Work Text:
Catch it on Film
by regretionship
For Ames, who had an itch that needed scratching
“Oh, oh, Hyung, pass me one too,” Jungkook says, collapsing on the green velvet couch. He reaches one hand over the back toward Hobi-Hyung, who has just pulled a soda out of the drink cooler by the back of the tent.
“Here,” says Hobi, kind enough to walk over and hand it to Jungkook directly instead of tossing it. “Do you want me to—Oh.”
Jungkook follows his gaze, facing forward just in time to see a tapered waist and plush, round ass right in front of his face. Jimin, with his long blonde hair, presses Jungkook’s thighs further apart with his own legs, then sinks to the ground before him in one fluid, graceful motion.
The last time he pulled this maneuver—in the small hours of the morning, after Jungkook had finished gaming with Jin-Hyung and come back to their room, still slightly tipsy—Jimin was facing the other way.
Hobi-Hyung doesn’t say anything further. Or if he does, Jungkook doesn’t hear him. His focus is entirely on Jimin now.
”Ahh,” whines Jimin, tipping his head back and turning it slightly to the side, giving Jungkook his poutiest look. “Ahh, Jungkookie, your Hyung is so sore.”
”Already?” Jungkook teases. The show doesn’t start for another hour; he should really be asking, “Still?”
Jimin doesn’t play along, just groans, rolling his neck once. He must really still be sore. Jungkook had him bent over in half only a few hours ago—he’d been careful not to put too much pressure on Jimin’s lower back, which had been aching after last night’s show, but maybe he overcompensated and put too much strain on Jimin’s neck instead.
“So sore,” Jimin mutters, still pouting.
Jungkook pulls his phone from the pocket of his leather pants, thumb tapping and swiping in a pattern that’s engrained into body memory. The camera app opens and he starts recording just as one of Jimin’s small hands reaches up to sweep the fall of his long blonde hair over one shoulder.
The move exposes the elegant nape of his neck and the upper half of the first crescent moon tattoo peeking out from the slouching hood of his sweatshirt.
Jimin taps his nape with his other hand, tilting his head just a little, pitching his voice just shy of pleading and asks, “Could you rub it a little?”
He will, he absolutely will. But before he does, he needs to tease Jimin just a little more. Just a little, since Jimin has been ignoring all the other teasing thus far. The hand with the soda reaches out first, pressing the cold can and its condensation against Jimin’s bare skin. Jungkook giggles at Jimin’s hiss, the reflexive retreat as Jimin pulls away from the cold.
“Sorry, sorry,” Jungkook says, still giggling. He takes a few big gulps from the can, then sets it on the cushion beside him, leaning it against the back of the couch.
His phone keeps recording, held in his right hand. Ugh, fuck. He needs another hand.
His left reaches out, thumb measuring the distance from the little mole—the star that orbits Jimin’s crescent moon—to find the exact spot that always melts Jimin into a puddle of goo.
The satisfaction that he derives from Jimin’s croaked grunt of pleasure-pain when Jungkook hits the usual tender spot just right is… well, it’s primal. He’s lucky that Jimin is sitting so close in front of him so that nobody can see how much Jungkook enjoys Jimin’s enjoyment.
Okay. He needs to have both of his hands on him. One thumb taps the record button again to stop the video while the other digs into Jimin’s muscle. He sets the phone down beside his thigh, then takes Jimin’s other shoulder in hand.
Jimin makes another noise, this time muffled behind tightly closed lips.
“You going to be okay for the show tonight?” Jungkook asks, worried and turned on all at once.
“You’d have to do a lot worse to prevent me from giving my all on stage, Jeon Jungkook.”
Jungkook laughs. That sounds like a challenge, but Jimin’s voice is so strained that it’s barely believable.
They have another performance tomorrow. But then after that it’s the AMA’s, so Jimin only needs to be able to walk for that, so—
“Oh, god.”
Jungkook and Jimin both freeze, heads snapping to their right to behold Namjoon, who looks like he’s wishing he could evaporate. Disappear.
“Sorry, Hyung,” says Jimin.
“Sorry, Hyung,” says Jungkook.
“I was just really sore and—“
”No, no,” says Namjoon, shaking his head. “I don’t want to hear it. Just. No boners on stage, please.” He pivots in place and marches away.
Jungkook vaguely registers the sound of Hobi-Hyung cackling in the distance.
Jimin puts his hands daintily in his lap.
Jungkook continues his massage. A lot more chastely this time.
He can make up for that tomorrow night.
.end.