namjooning lockscreens🌱

these are my first lockscreens so sorry they didn't look so good

If anyone wants to give me prompts with other members to give me some ideas so I can write would be GREATLY! Appreciated <333

Nam🍀💚

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twt @ all_your_park

Memories of 2020

Part : 4

Memories of 2020

Part : 3

Jungkook: i‘ll have the chefs salad please

Jimin: Jungkook that‘s rude just order your own

$15 for one

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Cop: We got a call that said you had pot in your car.

Taehyung *pulls out a flower pot*: Oh you mean this?

Cop *laughing*: Oh, my mistake. What're you growing?

Taehyung:

Taehyung: Weed.

i swear this is my last post about the whole new york thing but i'm just annoyed by it. before the boys flew to the states/arrived, bighit released a policy (or statement) basically saying that they didn't want tons of people at the airport when the boys arrived for safety reasons for them (including covid), and to see that it was ignored is disappointing. like i can understand wanting to see the boys and everything but it's just too much - especially when you go as far as leaking information pertaining to their hotel rooms, flights, what hotel they're staying in, etc. i really hope that the people who did that shit look back and come to the realization that what they did was wrong. once again, i understand wanting to see the boys, but people need to learn that there are certain boundaries that should NOT be crossed and to give them the space and the rightful privacy they deserve. they're humans too.

☆ ⁄⁄ ★ 018 | a nice challenge

coffee — the enemies to lovers social media au where min yoongi refuses to date a cheerleader, but yoon haryun might be able to change that.

( masterlist / prev / next )

RM | The Rolling Stone Cover

…. ✰# ぼうだん しょうねん だん #✰

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#sagitario

Come Away With Me | KNJ, JHS

pairings: Namjoon x Hobi x Reader

rating: 18+ / Mature / Explicit

word count: 14,329 | read on ao3

synopsis: Even when Hobi tries to turn things around with a delightful plan for a hike, both he and Namjoon learn that when life gets to be too much, it’s best to just get lost in the wilderness and let nature take over.

genre: Songfic for Come Away With Me by Norah Jones

themes: Namjooning, but with a twist. Comfort, escape, rescue, fluff, smut, friends to lovers, strangers to lovers, kind of a slow burn

content warnings: Drug use (weed), threesome / group sex, oral sex (m/f, f/m), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, biting, fingering, breast play, nipple play

author’s note: Written for @skyys-universe​‘s request (sorry I’m so late!)! Always so inspired by your song choices for these songfics. Also pulled inspiration from the concept of Hobi’s importance and influence as the unspoken leader, beautifully detailed here by @submissive-bangtan​ (incidentally, a post to which Rie also drew my attention!). Hoping this is a fun little forest you can escape to when you need a bit of quiet and peace of mind.

“This isn’t the direction we wanna go in.”

Namjoon’s voice is as frigid as his stare. But as he speaks, a fiery sample of his voice plays in his mind. A snippet of a conversation with manager Sejin that ends with, “I dunno, I just don’t like the way he talks.” 

But this director has drawn ire before. There’s nothing that a charming dinner with his friends in upper management can’t fix. That’s why his scoffed, “Do whatever you want,” flows just as coolly, and effortlessly into, “Call me whenever you finally come around.”

Nostrils flaring is never a good sign of Namjoon’s. The accompanying glare at the back of the director’s head makes Hobi step a little more into Namjoon’s direct line of sight. Just in case.

“Can he just leave like that?” Jin asks casually, arms folded, and eyebrows scooping just slightly down. He turns to the rest of the group. “Can people just— Can we just leave like that?”

“We’ve lost three days already,” Jungkook mumbles, his gaze following Namjoon’s.

“Not exactly terrible,” Taehyung chases, exchanging looks with Jin.

The crew startles and murmurs when the set doors slam shut.

Jimin’s stride over to Taehyung calls Hobi’s attention back to the group, and as Jimin rests his chin on Taehyung’s shoulder, Hobi raises his arms to bring the circle tighter. 

As he talks, Hobi’s eyes are sure to meet each of the five pairs staring back at him. “I know it’s been grueling, but now isn’t the time to switch off. There’s always a moment like this, right in the middle of production, that threatens the momentum. We don’t hide it, and we don’t fight it. We stay calm. Conserve our energy for our response. We adapt.” 

His gaze falls on Namjoon, still silent, still fuming, and still staring at the set doors. 

Hobi reaches his hand out for Namjoon’s shoulder. It takes five pats to get Namjoon to turn and meet his eyes. 

“We only need each other,” Hobi says. “Right?”

Namjoon’s flaring nostrils let out a long huff. “Right.”

Hobi keeps his hand on Namjoon’s shoulder, careful not to perforate the moment. But they all turn to the anxious crew watching with concern, and the closed set doors behind them.

“Dude seemed like an asshole anyway,” Jimin grumbles, his gaze steely.

Namjoon hates when he loses himself, but the real concern is that he keeps finding himself. He finds himself in manager Sejin’s office. And then on camera, with translators in his ear. And then in the town car home. Voices keep slurring and bodies keep blurring around him. Everything is a discomposed mess. When he opens his eyes to find Hobi hunched in front of him, it’s no wonder that he’s feeling irate, even with Hobi’s hand in its usual, comforting place on his shoulder.

“Joon. You hear me?”

Namjoon rolls from his side onto his back. The sharp corner of his journal stabs his pained temple. It turns out that sleep made no difference, as this particularly tenacious headache wrings out the last of whatever he had left of it, his tortured consciousness made only worse by the sight of ink not on the still-blank journal pages but all over the white duvet.

“Fuck.”

Namjoon’s thin eyes search for the pen, but Hobi gestures to the capped culprit on the nightstand.

“You had it in your fist when I came in to wake you,” Hobi tells him.

He straightens a little, relief matching that of a newborn’s parent on the morning of the second day.

“You didn’t even snore,” Hobi goes on. He places the back of his hand just in front of Namjoon’s nostrils. “Had to check if you were breathing.”

“Slept like shit,” Namjoon mumbles, squeezing his eyes tight with another of his brain’s throbs. 

Hobi eyes the duvet. “Clearly.” And then his eyes find Namjoon’s again. “But even so. Gotta get up.”

Namjoon blinks. “What time is it?”

“Just after 6.”

A cough rattles through Namjoon’s cluttered throat. If only he could get out all the words he’s been wanting to say. 

Instead, he rolls over onto his other side. “Wake me when it’s time to eat.”

“It is,” Hobi says. “Or, well, the food’s ready, at least.”

Namjoon rolls onto his back and finally takes a good look at Hobi. He’s worn that bucket hat, that gray shirt, and those loose-fitting cargo pants to dance practice before.

“Are we going into work?” Namjoon asks hopefully, scooting up against his headboard, ready to spring into action. “Did they change their mind about the mandatory vacation?”

Hobi scoffs. “Only you would be excited about that.” His lips tighten, corners of his mouth curving around his teeth. “Well, only you and Yoongi would be excited about that.”

“Yoongi-hyung.” Namjoon sighs. “I bet he composed a whole album’s worth of demos last night.” He spreads his fingers out across the bed sheets as white as his pages. “I just couldn’t think.”

“Maybe now’s not the time for thinking,” Hobi muses, taking Namjoon’s hand and standing. He leans back and tugs his arm, Namjoon feeling a pop in his shoulder socket and wincing. “Time for a hike. Just the two of us. Let’s re-center.”

“I just—” The words pile up in Namjoon’s throat again. “I don’t— There’s so much to—”

Hobi tugs at his arm again. “C’mon, Joon,” he says, insistently, but calmly. “Come away with me.” 

Namjoon is sure that re-centering should have involved the less craggy, less steep, less rock and root-ridden path.

But Hobi’s bright singing helps keep Namjoon’s spiraling thoughts at bay. 

“And I want to walk with you on a cloudy day, in fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high, so won’t you try to come…”

Despite biting his lips tightly to cover up how heavily he’s breathing, Namjoon grows a big, fond smile. 

Hobi doesn’t care who hears him. “Almost there!” Hobi encourages between unabashed huffs and puffs. “I can see the cliff just ahead!”

Namjoon is glad that it’s Hobi’s shift with the backpack. Though he exhales heavily, the shedded weight makes it just a little easier to grab for the next metal stake that marks the trail. He can barely think as he moves from that one to the next. And then the next. And then the next.

He looks up at the trees, a canopy of castleton green save for spots where the sun illuminates them to shamrock. Though the hike is challenging each and every one of his muscles down to the fiber, he wonders if this is what Hobi meant by re-centering. All Namjoon really needs to do is focus on getting from stake to stake. 

By some miracle, they reach the peak of the trail, rewarded with a sunny, lush view of the entire forest. The two plant their feet solidly on the wide, flat rock, peering into the depths. 

“Beautiful,” Namjoon breathes. 

Hobi excitedly swivels to him, droplets of sweat bouncing off of the green poncho that he slipped on part way through the hike. “See?” he asks. “Worth it, right?”

Namjoon grins at Hobi’s poncho fluttering in the breeze. “Completely.” And then he looks back out at the landscape surrounding them. “This was such a good idea. Look at this view. And this perfect weather.”

Hobi eyes Namjoon suspiciously. “Are you cold?”

“Just a little,” Namjoon admits.

Hobi chuckles and shakes his head.

“Let’s call Jin-hyung!” Namjoon suggests, as he pulls out his phone, and Hobi sits down and slides his arms through the straps of his backpack. 

Colorful plastic containers of food brighten up the gray slate, and a friendly ringtone cuts through the air like birdsong. 

As Jin’s sleepy face pops up on Namjoon’s phone, Namjoon crouches and hovers next to Hobi.

“Hyung!” Namjoon cheers, as Hobi laughs into the camera.

“Hey,” Jin mumbles.

“Check this out!” Namjoon cheers excitedly, switching the lens to capture the view. 

He and Hobi giggle as Jin murmurs, eyes opening at the change in brightness and saturation. “Ohhh. Wow.” He blinks a couple of times. “Wait. What time is it? Where are you?”

“Went on a hike,” Namjoon explains. 

“Took him here to the gorge we visited that one time,” Hobi adds. “Thought we’d do something outside today. Accidentally took the harder path, but this was our prize.”

“Ah.” Jin blinks a couple of times. “Are there lots of people on the trail today?”

Namjoon and Hobi exchange glances. They had been so focused on the hike that they hadn’t noticed whether or not there were other people around. It’s strange for them, upon reflection, to be in a space where nobody is asking them questions, or giving them orders, or even politely maneuvering around them in some way, whether to protect them, or simply because they’re sharing space in the hustle and bustle.

“No, actually,” Hobi realizes. 

“We’re the only ones here,” Namjoon echoes.

Jin’s brow furrows. “You’re out there by yourselves? No one from the team is with you?” He looks concerned. “Did you at least pack stuff? Something useful?”

“We brought breakfast,” Namjoon offers, aiming the phone down to one container of neatly rolled gimbap, and another container of sloppier slices.

Jin hums, charmed at knowing whose tray is whose. “Well, be careful. And just make sure to get back before noon, OK? It always gets really hot up there midday.”

“Will do,” Namjoon replies, as Hobi gives Jin a playful salute. “Call you when we’re heading home.”

“OK,” Jin says. “Really, though. Please be careful.”

“We will!” Namjoon repeats.

“Namjoon-ah,” Jin stresses, with an adamant look.

Before Namjoon can get too worked up, Hobi places his hand on Namjoon’s shoulder, and provides a comforting, “We will.”

Jin nods before hanging up.

Namjoon looks down dejectedly. He’d brighten a little, if not for Hobi’s contemplative face staring at their containers of food.

“What is it?” Namjoon asks.

“We forgot silverware,” Hobi says. 

Namjoon’s chin juts out. His lips form a straight, solemn line. His eyes look tense but glassy.

Luckily, something about the trees has calmed him, so much so that when Hobi tugs on his arm this time, he immediately follows, placing his phone in his back pocket and focusing on the food in front of them.

“No harm, though,” Hobi continues. He reaches for a slice of Namjoon’s gimbap. Sure, the edges are ragged, the seaweed roll is flat and loose, and the contents bulge out, threatening to spill. But in Hobi’s fingers, the piece looks pristine. Hobi smiles at Namjoon, showing him, almost toasting him, before downing the bite in one go.

Namjoon half-smiles and does the same, starting with a piece of fruit.

They eat the bulk of their meal in silence made comfortable not just by the warblers and owls occasionally dotting the sky, or the branches pleasantly swaying in the breeze, or the hot sun on their faces balanced by the cool rock against their bodies. It’s a silence made comfortable by a unique closeness. A closeness necessitated by experience. A closeness serendipitous in age. A closeness of innate understanding.

When the last of the food is gone, Hobi takes great care in cleaning up. Hobi always takes great care in cleaning up. But Namjoon notices today’s particular attentiveness and, due to that closeness of innate understanding, knows that Hobi doesn’t want to disturb the environment. 

This isn’t home. Here, they are guests. Here, things are different. 

Hobi glances sideways, feeling Namjoon’s eyes on him. 

“Something on your mind?” Hobi asks.

Namjoon runs his tongue along his top teeth as he thinks. “You ever wonder what it would be like if we weren’t… well… us?”

Hobi laughs. “No.”

“Really?”

“Well, I mean… I don’t know what else I’d be,” Hobi answers. He snaps the last lid of the last container into place with such conclusiveness.

Legs stretched out in front of him, body propped up by the strong arms leaning behind him, Namjoon can’t help but smile. He knows that Hobi couldn’t be anything else, not for lack of talent or trying, but because he is always true to himself. 

Hobi doesn’t know what prompts the smile, but he’s just glad that Namjoon is smiling.

“Do you?” Hobi asks. “Wonder, I mean?” 

“All the time,” Namjoon replies.

Hobi realizes that he shouldn’t be surprised. Namjoon talks so deeply about all of his hobbies and interests, and he’s so intelligent that he could pick up millions more. 

“What do you think you’d be?” Hobi asks, zipping up the backpack and angling a little to face Namjoon.

“Lots of things,” Namjoon replies. “Writer. Artist. Scientist. Teacher. Entrepreneur.”

His eyes flick over to Hobi, who is nodding along.

“At the very least,” Namjoon continues, “I sometimes wonder what it would be like…”

Namjoon knows there’s no pressure to get the wording exactly right, especially if there is no such thing as exactly right wording. But he still tries so hard.

“I wonder… what it would be like… to not be the leader.”

At this, Hobi’s eyes shoot up. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Hobi’s heart sinks into his stomach. He’d regret the feeling and the decision to go on the hike, but in some way, he’s glad. He imagines Namjoon’s heart shrugging off a backpack full of worry and giving it to Hobi’s heart to carry.

Hobi reaches out. “Well, what is it like?” They’ve never talked about this before. Not really. So he straightens up to show Namjoon that he can take it. 

There’s a familiarity in Namjoon’s curious eyes. Shouldn’t Hobi know?

“You know,” Namjoon affirms, eyebrows crinkling just a little. 

“How could I know?” Hobi asks, tilting his head. “You’re the one doing everything.”

Namjoon shakes his head quickly, eyes falling to the ground. A warmth spreads across Hobi’s chest. Not a comforting one. A warning one. 

“Did I say something wrong?” Hobi tries.

Namjoon can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “You’re our real leader.” Namjoon’s features are sharper than the others, so it pains Hobi to see the blurring effect of sadness creeping on the border of Namjoon’s apologetic smirk. “I might talk more. But people listen to you.” His eyes flash up to Hobi’s for a moment. “I listen to you.” The words are coming a little easier now. “And I hear you. It helps. Helps all of us. Helps me.”

The heat in Hobi’s chest flushes outward with the breeze moving forward from their backs. He looks down at his poncho, the fabric rustling pleasantly. The only reason Namjoon’s even there is because Hobi told him to go.

“We play our roles,” Hobi says firmly. “We’re there for each other. Pick up the slack when needed.”

“Last night, I couldn’t even begin to write my song,” Namjoon points out.

“Then I will write you a song,” Hobi says, smiling. “But I’m no Kim Namjoon.”

“Two Kim Namjoons would be a disaster,” Namjoon mumbles. 

Hobi finds that spot on Namjoon’s shoulder. He means to give him a pat, but Namjoon presses his hand on Hobi’s knuckles. Soft. A little heavy. Wanting to keep him there.

“You’re focusing on the feelings you left with yesterday,” Hobi tells him seriously. “Focus on the breeze around us instead. Let those feelings sail.”

Namjoon closes his eyes and tries to follow. 

It helps.

When Namjoon’s eyes open again, he sees Hobi watching him with concern. “Yeah?”

Namjoon grins a little. “Yeah.”

Hobi beams, full and splendorous. “Think of the spotlight,” he tells him, enough warmth emanating from his visage that Namjoon almost feels like one is shining on him now. “Think of the thrills.” Hobi looks around for more paint to craft his picture. His head snaps back to Namjoon with a somewhat naughty grin. “Think of the edge of the stage, like the edge of that cliff. The fall.”

Namjoon tilts his head, still unsure if he should share. If he’s giving up the helm for a moment, it’d be best to make sure to know where the lifeboats are.

“The thrills are…” 

Namjoon just smiles.

Hobi pats Namjoon’s shoulder twice before pulling away. “Addictive to have that spotlight on you, right?”

A chuckle precedes Namjoon’s sheepish, “Actually, I appreciate it because I get to be the one to introduce you.”

Hobi’s heart softens, but not in a way that makes the backpack heavier for it to carry. He puffs his chest out even more, showing that his heart can handle the weight. That Namjoon still has strength to share that makes him so. “Our selfless leader. Always the first into battle.”

Namjoon allows himself one grin. It doesn’t last long. “But it’s the other stuff that freaks me out a little.” He fiddles with his shoelaces. “I didn’t feel good yesterday.”

“You were standing up for us,” Hobi gently reaffirms. “You were right.”

“I know,” Namjoon says quickly. Not vaunting. Acknowledging. Matter-of-fact. Namjoon always knows best. “But it’s different now.”

Hobi leans forward, lips in a pout. These conversations are rare, not just because Namjoon usually chooses a tight smirk over a tempered explanation, absorbing hits rather than dispersing it across seven. They’re rare because it’s rare for mere mortals to take wing, especially this high. It’s strange to see Namjoon the poet attempting to describe something and struggling. Even something as rare as this.

Uneasiness settles into the marrow in Hobi’s bones. He usually counts on those pockets of free space to help him fly. He’s not used to needing to protect them from threat.

But the quick way Namjoon’s eyes are zigzagging across the landscape tells him not to worry. That the words are coming to save them. 

“It’s like this forest,” Namjoon explains. He raises his arms out to hold it in front of him. If he had begun this conversation during the meal, Hobi would have shared that this looks like a god’s gentle embrace. Now, knowing how Namjoon has been feeling, Hobi realizes that his fingers are touching nothing. Grasping at straws as if gasping for air.

“Everything was always here, but we’re just now seeing it all at once for the first time,” Namjoon replies. His wiggling fingers still, and his arms fall back down to his sides, retreating to the grooves in the rock that holds them up. “I’m used to thinking about seven trees. Not 70 million.”

Hobi hums at the number. But past that, he doesn’t really have anything to say. He doubts there’s anything to say, anyway.

Namjoon turns. Chin out. Solemn. 

Hobi meets him with a smile, and a gentle, “Just remember that you’re not alone. We’re here.” He relaxes his shoulders, showing Namjoon how. “I’m here.”

It’s more than enough. And it makes sense that it’s coming from Hobi.

Namjoon nods and takes a deep breath. Hobi had planned for them to stop and smell the roses, but instead, Namjoon gets a strong whiff of camellia. And a little of Hobi’s sweat. 

Just like that, Namjoon’s tank is full again.

Hobi revels in Namjoon’s eased expression. “Should we go check out the waterfalls? It’s on the way down.”

“We should go,” Namjoon replies, standing, the salt of Hobi’s sweat lingering in his breath as he exhales. He dusts his hands of dirt and begins to reach down to take the backpack. “Jin-hyung wasn’t wrong about the heat.”

“See?” Hobi asks, smiling as he jumps to his feet. “You do know best.”

Suddenly, Namjoon twitches a little before looking into the sky. Hobi’s mouth crumbles, and his busy eyes jump from point to point on Namjoon’s face and body to identify the cause.

“Debatable,” Namjoon murmurs. 

He looks back at Hobi with considerable concern.

“I think I felt some rain just now, and you’re the one who thought to bring a poncho.”

“Get in!”

The two figures you’ve stumbled upon somehow hear your voice cutting through the blast of thunder. You’re not sure if the one who yelps in fear is reacting to it, or to you.

“C’mon! Before it floods!” you repeat.

The two figures double-back to safer ground, where your tough jeep still has a solid grip on the increasingly slippery terrain. 

They jump in the back seat, and at the sight of a soaking wet bucket hat, you know you’ve found the two people that you’ve been getting nonstop messages about for the past few hours.

“You’re Namjoon and Hobi?” you ask anyway, turning to the bucket hat.

“Yes!” the other one says, breathless. He gestures to himself. “Namjoon.” He points to said bucket hat. “Hobi.”

“Any injuries?”

“No!” Namjoon says. He’s nearly shouting. The storm is so, so loud.

“Alright,” you say, sighing with relief. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

You throw the car in reverse and head back to your cabin, feeling less like a park ranger on a rescue and more like the captain of a ship. 

“This is something else,” you observe, shaking your head almost as fast as your windshield wipers are going. “Glad I found you before the worst of it.”

“This isn’t the worst??” Hobi exclaims, teeth chattering.

You’re caught off guard at what meets you in your rearview mirror. Namjoon’s eyes, framed by his soaking wet hair. Strange how fiery those eyes are when the rest of him is drenched, and the only light you have is the measly, sick yellow of your headlights losing against the rain.

Swallowing doesn’t help you.

“Uh, there are some blankets in the back,” comes out a little raspy, but it propels Namjoon’s neck to turn and reach back into the trunk. 

He takes care of Hobi first, carefully tucking the mylar between his body and the cushions of the back seat before drawing the other blanket around his own shoulders. 

“How do you know our names?” Namjoon asks suspiciously.

It serves as a good reminder. “Was afraid I’d get them wrong, to be honest,” you reply, as you reach for the spiraling cord of your walkie. Namjoon’s fiery eyes leave a burn on your wrist as you wind it through the cord, ensuring that if you drop the walkie, it won’t fall far. The radio crackles. “10-24,” you call in, “repeat, 10-24. Found ‘em by the ridge. Heading back to my quarters now to wait out the storm.”

Namjoon seems to settle once the main office radios back with a barely understandable, crackle-chunked, “Thanks, ranger. Please note that weather reports… morning at the earliest… check for enough supplies and resources for… bandmate, Jin, insufferable…” 

Hobi perks up at the name, exchanging eager glances with Namjoon. You’re glad to have his eyes off of you for a second.

After a few minutes of silence, you radio back. “You broke up there a little. Can you repeat?”

“Repeat. Storm won’t break till morning.” 

The voice comes in a little clearer, but then completely drops out in spots. You all hang on tensely until the next chunk of words.

“I will radio their team.” 

Your windshield wipers thud-thud-thud at their highest speeds. Your wheels are skimming the water.

“Be careful out there.”

You unwind the cord and set the walkie back on the dash before glancing in the rearview mirror. Namjoon is burning a hole into the glass, and Hobi is staring at him, jaw slightly open. 

“You piece that together?” you ask.

Namjoon nods, as Hobi murmurs, “What the hell did Jin do?”

When you see the yellow posts demarking the start of your cabin’s driveway, you finally release the breath you’d been holding in your chest. 

When you slow to a stop, you grab the walkie directly. There’s nothing to jostle it out of your hand. 

“This is Ranger 8. 10-23. We’re at the cabin. All good.”

Namjoon finds your voice pleasant. Like an evening radio talk show host. You could be queueing up love songs.

Hobi’s watching the walkie cord dangle freely. Your hands seem relaxed. And unnaturally soft, especially given your role, and the situation.

“10-4. Glad you’re safe and sound.”

Once they hear those words, Namjoon and Hobi finally believe it. And they look less and less concerned as you start to do things they’re more familiar with. Pull up the hand brake. Turn the engine off. Unbuckle your seatbelt. Slide your key ring onto your middle finger, with your forefinger and thumb firmly grasping the key you need to get inside.

You take your flashlight from your passenger seat with your free hand and turn around to face them.

“Not to worry,” you tell their tight, raised shoulders. “We’ve got running water. Generators, and back-up generators, and back-up back-up generators. Plenty of food. Plenty of blankets.” You smile gently. “I’ve even got a fireplace.” 

Hobi’s shoulders rest. He grins. “Cool.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “I mean, thank you,” he says impatiently, “but is there really no way we can get back to the city today?”

“Joon,” Hobi says, placing his hand on a particular spot on Namjoon’s still-raised shoulder. 

“It’s just that— Well, we aren’t really—” 

Namjoon balls his hands into fists. He’s shaking.

“Do you know who we are??”

The raised, worried eyebrows clinch it. There’s no sense of entitlement here. Namjoon wants to know. Do you happen to know who they are? Because, apparently, you should. And seems to be more of a threat if you do.

Nervous, you shake your head a little. “Sorry. All I know is ‘Namjoon’, ‘Hobi’, ‘bucket hat’, and ‘rescue’,” you admit.

Luckily, given the way Namjoon sighs and leans back in his seat, it’s the right thing to say.

“Thank you,” Namjoon repeats, “for finding us. I’m sorry. I just…” 

He exchanges a tense look with Hobi, who just keeps nodding encouragingly.

“Just a little wound up,” Namjoon explains.

“Given the circumstances, I think that’s just fine,” you say as quietly and soothingly as you can without being drowned out by the maddening storm. “Try to forget for now.” You grin. “For now, we’re just three people coming home in the middle of a thunderstorm. Right?”

Namjoon smiles uneasily, lips curved up, but the corners of his mouth still downturned. 

Hobi scoffs. And then he places his finger in the left corner of Namjoon’s lips. He pushes slightly, forcing it up.

Namjoon laughs softly.

After flashing them a charmed grin, you turn to your window and nod over to the barely visible porch light. The fact that the floodlight looks more like a candle from just a few feet away tells you how disastrous the situation could have been. 

You’d been driving and searching for hours. How long might they have been trudging along? “Three steps up the porch,” you explain, turning back to them. “Think you boys can handle it?” 

Namjoon and Hobi wiggle their hips to the edge of the seat, steeling themselves.

You smile. “Three steps, and then you’ll be warm, dry, and fed.”

They exchange half-hearted smiles, and they follow you when you jump out of the car.

Eighteen mean and hurried stomps later, you’re all finally inside.

“I couldn’t even hear myself think out there,” Namjoon sighs, shifting his weight on his weary legs.

You smirk as you watch them wince as they take off their shoes and set them by the door.

“Guys, really, cut it with the niceties,” you say, wanting to laugh. “Come into the living room and rest.”

Namjoon and Hobi tentatively follow you into what looks less like official spartan headquarters for a national park, and more like a summer vacation home. Soft, bright pine. A wooden table with mismatched wooden chairs surrounding it. In the living room, piles of pillows and cozy blankets draped over three huge couches, all perpendicular to each other, and sitting atop criss-crossing rugs. They vary in size and design, but they all seem to have the same, plush feel.

Hobi joins you in the space first, eyes crawling along those rugs. Braids. Diamonds. Damask. His feet follow the patterns until his knees bump the arm of one of the couches. “Soft,” he says, low and happy. 

You smirk at him, surprisingly transfixed by just how happy. He laughs a little and takes his bucket hat off. How it stayed on, you’re not sure, but you’re glad you can see more of his kind, warm face.

Your eyes linger together. Just for a moment.

Namjoon ventures in next, walking toward you, crouched at the hearth. He notices the books and candles on the mantel. Bouquets of dried flowers, muted purples and faint pinks and delicate baby’s breath, tied with ribbon and hanging upside down on a walnut grid. 

He clears his throat. “Uh, can we help—”

The first flame spreads easily over the logs you’ve quickly and expertly arranged. It grows, haloing you in orange, strands of your surprisingly dry and long hair outlined in a yellow glow. It dawns on him. You were wearing a hat, covering a bun. You’ve shaken it out now.

And you shake out the strain in your muscles as you stand and sigh.

After you all exchange warm looks, you smile and say, “Why don’t you two get cleaned up? I’ll do the same and fix us something to eat. Yeah?”

Namjoon turns back to Hobi, who nods eagerly and says, “Yeah, thanks so much.”

“The back office is down that hall and to the right,” you gesture. “Walk through, and you’ll find the en suite bathroom. There’s a box of brand new sweatshirts and sweatpants on top of the lockers. And towels. All the folded ones are clean. Just hang the ones you use.” What else might they need? “You should find the essentials in the shower stall, but if you happen to want something more luxurious, I’ve got stuff upstairs. Passionfruit.” 

Hobi looks like he’s going to say something, but Namjoon cuts him off with, “That works just fine. Thanks.”

You laugh. “Good. I was running out.”

“Go first,” Hobi instructs, tossing Namjoon a large, fluffy, cedar-colored towel at the top of the folded stack.

Namjoon fails to catch it. He bends down and picks it up by the corner, quickly bunching the rest of the towel into his hands. “You sure?” he asks. 

Hobi nods. He stands resolutely at the lockers, taking a towel shaded in dark pine for himself and neatly setting the rest of the folded towels back on top. He drapes it over his left shoulder before reaching for the cardboard box next, immediately busying himself with freeing the extra large, beige-colored, JIRISAN PARK RANGERS-labeled sweats from their clear, plastic sleeves. Instead of tearing at the perforation, Hobi claws finger-sized holes in the middle of the bag. His lips are folded into themselves. 

“Everything OK?” Namjoon asks.

Hobi nods quickly. As if to keep things from spilling out of his mouth.

Namjoon reads the striations in the muscles at Hobi’s throat. Strained. But it’s the opposite problem. Hobi’s words flow too easily. They’re collecting at his tonsils. Building up pressure. Threatening to burst at any moment.

Rather than provoke things, Namjoon decides to wait and let Hobi take his time. 

He stands in front of the glass shower stall, inspecting what he has to work with. Admittedly not much, seemingly meant for quick quick rinses after a long day in the wild. But there are glimmers, like little smiles. Tiny, charming twigs, flowers, and leaves gather in the dips of the pearl-and-gold, honeycombed stall floor. The nearby essentials you mentioned have cute touches, though. A bottle of light pink shampoo. A white bar of soap that smells like vanilla. Namjoon smirks to himself at how cottagecore this supposed ranger cabin really is, all the way down to the damp petals in the shower drain.

His white shirt has spent the last few hours clung tightly to his frame, so when Namjoon pulls the sopping fabric off of his body, it almost hurts. Like peeling off a second skin. Bones crack. Muscles flex. Tight fabric squeezes and then releases his nipples. Skin runs cold. And he winces and sucks in a breath at the strange coalescence of sensations.

At the sound of air rushing past Namjoon’s teeth, Hobi glances over. He watches as Namjoon slides his shorts off. Namjoon bends a little easier now that his abs are toned. As he bends, he wobbles less, now that his arms have bulk, his thighs have broadened from stems to trunks, and his ass has split into two firm boulders.

The top of the stall is just level with Namjoon’s eyes. There’s a loud slap of fabric against the glass. Wet clothes, and then the towel, land over the stall wall. Hoisted, swung, and hung.

Hobi clears his throat and feels warmth in his chest, the same warning that came to him on the cliff in the forest. 

The shower turns on.

Hobi blinks and looks forward at the lockers, and then back down to the sweats he’s just freed. 

Keeping his eyes low, he moves toward the sink.

“I’ll set these on the counter for you.”

“Thanks.”

The hinges squeak as the shower door shuts, and Hobi immediately hates that they’ve won his attention. When he looks up into the mirror above the sink, he catches a quick glimpse of Namjoon’s sculpted body covered in a gentle, ivory lather. 

The heat in Hobi’s chest is growing. Spreading. 

Like that creamy lather.

Graceful Hobi nearly trips over his feet as he walks back to the lockers, around the corner from the outer wall of the shower, a block of viridian tile where he can be hidden. Where he can hide. As much as it may surprise those who know him, Hobi prefers it there. If Namjoon is right about Hobi being the unspoken leader, it’s because Hobi has an appreciation for the unspoken.

Even now, fighting that warning in his chest, he chooses to say something quick and light. “I’ll just wait out—”

“What do you think?” Namjoon asks. 

Lifted by the echo off the tile, his warm, deep voice rises to the ceiling, much like the steam floating up from his apparently scalding hot shower.

Confused, Hobi turns toward the stall. He sees the back of Namjoon’s head, covered in pink. It pulls a smirk onto his face. Draws the warning warmth tracing down his skin. Down his arms. Down his core. Down his legs.

His toes tingle.

Hobi shakes his head and reaches for something. Anything. The cardboard box again, pulling another extra large pack of sweats out for himself.

“About what?”

“The ranger,” Namjoon responds.

Hobi’s fingers settle into the holes they’ve already dug into the plastic. “The girl?” 

He appreciates that despite being shrouded in darkness for most of the night, you come to mind easily. A welcome distraction. Welcome even if it didn’t help distract. A heart-shaped face. A heart-filled smile. 

“What else would I be talking about?” Namjoon answers, with a chuckle. “Yeah, the ranger.” 

Hobi stares at his gossamer reflection in the dark tile. Where is he?

After taking in a breath, Hobi sighs, “Our guardian angel.” He sets the cardboard box back on top of the lockers. “We were in deep shit today. Lucky she found us.”

Namjoon grunts. 

After a couple of quick splashes, the shower door swings open. Namjoon steps out, right foot, then left, his entire body dripping water onto the tiny, thin bath mat. He looks over at Hobi, not really rushing, still kind of luxuriating in his warm, scrubbed clean skin. 

Hobi’s eyes are at the ceiling, wide with something like wonder. He’s so expressive that sometimes, he feels like he might be mistaking it for fear.

“She’s pretty,” Namjoon says, eyes lingering on Hobi.

Hobi turns to him and sees Namjoon dead on, stance aimed at him like he’s Namjoon’s target. 

Namjoon’s towel. Namjoon’s other things. Hoisted, swung, and hung.

Flustered, and blushing, Hobi’s neck goes limp, and his head falls forward, chin nearly touching his chest.

Namjoon smirks and pulls the towel from the wall. “So?” Namjoon asks again. “What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Hobi answers. 

He remembers Namjoon wondering about what life would be like if his role were different. If he were different. 

“She’s…” 

Hobi wonders what it would be like if he didn’t depend so literally on his body for expression. 

“…Very pretty…” 

He wonders if the warning heat in his chest is starting to turn his skin red. Maybe like the way the flame in the fireplace made your skin glow. 

At Namjoon’s silence, Hobi looks back up for a verdict, and he feels relieved when he finds that Namjoon’s silence is humored. He watches Namjoon run the towel through his hair, ruffling back and forth. Body gently rippling in response. Namjoon drapes the middle of the towel around his open palm and runs it over his chest. His eyebrows raise a little.

“Are you really thinking about that right now?” Hobi scoffs.

“Aren’t you?” Namjoon teases.

Hobi half-shrugs.

“I mean, we are lucky that she found us,” Namjoon echoes. “But this whole adventure…” Namjoon’s smirk graduates into a smile. “Is it weird to say that I’m kind of enjoying being lost out here with you?”

Hobi laughs in spite of himself. “It’s maybe weird to hear you say it. But it sounds good, coming from you.”

They share a look. Not an uncomfortable one. But a new one. One that neither of them really know what to do with, other than giggle a little. 

Namjoon walks over to the sink to grab his clothes. “OK. I’m done.”

Hobi frowns slightly, watching as Namjoon moves to trade places with him. “You forgot the shower.”

“Figured I’d keep it turned on.” Namjoon’s voice has just a tad of a huskiness when he says it. “Keep it warm for you.”

Hobi keeps his eyes on the ground as he trades places with Namjoon. Once Namjoon disappears behind the wall, Hobi quickly undresses and jumps into the shower stall. He lets the hot water soothe his back and calf muscles, the exhaustion hitting him all at once now that he feels like he’s in a safe place. 

Adrenaline, Hobi remembers. That’s probably why I’m feeling— 

He ignores whatever words were flowing too easily after that and reaches down for the soap, suds collecting quickly as he busies himself by rubbing the bar between his hands. It’s a little dry. 

He wonders if you have any passionfruit lotion up stairs.

“There’s something about her,” Namjoon muses, voice muffled for a moment. 

Hobi guesses that it’s because he’s slipping the sweatshirt on. He doesn’t look at the mirror to confirm. Instead, he turns around to face the shower head, running the bar and suds over his body, heated chest heavier with the added weight of shyness at the thought that both you and Namjoon are thinking about you at the same time. 

He wonders if you’re also showering.

“She seems… sweet,” Namjoon continues, voice changing in orientation. Hobi guesses it’s because he’s pulling his pants on, and when he hears Namjoon hopping a little, Hobi smiles to himself. “And this cabin.”

“It’s nice,” Hobi agrees, biting his lip when he thinks of you by the fire. “Very welcoming.”

Namjoon nods. “Hmm.”

Are you welcoming, they wonder? You have been so far. How much more welcoming can you be?

Hobi runs his soap-covered hands over his arms. Is it the job? You’re not even a fan.

“Seems cool, too,” Namjoon breathes, barely audible above the sprinkling water on the tile. 

“I was gonna say she was hot,” Hobi finds himself saying. 

“Mmmm.” Namjoon’s voice is thick with lust. “Me too.”

Hobi hands travel down to his stomach and sides. What are you cooking? And when did he get so hungry? They move a little slower as they dip down to his hips. He finds himself biting his lip as he makes circles on his lower stomach, just under his belly button. So hungry. 

Maybe you can be his meal.

The thought only exists for the length of time it takes lightning to strike the ground.

Muscle starts to pull taut. Chambers start to fill. Hobi grunts a little, barely able to hang onto the rush.

“Hours,” Namjoon says.

Hobi inhales sharply. Unexpectedly. He peeks over at the mirror to see Namjoon tying the drawstring at his waist. The sweatshirt hem is folded and tucked to his chest by his chin, showing his perfect stomach. 

Hobi dares to run his hand just above the base of his cock, fingers circling, fist dragging down the length.

“Ours?” Hobi repeats slowly, turning away from the mirror. He leans his head back and lets the water fall onto his neck, close to his collarbones. He imagines each droplet is a kiss. From Namjoon. From you. More lightning strikes of thoughts that shouldn’t exist but somehow do.

“Yeah,” Namjoon says. An awed grunt. “Hours.” 

Hobi slides his fist up to the base of his cock again, gripping tighter. 

“You… really… think…?” 

“She said she was searching for hours,” Namjoon says. “Didn’t she?”

Hobi’s eyes fall open. He was just starting to revel in the transformation of that warning warmth into whatever was supposed to be next. When he’s met with the sight of the unfamiliar shower, he hisses at himself.

He glances over at the mirror and sees Namjoon smoothing the sweatshirt over his body before scrunching up his sleeves to the elbow.

Hobi licks his lips before biting down on them. “Ah, yeah.” He unclenches his fist, and, after a moment, he remembers that this is just a shower. “Right.” He shakes his head at himself, moving down to set down the bar of soap, switching it for the bottle of shampoo. “She did.”

Namjoon looks up at the shift in the tone of Hobi’s tone. Why would someone taking a nice, hot shower sound so disappointed?

His eyes wander over to the mirror.

He sees Hobi rising and straightening, starting to reach for his hair. Namjoon watches as Hobi lathers a pink crown into his hair. He always forgets how carved Hobi’s form actually is. His frame gets lost in the baggy, bright clothes he wears. Now, stripped naked, in a little more shadow than light, Namjoon finds himself appreciating the soft curves of Hobi’s plentiful muscles. There’s a painter. Which painter is it? A famous one. His name is on the tip of his slowly moistening tongue, suddenly too big for his mouth, roving over his lips. 

“Crazy, right?” Namjoon asks, voice soft as he watches Hobi pull his hands out of his hair.

Hobi stares at the faucet, vision blurry. His hand reaches out. His voice, still dejected. “Yeah. Crazy.” 

He pulls the handle on the faucet all the way to the right. 

The water runs ice cold.

It turns out that you are extremely welcoming.

Namjoon half-wanted to sit at the table with mismatched chairs for the aesthetic thrill alone, but he forgets about the table completely when he and Hobi walk back into the living room to find plates and plates of food on the giant ottoman in the center, and you sliding that slice of pear past your lips, the small knife in your fingers catching the fireplace flame in its blade.

Hobi’s eyes rove over your body, stretched out across the couch. Oversized cardigan. T-shirt tucked into cotton shorts that are a little too big for you. Drawstring tied tight against your waist. He thinks of Namjoon’s drawstring. His lips get itchy, and he chooses to soothe them with his tongue.

“What’s all this?” Namjoon asks, as he and Hobi look down at the ottoman. 

You look up from the fire, his gentle voice guiding you away from your thoughts. 

They stand angled in toward each other, looking down at you, the glow from the fire dancing across their soft and earnest expressions of appreciation.

“Oh,” you say, smiling and sitting up. “No big deal. I just didn’t know what you might want, so I kinda prepared some of everything that I had.”

Cheese, ham, nuts, and crackers. Grapes, dates, pears, and apples. Slices of bread, and slices of roast beef, both made the day before. Three heaping, steaming bowls of chicken noodle soup that you warmed. Three neat slices of chocolate cake. 

“There’s more in the kitchen, if you want,” you say. “Cake’s store-bought.” Your eyes fall a little. “It’s just OK.”

Namjoon smiles and huddles up with a bowl of soup on the couch across from you. “Thank you so much,” he sighs. He lifts the spoon to his lips and groans with pleasure at the delicious taste warming him from within.

Hobi sits on the floor next to him, sighing as he stretches his legs in an impressively open V on the floor. He reaches out for some grapes and pops them into his mouth. They’re so crisp and juicy that when his teeth break the skin, you hear a crunch, and then a squelch, and then a long, satisfied moan.

They look at each other, smirking.

Namjoon turns back to you, and Hobi smiles fondly at his profile. 

“Seriously, thank you,” Namjoon repeats. “For everything.”

“It’s my job.” You grin. “Just glad I could help.”

A rumble of thunder startles Hobi, and Namjoon turns to watch the shiver travel through Hobi’s body. “

Bellies fill quickly. And so does the room, with your enthralled conversation. You learn of how, by the time Hobi and Namjoon had reached the trail leading back down, the rain had picked up considerably. The miserably tenebrous clouds appeared out of nowhere, as if someone had just flipped a switch. By the time they got to the bottom of the trail, they had lost so much light.

“And my phone,” Namjoon explains. “I must’ve lost it on the way down.”

“Mine too,” Hobi replies. “Though that was later, when I guess we were heading to the ridge?”

“You don’t know how close you were to getting stranded,” you say cautiously. “One flash flood, and you might’ve been stuck at the top of that ridge for god knows how long.”

They exchange nervous glances. 

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t mean to— It’s just—” You take a breath. “Here. Take the edge off. If you want.”

You reach into your cardigan pocket and pull out your vape pen. You really should’ve given it to them before the meal.

Namjoon and Hobi exchange glances again, this time, of intrigue.

“Doubly lucky you found us, then,” Namjoon says, leaning forward for the pen and making you and Hobi chuckle.

“How did you find us?” Hobi asks.

You watch as Namjoon takes a long drag and releases it toward the ceiling. 

“Your friend called headquarters,” you reply, watching . “I just kept doing bigger circles around the area.” You raise your eyebrows. “Good thing you let him know where you were.”

Namjoon nods. “We had just talked to him,” he replies. His eyes flicker over to Hobi. “They’ve been to that gorge before.”

“Your boss called him ‘insufferable’?” Hobi asks hopefully, wanting the tea.

You just smirk. “Important thing is that you’re both safe and sound,” you reply.

“True.” Hobi leans back on the sofa. He closes his eyes and sighs. Namjoon watches Hobi’s chest rise and fall.

When Hobi opens his eyes again, he’s surprised to see that Namjoon has slid down onto the floor next to him. Their sides touch. They lean into each other. Comfortable. Warm.

“What were you doing out there, anyway?” you ask.

“We ended up on the trail by accident, actually,” Namjoon admits. “When we realized, we just decided to keep going.”

“Dangerous,” you muse. And then you grin. “Though, most good things are, I suppose.”

Namjoon watches you with dark, hazy eyes as he hands Hobi the pen. Hobi hits it as Namjoon reaches for a grape. Chews. Swallows. Adam’s apple bobs up and down, Hobi paying it rapt attention.

You know because you’re giving the same kind of attention to both of them. It’s been so long since you’ve entertained anybody. Time spent with people just hasn’t been as valuable to you as watching the sun rise over the mountains. As Hobi lets his adoring smile grow, you consider how wondrous it is that you’re getting the same sunrise while on your couch, in the middle of the night.

When they both turn to you, you realize you’re leaning forward in your seat, elbows on your knees. Your shirt has fallen a little, exposing a little more of your chest. Hobi’s lips feel itchy again, so he drags his tongue across them. Namjoon lets out a tiny hum.

You slide down to the floor. They look bigger from this angle. You’ve been high for a while. Everything feels so fuzzy.

“I guess I meant what brought you to the park in the first place,” you clarify. You bring your knees to your chest. “Your backpack.” They follow your tentative gaze to the backpack by the door. “Based on your supplies, I take it you’re not avid hikers.”

Though a simple “no” or “yes” should suffice, neither of them seem to know how to answer this question. 

“S-sorry,” you say. “I don’t mean to pry.” 

“It’s OK,” Hobi decides, nodding at Namjoon’s crinkled eyebrows. “We kind of just needed to get away from all the craziness.”

Namjoon nods slowly. “Recenter. Things have been crazy, planning for the tour.”

“Tour?” you ask.

Trying to erase the moment, Hobi quickly blinks at Namjoon, who seems to be a little tense. Disappointed in himself. Disappointed that he’s disappointed Hobi. Disappointed in a way that suggests that he disappoints people like this often.

But Hobi just shrugs. “Yeah. Tour.” 

No harm, no foul. After all, they did almost die today.

He turns to you and grins again. “We’re, uh, in a band.”

“Ohhh,” you say. “Is that why you asked if I knew you?” You smile. “Are you famous?” you joke.

You’re glad they think you’re funny, but the guffaws start to make you feel self-conscious. How long has it been since you moved to the mountains?

“Apparently not,” Namjoon says, grinning at you.

You laugh nervously. “I mean, I’m not exactly a great barometer of these things…” 

They smile fondly at you. You’re so cute.

“Wait, are you??” you demand.

Namjoon and Hobi look at each other a lot. Constantly checking in. Two halves of a brain.

“We have a few fans, yes,” Hobi replies, slowly turning back to you.

You close your eyes. You leave them closed for just a moment. You see tour buses, and diner stops, and packed venues, and crowds of people singing along to a song that Namjoon and Hobi are leading. 

You stretch, imagining your body in the throng.

Namjoon’s head tilts as he watches your back arch. Hobi’s tongue darts out in front of a gulped breath. 

Eyes opening, you look between them. “Needed a break from work?”

“From people,” Namjoon answers.

“Industry people,” Hobi clarifies. “Wanted to go to a place where they can't tempt us with their lies.”

You nod. “Double talk.” You sigh. “Second-guessing.”

“Yes,” Namjoon stresses. He wonders how you know. What life you led before this that taught you.

Hobi smiles and rubs the back of Namjoon’s head. Namjoon hasn’t noticed it as much, now that he’s full and comfortable. But his head still is throbbing. Still unconsciously working out the words that will go on the page. Need to go on the page. Soon. 

Namjoon leans back into Hobi’s touch, letting out a low murmur at his massaging fingers. Hobi cuddles him from behind. His free arm slips around Namjoon’s waist. Namjoon takes it and hugs it to his chest, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth before letting his jaw hang open again and Hobi’s magic fingers.

“Was just saying how nice it was, being lost out here,” Namjoon says quietly.

Hobi looks at you. “Outside of work, we don’t get to do what we want to do very often.” 

His fingers slow, still massaging, but with a different rhythm. A different meaning behind it. Whatever it is sends Namjon’s eyes rolling back into his head. 

You bite your lip. “You burn bright, you burn out.”

Namjoon nods to Hobi’s rhythm. “We’ve got no stamina,” he observes.

“I don’t know about that,” you reflect.

Namjoon’s eyes open a little, and suddenly, he looks so eager. 

“The storm. How far you made it in that rain, with no supplies. No assistance. I’m impressed you kept moving,” you admit. “The stamina that had to have taken…”

Your eyes search along the mountains that Hobi and Namjoon’s bent legs make. Soft cotton ridges and valleys. Knees at the peak.

What would it be like to watch the sun rise from there? Nestled in Namjoon’s lap? Hobi’s fingers stroking your hair? Other things?

“But I get it,” you say quickly, blinking.

“You do?” Namjoon asks.

“I mean, I basically left society,” you point out.

“Then, where do you go?” Namjoon asks. He furrows his brow. “Y’know. To escape.”  

You grin and gesture for the pen, which Hobi hands back to you with a giggle.

As you take a drag, their eyes gaze at your mouth. Lips plump and puckering. Throat wolfing. Tongue licking the corner before releasing the vapor from a hit you weren’t meaning to be so strong.

Your mind drifts in the ensuing mist. Photoshoots. Security. Schedules. Suitcases. Hotel rooms. Groupies. 

You bring your knees down and criss-cross your legs under you. “What’s it like?” you ask, leaning forward and finding their eyes again.

“Busy. Chaotic.” Namjoon shrugs a little, his shoulder digging into Hobi’s chest. You think you see Hobi bite his lip at the nudge, and his fingers flex a little harder into Namjoon’s scalp on their next pass. A low, long, contemplative grunt rumbles from Namjoon’s throat, and then he adds, “But kind of lonely.”

“Seems like you’re surrounded by people all the time,” you reply.

“It’s a different kind of loneliness,” Hobi agrees. His eyes scan Namjoon’s hairline. “We’re waited on, hand and foot.” He notices a stray thread. “But we have other kinds of needs.” Hobi’s lips form a circle, and a gentle breath lifts the thread into the air. Namjoon shivers at the feeling. 

They’re both watching you in silence.

You don’t realize what you’re doing until your hand is in the middle of your chest. “Oh.” Instead of continuing the journey to wherever your hand was traveling to next, you grab at both panels of your cardigan and scrunch them together. Closed. 

Namjoon’s eyes wander down your body, pupils following every possible trail that your hand might’ve taken. Imagining them there. Imagining the next.

Hobi stares into your eyes. Thinking. He glances down at Namjoon, still busy with his daydreams. He smiles a little, before looking back up at you. “Do you ever feel lonely?” he asks, licking his lips. 

You’re starting to sweat. 

“Yes…” Your eyes barely widen. A flinch. Hobi doesn’t miss it. “But, to be honest, I think I felt loneliest when I lived in the city.” 

Namjoon’s eyes have stopped, glued to the button just under your fist. He rolls his lips in, then out, almost chewing them from the inside. 

You tilt your head and smile a little. Just a small smile.

You let your fist unfurl, and your cardigan loosens. Mirroring it, Namjoon’s mouth hangs slightly open.

“All that talking,” you reflect, looking back at Hobi. “No one really saying anything.”

Hobi nods. And grins. Happy that you understand.

You run your hand from the bend at your knee, caressing your thigh, nails curved where your calf meets the underside, up to the hem of your shorts. You grab at your flesh a little, taking in a small breath.

Namjoon starts forward, but Hobi’s arm keeps him in place. Not forever. Just… not yet. He starts to run his hand over Namjoon’s chest in slow circles, paralleling the motions of his fingers in Namjoon’s hair.

Namjoon moans and stretches back. Hobi watches Namjoon’s hips twisting slowly. 

The heat blooms in Hobi’s chest. But this time, it feels less like a warning, and more like a signal.

Namjoon’s heavy eyes struggle to latch onto Hobi’s.

“What about now?” Hobi asks, tense. He looks over at you, and Namjoon’s gaze follows. “Do you like what… we’re saying?”

You gulp that small breath down. Hobi likes the sound of your lungs rattling to catch the next one.

Hobi’s voice sounds a little more like Namjoon’s now. Like it’s coming from a deeper layer unknown to anyone else. Almost sinister. “Do you feel… lonely… with… us?”

Your hair tickles your neck when you shake your head no. Your hand twists the hem of your shorts into a circle. The waistband dips down a bit.

Hobi looks down at Namjoon and smirks at his hungry pout.

Hobi’s hand stops in the middle of Namjoon’s stomach, squeezing the muscle there fondly. And then, Hobi leans forward. He whispers something. You aren’t sure what, but the corner of his mouth wickedly snarls behind the shell of Namjoon’s ear.

And then Namjoon turns his hips, lying on the ground near your legs. You’re closer to each other than you’d realized. Pulled together by circumstance. By survival, and by duty. Pulled together by your fireside confessions. 

Namjoon looks down at your hand, nestled between your calf and thigh. He props himself up with his elbow and, while holding your gaze, he lowers his head and kisses the space between your thumb and forefinger on that hand. 

Your watch, riveted, as Namjoon kisses up your arm, grunting and moving slightly quicker as he gets closer to your body. Soon, he’s pressing your lips on the spot where your hand was resting on your chest. And then he’s pressing his tongue there, the fabric of your t-shirt moistening against your skin. His breath is so warm.

“Mmm,” you hum. Breathe in. Breathe out. How long has it been since someone has cured you of your loneliness?

Namjoon looks up at you with just his eyes. You feel him tug on your cardigan, the seam bulging on your shoulders. He smirks. “Think we need some help here.”

You feel Hobi brush past you, sitting behind you and resting his back on the couch you had abandoned. His legs surround you. And his hands reach around you, taking the undone collar of your cardigan and pulling it down off of your frame.

Namjoon and Hobi’s hands meet in the crooks of your elbows. They tickle each other playfully, chuckling with each other, and making you chuckle along. And then Namjoon slips his fingers under your sleeves. At the feel of skin on skin, you inhale sharply. It almost burns.

HIs fingers lightly travel down your forearms, helping you discard the cardigan altogether. There’s a rustle, and you see it crumple and fall to the side. 

Namjoon, crouched in front of you, presses his lips onto your collarbones, just above the neck of your shirt. He sucks and kisses eagerly, a trail of spit dripping down to meet where he had planted his first kiss. 

His hands grip your thighs at the hem of your shorts. You straighten out, around Namjoon’s knelt form. He sidles into you, and you angle slightly up, making room for him between your legs. As he caresses you with his lips, his hands land on your thighs, squeezing them before ambling down to your knees, and then up again, sliding into the cuffed legs of your baggy shorts. Everything is soft, from his touch, to your skin, to the fuzzy cotton grazing you both as he moves.

You lean back. Hobi’s shoulder is underneath you. His neck cushions your temple. His hands find your hips, and his wrists rest on your waistband, fingers undoing the knot that has shifted slightly left in your squirming. He revels in the scent of passionfruit. 

You’re surrendering. You feel uneasy. You may hide. From people. In this cabin. But you never surrender.

“Up here. Tucked away. You needed this,” Hobi murmurs into your ear. “Just like we did. I can feel it. Your body… is so… tight…” 

He clutches your waist with his fingers, and his thumbs dig into your back. Kneading into you. Undoing knots that were tied there over years and years.

“Find out how tight she really is,” Hobi tells Namjoon.

At the command, Namjoon’s hands slide all the way up your shorts. His right thumb stretches out, separating from the rest of his fingers. It rests on top of your underwear, tapping your flesh softly. “Good?” he asks you, his lips still touching the base of your neck.

When was the last time you were good?

You nod eagerly.

He continues massaging your collarbones and neck with his lips and tongue. He lets out a little grunt when he presses his thumb into the cotton of your panties, running up and down your clothed slit. 

You whine, moving your hips in response to him, Hobi grunting when you move your ass back into him.

Hobi turns his head, tucking your forehead into him with his jaw. “Well?” he asks.

“She’s wet,” Namjoon mumbles, your syrup quickly drenching the fabric and coming for his thumb next.

Hobi chuckles. “Nice to know. But not what I asked.”

Namjoon looks up at him, and though you can’t see Hobi, you know they’re sharing a smirk.

Namjoon’s thumb circles your clit, and you let out a whimper. The pitch rises as he slides it under your panties. It thickens in volume as he burrows between your lips and slides toward your entrance. And it becomes a full, thrilled moan when he pushes it into your cunt.

“Shiiiit,” he hisses. He’s only a thumbnail deep.

He looks up at Hobi with wonder. 

“Mmm,” Hobi purrs, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone. “That’s what I thought.”

Hobi runs his hands up your body, and you realize that your hips are moving so much freer now that he has loosened you there. You wonder what will happen when his hands reach your breasts, delighted to find that the answer is jolts of pleasure running like shockwaves through your body as he massages you, your nipples caught between those skillful fingers just in Namjoon’s hair.

“C’mon Namjoon,” Hobi says playfully. “Open her up. See what’s inside.”

Namjoon grunts as he grabs your ass and pulls you down. He yanks your shorts off of you, and then your ruined panties, nearly tossing them into the fire in his haste. When he lies on his stomach and buries his mouth in you, you feel like you’ve been thrown in as well.

“Ooohhh,” you whimper, sounding worried. “Hmmm, god—AH!”

You squeal when Namjoon clamps down around your clit, sucking harshly. There was nowhere for you to go. Met with something like that, a force of nature. You had to come. You had to bend. You shiver, each jostle sharp against your bones.

“Slow,” Hobi tells Namjoon. “Give her time.”

You look over to Hobi and wonder how your brain has taken human form and existed outside of your body without you knowing.

Namjoon pauses, holding your clit in his lips, and looking up at you. Your furrowed brow. Your crinkled nose. Your bottom lip white where you’re biting down so hard that you might chew through.

“But she looks so good like this,” Namjoon whines, voice muffled by your throbbing orb.

“Slow,” Hobi repeats, chuckling. “Trust me.”

Hobi lets your left breast go and places his index finger under your chin. He lifts it toward him and pulls you into a sweet, soft kiss. Your cheeks hollow with each stretch of your jaw, neck tensing as you taste more of Hobi, relaxing when he pulls away, and intensifying as you draw him in again. Moon pulling the tide.

Namjoon sighs and heeds his order. You start to feel more. Better. His tongue, swishing and circling. His lips forming the perfect seal. His tonsils flexing as he sucks with just the right amount of force. And then, deliciously, his finger. Fingers. Pressing into you. Helping you open up even more.

You need something to hold onto. 

One hand slips onto the back of Namjoon’s neck, curved fingers raking up and down as Namjoon moves against you.

The other hand slips behind you, reaching for Hobi’s waistband. He wiggles his hips to help you slide inside, and then he scoops up to help you release him. You feel the pant legs fall away as you free him, and you start to pump him. Close-fisted. Lazy.

“Yessss,” Hobi hisses.

You and Namjoon tear yourselves away from the moment to see his reaction. He looks so serious. Mouth slightly angled down in a frown. Eyes squeezed shut. 

“Keep going,” he mumbles, sensing that you’ve both stopped.

You and Namjoon lock gazes before he dips down inside of you again, pumping his fingers into you even faster, and starting to suck harder now that your clit is blushing and bright.

Sticky. Your hand gets wetter and stickier as you pump Hobi harder and harder, his hips rising to meet your wrist, and your hand falling to meet it back. Faster, too. Double-time, still within measure, but cramming as much as you can between each wonderful note.

“So good,” Hobi whimpers.

You run your thumb over his slit on the next pass.

“Ahh,” Hobi whines, “fuck, yes, so, so, good…”

Namjoon grunts, and you look down to see him. Hobi feels you turn your neck, and he follows your gaze. Namjoon’s still buried in your flesh, but he’s twisted his hips so that he can pump his cock into his own hand, the waistband of his sweats caught in the bend of his knees. The slurps he’s having of you are mixing with the squelches of his own, both punctuated by notes crisp on the end of every movement.

Your head snaps right. Your teeth find Hobi’s neck. You latch on.

“She’s gonna come,” Hobi tells Namjoon urgently. “Keep going.”

Namjoon nods. You feel the tip of his nose, and then not, against your clit. He makes sure to press up on each outward slide of his fingers, moving quicker and quicker as you open your legs wider and wider.

You’re trembling. You’re trembling, no matter how soothing Namjoon’s other hand is on your thigh, or how careful Hobi caresses your breasts under your shirt. You’re trembling, and then you’re flailing, as sweet release befalls you.

All you can do is moan.

Hobi whispers as you come. Some are orders. Stay open. Take your time. Some are words of encouragement. You come so well. So hard. 

You’re reeling. Going limp. 

Hobi grabs the hem of your shirt and tugs upward. Namjoon sits up and releases his pulsating cock to hold your arms up. The shirt comes off easily enough, but Namjoon seems to be grappling with something.

“No bra?” he mumbles. “This whole time?”

Hobi smiles at the secret he’s kept for himself and shakes his head.

“Fuck,” Namjoon sighs, eyes deepening at the sight of your tits.

You keen as Namjoon is pulled there, burying himself in you, licking and sucking one nipple as Hobi plays with the other.

Arms keep getting in the way. Namjoon finally gathers your wrists together and locks them behind Hobi’s neck. 

“Tell me how it feels,” Hobi instructs Namjoon, as Namjoon claws his way out of all of his clothes. “Tell me every single detail.”

Namjoon falls to his knees and wraps your legs around his hips. He pushes into you with a shallow stroke, face scrunching at how you’re still such a warm, tight fit.

“Tell me,” Hobi reminds him.

“Wet,” Namjoon says uneasily. “T-tight. Fuck. Warm.” He whines. “I barely fit.”

Hobi grunts and kisses your shoulder. His left forearm is around your breasts, squeezing you to him. The other is reaching down for your clit, softly massaging around it to help you ease down, and get ready for what’s to come. He repositions his legs around you, laying his thighs over yours, forming a mould and pattern for you to follow. A flat diamond on the ground. Hobi moves so that he can hold you open, the backs of his knees pinning you down.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Namjoon sighs, pushing into you with a little more ease, and with a little less resistance from you.

As Namjoon fucks you, your fingers threaten to unclasp from Hobi’s neck. Hobi raises his arm, wrist in your armpit, pinning your arms up and freeing your breasts, letting them sway and jiggle with each of Namjoon’s perfect, deep strokes. They watch them bounce. Namjoon switches up his strokes to see them move in different patterns. When he hits you with a slow, hard stroke, they watch as your breasts move in full, round circles. 

“God that’s gorgeous,” Hobi mutters, keeping his open mouth pressed to your cheek.

Namjoon straightens and rises, starting to lean back into his strokes.

You whimper, and Hobi knows to rub your clit with a little more pressure.

“She’s killing me,” Namjoon whines, eyebrows raised. He looks into your unfocused eyes. “Do you have any fucking idea?”

You let out a chuckle and a half-smile. You open your eyes, big and soft, almost adoring. “Sweet,” you coo, bringing Namjoon’s dimples to the surface.

“Cute.” Hobi runs his tongue across your cheek and draws his lips together for a smacking kiss. “You can give him one more, can’t you?” he teases, peeking at Namjoon through your hair. His voice. Sing-song. “I can help.”

You groan as Hobi wraps his fingers around your clit, so prominent now against the rest of you. “Mmmmmm.” Hobi gives you mini-strokes to match Namjoon’s full ones. 

Soon, you’re trembling again. 

You turn to Hobi, open-mouthed, panting. He secures your lips in a deep kiss, holding you as still as he can as Namjoon thrusts into you, rails into you, gives it to you as hard as he was ready to give in the beginning.

You can hear the fire crackling in the fireplace. It sounds like everything is crackling like that, as your orgasm runs through you, sending you falling back into Hobi’s hold.

“Look at the way she rolls,” Namjoon sighs. He lifts his bulging bicep up to his forehead to wipe away his sweat. “Like waves in the ocean.” 

Hobi knows. He can’t see you from Namjoon’s vantage point, but he feels you rolling against him, riding wave after wave. The word wiggles its way out of his throat. “Sexy.”

“So sexy,” Namjoon agrees.

You can feel Hobi, too. He’s had to keep his wits about him all this time. It’s his turn now.

He wasn’t expecting one. You look back to Hobi and offer him an appreciative kiss, but he feels confused when you break it too soon and rush up off his chest. The cool air is unwelcome.

“Is everything OK?” he asks.

He and Namjoon look so puzzled. 

You giggle.

You can’t speak. Not really. Not until morning, you guess. But all you really need to do is wiggle your hips in front of Hobi, looking back at him with an equally playful grin, before leaning forward to Namjoon’s still solid cock, grazing it with your lips.

Namjoon looks over at Hobi questioningly.

“Fuck, you sure?” Hobi asks. Namjoon watches as Hobi’s eyes round the circumference of your perfect ass.

You take Namjoon’s cock into your mouth. Namjoon’s meaty, thick moan is your yes.

Namjoon falls back, couch sliding away a little in its initial inability to support him. Hobi scrambles forward, stroking his cock at the same pace you had been, before tracing your entrance with the tip. You move your hips in the opposite direction, clockwise to his counter. Circling each other before the inevitable clash.

Your tongue wraps around Namjoon’s shaft, tongue tracing veins up from the base all the way to his crown. And his hand cradles your crown as you gobble his entire package up. The seam. The tip. The stretches of muscle and tissue between. 

Hobi feels sharper than Namjoon, head slightly more bladed. Or maybe Namjoon’s blunter tip is a reflection of how swollen he’d gotten with all of that massaging. Namjoon moves his fingers in slow circles in your hair, just like Hobi had done. You’re glad. You had been wondering what it felt like. It’s divine.

Your sharp hiss echoes down Namjoon’s cock when Hobi is finally fully inside.

Hobi gives you a slap, and you keen, tonsils buzzing against Namjoon’s tip.

“You really weren’t kidding,” Hobi sighs. “So tight and wet. Unreal.” He closes his eyes and faces the ceiling, hips pausing to let your fluttering cunt readjust, squeezing in slightly different places, releasing in others. Once he’s nice and snug, Hobi grunts and starts to move, his powerful thrust sending the top of your head into Namjoon’s gut.

“Go faster,” Namjoon says eagerly, gathering your hair into a ponytail. “She clenches so nicely here when you get her like that.”

“Here too,” Hobi admits, voice gravelly and strained.

He takes the suggestion, whipping his hips, giving you a little more bite. That raw, inescapable energy lays you out, flat against the floor, ass up, face buried even deeper in Namjoon’s lap.

The painting finally comes to Namjoon’s mind. He needed more shadow than the en suite bathroom light could give him at the time. But now, here. Bathed in that firelight red. The way he’s curved toward you. That fair, smooth, lean muscle. A Caravaggio. His take on John the Baptist. Hobi might as well be leaping out of the frame as he fucks you.

Namjoon moans as he pours himself into you, streams running down the canals of your throat, chest and belly growing fuller.

You gasp as you release him, moaning in response to how seductive Namjoon’s moans are, and how good Hobi is giving it to you.

Namjoon tries to catch his breath as he slides under you, kissing you fiercely, all over your body, at your lips, your neck, your shoulders, your chest. Especially your chest. He holds you steady with his large, strong hands as he sucks on your nipples, nibbling and biting here and there, a snack for him to enjoy as he watches Hobi masterfully pumping in and out of you with the expertise he’s only really seen on the dance floor.

“Fuck!” you cry out, when Hobi changes to a mean piston stroke. Your head hangs forward and nearly bonks into Namjoon’s skull. Namjoon runs his thumb, the first of him to enter you, over your lips, watching them fill and plump, this way, and that. You suck on him, and he leans forward to kiss you.

He brings your wrists up from the floor and helps you hoist yourself up on his shoulders. You lean down onto him, but his seemingly steel frame doesn’t budge, no matter the amount of force that Hobi throws into each stroke.

As you stroke Namjoon’s chest, you bite your lip and look back at Hobi desperately.

Your pussy is sweltering. Quivering. Threatening to buckle.

Hobi leans down to give you a kiss on your back. 

His hands brush against Namjoon’s shoulders. And then his palms settle there too, next to yours.

Namjoon places his hands on top, all of you intertwining fingers with each other to hang on, to grasp this moment with everything that you have left.

From Namjoon, you get mesmerizing, adoring kisses. Hobi continues to rail and wail. The perfect mix of sweet and sexy. Hobi and Namjoon are thinking the same thing about you.

Hobi’s hands grip your hips, and his stutter stroke sends you flying forward.

Whimpers crescendo into roars as you come around his cock. The ultimate release. You feel your juices surging out of you. You swear you can feel Namjoon’s load somehow dripping out of you too. You want to tell them, but all you can do is rest your head against Namjoon’s, foreheads pressed together, your hands squeezing each other tight as you try to stay perfect for Hobi.

Hobi’s grunts have gotten weaker and weaker, more and more of his energy going into every insatiable thrust he’s directed into your pussy. 

Eyes screwed shut, Hobi isn’t sure if he can keep going. 

He looks down at the small of your back and presses his thumbs into the dimples above your ass. He realizes he’s rubbed your ass and back red and raw, and he’s starting to worry that he’s gone too hard. That he’s still going too hard, given how strongly you’ve just come, and how sensitive you must be.

But he can’t stop. He needs to come. 

He searches along your back frantically until he sees where your arms are. Hoisted up on Namjoon’s shoulders. Namjoon’s eyes peering up at him in wonder as he Namjoon gives you soft kisses along your jaw, your hair outlining his nose and lips in profile.

Namjoon smiles into the next sweet, beguiling kiss that he presses right under your earlobe. 

And then he stretches his tongue out, licking you there.

When you groan, Hobi finally, finally, feels everything coming undone.

When you wake, you notice that Hobi and Namjoon are still, set against slight plinks of rain falling on the tin roof of the shed out back, and warm, relaxed, sleeping breaths as you lie, safe, there, in each others’ arms.

No one’s awake when Namjoon and Hobi tiptoe through the front door. Their parallel scans of the room reap the same information. The group had tried to stay up all night in case they received any word on their missing members. Upon waking, Jin will most likely immediately complain about the crick in his neck, after sleeping upright at one end of the couch, head bent back 90 degrees back, his phone, dead, lying next to it where it rests on the top of the cushion. 

The others will probably have similar complaints. Jungkook snores loudly, taking up the entire length of the couch, his head in Jin’s lap, heavy limbs slung all over the place. Jimin and Taehyung are curled up in one another on the other couch, sharing a blanket from Hobi’s room. Yoongi is stiff and still, stomach down on the floor, face buried in a throw pillow, headphones hiding his cheeks.

“Should we wake them?” Namjoon whispers.

Hobi shakes his lead. “Let them sleep. They must be tired.”

He moves toward his room, but Namjoon reaches out for him.

“I won’t be able to sleep,” Namjoon complains in a whisper.

Hobi sets their backpack by the door to signal that they’re home, safe and sound.

And then, he follows Namjoon to his room.

Namjoon immediately strips off his sweatshirt and sweatpants, bounding into bed in nothing but his boxers. He lies on his side, simply reaching out for Hobi to join him.

Hobi watches him for a moment. That arm blindly feeling around. Rather than fight it, he strips down to his boxers and climbs into Namjoon’s bed. He’s surprised when Namjoon takes Hobi’s arm and wraps it around himself. 

Namjoon so rarely gets to be the little spoon. 

“Not quite ready for things to go back to normal yet,” he explains, despite the lack of pressure to give one, and the lack of need for one at all.

Hobi settles into Namjoon’s back. Namjoon’s muscles are already tightening again. Taking on the stress. Absorbing what he thinks everyone will say when they wake up.

They don’t have much time.

“Relax,” Hobi whispers. 

Namjoon sighs, frustrated.

But the breath comes easier when Hobi rests the inside of his knee on the outside of Namjoon’s. 

“What’s got you pent up again, anyway?” Hobi asks. “We’re home.”

“Wanted to stay longer,” Namjoon mumbles. “Wanted… more.”

Hobi smiles to himself. Warmth floods his chest. Not just from the inside. He can feel it in Namjoon’s chest too, from the place where Namjoon is so tightly pressing Hobi’s palm into him.

“We can have more,” Hobi dares to whisper. 

Namjoon grunts softly, moving Hobi’s palm in a circle.

Hobi’s other hand slips between Namjoon’s hips and the mattress. As Namjoon rolls back into him to give Hobi’s arm space, he sighs softly. Happily.

Hobi’s fingers reach for Namjoon’s waking length, pulling it out of the front of his boxers. Hobi thinks of his own grip on himself in your shower. How maybe, if he had held on, they would have gotten more.

Namjoon grunts nervously as Hobi’s fingers circle his shaft.

“I can always give you more,” Hobi whispers.

Namjoon’s head lolls forward as Hobi slowly strokes all the way down, his palm cushioning and rotating around the flushed, thick tip. Namjoon has been struggling for weeks, but none of that compares to the struggle of trying to keep his wanton moans buried. This is what it feels like when things come easily. Namjoon’s grateful for Hobi’s reminder. He could write a million songs, right now.

Hobi’s hand loosens as he drags his fist up Namjoon’s cock, but then it tightens again as he travels back down.

Namjoon’s hips start to pump, and Hobi squeezes his fist as he sighs into the crook of Namjoon’s neck.

“Fuck,” Namjoon gasps. “So good.”

Hobi agrees, grunts pushing past one another in his throat.

He looks down at their bodies meeting, colliding. His own need is starting to pulse in time to the rhythm that he’s so selflessly giving. Namjoon can feel it. So he reaches back and hooks the crook of his elbow into the bend of Hobi’s knee.

When Namjoon turns back to Hobi, hoping it’s enough to send him the message that he wants to send, Hobi blinks in surprise.

All it takes is Namjoon’s heavy-lidded, slight, sure nod, but he licks his lips slowly for good measure.

Hobi grunts and angles himself to spread around Namjoon’s broad body, and at the feel of the tip of Hobi’s cock by his ass, Namjoon starts to pump even faster into Hobi’s hand. 

“You want it bad, huh?” Hobi chuckles.

“So bad.” Namjoon moans, throwing his hips back, desperate for more than just the taste of Hobi’s tip between his cheeks. “When I watched you fucking her, I…” 

He lets himself growl. 

“I—”

“—I know,” Hobi confesses. It feels good to confess. “Me too.”

Hobi bites his lip and slides inside. Namjoon is losing the battle against the grunts and groans, but Hobi’s free hand, no longer on Namjoon’s waist, cups Namjoon’s mouth with a slight slap, landing in the nick of time.

He looks so pained, but gloriously so. Not that different from when the responsibilities and obligations enter his mind.

Cheeky, Hobi thinks. Maybe Namjoon enjoys his torture more than he lets on.

Hobi thrusts even harder, entering Namjoon fully and feeling Namjoon’s tongue start to lick his fingers from inside the cage his hand has made around his mouth. A shuddering breath escapes Hobi’s lips as he bends down to Namjoon’s shoulder. When he bites down, Namjoon wants nothing more than to howl in response.

Everything’s mixing together. The sound of raindrops on your shed is cutting through the early morning city traffic.

Namjoon squeezes Hobi’s thigh, the defined line there perfect for him to hang onto. Hobi twists a little, torso no longer flush against Namjoon’s back now that he feels that it has softened, giving way to the moment.

Hobi pulls back even more, the angle of his thrusting getting deeper and deepering.

Namjoon whimpers warningly, gripping Hobi’s thigh harder, nails digging into flesh. Interesting, the impulse to tear things apart. To ask to be torn apart in return. 

When Hobi quickens his pace, Namjoon shakes Hobi’s hand off of his face and recaptures his fingers in his lips, starting to suck frantically.

Hobi stares at Namjoon’s head bobbing forward and backward, hungry little grunts escaping each time the tips of his fingers dance close to Namjoon’s throat. What might it feel like if Namjoon’s lips were wrapped around something else of his? Is it too late to find out?

“Fuck,” Hobi breathes, skin slapping skin faster and faster.

A crackling moan buzzes through Namjoon’s flexing tonsils, pushing Hobi’s fingers away and out of his mouth. Quiet, but pressured. Forceful. 

Namjoon turns to latch onto Hobi’s wrist, resting against the pillow. He licks and sucks there, nibbling as he rides the wave that each spurt of cum tugs forward from him. 

His hand reaches back for Hobi’s ass, fondling and grabbing as it works against him. He smiles with pride when he clenches, and Hobi’s smooth stroke starts to waver.

One more clench, and Hobi feels like he’s imploding. Plumes and plumes of cum fly out of him. He feels like he’s being turned inside out. His bones and joints ache.

When the room stops spinning, Hobi and Namjoon find sleep happily awaiting them again.

Hobi runs his hand up Namjoon’s side. “This ‘more’ that you want,” he whispers. “It’s not ‘more’ at all. It isn’t hard to give. Just ask.” And then he smiles. “Thank you.”

Namjoon startles. “What— I’m the one who should be thanking you,” he asserts.

He rolls over and finds himself gazing, actually gazing, into Hobi’s precious eyes. 

“What are you thanking me for?”

“For everything,” Hobi whispers. “For being our leader.” He places his hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. “For everything you carry.” His hand runs down to Namjoon’s solid chest, still panting from exertion. Namjoon’s hand wraps around his, squeezing with appreciation. “For setting it all down and coming away with me.”

Namjoon’s smile sparkles. He’s returned to his true form, the leader they know and love.

It’s all the satisfaction Hobi needs from a job well done.

But he just as much welcomes the unexpected way that Namjoon leans forward and wraps Hobi’s lips in his. More words, the last ones still pent up, being shared now, before dawn breaks, and the world reclaims them.

BTS moments i think about a lot:

When jk replied to Jins text after a month (a mood tbh) with "ok i understand" and jin was like "what does this kid understand-"

hobi almost fainting of laughter after seeing jimins new haircut

listen , namjoon is a smart, kind, slightly angry n sad boi who looooves teeny crabs and hates seafood . he wears dumb socks and is v clumsy bc he doesnt know how to handle himself ,,, he has a lot of words to say but doesn't know how to say them in a way people will understand ,,, pls dont yell at him (or he'll write a diss track and end your career)

Euphoric Endeavours

Through a series of curious happenstances, the Boys of Bangtan - your campus’ most popular and most handsome group of individuals - set their sights on you, a regular student with a stubborn streak and a wayward mouth.

Strangely enough, the mere sight of them sets your instincts off, red-lights flashing in your brain - danger, danger, danger, danger.

It’s too bad that they can’t seem to leave you alone, though. They like you too much.

(AN: Hi, all! This story is actually already posted on AO3. But! I want to try and grow a little community on Tumblr, too. So, I decided to post it on here. I have almost 50 chapters of this story up over there, so I’ll slowly be adding them onto here too. I hope that you like it!)

word count: 4133

(angst / fluff / smut / gore)

tw: sex (marked with ---), vulgar language, physical assault (non-sexual)

Chapter 9 - Ruination 

In the days following the night at the apartment, you and the boys have gotten increasingly closer. So close, in fact, it becomes impossible to find you without at least one of them trailing behind you, much to the confusion of most of the student body.

The previously untouchable group of model-like boys seem to hover around you like moths being drawn to open flames. They can’t seem to get enough of being around you. They were still frosty and unapproachable - a group of students had taken their sudden interest in you as implication of an ‘opening’ for new blood into their clan and had been denied, embarrassingly quickly.

Before you knew it, it was the last two weeks of your semester and you had spent nearly two months orbiting the Bangtan Boys. Your presentation was due the following Monday, and you had practically finished it all, happy to submit the work that you and Taehyung had breathed life into. Still, nerves trailed you, as they always did with physical presentations but you tried your best to hide it.

Jimin waits for you after class, grabbing your backpack and shouldering it with ease, ignoring the longing looks that get tossed his way. As soon as his eyes lay on you, his lips pull up in a bright smile, lifting his sunglasses into his hair and waving wildly, as if you somehow couldn’t see him with his glowing skin and his bright pink hair. He stood out from the crowd so clearly, it was painful to look at him sometimes.

Jungkook would grab your books without thought and open doors for you, shouldering in with his broad form and giving you a fond grin when you would tell him he did a good job. His dimples deepened, and his cheeks would take on a rosy glow, avoiding your eyes as if he were nervous. He never drops his polite tone with you, always using respectful language, but the distance between you slowly diminishes over those days until he feels comfortable enough putting his hands on your shoulders and leading you to the cafeteria, massaging the tense muscles with practiced ease.

Taehyung has more illustrations of you than he can count – fascinated by the slope of your nose and the shape of your lips. The thing is, he can never seem to get the twinkle in your eyes just right, so he would trash the half-complete composition, in irritation, before starting another. Although he was the first to befriend you, something he takes pride in and likes to rub in the faces of the others, he finds that your budding relationships with his brothers bugs him more than he would like to admit.

He covets your time, holding it selfishly to his chest, like a child would their favorite toy. He knows you aren’t an inanimate object, but he can’t help but feel… replaced when you rather spend your time with anybody else. He hides this feeling in the smallest corner of his heart, knowing that if he speaks it aloud, if he gives life to whatever budding emotion is festering in his chest, he would do irreversible damage to your friendship. So, he smiles and smiles and smiles, until he is alone and the frown of frustration can grow at its own leisure.

Namjoon thinks of you whenever he reads a piece of poetry, remembering the music in the way you speak. He shares his favorite novels with you – the two of you meet up a few times a week in your café to discuss the book’s contents, and he finds the way your brain works to be nothing short of fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. He sees the colors swirling in your eyes at the bottom of the pools in the aquarium he works in, shimmering vibrantly against the scales of the exotic aquatic creatures who call his job their home. He even finds himself telling them about you, as he scrubs the bottom of the tanks, oblivious to the blank way in which they watch him.

Hoseok still picks you up, he brings you food and keeps your stuffed full and happy. His favorite sight is you, mouth full of meat and your stomach being filled with things he provides. He doesn’t know why, but it fills a primal urge within him that he doesn’t care to try and flesh out. One time, he even had chicken wings delivered right to your door. You had been so surprised when your doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of the local pimply pizza-boy, two boxes of the glistening, sauce-coated meat steaming in his hands. Hoseok had excitedly FaceTimed you as you ate, grinning from ear to ear as you wiggled happily on your sheets, mouth jam-packed with food and your heart warm.

Jin, with his magnetizing charm, collects you from work, sitting in a corner, tapping away at his keyboard – facts and figures that you had no chance of understanding swimming across his screen for hours, draining each mug of steaming liquid you silently leave at his side – a serious expression on his handsome face. Swarms of girls wait outside the window, staring and giggling at him, pointing and whispering words of praise, but it’s almost as if it is background noise for him. He doesn’t pay them a moment of notice, mouthing for another green tea from across the room. He, also, brings you small trinkets sometimes, not really thinking about the significance of them – a silky scarf here, a small handmade bracelet there.

To him, they are nothing but symbols of his growing fondness of you, but to you, as someone who isn’t used to this kind of attention, it stirs something in your tummy that keeps you awake at night sometimes, staring at his gifts and holding them close as you fall asleep.

You never take the bracelet off.

Yoongi is the only one who tries to keep that distance between you. It’s awkward for him to come home and see you in the living room, wearing one of Jungkook’s hoodies because yours got soaked in the rain, waiting for Namjoon to finish work. He doesn’t know why, but the sight of you becoming a regular fixture in his spaces sets him on edge.

He’s glad you are aware enough of his discomfort to keep yourself out of his room – in fact, you don’t go into any of their rooms, for privacy and respect of their space – because he doesn’t know if he would be able to sleep again with the scent of you swirling in the air of his most personal space.

He hates how easily he sees your eyes in every cluster of flora he plants at the botanical garden that he works three days a week. Yoongi feels pathetic, for latching onto the moments your give him your attention – when your eyes spark to life when he drops a plate of something steaming and spicy in your lap on his way to his bedroom, to hide from the world.

Actually, no, he’s just hiding from you and your perceptive eyes.

He does, though, slip up once and only once.

He sees you sleeping on the sofa late one night, while Jungkook and Jimin are splayed out on the floor, staring at the screen in a zombie-like fashion. The blanket has fallen off your body, dressed in some shorts and one of Jimin’s shirts that has risen because of your comfortable position. He curses the boys out for their lack of care toward you and shoves the blanket over you, bundling you up like his grandma used to do for him until not a strip of skin is exposed to the air. You woke up, only a little, and grabbed his hand, sleepily bringing it to your face to nuzzle at his fingers before you were back lightly snoring.

The boys didn’t let him live down how much he blushed for days.

You would be lying if you said that the new attention didn’t make you flush from head to toe. Seeing them, men who looked as if they belonged on the cover of magazines, standing in front of you – waiting for you, giving you things, making you laugh, smothering you in warmth – made your heart skip a beat, no matter how many times you saw it.

You fight to keep your feelings under wraps, laughing off every awkward beat of silence, pinching their cheeks when they got a little too close, explaining away their kindness as just that, simply kindness, or fastidiously avoiding alcoholic beverages lest you act of your impulses under the influence.

You were doing a good job, in your opinion, of hiding the way they made you feel, too ashamed of the intensity of your infatuation (that’s what you’d taken to calling it, as calling the fluttering in your stomach ‘real feelings’ felt too personal), of being one of the other girls – the ones who fell at their feet.

Young-mi complains from the kitchen, haphazardly applying her makeup to her cheeks, drawing you out of your reverie, “You didn’t tell me he was coming!”

“I didn’t know,” you reply, throwing your hands in the air, equally as flustered. “He just turns up!”

“God, I look like such a mess!” She complains, simultaneously putting a curler into her fringe and applying mascara to her eyes. She stares at the dancer’s body through the frosted glass of the kitchen door, the only partition between the two of you and the pinkette scanning the photos dotted around in the living room. “Why did Aunt Flow have to come now of all times? Look at the pimple of my forehead! Look! It’s the size of Jeju Island!”

You laugh at her frazzled expression and soothe her with soft coos. “You look lovely, the loveliest in fact! You’re glowing. And don’t complain! You triggered my period, so now I’m three days early.” You glance down and ask, lightly, “Could you, maybe, let my wrist go. I can’t feel my fingers.”

She does as you ask with a noise of frustration, and you rub at your chafing joints.

“You never much cared for them before,” she says, suspiciously. “Why are they hanging around you like fruit flies?”

Pausing, you stare at her and give her the stink eye. “Am I the trash in this situation?”

She nods.

“Fuck you.”

Her lips pull up in a small smile before she gets a reflective look on her face. She sits down and plays with her fingers, looking infinitely smaller. She mutters, a splash of hurt painting her tone, “Everything feels like it’s changing.”

Ducking down, you look up at her and ask, reaching for her hand and hooking one finger with her own, “What do you mean?”

“First Mei Li, now you,” she says, softly, staring at your intertwined fingers. “I don’t like it.”

Your expression falls at the mention of your absentee roommate. Instantly, the gut churning sensation that had plagued you returns, and you let out a frustrated puff of air.

You pull yourself onto the other chair and ask, letting your feet swing listlessly, “Have you heard from her at all?”

She shakes her head. “Her Mom hasn’t either.”

“I swear, when I find that loser, I’m going to peel his disgusting creepy face off,” you curse Dongwon, knowing you should have trusted your gut regarding him. “I can’t believe he convinced her to run away.”

“We don’t know that,” Young-mi denies, weakly. “All we know is that Mei Li text her Mom saying she wasn’t coming home and that she was happy.”

“What else could have happened, Young-mi?” You ask, desperately. You miss your younger friend, someone who you looked at like a little sister. She could be anywhere, doing anything – completely vulnerable after her accident. It didn’t sit right with you. “You tell me what else makes sense.”

She couldn’t, letting her head drop in frustration. “I just wish she would contact us, so we wouldn’t worry. It’s been four days already.”

Jimin makes a noise of amusement, drawing both of your attentions, and Young-mi’s cheeks pink at the sound of his cheerful giggle.

You nudge open the door with a partial frown, already suspicious. “I don’t think I like the sound of you laughing in here alone.”

Jimin is holding a framed photo of you and Young-mi from your Fresher’s Fair, both dressed in the typical get-up for the annual cancer run (pink top to toe, and you have pink glittery paint covering your whole face), and he’s in the middle of taking a picture of it on his phone.

“The boys will want to see this,” Jimin remarks, snapping multiple pictures. You feel your whole face burn in embarrassment and instantly, you are in attack mode.

“Drop the photo and delete those pictures,” you demand, swiping for the phone.

Jimin holds the phone high above his head, nudging you away with his other arm, smile practically taking over his face. “Already sent it to the group chat.”

Your phone in your back pocket vibrates repeatedly, signaling an influx of messages and you assume they’re all going to be laughing emojis from Taehyung, who you have found doesn’t stray from his phone for more than a minute.

“You’re dead, Jimin,” you threaten.

He giggles, spinning out of your hold with a grace that shouldn’t belong to anyone short of an angel, and says, “Young-mi will protect me.”

He hides behind the furiously blushing girl, holding her ahead of him as a mock-shield, ducking away from your wild swipes for his head. For a moment, over her shoulder, you see his expression falter (his brow puckers and his lip curls up, momentarily making him look borderline murderous) before he seems to freeze, taking a large step back.

“Ah, YN, I forgot I had something to do today, so I guess we’ll have to postpone our plans,” he says in a rush, practically falling over himself to get to his shoes, shoulders stiff and his fists clenched.

Confused by the sudden shift in his attitude, you ask, trailing behind him, “Are you sure you’re okay, Jiminie?”

He nods, robotically, and kicks into his shoes. He doesn’t give you your usual half-hug before he’s slamming your front door shut behind him.

“Do I smell bad or something?”

You turn to Young-mi and shake your head. “Why?”

“Because I’m sure he wasn’t breathing,” she says, voice soft with confusion. “Quick. Sniff me.”

“I’m not sniffing you, Young-mi,” you complain, but the she simply grabs you and practically rubs herself on you. “Ew! Stop molesting me! You smell fine! Great, actually.”

Satisfied, she releases you, dropping onto the couch with a huff. She crosses her arms over her chest and she glares up at you, adorably. “You have a group chat with the Bangtan Boys?”

Groaning, you throw your arm over your eyes and drown out her complaints, thinking back to Jimin’s weird behavior. Fishing out your phone, you pull up your private chat with the boys and type out your response.

You: Anybody who talks smack about my endeavors to raise money to find a cure for *cancer* clearly has no soul and shall be banished from my sight!!

Gucci Boi: You look adorable, Cutie!!

Baby Bun: He’s right, Noona! He was just teasing, right, hyung?

Nation’s Dancer: Right.

Yoon: Did somebody piss in his cereal or something?

You: Is everything okay, Jimin? You kinda… left in a hurry?

Nation’s Dancer: I’m fine, talk later.

Joon-bug: YN… Maybe talk to Jimin later? He has a lot on his plate.

You: Fine, Joonie, just make sure he eats something? We didn’t get to go for lunch.

Worldwide handsome guy: You guys were doing lunch *without* us???

Sunflower: ???

Sunflower: I’m getting real sick of being left out on the fun!

You: Well that’s TOO DAMN BAD!

Yoon: Who yells?

Letting out a small chuckle, you toss your phone away from you, turning your eyes back to your housemate, who seems to have been watching you for a while.

“You really like these boys, don’t you?” She asks, sagely. “You get this little… I don’t know, this little private smile? It’s cute.”

“I don’t know why but they’re just really sweet to me,” you explain, openly. “They’re so close, like a family, and to be a part of that – it’s addicting.”

“You should be careful,” Young-mi warns, with a gentle smile. “I want nothing but the best for you, YN, you know that? You’re my bestie. I’m just not used to you being so open with people that aren’t me, but it’s not a bad thing. I’m glad you’re opening up.”

“You mean that?”

She nods, vehemently, clutching your hand.

--------

You feel hands grip your waist, long dexterous digits digging into the soft curve of your sides, running along your ribs, experimentally.

“You’re so soft, noona ,” a familiar voice whimpers, excitement deepening his tone of voice. “Is this all for me?”

“For us, you mean,” another voice calls from your side. Hot puffs of air brush against the curve of your neck and you feel a silky tongue work along the line of your jaw, nibbling at your skin before nuzzling in. “You smell delectable, Cutie.”

“Honey,” a higher-pitched voice sing-songs, excitedly. Stubbier fingers work along your spine, pressing into the ridges of your vertebrae, teasing along the swell of your ass. “You feel so good, jagi. So… fucking… good.” He punctuates each word with a light nibble along the curve of your spine. “All ours.”

A deep rumble bubbles along your other side, where someone’s tongue is working lazily along the ridges of your ribs. “I can’t wait to fuck into your sweet, little pussy, YN. You can’t imagine how long I’ve been yearning for you.”

Letting out a sharp gasp at an intrusion at your centre, as skinny fingers skirt along your opening, missing where you need them the most.

A knowing voice asks, teasingly, “Is this where you want us, petal? In your pretty pussy?”

Nodding, blindly, you reach other, but touch nothingness. The bright light overwhelms you, and you clench your eyes shut once more, feeling pathetic and vulnerable – at their command, at their mercy, under their control. You can sense them around you, the taste of them marinating on your tongue, coating your throat and the scent of them fills your lungs, but as you reach out for them, you grip nothing but empty space.

“Don’t tease her, hyung,” a fair voice demands, pressing dry kisses at your cheeks, where tears seem to have spilled out. “You’re making her cry. I hate seeing her cry.”

The voice is so familiar that you want to reach out again, but he soothes you. “No, no, baby girl. This is all about you. Let us take care of you, okay?”

A new set of fingers dip into you, pressing in deep, until you let out a sharp noise at the intrusion. You clench around them, unconsciously, and whoever they belong to let out a low hiss at the tightening sensation. Those same fingers scissor your entrance, spreading your nether lips and setting a languid pace that has your body buzzing.

“She’s so tight inside,” a familiar voice mumbles, pressing a dry kiss to your collar, nose brushing against your jaw, affectionately. “I want to be inside her first. Can I?”

“Noona… Can you cum from just this?” A voice remarks, in wonderment. He asks, and you don't feel as if he's talking to you anymore, "Shall we try?”

A chorus of intrigued noises fills your ears, before a myriad of tongues assault your body. Your pebbled nipples, the line of your throat, the inside of your mouth, your nether entrance. You feel as if there’s not a single patch of your skin that isn’t being nibbled on, sucked at, licked with a talented, determined tongue.

You let out a groan of frustration, more hot tears spilling from your eyes, as you feel the rolling heat in your gut, but you know that without the pressure inside, the relentless pounding on hips against hips, the feeling of fullness – you won’t be able to finish.

“Our baby is getting frustrated,” the teasing voice calls, pushing your hair behind your ear. “Should I play with you some more, sunshine?”

“No,” you plead, but the sound is so quiet, you don’t know how they hear you. “P-Please, I need you.”

“Which one?”

“Any of you,” you babble, borderline incoherently. “All of you.”

“All?” They chorus, amused. Fond. So in love.

You nod, vehemently, more tears spilling over with just how honest you are being. “I don’t want to pick, I can’t. That’s not fair.”

A low chuckle sounds, echoing loudly in your head, before an explosion of noise, sound and color shatters behind your lids. Fragmented glass pings around your head and you feel as if you’re being pulled by your every limb across the universe.

-----

Blinking open your eyes, you realise, quickly, that your pillow is damp from your frustrated tears, and the space between your thighs burns in a yearning you can’t begin to explain.

After sluggishly pulling yourself out of bed, you get ready for the day, dressing for work in a skirt, tights and some boots, with your work shirt. Upon stepping outside, you instantly feel that something is off.

Looking from left to right, you realize what it is.

Hoseok hadn’t turned up outside of your place. Taehyung didn’t either, which catches you off-guard.

While you know, logically, you shouldn’t have gotten so used to having them as a crutch, you couldn’t help but fall into a routine, so not seeing them – it made your heart ache a little in your chest.

You make your way through the near empty streets, cutting into familiar alleyways to shorten the distance, towards the bus station, distractedly scanning the last messages from the group chat, wondering if something had happened to them.

Baby Bun: @/Gucci Boy Stop spamming the group with pictures of your nose pores, it’s gross!

Gucci Boi: I want YN to see them! She keeps saying that we’re perfect but look! Pores! Pores galore!

Yoon: Aren’t you a human being? Of course, you have nose pores – stop sending the pics or I might throw up

Sunflower: Wanna see mine???

You: Absolutely not!

Baby bun: NO!

Joon-bug: Please, hyung, I’m begging you not to.

Sunflower: :’((( You’re all so mean!

And then nothing, until this morning. There had been nothing that gave you the impression that they were upset with you, so you know being self-conscious is silly.

You: Morning boys!

You: Here’s a photo of my breakfast (considering you guys are determined to see everything I put into my body) of coffee and a pop-tart

You: The strawberry kind so it’s extra yummy

Then, just as you had left the house, you had sent another message that went completely ignored by everyone in the chat.

You: Hey guys! Is everything okay?

You shuffle down the street, huffing a little to yourself, ignorant of your surroundings as you scroll through the words.

A shiver runs down your spine as your subconscious senses someone behind you. Thinking it might be a stranger wanting to pass-by, you move to twist out of the way, an apology already on your lips, only to bump directly into someone’s chest.

Instantly, fear grips your heart as a vice-like grip wraps around your wrist, while the other hand winds into your hair, locking you up tight. You find yourself shoved forward into an alleyway, and while you claw at their wrists, at their chests, a scream bubbling in the back of your throat, the strength behind the assaulter’s grip in your hair threatens to snap your neck in half.

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll cut your throat,” a deep voice hisses into your ear.

The warning is followed by a tightening of the hand in your hair. You don’t recognize the tone of voice at all, it sounds more like a rough, angry growl, the words garbled and mismatched, and your mind is whirring too quickly to make sense of anything outside of the fact that your life was in absolute danger.

You rear up, trying to scream but before you can get it out, his (you can tell it’s a man’s body) hand covers your mouth with a cloth soaked in something damp and the strong smell makes your eyes sting and your throat burns from inhaling the fumes.

The last thing you can remember before your world turns black is the heavy smell of cologne and a familiar blood-red tie.

- end -

Masterpost / Chapter (1), (2), (3), (4), (5), (6), (7), (8), (9)

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