Work Text:
Jimin waits in the hotel stairwell impatiently, checking his watch, and wishes a different kind of murder was taking place tonight.
It’s not that he doesn’t trust Taehyung to get the job done, it’s just that he can be so goddamn infuriating. So cold and stoic in front of the boss, gaze sharp when he’s discussing supply lines and cartels, and then it’s like he’s a totally different person around Jimin, voice sweet like honey and hands lingering on Jimin’s lower back. Jimin doesn’t trust anyone in this line of work, least of all someone like Taehyung, who always looks like temptation even when his knuckles are scabbed over. Jimin wants to wring his neck sometimes.
Finally, finally, Taehyung texts him to come to the hotel room in 2 minutes. Jimin times it out, all the while double-checking to make sure his gun is loaded and he has Taehyung’s change of clothes.
Tonight’s mark – some rich asshole named Kim Chung-Hee – has a couple bodyguards stationed in the hallway outside the hotel room, so Jimin walks to the room next door, giving his gait enough of a wobble to look a little drunk, a little harmless. He swipes his keycard, crosses the hotel room to the balcony, and climbs his way over the railings and onto the balcony next door.
When he silently slides the glass door open and steps inside, Jimin expects to see a corpse on the floor – most likely Kim Chung-Hee’s, though maybe Taehyung’s if Jimin’s really lucky. He’s here to extract Taehyung after he takes out the mark, after all. But instead, even though Jimin waited the requested two minutes, he peeks into the bedroom to see Mr. Kim pressing Taehyung to the bed and kissing him insistently, big hands pawing over his body.
Jimin already knew Taehyung was a master at creating a facade, but the Taehyung on the bed feels like another person entirely. His matte red lipstick has been smeared a little around his mouth and the shimmer on his eyelids gives him an ethereal quality.
And then there’s the dress. (Or, as Taehyung had insisted on calling it, the gown.)
The black velvet encases him, dipping low in the front to show his decolletage and arcing high on the side to expose almost all of his upper thighs. His trim waist, normally hidden by the requisite suit, looks sinful and decadent, even when it’s held firmly in Mr. Kim’s grasp. Taehyung writhes and moans, hooking a leg up behind Mr. Kim’s waist to encourage him to thrust their hips together. His honeyed thighs, thick and tempting, gleam in the dim light. Only Taehyung would apply baby oil before an assassination.
When Mr. Kim dips his head to lick Taehyung’s neck, Taehyung picks his head up and makes eye contact with Jimin over the man’s shoulder. Jimin taps his watch theatrically. Taehyung winks and then moans equally dramatically, urging Mr. Kim to tug his dress down at the neckline.
Jimin frowns, frozen in place but conflicted. Taehyung was supposed to make this quick. The slutty getup was just meant to get Mr. Kim into Taehyung’s hotel room, not to actually get him into bed. But Taehyung’s noises, fake as they are, curl insidiously at the base of Jimin’s cock, threatening to make him hard.
Jimin doesn’t want Taehyung to see him weak like that, so he slowly reaches for his gun to take Mr. Kim out himself, even though he knows a gunshot will alert the bodyguards in the hall. A hiss from Taehyung makes him pull back, and as he watches, Taehyung hikes his dress up on the other side to reveal a leather band holding a knife strapped to his thigh.
As Mr. Kim pulls the bodice low enough to suck on one of Taehyung’s nipples, salt and pepper head bobbing, Taehyung whips the knife out. Jimin barely gets a glimpse of the gleaming silver blade before Taehyung buries it, over and over, into the join between Mr. Kim’s neck and shoulder. His arm moves so fast that it’s a blur, shoving the knife as deep as he can force it around the base of Mr. Kim’s neck until he practically has a ruby necklace, blood spurting thick and red onto Taehyung’s bare chest.
The process is done in thirty seconds; the sound level in the room never goes above a low gurgle that escapes Mr. Kim as he shudders and collapses onto Taehyung, who wrinkles his nose and rolls him off the bed. Blood pools wetly onto the thick carpet, a deep crimson stain, and for a wild moment Jimin’s sympathy goes out to the hotel room cleaners.
Taehyung grins, chest now matching his lipstick, and sits up sinuously. Instead of hopping off the bed to grab the suit Jimin brought him, still on the balcony, he leans off the bed and digs a hand into Mr. Kim’s pants pocket, rummaging around until he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lights one and reclines back onto the pillows, not caring that they’re now sodden with blood.
“What are you doing,” Jimin hisses when he finally forces himself to stop staring. “I have your suit. Get changed and let’s go.”
“Fine,” Taehyung sighs, like Jimin had told him he couldn’t get dessert instead of insisting they leave a crime scene. He gets off the bed, bare toes narrowly missing the pool of red currently ruining the carpet. “Undo me?”
When Jimin just stands there, bewildered, Taehyung lifts his knife and cigarette innocently to show that his hands aren’t free. Then he turns and cocks his hips to the side, waiting for Jimin to undo the handful of buttons still holding his dress together in the back. Jimin, calm and collected in the face of cold-blooded mob murder, is somehow shaken by the sheen of Taehyung’s shoulder, glowing like precious metal.
With hands that tremble more than he’d care to admit, Jimin slips each button out of its loop, letting the fitted black velvet bodice peel away from Taehyung’s torso like a snakeskin. He hesitates after the last button, unsure if he should tug the rest of the fabric down, but Taehyung gives his hips a little wiggle to free himself.
Taehyung turns around, bringing the cigarette back to his lips, but Jimin doesn’t look up because Taehyung’s wearing red silk fucking panties that cling to his hipbones and reveal every miniscule detail of his cock where it lies soft between his legs. Jimin’s fingers itch to touch, to trace every dip and shadow in the fabric, to peel it down Taehyung’s smooth legs.
He glances up at Taehyung’s face and feels trapped in his heavy-lidded stare. Taehyung steps closer, gold necklace shifting against his collarbones, and takes a drag off his cigarette. He blows the smoke directly into Jimin’s face, hot and acrid, but instead of taking a swing at him, Jimin closes his eyes and shudders. When he opens them again, Taehyung has discarded the cigarette into an ashtray and he’s so close that Jimin feels like he’s drowning in the black of his eyes.
“Help me out of these?” Taehyung asks, mouth quirking up, and Jimin’s on his knees like that, so easy it’s humiliating.
“Wow,” Taehyung laughs quietly, still mindful of the noise level lest they alert the bodyguards in the hall. “Thought you were this gruff ex-soldier but you’re just a whore, aren’t you?”
Jimin bites his bottom lip, forces down the urge to punch Taehyung for teasing him, and rests his fingertips at the curve of Taehyung’s hip. This close, he can see how Taehyung’s abdomen is pockmarked with scars, some jagged and some terrifyingly straight and clean. The business they’re in is brutal – Jimin certainly has a similar history of violence written on his own body – but the scars just give Taehyung texture, just make the panties that much softer in comparison.
Jimin tugs the panties down slowly, not wanting to rush, revealing dark curls at Taehyung’s groin and a thick, dark cock that’s starting to fill out. The panties fall to the carpet but Jimin stays on his knees, mouth watering for a taste. He parts his lips, tongue darting out, but he’s stopped by the cold bite of metal against his neck.
“Aren’t you being a bit presumptuous?” Taehyung asks, teasing at Jimin’s jawline with the knife. Jimin’s mind spins as he sits back helplessly, feeling a trickle of Mr. Kim’s blood drip off the blade down his skin.
Taehyung drags the knife down, painting a red stripe on Jimin’s neck, and crouches down, squatting naked in front of him. He holds Jimin’s gaze as the knife travels further down, down Jimin’s black dress shirt, to the crotch of his pants where his cock is so hard it hurts, pushing up against his fly. Taehyung’s grin is murderous when Jimin’s cock twitches in response to the sharp of the blade pressing on him.
“Think you can be done fast?” Taehyung asks him, delicately tracing the tip of Jimin’s cock with the knife. Even as Jimin nods, he turns to look at Mr. Kim’s body, still hung up on the fact that Taehyung used a murder to seduce him. Taehyung glances over his shoulder and gives the corpse a dismissive shrug.
“What, you don’t like an audience?” Taehyung asks with a laugh.
It’s a fucked up, sociopathic thing to say, even to Jimin’s skewed moral compass, but he doesn’t care right now because Taehyung is tugging his fly open one-handed and pulling his cock out of his pants.
“Nice, Park,” Taehyung says appreciatively. He straddles Jimin’s thighs and pushes their cocks together in one hand, spitting down on them for a slicker glide. The tight squeeze of his hand is hot and Jimin gasps, thrusting up against him. The skin of Taehyung’s cock is delicate and soft, and it makes Jimin’s heart jolt to see that he’s a couple inches longer.
Taehyung’s fist works over them, fingers clenching to stimulate every inch. It’s a sloppy, rough handjob but it works on Jimin, seeing Taehyung’s eyes flash and his hips work.
Without thinking, Jimin leans in so he can press their mouths together, wanting to feel a tongue against his. But Taehyung stops him, slapping his left palm over Jimin’s mouth, and just tightens his other fist instead.
“Don’t want to ruin my makeup,” Taehyung pants, like it hasn’t been ruined since he let his murder victim rut against him on the bed.
Keeping a close watch on Jimin’s face, Taehyung drops their cocks and slowly brings his right hand up to his chest. When Jimin sees that he’s gathering a smear of blood onto his palm, he shivers, stomach rising in equal parts revulsion and arousal, and nods, allowing Taehyung to bring his slick hand back down to keep working their cocks.
It’s warmer and wetter now, the sound of Taehyung’s hand completely obscene, and Jimin hasn’t felt a lot of shame over what he’s done but he certainly feels disgusting now. That shame, that horror, just makes him pant harder and thrust up into Taehyung’s palm, until he’s coming, thick pearls of come mixing with the blood until it’s a sticky mess.
Taehyung doesn’t release him when he keeps jerking off, the tight drag off his fist pushing Jimin into painful stimulation, and he’s thankful for Taehyung’s hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. When Taehyung comes with a shudder, shooting up onto his own chest, his breathing barely quickens.
There’s no time for afterglow – this already took way more time than necessary. Taehyung scores a symbol into Mr. Kim’s back to leave the message they want to send, then re-sheathes the knife at his thigh with a dismissive flick of his hair.
They dress like lightning. In the time it takes Jimin to un-rumple his clothes and wipe the blood off his neck, Taehyung removes his makeup and changes completely, stashing the blood-soaked dress and cigarette butt into the garment bag his suit came in. They climb over the balcony and totter faux-drunkenly back into the hallway, laughing obnoxiously as they make their way past the clueless bodyguards.
They take back stairways down to the garage, on alert in case they’ve been found out, but there’s no one by the car. Taehyung slides, annoyingly, into the driver’s seat, and then they’re out, neon lights of the city surrounding them as they drive away.
Taehyung catches Jimin’s eye in the mirror. “We work well together,” he says, and once again Jimin doesn’t know which Taehyung facade he’s seeing right now. What was the point of everything in the hotel room? Was it a test? Did Jimin fail, or did he pass?
“I’m gonna ask the boss to put us on more jobs together,” Taehyung continues. Jimin nods, confused. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue?” Jimin replies, unsure of the relevance.
“Great, I’ll wear blue next time,” Taehyung replies cheerfully. When Jimin doesn’t respond, Taehyung tugs the side of his pants down just enough to show the red satin.
Jimin chokes on air, feeling for the first time like he’s in over his head and loving it.