Chapter Text
They’re an hour into the outdoor wine tasting when they lose Hoseok by the DJ’s stage and Yoongi and Jungkook insist on staying in the line for a Chardonnay worth more than a month of rent. “They only have one bottle in stock,” Yoong had insisted when Jimin whined about the fifty people snaked around the perimeter of the tent. “No way in fuck am I missing this.”
Admitting defeat, Jimin turns to Namjoon and whines, “Let’s go, hyung, please,” tugging at Namjoon’s sleeve and giving him those wide puppy eyes that have him succumb everytime.
So Namjoon succumbs. And now he’s fanning himself with a pamphlet while Jimin sips on a plum wine and chats with the staff about its processing. Something Namjoon would normally pay attention to, if not for the stickiness on his skin and between his legs. He adjusts his sunglasses and clears his throat.
The event is set in a park in the middle of July, sun beating down on them whenever they shuffle out from underneath the refuge of the tents. Music—mostly generic pop or instrumental—carries out across the field packed with guests, atmosphere thick with conversation and varying levels of intoxication. In all honesty, Namjoon should’ve taken more time to get ready back at his and Jimin’s apartment before they hopped on the train; he’d rushed home from work only to be intercepted by Jimin in their bedroom.
“I have to shower or we’re gonna be late,” Namjoon tried, kicking off his slacks while navigating around Jimin’s smaller form—but Jimin wasn’t going down easy, and he’d followed Namjoon to the mattress.
He was in the middle of depositing his bottoms on the bed when Jimin pressed a palm to his back and shoved Namjoon over, depositing him onto the bed, too. “I wanna finger you first,” Jimin said, patting underneath their bed for the lube. “Wine can wait.”
Namjoon is more than strong enough to fight Jimin off and insist on not being late. He’s done it once or twice, much to Jimin’s dismay. He was horny, though, and an eager Jimin was impossible to reorient when Namjoon was horny. Like some kind of a police dog, he was convinced that Jimin could smell it on him, arousal permeating the air as he panted and stuttered out excuses.
Long story made short, Namjoon didn’t get to shower. And his ass is still uncomfortably sticky with lube, a fact he can ignore if he stands completely still and focuses on Jimin’s full lips shaping words—that he could ignore if Jimin didn’t take any opportunity to palm at his ass.
Someone will talk to Namjoon for five seconds too long (or they’ll maintain eye contact as Namjoon speaks to them) and Jimin will materialize right by his side and grab a tiny handful. Maybe give the occasional bedroom eyes at Namjoon, neck craning back to grin at him, and use his cutesy voice to ask, “Can we go to that tent next, hyung?” while rubbing little circles into Namjoon’s hip, waist, with his thumb.
A tent near a thatch of trees is offering a limited edition green apple soju when Namjoon figures he’s drunk off of the heat, the alcohol, or both. Jimin’s insistent groping has subdued to pulsing squeezes between each asscheek, on his hip, dipping close to where Namjoon’s sporting a half-chub in his shorts.
“I bet,” Jimin says, “no one will see us if we stand behind that tree.” He points, silver rings catching sunlight.
Namjoon doesn’t bother to look; dark ideas lead to dark places. He maintains his gaze out at the couple in front of them. “That’s—cool,” he offers. The line shuffles forward. One step closer to shade.
“It is,” Jimin continues. He stands and says nothing else for a few seconds, free hand hanging loosely from the pocket of his jeans. His white tee is billowy, tucked into his waistband. Sunlight plays beautifully in the golden of his hair. “I think—”
“No thinking,” Namjoon says, “unless it’s about how good you think this green apple soju is gonna taste. The plum one was so weak, wasn’t it? I could barely taste—”
“I think,” Jimin asserts, “I should fuck you behind that tree. I brought our travel bottle.”
Thankfully Jimin isn’t an arousal-sniffing dog, because the twisting heat that throbs in his gut is immediate and strong, a shot of liquor. Fuck, he hope no one heard that. Jimin wasn’t exactly quiet, and even if his voice is soft, he commands attention regardless.
“You brought the bottle,” Namjoon deadpans. “Jimin. We’re not fucking behind the tr—”
“Imagine it: your shorts hanging off of your sexy thighs, the breeze between your legs,” Jimin squeezes at Namjoon, a grin twisting on his face when Namjoon’s breath stutters, “Being so close to people. It’d be easy to get caught.”
They haven’t looked at one another the entire time. The line moves forward again, and they move forward with it. Namjoon loathes that he, in a moment of weakness, admitted to kinks to Jimin that he’d never told another partner before. It’s being weaponized against him. This is violent. This is—
“Inappropriate,” Namjoon chastises weakly. “This is so—wildly inappropriate.” He’s a little bit more than half-hard now. Sweat snakes down his throat.
Jimin giggles. More people move away from the front with their soju, leaving them as the third in line. “Yeah? And?”
Namjoon glances across the field. He can see Yoongi and Jungkook still in the line for the Chardonnay. Hoseok—he turns his head towards the stage—Hoseok is talking to a group of young men, snapback low and a cup of wine in his hand.
When Namjoon turns his attention back to Jimin, he finds him watching, waiting.
“Jimin-ah.”
Jimin quirks an eyebrow.
Fuck. Fuck . He’s sweating bullets. He’s disgusting and sticky everywhere. Why does he sweat so fucking much?
Namjoon dumps his pamphlet in a nearby trash can, walks around Jimin and out of the line. “Let’s do it.”
Gleeful, victorious laughter follows him all the way to the trees.