M - jihope (+ bg namkook), loyalty kink
Jimin is attentive to every sound in the night spread out before him—the murmur of the camp below his position at the entrance to His Grace's tent, the whispers and whistles of wind through the dunes, the pockets of silence where shadows might hide His Grace's enemies—but none of it is loud enough to cover the sounds of His Grace's pleasure.
His Grace lets go an especially rough sound, a moan that scrapes out of him and breaks in the middle. Jimin swallows hard and takes a big, steadying breath. Inside the tent, Jungkook's laugh is high and sweet. "You liked that, Namjoon-ah," he says, does not ask.
His Grace moans again.
Jungkook is just a hostler, just nobody, and younger even than Jimin. He shouldn't dare to look in His Grace's eye. And yet he addresses His Grace by name, and that, even more than His Grace's voice and the raw sounds of bodies in the tent, is a shocking thing. Almost obscene. Jimin is aware of the shape of his body under his leather armor and the folds of his robes, how each breath moves through him like a wave and the tide starts to pool low in his belly. With intention, he focuses on the landscape, staring around the empty night in an arc.
The desert night is cooling fast at Jimin's front, but the fire inside the tent warms his back, a drop of sweat trickling slowly down his spine. It must be so hot in there. They must both be slick with it, skin shining. Jimin shifts, pressing his thighs together under his robes and adjusting his grip on his staff.
There's the sound of a step to Jimin's side and he whips the staff up—but it's only Hoseok, His Grace's trusted right hand. Jimin nods and puts the staff down.
"Ah, they're still at it," Hoseok says.
It's not a question, so Jimin isn't forced into the awkward position of answering, but even a nod feels like too much to admit. "I don't know, Captain."
"Up, up," Jungkook's voice says, and then there's the unmistakable sound of a slap, so sharp Jimin jumps.
Hoseok snorts, but he says, "Your discretion is appreciated."
Jimin glances at him. Hoseok has a fine, lithe figure in his homespun robe, and he holds himself lightly as he leans against the tentpole, but his gaze is intent on Jimin's face. Jimin's vows were to His Grace, but it's Hoseok who embodies His Grace's will as he moves through the camp every day. Jimin watches him carefully, constantly.
"It's my honor to serve."
"It's a lot to ask, to stand guard these sleepless nights." Hoseok's smile twists wryly as His Grace's cries rise to a steady rhythm. "But His Grace and I both know we're lucky to have someone we can trust here."
He puts his hand on the back of Jimin's neck, a simple, even brotherly gesture, but Jimin's skin is so tensely primed under the cold-hot air and the sounds coming from the tent that it feels like a caress, and a humiliating small sound slips between Jimin's lips.
Hoseok doesn't pull away. He rubs his thumb up Jimin's neck. "Very lucky," he says.