Vmin {Oneshot}

In the Dark

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Jimin laces up a pair of leather pants. Taehyung can't wait to take them off him.

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The elevator dings, its polished doors sliding open to reveal plush, ivory carpeting.

Taehyung reaches back briefly, his fingertips brushing along the back of Jimin's hand. Idly, he moves to lace their fingers together, before retracting his hand entirely as a stranger steps into the elevator. The doors slide shut once again, the lift jolting back to life as it continues its upward climb. 

They stand closely, masks pulled up to the bridge of their noses. They're only half-changed; Jimin is still in his leather trousers from the show, but his satin shirt has been swapped out for an oversized, grey sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder.

With makeup still smudged along tired eyes and tousled hair kissed with static, they wait for the elevator doors to open once more.

Another ding echoes through the speakers, and Taehyung steps out first. He sidles past the stranger, and with Jimin following close behind, they make their way to the latter's hotel room.

Taehyung fidgets restlessly, his hand lightly resting over Jimin's waist as the latter searches through his bag haphazardly. It takes a moment before Jimin finds his keycard, pushing it into the card slot. The lock opens with a short, musical note, and with one hand over the handle, Jimin pushes the door open.

Immediately, they're greeted by the cold touch of the air conditioner and the familiar scent of hotel rooms—of fresh linen, soft carpeting, plywood and aged leather trimmings. 

Jimin is also acutely aware of another scent, a muted one, emanating from Taehyung subtly. Sweat and cologne mask the undercurrents of what Jimin can only describe as need, if need had a scent. Pheromones, he believes they're calledㅡlaced with something bittersweet and desperate.

It's the way Taehyung smells after a workout, or after dance practice. It's the way he smells after sex, a little hot and sticky and sweet. Jimin is reminded of why they'd skipped dinner and hurried back to the hotel, exchanging heated glances in the back of their van.

It happens quickly: Jimin drops his bag to the floor, and he kicks off a single, white sneaker. The door falls shut behind them and Jimin barely gets the other shoe off his foot, before Taehyung is pulling him in by the waist. Jimin stumbles, one hand catching the younger's shoulder and the other pressing flat against the wall. 

And, oh.

His stomach does that thing. It swoops, the floor seemingly pulling away from beneath his feet. His belly fills with liquid heat, honeyed and needy. 

It's easy to feel this way when Taehyung is looking at him like that—all dark, hungry eyes and a pretty mouth. Jimin swallows.

He'd known this was coming; he could feel it in the weight of Taehyung's stare, all evening. He could feel it in the lingering glances and the fleeting touches, and the quick brush of lips over his inked skin between performances. 

Jimin knows Taehyung has been eyeing him the entire night, and is well aware of the younger's quiet fixation with Jimin's satin shirt and leather trousers. On more than one occasion, he'd caught Taehyung staring at the ribbons along the front of his pants, where his trousers lace shut all the way up to the waistband. 

On and off the stage, Jimin had felt the fleeting touch of a hand over the back of his thigh, a brief squeeze over his ass, a palm along his waist—yes, Jimin had been well aware.