Namjin Smut

my ink colouring your bones (grasps the least of your beauty)

Written by: evocates

Summary:

"The hair for our history," the Not Today era, "but also as a beacon of modernity." Such colours never became possible until the twentieth century. "The coat, from a foreign designer," it wasn't just the fingers sliding over his arms that were making Namjoon shudder," but cut in a style resembling the hanbok, and embroidered with the same plum blossoms that had been written about in Korea for centuries."

Namjoon opened his mouth. Closed it. "Jin-hyung," he tried.

"Shh, I'm not finished," Jin kissed his parted lips lightly. "Bright blue, the colour of nobility within the hanbok tradition. Purple for royalty, amongst the Europeans and the Egyptians." His hand returned to his hair. "You're nobility no matter where you go, Namjoonie."

Namjoon and Jin in the aftermath of the 2018 Melon Music Awards performance.

Or,
"Question: How can you track the lines of your own body when the clothes you wear are always interpreted differently?
Answer: You can't. But you try. You try, because you might learn the way to manipulate all that imagery."

_____________________________

Namjoon sank his teeth into his bottom lip. He squeezed his eyes shut. But the high-pitched whine wresting out of his throat was impossible to be stopped— abruptly cut off as Jin slotted their mouths together, his shaky exhale invading Namjoon's throat just as his cock stretched him open. Namjoon's spine curved, heels kicking at the mattress as he tried to swallow his rattling gasps.

Fuck, Jin wasn't stopping, wasn't waiting for him to get used to the burn. He was already drawing out and slamming back in, their hips meeting in a loud smack that reverberated down Namjoon's bones. His hands left the bedsheets, clawing blindly for those broad shoulders.

"Seokjin-hyung," he tried to gasp out, but all that escaped him was an incoherent noise. He was seeing stars already, white sparks bursting behind his eyelids because Jin knew his body too well, had learned it so quickly. The angle was perfect, the head of Jin's cock sliding against Namjoon's prostate with each thrust that shoved him further up the bed—

"Shh, Namjoonie," Jin murmured, words crushed against Namjoon's cheek. "We have to be quiet."

Their bandmates, the performance, everyone was exhausted, they shouldn't disturb them— the thoughts spiralled out of his reach and his bones ached with the breathless moans that kept trying to escape him. Jin's hands were on his thighs now, practically folding him into half as he thrust inside him and—

"Oh fuck, ah—" Namjoon couldn't get used to this. Not to how Jin felt inside him, spreading him open, taking his body, his panting breaths smearing heat over Namjoon's face, their sweat dripping on each other and Jin was moving, and fuck, fuck, he was so deep inside that every drag and push seemed to be imprinting themselves onto Namjoon's bones—

"Hyung," he panted out. "Hyung— ah—" His nails scraped over Jin's skin, surely leaving welts but he couldn't see because stars— was he coming already? He didn't know, couldn't be sure, didn't even know if he was actually conscious at this moment or Jin had fucked him into some kind of too-vivid dream— "Harder, fuck me harder, please, fuck— I—"

"Yeah," Jin said, and his voice had grown so deep, rumbling with his arousal and desire. For Namjoon, just for Namjoon. "Hold on to me, Namjoonie."

Namjoon scrambled to obey, linking his fingers behind Jin's neck and legs wrapping around that strong, narrow waist. Jin smiled at him, bright-eyed beneath the sweat-soaked strands of his hair, and he leaned in and caught Namjoon's mouth. His tongue slid across the insides of his lips and he—