“Okay, no, not like that, you can’t get my face--” Jimin says, and Taehyung whines, “What’s the point if you don’t have your face in it?”
“My dick,” Jimin tells him, very seriously, and then giggles when Taehyung does. “My dick is the point, Taetae, keep up.”
“I’m supporting you, as your best friend, by filming your sex tape,” Taehyung says, shifting the camera. It’s the Bangtan Bomb camera, which is an awful idea, but not any more so than any other part of this. “The least you can do is let me direct.”
“I’m a much better director than you are,” Jimin says, indignant, and he waves off Taehyung’s protests. “Fine, fine, compromise. Film half my face. Half! Plausible deniability.”
“It’s not like it’s ever actually going anywhere. We’re going to delete it, right?”
“Sure,” Jimin says, easy. “But we should always be prepared, right? I mean, most celebrities never think their sex tapes will get out, but look at all the sex tapes out there.”
“Don’t tell me you think you’re a celebrity now,” Taehyung mutters, pouty, fiddling with the camera’s monitoring screen.
“Hey!” Jimin says. He throws one of the pillows from the hotel bed at Taehyung, and Taehyung ducks, the camera going shaky. He doesn’t drop it, but it’s a close thing. “I bet more people know my name than yours.”
“That’s not fair,” Taehyung whines. “I was a secret, and you get to use your real name.”
“I bet more people know my name because I’m hotter,” Jimin says. He flexes his biceps a bit as he settles back against the pillows, some of them stolen from Taehyung’s bed, and then he laughs, helplessly, when Taehyung just stares at him, deadpan.
“Okay, okay,” Jimin says. “What should I do?”
“I don’t know. Jerk off?” Taehyung shrugs. “It’s your sex tape.”
“I thought you wanted to make your directing debut?” Jimin asks. He’s just in shorts and a plain white t-shirt, both kind of baggy on him. The hotel room is a little too cold, his nipples perking up tight against the cool air when he pushes his shirt up his torso, rucking it up to his armpits with a flat palm against his belly. He runs an absent hand back over his abs, tense with anticipation and a giddy feeling, and without really thinking about it, thumbs at one nipple. It’s sensitive, and he arches into it a little, sighing.
“That’s good,” Taehyung tells him, and Jimin blinks, pausing.
“Oh, right,” Jimin says. “We’re filming?”
“Duh,” Taehyung says.
“Half my face,” Jimin reminds him, biting at his bottom lip. He wants it to look full and red on camera, so he sucks it into his mouth, getting it nice and wet, before letting it poke out in a little pout. It’s one that he’s practiced in front of the mirror enough times that’s he’s satisfied with how it looks, and Taehyung hums his approval.
He waits as Taehyung knee-walks onto the bed, settling down at the end.
“Is the angle okay?” Jimin frets. “My chin, it’s -- don’t shoot me from below, come on.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Taehyung tells him. Still, he gets back on his knees, until the angle is a little higher.
Placated, Jimin sets back to his task. He’s been thinking about this for a while, to the point where half the time when he jerks off it’s just him pretending that he’s on camera, thinking about what he’d do, how he’d look. It started sometime after they started filming for their first official music video, and it’s definitely the kind of thing he’d never have shared with anyone if it weren’t Taehyung.
His hand inches down his stomach to the edge of his shorts. He’s not hard, but the camera -- the little red dot, Taehyung’s serious eyes, the feeling of being watched -- is enough to make him ready, to get him into it. He slips his hand under the waistband and plays with himself, a slightly unpleasant dry pull that still gets him hard. He touches himself slow and teasing, movements big enough that the camera can catch them clearly, even under his shorts. It’s the kind of thing he’s learned from watching girls and boys give quick handjobs under clothes in amateur porn, a kind of unassuming sexiness that comes from just getting the job done, out for pleasure more than camera angles.
Still, he does care about camera angles. He pulls his shorts down when he’s hard, just enough, the fabric caught under his hips. Mostly bare, shirt pushed up his body, shorts tugged down, but not completely vulnerable. A bit of a tease, a bit sloppy. It works for him, he thinks. He bites his lip some more, thinks about if he did show all of his face, what kind of gaze he’d use on the camera. He practices, letting his eyes go heavy-lidded, tracking the camera, making contact with it.
“How do my abs look?” he asks, hips twitching up a little helplessly into his hand as he grasps himself and traces a too-gentle thumb up the vein of his dick.
“Like abs?” Taehyung goes, and then shrugs. His eyes are focused on the little screen, watching Jimin through the camera. “Stretch a little, tense up, like -- yeah. Good.” Jimin arches a bit more, scooting down a little and planting his feet on the bed. He squeezes his cock hard a little too hard for how sensitive he is and ends up croaking low in the back of his throat, until it cracks and breaks into something much higher.
He’s seventeen, and he’s debuted as an idol, and he’s got a camera on him while he jerks off in a hotel room.
He closes his eyes, forgetting to practice his sex face -- the actual sex part of this is getting to him, now. His dick isn’t really the best, not big or thick like Taehyung’s, but he doesn’t really feel self-conscious about it. It’s maybe one of the only parts of his body that he doesn’t feel self-conscious about. He thinks he’d probably feel weirder about it if it were big and disproportionate, but instead -- though he doesn’t really want to admit it -- it fits, it looks good in his hand, his fingers aren’t too small to wrap around it and when he gets hard the head just barely peeks out the top of his fist, pink and wet, a dick that Taehyung had looked at and called pretty, a dick that Namjoon had looked at and called cute.
Jimin, for all of his issues, doesn’t mind being cute. This extends to his dick.
“Open your mouth back up,” Taehyung tells him, suddenly, and Jimin complies, unaware that he’d been biting his lip again. He lets his mouth drop open into a small ‘o’ shape, and forces himself to open his eyes, looking up at Taehyung again.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Taehyung tells him, a bit hushed. He’s hunched over a little, filming steadily. “Your nipples and your dick look so dark on camera.”
“See, we needed more light,” Jimin says, sighing as he unconsciously tugs at himself a little faster, a little harder. They’d argued about lighting for ten minutes before even turning the camera on.
“No, like, just. You’re so hard.” Taehyung clears his throat. “Feel good?”
Jimin nods. He keeps his mouth open, tongue darting out every now and then to wet his lips again, and, without even really meaning to, he thinks about Taehyung being on camera with him. About sitting in Taehyung’s lap and jerking him off while Taehyung holds onto his hips, open-mouthed panting, his face blank as he stares at Jimin’s hand on him. How small Jimin’s hand would look, in comparison. How it wouldn’t matter, because Taehyung would just -- would just let him, let him do whatever he wanted with him. How good they’d look on camera together.
Jimin makes more noise as he gets more into it. Little breaths, little sighs, sharp intakes of air that relax into shuddering gasps as he brings himself back from the edge. He draws it out, precome slipping between his fingers, making it better than the dry pull he’s been working with, not as good without lube but not something he hasn’t done before. Wet slaps fill the air as he tugs on himself, faster and faster, and he finds himself humping up into his hand, wanting to get more, unable to help it. He pulls his hand up too far and his fingers slip from his dick. It slaps against his skin once, pink against the warm tone of his belly, before he’s grasping it again, twisting his neck until the side of his face is pressed to the pillow. Close.
“Stop, stop,” Taehyung tells him, then, and Jimin obeys, a frustrated groan bubbling out of his throat.
“What?” he asks. He rubs gently at the head of his dick to keep him on edge.
“Turn,” Taehyung says, and his voice cracks a little. He clears his throat again. “Turn over?”
Jimin sits up, halfway ready to obey already, and then narrows his eyes at Taehyung. “Why?”
“Your-- um.” Taehyung’s cheeks are pink enough that Jimin wants to turn the camera on him to capture the view. “Your ass.”
“Oh,” Jimin says. He shrugs. His t-shirt falls down his torso again, covering him up, but he turns over just the same, settling on his knees, pulling the pillows against his chest. He gets himself propped up, one elbow under him while his other hand reaches for his dick again.
He jumps when he feels Taehyung’s hands, though, tugging down his shorts until they’re caught around his knees. Then he pushes Jimin’s t-shirt back up a little, to the middle of his back. Jimin feels suddenly too bare, cool air hitting him where he was warm before, and he laughs a little shakily, saying, “Taetae.”
“Arch your back?” Taehyung suggests. Jimin does, overly aware of the way the position pushes his ass up.
“Good?” Jimin asks, feeling his dick kick in his hand. Imagining how he looks.
Jimin can’t see Taehyung anymore, which makes the whole thing feel -- weirder, more anonymous. His heart starts up a fast, frantic rhythm in his chest as he goes back to playing with himself, as he lets his head fall down, watching his hand slip up and down, the way his thighs tense and spread a little further, for the camera, for Taehyung.
“Have you ever--” Taehyung says, barely a whisper, before cutting himself off. Jimin wonders what his face looks like.
“Nothing.” The bed squeaks, shifts, and Jimin thinks Taehyung is standing up. Shooting him from the side.
“Thought you wanted to get my ass,” Jimin says, laughing a little, breathless.
“I am,” Taehyung tells him. “Your ass, the dip of your back. Your thighs, straining, keeping you up. Your pretty dick, all pink. I can just barely see it.”
“Taehyung,” Jimin says, shakily, his hand speeding up. He pushes his ass up more, wanting.
“Hey, Jiminie. Guess what?”
“What?” Jimin asks. He feels too warm, from his toes to his head, a fever burn that makes hot tears well up in his eyes out of nowhere. He blinks, hard, trying to will them away.
“You were made to be on camera.” Taehyung’s voice is even lower than it usually is, like he’s been singing for hours, like when he and Jimin have been screaming at each other.
Jimin laughs again, embarrassed. “Stop making fun of me,” he says. He tucks his chin down further, hiding a little, but he feels Taehyung’s eyes on him more, now, and it just makes him harder, makes his hand on himself go frantic, chasing the feeling.
“I’m not,” Taehyung says. “Hey, let me see you. Let the camera see you.”
Without thinking, Jimin looks up and over, and Taehyung is right there, flushed, his mouth hanging open just a bit, the camera focused on Jimin’s face. “Don’t get my face,” Jimin says, slipping into satoori, his voice going rougher. Even as he says it, he’s gripping his dick too hard, feeling every touch magnified, thinking -- thinking about this. About how he must look. About how Taehyung must be seeing him, about how everyone might see him, about people watching him and getting off to him, about making someone want to get off, about --
“Why not? Who’s gonna see it? It's just me.” Taehyung sounds knowing, a bit teasing, but serious. His eyes are still focused on the little screen. “You’re all red.”
“You, too,” Jimin gasps.
“Your mouth’s all wet.”
“You’re the one drooling all over me.”
Taehyung ignores him. “Turn back over, come on,” Taehyung says, and he shoves at Jimin a little with one hand until Jimin is collapsing onto his side, rolling back onto his back. Then, Taehyung gets on the bed again -- but this time, he kneels over Jimin’s legs, shooting right on top of him.
“Hey,” Jimin says.
“I’m shooting from above,” Taehyung says. “Go on, Jiminie.”
“I’m directing, remember?” Taehyung says. He grins, boxy and familiar. “In this scene, I’m the director, and you’re the star.”
“Fine,” Jimin huffs. “My royalties are going to be outrageous, though.”
“Your porn royalties,” Taehyung giggles. Jimin uses his free hand to slap Taehyung’s thigh, but Taehyung just steadies the camera again.
“Play with your nipples,” Taehyung tells him. When Jimin does, pinching a little more roughly than he usually would, letting his nails dig in, Taehyung says, “How’s it feel?”
“Good,” Jimin says. “I’m not -- sometimes it’s just, whatever. But I’ve been sensitive lately.”
“Yeah,” Taehyung says. Then, “How’s it feel to be on camera?”
“Taehyung.” Jimin swallows, watching Taehyung watch him.
“You were so scared at first, showing off your body,” Taehyung continues. “And now you just wanna do it all the time. How’s it feel?”
“Makes me feel -- I don’t know.” Jimin turns his head into the pillow again, cheek pressed against the fabric, wanting to hide and wanting to be in the spotlight forever. “Sexy,” he whispers.
“Come on, you’ve been acting all confident lately.” Taehyung settles one hand on Jimin’s bare thigh and Jimin jumps, his stomach and legs clenching up.
“I’m not,” Jimin confesses. Taehyung’s hand grips the meat of his thigh and Jimin squeezes his dick. “I’m not, I just -- I really want to be.” He takes a deep breath. “I want people to look at me and want me. I want -- I want people to see me and imagine having me. I want to feel that, I want -- I don’t want them to be able to take their eyes off of me.”
“You want everyone to see,” Taehyung says, and Jimin’s hand speeds up again, his other hand tracing the lines of his abs, feather-light, like he’s soothing himself as he works himself up, and he does want everyone to see.
“I want them to want me,” Jimin breathes again. He hitches back a whine, letting it catch in his throat. “Oh, oh -- I want them to want me.”
Taehyung finally looks away from the screen, and when their eyes meet, Taehyung’s pupils are blown dark and wide, the kind of look Jimin has always wanted to be on the receiving end of, and he can’t help it.
He comes in long, shooting stripes up his abdomen and chest. More come catches over his hand and his fingers as he pumps himself, sticky in his fist. He doesn’t close his eyes -- he’s caught on Taehyung’s gaze, letting it ease him down and then get him going again, hips twitching into and away from stimulation, dick too wet and too sensitive but still hard enough for him to continue milking himself. He wants to keep on, wants to lie here in his sweat and come until he’s ready again.
Taehyung’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. His mouth is still hanging open. His hand on the camera is shaky -- it’s probably getting too heavy, now. Jimin can see that he’s hard in his sweatpants.
“Taetae,” Jimin says, barely a whisper, sweet and soft. “Taehyungie. Do you want me?”
“Show me?” Jimin says. “Show me how much you want me?”
Taehyung doesn’t put the camera down. He switches hands, and with his free hand, tugs his sweats down just enough to free his dick. Jimin’s never seen it fully hard, not directly, and it’s big enough that he stares a little, feeling a little fire burning inside his chest, something weirdly akin to both shyness and pride.
“You’re so big,” Jimin says, and he says it like it’s a tease, like the way everyone calls him small.
“Jimin,” Taehyung whines, and he immediately sets out a fast and brutal pace, rocking the camera more and more as he pulls at his dick, mouth open in a wide gape that Jimin kind of wants to fill.
“You want me that much?” Jimin asks. He finally lets go of himself, fully soft, to run a filthy hand through the mess on his stomach. “Is that for me?”
“Jimin,” Taehyung says again, more desperate.
Jimin pushes himself up on one elbow, and, shakily, he knocks Taehyung’s hand off of himself. When Jimin grasps his dick, his fingers don’t meet, his fist doesn’t cover the most of the length like with himself, and Taehyung groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt, ever seen, Jimin’s chubby fingers tugging on him, angle awkward, rhythm nonexistent.
“If it’s for me,” Jimin says, squeezing on the upstroke, wrist already hurting. He keeps at it, lets Taehyung’s hips pump his cock through the loose curl of Jimin’s fingers. “If it’s for me, you gotta give it. You gotta let me have it.”
Taehyung pants. His eyes are wider than Jimin’s ever seen them, and something in the back of Jimin’s head tells him that they’re somehow managing to make an already stupid idea even stupider, but that’s kind of what he and Taehyung do, what best friends do: stupid stuff together.
“It’s mine,” Jimin says. He’s not really sure what he’s saying, or why he’s saying it, but it feels very true nonetheless. “Taetae, show me.”
And Taehyung does: he fucks Jimin’s hand harder, lets out a choked off sob that Jimin’s heard in the dark enough to know, and then he’s coming, adding to the mess of Jimin’s hand and the mess of Jimin’s stomach. He comes more than Jimin did, and even though it probably isn’t that much, Jimin feels soaked with it. He doesn’t feel dirty, though -- he feels sexier than he’s ever felt in his entire life, watching Taehyung come down from his orgasm, Taehyung’s hips twitching into his fingers until he’s softening. He thinks I did that and that was for me, that was mine and he likes it so much he can’t help but want more.
“Okay,” Taehyung says, finally. Jimin’s hand is still on his dick, but he’s not going to move it until Taehyung asks him to or moves himself, so. “Okay, I’ve changed my mind about this whole idol thing. We gotta quit and become porn stars.”
Jimin laughs, the sound bubbling out of him suddenly, unexpected. He collapses back into the pillows. “Yeah, that’ll go well.”
“I’m serious!” Taehyung says. He sets the camera down on the bed. “Like, sorry Bang PD-nim, but I’ve gotta follow my calling--”
“Oh my God, don’t say his name when I’m covered in your jizz,” Jimin yelps, swatting at Taehyung until Taehyung falls off of him, almost crushing the camera.
“Whose fault is that?” Taehyung demands, and Jimin immediately says, dumbfounded, “Yours! It’s your jizz!”
“I’m not going to argue with you about this,” Taehyung says, but he’s already pouting hard and Jimin is so close to rolling his eyes.
“There’s nothing to argue about. It’s literally fact.”
“Okay, okay,” Taehyung says, putting his hands up in a placating gesture, which Jimin suspects is only so Jimin won’t hit him again.
There’s a minute of silence that is filled mostly by Taehyung half-heartedly mopping at Jimin’s belly with a wad of tissues and then both of them giving up and shuffling into the bathroom. They take turns at the sink, too lethargic to shower, and then they collapse into Taehyung’s clean, sex-free bed.
“Is this weird?” Jimin thinks to ask as Taehyung cuddles closer, scooting down the bed so he can rest his head on Jimin’s chest, tucked into the crook of Jimin’s arm.
Taehyung hums. “Probably?” he says.
“But not any weirder than me asking you to film my sex tape in the first place.”
“I mean, I wasn’t gonna say anything.” Taehyung’s laugh turns into a yawn. “You’re my Jiminie.” He says it like that’s all the answer, all the reason they need, and maybe it is.
“You’re my Taetae,” Jimin agrees.
“Power nap. Then we can order dumplings and watch it?” Taehyung suggests.
“It’s, like, one in the morning.”
“My power naps are really long.”
“Just go to sleep.” He slaps the back of Taehyung’s head, and then ends up petting his hair, gentle and soft.
“Hey, Jimin,” Taehyung says, and Jimin looks down to see Taehyung peering up at him, eyes blurry, looking half-asleep already.
“Everyone’s gonna want you,” he says, and he shakes his head when Jimin opens his mouth to reply. “No, listen. Everyone. Everyone’s gonna want you, okay? But I wanted you first. Okay?”
“Yeah?” Jimin says again, this time a confirmation, vulnerable and shaky.
“Yeah.” Taehyung smiles, close-mouthed, turning down a little at the corners.
Taking a breath, Jimin goes, “Show me?” again, not really sure what he’s asking for.
Taehyung seems to know, though.
Propping himself up, Taehyung leans over him, and, much more innocent and gentler than anything they’ve done so far, he presses a kiss to Jimin’s lips, dry and simple.
Jimin kisses back.