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“Thank you for your time,” Namjoon concludes genially, an affable smile curling easily at his lips. “And goodnight.”
The auditorium erupts into thunderous applause around him, and Namjoon steps back from the podium to bow properly, slow and deep, as the whistling and cheering kick up a notch. When he straightens, he makes sure his smile is in full bloom, enough to reveal the whites of his teeth, to show off his dimples to the cameras that flash along the frontmost row of seats, an area that has been specifically reserved for the press during this leg of his U.S tour. He’s been told there’s someone here from Time Magazine, and Seokjin will be delighted if Namjoon makes it to the front page again.
Jin’s satisfaction is the only thing that really matters, after all.
Sure, Namjoon can’t deny that he enjoys the positive feedback and the way that well-to-do people from all over the world are clamouring for the opportunity to have him to speak at their prestigious academic conferences and political events. His schedule’s fully booked for the next eighteen months (Jin’s always careful to allocate him at least three days’ rest between each big event, so that’s no real hardship), and there are at least eight major TV networks asking to film a documentary about his life. His current career is so far above anything he’d every hoped to dream of just a few years ago as an impoverished university student, and every moment of it is a thrill, but Namjoon would give it all up in a heartbeat if his boyfriend asked him to step away. He wouldn’t even ask why. He’d do anything for Kim Seokjin.
This whole thank-you-for-coming segment is comfortably familiar, something he’s practiced a thousand times or more in front of the mirror, and in front of Jin, gently guided and corrected by the elder until his performance was perfect, a seamless routine that he could recreate without any conscious effort on his part.
“Be charming, but not overconfident,” Jin would remind him, tilting Namjoon’s chin down by an increment. “Nobody likes an egomaniac, baby. Beneath it all, you’re a humble academic who’s been thrust into the limelight unexpectedly. That’s why they love you. That’s why they clamour to hear what you have to say. You’re one of them; you weren’t born into wealth, you were living off instant ramen and toast before someone decided to publish your paper on social reform. And your newfound fame still hasn’t sunk in yet. It surprises you, delights you, but whenever they shower you with praise and give you a standing ovation, it’s almost too much. You’re still just a humble philosophy student from Seoul. So show me that shy smile, Joon-ah...”
It’s so perfectly, intricately choreographed, a dance he repeats over and over in a hundred cities and a dozen countries. His name will trend on twitter for a solid twelve hours after every gig, with ‘#NamjoonForPresident’ and ‘#OneOfUs’ as the most popular key words. That’s Jin’s doing too, of course – as fansite master of at least four of Namjoon’s most popular fan accounts, it doesn’t take long for the chosen hashtags to spread like wildfire. His book sales will spike again after tonight’s seminar – dropping a few subtle references without naming the book is always enough, and Jin will likely tweet about it later with the exact chapters and/or pages he’d been referring to in his anecdote; nobody will accuse him of plugging his own publication because it’ll be a ‘fan’ who connects the dots. There’ll be another tweet tomorrow morning from a much smaller fan account (also owned by Jin), saying something along the lines of “Namjoon could’ve totally told us all to just go buy his book, but he’s so fucking genuine in his passion for social equality that he’s literally just sharing this shit for free – we stan a generous king”. The post will be retweeted by one of the bigger fansites a few hours later, and boom, another wave of positive hashtags. There’ll be people hyping his next gig in Seattle, multiple celebrities singing his praises (likely in an effort to appeal to a wider audience and boost their own careers), and probably another three or four offers for an ‘exclusive’ interview with major news networks.
Truth is, Namjoon doesn’t give a flying fuck about any of that.
When he steps up behind he podium, it isn’t for the academic recognition or twitter-fame, and he honestly couldn’t care less about motivating a backwards society into pushing for social reform. The only thing that matters is Seokjin’s happiness.
His success is all Jin’s doing, after all. This whole career, his political drive, the character he’s portraying in order to be a successful motivational speaker worldwide, none of it is Namjoon’s creation. He’s merely playing a part, lovingly guided and sculpted by Jin every step of the way. His boyfriend is more than capable of standing up here and giving a speech himself (and Namjoon would sell his soul for the chance to sit front-row and listen, enraptured, as Jin shares his genius with the world), but he knows that will never happen.
“Someone who grew up being fed from a silver spoon will never be fully supported by the general public,” Jin had told him one night not long after they’d first started dating, kissing Namjoon’s sweaty temple as the younger man panted and trembled beneath him, still recovering after his recent peak. “Everything about me screams ‘wealth’, I’m far too privileged. People don’t want to see the rich succeed, they want to root for the underdog, to live vicariously through your successes. How could they not love Kim Namjoon, the hard-working philosophy student who volunteers at animal shelters in his free time and can barely afford to pay rent?”
“I’m not good at speeches, hyung,” Namjoon had admitted hesitantly. “I can’t talk about politics and human rights like you can, I don’t…I don’t know enough about any of that shit.”
Seokjin had chuckled fondly, pressing him down into the mattress to trail soft, reverent kisses down his throat. “No, baby, you don’t. But I do. I’m going to write you the best damn speech of your lifetime, and you’re going to read it for me, okay? Read it for me like it’s one of your poems. My Joonie has such a beautiful voice.”
He wishes, sometimes, that Seokjin would agree to at least take some of the credit for Namjoon’s success; especially his best-selling novel, which Namjoon had really only fluffed up with pretty words during the editing process – Jin had been the one who actually wrote it.
“I’m your PR manager,” the elder would remind him every time Namjoon brought it up. “And your personal assistant – at least as far as the rest of the world is concerned. They can’t ever suspect me of being more than that; everyone has to fully believe that your thoughts are your own. Now hush, love, and come sit with me. I’d like you to look over these interview questions…”
So since his beautiful, brilliant partner will accept none of the fame for himself, Namjoon does his best to ensure that the man’s wonderful thoughts and inspiring words are shared as eloquently as possible with the their target audience. Above all else, he wants Jin to be proud of him.
Which is why his heart is fluttering in anticipation as he heads backstage, the cheers and applause still roaring in his ears. He dutifully shakes hands with the dozen-or-so sound technicians and crew members waiting in the wings, bowing his thanks to the speaker who introduced him an hour ago (a renowned professor from Harvard, if he remembers correctly) as she claps him on the arm in congratulations and quickly moves to re-enter the stage and close the event. Then there’s someone coming to unclip his mic and feed the wiring through his shirt, another crewmember offering him water, another a cool towel. Namjoon wishes there weren’t so many people to deal with afterwards, it makes it harder to escape and seek out the one individual he actually cares about- oh. There he is.
Seokjin’s sitting over in the far corner, tucked away out of sight unobtrusively, one leg crossed casually over the other as he taps away on his phone, looking every bit the PR-manager that he wants the world to see him as. But Namjoon knows he’s likely updating several different twitter fan-accounts with enthusiastic reactions to Namjoon’s latest achievement, and quite possibly already accepting several invitations to future events on Namjoon’s behalf.
After what feels like an eternity, the man glances up from his phone, eyes locking with Namjoon’s. A warm, pleased smile curls slowly at his mouth, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and he gives the tiniest nod of confirmation, a wordless well done.
Namjoon releases the breath he’d been holding in a shaky whoosh.
“The car should be waiting for us, Mr Kim,” Jin says politely, rising from his seat and reaching for the briefcase beside his chair. “Is there anything else you need to attend to, or shall we go?”
He dislikes being called Mr Kim, but only because he’d rather Jin call him Joon-ah or Joonie or baby, but this is yet another element to the elaborate roleplay of his career – Jin is his employee, and while they’re cordial with each other in public, there can’t ever be a hint of anything more. And Namjoon hates it, because all he wants to do after a big event is bury himself in Jin’s arms for some hard-earned cuddle time and listen to his partner tell him he’s done well.
Because Namjoon has been so, so good today, and he knows what kind of reward will be in store for him when they finally get back to the hotel room.
“I took the liberty of cancelling our dinner reservation and ordering room service,” Jin mentions calmly as they’re sliding into the backseat of the chauffeured car. “I thought you might appreciate a chance to put your feet up after such a long day.”
Namjoon feels a little thrill tingle down his spine at that.
Oh, Jin is pleased. Jin is very, very pleased. Usually Namjoon has to maintain the roleplay all the way through dinner at a posh-as-fuck restaurant, with Jin casually rubbing a foot against his leg beneath the table or licking chocolate sauce from his dessert spoon in a suggestive manner, and it’s always torture (the kind Jin likes best). But for his partner to have cancelled the reservations last-minute…Namjoon has to fight to keep from visibly preening.
Tonight is going to be incredible.
…
There’s a palpable sort of electricity in the air as they ride the elevator all the way up to the hotel’s fancy penthouse suite, a delicious tension that makes something in Namjoon quake pleasantly. His hands itch to reach out and touch Jin, but he knows it’s forbidden, at least until they’re safely ensconced behind the locked door of their private suite and away from prying eyes (and CCTV cameras).
“We’re a little earlier than anticipated,” Jin mentions, glancing down at his Rolex. “My apologies, the food won’t be here for another hour. Don’t worry, I have something you can snack on in the meantime.”
Jin doesn’t make mistakes. He would’ve known exactly when they were due to arrive back at the hotel, making allowances for traffic, and to be an hour off his estimate? That’s deliberate, that’s so wonderfully deliberate, fuck.
Namjoon swallows heavily, managing to keep his reply to a vaguely interested hum, even as he grows hot beneath his tailored outfit. He wants to shrug off his jacket, but that’s also forbidden – Jin’s the one who carefully buttoned him into his clothes this morning, so his hands are the only ones permitted to remove them. These are rules Namjoon had agreed to a long time ago, rules that he loves obeying because he knows it’ll earn him one of those soft, pleased smiles, and god, he’d do anything in the world for that simple reward.
Finally, an eternity later, the elevator reaches their floor, and Jin slips out first, walking confidently towards the door to their suite. He swipes the card in the lock, keys in the security code, and breezes into the penthouse without so much as a backwards glance at Namjoon. The younger man’s knees feel wobbly as he steps out into the short corridor, his breathing shallow and rapid in anticipation as he follows in after his partner.
He’s grabbed the moment he crosses the threshold.
The door slams closed, and Namjoon is crowded up against it, hearing the zzzt of the electric lock connecting, the metallic shh-tck of the latch on the inside of the door being secured for good measure, and then long fingers are sinking into his hair.
“Good boy,” Jin breathes against his lips, finally slipping back into Korean as he presses soft, chaste kisses to the younger’s gasping mouth. “So good for me, Joonie. I’m so fucking proud.”
Namjoon does whimper then, relief and delight and some other emotion far too big to give a name to welling up inside of him as he clutches at Jin’s shirt. The man has ditched his suit and tie already, probably anticipating Namjoon’s grabby hands, and it’s testament to how well the elder knows him that his shirt is a cheap brand today and not a silk Armani piece like the rest of his outfit. Otherwise he definitely wouldn’t allow Namjoon to grab – his hands would be pinned up out of the way, or secured with a tie behind his back so that he didn’t cause lasting damage to Jin’s clothes.
But today he gets to tug and pull to his heart’s content, and oh, Jin must be very pleased indeed.
“Hyung,” he gasps, as one of Jin’s thighs presses between his legs.
Jin gently tugs on his hair to tip his head back, mouthing kisses along the column of his throat. Namjoon longs for him to bite, to suck a bruise into the skin there, but he’d never leave a mark like that someplace so visible. No, he’s far more selective with his targets. Namjoon already knows that his inner thighs and pelvis will be dotted with hickeys before the night is through, and he can’t fucking wait.
“You’re so beautiful, baby,” Jin murmurs, thigh rubbing persistently against the younger man’s clothed crotch. “Let hyung take care of you.”
Namjoon shivers at the familiar petname, cheeks already flushing hot. It’s insane how easily Seokjin can rile him up like this. A huge auditorium giving him a standing ovation means fuck all, but Jin just has to compliment him sweetly and he’s absolutely wrecked.
“A-ah,” Namjoon manages, intelligently, as Jin’s hand slides down from his hip to begin unfastening his fly. “I…hyung-”
Jin hums with audible amusement. “I know, gorgeous. Shhh, hyung’s here. Let’s get you out of these clothes, pretty boy.”
Minutes later, Namjoon’s being pressed back against soft satin bedsheets and pillows that feel a mile deep, naked and flushed and almost trembling with the intensity of his desires as Jin leans over him, still fully clothed. The elder’s kisses are languid, unhurried, and Namjoon tries his best not to be demanding, tries not to push up into the contact like he wants to, doesn’t let himself beg for more, not yet. He can be patient, he can be sweet and pretty for his boyfriend; anything for Jin.
“Mmm, just look at you,” Jin purrs, peering down at him intently, a fond smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Always so good for me.” The man leans in to kiss him again, lingeringly, as a hand slides down over Namjoon’s hip to gently squeeze his thigh. “Turn over, sweetness.”
Namjoon flips over so quickly that his limbs can’t quite keep up with one another, and his resultant faceplant against the bed triggers one of Jin’s delighted, squeaky laughs.
“Clumsy,” his partner teases, smiling audibly as his weight settles over Namjoon, soft lips pressing kisses to the back of the younger man’s neck. “So eager for hyung to take care of you, hm?”
The elders hips move in a slow grind against his ass, and Namjoon sucks in a shaky breath, closing his eyes at the hard length he can feel through the material of Jin’s Armani slacks.
“Stay still for me,” Jin instructs quietly, finally lifting up off him. “Hands, Joonie.”
Namjoon obediently lets go of the pillow he’d been clutching onto for dear life (trying not to let himself grind back against Jin had been a struggle), arms coming to rest either side of his head, hands flat against mattress. His partner hums in approval, fingers gently petting through his hair before the mattress shifts as he climbs off the bed. There’s the sound of a zipper, the quiet ripple of fabric hitting the floor, and although Namjoon knows he isn’t permitted to turn his head and watch, it’s so fucking tempting. He wants to be perfect for Jin, he’s trying so hard.
“So good, Namjoonie,” comes the verbal reward a few moments later, as Jin moves back up onto the mattress. “My best boy. Here, beautiful, lift your hips for me.”
For me…god, Namjoon loves that phrase. Everything he does is for Seokjin, even this, especially this, and to have the man rightfully claim it is just…fuck, it’s the best kind of addiction.
A plump pillow is shoved beneath his pelvis, and Jin pushes him back down against it gently but firmly, one hand sliding down to palm the meat of his inner thigh and spread his legs.
“Let me see,” Jin encourages, and Namjoon obligingly spreads as wide as he can, earning himself another fond chuckle and a gentle smack to his ass. “So fucking cute.”
Without warning, there’s the cold press of slick fingers against his hole, and he sucks in a sharper breath, a startled little ah as he jolts without meaning too. A gently restraining hand settles on the small of his back, applying just enough pressure to keep him in place as the first finger breaches his rim.
“I’ve been waiting to do this all day, baby,” his partner tells him softly, pumping the digit slowly. “I have to share your pretty face and your beautiful voice and your cute little smile with the rest of the world, but this, right here,” he pushes a second finger in, and Namjoon sucks in another sharp gasp, “this is just for me. Only I get to touch you like this, only I get to hear your sweet little noises and watch you gasp and moan and cry so prettily on my fingers. You don’t want to share it with your fans, do you?”
Namjoon shakes his head rapidly, eyelids fluttering closed as Jin scissors his fingers and presses in deeper, the man’s hand pushing down more firmly on his lower back in anticipation of any unintentional bucking.
“That’s right,” Jin coos, and Namjoon feels lips press against the crease between thigh and buttock, shivers at the delicate touch. “Because this is mine isn’t it? All of it.”
Nodding again, Namjoon recovers enough to find is voice. “All yours, hyung. Everything. All yours.”
“Mmm...my perfect boy.”
Something hard presses against his hip, and Namjoon bites his lip as another pleasant tremble shudders through him. He won’t beg, he won’t, he’s going to be sweet and patient and good, but fuck, he really wants to be pressed into the mattress and pounded six ways to Sunday. Jin knows that too, of course he does, but he likes to tease Namjoon for a little while before he’ll actually give him what he really wants – he likes seeing the younger man breathless and trembling and teary-eyed and barely able to hold himself still without restraints, and honestly, Namjoon loves that too, but not half as much as he loves actively getting railed by his partner. He’s a man of simple tastes.
It’s why a quick internet search into the nature of their somewhat unique dynamic had startled him a few years ago, because he’d found out that it perhaps wasn’t quite so unique after all. He’d learned terms like Dom and Sub and BDSM, and then he’d very quickly come to wish that he hadn’t searched at all, because some of that shit was freaky. He’d spoken to Jin about it that night, as the elder was tending to Namjoon’s new skincare routine (a complicated six-step process which baffled him a little, but he sat through it unquestioningly all the same).
“Is that what we are?” he’d asked uncertainly, showing Jin the webpage on his phone. “It…the way that Submissives think and behave, I guess it sounds a lot like me? And you take care of me, like to pick out my clothes and use rewards, does that make you a-”
Jin had pressed a gentle finger to his lips. “Joon-ah. I am what I am. And I love you for the adorable angel you are. I don’t think we need to put a label on how we feel about each other, do we?” He’d leaned in to kiss Namjoon softly. “Did you read the whole article? Ah. I imagine there were some elements that alarmed you, right, babydoll? I thought so. My little one’s far too sweet for roughplay.”
Namjoon had felt himself flush pink and duck his head.
“Oh,” Jin had murmured, quiet and amused. “But perhaps there was something that piqued your interest? You can tell me, beautiful, I won’t make fun. It might even be something we both enjoy.”
And that’s how soft, padded cuffs and fabric bonds had become a frequent element in their bedroom play. As someone who’s naturally taller and more broad-shouldered than most, there’s something so calming about being held in place by unbreakable bindings; he craves the sensation of being pressed down into the mattress by strong hands, with no option but to surrender himself over to Jin’s care entirely.
A third finger makes him stutter out a breathy moan, hands reflexively clenching in the satin bedsheets, and the hand on his lower back lifts briefly to deliver a series of soft little taps to his ass cheeks.
“Hands, babydoll,” Jin reminds him patiently, and Namjoon flattens them against the bedspread immediately, gasping out apologies as he clenches around the fingers inside him. His boyfriend never spanks him properly, never does anything to hurt him, but light tapping is enough to make him blush hard at his accidental disobedience.
Fuck. Namjoon had let himself get too lost in his own thoughts.
“That’s it,” his boyfriend purrs, landing one last little smack before returning his hand to its previous position at the base of his spine, pressing down a little firmer now. “Opening up so prettily for me, angel. Does that feel good?”
Namjoon nods, cheeking rubbing against the silky sheets. “Yes, hyung, so good, feels so good, ah-”
“There it is.” The long fingers rub back and forth over the sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside him, and Namjoon whimpers, toes curling as he tries so hard to keep still. “I think I’ll play with this for a little while, sweetness.”
Oh. Oh fuck.
“Go ahead and cum if you need to,” Jin continues casually, “but keep nice and still for me, okay? Good boy.”
…
By the time the food arrives, Namjoon is entirely incapable of sitting up on his own.
Jin, by contrast, has redressed himself in more casual clothes, manoeuvred Namjoon’s floppy limbs into a soft, fluffy bathrobe, and moved their post-coital cuddling to the living room. Jin has arranged the food within easy reach on the coffee table, and Namjoon doesn’t have to do anything at all other than open his mouth and chew when prompted.
“Here, darling, you’ll like this,” his partner murmurs, holing up a delicate forkful of meat and sauce and steamed asparagus. He smiles at Namjoon’s answering hum of pleasant surprise, and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Good, isn’t it? Let me cut you another bite…”
With a contented sigh, Namjoon rests his head down against Jin’s shoulder, hands clinging to the elder’s shirtfront loosely. He loves quiet dinners like this. Cuddled up in Jin’s lap, warm and well-fucked, being hand-fed by the man he loves more than anything in the world. Life really can’t get much better than this.
“You know,” Jin mentions, turning his head to brush a kiss against Namjoon’s hairline, holding out another forkful of food, “this suite has three bedrooms, my love, and we’ve technically only christened one of them.”
Namjoon pauses mid-chew, eyes darting up to Jin’s face. His boyfriend’s lips curl up slowly in a charming grin.
“I think, perhaps,” he muses, tapping Namjoon on the nose, “after I’m done stuffing you full of linguine and wagyu beef, I’ll go ahead and stuff your pretty hole full of cock, too.”
Oh god, the mouth on that man.
He stands corrected – life can, apparently, get infinitely better.
For the wonderful DesperatelyObsesssed whose brain I greatly admire (go read her amazing fics ya'll).
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