Chapter Text
It’s all purple this time.
The thought comes through a cottony haze, Taehyung’s bare skin buzzing like a live-wire, joints tight, his skin sticky with sweat, the sheets clinging to his back.
Purple.
All of it’s purple: the thick curtains, the comforter bunched at the bottom of the bed, the pillows pushed to the floor; it’s all a deep royal purple, like the azalea’s on the Hwangmae Mountain in the spring.
Probably a strange thing to fixate on—given the pain cinching his gut and the cramp in his fingers as he plunges them inside himself—but he can’t help it. It’s his favorite color.
It’s a distraction, anyhow. From reality, from the reason that he’s panickedly thrusting three fingers into himself, because there’s not going to be enough time before they arrive. He knows it. His body doesn’t seem to care, though, twists his insides hard enough that he whimpers, convincing him easily to continue, to chase his release. Convinces him with a heavy burn in his limbs that he needs this—he needs to come. He wants to. Desperately.
He’s not going to be able to.
All the purple feels suffocating, somehow. Makes him feel boxed in, packaged up beneath the obnoxiously gaudy bed canopy, like a wrapped present. Taehyung almost laughs at that—because it’s true, in a way. Him being wrapped. Being sold, just like a present. He doesn’t laugh, though. Instead, he gasps, rocking his hips down, grinding against his fingers as the fine gold chains around his neck clink together softly.
He’s close, but not close enough. Certainly not with the way the other concubines and their masters were eyeing him earlier. Their stares ravenous as he was paraded around the bar by his master, already stinking of pre-heat, already tacky and wet with a dribble of slick between his thighs.
Despite his master's exorbitant prices, it never takes long for him to find Taehyung a heat partner.
Which is why Taehyung needs to hurry.
Close. So, so close. He can feel it, the familiar feeling of his tendons wringing out, pulling at every part of him. He moves his wrist faster and it’s loud and wet, it’s gross and it echos embarrassingly but he’s so close. He’s not allowed to touch his cock, but he wants to. He wants—
He’s just about to reach the edge when the curtains at the end of the room are pulled open. A line of harsh light floods in, briefly drowning out the soft orange glow of the floor lamps as three people enter the room. The curtains fall shut behind them, plunging them back into privacy. Taehyung sees black, his eyes still adjusting as his fingers twitch near his now empty, dripping hole.
There’s a distinct crinkle of leather as he hears the masters leisurely settle themselves onto the couches on either side of the bed. Taehyung knows his own master is on the left. He’s always on the left. He knows it’s the best view. He’s fucked Taehyung enough over the years to know that’s the direction that Taehyung will angle his body. Knows all-too-well that, when the build is unbearable and Taehyung’s chasing his climax, he’ll plant his hands to lift his right hip up like he always does, turning and finding his master’s eyes swallowing him whole as he struggles to come.
Taehyung won’t come, of course. He never gets the chance. He knows he will leave here tonight in more pain than when he arrived, that he will have to white-knuckle through it until he is home. Only then will his master give him what he needs—after forcing the build-up to make Taehyung ever more primal and desperate, more willing to beg for cock—only then will he let his concubine be fucked until he comes with tears in his eyes and a thank you on his lips.
His master loves heat parties.
He certainly sounds excited at that moment, not even bothering to whisper, his voice relegated to a warbly burble of noise within Taehyung’s foggy, heat-addled brain. His master is probably settling the agreement with the other master, a man covered in the bracing stench of cigarettes and dried blood. It clings to his clothes and his skin, is probably stuck under his fingernails and the mental picture makes Taehyung want to gag almost as much as the stench.
There’s another smell. It’s barely there, too slight to put a name to it other than beta. Still, it’s enough to spark another tug in Taehyung's stomach, a strong, painful jerk that shoots straight down to his groin. It pulls him up to wobbly hands and knees as he can no longer fight the urge to fully present himself, the wolf inside him howling for relief.
That’s not how this works, though. Heat parties aren’t for relief: they’re a show. They’re not about Taehyung, they’re about the paying customers with a kink for watching a needy omega beg to get fucked.
Taehyung will be better off the last two days of his heat, left alone in his room to deal with the toe-curling needs himself.
His master is kind in this regard. (Kinder than most.) For Taehyung’s fifth chain day, his master gifted him with a vibrator that he is only allowed to use during heats, and only after the heat party. Taehyung has been endlessly grateful for the gift, knowing it was only given because he’s his master’s favorite.
The vibrator is even purple. A brighter purple than the mast of fabric hanging above him, much brighter than the sheets Taehyung has tightly gripped in his fists as he huffs, as quietly as possible, gritting his teeth as another wave of heat curls in his lower stomach. He can’t touch himself anymore. It’s only allowed while he’s alone.
He’s certainly not alone now.
The longer the beta is in the room, the better Taehyung can smell him. Betas smell different. Not as oppressive as an alpha’s scent, not as luring as an omega’s. A beta’s scent is calming, mostly. Lulling, sometimes. It’s not often that Taehyung gets a beta as his heat partner. This beta’s clearly still dressed, his full scent heavily muted, so Taehyung needs to suck in a breath to really taste it. He wants it. Or, his body does. His wolf.
God, he wants it so bad.
Taehyung’s pupils blow wide with the sound of clothes hitting the floor.
The beta’s full scent hits like a narcotic and a stimulant all at once. The onslaught has Taehyung’s arms buckling, face dropping to the mattress and he can’t help the whine that spills from his mouth as he feels the bed dip behind him.
Fuck, he thinks. Fuck, fuck, his fingers tightening as he inhales. He’s never smelled a beta this sweet, a heady wash of cream and honey. It makes his mouth water, has his inner thighs wet with fresh slick as he listens to the beta crawling across the sheets towards him.
Then, there’s hands on him. Large fingers curling around his hip bones, thumbs pressing into the small of his back, and Taehyung is ready—he’s ready to be mounted, to be taken, to be—
“Omega. Turn over.”
A command, but it’s lenient. It’s said in a soft, gravelly voice and is accompanied by the gentle prodding of guiding hands and suddenly Taehyung is on his back and there’s a man, all parts pale, from his skin to his hair. He looks like sugar, smells like it, too, his candied scent dripping onto Taehyung and clinging to him like syrup.
The beta settles between Taehyung’s legs and he’s handsome. Pretty, even. But that’s not what sets Taehyung’s wolf howling. More than a pretty face or a heroine-like scent, it’s something in his eyes: sharply bowed with dark irises, lined with even darker lashes. They stand out against the porcelain skin, a stark contrast below pale-yellow fringe. These eyes appraise Taehyung. Not like usual. Not like Taehyung is a prize. Not like he’s an object—a hole.
These eyes see him.
Heats are supposed to be the most vulnerable time in an omega’s life, when they are at the mercy of whoever takes them. Taehyung has had enough practice fucking who he’s told to fuck to not feel that vulnerability anymore. He is well-versed in closing everything away and taking himself somewhere beautiful while someone else uses his body. But right here, under this beta, trapped between his scent and his stare, Taehyung feels his walls stripped away as easily as his clothes, his soul laid bare to peer upon.
Taehyung always whimpers for the sake of the show, for the sake of the masters who like to see it. But right now, as the beta’s gaze continues to make him feel more naked than he ever has, as the beta drops his head to press his nose into Taehyung’s scent gland and murmurs, “I’ve got you,” the heat drunk omega can’t help the pathetic and very genuine whimper that crawls up his throat and past his lips for all to hear.
There are certain requirements to this arrangement, certain things the heat partner and Taehyung are expected to do, specific ways in which they’re supposed to perform. Because that’s what this was, at its most basic level—a performance. A performance that people dropped big cash for, for the rare sight and sounds of a real, live omega in heat.
At least, it’s supposed to be a performance. Usually, it is. Usually, Taehyung’s heat partners are happy to fuck him every which way, twist him, mold him, bend him like a prop, even though it always hits Taehyung too deep, neglects his prostate, leaving him sore and unsatisfied when his partner is finally done with him.
That’s not what the beta is doing, however.
He’s pressing one long, thick finger into Taehyung, the glide easy, the fill too little. It’s not something he’s supposed to be doing. It’s not even something he needs to do. Omegas don’t need prep, especially omegas who have already been in heat for thirty minutes, who are sitting in a messy pool of their own slick, who are begging, “Please. Please.”
If he doesn’t hear it in Taehyung’s voice, then the beta must at least be smelling Taehyung’s desperation. In any case, he ignores it, pushing another finger into Taehyung with his lip stuck between his teeth and Taehyung is struck with the urge to kiss him, to be kissed by him.
The beta’s nostrils flare and suddenly they’re looking at each other and then the beta is looking at Taehyung’s mouth, too. He’s licking his own lips, like he heard it, like he could hear Taehyung’s wish.
He grants it in one swift motion.
They’re kissing. They’re not supposed to be, but they’re kissing and the beta’s hand is still between Taehyung’s legs and he’s pumping his fingers in and out, in and out. The beta’s scent is everywhere, Taehyung is drowning in it, drinks in the taste of it as he licks into the beta’s mouth. It’s warm and wet and Taehyung hasn’t kissed or been kissed like this in so long and the beta is so good. He’s soothing, honeyed, careful and he's sucking on Taehyung’s tongue as he thrusts his fingers deeper and suddenly Taehyung is coming, gasping loud and unhindered into the beta’s mouth and, fuck, he’s coming.
There’s no time to recover. Taehyung is still in the aftershock of his orgasm when the beta is detaching their mouths and dropping down to lick one long stripe through the mess on Taehyung’s stomach. Then, he’s back and his mouth is on Taehyung’s and Taehyung tastes himself at the same time that he tastes the beta and he thinks that he might actually go insane when he feels the head of the beta’s cock pushing past his rim.
It’s slow, gentle, the beta’s hips rolling in small thrusts between Taehyung’s thighs. And it’s wrong, it’s all wrong because Taehyung is still hard, still wet, but he actually feels slightly satiated and that doesn’t happen. It’s not supposed to. He’s supposed to look good, not feel good, but he does—he feels so good. Too good to think too deeply on the repercussions of it when the beta curls over him and begins to fuck him deeper.
“Beta.” He shouldn’t be talking. He should be senselessly moaning, should be thrashing and sobbing. He knows that. He knows . But instead he’s pressing his fingers into the beta’s back, wrapping his legs around the beta’s waist, and wishing he had a name to call when he says again, “Beta.”
The pleas are pathetic, half-swallowed by ragged breaths as panic swells in Taehyung’s chest. A small voice screams at Taehyung to stop this, to seize control before it’s too late, before he’s punished, before he’s ripped away, before the beta is—beta—
With a whine, the beta is pressing his lips to Taehyung’s scent gland—right over the master’s mark—and Taehyung’s nails sink into the beta’s back as he hears it again, feels it pour into his skull, heavy and sweet like caramel.
I’ve got you.
Taehyung moans and before he knows what he’s doing he finds his mouth attached to the beta’s neck, his fists full of the beta’s hair, fingers tugging at strands as he flattens his tongue to the exposed gland. He presses down, sucking the skin into his mouth and his lashes flutter as he groans. It’s like he’s floating, like his head is filled with honeyed clouds, and the beta’s letting out these beautiful, small, feverish gasps each time Taehyung digs his tongue into the spot.
There’s a fleeting image then, one of Taehyung and the beta somewhere far, far away.
It’s gone before Taehyung can really see it, lost in the dazed heat of sweet cream that’s threading and then fraying as it works its way through his senses and, shit, he’s lost. Completely lost—in it, in this, in the fingers dipping into his skin, in the warm breath hitting his shoulder, in the soft baritone voice that continues to sound in his head.
I’ve got you. I’ve got you.
The beta’s thrusts are deep and they lack sync, stuttered rolls of his hips as Taehyung continues to run his tongue along the skin of the beta’s neck. It’s completely uncoordinated and it’s wet and it’s messy, all of it, but it feels almost innate, the way their bodies meet. Every movement, every shift processes like instinct, burns intrinsically in Taehyung’s gut, and when the beta arches back it only takes one look, a single connection of the eyes and Taehyung understands. Even with the total absence of clear thought, Taehyung understands that the beta is close.
Everything morphs then and it’s just Taehyung and the beta and there’s nothing else. The purple shadows, the heavy foreign breaths from either side of the bed, the bruised casts of light, it’s all gone and it’s just them: omega and beta.
Beta.
Their eyes are locked and the beta is fucking Taehyung with earnest, with precision, and Taehyung has never wanted to be filled this badly. He’s never been this present, never aware enough to smell how his partner’s scent could spike like this. It’s concentrated and Taehyung feels drunk on it, each gasp of air running down his throat like a shot, lighting him up.
It barely registers that he was already lifting his hip when the beta’s hot palm presses into his lower back, helping his right side up, positioning it perfectly so that each rolling thrust hits exactly where he needs it.
He struggles to keep his eyes level with the beta’s as he's turning, but he wants it. He wants the heat of the beta’s breath on his mouth, wants to taste him as much as possible, as long as possible. Wants it until he’s too trashed to even keep his eyes open, wants it enough to push his building orgasm down long enough to find the warmth of the beta’s mouth again.
The beta kisses back greedily, his fingertips digging into the swell of Taehyung’s ass as he angles Taehyung’s hip even further, pulls it up so that they’re even closer. It isn’t long before Taehyung’s too overwhelmed and he's dropping to his side, eyes squeezed shut as the beta pushes his right knee to his chest, hitting his sweet spot over and over. Every sound that’s pushed out of Taehyung is needy and he sounds wrecked, feels it when his insides begin to twist and clench.
His eyes shoot open as his body goes rigid and he’s coming for the second time just as he finds his master’s eyes, the foreign look on his master’s face cutting through the blurry pleasure of being filled in small but final snips.
There is no afterglow. Even the returning tug of Taehyung’s briefly satiated heat is squashed beneath the sudden flood of fear that drowns his chest and threatens to spill from his eyes. The beta must be able to smell it on him. Still hovering over him, he touches Taehyung’s face delicately with a crooked finger and says in a gentle voice, “Hey, did I hurt y—”
“Get off him! Get off him, now.”
The beta’s master’s voice is just as grimy as the rest of him, a gross grunt of words that has the beta obediently climbing off Taehyung and to the floor. He leaves the bed with a hidden touch to Taehyung’s pulse point and Taehyung breathes in one last, long inhale of honey, drinks one last look of the sugared skin and the dark eyes.
“That wasn’t what I was expecting,” the other master admits as the beta quickly redresses. The beta is broad but he’s small, much smaller than he felt just minutes earlier. The beta’s master continues, “Your pretty omega was well worth the money, though. Well worth it.” He’s leering at Taehyung, tongue darting out to lick his lips before returning his gaze to Taehyung’s master. “Until next time, Woo.”
The pair leave without ceremony, the beta daring only a single look at Taehyung before allowing himself to be funneled out the door.
I’m sorry.
Taehyung and his master are left alone, left to a quiet room, and Taehyung is still stuck in the aftershocks, shivering with pumping adrenaline as he lays immobile on the bed. He’s staring at his master but his master isn’t looking back as he retrieves his coat. The only sound is the shuffle of fabric as the man slowly pushes his arms through his sleeves. He’s humming to himself, not a tune, just a noise. Taehyung doesn’t know what to think of it.
“Get dressed omega, time to leave.”
He obeys. Taehyung can’t not obey. Can’t disobey this man—not the entire reason that he, an omega, is warm and fed and safe. He obeys quickly because he doesn’t recognize the look on his master’s face and that’s terrifying. The glazed eyes and stiff movements are all wrong, especially after a heat party. Usually his master is all giggles and pitched coos. Usually he’s got his hand between Taehyung’s legs and he’s commenting on the excess of slick with a smug grin, but right now it’s not just slick, it’s cum running down Taehyung’s thighs.
And Taehyung can’t read his master at all.
He clenches his fingers between his knees the entire car ride home, the silence that thickens the air doing nothing to quell his anxiety. He was going to have to white knuckle it home anyway, but now he’s wishing it was for the reasons he originally thought, the reasons it normally happened, instead of this looming unknown fear that chains him to his seat and glues his mouth shut.
His master doesn’t speak until they are shut inside his bedroom. The room itself is an affront to the concept of humility. It’s larger than most middle-class apartments, with reds and golds that make it look like a royal historian threw up over everything, from the rugs, to the light fixtures, to the curtains, to the ornate bed posts and the patterned silk sheets with an oversized ensuite and wardrobe to match.
“Go clean yourself out, don’t take too long.”
“Yes, master.”
This is new. Taehyung has never had to clean himself after a heat party before. His chosen partner doesn’t normally come inside of him; they’re not allowed to come inside of him. They’re supposed to pull out. They dirty the sheets and Taehyung doesn’t cum at all—that’s the routine. Every month, the same thing. And what usually follows is Taehyung being so saturated with slick by the time his master gets him home it’s like no one else was ever inside him at all. That’s how it’s supposed to go.
Right now, Taehyung can still smell the beta.
He peels off his clothes and sucks in a shaky breath. The sticky sweet scent is still clinging to his skin, is still strong enough to make him feel woozy, and he’s never been more thankful that his human master with his dull senses won’t be able to smell it. He shivers as the lace robe his master dressed him in for the heat party falls to his feet in a translucent pile of black filigree. A beautiful, expensive piece of art that is now soiled in slick and dumped on the cold bathroom floor. Taehyung can’t help but relate.
His heat chooses that moment to wash over him again. His stomach, already twisted painfully with worry, becomes unbearable as it churns with the need to be filled again. Taehyung bites his bottom lip to stop from crying out. He can still taste the faint flavour of the beta on his lips, closing his eyes and letting himself fall back into the very recent memory of kisses and looks and it felt like the beta’s cock was least in the ways he plunged inside Taehyung’s body.
A tidal wave of heat floods from the top of Taehyung’s head right down to his toes, haziness taking hold once again as a fresh lot of slick spills from him. He wishes he was alone. Wishes that he could take care of the knot of wanting pain himself. That’s not possible, though. Not right now.
He manages to clean himself up and wash his hands before stumbling back into the bedroom where his master waits naked on the bed. “Omega? Are you done?”
The man himself isn’t much to look at. Taehyung doesn’t particularly think much of himself, but, when his master stands next to him in the mirror, he can’t help but see the difference. He thinks that’s why his master likes to use his heats this way, an ego boost when in reality any cock would do. His master even lights scented candles in an attempt to appeal to Taehyung’s more primitive senses. Taehyung regrets telling him he likes sweet things, since the bubblegum flavoured aroma now assaults his nose, a gross misunderstanding and a cheap, pale reflection of what it means to scent. Nonetheless, his gut twists, his heat beckons.
His master wants.
“Master… please—I need—”
“Come here, come sit on me.”
He does as he’s told, straddling his master and beginning to rock his hips back and forth, rubbing the older man's half chub against his leaking hole. “You were very bad tonight, omega,” his master growls in a tone that sets Taehyung at ease. It’s not angry, merely condescending. “I should punish you for it. Luckily for you, I quite enjoyed the change of program. And that beta was clearly barely housebroken, I don’t blame you for his behaviour.”
Taehyung is still rubbing against his master's now fully hard cock, barely clinging to the last vestiges of his sanity enough to understand what’s being said to him. “Yes—yes, thank you master.” He hisses when the head of his master’s cock catches on his rim. “It won’t… won’t happen again.”
“Silly omega, so drunk on my cock you don’t have a single thought in that beautiful head of yours, do you?” His master reaches down and lines himself up, thrusting up into Taehyung without warning. “I’m saying I liked it,” he continues as Taehyung starts riding him. “If that gutter-rat, Kim, is willing to keep paying—” he grunts, shifting to plant his feet, and his thrusts turn sharp. Taehyung whines just like he’s supposed to. “I’d like to keep seeing you with that dumb, trashy beta. Would you like that? Hm?”
Taehyung is barely listening. His mind only half in the conversation, the rest clinging to the memory of the beta’s scent as he slips on and off his master’s unimpressive cock. “Yes, master. Thank you, master.” He says it automatically, a phrase so practised that it slips from his mouth without needing prompt or thought, but this time he might actually mean it.
“Good.” Taehyung’s master stills, leaning back with an expectant smile. “Now earn your place.”
This is Taehyung’s cue, he knows it. The little prick inside him barely touches his prostate, the smell beneath him is bland, it’s human , and even in his heat neither does anything much for him, but Taehyung knows he’s on audition now. He needs to come. Needs his master to come.
He needs to see the beta again.
Taehyung uses everything he has. Uses his heat, utilizes the heightened senses and need for release. He throws his head back and moans wantonly, running his hands over peaked nipples and over smooth skin, babbling about his master’s cock, putting on a full display.
He’s thinking of the beta, though, scrapes his tongue and teeth across his lips until the skin breaks just to chase the taste of honey, clenching his hole to pretend it’s a different cock inside him, squeezing his eyes shut to try and picture other eyes. Eyes so different from the ones surely gazing at him now, narrowing in on him like a predator, like he’s a piece of meat.
His legs burn with the effort of bouncing, his throat sore from the moans he forces from his mouth and he tries to return to the image of the sugary beta. His mind dances through large fingers and sweet breaths and soft skin and stops on catlike eyes and the few minutes of feeling like a person. Taehyung gasps, holding onto that image, clinging to it like a lifeline as his climax is thrust upon him with no warning. “Please, master. Please, can I—”
“Yes. Come, omega.”
His master’s falsetto voice almost pulls him out of it, but his heat fogged brain supplies exactly what he needs in the moment: the memory of a much deeper, rolling voice he’s only heard speak twice, but floats warmly in his head over and over again.
I’ve got you.
Taehyung paints his master’s chest at the same time that he’s filled and he sobs, working through the hangover of his orgasm with small, circular movements of his hips. He’s never had to work so hard to get off for his master before and every part of him aches from it, but his master has a slack smile on his face so Taehyung tries to relax, let’s his shoulders slump in some sort of half-relief.
He climbs off and wobbles on overused legs to the bathroom, haphazardly cleaning himself before returning to the room with a warm washcloth. He wipes his master, who is already falling asleep.
“Omega,” his master slurs. He’s mumbling through the still-there smile, his chest, neck, and cheeks flushed a spotty pink. “You have proved to me that your lapse in protocol tonight won’t affect your service to me, so you won’t face any punishment. If I allow it to happen again, I expect the same dedication. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master.”
“Good.” The master rolls to his side and Taehyung holds in a breath of relief as he pulls the comforter up to tuck the man in. “Go now. I’m tired.”
Taehyung scurries away, sucking his lip into his mouth as he exits the room. He’s searching for cream, for honey, for a last taste as he makes his way into the hall, but he only tastes his own blood. He’s never felt like this before, never wanted another’s scent like this.
His distraction has him full-bodied running into Jimin as he turns a corner. The alpha steps back quickly, his smile warm and his distance careful. “In a hurry, huh?” His eyes stay level with Taehyung’s, his tone casual. “Have you eaten?”
Taehyung smiles back, his total nakedness and heat-heavy scent not bothersome to either of them. Whether that's a testament to Jimin’s training or his character, Taehyung isn’t sure. Though, since Jimin only wears two chains around his neck, Taehyung leans towards the latter, and his fondness of the alpha grows because of it.
“I had a few bites of horderves at the party. Two days left of heat, but I’m still—” he licks at his lip again and the beta's scent is entirely gone now. “Still in the middle of the first wave, you know? So, I’ll just—eat later. Whatever.”
Jimin nods, stepping to the side. “I won’t keep you, then. I’ll just leave something at your door tomorrow morning. Get some rest.”
Taehyung’s bedroom looks almost surreal. Feels surreal, after everything. Still, it’s safe. It’s his: the neutral shaded walls, the cream rug, the warm lilac covers of his bed. The familiar sight instantly releases the last bit of tension Taehyung’s been holding and he takes the moment of reprieve to stretch, to bask in the vanilla scented candle he left burning on the windowsill.
He sinks down on his bed with a sigh, reaching for the bottle of water on his nightstand. He downs the entire thing in one go. He makes sure the purple vibrator is charging—for when he will inevitably wake in a couple hours time, sweating, in pain, and needing to be filled—before crawling under the covers.
Then, splayed out on his back, he stares. Loses himself a little, seeing but not seeing as he watches the candle’s light flicker across the ceiling and adjusts to the odd shift in his chest.
When he drifts off into a restless sleep, it’s with his hand on his master’s mark. And, for once, his fingers run along the raised scar not thinking of the pain of when it was burned into him. Instead, he thinks of how it felt when warm lips pressed against it.
I’ve got you.