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Jungkook shuts off the VLive stream and sits back in his chair, draining the last few dregs of wine from the bottle before setting his glass aside with a contented sigh. He reaches for his phone to text the staff that he’s done for the night and a few moments later there’s a knock at his door; Jungkook hands her the VLive phone with a small bow and a murmured, “G'night.”
He strips off his shirt as he makes his way back across the room, shaking his hair out of his eyes uselessly before flinging himself facedown onto the bed. The buzz of the alcohol, remnants of the post-show adrenaline still coursing through his veins—he feels good, and he lets himself feel it, a familiar, low-key urgency building just under his skin. He shifts his hips against the mattress just enough to test the waters, to see if this is what he wants.
Heat crawls up his spine, the blood rushing between his legs, and Jungkook gasps, the room spinning a bit faster than before. Yeah, he wants this.
He thinks about texting the members—any of them, all of them, come join me, knows some would be at his door in moments, others too tired or already asleep—and decides against it. He’s feeling himself, the heat in his chest spreading through his limbs, and realizes with a grin that for once it’s his own touch he wants—no words, no discussion, just his own hands right where he wants them.
He turns over onto his back, kicking his pants off with no finesse whatsoever; laughing softly to himself, he reaches toward the bedside table to retrieve the lube that’s tucked away in the drawer.
Jungkook may not be with the members, but he thinks of them anyway. He doesn’t think they’d mind, if they knew. They probably do know, or at least, Taehyung and Seokjin do, having traded enough frantic post-show handjobs to know how Jungkook gets when he feels like this. Jimin, too—Jimin, who’d let him in after his own VLive the night before, shut off all the lights and slid his hands into Jungkook’s hair, kissing him hard and begging to be fucked up against the wall of windows in his room. He should’ve known better—they both should’ve, usually more careful with a performance the next day, but Jimin had bitten Jungkook’s lip, curled his fingers around his cock and asked so nicely, and who was Jungkook to say no, really?
He palms himself through his briefs as he replays the night before: pressing his cock into Jimin from behind, their fingers intertwined against the glass as they gazed unseeing out at the lights of the bridge, the water and the city so far below, all those people with no idea, no idea how pretty Jimin sounded with Jungkook’s name falling from his lips, begging for more, harder, please. The view outside was gorgeous, but no lights could compare to the reflection of Jimin dropping his head down as he cursed and came in streaks of white against the glass, Jungkook just barely holding them up as he followed suit moments later, breath hot on Jimin’s sweat-slick skin.
There’s a wet patch at the front of Jungkook’s briefs as he drags a thumb across the head of his cock through the fabric, hips jerking at the friction. He doesn’t usually tease himself like this—doesn’t have the time, or the energy, or the patience—but tonight is different, the buzz in his veins relaxing him just enough. He thinks again about calling the others (wonders if Jimin is with Tae, or maybe Namjoon, or if he’s decided to spend the night on his own), but he feels content—to fantasize, to remember, to touch himself and simply pretend it’s the others making him feel good, each in their own way.
Jungkook tugs his briefs down his legs as he imagines Namjoon undressing him slowly, touching him everywhere but where he needs it most: hands spreading his thighs, thumbs tracing the V of his hips, nails dragging deliberately across his nipples. He reaches down to cup his balls and imagines it’s Seokjin teasing at them instead, all too easily envisioning that look he gets when he has JK in the palm of his hand, murmuring half-coherent sentiments against his lips. He wraps his fingers around his cock at last and imagines it’s Taehyung’s hand on him, spreading the slick of his precome down the length of his cock; imagines Tae’s free hand against the side of his neck, fingers pressing down, leaving only a temporary ache instead of the marks they both want, reminders on his skin that would last for days instead of minutes, hours at best.
He reaches blindly for the lube, pouring just enough onto his fingers to make the slide of his hand that much easier, smoother, and imagines Hoseok’s mouth sinking down; tightens his grip and pretends he can feel Hobi’s throat working around the head of his cock, looking up at him with that mischievous, determined gleam in his eye. He adds more lube and lets his fingers slip further down between his legs, tease across his entrance, and now it’s Yoongi hyung he’s imagining: sliding in one finger, two before JK has a chance to catch his breath and he loves it, loves the burn as his body adjusts, shallow thrusts until he finds his prostate with a moan he can’t bite back, doesn’t bother to try.
Jungkook doesn’t stop stroking himself, twisting his hand from base to tip, keeping his grip tight even as he presses his fingers deeper. Noises spill from his lips as he imagines Seokjin quieting him with his tongue in his mouth, hand in his hair, grip too tight, just right; imagines Hoseok’s fingers between his lips as he fucks Jungkook just the way he likes, dragging him to the edge and holding him there, begging for permission to come. His mouth waters as he imagines the weight of Namjoon hyung’s cock against his own, one hand wrapped around both of them, a sob rising in Jungkook’s throat as their hips move against one another, skin slick with sweat. Imagines Yoongi’s mouth replacing his fingers, thumbs spreading Jungkook open as his tongue drags across his entrance, dips inside, his lips curving into a smirk as Jungkook’s moans grow desperate, as he begs for things he didn’t know he wanted, didn’t know he could want—not until this, until them.
He’s overwhelmed as he imagines the warmth of Taehyung’s hands, the cold of his rings, the contrast leaving Jungkook thrusting up even before Tae’s lips wrap around the head of his cock, tongue tracing along the sensitive underside. Imagines Jimin, beautiful, impossible, torturous Jimin, pinning Jungkook to the bed and sinking down onto his cock, Jungkook’s world narrowing to the motion of Jimin’s hips, the taste of the wine on his tongue as they kiss, messy, perfect, Jungkook’s blunt nails sliding down the slope of Jimin’s bare back as he sits up just enough to find his leverage and thrust up, take control, make Jimin fall apart.
But now it’s Jungkook who’s falling apart, trembling as his fingers speed up around his cock. He thumbs across the head once more, no fabric in the way this time, and his hips jump; the tips of his fingers slip against his prostate, almost too much but just the right side of overwhelming. He feels the telltale heat pool in his gut and imagines their hands on him instead, come spilling over his fingers, stomach, chest, his voice wrecked as he breathes out one last desperate, “H—hyung…”
Jungkook shudders through the aftershocks, shifting his hand experimentally along the length of his cock; he gasps at the overstimulation, a few final spurts of come dripping across his skin. He eases his fingers carefully from between his legs and for a moment all he can do is breathe, oversensitive and empty but so, so satisfied.
He lets himself lie there for a moment, but only a moment, knowing even through the alcohol and his orgasm that he’ll regret it if he wakes the next morning covered in dried come, lube and sweat. He rolls over with a groan, reaching for the tissues to wipe at his hands, his chest, between his legs—it's not enough, but it'll do. His heart rate is gradually returning to normal as he collapses back on the bed, hair still dripping with sweat, and he tosses an arm across his face with a breathless laugh. Was he too loud? Are the rooms soundproof? His cheeks flush at the thought, but he can’t quite bring himself to care like he knows he should. He’s still tipsy, still so happy, and he’s smiling to himself as he reaches for his phone.
He types out a quick message and hits SEND; a response buzzes through a moment later, followed quickly by another.
Jungkook
thanks for the dare, jimin-ssi
Jimin
can't believe you drank the entire bottle
should've saved me some
Jungkook
next time
Jimin
you good?
Jimin's not subtle, but then again, he's not trying to be: Jungkook knows precisely what he's asking. He snaps a selfie before he can think better of it (too tipsy to worry about being self-conscious, not so drunk that the photo displays anything incriminating) and sends it off, fully aware that Jimin knows better than most precisely how Jungkook looks after an incredible orgasm: fucked-out, flushed and sated, teetering on the edge of sleep. There's a pause as Jimin starts typing, stops, starts again, clearly distracted. A pleased buzz settles in Jungkook's chest as the reply finally comes through.
Jimin
i repeat: should've saved me some
Jungkook
next time ;)
night hyung
Jimin
sleep well, kookie x
(He does.)