tracob oneshots (DISCONTINUED)

dance floor whore

-by ropewithnoanchor on ao3

Jacob' fingers are wrapped around his vodka soda so tightly it's a wonder there aren't shard of glass everywhere. He's leaning against the corner of the bar, his spine ramrod straight, staying mostly in shadow so as not to be recognized, and his eyes are narrowed as he watches his boyfriend.

He can't figure out if Troye is doing it on purpose to piss him off, but if he is, it's working.

Troye's been dancing for almost an hour now, something Jacob usually has no problem letting him do to blow off steam. But now he's got his t-shirt off, tucked into the back pocket of his skintight black jeans, and there's a ring of men and women around him, mesmerized as the famous rockstar just lets loose on the dance floor, his sweat-slick skin shining under the flashing lights.

Jacob knows it's only a matter of time until one of the onlookers gets ballsy enough to try something, and his eyes widen as he sees a guy start to saunter up to Troye. He nearly breaks a tooth on an ice cube when Troye doesn't resist, just lets the stranger slip up behind him and grab onto his bare hips. Immediately the other people are pulling out their cell phones, trying to get a good picture of the famous Troye Styles grinding against another man.

Time to step in. Jacob slams his empty drink down on the counter and stalks over to the dance floor, cutting his way through the crowd and grabbing onto Troye's arm.

"Let's go," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Troye blinks up at him in surprise, and Jacob can immediately tell how drunk the boy is just by the look in his eye. "M'dancing, Jakes," he protests, words slurring together.

"Not anymore," Jacob snaps, tightening his grip on Troye's upper arm and ripping him away from the ballsy fuck that dared try to rub himself all over Jacob' boyfriend.

He physically drags Troye out of the club, despite the boy's mumbled protests and weak resistance. They go out the back entrance to avoid the undoubtedly large number of young female fans crowding the front—not before Jacob first wrestles Troye back into his wrinkled t-shirt just in case—and immediately climb into the black SUV waiting for them.

Jacob is seething. Troye's muttering something about feeling carsick and curls up on the bench seat, trying to tuck his head onto Jacob' lap, but Jacob pointedly slides away and lets Troye's head drop onto the leather.

"Ow." Troye sits up slowly, rubbing his neck and eyeballing Jacob. "What's'a matter with you?"

"Just you wait, Styles," Jacob says. "You better hope no one got a decent photo of you back there. Modest is going to have your ass in the morning."

Troye frowns, his drunken brain trying to comprehend what Jacob is saying, and Jacob stares at him, trying to figure out when and how Troye got this wasted.

"Were people buying you drinks?"

Troye's fidgets a little before nodding.

"You were taking drinks from people on the dance floor?"

He nods again, looking anywhere but at Jacob.

Jacob tips his head back against the seat, rubbing his temples and groaning. "Oh my god. Oh my god."

"M'sorry, Jakes," Troye whispers, cautiously playing with the hem of Jacob shirt.

"They could've spiked them!" Jacob cries, his volume raising enough to make Troye cringe. "They could've fucking poisoned them if they wanted to, Jesus, I can't believe you'd be that stupid, Troye!"