Work Text:
Jeon Jungkook is a man of simple needs.
He likes to think that all of life’s essentials are banana flavored protein shakes, his premium gym membership, and his fists.
Those three things have gotten him this far, have landed him the most stable job he could ask for without an undergraduate degree. His father always used to tell him that sitting up in a classroom for eight hours a day wasn’t natural – humans are creatures of nature, of desire, of lust for movement and move in lust. It doesn’t make sense to keep them caged in stuffy suits learning about people whose corpses have long since rotten and decomposed into the soil; they’ve reincarnated back into the air we breathe, and the lessons they teach can be learnt from that alone. The longer Jungkook has managed to keep himself alive without the guiding wisdom of his father’s ever-present voice, the more value he finds in that viewpoint.
Despite this, though, Jungkook has always had an affinity for learning about people. Important people. What could they universe possibly have given them that sets them apart from the ordinary man in such a way that warrants them acclaim by the millions?
If his family had the money for it, he’d probably be writing a dissertation on this topic.
For now, he settles for the next best method of satisfying his intrigue: he bodyguards for these people.
There’s never a dull moment. He’s privy to the most trailblazing of trendsetters, the gaudiest of gaudy, the richest of the rich. From all ends of the spectrum, too. Politicians are a little bit more troublesome to guard for because there’s always some security threat or another being waged against them. (He understands it, though. He can’t count on his fingers the amount of white rich white men in power he’d like to shoot.) The children of these political figures are comparably more chill – they mostly just ask him not to snitch when they pull out a blunt. He tells them, sure, but only if they’re willing to share.
The musicians are…interesting.
Okay, that’s a lie. Most of them are the same; coke, whiskey, and long nights spent standing outside a door, the soundtrack of all kinds of lovesounds played on repeat for his desperately uninterested ear. It’s a stable unstable routine, one he found marvelous and grand when he was young enough to still be impressed by how fast someone could snort a line. Now, however? He finds it draining. They’re probably really nice people under all the layers of grime – some of them real musical geniuses, no doubt – but he just. Can’t. He’s getting too old for that kind of life, he gripes at the ripe age of twenty-two.
When he says that musicians are interesting, he’s really referring to just one group in particular. Excuse his bias, but, he’s kind of been their biggest fan since he was, like, twelve.
Conveniently, he also manages to guard for them every time they come in town for Warped Tour. Conveniently. Any groveling to the head of security was done off site and outside of hours, so it doesn’t count.
Bullets and Boy Scouts are just…different. They’re a Korean rap/punk fusion which shouldn’t work in theory but it really, really does. Jungkook remembers being fourteen: angry at his family, angry at his financial situation, angry at the world, and popping in his headphones to his mp3 and listening to these three men who were just as angry at their own circumstances tell him that it’s okay to be mad. That kind of validation when he was a malcontented teenager was priceless. It stuck with him. They stuck with him.
“Maybe you’ll get an autograph this time.”
Jimin’s comment is thrown at him with little warning – they’d done nothing but sip their sodas in silence for the past twenty minutes as they watched the crew set up for the impending Bullets and Boy Scouts stage. They’d be the last act for the day. Jungkook has been on the edge of his proverbial seat since he’d clocked in that morning.
“Maybe I will,” he sniffs at his coworker. “You know, they’re actually, like, really cool. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
Jimin laughs. “I’m about all the pretty boy I can handle. I don’t need a bunch of twinks in seven layers of eyeliner to further complicate things.”
“Suit yourself.”
Their lunch break is almost over. The summer sun beats down mercilessly and Jungkook could not possibly be more aware of the heat – the all-black work attire had little to no thought put into the design if he had anything to say about it.
Surveying the event area brings a small smile to Jungkook’s face. He sees the younger version of him in all of the gangly teenagers that excitedly roam around, decked out in merch from bands older than they themselves. The light in their eyes shines with a certain dedication to music that he feels at a deep point in his chest. In another life, he’s a famous singer. In this one, he’s one of their millions of admirers. He likes to think that this reality suits him better.
Static bursts to life in his ear-piece. “Jeon report to stage one section two. D-Day in thirty.”
“Got it,” he damn near purrs. Jimin, having gotten the same message through his own in-ear, looks at him with ill-conceived exasperation. His excitement must be radiating off of him in waves and he knows it’s a little tiresome for the people around him (namely, certain unfortunate coworkers of his) to deal with his fanatical devotion.
“Try not to cream your jeans when they get up there, dude.”
“I know you think J-Hope is hot.”
“Okay, because I have eyes.”
Jungkook giggles along with Jimin. “Come on, let’s get this show on the road.”
And so they depart from their lunch break tryst by the slushy stand, tossing their cups of soda in the trash bin conveniently placed next to it. The main stage is only a couple paces away and takes less than five minutes to make their way over to; they part ways when they slip behind the barricade, Jimin having been assigned to the section a couple feet away from his own. Normally, they’d shoot the breeze together until it was time for the show to start, but fans are already swarming into the designated crowd area in hoards, now. Bullets and Boy Scouts are a Big Deal, and Jungkook is surprised only by the fact that they hadn’t started gathering earlier.
A few men in black walk out onto the wooden stage in front of him carrying the band’s equipment. Jungkook’s stomach gives an involuntary flutter at the sight of the custom drum set being wheeled on, the front barrel painted with their trademark design: a black and white bulletproof vest. A smattering of excited squeals ripple through the crowd when the drum set is placed in the centermost portion of upstage, and Jungkook has to tamper down his own exclamation of excitement.
His ear-piece crackles. Bullets and Boy Scouts due on in ten.
Oh, God. Are his hands really that sweaty, or is that just the residual condensation left over from the soda he’d shared with Jimin earlier? He can’t believe it. He can’t believe it. Although he’d seen them last year, the few moments left before their grand appearance always seem to transport him to his teenage years again, when he’d lusted for even just a glimpse of their presence.
He definitely feels fifteen once more, as he waits impatiently for time to pass. He catches Jimin’s eye across the section of the crowd that divides them, and his coworker has the audacity to smirk at him, like he knows how weak Jungkook’s knees are, how loud his heart thunders in his chest, how quick his breath stumbles past his lips.
It’s not fair. He doesn’t understand how anyone could be unaffected in the wake of the impending arrival of his childhood idols. Even the crowd seems to understand him – of course they understand, they share the very same passion that runs through his veins. He’s been working Warped Tour for years, and never before has he seen a crowd like the one Bullets and Boy Scouts manages to pull in.
Just when he’s about to curse under his breath in frustration, patience run dry, he hears and five…four…three…two…in his ear-piece and suddenly the screams around him turn raucous and they are walking on stage.
Never will their grand entrance get old.
J-Hope appears first – in tight leather pants that look painted over the muscled expanse of his thighs. He’s dyed his hair a fire engine red for the tour and it brings out the gleam in his already golden pallor. He’s smiling, waving to the screaming crowd. When he winks, the entire body of people surges forward all at once and if Jungkook were literally any other bodyguard during literally any other set, he would have employed some kind of crowd control; but because he’s him and because he’s here, all he does is scream along with the rest of the crowd – possibly the loudest voice at the venue. J-Hope actually spots him yelling his face ruby among the throng of adoring fans and points and laughs – Jungkook’s knees knock together.
RM comes out next. Tall, lean, and completely grown out of the gangly young adult whom pre-teen Jungkook fell head over heels for. He’s got a kind of swagger about him now that, although shone through in little flecks and peeks in his more juvenile state, now manifest fully in the ease with which he glides across the stage, the practiced nonchalance of how he flicks his bangs out of his eyes, even down to the way his black-painted fingernails fiddle with the thick strings of his bass. He gives a dimpled smile to the crowd and everyone collectively loses it at the exact same time. Jungkook included.
And then…
Then there’s Suga.
Suga’s always been…a special case. At least, to Jungkook, although he doesn’t understand how other people don’t have an especially reserved place in their hearts for the guitarist and lead rapper. Back when Jungkook had been small – small and angry and disillusioned with who he was and what he wanted in life…he’d heard Suga’s voice first. Calling out to him, telling him that it was okay to feel angry, but it was never okay to let that impact how he treated others, how he treated himself. Out of all the Bullets and Boy Scouts records he’d bought, and out of all the love he held for the band, Suga always came first. Always.
And as he saunters out onto the stage, last but certainly not least, glossy black bangs shining iridescent underneath the stage lights, lips curled up into a feline-like smirk, heavily ring-clad fingers curling around the bodice of his mic, Jungkook feels his heart sputter out.
There’s also the tiny fact that Suga had been his gay awakening, but, well. He tries not to dwell on that. Not when he doesn’t have a bottle of lube and a couple of tissues nearby, and certainly not in public.
It’s still admittedly hard to bite back the wanton whine that threatens to escape past his lips when the band introduces themselves. Acting as bodyguard, Jungkook has the best seat in the house; he’s right up close and personal when all three give their masculine exclamation of hup! nice to meet you, we are Bullets and Boy Scouts!
Jungkook turns his head to meet the gaze he can feel drilling holes into the side of his neck. Jimin is openly snickering at him. If Jungkook had more than two and a half of his wits about him, he’d do something that required actual energy, like stick out his tongue. As it stands, all he can muster up the resolve to do is pant weakly and turn back towards the stage, quickly, lest he miss a moment of this.
They’re already much different from last year. The set, for one thing, changed with the release of their new album Dark & Wild. The title track Danger was everything trademark about them: dark, edgy, rough around the edges, yet surprisingly insightful in its lyricism. Jungkook loved it when it first came out, and still loves it now, bouncing up and down and screaming along to every word.
The entire performance goes by way too quickly, like a fever dream. The only time he has to switch from fanboy-mode to security guard-mode is when a young man tries to catapult himself over the barricade and onto the stage. Jungkook is forced to rip his eyes away from the chorus of one of his favorite B-sides and attend to the security threat, although it really isn’t much of a threat at all. The guy is gangly, and his loose button up hangs off of him like a coat off of a wire hanger. He’s removed from the crowd and the concert goes on like nothing happens, although Jungkook is still a little dejected that he missed a part of a song he really liked. His mood is quickly lifted by RM winking at him from downstage right, strumming on his bass like his life depends on it. Jungkook’s eyes flutter.
“This is our last song for today,” Suga says, gripping the mic with both of his unfairly sized hands, “she’s called Cypher Part Three. As much as it’s dedicated to our haters, it’s also a thank you to you guys. The ones who support us through everything. There aren’t words to describe people like you, but we try with our music. Thanks so much. Here’s Cypher.”
Wow.
Wow.
The entire performance was – it was…Jungkook doesn’t even have the comprehension skills required to process an experience like that. He’s still reeling from it, five minutes after they’ve walked offstage, and almost doesn’t recognize Jimin’s forceful voice right next to his ear until his cheek is slapped by a familiar calloused palm.
“Hey, Jeon. You listening to anything I’ve been saying?”
Jungkook’s gaze must be as unfocused as it feels, because Jimin looks back at him with a moderate level of alarm. “You look seriously…fucked out.”
“Yeah,” sighs Jungkook.
“Yeah. Anyways, guess who’s your best friend?”
“…You know I don’t really have any-“
“Wrong answer. It’s me. Because I’ve got meet and greet duty for your pretty boys, and I’m letting you cover my shift. They’re starting any minute, though, you better hustle your little ass up behind that stage before they call for a replacement guard.”
Jimin’s barely finished his sentence before Jungkook is kissing him on the cheek, work place professionalism be damned. “You’re a saint, Park. No, really, what can I do to repay you? Seriously, I-I’ll do whatever, I’ll-“
“What you can do is get there, already. We’ll discuss payment opportunities at a later date.”
“You got it,” Jungkook calls, already jogging up the side stairs to the stage accessible only from the security guards’ unique position in front of the barricade, where Jungkook had been loitering in post-concert euphoria before Jimin had given him the stuff of his literal fantasies. He climbs the steps three at a time, hopping up with practiced agility until his work-issued boots connect with the heavy wood of the stage. He bounds backstage without a care for the crowded hallway lined with fans just like him waiting for a chance to meet their idols. The only thing that separates him and them is the fact that he actually gets to. Oh, how surreal that is.
He bursts into the designated greeting room – a little green room they tricked out with a central table and speakers playing the band’s greatest hits in the corner – mere moments before the event is supposed to start. He flushes, embarrassed, when the entire crew and the literal members themselves turn to look at him after his rushed entrance.
“I’m sorry for my tardiness,” he apologizes with his head bowed, “there was a s-scheduling mix-up. I’ll be the guard on duty for today. Again, sorry about the wait.”
“Ah, no worries. Hey, pick your head up, nobody’s mad. You guys mad?”
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
He’d recognize that voice anywhere – that intonation, that timbre, that inflection. Even without lifting his head up to see the speaker, Jungkook just knows it’s J-Hope. J-hope is speaking to him. About him. Directly addressing him. Fuck. Fuck. They didn’t teach him how to deal with this in training.
In his star struck surprise, he lifts his head up, and is totally aware of how embarrassing a picture he must paint: mouth ajar, eyes wide, cheeks rosy as if he’d applied a heavy layer of rouge. His hands violently fidget with each other where he’s wringing them in front of his crotch. He’s regretful that he’s such a mess meeting his idols for the first time.
“Nah, I’m not mad. It’s cool. You mad, Yoongs?”
Shit, RM’s speaking voice. It’s melodious even in the most nonchalant of conversation. Jungkook swallows down a whimper.
“Hell no. Who could be mad at a face like that?”
Jungkook short circuits.
There’s too many things to process – the main issue here being that Suga just spoke in his presence and he’s trying desperately not to have a meltdown. The secondary issue being that Suga may have just…did he really say…
“Oh, and he’s a fan, too…” Suga continues, leaning back in his chair to prop it up on its hind legs, “Look at the stars in his eyes, guys.”
RM smiles kindly. “Cute.”
“I know, right?” Chimes J-Hope. They’re all looking at him with these grins on their faces and – and – Jungkook can’t, he’s going to literally die on the spot-
Thankfully, a nameless staff member – presumably their manager – steps into the room and announces that the meet and greet will start now. Thank God. Jungkook has a hard time handling that much direct attention in his regular everyday life, let alone from the men he’s idolized since he’d been old enough to know how to jerk off.
Quickly, he shuffles off to his position to the right of the table the members are seated behind. The fans file inside in a neat, uniform line, and everything is pretty tame and well-behaved in comparison to most backstage events he monitors. The only thing that proves a real disruption is the same guy from the crowd, earlier, who tried to jump the barricade – he somehow managed to get back into the event and asks J-Hope to sign his dick with “Kim Taehyung, I Love You.” Jungkook enjoys throwing him out a little more than he reasonably should.
He’s literally a hair’s breadth away from all of them the entire time. He tries very hard not to be creepy. He fails. RM smells like pine and forest-y scents. J-Hope smells like expensive cologne. Suga smells like sandalwood. He commits these very important facts to memory by clearing out his cache of things of lesser importance, like remembering to call his grandmother when he gets home, or that his utilities bill is due to be paid on Thursday.
Much like the concert, the meet and greet goes by in what feels like the blink of an eye. When the last fan shuffles out of the room, sobbing in disbelief that she made contact with her idols, Jungkook…doesn’t want to leave. This has easily been the best day of his life, and to leave this room means to accept that it’s coming to a close.
Reluctantly, Jungkook drags his feet on the way to the exit, following the line of staff that exits the same way, the shitty carpet bringing up pills against the rubber soles of his boots. Just as he’s about to set foot past the threshold, he hears feverish whispering behind his back, and then,
“Hey? Mr. Security Guard? Would you mind showing us to our dressing rooms? We wouldn’t want to get lost.”
It was J-Hope who spoke. Jungkook turns back, no doubt looking every part proverbial deer-caught-in-headlights as he feels, and shakes like a leaf. “O-oh, yes, of course. If you’ll follow me, sirs.”
Internally? He’s thrilled. Yes! Any excuse, any chance, any opportunity he has to spend even a fraction of a second longer with them, he’ll take it in a heartbeat.
“Oh, God,” RM chuckles, “no need for the ‘sir’ business. You can call me Namjoon. And him, Hoseok. And him, Yoongi. But you already knew our names, didn’t you?”
Jungkook flushes pink from head to toe. Yes, he’s known their names since he’d been half the height he is today. He’d always called them by their stage names because…well, he didn’t want to create a level of intimacy that didn’t exist between them, always feeling strangely guilty whenever he’d catch himself referring to them by their real names. But now…now, he has express permission to establish that basis. Oh. Oh.
“Y-yes. I did, sir- I mean! Yes…Namjoon…” he admits, gaze focused thoroughly on the cheap carpeting.
“See? What’d I tell you guys. A fan. Cute.” Suga – no, Yoongi – muses. “Though, I gotta say. The ‘sir’ thing is admittedly very nice.”
Jungkook chokes on his spit.
“Oh, ignore him, honey. Get him around a cute boy and he forgets how to act.”
“You’re gonna tell me him calling you sir wasn’t doing it for you, Hobi?”
“It actually wasn’t, douche. You of all people should know I don’t swing that way.”
What.
“Ah,” RM sighs, “he doesn’t mean he’s not gay – because he is. All of us are. He’s just not…very dominant. That’s what he was referring to.”
“Oh yeah, no, I’m about as straight as a circle.”
What.
“Please tell us if we’re reading this wrong,” Yoongi deadpans.
“You’re very cute.”
“And we’re hoping you’re also very gay.”
“And that you would be very interested in a foursome.”
What.
“W…what?”
Yoongi strides forward from where all three of them had been loitering in front of the meet and greet table, and makes his way up to Jungkook, only stopping until he’s close enough to touch toes with him. “What’s your name?”
“J-Jungkook.”
“Jungkook, may I take your hands?”
“Yes…”
His hands are enveloped in Yoongi’s own bigger, broader ones. “We came on a little strong,” he murmurs, intimately, privately, like this conversation is meant just for the two of them. “I’m sorry if we scared you. If I scared you. That wasn’t the intention.”
“It’s alright,” Jungkook whispers.
“We’d like to make you feel very good. Is that something you’d be interested in?”
Under the crappy, fluorescent lighting, Yoongi looks something like an angel. His gaze is concerned, eyes piercing and soul-searching, and just beyond him are the equally as intense gazes of Hoseok and Namjoon, who stare on like they’re actually concerned for what his answer is going to be. Namjoon has his lower lip tucked underneath his front teeth, and Hoseok is fidgeting openly. Yoongi has no physical tells, but the tremulous way he’d asked the question leads Jungkook to believe he’s just as nervous as the other two. Maybe, just as nervous as Jungkook himself.
They don’t do this often. Or at all. That much is clear to see. They’re taking a risk, here, and going out on a limb to reach out to him.
Jungkook thinks it’s the least he can do to return the favor.
Besides, it’s not like he’s been jerking off to the thought of them for ten years, or anything.
“Yes,” he replies, “I would be very interested in that.”
All three of them let out a collective sigh of relief, and Jungkook finds it cute they were that worked up over his response. He almost feels…special.
“Alright, then,” Namjoon hums with a smile, “the dressing room, Jungkook?”
Oh, fuck, are they going to have their way with him in there? That’s so cliché. That’s so cliché. That’s so cliché. It is also, conveniently, apart of a large majority of his fantasies involving any three of them on any given night. He tries and fails to tamp down a shudder. Namjoon notices and his kind smile turns into something more sinister. “Right this way, sirs,” he manages to get out.
It’s a quick walk across the hall to the dressing room. They pass a surprisingly little amount of staff on the way there, which is good. It means less questions to answer, less witnesses. When they get to the door, Jungkook unlocks it swiftly by swiping with his digital master key, and then they’re in the room and he doesn’t know what to do.
Hoseok suavely intercepts the impending awkwardness before it has a chance to manifest. Gently, he approaches Jungkook and asks if he can put his hands on him. When Jungkook gives his assent, Hoseok intertwines their fingers and leads them to sit down side by side on the compact yet comfortable couch stationed in the corner of the room. Once sat down and focused entirely on Hoseok’s calm, comforting face, Jungkook’s initial panic subsides.
“Hey, sweetie. Let’s start this off right: nobody is going to do anything you don’t like. So why don’t we start with you telling us what you do like, hm? Are you okay with that?”
Jungkook nods.
“Ah, ah, we need words. Verbal consent is important.”
“I think he knows the verbal component is what we’re after, Joon.”
He can’t help but to grin at Yoongi and Namjoon’s bickering. Before it has the chance to mature, Jungkook corrects himself by answering, “Yes, I-I’ll tell you what I like.”
“Good boy,” says Hoseok warmly, and Jungkook gives a bodily shudder.
“Oh, that’s one down.”
“Can you let him speak, Yoongi?”
“He’s not wrong…”
All eyes center at Jungkook.
The attention is making him…shy.
“…I do like that,” he continues softly, “b-being…praised. Good boy, good job, all that kind of stuff…’s embarrassing, I know, but I…really really like it.”
Hoseok smiles softly. “Not embarrassing at all, baby. We’re proud of you for telling us.”
“Um, I also like it when the other person is, like, mean.”
“How mean?”
Jungkook looks up at Yoongi, hands still clasped inside Hoseok’s, and deliberates over his answer for a full thirty seconds before he decides to just come out with the full, embarrassing truth. They’ll probably throw him out after hearing how much of a freak he is, but hey, at least he’s made it this far.
“Like…name-calling. Slapping. Hitting. Making me feel…used.”
It’s almost funny how quickly Yoongi’s pupils dilate. “Is that so?”
“Y-yes.”
“Well, let me let you in on a little secret, Jungkook.” Yoongi crouches down from his standing position and brings himself closer in level to Jungkook, close enough that his next words ghost over Jungkook’s lips, ”you know what I like? I like being mean. Baby gonna let me be mean to him? Slap him around a little bit?”
“He’s really good at it.”
Hoseok slips his hands off of Jungkook’s and slides them down on top of his thighs, kneading the flesh underneath his cargo pants until Jungkook is ready to cry from the sensitivity. “Makes me and Joonie cry all the time. Bends us over his knee and spanks us ‘til we’re a sobbing mess. Is that what you want, Jungkook? You want Sir to hit you?”
Oh, fuck.
Shuddering, Jungkook can only find it in himself to nod. He quickly realizes his mistake when a gentle slap comes against his cheek, with Yoongi’s chiding following close behind. “Ah, ah, ah. What did we say about that? You’re a big boy, you can use your words.”
“P-please, Sir, I want you to hit me.”
Jesus. It’s like every hormonal fantasy he’s had since he was a teenager is coming to life this afternoon. Yoongi hits his cheek again, harder this time, and Jungkook can’t hold back his whine. His face burns in shame when Yoongi chuckles, his guys, hear that? He’s a slut only further exacerbating the now-growing problem in his pants. It’s embarrassing being aroused by so little, but Jungkook can’t help it. The literal cause of his sexual awakening is crouched between his legs, slapping him silly and calling him a slut, and Jungkook just finds it miraculous that he hasn’t come yet.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” says Yoongi calmly. “You’re going to get on your knees in the middle of all three of us, and you’re going to suck us off. If you’re a good boy and get us off, maybe I’ll consider letting you come. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds good, sir…”
“Good, I’m glad. Off the couch, then, sweetheart, let’s see what that mouth is good for.”
And so Jungkook slips off of the couch, as per his orders, along with Hoseok; only, Jungkook slinks immediately to his knees, hands behind his back, and Hoseok rises to stand with the other two. They encircle him, and begin unbuckling their tented pants. Namjoon is the first to wrangle his leather trousers down past the tops of his thighs, and the size of his cock nearly drives Jungkook to tears.
It’s way above average length, thick and healthy and uncut, and Jungkook gravitates towards it like a bee to a flower the minute Namjoon pulls it free from his briefs. Jungkook gingerly wraps his hands around the shaft, hesitant in his approach as if to ask, may I? and Namjoon gives him a kind nod and smile as a go-ahead of sorts. And Jungkook, without much further ado, goes ahead.
He’s no dick-sucking genius. No, he’s not a virgin, but his body count isn’t particularly impressive. What he lacks in skill he makes up for in enthusiasm, and by God is Jungkook more than enthused to be sucking Namjoon literal Kim’s dick right now. He wastes no time and licks a fat strip up the underside of the shaft, stopping when he reaches the head to circle his tongue around the underside. Namjoon gives an appreciative moan from above and Jungkook hums contentedly around him, happy that he’s doing a good job.
He feels a hand grip the strands of hair at the back of his head and, at first, he thinks it’s Namjoon, but when he looks up, both of Namjoon’s hands are threaded through his own head of hair.
So, who…
“Look so good sucking his cock, baby. Like you were made for it. God, isn’t he precious, Yoon? Look at those eyes.” Hoseok tugs at his hair and Jungkook keens.
“I’m looking. You’re doing so well, honey, why don’t you come over here for a bit? I miss you.”
Fuck.
Reluctantly, Jungkook pulls off and turns towards Yoongi and Hoseok, who are both almost violently fisting their cocks. They both look at him through desperate, lidded eyes, like if he doesn’t get his mouth on them then they won’t have any choice but to have their way with him. Yoongi in particular looks close to snapping and just fucking his throat, so Jungkook decides to play coy.
He winks up at the other as he sinks down on Hoseok’s cock, groaning around the girth lodged inside his mouth. He undulates his tongue against as much skin as he can manage, and Hoseok exhales sharply through his nose, tightening the grip he has on the back of Jungkook’s head hard enough to make his vision go blurry for a second.
“Oh, good boy,” he breathes, hips starting to move on their own accord. “That’s it. God, you make me feel so good, baby.”
At this point, Jungkook’s dizzy from all the praise. His cock is aching to be shown some attention, any attention, but he refrains from rubbing himself off against one of their shoes because Yoongi had said that it wasn’t his decision when or how or if he would come. Jungkook isn’t going to disobey. He doesn’t want to disobey. Because good boys don’t disobey, and he is most definitely a good boy.
Slick sounds fill the room as the three men above him succumb to pleasure. As he bobs up and down on Hoseok’s length, Namjoon jerks himself off into Jungkook’s hair, and Yoongi has taken to rubbing his cock along the expanse of Jungkook’s hallowed cheeks, where Hoseok fucks into with reckless abandon. His pace increases faster and faster with each thrust, and Jungkook can tell he’s close. All it takes is him directing his gaze upwards and batting his teary lashes a couple of times for Hoseok to utter a guttural fuck, I’m gonna come.
“On his face,” directs Yoongi sharply. Hoseok obeys with a moan, pulling out and jerking just under the head a couple times before releasing across the bridge of Jungkook’s nose and on part of his cheeks. Jungkook moans on contact, feeling deliciously used.
Namjoon curses from behind him. “Fuck, lemme see. Be good and turn this way for me, baby.”
A bone-deep sense of pleasure runs through him as he turns around to gaze up adoringly at Namjoon, the star of about a third of his adolescent wet dreams. The minute Namjoon makes eye contact with him, both of their eyes roll back into their skulls and Namjoon gives a weak warning two seconds before he spills his load on top of Hoseok’s. After he comes, he guides his dick into the mess on Jungkook’s face and smears it around with the tip. Jungkook loves it – feels like a toy for their pleasure, and he eagerly sits there on his haunches and stays still as Namjoon has his fun.
By the time Yoongi calls for him, his cock is crying out for release. Even the gentlest touch would bring him there, but still Jungkook refuses to lay a hand on himself.
“I bet baby wants to come so bad, huh? Do you, Jungkook? You wanna come all over yourself, messy little boy?”
“Y-yes, Sir,” he whines quietly, fidgeting where he’s knelt in front of the other. Yoongi brings a hand around to the nape of his neck and strokes there gently with his thumb. It makes Jungkook practically purr.
“Isn’t that a shame. Not before me, doll.” And then he parts Jungkook’s lips with his cock, feeding it to him inch-by-inch. What he lacks in length he makes up for her girth; Jungkook has to stretch his lips wide to fully accommodate Yoongi.
“He’s so pretty,” he hears Hoseok muse behind him as he bobs up and down, “Look at the way he takes it.”
“Right? God, those eyes…when he looked up, I was gone.”
“Hear them talking about how much of a good boy you are, Kookie? You like that?”
He can’t do much else other than whine, really. Whine and whimper and mindlessly sink down on the cock in front of him.
“Ah, baby. Use your big boy words.”
And that’s just – mean. Tears prick his eyes as he struggles to stay on Yoongi’s cock, even when the other man slowly removes it from his mouth. “I asked you a question, Jungkook. Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Do better than that.”
“Yes, Sir, I like it. Like it so much.”
Yoongi’s pumping himself now, mere centimeters away from Jungkook’s mouth. “I know you do, baby. You’re so good. So good for Sir. God, the way you look up at me with those eyes-“
“Sir, can I please touch myself-“
“Yes, fuck, go ahead, darling. Shit. I’m gonna come, honey, can you stick out your tongue for me? Open wide, doll.”
Jungkook – hand down his pants and deliciously debauched – does as he’s told one last time, and catches Yoongi’s release all over his tongue. It makes him shiver; the taste of Yoongi, the smell of him, the sight of him climaxing, it’s almost too much like the fantasies he’d indulge himself in as a teenager. (Still indulges himself in, if he’s being honest.)
Ever the overachiever, Jungkook closes his mouth and swallows once Yoongi is spent, and the sensation alone is enough to have him spurting in his hand, coming with maybe a couple of strokes, if that. He comes with a long, low whine in the back of his throat that makes all three of the other men in the room give their own answering groan.
The four of them sit still for a moment, trying to catch their breath.
He can’t believe he just did that. Who is he! Who does he think he is? Never in a million years would he have expected any afternoon in his life to end up like this one, and yet he was blessed with golden opportunity after golden opportunity. He’s sated and happy and surrounded by the people he admires the most – could this day have gone any better?
“Alright, baby, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Spoiler alert: it couldn’t have.
“Jeon, where the hell have you been? I had to get Seokjin to cover for you, you missed a whole performance!”
Jungkook merely smiles at Jimin, fingers still fiddling with the scrap of paper heavy in his pocket. He hopes he doesn’t accidentally rub off the inked digits on there.
“Sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Oh, but does he hope it does.