“causally looped”—filter jm selfcest

w/ sort-of-exhibitionism, tummy-bulge, and lots of fun. (do not question any of the logistics—there are none. this is porn.)

for @perfectiltheend, because of whom i, in a fugue state, wrote this entire thing!

it happens quickly. one second, he’s leaning against a mannequin, looking into the camera. then he blinks, and the camera vanishes, the crew vanishes, and the whole auditorium is empty.

okay, that’s not weird at all.

jm whirls on his heel. the set’s all still up, and the stage lights are on. there’s a rich, velveteen purple couch on the stage that wasn’t there before, and a black umbrella leaning against the arm.

jm walks closer and runs a hand along the back of the couch.

well, it certainly /feels/ real.

footsteps ring out behind him, sharp heels against hardboard. jm whirls around a figure approaches from behind the wings of the stage.

jm squints. that’s—himself.

himself? it looks like him, anyway, dressed in a matching suit, but a deep purple instead of jm’s own red.

his hair is styled differently, loosely framing his face, and there’s something sultrier about his makeup (although jm can’t figure out /what/, exactly).

jm squints again. is the other him wearing the /filter/ outfit for tomorrow? but, more importantly—

“where am i?” jm asks, confused.

“don’t worry too much about it,” the other jm says, waving his hand. uh, jm’s worried.

but on the other hand, that is definitely /him/—his voice, his hands, his mannerisms. his body. the other him approaches the couch and perches on the armrest.

“you’re me, right?” a pause, and a crease appears between his eyebrows. “alternate universe?”

“time travel. just from a day in the future,” the other jm, purple jm (pjm?) says.

he slides onto the seat of the couch, stretching luxuriously, showing off the long, elegant line of his body, clad in purple.

“how can you be sure?” jm’s not really sure how time travel works.

but it’s /him/, there, himself. another him. another, same person, who probably is thinking the same thoughts jm is thinking now. and also looks like him, and moves like him, and …

pjm laughs.

his eyes are honestly rather devastating, half-lidded and full-lashed, glittering full of sultry excitement. “trust me. you’ll know. i’ll blow your mind, amongst other things.”

“you’re me, from tomorrow. what could possibly happen tonight to make you so sure of that?”

jm tries very, /very/ hard not to be a pervert. he really does! but there’s a little voice in his head, whispering about how /good/ of an opportunity this is, how he could just …

pjm smirks. a real, honest-to-god smirk, a crooked tilt of his lips, and a flash of white teeth. he looks completely at ease on the couch, hair ruffled, collar unbuttoned enough to show off the sweat glistening along the column of his throat.

his thighs strain against his fitted purple slacks, a beautiful complement to the velvet couch. jm could just slide into his lap, could feel the bulge of pjm’s thighs against his own.

is it normal to be sexually attracted to yourself? jm doesn’t care.

“why don’t you come find out?” pjm says, a little sing-songy and lilting.

he spreads his legs invitingly, cocky, as if he already knows jm was thinking about his thighs, about sitting in his lap.

it’s infuriating. it’s /so sexy/. jm’s absolutely going to lose his mind, tonight.

it’s easy for jm to walk closer and perch on pjm’s lap, settling his ass down right near pjm’s crotch. pjm stares like a man hypnotized, running his hands up jm’s thighs, coming to rest in the dip of his waist.

“this is strange,” jm murmurs, pressing his hands on pjm’s chest.

“you have no idea,” pjm says, his voice a low purr.

he’s solid and real beneath jm, a line of heat pressed along jm’s body, the hard planes of his chest rising and falling beneath jm’s palms as he breathes.

their faces are centimetres apart; jm can feel the warmth pjm’s breath fan over his face. he locks eyes with himself, and a delicious, heavy jolt pumps right through him.

“we’ve almost got an audience,” pjm says, cocking a brow.

he nods out to the auditorium, to the flush of stage lights pouring over their bodies, highlighting them for some imaginary audience, imaginary cameras.

jm can almost feel the weight of thousands of eyes greedily drinking in the sight of him pressed against himself, the tug of tension stretching between the two of them and an unseen, surrounding voyeur.

jm shivers, and pjm giggles quietly.

“hmm?” pjm hums against his mouth, lips curved in a wicked grin. “what do you say, jm-ah? shall we give them a show?”

arousal thuds through jm, a hot pulse all over his skin. his name should not sound that good in his own mouth. he’s on fucking fire.

jm can’t do more than moan helplessly and capture pjm’s mouth in a feverish kiss, a resounding /yes/.

pjm kisses back, equally as eager. the feeling of their mouths sliding together is beyond euphoric.

jm’s body prickles with the awareness of their position, out in the open auditorium.

the kiss is deep to begin with. there’s a strange pleasure, something both familiar and out-of-body, about kissing himself. but it’s /good/, it’s exactly what he likes, exactly how he likes it.

the right amount of sensual and burning, the right amount filthy. the back-and-forth is easy, it’s so easy to slip into that rhythm, hot mouths and tongues working against each other with the perfect pressure.

jm sucks pjm’s lower lip into his mouth, feels the plush shape of it trapped between his teeth, and moans greedily.

pjm turns and presses jm into the couch, rucking up jm’s shirt out of his waistband to press his hands into the dip of jm’s waist.

jm’s breath stutters into pjm’s mouth, abdomen quivering with the sensation of pjm’s cool rings against his heated skin.

he ducks down to mouth at jm’s neck, pressing wet kisses against the column of his throat.

little shocks of sensation, drags of his plush lips, make jm’s toes curl and his breath catch.

as jm shrugs out of his suit jacket, pjm unbuttons his shirt, following the revealed skin with his mouth and fingers.

pjm nips teasingly at jm’s taut stomach, rubbing him gently through his pants.

jm’s hips stutter and he sinks both his hands in pjm’s hair, tugging helplessly and shivering when pjm moans against his heated skin.

“fuck, lemme …” pjm shrugs out of his suit jacket, tosses it on the armrest. and then he slips to the floor, on his knees between the vee of jm’s legs, wickedly gleeful, looking for all the world /predatory/.

he unzips jm pants, reaching in to pull out jm’s cock. jm’s mostly hard and flushed already, dick throbbing in pjm’s grasp.

pjm licks his lips and growls breathily, some involuntary noise that rumbles right out of him. he’s so focused on jm’s cock, on feeling it in his hands.

jm’s entire body feels feverish under pjm’s gaze.

pjm makes another helpless, dark noise and then ducks down to get his mouth around jm, sinking down precise and easy.

jm’s eyes roll back in his skull. is this what getting head from park jimin looks like?

goddamn, jm should be on his knees every damn day; pjm’s mouth is /obscene/ around him, his plush lips squished around jm’s cockhead, pink and shining.

fuck, /fuck/.

pjm sinks deeper and moans breathily, right in the clutch of his throat. his mouth constricts around jm’s dick as he pulls back, the ridges along the roof of his mouth pressing against the top of his cock, tongue working against the underside.

when pjm’s bee-stung lips meet the flare of jm’s glans, they fatten, slipping over the ridge and exposing jm’s red cockhead, glistening with pre-come and saliva. it’s practically pornographic.

pjm rubs jm’s cock over the open seam of his lips and tongue, moaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever done. it’s filthy, it looks so filthy.

jm can’t stop staring, moaning, pleasure pulsing through his abdomen with every slick noise, every catch and drag of pjm’s fat, pink lips over his cockhead.

pjm knows exactly where to work his tongue, with exactly the right speed and pressure to drive jm nuts, to stoke the fire in his belly and the ache of pleasure in his dick.

jm throws his head back and laughs, a sound that trails off into a breathy moan.

he can’t stop grinning, flushed and elated from the stage-lights washing over his body, from the splay of the auditorium in front of him—from pjm, kneeling between his legs, working his mouth hotly over jm, rubbing his lips and tongue all against the length of his cock.

god, the best head of jm’s life and it’s from /himself/.

pjm’s hand strokes along jm’s length, rings cool against jm’s burning skin. he rubs the slick saliva over jm, and then twists his hand up over jm’s cockhead, fucking it between his fingers.

jm’s hips stutter forward involuntarily and he groans loudly, breath punched out of his chest.

“you keep doing that and i’ll come,” jm warns, but it comes out whiny and wrecked.

pjm grins, teeth flashing. “yeah, i know. just wanted to tease you.”

he squishes one last kiss against jm’s cockhead and then stands abruptly, sinking his fingers into jm’s hair and licking into his mouth, hot and filthy.

jm’s hands fly up to clutch at pjm’s collar.

this kiss is the messiest they’ve shared, barely more than panting little noises into each other’s mouths, all tongue and heat.

“fuck me,” jm gasps into the kiss. “fuck me, please.” he’s going nuts with all the sensations sparking down his body.

pjm grins and pulls out a foil square from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. is that lube?

“did you /plan/ for this?” jm stammers.

“time-travel, honey,” pjm coos, and promptly tears open the packet over his fingers.

he fucks jm open easily, stretching him on a couple fingers, teasing him enough to get jm squirming against the velvet seat of the couch, moaning deliriously.

“lemme- pants,” jm gasps out. pjm takes his fingers out long enough for jm to hurriedly toss his pants off to the side.

pjm unzips his own slacks enough to pull out his cock, flushed so deep red the head is almost purple.

for a delirious second, jm thinks about how pjm’s cock matches the suit he’s wearing—and how his own flushed, red dick matches himself.

jm doesn’t get much more time to think about it because pjm lifts him with arms under his thighs, draping him over the backseat of the couch, far enough that jm can’t sit up, not without putting effort into it.

jm’s head lolls back as he lies there, half-dazed and burning all over, and pjm neatly lines himself up, fat head nudging inside jm.

pjm slides in, one long, quick thrust, bearing jm open around the girth of his cock.

his hipbones thud against the meat of jm’s ass and jm gasps as pjm’s cockhead brushes right against his prostate.

fuck, /fuck/, what the hell—jm moans so loud he shocks himself, fingers scrabbling for purchase along the back of the velvet couch.

pjm starts to move, full, slow thrusts rubbing right inside jm, dragging his cock against his walls.

“/fuck/,” pjm swears, head falling forward. his hair is all sweaty, sticking to the back of his neck. “so tight.” he sounds wrecked, voice low and dark with pleasure.

“haven’t you already done this?” jm gasps out, with a breathy laugh.

pjm rolls his eyes. “not from this end, no.”

jm takes each thrust, rocking up the edge of the couch, breathless with the feeling. he’s so full, pjm’s so deep in him.

he can’t see much, but the rhythm crashes through him like waves.

“fuck, look at you,” pjm says, something like awe in his voice, and grabs jm’s hand to lay it over jm’s lower abdomen. “can you feel me?”

unh? jm lifts his head weakly, trying to see.

pjm’s next thrust rubs him right inside, deep and unforgiving, wrenching out an embarrassing little cry from jm.

oh, holy shit.

beneath his palm, jm’s skin stretches taut over the outline of pjm’s cock in his belly, disappearing and reappearing, distending his abdomen with each hot, slow thrust.

jm’s head falls back under the pleasure of it all, nearly blinded by the flood of stage lights.

pjm hefts him up slightly and then changes his rhythm, something fast and pointed, merciless.

jm’s breath knocks out of lungs, he can barely see straight—pjm stretches his rim so wide beneath the base of his cock, angles upward to hook his dick right into jm’s prostate.

jm goes crazy, each thrust rocking through his body, like a line of pleasure from the tip of his head down to his toes. his spine goes lax against the back of the couch, eyes dazed and unfocused.

he can’t stop any of the sounds spilling from his mouth, punched out of his lungs with every thud of pjm’s hips against his ass.

“wow, i did not realize how fucking whiny you were- i was going to be,” pjm laughs, fucking forward with quick, sharp thrusts.

jm doesn’t have the energy to scold himself, his entire world narrowing to the pressure on his prostate, to the pleasure burning in his belly.

he can’t control the breathy /ah, ah/s that pour out of him as he’s rocked against the back of the couch.

“unh, /fuck/, right against- ‘m prostate,” jm babbles.

it feels /so/ good, feels like pjm fits just perfect, fills him right to the brim each time. his hands scrabble helplessly, unable to grip anything against the couch.

so instead, he grabs pjm by the lapels of his suit jacket, urging him to move faster.

there’s a tide building within him, deep, rolling pleasure mounting into a towering wave, washing over him from head to toe.

jm teeters over the precipice of it and comes hard, toes curling, some helpless, high noise wrenched out of him.

come splatters up his abdomen, glistening in the auditorium lighting.

pjm groans and pulls jm down hard onto his cock, hips chasing his orgasm frantically.

jm thrashes with oversensitivity, gasping out incomprehensible sounds. pjm stills as he comes, mouthing messily over the exposed planes of jm’s chest.

they both slump messily onto the couch, sated and exhausted. jm throws his head back giggles tiredly, a kind of euphoria rising within him.

“so,” pjm says, lounging against the armrest. he’s still mostly dressed, although his shirt is untucked and half-unbuttoned and his cock is still out. “everything you hoped for from yourself?”

“more than,” jm answers, out of breath.

pjm smiles suddenly, eyes crinkling. he stands up and helps jm shrug his clothes back on.

“how do i get back?” jm asks, trying to straighten out his absolutely fucked-up hair.

“don’t worry about it,” pjm says. he kisses jm again, once, a fond press before he steps back. he grabs his umbrella, twirls it cheerily, and says, “goodbye!”

jm blinks, and pjm’s gone.

he inhales in surprise and whirls on his heel, but pjm is nowhere to be seen.

and suddenly jm’s leaning against the mannequin again, although all the stage lights are off. the song is over. disoriented, he makes his way off the dark stage and into the dressing room.

in the mirror, it looks like nothing happened to him.

his hair is still in place, his suit jacket is on, his makeup intact. but he can still remember the echoes of mouth on mouth, skin on skin, the phantom feeling of having been fucked.

had it all just been a dream?

jm guesses he’ll have to wait and see.

the next day, in-between costume changes backstage, jm stares in the mirror.

it’s strange, how he looks today exactly like he did in his memory; it’s almost like an out-of-body experience. something beyond himself.

he shakes his head to clear it and slots in his earpiece, jogging in place to hype himself up for the performance.

(it really is strange, still, to be performing on a stage so adjacently similar to the one he’d gotten railed on in some random pocket of time.)

when the last notes of filter fade out from his earpiece, jm breathes in, blinks, and then he’s back in the place he was the night before, holding his umbrella.

he turns, right to the exact spot he knows—there’s a couch. an absurd giggle rises out of him. oh, fuck yes. oh, /fuck yes/.

jm throws himself bodily along the couch and laughs delightedly.

jm closes his umbrella and lays it against the armrest. as he strides across the stage, out into the wings, he checks the breast pocket of his suit jacket and grins, thanking his own foresight.

any time now, the past version of himself should appear, dressed in red, all confused and pretty.

and god, he has no idea what’s coming for him. jm can’t /wait/ to ruin him.