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slaves to any semblance of touch

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There’d been a time - not that long ago, really - when Jungkook would have felt guilty for this.

Not the - not this, the spit-slick slide of skin on skin, the familiar shape of his own dick in his hand. You don’t go through puberty in a dorm with six other guys without getting extremely practical about the realities of jerking off. Besides, Jungkook does most of the laundry. If anything, it’s the rest of his members who should feel bad, the amount of sheets he’s washed over the years.

That, his own brain informs him dryly, isn’t sexy.

Sexy is Taehyung’s fingers dancing over his own throat, lingering over pale gold skin like a threat or a promise. It’s the flicker of Jimin’s eyes over Jungkook’s body, maybe judgement or maybe approval, impossible to tell. It’s Namjoon’s smile, soft enough that it only draws one dimple to his face, it’s the bright sparkle of Hobi’s laugh, it’s the gravel in Yoongi’s voice, it’s Jin and that in-between moment, the split second shift from Worldwide Handsome to hyung that only the people who know him can catch, fleeting and ephemeral.

And it’s this that would have made him feel guilty. Not the act but the thoughts, that had once felt like his own brain betraying itself and his members. The mortifying truth of wanting not just one of his hyungs, but all of them. Of not being able to get off at all without thinking about them. What they could do to him.

It’s a little different now that he doesn’t have to imagine it. Now that he knows, the heavy sound of their breathing when they’re turned on, the weight of their gaze on him, the electric heat of six different pairs of hands driving him absolutely insane. Still mortifying on occasion, the sheer depth of his desire for them, but no guilt. His hyungs might delight in making him squirm, but they knot themselves into pretzels over making sure he’s happy about it.

(he’s very happy about it)

Alone in his room, Jungkook sucks in a sharp breath, the pads of his fingers toying with the sensitive head of his cock. He’s not that worked up yet - hard, sure, but not wet with it, not needy. They’re on break, he has time, and that on its own is enough to send a shiver skittering down his spine.

It’s not that he hasn’t been able to get off at all while they’re on tour. With seven of them in close quarters and in love, finding someone to touch dicks with isn’t hard. But it’s been a series of frenzied, rushed moments - hands tight in hair, faces tucked into necks, harsh breath on glittery skin and pants shoved down thighs (close, restrictive), if they even come off at all.

All of that has its own appeal, but there’s something luxurious about being able to get horizontal about this, to spread his thighs enough to feel the stretch of it, too wide to be able to hide what it is he’s doing if someone were to walk in. His hips kick at the thought, a sharp breath escaping his nostrils and god, he can be loud if he wants to. At least a couple of the others are home, but that’s more draw than drawback these days.

Jungkook moans, throwing a forearm over his eyes and finally giving in to the sweet build of want singing through his body, fingers curling into a loose fist around his cock. He loves the weight of it in his own hand, the rough drag of his palm on softer skin, wonders what his hyungs would do if they heard him. Wonders what they will do, another needy groan falling from his lips as his thumb runs down his slit, smearing pre-cum over himself, wet and wetter as his imagination runs away with him.

He doesn’t have enough hands, is the problem. He pulls his arm away from his face, tugs at his shirt instead, fingers running over his stomach and chest, rolling over a nipple like he can somehow tease himself. It feels good, sure, but Jungkook has been spoiled. He can’t overwhelm himself, can’t trick his brain into believing his hands belong to someone else. He wants someone pulling his hair and a mouth on his throat and teeth running over his nipples. He wants someone pressing on his stomach, holding his hips down, a tongue on his dick, hands holding his ankles. He wants to get on his knees, or his hands and knees, or have his face pushed down into the mattress and--

A sound pulls itself from his chest, caught somewhere between a sob and a whimper. He’s fucking leaking at this point but it’s not enough, not close enough to what he wants (or needs, or craves), even with the way he tightens his fist, bucking up into his own grip. Jungkook throws his free arm out, fumbling for the lube he’s sure he had the forethought to get out, he must have, he wouldn’t have forgotten now that he finally has the time to--


The sound of his own name sung sweetly through the door is all the warning he gets before the it creaks open. Enough time to freeze, but not enough time to get his hand off his dick. Definitely not enough time to close his thighs, or drag a blanket over himself, and maybe that was why he’d left the door unlocked, been so loud and shameless and brazen with his reactions.

But there’s a big difference between the fantasy of being walked in on, and the reality that is Park Jimin pushing the door open and leaving it that way as he folds his arms over his chest and leans against the frame. He’s effortlessly beautiful in one of Seokjin’s sweatshirts and jeans with so many rips they’re more accessory than actual pants, and the smile on that plush fucking mouth promises things that even Jungkook’s wild imagination hasn’t come up with yet.

His fingers squeeze reflexively, drawing a hot bolt of pleasure against the strung-tight bow of his spine. He bites his lip on a whimper, ripping his hands away from his body and pressing both palms flat to the mattress, like not touching himself now is going to somehow reverse the whole situation.

“Oh no, please.” Jimin still doesn’t shut the door. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Jungkook whines out of pure embarrassment, head falling back against the pillow. He picks up on a whisper of fabric, the quiet shuffle of socked feet on carpet, the gentle pressure of Jimin’s body weight as he perches on the edge of his bed.

A hand threads through his hair, pushing his fringe back off his forehead. Jungkook leans into the touch, cool against his overheated skin. Wonders what he looks like, lips parted and flushed red, blinking up at the patient, composed picture Jimin makes.

“You’re acting all shy now,” Jimin says, “but I heard you through the door. You didn’t even shut it properly.”

“That’s not - I didn’t mean to,” he stutters, and he can’t even remember if it’s true or not. It’s not like he didn’t want anyone else to hear him. Maybe he had left it open a crack. Maybe he’d meant to tease more than just himself.

“Oh?” Jimin raises his eyebrows and just his expression is enough to make him squirm as his gaze sweeps over Jungkook’s body, dick still hard, thighs still spread and vulnerable. “So you don’t want me here? Because I can go--”

Jungkook’s hand moves before his brain remembers the right word, fingers clasping loosely around Jimin’s wrist.

“No, please,” he pants, and Jimin smiles so sweetly at that second word that his cheeks bunch up, eyes curving into crescents. Jungkook shudders at the sight, a montage of memories flickering through his mind in the space of a second - Jimin’s hand on his dick, Jimin’s fingers inside him, the sharp sting of Jimin’s hand on his ass, his thighs, watching him writhe under someone else’s touch, all with that same bright smile.

He might be developing something of a complex.

“Ah, so polite.” Jimin carefully disengages his grasp, presses his wrist to Jungkook’s mouth instead, and a rush of mortification has his hips squirming when he tastes salt, realises he’d grabbed Jimin with the same hand that had been on his dick, sticky with pre-cum. He flicks his tongue out despite himself, licking him clean. “You want it so bad, it’d be cruel of me to leave you here all alone.”

He says it with a sparkle in his eye, drawing his hand back. Jimin has made an art of exquisite cruelty in the months they’ve been doing this, and they both know it. It’s not always Jungkook that he sets his sights on, but Jungkook can’t say he’s ever disappointed when it is.

“Hey, is everything okay in here? I thought I heard - oh.”

Jungkook whines again at the sound of Namjoon’s voice, and this time his legs do jerk, trying to snap shut - but Jimin’s hand is there, ringed fingers digging into the meat of his thigh and holding him open. Keeping him on display.

“Why are you trying to hide?” he coos. “Namjoonie wants to know if you’re okay. Why don’t you show him how good you are?”

Jungkook’s gaze darts between Jimin, smiling beatifically, and Namjoon startled form, hovering in the doorway. A pink blush rises over the curve of Namjoon’s cheeks like a new dawn, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s embarrassment or arousal, or a mix of both.

Things are a little different with Namjoon, who sometimes needs to be perfectly in control, and sometimes needs to be anything but. Jungkook is confident that Jimin will ask, tell, demand whatever he wants if someone has their dick out, but Namjoon can require a little more careful handling on occasion.

All this to say, it’s a little easier to look him in the eye as he enters the room. To grin, noticing how much trouble Namjoon is having focusing on his face, when the rest of him is right there.

Why don’t you show him how good you are, Jimin had said. Slowly, tentatively, Jungkook runs the backs of his nails down his chest, from right where his shirt has rucked up to the dip of his waist. Apollo’s belt, Taehyung had called it once, running his tongue down the line of muscles. Nerd, Jungkook had panted back, and it had been the last thing either of them had said for a while.

“Should I--” Namjoon clears his throat, fumbling behind him, unable to look away. “The door?”

Jungkook’s fingers still, just brushing the seam joining hip to thigh. It’s his own fucking hand but every touch is heightened with each set of eyes on him, sending sparks skittering through his body. Even if he’s technically in charge of his own movements right now, he’s doing it for them. He’ll do anything for them.

(and that thought alone causes each of those sparks to explode, pricking pleasure along his nerve-endings, hips arching up into nothing even with Jimin’s hand still tight on his leg. It’s good, it’s good, it’s so fucking good, and it’s nowhere near enough).

“Answer the question, baby.”

“Open,” he gasps, Jimin’s baby slipping into his veins like a drug. “Open, please,” and his whole body trembles with the force of his need, but he can’t quite force himself to touch himself directly again. It’s like he’s waiting for something, although god only knows what it is.

“Okay, I can do that.” The whisper of clothing announces Namjoon’s movement and Jungkook tracks him hazily across the room, wondering and hoping if he’s going to touch him, straining against Jimin’s hold when one long-fingered hand looks like it’s going to join Jimin on his thigh--

Only to curl around Jimin’s wrist, tugging gently. Jungkook huffs with what should be relief, but comes out in disappointment as the pressure retreats. Namjoon is standing directly behind Jimin now, his other arm draped over the shorter man’s shoulder, head turned into his ear. Close enough that his lips brush the soft skin there when he whispers, loud enough for Jungkook to hear.

“Let him decide what he wants to do.”

Jimin tips his head back against Namjoon’s shoulder, indolent. Jungkook eyes the elegant stretch of his throat hungrily, ready to cut himself on the sharp angle of his jaw. “I like telling him.”

“I know.” Namjoon laughs, kissing the arch of Jimin’s cheekbone. “But think of it this way; don’t you think Jungkookie should try to impress us?”

Like waving red in front of a bull, Jungkook has never been able to resist a challenge. They both know it too, and it’s all breathless anticipation for a moment before he curses loud enough to be heard through the open door. Rolls onto his side, spots the lube he’d been looking for earlier on the bedside table, reaches for it with trembling fingers that make Jimin’s eyes crease in delight.

“You’re both the worst,” Jungkook grumbles, struggling with the cap, grip wrung loose from the need pulsing through him.

Jimin just giggles, idly rocking his hips back into Namjoon’s crotch as Namjoon works on pulling his shirt out of its french tuck, the broad span of his hand fucking gorgeous pressed against Jimin’s belly. It’s not clear who’s guiding whom and Jungkook nearly forgets what he’s doing in the wake of watching them, the slow, indolent movements, Namjoon dragging Jimin’s shirt up higher, fingers skating over stark ink, thumb working a nipple to a tight peak.

His face is tucked shyly into Jimin’s shoulder though, the contrast of control and self-consciousness making Jungkook wonder just who is putting on the show here, and he’s on the verge of considering turning the tables when a delicate hand reaches over his shoulder and plucks the lube right out of his fumbling grasp.

“Wah, peach flavoured?” Hoseok croons, the sound of him undoing the cap like a shot in the dark. “So exotic, Jungkookie!”

God, how many of the are going to end up in here watching him debase himself for all of them? All of them, a quiet voice whispers hopefully in his head, and he can’t bring himself to deny it.

“‘S peach, not - mint chocolate or something.” Jungkook groans, pressing his face into his pillow in the hopes that his sudden flush of humiliation will pass before they notice it. “‘Sides, I’m the one who ends up with it in my mouth half the time, I should get to - ah, ah, Ishouldpicktheflavour!”

Hobi’s nails scrape shivers over his skull, fingers tangling in his hair and yanking his head back. It’s not something that Jungkook had considered when he’d decided to grow his hair out over the summer but oh, he’s realising that he really should have, tiny pinpricks of pain morphing into something deeper, desperate as it skitters down his spine.

If Jimin is a tease, then Hobi - Jungkook has learnt by now that Hobi is the type to give him exactly what he wants, and rub his nose in the fact that he wants it. Both of them are chatty, both of them like to press their lips to his ears and murmur filth until he’s panting with need. It’s just the things they say that are different.

“So mouthy,” Hobi sighs, dangling lube in front of his face. “Want this?”

Jungkook forgets himself for a second, tries to nod, hisses when it only makes Hobi tighten his grip.

“What for?”

They stare at each other. Jungkook knows he looks like a fucking mess, the long line of his throat bared, sweaty and still half-dressed with his shirt pushed up around his ribs, at least three different shades of red blooming over his body. But Hobi just drinks in the look of open-mouthed desire on his face, uninterested in anything else for now except for what Jungkook wants.

He thinks, briefly, of being a brat. Of making Hobi get mean with him while Jimin and Namjoon both watch, while they indulge each other in themselves and him and - and who is he kidding, he’s too far gone for that kind of game, his skin drawn hot and tight over his flesh, feeling like the next touch, the next too-long lingering gaze could be the thing to make him burst.

Jungkook borrows a habit from Taehyung, flicks his tongue out and over his lips before rolling shakily onto his hands and knees, Hobi’s grip in his hair unrelenting. The bend in his waist is automatic, arching his spine into a curve that makes Namjoon curse under his breath, makes Jimin moan in response to whatever it is Namjoon’s hands do, makes Hobi’s eyes sparkle with the sort of pleasure that says good boy before the words ever leave petal-pink lips.

“Wanna finger myself,” Jungkook pants, swallowing, revelling in the way his stretched-out throat bobs. “Wanna fuck myself open in front of you, h-hyungs, want it to be wet, want you to s-see--”

His hips twitch, fucking down into empty air for a second, overwhelmed by his voice and their faces and how badly he wants it. He’s hyperaware of his position, the way he’s fucking presented himself, the fact that anyone who walks through the wide-open door at this point is going to see him ass-up and vulnerable, thighs spread, gravity just barely pulling his cheeks apart and what if they make him hold himself open? Push his face into the pillow and tease him while the others come in, make him rut back on their fingers, and that’s a whole other fantasy spinning off from this one that he files away for later because Hobi is kissing his forehead, stroking his hair instead of pulling it, carefully folding Jungkook’s fingers around the lube.

“Go on, then,” Hobi says, and it’s like all of his typical high energy has been channelled into the intensity of this moment, the heat in his eyes as they scrape over his body, linger on the way Jimin is slowly grinding back against Namjoon’s dick, flick over his Jungkook’s shoulder towards the door. “Perform for us, Jungkookie.”

There’s something in the way he says us, something in the way he’s not even looking at Jungkook that pricks awareness up the backs of his thighs, like he can suddenly feel the physical weight of more eyes on him. He trembles, clenching on nothing, ass cheeks tense for a second and that’s when he hears the low ah that he’s becoming more and more familiar with as they do this more and more often. The sounds each of his members makes in pleasure, in desire, are quickly inscribing themselves in his skull, ready for his record player brain to play over and over at a moment’s notice.

But that one was live, and before he can do what Hobi wants (what he wants), he has to look over his shoulder and - sure enough, that’s Tae, already slumped on the floor with his back pressed to the wall, chin resting on one knee while his hand fumbles unseen under the waist of his boxers (they’re on break, Jungkook can hazily remember him protesting when called on this habit, why would he bother wearing pants on break?).

He grins at Jungkook in a way that shouldn’t be sexy but is anyway, because it’s Kim Taehyung and everything he does is fucking sexy. Especially when his hand is on his dick and he’s watching Jungkook’s ass like it’s about to demonstrate their next choreo.

“I texted Yoongi and Jinnie-hyung,” he says blithely. “They’re coming. I think they’re mad we got started without them.”

“I got interrupted without them,” Jungkook grumbles, turning his face back into his pillow, like this isn’t ten times hotter than getting off on his own. Like he wasn’t going to imagine exactly this scenario anyway. A hand swats at his backside, the small surface area and the bite of metal suggesting that it’s Jimin’s, but Jungkook doesn’t especially care as the pain zings through him. Flesh and muscles jiggles with the impact and he groans imagining the image, arching up in a silent demand for more.

“What happened to our performance?” Namjoon murmurs.

“I made it interactive,” Jimin replies sweetly, which draws a snort from Tae and even Hobi breaks character to giggle.

Jungkook hates all of them, he really does, except for the part where - this is them, his stupid and wonderful hyungs, who he loved before he knew how to articulate what love was, and hearing them comfortable enough to joke around while he’s half naked because of them, for them, is only more of a turn on. He almost wants to wait for Yoongi and Jin to arrive before he really gets into it, but then he thinks of the two of them walking in with him slick and writhing, fingers stuffed into his own hole and--

He fumbles with the lube Hobi had placed in his hand, squirting too much over his fingers, but that’s fine, he likes it wet, likes the slide and the sound. He hesitates for a second before reaching back - it’s so fucking blatant, no hands on him, no one even telling him that this is what he has to do. There’s nothing stopping him now from rolling over, from grabbing Jimin or Hobi or any of the others and pulling them onto him. He could kiss, could touch, could fuck any one of them if they were in the mood, but they want to watch him.

He wants them to watch.

The lube is still cold when his fingers skate over his rim, and he relishes the shiver that rolls through his body at the sudden shock. Jungkook thinks about teasing himself, drawing this out even longer, but the truth is that he doesn’t have the patience when he isn’t being forced. He’s tight, hasn’t had time to do it this way for a while, but there’s no hiding the soft grunt punched out of him when he works his first finger in. The wet stretch is divine, the squelch of lube obscene against the fine burn of his hole struggling to accommodate the first push.

Someone makes a faint noise of concern, and he feels a light touch at his wrist, probably Namjoon. Jungkook tries to tell him he’s fine, but loses his words to the way his finger slides in to the base. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but the discomfort mixes with the humiliation of his hyungs watching him, the anticipation of knowing the others would be here soon, would see him laid out like this for their pleasure. He can’t put a name to the sensation, can only moan as it goes straight to his dick, can only shake his head against the pillow and rock his hips back, trying to dislodge the gentle hold on his wrist ready to save him from himself.

“Let him work,” he hears Jimin say softly, the words obstructed like they’re being mumbled against something - Joon’s ear maybe, or his throat. “He said he’d tell us if he ever wanted to stop, remember? Trust him to know his own limits.”

Jungkook switches to nodding into the pillow, mouth opening on a particularly harsh pant as Namjoon removes his hand and Jungkook drags his finger out, fucking back onto it as soon as he can. He’s only just started, but it already feels not enough - not thick enough, not long enough, not the right angle, not enough eyes on him. He draws in a sharp breath, holds it, thinks about how fucking embarrassing what he’s about to do is before he wriggles his hand from side to side, a quick and awkward gesture to try and convince his hole to relax, to stop clenching up every time he moves. It’s his own fucking hand, it’s not like he should be able to surprise himself, but the warm, wet clutch of his inner walls is involuntary every time he so much as shifts.

Tae, still slumped against the wall, has the best view of what he’s doing to himself; Jungkook hears him giggling and the heat that floods his face is so suddenly intense that he plants it straight into the pillow to hide his blush. But that only makes it harder to breathe, the sound of his struggle to draw in air through the thick fibre too-loud in his own ears even as his gut tightens and a whimper builds in the back of his throat, and he wonders who else in the room is pausing with him, thinking that’s a new one. Wonders which of his hyungs might caress his throat for a beat too long one day, might press down, might--

A hand winds in his hair again, but this one is broad, thick, the grip spanning the whole back of his skull before it clenches in the long strands. Yoongi pulls his face out of the pillow with the sort of force that says he’s noticed what Jungkook is losing himself in, that says not now but maybe later, that says I love you, you idiot, and I’m going to take care of you.

Min Yoongi has very talkative hands, Jungkook thinks, lips parted and panting, dark eyes wide and glazed over as his hyung keeps pulling until they can look each other in the face.

A soft ah-ah-ah spills over the fat pout of his lower lip because that’s a lot of weight on his hair and his fingers slip away from his hole, the angle too awkward to maintain as he rises up onto his knees. He digs his fingers into his cheeks instead, holding himself open without being asked because he wants them to look, wants them to be able to see.

Yoongi’s expression is impassive as he takes in the panting mess of him. “You didn’t wait for us.”

Us means that Jin is here, Jin is looking at him be this fucking shameless and Jungkook sobs at the way his dick kicks with that realisation.

“Wasn’t - wasn’t s’posed to be a group activity,” he slurs, rocking his hips back, forward, direction is more of a distant promise than anything he’s actually focusing on, his overheated brain demanding sensation and not sure where to get it from. “Just wanted to get off, just wanted to come, want to come, hyungs, please--”

A gentle kiss cuts him off, Yoongi’s mouth - so fucking filthy when he wants to it be, soft and sweet now as it brushes over Jungkook’s. He pants against the touch, the heat, tries to make his mouth and his tongue work properly to draw him in, but Yoongi is already moving away, letting go of Jungkook completely. Leaving him bereft.

“Guess we should leave you to it, then,” he says idly, stepping back into Hobi’s arms - Hobi, who grins at Jungkook before he kisses Yoongi’s ear, his cheek, hands sliding over his waist until Yoongi is turning into him and then neither of them are paying attention to him at all.

He’d wanted them to watch, but there’s something about this as well, about being so obviously on display and just as obviously ignored. “Hyung,” Jungkook whines, “Yoongi-hyung,” but there’s no reaction, or at least not one that has anything to do with him, Hobi’s clever fingers sliding under the waistband of Yoongi’s sweats and squeezing his ass.

Hobi might be mean to Jungkook, but Yoongi gets what Yoongi wants out out of him without bargaining or humiliation, a dynamic that honestly gets Jungkook just as hot as seeing Taehyung jerk himself off, hearing the murmured filth that Jimin taunts Namjoon with as he grinds back against him.

He sways on his knees for a moment, indecisive and thinking he probably looks stupid with his hands on his ass and his needy fucking hole clenching down around nothing; his face has to be flushed and red and he squeezes his eyes shut like that’s going to help him get his thoughts straight. Like the combination of too many eyes on him and being ignored entirely isn’t making him ache with the need to fuck, get fucked, to touch, to come (and he does touch then, holding himself open with one hand as his knees slide apart, trying to make the angle work so he can drag his finger around the wet rim of his hole again, teasing, teasing).


Jin’s voice is soft, but it brooks no argument. Jungkook’s lashes flutter and he hears a whispered pretty from Namjoon that makes his face spontaneously invent a new shade of crimson. It takes a second, a breath, two, before he can convince himself to look over his shoulder.

Jin leans back against the frame of the still-open door, arms crossed over his chest, dick hard in his pants. There’s no one left in the apartment to intrude, but there’s something about the decision not to shut the rest of the world out that has Jungkook biting into his lower lip, the tip of his finger daring to dip back inside.

“Jinnie-hyung,” he pants, no fucking clue what he’s about to say until the truth spills out of him. “I’m - really glad you’re here.”

Of all his hyungs, Jungkook thinks that Jin is the one who has struggled the most with their new status quo. Or, maybe struggle is the wrong word. Jungkook doesn’t think he’s reluctant to be here or anything, doesn’t think he’s upset about the way things have turned out. He thinks that Jin loves him, actually, loves all of them as much as they love him back, but there’s a little needle of guilt that pricks their eldest member every now and then. It digs in deepest when it comes to Jungkook, a thing that drives him up the wall at the same time as it makes him all soft and gooey inside.

So: he’s glad Jin is here. So glad that he stops teasing himself, shuffles around on his knees until he’s facing Jin and the door (and Tae, his pants kicked across the room, big hand around his big cock, idly biting down on his own fingers and - fuck, that’s an image he’s going to have to revist later). It’s a little awkward to flop back on the pillows, but worth the way Jin’s dark gaze gets even blacker, plush lips parting on a wordless sigh when Jungkook squirts more of the peach lube onto his fingers, pulls his knee up to his chest and works two fingers into his asshole without further ceremony.

Really glad,” and he emphasises the words with a tilt of his hips, half humping the air, half showing off exactly what he’s doing for his hyung.

“Now who’s a tease?” Jimin laughs. Jungkook lets go of his knee for half a second to throw a decorative pillow in his direction, the resulting peal of giggles curling in his gut next to the pleasure and the desperation because fuck, he loves them. Loves all of them - what they’re willing to do to him, to each other, sure, but mostly just that they’re here and they’re who they are.

“Fuck,” he hisses, fingers grazing over his prostate. His back arches, his body trying to convince his brain to give it more and - god, hasn’t he teased himself enough? They’re all here now and they said he could do what he wanted to himself, and isn’t that the worst bit? Some part of his brain seeking permission, seeking to please them with the way he’s touching his own body instead of pleasing himself, and the whole thing being that much more satisfying because of it.

He grinds down against his own hand, trying his best to keep the angle right even though his wrist aches with it. A choked desperation rises in his throat, all that electric pleasure crackling through his body, building and building and refusing to release, to let him ground himself. They’re all looking at him now, even Yoongi and Hobi, and he feels the weight of their gaze like hands on his skin but it’s still not enough. He tosses his head, sweat-slicked strands sticking to his face, the sound of his own broken whining driving him absolutely insane.

He thinks he might say something, please, maybe, or hyungs, something helpless and pathetic, and then Jin’s voice is there, slow and steady and not quite able to hide the tremor of desire running through it.

“Is all this for us, Jungkook-ah?” he asks. Doesn’t touch, but his voice runs hot and searing through Jungkook’s veins anyway, drags a low cry out of Jungkook’s throat. He tries to push a third finger in, the burn pushing him higher, but it’s so fucking wet and his co-ordiantion is shot, limbs weak with want. So he clings to Jin’s voice instead, fumbling fingers working over his prostate again, and again, and again. “Look at you. Squirming and desperate and none of us have even touched you. And you still can’t get there by yourself, hmm? Poor maknae, needs his hyungs to help him even when he’s fucking himself--”

Jungkook’s orgasm slams him into him with all the shock and force of a freight train. Sudden, blinding, overwhelming. If he says something, yells it, he has no idea what it is, lost to the sharp and sweet pleasure sweeping through him. He clenches down on his fingers, trying to drag the sensations out as long as he can, twisting his head until he can bite into his pillow because that helps him ride it out, somehow, his dick pulsing white up his torso, untouched for the last god knows how long.

Almost before he’s done there’s a hand in his hair, a dip in the mattress. It takes Jungkook a second to force his eyes open, blearily taking in the sight of a sweetly smiling Jimin perched on the edge of mattress, looking half-wrecked and happy about it. His fingers thread back through Jungkook’s sweaty fringe, and someone else is tugging his hand away from his calf, pulling his leg back down. He finally tugs his messed up shirt off, and then his make-up wipes are commandeered to clean up his stomach and Yoongi just straight up crawls onto the mattress with him, giving him the kiss he so cruelly took away before. At some point Jungkook eases his fingers out, feeling somehow empty and sated all at once.

“W--” Jungkook starts, but his voice cracks. Hobi hands him a water bottle and he drinks eagerly before trying again. “Wait, you haven’t - none of you have gotten off?”

“I have!” Taehyung says cheerily, sprawled against the wall, and Jungkook’s spent dick twitches a little at the sight of him idly licking come off his fingers because - of course he is.

Namjoon’s eyebrows skate up his forehead, seeing this. “Really, Kook-ah?”

Jungkook hadn’t thought his face could physically get redder than what he’d managed so far today, but he supposes they don’t call him the Golden Maknae for nothing. Always reaching new heights of achievement, Jungkook is.

“It’s hot,” he whines. “You’re all hot, and you know I’m usually good for more than one round.”

Namjoon’s eyebrow persists as a tutting Jin gestures at Taehyung to come to him and get cleaned up properly, which is - adorable, all of them are adorable, and Jungkook gives a startled laugh, feeling himself spontaneously tear up. He feels like a wrung out sponge, and maybe Namjoon’s eyebrows are right about his ability to do anything, let alone go again. Hobi coos at him and Jungkook’s sure most of them are still hard but - but this is nice, being fussed over and made much of, and slowly Jungkook lets the last thread of tension in his body unravel, relaxing into Jimin’s gentle stroking, the sprawl of Yoongi’s arm over his chest.

“Budge up,” Taehyung announces, tossing his make-up wipes into the waste bin. “You put on a good show, Jungkookie, but I want to watch the next one from somewhere a little more comfortable.”

“The - next one?”

“Baby.” Jimin’s grin is tinged wicked, and he pulls his hand away from Jungkook’s hair to strip his own shirt off. His nipples are hard and red from Namjoon’s ministrations already, and the look he shoots Namjoon says that their leader should definitely brace for revenge. “You didn’t think we were going to leave a show like that unanswered, did you?”

Honestly, they had sort of collectively destroyed Jungkook’s ability to think at all. But then Hobi is sliding up behind Jin, a startled squawk sliding into a moan as Hobi flicks his tongue over the side of his neck, scrapes his teeth over it, kisses the mark he left behind, and Jungkook - Jungkook supposes that he’s more than happy to let them them do the thinking for him for the next little while, anyway.