Sunlight is disappearing behind the trees when you find 𝙔𝙊𝙊𝙉𝙂𝙄 docking the small skiff. “Wow. Wow, wow, wow.” You want to say “poor fishie”, too, but instead you just hug Yoongi in amazement at the filling catch in his bucket. He’s staring at the lake’s rocky shore to hide a face-splitting smile. You know he’ll be humming out his happiness tonight when he fries the fish up on the cabin’s stove, then slices it over puffy mushroom-and-chestnut rice. Frills and lumps of fungi roll around the bottom of your basket as you step forwards to press your cheek onto Yoongi’s shoulder. You’ve spent the afternoon peering at decaying detritus and poking around tree trunks in search of mushrooms. “I’m hungry,” you sigh, as you roll your cheek against the shape of Yoongi’s shoulder under a freezing waterproof jacket, “when I’m hungry...” You trail off. The “I get horny” is implicit. “Let’s—” Yoongi is trying not to laugh, “I need to...” Yoongi is groaning and slumping his shoulders. Your fingers are sliding into his hair. An invigorating afternoon has already left you craving Yoongi’s touch. The cabin is looming behind you. You can’t wait. “Right now? It’s cold.” He’s whining, but he’s smiling. You take the hint, stand up straight, and tighten your fingers into a fistful. “Whenever I want it,” you affirm brightly. Staring at Yoongi’s ruddy face, you don’t notice the movement of his hand. When your jacket rustles, you laugh, and bite your lip when embarrassment over his own eagerness flashes Yoongi’s eyes up to meet yours. Normally, Yoongi likes it when you grab his wrist. The cold must be speeding him up. You appreciate it. Yoongi is already finding the waistband of the leggings under your jeans, and sliding his chilled skin down over your warm pelvis with a shiver.
“Really? Don’t you think that’s disrespectful?” “Disrespectful?” 𝙃𝙊𝙎𝙀𝙊𝙆 was wide-eyed, and his smile crashed away. “Would you want somebody fucking on your loved one’s grave?” Hoseok went silent. He avoided the topic for the rest of the week. When the clock ticks past midnight you pull on warm clothes in the hotel bathroom, anyways. Asking a pajama-clad Hoseok if he's ready to visit the graveyard blinks open those same wide eyes. With his hands tight on the wheel of the rental car, Hoseok’s shock becomes quiet, nervous delight. Lights of the city have disappeared. The temperature is close to freezing. Walking down an ill-defined dirt path feels like crossing a borderline into another world. It’s a decrepit, overgrown graveyard; it’s autumn in a foreign country, and you and Hoseok will be flying out tomorrow—that must be why he feels so bold. Swaying trees pass. You keep glancing up expecting to see a sharply defined full moon. Instead, you just see rolling clouds. “Come on,” you sigh as you speed up the amble, “we don’t have all night.” Forest spreads out beyond a wrought-iron gate cordoning off hills carpeted with crumbling headstones. As you swerve along the outside of that gate and venture deeper and deeper under the silhouetted balcony, you can hear Hoseok padding along behind you. Confusion makes him shake and smile, but suggesting Hoseok onto hard dirt covered in evergreen twigs is easy. “Where are we?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “We won’t get lost, right?” “The graveyard is literally one minute over there,” you mumble, and swirl a hand vaguely to the left. When you tug down his sweatpants and grab the backs of his knees, Hoseok’s hands are trembling up to hold his legs steady where you pinned them to his shoulders. A long skirt pools around your thigh-high stockings. Popping open the lube tucked into your pocket, you hook your fingers around your panties, and draw them to the side. A pale face is gazing up at you in the darkness. The stars in his eyes and the thick swallow choking in his whimpering throat tell you Hoseok wasn’t expecting the Amazon position, but he’s in no position to complain.
Frost glistened over the ground and across the sloping roof of the hanok inn this morning. Now, the sky is broad, blue, and beaming with sunshine. This forest deep in the mountains is secluded and quiet. It’s the perfect place to take 𝙉𝘼𝙈𝙅𝙊𝙊𝙉 for a walk. You’re starting to feel the chill biting under your skin, though, and a crimson-leaved tree with ragged bark has caught your eye. Namjoon loves fucking under the sun or the stars. Cold air is a solution, not a problem. The problem is that you want Namjoon to grind on you more often. The solution is popping open a few buttons on your winter coat, and reaching a gloved hand under the bundle of Namjoon’s scarf to find the broad metal ring of his collar. Relaxation has left Namjoon’s eyes thin. His parted lips are red; a hint of that darkness colors his nose and the slice of visible earlobes under his thick beanie. The tree that catches and scratches your coat as you press your back against it hits your senses on a wave. Fresh air on red leaves, the promise of chill, and the sweet of its own soggy decay under your boots—growth, change, and balmy cool rise slowly. A sharp tug on leather moves Namjoon’s feet. The fuzz of his beanie brushes past you, and Namjoon’s gentle breath is suddenly loud in your ear. You put a hand on Namjoon’s hip, and press. It’s his permission to correct the angle. Twigs crunch, and solidity slips and slides. Namjoon shifts until you can feel him comfortably settle the side of his soft cock against you. Neither of you have spoken since you stepped outside into the morning chill. You can feel the hesitation in Namjoon’s hips. “Go ahead, baby,” you whisper, as you tug metal and snap your knuckles against leather until Namjoon’s hands are on your hips, and he’s hugging you between the tree and his warmth—“it’s my treat.”
Wearing the vibe keeps 𝙎𝙀𝙊𝙆𝙅𝙄𝙉 ready. He waits for you to flick it on all day. He tries to gauge your level of interest by shooting you significant looks. Afternoon is becoming evening. By the time both of you are in a sipping paper cups of hot mulled wine on a park bench, Seokjin’s meaningful gazes have turned poisonous. “Why are you glaring at me?” You laugh, before taking another sip of purple wine. It must be staining your lips, because Seokjin’s lips are purpling, too. Seokjin rolls his eyes. His cup is empty. Folding over to set it down on the concrete footpath, Seokjin slides back into the bench and crosses his arms so forcefully it makes the sound of his padded jacket sliding against itself a screech. He pushes a hard swallow down his throat. Blinking up at the golden branches overhead, he looks everywhere but at you. “Right,” you hang your head, “sorry.” It’s a thin bullet design. Seokjin doesn’t find it uncomfortable, but it does start to feel pointless if handholding, hugs, and moments away from the eyes of others don’t result in you reaching into the pocket of your coat. Teasing turns Seokjin on until he’s begging. It’s fun to make Seokjin beg. Right now, though, he deserves some respite. “Hey,” you whisper, and Seokjin is turning his eyes back to you. Your gloved hand is inside your pocket. Finding the shape of the remote, you hold it. Just so Seokjin knows you remember where it is. “I know you’re eager,” you whisper―softer, and softer. Seokjin’s arms stay crossed. He studies your face up and down with contemplation. “But,” you start, as you stand up from the bench and collect Seokjin’s paper cup, "we still have to walk home,” you finish, as you wander back to the bench from the recycling bins. You’re still holding the remote in your pocket. Reaching your free hand out to Seokjin, you nod. Uncrossing his arms slowly, Seokjin stands up. He wraps his hand around yours, and you press down until you feel a click.
