing at his eyes once he realizes why his panic had been a handful worse mere moments ago, “Hyung, uh―do you have any idea where Taehyung might be, though? He’s not taking my calls.”

Now, there is a long, distinctive pause. “D’you two fight again?” He asks, sounding much more considerate, knowing as opposed to all the previous times he’s concluded this; Jeongguk hasn’t got the opportunity to question why, because Namjoon continues to say, “I’m not sure where he could be, I’ll ask Jimin about it. Gimme a second to facetime you, ‘kay?”

Jeongguk mumbles some sort of confirmation, then finishes the call. Sparely, he takes good, hard looks at the photographs on his screen again―this entire morning, no matter how astonishingly unbelievable it’d been (from both the cover at Seoul Shinum, to GQ’s offer), is still difficult, because Taehyung hadn’t come in sight for what feels like a long time, as though he’s just a fleeting memory.

And after acknowledging his feelings, Jeongguk’s begun to realize how often he misses the insufferable git; how, despite is grandiose tendencies and expression, Taehyung is still kind at heart, willing and fulfilling in his promises, ready to apologize and maybe even accept him back.

When the facetime request comes, it is not from Namjoon, but from Jimin – who, on the screen, is dressed within a classy bathrobe, waving a hello and sound ‘hey,’ with Namjoon’s voice in the background coupled along shifts and shuffles of clothing.

“Taehyung’s shooting his Vogue Korea issue today,” Jimin eventually tells him, clicking his tongue in apparent disapprovement, “I’ve noticed he’s been swarming himself in work lately, so I assumed he might’ve been avoiding something―or, well, someone. What happened?”

Memories are hazy, so Jeongguk only manages to shake his head, piece the picture together with eyebrows screwed tightly together. “I―I might’ve made a mistake,” he says slowly, though the last word feels bitter on his tongue. When Jimin looks nonetheless confused (but also expectant), Jeongguk sighs deeply, confesses, “We fought, I told him I like him. He’s been staying away since.”

Something drops, or Namjoon perhaps slips and falls upon his words; even Jimin, on his part, looks fairly surprised. And then, he places a disbelieving hand on his cheek and groans with pure, exhaustible exasperation, “Ah, I should’ve known, that coward―I knew this would happen,” he says not much to anyone, then turns over his shoulder, “See, Joon-ie, I told you! I had a fucking sense something was going on.”

There’s murmuring in the background and then Jimin looks Jeongguk’s way again, eyes almost grieving silent apologies. “We can take care of this, Gguk-ah,” he says, assuredly enough, “Just listen to me, okay? I need you to get ready, pack a some clothes for a day or two and be all set in about fifteen to twenty minutes. We’re picking up Taehyung-ie from work, then hitting the road straight to Daegu.”

“Daegu?” Jeongguk repeats, letting this settle in for a minute. And then, he ‘ah’s in realization, a bit amused with how he didn’t get it right away. “Yoongi-hyung’s late birthday celebration?” He questions, earning a grin from Jimin in return, “I mean, I get it and I’m all for it, but uh―it’s almost seven o’clock, where are we gonna go at this hour?”

Jimin’s smile only widens, as though he’d been waiting for the very same question. “The Kim’s have a family mansion we can crash at, don’t worry! Plus, financial stability is a given when they’re around,” he winks, a mischievous sort of glint which only makes Jeongguk wonder how often he’d cheated the rich, rightfully so. “C'mon, you frazzled bunny, suit up! If Seoul traffic is on my side, we might get there in ten.”

Something warm spreads through Jeongguk; some sort of excitement, for upcoming, improvised adventures and unspoken confessions―or, rather, confessions he wants, needs to say again. For even just a moment, Jeongguk feels like a conqueror, “I’m in.”

₩₩₩

“Gods, what a mighty pair of jeans,” Seokjin drawls with a drop of derision, palm splayed across the photographer’s chair as he peers across the photoshoot sequence, all the minimalistic poise and aesthetics; he then raises a sardonic eyebrow, “This is enough denim to scare off a gentleman, I may say.”

With a tsk around the straw of his pressed juice, Taehyung rolls his eyes for all the effect it has. “It’s Calvin Klein circa nineties, of course it’s denim,” he stresses the last word, though long having changed back to his linen trousers. With a scoff, he has to ask for the uptenth time, “Why are you here, anyways?”

“I’ve been told to,” Seokjin answers without bothering to glance his way, eyes still trained across the screen and gesturing to several takes he either really likes, or much dislikes―he doesn’t verbalize which. And, suddenly, he chuckles, “But really, how lucky you are that blondes aren’t liked by gentleman only. You’ve never attracted the type.”

Taehyung’s mouth, albeit the juice, goes mostly dry. “I’d have to agree,” he solemnly says, seeing as a person immediately comes to mind, face and name splattered along his own across all newspaper and online searches―Taehyung’s cheeks flame way before he’s startled by a familiar voice calling his name.

Lifting his gaze, he sees, the one and only, Jeon Jeongguk coming through the door with the security following right after him. “I’m telling you, I know him, he’s my―” The boxer is hurriedly speaking, before their eyes meet; a spark crosses there, insurmountable elation mixed with doubt. 

“Taehyung―! Please, just…” Jeongguk tries to say, held back by the man pulling at his arm in order to lead him out of the room, in which all heads already turned towards the commotion. He sighs deeply, cross between guilty and frustrated, looking towards the model, “Baby, can you please tell them who I am before I lose anymore dignity?”

The blond, however, is a bit starstruck. After avoiding Jeongguk for the most he’d managed, seeing him again, like this, calling him endearments with a lilt of lightheartedness, it’s… more than what Taehyung had accounted for, like it’s always been. Jeongguk always crossed his expectations, further than far and beyond.

Seokjin’s the one who clears his throat, waving a dismissive hand to the guards. “Release him,” he says, tone decidedly flat. “It’s the truth, he’s darling Taehyung’s sweet fiancé.” 

The impressive French accent is barely worth noting across the gasps and hushes of surprise falling over the room; in surprise, Jeongguk is released and immediately, he goes to Taehyung as quick as he can and hugs him. The blond gasps, hears his drink slosh inside the glass, feels his entire body overtaken by a sense of comfort, albeit with a lot of confusion.

Jeongguk presses his nose up the column of Taehyung’s neck, inhales his Tom Ford fragrance and exhales shakily, as though he’s afraid of letting go. “I missed you,” he’s the first to admit and Taehyung (abashedly enough) most certainly squeaks with surprise, flushing; Jeongguk grins to hear this, as evident when he pulls back to cup the model’s face with his palm, saying, “We need to talk. D’you get Jimin’s message?”

Startled, Taehyung doesn’t have much opportunity to snarkily, wittly question the absence of honorifics. Instead, one of his hands settles across Jeongguk’s forearm, where his arm is wrapped around the model’s lithe waistline. “I’m―excuse me,” he begins, voice undeniably cracking, “He couldn’t have―you―the birthday party at Daegu? Is he serious?”

Just forty minutes ago, Taehyung had honestly, truly thought it’d been a joking suggestion; as much as it appealed to run away for a while, leave it behind before everything settles next Sunday, he couldn’t have… couldn’t have left Jeongguk behind, but apparently, he’s coming along, he came over to take him there.

Taehyung’s giggling before he can stop himself, feeling a bit bleary from all the eyes concentrated in their direction for the show of dramatics and finally realized wish of affection. He bumps closer enough to knock his forehead against Jeongguk’s, fleetingly pecking his lips, “Let’s go, then. Wanna make it there before nine.”

And lords, whatever he’d said to make Jeongguk so radiant, he will treasure it. 

Whilst he directs Jeongguk to taking his belongings along, as well as where the producer of the magazine spread is, for him to―at least―properly apologize in order of causing a scene, Taehyung catches sight of his brother, emerging with the finest of ideas.

“Hyung,” he calls, quickly walking over and grabbing the hand of his astounded brother. Taehyung only hums an explanation, “You’re coming with, no arguments. Grab your things.”

“Preposterous,” exclaims Seokjin, scandalized and very interested. “You cannot just drag me along on this childish, improvised journey of yours―”

Taehyung presses a silencing finger to his own lips, resolutely cutting his words short. “We’re just gonna disappear off to the ends of the world for a bit. You’ve got nothing better to do, anyways,” he says, “Noona’s gonna be mad, but at least her anger is less tolerable in a few days time.”

To this, Seokjin cannot help but silently agree―and for whatever bizarre reason, he does come along; after saying goodbyes to their staff, along promises of treating them dinner next time by Taehyung’s courtesy, they exit the building by beginnings of sundown.

Seoul sky has fallen to shades, hues of pinks and oranges, twinges of blue and gradient scales of lilac; it cascades on Yoongi’s skin, who stands leaning a hip against Jimin’s four-by-four. Once he spots them, his cat-like eyes scan the number three and he hums around the cherry lollipop.

“Just on time, lovebirds,” he says, opening the door of the back seats with a quick pull; Jimin tells him something from the driver’s seat, but Yoongi promptly, wholeheartedly ignores him in favor a making a come-hither motion towards Seokjin, “You, pretty hyung, sit in the back with Seok and I.”

Taehyung, once more, doesn’t question when they’ve gotten familiar enough to use honorifics―barely catching sight of his brother’s blush, barely hearing the words of protest under his breath―for as Jeongguk is soon holding him by the waist, lifting him to the back of Jimin’s Jeep.

Landing in the soft cushions of several pillows and blankets, though his arm still knocks against someone’s coquettish suitcase, Taehyung huffs a laugh, “Here? You wanna do this here, as if we’re teenagers?”

Jeongguk grins widely, lifting himself up by strong arms and settling on the crimson bolster at the other side of the vehicle; the way he whistles suggesting it’s the signal for Jimin to hit the road. “Teenagers, huh?” He breathes, running fingers through messy black locks, smile no less than dazzling, “Rather, your avoidance was the childish bit. I heard your mother approved of the marriage and all.”

Gnawing at his bottom lip, Taehyung slowly nods. “Yes, she did,” he confirms, coming to realize how heavier it is to voice it, especially in the murky, smoke-scented evening air. He pauses for a moment, spreads his feet enough for his ankle to bump against Jeongguk’s knee, then says, “It’s on Sunday. Mother is wondering if you’d like a celebratory dinner.”

Something prickles, crawls at his skin―it’s unnerving, watching Jeongguk now, his focused eyes and unreadable lips, which, on another occasion, would tell more than they intended; then, his hand comes down, settling on Taehyung’s exposed leg, where the material bunched just above his calf.

“Celebratory,” he repeats, with a flare of Taehyung’s own dialect, cross between northen Gyeongsang and posh upper-Seoul; his palm skindles across the bare skin, the barely visible hairs Taehyung had shaven recently. “In the end, you don’t mind getting married to someone you don’t even like?”

It’s rhetorical, exaggerated with intent, yet Taehyung falls for it. “That’s not true,” he strongly says, but his voice subdues when Jeongguk’s eyes meet his once more; Taehyung’s tone falls short then, bordering on desperate, “Y–You… you know I like you, Jeongguk, you know.”

It’s a beat―twice or thrice; four then five―and suddenly, Jeongguk emanates stuttered breaths, appearing to be in quite the disbelief. “Oh, I―fuck, wow. Feels weird hearing you say it,” he murmurs, then sighs softly, gently, “I’m glad, though. I was afraid I might’ve scared you off just then, back when I confessed.”

“I was frazzled,” Taehyung explains, with a bout of itchy guilt. When he pauses, Jeongguk rubs across his skin in a clean, singular stroke―Taehyung inhales deeply, world tilting the smallest bit, emotion pouring out of him, “I was afraid as well, to fall in love. Betrayed one too many times, all as such… and, for that too, I’m sorry. I know I’m―... difficult, as Jimin says; hard to love at first, as mother says. I don’t know if I can change that, if I want to.”

By the time they exit the city, plain sight of the Sun coming in view, Jeongguk’s hair is bristling along the wind, let loose to set down his handsome features in a very flattering, movie-like manner. The front of the Jeep is bickering, highlighted by Jimin’s harmonious vocals following along the radio’s song.

The silence lingers for a bit, Jeongguk’s considering, waiting. “I don’t think you need to change it either. Not much, at least―a lot of it I fell for, eventually,” he chuckles, in a way it makes Taehyung fall himself, deep, deeper. “I hurt you too, y’know? And if you give me the chance, I will make up for it.”

Taehyung blinks slowly, lets his words sink to the pits of his core―then, before emerging in flutters he’d never experienced before, a sensation of new, young love coursing through him as summer waves. “Well,” he begins, hearing the words solicitously waver, “That’s one way to propose, I assume.”

Jeongguk resolutely beams to hear this, “So, is that a yes?”

“It’s always been a yes,” Taehyung responds, too easily. He breathes along the wind, “Cannot believe I will say this, but you’re right, for once―this does feel odd, almost unreal.”

Fingers soothe steadily across the bone of his ankle, peeking out his loafers; Jeongguk hums in agreement, doesn’t take the passive, humorous dig as anything but just that. “Imagine the wedding, then,” he blows raspberries at the thought, eyes squinting when the sun barely hits his lids. “Will your father be there? The ceremony, I mean; I didn’t get the opportunity to meet him at dinner.”

Bristling of leaves are as unsettling, unpredictable as Taehyung’s thoughts are. “I don’t know, perhaps he will. Father is overseas right now, but I’ll―I’ll tell him, what’s been going on,” is what he settles on, awkward as it may be; in order to avoid any further stiffness, he implores, “Is it alright, to ask about your family now? Because I can only imagine how pleased they’d be, to hear you ran off to Seoul in order to marry a supermodel. Have you told them yet?”

And in a way Taehyung hadn’t expected, Jeongguk goes silent; for a grave moment or so, then, “I don’t have any,” he says with the tone which knocks all air, momentarily, out of Taehyung’s lungs. Jeongguk, however―though with a gaze cascaded downwards, where he picks at the fur peeking out the blond’s shoes―still smiles, adds softly, “But if I did, I like to think they’d be proud of me.”

Many things, great sentiments and vehemences alike, rush through Taehyung all at once. “I’m―I’m sorry,” he says, the words he’d long so feared to speak falling so easily from his lips, once he’s around Jeongguk, around his lover. When there’s more silence, he’s urgent to say, “For… for asking like that, nonsensically. I can be a tad bit moronic.”

Jeongguk’s lips, at this, quirk some more. “Self-deprecation doesn’t suit you,” he points out, lightheartedly, lovingly; then, holding Taehyung’s ankle, he lifts it to his lips, placing a kiss there. It’s a persistent – yet gentle, slow – touch, shuddering in every sense imaginable; Taehyung’s fingers twidle with the blankets underneath, warmth encases his stomach.

“I have a family, Taehyung,” he’s told by a whisper, told by the unseen stars in Jeongguk’s eyes, the murmurs of his fingers―the expressions leaving his mouth are far clearer, however, a slow, “I have my friends, my hyungs,” followed by an enraptured, enchanted, “And I have you.”

Taehyung lunges, captures Jeongguk’s lips in a searing kiss; hands encase around his waist, slip under the fluid satin of his shirt, press, hold him in ways it is both world-shattering and motion-tilting. The Sun, lurking, peeking over the horizon―it’s all the colors, all the beauty, yet still barely comparable to the way Jeongguk looks at him, as though Taehyung’s holding not only the earth, but the universe as well.

The wind, it’s perfect, as wine would be at chambré; Jeongguk’s beautiful, holding him in his lap, whispering gentle confessions of, “I like you, I want you. Stay with me.”

And Taehyung, he’s just as lovesick. “I like you too. I will stay,” he whispers to Jeongguk’s lips, feels everything inside him beat and vibrate, “Promise.”

₩₩₩

Many things change, in the multitude many things don’t; silken sheets remain, as does the banter―it remains playful, yet the ceaseless arguments mostly vanish from peripheral, unlike pub celebrations and midnight kisses. And morning ones are just as exhilarating, especially now – in early hours of New York City, warm as a love song – when Jeongguk can hold Taehyung, feel absolutely every inch of skin, every curve and every dip.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, observing the flare of red splitting across his partner’s cheekbones; Taehyung’s voice hitches, hips slant forward until Jeongguk’s cock settles inside him just right, wholly. Jeongguk’s completely breathless, “You’re perfection incarnated.”

Taehyung breaks a laugh, eyes glazed, hazy, perhaps dizzy. “We’re long past the courtship process, don’t you think?” He hums, leaning down to kiss him slow, deep. Jeongguk’s head is mushy, fingers tightening around Taehyung’s waist and eliciting a gasp, “Y―You should’ve spewn me poetry before we got married.”

Jeongguk groans when Taehyung squeezes, wraps particularly tight around him, soft walls enveloping every inch of his cock, grinding against his lap as though he’s chasing air; then, with a small, choked, laugh, reminds his beloved, “Taehyung, we’ve never done things in order, have we? It’s always been―ah―backwards, with us.”

Arching his back, the blond further whimpers, staggering by the second; he rocks back, moans gutturally, wantonly. “Right,” he gasps, once Jeongguk tips him further up, just to taste his nipples instead, “F―Felt so, so right―fuck, fuck, right there! Gguk-ah, please…”

His voice, it ventures, it falls in slow hushes and hitches back up when Jeongguk grazes his teeth across the hardened bud―and Jeongguk, he notices Taehyung is cross, between riding him until next sunrise and rubbing his own dick across Jeongguk’s stomach, smearing the carved abdominals with smears of precum and lube; and so, Jeongguk reaches down, handles it in his palm, rubs, strokes.

Taehyung sobs, he cracks and cries, overstimulated and so, so eager. It doesn’t take more than three―perhaps four―more thrusts, before he’s coming, more and more, his lips leaving spit and drool across Jeongguk’s neck, where he bites to muffle his own noises within their hotel room.

“J―J– Jeongguk, darling, please―” He’s saying incomprehensibly and Jeongguk’s teeth grit, vision blurs once he digs at Taehyung’s hips a bit tighter, presses his cock a bit deeper, feeling everything inside him pulse. 

The orgasm crashes, burns to his skin, intense enough that Taehyung’s words almost fall to background noise―to the early morning traffic, to the soundtrack of the movie they’ve put on first thing by waking up, tangled in each other’s arms―and Taehyung’s still pleading, still crying, “T―Too much, hng, it’s too deep, hot―filling me―”

Jeongguk kisses him, wet and messy, biting and needy; he eases his cock out slowly, rubs the model’s thighs, already lattered with blemishes of hickies, bruised by fingertips from where Jeongguk held him apart just earlier, eating him out ‘till Taehyung swore him and all gods alike; now, after all, they lay and breathe.

It takes a sound moment or so, before Taehyung is speaking, “Y–You came inside,” a claim so painstakingly obvious, literal fact, face drawn so serious it makes Jeongguk bubble with laughter.

“Was that okay?” He doesn’t hesitate to ask, smoothing a palm down the lithe dip of Taehyung’s back; the model mumbles an agreement to his neck, purposefully acting coy to hide bashfulness. Jeongguk clicks his tongue, landing an open-handed smack to Taehyung’s―already, mostly sore―asscheek.

The mouth to his neck lols open and Taehyung moans, slow like a lullaby, harmonic as jazz; definitely, he grips at Jeongguk’s biceps, bites across his throat again, “F’cking meanie. Yes, I loved it, but it’s―it’s leaking already and if we stay like this for a minute more, I might require another round.”

“Insatiable,” Jeongguk breezly comments, though he’s no better in the same regard. He places a sloppy kiss to Taehyung’s hair, murmuring, “Want me to bathe you right away? We can get ready, then go down to have some breakfast.”

Taehyung agrees, so Jeongguk takes him to the bathroom; the coffered ceiling lightens, brightens upon the flip of a switch and once they’ve made up their minds―or rather, bantered―about using either the bath or jacuzzi (settling for the former), their heads are clear within the water.

As force of habit―(adding to the steadily, still growing pleasure of doing so)―Jeongguk lets Taehyung place feet in his lap, so he can massage out any knots and knuckles, all the way up to the knees. They lounge there for about half an hour or so, clean up and dry just as thoroughly; Jeongguk watches Taehyung pace around a bit, a limp to his walk, bathrobe slipping an inch beneath his shoulder blades―he’s blooming red, his.

“Jeongguk, have you seen my―mmh,” the model drawls off, once Jeongguk’s arms find way around his waist; then, he pitches a soft ‘ah’, digging his elbow at Jeongguk’s side for licking at his mark again. “Jeongguk,” his voice issues a warning, “Have you seen my shaving cream?”

“‘S in your your vanity case, probably,” Jeongguk mumbles, fitting his palm under the sleek robe, a plane spread across Taehyung’s stomach. The model sighs, slags into his touch, hammering Jeongguk’s heart to the nth degree; he places a slow kiss to the nape, where the blush is already cascading, “D’you have to shave your legs again? I can help. Promise not to cut this time.”

Taehyung elbows him again, laughing this time, “It’s for my face, darling. I’ve seem to catch a bit of an oncoming stubble lately, which I cannot afford to have with the Allure spread just around the corner.”

At this, Jeongguk’s eyebrow raises, turning Taehyung in his arms the slightest bit, just enough to see his pretty face. “You don’t care about that,” he proclaims with the sort of certainty, the sort of childlike manner his partner had always, not so, discreetly found endearing.

“No, I don’t,” Taehyung confirms with apparent satisfaction. He kisses Jeongguk, bruisingly, shiveringly bites over his bottom lip, pats across his chest to push him away, “Although, I prefer my skin to be smooth―and speaking of skin, would you mind putting away that appendage of yours in some boxers? I won’t be seeing it until after dinner, so chop-chop.”

Jeongguk’s eye-roll is all goodhearted (one might even say whipped ); playfully, he smacks Taehyung’s ass, hears another yelp and is soon shoved away with laughter, bells ringing between them. Ultimately, however, Jeongguk does back off, to tug on a pair of discarded Calvin Klein’s he’d recently received via sponsorship, settling on brushing his teeth while Taehyung blow-dries his blond locks.

It’s become habit, routine, really, to spend such mornings together―at their respective mirrors, respective marbled sinks, sometimes brushing close enough so their shoulders bump, maybe a lighthearted tease, love; affection is early fuel, rather than coffee, as are kisses, whispers and best wishes for the day ahead. It’s routine, it feels safe.

At some point―whilst Jeongguk is scouring through a beloved makeup kit of his―Taehyung lifts himself on the washstand, legs crossed, the elegance and poise Jeongguk’s always recognized, known him by. He’s allured, drawn, easily slipping over when Taehyung beckons him with but a wiggle of his finger.

“Obedient,” he hears a murmur, though Jeongguk is distracted by the cut, clean lines of Taehyung’s calves under the silken robe, once the blond parts his legs for him, only for him. Settling between those honeyed, glorious thighs, Jeongguk feels right at home, more so when Taehyung coyly smiles, comments, “Look at you – Seoul’s Top Heartthrob, according to Elle magazine – ready to trip over your feet, to get to me.”

“Y’know that’s just a silly nickname, Tae,” the boxer huffs a laugh, holds Taehyung by the waist, in turning having the model’s arms wrap about his shoulders, his neck, pulling him in. “I don’t need the title, nor have I ever wanted it―not when I have you, not when I’m only yours. Your heartthrob.”

After giggling at the cheeky air of the last comment, Taehyung’s voice is breathier; he pulls Jeongguk in, then whispers, “Kiss me, then, heartthrob.”

And he does―obedient and indulgent, he’d been called several times before and perhaps, it stands true, the sort of nature Jeongguk’s grown accustomed to having; because Taehyung, his darling Taehyung, he kisses two ways―either to make Jeongguk’s blood pump adrenaline, or to make him swoon, fall more, to the pits and depths he hadn’t realized even existed.

This kiss, however, is cross; the bites and nips are surgent, searching, but he’s there, Taehyung is here with Jeongguk, holding at him, sighing against his lips as though the kisses are water and he’s been a man searching for oasis in times of years.

Taehyung’s beautiful, scenting of aftershave and strawberries; his voice is alight, loving. “Happy anniversary, baby,” he says, as though it’s surreal―and gods, Jeongguk feels as it is, their first day on the second year of celebrating their vows, their marriage.

“Happy anniversary,” Jeongguk murmurs back, kisses him again; smiles through the entire thing, to the point he’d feel like floating, laugh airy and yet full, “I love you, so much. And I will continue to.”

Because, like everything else, things with Taehyung always felt as if they were meant to be, all along. Loving him―and being loved by him―are just another part of it, another part of destiny.