Chapter Text
Taehyung’s sole mission is to pick up and deliver the group drinks. Seokjin insists on lemon drop shots, something quick and sweet that could help push the night along (Jungkookie is too shy and sober to dance right now; we need to pull out the big guns!). And everyone is already a little tipsy from a quick drink or two at Taehyung and Jimin’s—but nowhere close enough to where they should be. Again, according to Seokjin. Jimin and Jungkook are on board, and Hoseok grabs Taehyung’s arm before he makes his journey across the bar to whisper to him, “Just get me another lager. I’m done with liquor for tonight.”
“Okay,” Taehyung says. “Be right back.”
So five lemon drop shots and a beer it is.
Taehyung ambles over to the bar to complete the mission. It’s an easy one: first, squeeze his way between the group of university students, then flag the bartender down, and then order the drinks. Three steps. Convent isn’t very busy on a Thursday night; there are dense groups of people, but they’re all huddled up either at their respective tables or spread out around the perimeter of the bar. Tonight isn’t a performance night, either, so the space in front of the stage is wide-open and accessible for anybody that doesn’t have (or want) a table—AKA, Taehyung and his friends.
So. He’s on step two when one of the young guys turns to give him a considering once-over. Taehyung sees him from his periphery but doesn’t say anything until he’s spoken to. And he is spoken to, faster than expected; usually they stare and wait for anyone to come up to Taehyung, labelling him as ‘taken’. Sometimes they don’t say anything at all and keep staring until Taehyung gets his drinks and walks away. Sometimes— “Your shirt is glowing,” the guy says, gaze lingering on the soft drape of Taehyung’s cream blouse.
He wonders, just for a moment, if the man is drunk. There are neon purple vibe lights that glow from underneath and behind the bar, catching anything light-colored and turning it purple, too. The guy has on white sneakers, and they’re glowing. Taehyung wants to tell him that, but he doesn’t want to be mean.
“I know,” Taehyung says with a tight smile. “It’s—” He waves a vague finger around, pointing up at the ambient lights. “Yeah.”
The guy leans up off of the bar. He’s maybe three centimeters taller than Taehyung. A little bulkier, too, but not by a lot. The dark angles of the bar catches on his five o’clock shadow, dips into the striations along his exposed forearms. There’s a splotch of a tattoo on one side of his neck that Taehyung can’t decipher without looking at him straight on. From the vantage point Taehyung allows, he doesn’t look a year over twenty-five.
“I like it,” Guy says. His voice is steady and loud over white noise of conversation and pop music. “Your shirt.”
Okay, so not drunk. Doesn’t sound it, at least. Taehyung momentarily forgets that he’s on step two of his three-step mission and follows Guy’s gaze down to where the first few buttons of his own blouse is undone. When you lean over your nipples show, Jimin told him earlier that night, fingers tipping into his shirt to catch on the first button. So don’t lean over. It was said in a theatrically angry voice, and Taehyung had laughed and tugged at Jimin’s earlobe. Cute, he’d called him.
Taehyung straightens his posture. “Thank you,” he says. He glances over to where the bartender is listening to a girl shout over at her.
“Park Sangyeon,” Guy says. He tilts his body so he’s fully facing Taehyung now, his chest a few centimeters away from Taehyung’s shoulder. “You?”
Again, he doesn’t want to be rude. He doesn’t want to give a name, but he also doesn’t want to be rude. “Kim Taehyung,” he says to where the bartender is standing. Too far. He waits for her gaze to scale over the sparse crowd to raise his hand and try to flag her down.
“Taehyung-ssi,” Sangyeon parrots. “Strong name. How old are you?”
Bartender Woman is successfully flagged by two university guys. Fuck. “Twenty-five,” Taehyung says.
“Oh. You can call me hyung, then, if you want.”
Way too over familiar. “Sangyeon-ssi is fine,” Taehyung tells him.
Sangyeon laughs. The tailend of it is swallowed up in a burst of noise from the group to the left of Taehyung. “You have a really deep voice,” Sangyeon says. “A lot deeper than I’d expect from someone that looks like you.”
He—doesn’t mean to take the bait. That’s his first mistake of many, probably. Taehyung should’ve told him he doesn’t want to talk, or tell him to fuck off, or silently shift over to a piece of the bar closest to the bartender. Something other than pivot to look at Sangyeon head-on and respond, bait caught by the fishing line, “Someone that looks like me?”
Sangyeon is smiling. Taehyung can see it now, the way the purple slices through his stress lines—the ones that crease at his eye corners and at the fold of his cheeks. Closer to thirty than twenty-five, somehow slotted in a group of students. Or alone, looking to go home with a university student.
“Beautiful,” Sangyeon replies, coolly. It’s almost indecipherable, but he shifts closer to Taehyung, and their fingers brush for just a moment before he leans towards the stool behind him again. “I’m sure you get that a lot, though. Do you? Taehyung-ssi? That you’re a beautiful boy?”
Taehyung’s words fail him. They’re trapped at the back of his throat, heavy even as he tries to swallow them down. Suddenly, he feels too exposed. Like Sangyeon’s eyes can peel the blouse and black slacks off of his skin. That instead of eyes they’re his fingers, the ones that brushed the pinky and ring finger of Taehyung’s, and he’s shoved them right under the buttons, popping them loose. He imagines it—Sangyeon’s heavy breath against the shell of his ear, thick with the poisonous stench of liquor, calling him a beautiful boy. Pretty and here alone, aren’t you?
He only realizes it’s partly true—the imagery of Sangyeon peeling him apart from his clothes—when real, too-warm hands come up to find his waist through the blouse.
“I wanna kiss you,” Sangyeon’s face and voice is a lot closer. “Can I?”
Taehyung jerks his head over to where his friends are—just in time for Jimin to finish storming over and shove his way in-between Taehyung and Sangyeon.
“Can you fuck off?” Jimin spits, straightening his posture and tilting his head up to click it angrily in Sangyeon’s face. A blind hand swings back to nudge Taehyung farther behind him, albeit his smaller, more narrow body does little to obscure Taehyung from view.
In all honesty, there’s nothing immediately intimidating about Jimin. He’s wearing a cheetah print blouse and tight jeans, his hair is a pale blonde that curls off of his forehead, and his makeup is light and pretty. He’s pretty. Silver rings adorned on short, almost chubby fingers, chelsea boots affording him two extra centimeters of height. Even angry and full of venom, he doesn’t look like the type of man that could fairly challenge someone of Sangyeon’s stature.
So it’s of no surprise that Sangyeon stares, expression almost as stunned as Taehyung’s, before it twists into a mix between amusement and annoyance. “Are you his master?”
“Are you?” Jimin’s retort is quick and much louder than his first rhetorical question. It draws some attention from the other people to their left and right. “He doesn’t want to fuck you, man, so fuck off!”
“He wasn’t complaining—”
“He was,” Jimin’s soprano twists into a growl, and he tips his head up further, eyes narrow and sharp as they stare unfalteringly into Sangyeon’s. “Are you fucking blind? He clearly didn’t want to talk to you.”
Finally, Taehyung gathers himself from the initial shock and gets a loose hand around Jimin’s wrist. “Jimin-ah,” he tries gentle, placating, “it’s okay, let me get the drinks an—”
“How the fuck do you know that?” Now Sangyeon is getting angry. Strong brows twitching, his own jaw tight. “Who the fuck are you?”
“His master, apparently,” Jimin shouts. “And master says to go fuck yoursself. He’s not gonna fuck you—”
Taehyung frantically glances around, and—people are officially looking. Staring. Several, even those not at the bar.
“Jimin-ah,” Taehyung takes on a more desperate quality. He tugs harder, but Jimin pries his wrist out of Taehyung’s grip without looking away from Sangyeon’s challenging leer. “Jimin-ah, please, stop, stop,” he twists a fist in the back of Jimin’s blouse instead.
“This isn’t what you wanna do,” Sangyeon warns. He shifts close to Jimin, head tipped down as Jimin tips up. Their foreheads so close that their fringes touch, Sangyeon repeats, “You don’t wanna fucking do this, man. I could kick your ass, no problem.”
Jimin is undeterred. Of course he’s fucking undeterred; Taehynug has never once seen him back down from a challenge. Namjoon dared him to backflip off a fence once, when they were drunk and drunk-stupid, and Jimin had scoffed and did it. They’d begged him not to, and he’d done it anyway. “I’ll kick yours if you don’t get the fuck away from him,” undeterred, reckless Park Jimin shouts. Right in Sangyeon’s face.
“Stop,” Taehyung can hear his own voice shake into a terrified quality. Not too different from that night Jimin stood precariously on top of that fence and told them he was going to ace the landing. And Taehyung couldn’t stop him from doing the backflip then—but he needs to stop him from getting into a bar fight tonight. “Stop, Jimin-ah, Jimin-ah, please, don’t—!”
Everything progresses in a blur. Purple ambience and the feral growl of two men high on testosterone and intoxication. Somewhere in-between Seokjin manhandling Taehyung away from the scene with two, strong arms around his waist and Namjoon powerhousing it into Sangyeon and Jimin, Taehyung remembers his and Jimin’s first few months of exclusivity.
He remembers the bleary one a.m. atmosphere of Jimin’s room, Jimin’s bed, and the way they sliced through the post-sex haze with their raw, unalduterated honesty. Taehyung tucked under Jimin’s arm, sticky cheek to sticky chest, skull vibrating as Jimin confessed, “I can get really possessive. About—things. People.”
Taehyung had already seen glimpses of it by then. Jimin nosing into Taehyung’s hair as he whispered, “Mine,” when Taehyung introduced himself to his friends as Jimin’s boyfriend. “All mine.”
The faux-angry, people can see your nipples in that; cover up, that Taehyung, frankly, found sexy. And he told him. Tells him. “Love it when you tell me what to do with that voice.”
“What voice?” Jimin asked, though he was smiling, approaching Taehyung like a predator to its prey.
Taehyung, fitting perfectly into his role, would back up just as slow. “That firm-like one. Like you own me.”
“You want me to? Own you?” Jimin slid a leg in-between Taehyung’s, curled a hand at Taehyung’s nape.
A nod. “Tell me,” he’d whispered to those plush, wet lips. “Jimin-ssi. Tell me what to do.”
Jimin’s smile shifted into something darker. A premonition. A promise. “You’re not wearing that shirt. Go change.”
And Taehyung listened. It was foreplay for the rest of their night, carrying them on their mutual high until they could return home and fuck the tension away.
Possessiveness isn’t always fun. It’s the first time it’s gotten this bad—Taehyung bawling because he’s tipsy and scared and can’t see what’s happening anymore. Because Seokjin won’t fucking let him go. Because there’s shouts and some women screaming; there’s Namjoon barking orders that’s swallowed up in the explosive sound of stools scraping, glasses being dropped.
Hoseok stays with Seokjin and Taehyung while Jungkook sprints off to help Namjoon extract Jimin from the chaos. Taehyung gives up on escaping Seokjin’s grasp and clings to him instead, sniffling, burying his nose in the crook of Seokjin’s neck. Several soothing palms rub at his back and waist, Hoseok’s voice just as soothing as he whispers it’s okay, he’ll be okay, against his cheekbone.
It turns out okay. As okay as it can be. The chaos stems mostly from everyone at the bar rushing to get away, hence dropped glasses, confused screaming, and the scrape of stools on the flooring. Seokjin, Taehyung, and Hoseok wait outside for security to escort Namjoon, Jungkook, and a wild, tight-jawed Jimin out.
They keep Taehyung separated from Jimin and Jimin separated from Sangyeon—who is still fuming—until the cops can come and decide that matters can be handled without pressing charges or anyone being arrested. (Namjoon is an effective communicator, sober or not). And aside from wild hair and his cheetah print blouse twisted wrong on his torso, Jimin is otherwise unscathed.
Unscathed and quiet, contemplative. He lets Namjoon scold him without saying a single word in return. Hoseok appears more disappointed than anything else, and Seokjin gets some jabs in-between Namjoon’s moments of silence. Jungkook watches on, expression undecipherable.
Taehyung hasn’t decided what to feel yet. He’s still discombobulated, it’s chilly outside, and he’s clinging to Seokjin’s sleeve.
They call their taxis in silence. Occasional quiet mutters for Namjoon and Hoseok to correspond sharing a ride to their apartment complex, for Seokjin and Jungkook to snag their own.
“You can stay with hyung tonight, if you want,” Seokjin says to Taehyung, quiet. “Jungkookie won’t mind.”
Taehyung glances over at where Jimin is slowly pacing on the sidewalk, running his fingers through his fringe a few times.
“It’s okay,” Taehyung says. “I’m okay.”
Jimin doesn’t speak until he and Taehyung are in their own taxi. He threads their fingers together first, then whispers, “Baby. I’m so sorry.”
Taehyung turns from the window to look at him. At his wide eyes and where he’s gnawed at his bottom lip, the skin a little red, a little raw. He hasn’t fixed his blouse yet.
Taehyung reaches out with his free hand and fixes it for him. “What is wrong with you?”
Jimin’s exhale is wet. “I know. I’m a mess. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t recognize you,” Taehyung says. “I have no idea who that person was.”
“I know—”
“I can take care of my fucking self,” he breathes. Jimin deflates. Then, “I’ve—I’ve never had a boyfriend get into a fight over me. Not because of me. That was fucking scary, Jimin-ah.”
“Baby,” Jimin’s words are wet now, too. “I love you. I’m sorry, okay? I know you can take care of yourself. I dont know—I won’t do it again. I won’t ever—”
Taehyung shoots forward and slots their lips together. Kisses soft, just enough for Jimin to register what’s happening, before he presses harder. “Sexy,” he mumbles. “I really fucking hate how sexy that was.”
Jimin stares at him. Tries to gauge the genuity of that statement as Taehyung stares back. Then, a shocked laugh stuttering free, he shoots forward and kisses Taehyung again.
They make it to the bedroom but not to the bed. Taehyung stands with his arms stretched out in front of him, palms pressed to the wall and body bent over, as Jimin fucks him from behind. Clothes still on, shoved away just enough for Jimin to finger and get his cock into Taehyung. They’re too frantic for anything else. Taehyung’s head hangs down between his shoulders, and he blinks blearily at the floor below him as he grunts, pants.
Each hard thrust jostles his body, cramming right against his prostate and making his dick pulse and leak strings of precome. “Baby,” he whines, voice rattling deep in his chest, “fuck me, fuck me, please—”
Jimin’s grip on his hips is punishing. He digs into as much of the flesh as he can, forcing Taehyung’s ass onto his dick with every rut forward. “Taehyung-ah—fuck, you’re tight, baby, so—tight—”
Taehyung’s brain redelivers the night. Sangyeon’s dark gaze, Jimin’s aggression. “Master,” he blurts. His fingernails grapple, futile, for purchase on their bedroom wall. “Master, master—”
“Fuck,” Jimin laughs, breathless and trapped in a groan. “You’re gonna drive me fucking crazy.”
“You own me? Tell me, ah, tell me you—ah—”
“Mine. No one can have you because you’re mine. Right?”
He’s already gonna come. They just started and Taehyung is going to blow his load all over the floor. “Yours,” he sobs, body shaking in it, “Won’t—won’t talk to anybody you don’t want me tuh-to talk to. Gonna wear what you tell me to—gonna do whatever you want—”
Jimin fucks deep into him, pelvis flush to Taehyung’s ass cheeks, and both of them moan in tandem. Rocking in his heat, fingers still twisting his skin until it burns red, hot, he tells him, “Won’t let you talk unless I tell you to talk. Just—just be a good boy and buy drinks. Yeah?”
“Jimin-ah.” Taehyung’s knees are wobbly. He doesn’t want to move from this position if Jimin doesn’t tell him to. Jimin’s cock is rubbing him just right and he’s gonna come. “I’ll be good,” he slurs. “Won’t talk to anyone. Promise, Jimin-ah, master, promise—”
The pace becomes punishing. It’s almost animalistic, their sounds, the loud slaps of their bodies colliding again and again. Taehyung has the forethought to beg, “Come in me, please come deep—inside—” right before any coherent thought escapes him and he comes on Jimin’s dick.
He comes with Jimin pounding hard inside of him, with Jimin’s name rubbing raw at his throat, and knows that someday soon, this is going to have to become a conversation with words and not their bodies.