#4 with a Smile | MYG, JHS
Pairings: Yoongi x Hobi x Reader
Rating: 18+ / Mature / Explicit
Synopsis: A chartered flight on a private jet. Back-to-back meetings in skyscraping VIP rooms. Dinners with caviar as appetizer and dessert. Ferragamo soles touching nothing but plush, red velvet, from limo to hotel suite. For record label owner Jung Hoseok and creative director Min Yoongi, this is simply business as usual. So they’ll order their usual nightcap. And you’re more than ready to serve it to them.
Word Count: 6647 | read on ao3 | Part of the Yoongi 3(0) for 30 series!
Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: PWP, music industry!au, sex work, roleplay, rough sex, some degradation, slight nipple play, overstimulation, squirting, spitting, oral [m receiving / f giving, f receiving / m giving], threesome, group sex, spitroasting, voyeurism, exhibitionism, BDSM, one (1) pussy slap.
Author’s Note: My entry for the Suits & Ties collab! Thanks @sugakookitty and @hobisuniverse for hosting! Dedicated to @yuugehn for being so generous, kind, and encouraging — especially since you were the one who suggested I give this event a try! I really hope this Sope satisfies 🍽️
Jung “Hobi” Hoseok is not a very patient man. But he doesn’t have to be.
He was more than patient as he gathered his daydreams up one by one over the years and stitched them together in a quilt of emotion, expression, and evolution. There’s no arguing that Daydream Records has become a monopoly, back deals and favors leading to Hobi essentially owning at least 5% and, in one case, almost up to 90%, of its competitors. But for as long as he and his right-hand man, creative director and extraordinary producer Min Yoongi, can get away with it, Hobi will keep dreaming.
Keep dominating.
He stands in the middle of the board room filled with cowards, all of them already shuddering, not even at the prospect of what he’s about to say, but that anyone clad in blue Louis Vuitton has anything to say to them at all.
He looks right at Yoongi, whose room-scanning eyes are as tight and intimidating as the black sapphire Armani leather jacket and pants seemingly painted onto his mother-of-pearl skin.
Yoongi glances back.
Behind him stand his direct reports, the rest of Hobi’s core team.
Kim Namjoon, head of Innovation, folds his gray, Prada-suited arms and tilts his head slightly to the left. His narrow, shrewd eyes see all from behind a pair of thin, aluminum glasses. Intelligent as he is handsome, Namjoon is responsible for helping Daydream Records artists to shape-shift, whether that means transcending into a new era, or a new sound altogether.
Kim Seokjin, head of Media Relations, sniffs quickly and looks expectantly at the crowd. Everyone in Seokjin’s life assumed he’d grow up to be a model, and weren’t surprised when he turned out to be one who was often swathed in Hermès and on the cover of Vogue, but they didn’t anticipate that he would also create models. Specifically, strategic ones that governed the Daydream Records approach to organizing album press releases, staggering newbie debut stages with heavy-hitter comebacks, and planning artist appearances and performances on talk and variety shows.
Park Jimin, head of Public Relations, swooshes his hair back, fluffy tufts of it separating in the middle and falling gently to the side. Everywhere his lithe, Chanel-dripping body goes, whispers follow. Ones of admiration, mostly, given his heavenly good looks. But also ones of intrigue. Jimin knows the truth behind every single industry scandal. He even helped to create some of them, especially in rare dips when the usual buzz that surrounded the Daydream hive was low.
Kim Taehyung, head of Content Strategy, brushes some lint from his shoulder. Nothing but his skin is allowed to touch his physical form, covered in Gucci from head-to-toe. He clearly disapproves of this office suite. But in truth, he just misses his office back home, somehow also littered with Gucci furniture and office supplies, and serving as the central hub for not only the music department, but the art and design departments, and all content peripherals, including magazines, webtoons, and, most importantly, movies and shows for online streaming platforms.
And Jeon Jungkook, a Balenciaga-wrapped whiz-kid who, at just 24, has already released seven chart-topping solo albums, single-handedly putting Daydream Records on the map, and parlaying his experience as the label’s first globally successful megastar, as well as his insane skills and hard-earned networking connections into his cushy position as head of Talent Acquisition. Every artist already wants to be him. They have to start by impressing him enough to get him to come to a show.
Hobi takes a moment to feel proud about this top-notch team. The team that he built. That his daydreams conjured.
He thinks about how they all got here. Yes, the top tier of the industry. But also, this moment.
A chartered flight on a private jet. Back-to-back meetings in skyscraping VIP rooms. Dinners with caviar as appetizer and dessert. Ferragamo soles touching nothing but plush, red velvet, from limo to hotel suite.
This is simply business as usual.
Hobi arches an eyebrow.
They blink, unimpressed, in response.
So, Hobi turns around and ends the meeting like he ends every meeting.
Savagely.
“If you don’t get this merger together within the next 24 hours, then you will never see or hear from me again.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“Ever.”
The cowards have already begun calculating how quickly the losses will turn into bankruptcy, and then, nonexistence.
Hobi’s eyes curl happily.
“Have a wonderful evening.”
**
“What a clusterfuck,” Yoongi grumbles.
He finally gets to collapse into the armchair in the central common room linking all eight rooms in the Presidential Suite on the top floor of this hotel. He takes a moment to take one deep breath, and then it’s back to work. His zippers jingle as he reaches over to the matching armchair next to him and picks up his laptop. He opens it and adjusts the external web cam attached on top to join the last call of the day.
“I’m livid,” Hobi sighs, slumping down in the matching sofa across from him.
The webcam rotates to follow his movement. Yoongi waves in front of the camera so that he can coax the lens back to him.
Hobi looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes for a moment and listening to Yoongi typing. Fast, but also quiet. Like a jar of mismatched, forgotten buttons being spilled. It’s comforting.
He lazily looks over to the far corner. “Not to mention, I’m still extremely pissed that every time we stay here, we have to pay for that extra, empty room.”
Yoongi continues to type. “Do you want me to look up your net worth again?”
Hobi rolls his eyes. And he sees the menu on the low, square, glass table between them.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“I could eat.”
“Should we ask the guys?”
“Everyone else is in for the night, it seems,” Yoongi observes, looking around at the five silent and locked doors around them.
Hobi’s lips curl into a pout. “The food at that place we went to really sucked, though, didn’t it?”
Yoongi shrugs. He sets the laptop on the coffee table and takes the menu, starting to peruse their selections. “What I really want is a drink.”
Hobi’s daydreams never let him down. His mind races quickly to more memories of the last time they were in this city. The last time they were in this hotel.
And the last thing that they ordered.
“A nightcap, then?” Hobi asks.
Yoongi opens his mouth to reply. Sarcastically, no doubt. Hobi could already see the “That’s what I said” already forming on Yoongi’s lips.
But after years of working side-by-side, Yoongi’s mind catches up way faster than anyone else’s. Sometimes even races faster.
So, in place of those sarcastic words comes one of Yoongi’s curling, knowing smirks.
**
XX (1:42 AM): Location C. #4. With a smile.
Admittedly, you were kind of reveling in the idea of a quiet night in.
But Location C calls pay comically well.
And being called in so last-minute will translate into additional benefits.
You (1:43 AM): ❤️
You stand. You stretch.
The popcorn bowl and murder mystery novel go on the coffee table.
You blow out your living room candles.
A quick shower, like always. Your playlist is interrupted with a series of ding!s carrying with them all the details about the appointment.
When you step out and wrap the towel around you, you pick up your phone and send heart after heart, agreeing with them all. Nothing you can’t handle.
Makeup takes forever, but with more experience, you’ve shaved off a good chunk of time.
An easy change, for once.
Chef whites atop black dress pants and black flats. You wonder when you last wore this outfit. And when you last washed it. You never wear it for more than about two or three minutes. There’s always so much to do.
The hotel is only a few blocks away, but given the late hour, a car is sent for you anyway. The cook with the muscles and the chin dimple winks at you when he lets you in the back.
You aren’t sure how he’s involved in all of this.
You don’t ask any questions.
You don’t really need the answers.
What you need is his dick in your pussy.
He gestures to a cart with a silver, covered platter, all ready for you. As you grab its handle and make your way toward the service elevator, you turn back, toss a “Thanks, babe,” over your shoulder, and blow him a kiss.
He grins and wrings his towel as he wipes his hands.
You wonder when you’ll finally get to fuck him.
The elevator takes you right to the common room door.
You leave the cart at the side and knock.
“Room service!” you call out.
You run your tongue over your teeth for a quick lipstick-food-and-everything-else check, before you forget. And you run through the details that you’re supposed to remember. What to say. How to say it. When. These guys are supposed to be in the music industry. They’ll appreciate your virtuosic performance.
Your pussy clenches at the thought.
From a sea of nighttime blue, two smoky eyes greet you.
They catch you off-guard.
The cook downstairs fades into a distant memory.
It’s been a while since you’ve been this intrigued. Work is still work, after all.
“You ordered a #4 with a smile?” you confirm.
He opens the door wider, but he remains in your way, his eyes running over you like yours are him. He looks good in leather. And leather always looks good on people who have its qualities. It keeps its shape no matter what. Even in danger. Most people get hung up on the danger part, but other people, people like you, know that leather’s surprisingly more protective than initially perceived. It’s not just about restraint. It’s also about freedom.
He finds it unfair that he can’t deduce anything about you. The chef’s whites are a nice touch. Shows attention to detail. Which he and Hobi have in spades.
Your pants look a little tight.
What does your ass look like in them?
He flicks his right temple back, deeper into the room. His lips barely move when he talks, so it surprises you, how full and deep his voice is.
“Inside.”
You wheel the cart into the room and survey your surroundings. No clothes strewn about. No trash. There’s an open laptop on the coffee table, and a couple of throw pillows are misaligned on the sofa, but that’s it. Whoever these guys are, they must have only just gotten in, or aren’t planning on staying long.
Two more eyes meet you. Brighter than the other’s. But just as discerning. If not moreso.
This one is staring up at you from the couch. At one end, his heels are propped up on the arm rest. At the other, his arm is bent behind his head. He readjusts it as he watches you with mild interest, as you approach the coffee table in front of him.
He presses his lips together when you bend down to lock the cart’s back wheels. Your fingers slide down each leg, folding your body in half, breasts falling up your chest as you tumble forward, their curves making themselves slightly known through your clean, white uniform.
You meet his eyes and pout slightly as you straighten. He narrows his eyes as you walk toward the cart’s front wheels to lock them next. When you bend over, you hear the man on the couch’s soles meeting the carpet, and his body sitting up. When you stand and straighten again, you see the man in leather who greeted you at the door, arms folding confidently as he gives an approving nod.
You turn around to face the man from the couch. He squints his right eye. Despite your immaculately firm, picture-perfect, and juicy ass, he isn’t completely sold yet. But that isn’t necessarily your fault.
“It’s been a day,” he says. When he speaks again, his voice is much, much firmer. Kind of scarily so. “Our order better be right.”
The silver platter rings out with a zing! when he lifts it from its tray.
One long, thick, bundle of rope.
One brand-new roll of silver duct tape.
One black leather ring gag.
And one full bottle of Yamazaki single-malt whiskey, with two shot glasses upturned on the closure.
The glasses clink against each other and the bottle as the man from the couch swipes it from the tray. He checks the year on the label. And then he says, “I guess this is acceptable.”
He takes the two shot glasses in his free hand and sets them on the cart. He starts to unscrew the bottle.
“Oh, let me do that,” you say, reaching out for the bottle.
But he the way that he turns and frowns causes you to freeze in place.
“Sir.”
“Huh?” you ask. Your voice sounds weak and pitiful.
He clears his throat. “Let me do that, Sir.” His eyes sear into the man in leather. “Yoongi, I thought you were clear.”
“You know me, Hobi. I’m always clear,” Yoongi answers, keeping his eyes on you.
Hobi turns to you. His frown feels like a gut punch. “So this is just an example of your lack of professionalism, then?”
You widen your eyes. “I-I, I was just trying to provide the level of service that we’re so well-known f—”
Hobi sounds so disappointed when he sighs.
The neck of the Yamazaki bottle taps the first shot glass. As he pours, he says, “I thought this might be the one thing that goes right on this trip. You usually deliver.” He tilts his head. “I’m losing patience for people who don’t deliver.”
You force a gulp of spit down your throat.
Hobi watches the muscles in your neck flex.
“Save it,” he tells you, before you even think about daring to open your mouth again.
He turns back to the table and pours the second shot.
When he raises his hand, you flinch.
Yoongi chuckles as he joins you at the cart, taking the shot glass in Hobi’s raised, outstretched hand.
They lock eyes as they down their drinks.
“Apologies,” you say, lowering your head, “I just—”
“Who told you to talk?” Yoongi asks, irritated. “You gonna mess this up even more?”
“No!” you exclaim.
Hobi frowns.
“I m-mean, no — ah — Sir!”
“Now you’re just being patronizing,” Yoongi says.
He sets his shot glass down on the tray with such finality, making sure that you know the end of that sentence is a period and not a question mark.
“I promise I’m not,” you snivel. “I’m just h-here to—”
“Here to do as I say,” Hobi snarls. “To do as I please.”
Yoongi takes Hobi’s shot glass and sets it down next to his before reaching over for the duct tape.
“Or, better yet,” Hobi says, as he removes and tosses his jacket to the side, “to fuck as I please.”
You only realize that some old throwback is playing from speakers hidden somewhere in the room. Or maybe one of the bedrooms, off to the side? The tone clashes with the moment. All the same, it’s violently interrupted by the sound of duct tape being peeled and ripped from itself. The sound is sharp. And rough. And somehow playful. Like saw teeth against corrugated metal. Jagged edges against jagged edges set to Jagged Edge.
Hobi’s eyes darken. “Strip.”
You furrow your brow. “You want me to—”
“He said strip,” Yoongi grumbles, walking over to you and plastering the tape over your mouth, “and shut up.”
He reaches for the top button of your collar, but Hobi slinks beside you. He places a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder.
“Hang on,” he says. “I wanna see her do it.”
With trembling fingers and pleading eyes, you hesitate.
Hobi cocks his head, growing heavy with expectation.
You freeze.
He swipes the bottle of Yamazaki and pours nearly half of it all over you.
It’s cold.
You sniffle.
With nowhere to go, the air from your sniffle-fueled whine puffs out your cheeks.
“There,” Hobi says, tossing the bottle somewhere onto the ground. It lands with a dull thump and rolls into the darkness. “Now you have to strip.”
Now you’ll have to wash this uniform when you get home, more like it.
You lock eyes with him.
Sometimes, you can see the shift, that unmistakable flip from everyday life into something more primal. You relish in the feeling of being the catalyst for the change.
This time, you judge that there is no shift. He is always this demanding.
Because he is always right.
When you lock eyes with him, he sees you judging.
You know what fear looks like.
You think you see a little of it, which means that he had a heart at some point.
They all had a heart at some point.
But the fear quickly dissipates when his insistent hand lunges forward for your collar.
He grabs the fabric and pulls you into him.
Everything smells like whiskey.
He throws you over to the sofa, where you fall onto the cushions, bumping the throw pillows, which slide off and land onto the carpet.
He strides over and pulls you back up again by that same collar.
You grip his forearm.
There are so many veins in it.
Your chef’s whites come off easily. Hobi has no regard for the buttons that pop off, or the stitches that rip. Forget putting it in the laundry. You’ll have to buy a new uniform altogether.
Yoongi has a tougher job. Your pants are tight, but his strong hands yank them down easily. The seams at your legs rub your skin red and raw.
You feel those strong hands force you out of your socks and shoes.
Now all that’s left is your simple bra and panties. Cheap and plain. You already knew they were going to go in the trash at the end of the night, one way or the other.
Hobi runs his hands down your chest, palming your breasts still in your bra, and massaging them. Your nipples are already so sensitive, and they buzz at his touch. The buzz is so strong that you lunge forward, reaching out for his shoulders. He grips your hips, which wiggle involuntarily as his fingers squeeze.
He lets out a quiet laugh as he rights you. Your bare feet welcome the plush carpet. You’re usually in boots or stilettos or, in one case, moon shoes. Your toes wiggle and spread out, trying to grip as you stand up straight.
He unclasps your bra and tosses it aside.
His cheek rests against yours as his voice rumbles into your ear.
“Nipples sensitive, huh?”
You squeak, but then you feel twin, thin strips against them. You look down and see Yoongi laying pieces of duct tape over them in little Xs before stepping back into the shadows.
“Tonight is about what I want,” Hobi reminds you.
You sigh when Hobi runs his thumbs over them and you only get a fraction of the buzz that sent you lurching.
Hobi places his hands on your shoulders and shoves you slightly.
He loves how easily your knees bend.
“Face down.”
You grunt as you readjust, your belly smoothing over the cool fabric, while your nipples so achingly can’t.
Yoongi holds you down, wrists gathered behind you, legs bent behind you, almost everything behind you until you see Hobi returning to you, his knee bumping the laptop and spinning it around as he walks over to you, rope in hand.
Hobi thrusts it forward to Yoongi.
The frayed end of it tickles your back.
You squirm.
Yoongi chuckles, getting the hog-tie right on the first go.
You try to turn your head back to see him. When you can’t, you wonder if he can do it with his eyes closed.
But both of their eyes are roving over you.
Zippers are being unzipped.
Buckles are being unbuckled.
Snaps are unsnapped.
Hobi stands in front of you, stroking his waking cock.
“That ass,” he admires. You feel him searing your flesh there, until it’s redirected right into your worried-looking eyes. “You think just because you have an ass like that, you can do whatever you want?”
You shake your head furiously. “Mm-mm!!”
Hobi’s palm lands under your chin, nearly choking you.
He looks evil.
“Liar.”
You take a deep breath and let the shiver run down your spine.
“She’s already so wet,” Yoongi says, with something close to pity.
Hobi laughs.
“That’s what I fucking thought. How’s it taste?”
“You want dibs?” Yoongi snorts. “Sir?”
Hobi disappears from view, but then you feel his tongue swiping up your pussy, making your ass bounce and twitch, your legs kicking back until Yoongi’s strong hand meets you mid-air and wraps around your ankles.
Yes, you taste sweet. You always taste sweet. But Hobi can actually taste the actual arousal within. His neck cranes forward, lips burying into your deep purple, and then deep pink. His jaw widens, and you can almost feel the back of his throat opening up to drink you in, as well as give his tongue free range to explore. You feel him slide his tongue into your opening, darting in and out at a steady, quick pace.
You’re mewling.
“Let me get in on that,” Yoongi says, unable to stand by and just watch.
Hobi laughs. With Yoongi, he’s always happy to share.
You hear them shuffle around.
Yoongi moves much slower. Much, much slower. You feel his nose close to your ass. You feel his chin rub against your clit. You angle your hips up to try and rub it against him. He grunts when he notices, and he grabs both of your thighs to hold you steady. Hold you open. His tongue widens and flattens. He laps you up. Collects you in his mouth. Spits in you. Laps it up again. Groans at the mix of all of the tastes.
As he eats, your throat strains with more noises drowning in your own saliva.
You feel Hobi’s tongue again.
At the same time.
The two of them.
Always sharing the work.
They leave you for a moment. Tangle in each other. More wet strokes. Grunts, hot and light. Knowing chuckles.
Your unanswered pleas are punctuated by Hobi’s dick smacking against your ass cheeks.
“Fuck, Yoongi, you know that I love being right,” Hobi says, pressing the tip of his cock just by your entrance. “People are lost. They love when someone else is in control. When I control them.”
You can’t help but try to use your thighs as leverage to push back against him. He’s not even inside you, and he already feels so goo—
“Unh-unh,” Hobi repeats, “tonight is about what I want.”
You hear him hock a loogie and spit onto your ass. His dick slides into the pool. You feel it dripping into the cleft.
You moan.
But then there are too many moans.
And hums.
More than just three.
A chorus of them.
Low.
Urgent.
They’ve taken place of the music.
Is the chorus coming from one of the rooms?
Is it coming from all the other—
“Shit,” Hobi sighs through grit teeth, sliding the tip through your cleft and into the space that your thighs make for him.
He grabs the ropes at your wrist, pulling you up and bending you farther back.
You hear wet stroking.
You wish you could reach down and do the same.
Fuck.
“Take her,” Hobi instructs.
Yoongi’s hands must be strong. It’s evident enough, given that there’s only one hand gripping the rope at your wrists, and you’re letting your body weight hang where it hangs. But his strength becomes downright irrefutable when you feel his fingers mashing into you, moving in circles, and then sliding into you. He’s met with so much resistance that he has to hiss. And that’s just for his fingers.
“Grease her up a little for me,” Hobi instructs.
Yoongi lets the rope slip through his fingers, and you bob forward a little, but he catches you again in his hand, gripping even tighter. You know because some of your hair gets caught in his grasp.
You like it.
Hobi leans down and pulls the tape away from your lips, letting the end dangle from your right cheek.
When he swoops his hair back through clawed fingers, you get the impulse to want to kiss him. The way the thin light bounces off of his soft yet stern face. The way his command showcases his vulnerability. How everything about him seems to be so balanced.
Do people know how much work it takes at your core to be that balanced?
He finds the bottle of whiskey.
He takes a swig from it.
Pours more all over your body.
Pours some on his own. Everything from his chest down.
You scowl as he teases.
He leans down and cradles your jaw in his free hand.
“How much can you take?” Hobi asks.
And that’s when you realize what’s really going on here.
The roleplay. The costumes. The illusion of submission. All of these things are part of it.
But what he’s really getting off on is knowing that you have to pretend that you don’t like it.
What would someone like that want to hear?
Why do you want to give it to him so badly?
“Are you asking how much I can take, or how much I actually want?” you sneer, your brain screaming “all” to both.
Hobi hums. Like he can tell.
And then he squeezes your cheeks together.
You open your mouth.
He sticks his dick in.
Just as Yoongi sticks his fingers inside of you.
Your delighted moan is just as muffled as when the duct tape was still in place.
“Fuck, you can take it all, can’t you?” Hobi groans, as he keeps sliding his length farther into your mouth, farther into your throat, feeling you readjusting so that you’re able to grab breaths here and there as he starts to pump. “Wonder how you found out.” He spits in his hand and starts to massage his balls while you continue to suck his whiskey-covered dick.
This is a different kind of whiskey dick. One you wouldn’t lament at all.
He groans as he fondles himself.
He leans back.
His shoulders relax.
The bottle of whiskey slides down precariously, bit by bit, his grip releasing as you suck.
And as you suck, and he rubs, he lets his thoughts race.
What kind of—unnhh, fuck—what kind of person knows that? You like to— shit, he’s almost all the way— fuck.
He sets the bottle of whiskey on the table, next to the laptop.
He lets go of your jaw and grabs the back of your head to pull you closer. Push himself in deeper. “Who else knows?” he grumbles and grunts. “Who else knows how deep you—”
He lets out a moan as he feels you nose the right cum-gutter of the V of his torso.
“—Fuck, who else knows how deep you can go?”
You’re gobbling him up. Would suck on his balls if he would fucking hand them over to you.
Hobi doesn’t fight the smirk that his racing thoughts can’t keep out. He has to be right about you.
“Dirty, nasty little thing like you,” he mutters. The pretense has been shot to hell. “How much you need it. Look where you are now.”
You know you’re right, too.
He had a heart.
Something or someone broke it.
That’s why he’s in the Presidential Suite.
You only gag when he pulls out. You gag every time anyone pulls out. It’s like you get sick at the thought of someone not filling you up.
That thought is gone when Yoongi pounds into you, as Hobi uses his hand to spins his dick in slow circles to ravel your spit around and around.
Like twirling cotton candy around a paper cone.
Hobi would probably find that comparison too sweet.
He almost tells you so when he slides back into your mouth, starting to thrust again. How incredible it feels. How tight. How excruciatingly wonderful. Stuffed so full, and no one cares if you just take it. And you take it so well. You’re so pliant and willing. Every square inch of the skin that they touch makes room for them, from each tiny throbbing capillary in their cocks, to each slight turn of your hips or slight twist of your lips.
Before he loses control, he places his cock next to your mouth.
“Pout for me.”
You do, pushing your lips out, letting him run his cock over them, slightly between them, and then slapping it against your cheeks.
Yoongi slaps against your cheeks as well.
“Shit!” you cry out, surprised at yourself, as Yoongi lets out a curling, deep moan. If you don’t come soon, you might go insane. “Please!”
Hobi frowns, only glaring at you. “I don’t like people who beg.”
He rips the remainder of the duct tape from your face, making you cry out again, and steps out of view.
You want him back immediately. Want his length in your throat so far down that you can’t make a sound.
But Yoongi’s hands grip your waist, and that desire shifts into a desperate wish that you could turn around to see his smoky eyes fixed on the folds of your skin surrounding the rope that he’s tied. How you’re turning red. How red that red must be, if he can see it in the dark.
He loves red.
So do you.
You see it everywhere.
In flushed cheeks. In lovers’ bruises.
Behind your eyes, as Hobi’s cock slid against the deepest wall of your throat and packed pleasure into your body. And then again, now, as Yoongi’s cock hits the deepest wall of your pussy, releasing it all over again.
You come.
You were wrong.
You’re going insane no matter what.
“Aahh, fuck!” Yoongi exclaims through your tortured, open-mouthed moans, his hands squeezing your forearms and ass, blooming redder and redder.
The chorus of moans and groans surrounding you get a bit louder.
You all struggle to keep your voices down.
Freedom comes to you in the form of a ring gag made of leather.
Once Hobi gets it in place, you can moan all you want.
Yoongi shoves you forward and steps back, taking shallow, uneven breaths.
But he’s quickly replaced by Hobi’s swollen cock, making you twitch and sigh.
“I thought I told you to grease her up,” Hobi grumbles and glancing at Yoongi.
“She’s so tight,” Yoongi mutters. “I would’ve come if you hadn’t—”
Hobi says that he sees what Yoongi means. But it comes out as one long, surprised, agonized, “Fuuuuuuuuck.”
You arch back. Try to move your hips. Dig them into the sofa cushions. Hobi’s flat, heavy hand helps.
You want him to fuck you until you’re embedded in the fibers.
He snaps his hips.
You’ve never felt thrusts like this before.
So powerful, and yet, so effortless.
He’s still talking through them.
“Help me flip her over. Wanna see those tits bounce.”
With a spent Yoongi’s help, Hobi spins you around his dick.
Like cotton candy.
You pinch the handle. Clench around the stem.
You start to tear up.
Moan.
Moan after moan after moan.
A chorus of moans join you.
“Ooh,” Hobi laughs, looking down at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You hear that?” He grunts again, this one coming from the pit of his stomach. “Aren’t you glad you came out to play?”
You meet his eyes and nod, desperate.
Your weight rests uncomfortably on your joints, your arms and legs still tied up behind you. But for each uncomfortable point of pressure comes a wave of serene bliss, all commanded by the head of Hobi’s cock.
You hear whispers through the walls. “Fuck”s and “holy shit”s.
Chanting.
Like prayers.
Yoongi divines an idea from them.
He stands over you at the other end of the sofa. He’s found
gathering your breasts together and leaning down to pump his rigid cock between them.
You turn left to move your chin out of the way. But you wish you could feel more.
“Mm,” Hobi moans, leaning forward. Reading your mind.
His strokes become quicker. Somehow even more eager. Like he hasn’t thrust like this in a while. Hard for you to believe. It’s just so ingrained in him, it seems.
Your skin feels so silky around Yoongi’s cock. Fucking you makes him feel pampered. He wants to return the favor. Imagines soaking you in a bath. Lathering you in lotion. He’ll gladly settle for lathering you in something else, though.
You whine.
Yoongi strokes your hair back with his thumb. His other palm busies itself with your breasts.
You whine again.
Yoongi watches as your drool starts to drip down your neck.
He wants it in his mouth.
You whine urgently, squeezing your eyes shut.
“She grip you like this?” Hobi chokes off, as he twists out of you, to the side. “Fuck, Yoongi, she’s—”
“I know,” he oozes, low and tight in his chest, as if his voice box is buried in pebbles next to his lungs. “Make her come again. Wild. I’m telling you.”
Hobi smirks at you. “Maybe we turn it up a notch and see how wild it can really get.”
Yoongi nods. Your sweat would be enough, normally. But he wants your spit, can barely take watching you dribble all over that gag. He wants his spit, but he’s been panting so hard that his mouth is dry.
He leans back and sees the whiskey on the table.
He pours it over your chest. And then he slides in and out of the space between your breasts, chasing his orgasm with more intention.
It happens when you open your eyes and gaze at him.
His cum spills everywhere, giving him everything he needed just a moment before. He lets his cock swim in it, sliding, grazing, bumping into your breasts, your stomach, the couch.
“Yesssss, shit,” Yoongi growls, panting as he wipes himself on you, finally resting his spurting tip just under your right breast.
You wish you could feel more.
You try to feel more.
You push out your chest, but your nipples still scream for air.
Hobi bends down and rips the duct tape X from your left breast.
A tortured, blessed “Hnnggg!” escapes from your throat.
Everything that you have control over clamps shut.
“Ho, fuck,” Hobi whimpers, grabbing your hips and ramming into you.
Yoongi’s eyes are as wide and black as his favorite vinyls. He rips the other X off of your right breast, where his cock is still leaking.
You let out another cry, which chops into shorter and shorter bursts, separated by your nostrils hungrily snatching at the hot, dank air around you.
Yoongi’s lips cushion your right nipple. His tongue finds every terrain, smooth and ridged. He sucks your breast into his mouth. Bites a little. His other hand glides across your stomach and massages your other breast. You feel his moans on your skin. They come from the back of his throat.
You buck forward, out of control.
Yoongi pops your breast from his mouth. “Fuck, Hobi,” he says, looking up at him. “Look at her. She’s shaking.”
Hobi knows. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you since he asked about your grip. He angles down, burying his cock into you, slam, slam, slam. His back will hurt. There will be an armrest-shaped bruise across his lap tomorrow.
Yoongi’s hand lands on your clit.
“Mmmm!!” you yelp, lips mashing down around the gag. “Mmmm-hmm-hmm-hmmmm!”
Hobi leans down, his thumbs digging into your gut as his fingers stay wrapped around your hip bones. Like he’s choking the lower half of your body.
It’s almost too much.
You know what happens when it’s almost too much.
You douse Hobi in your juices as you come, having nowhere to go, and yet, thrashing wildly and freely.
Hobi and Yoongi sigh and grunt. There is no intention of softening your high, which comes as sweat pours into your eyes, making you tear up.
“Filthy.”
“Making a damn mess.” Hobi’s eyes come alive. “Fuck, fuck, her walls keep flexing, and I—”
And then his eyes roll back. But you don’t see them do it. His head hangs forward, hair falling with it and obscuring your view.
You can’t fixate on just one image anyway.
You’re too busy trying to put the pieces of your mind back together again.
Long, exhausted groans, far too many, start to overlap.
Hobi speaks. “Fuck, that was good.”
He slides out of you and slaps your pussy in thanks. It twitches with aftershocks in return.
You hear the glass of the Yamazaki bottle slide along the length of the table, until it’s lifted abruptly before falling off the ledge.
Glug, glug, glug.
A refreshed sigh.
Hobi gives more instructions, though you can’t make those out. He’s too far away. And it’s like you’re underwater. Clarity comes and goes.
A door closes.
Yoongi comes into your view, bending at a 90-degree angle.
He gently helps you turn onto your side. He undoes the knot at your wrists. He pouts as he works, lips untangling only when the rope finally does.
He rises a little, as the rope, and your arms, straighten with newfound slack.
Release.
Yoongi helps you scoot up the couch, allowing your legs to unfold and stretch.
And then, Yoongi kneels next to you, gazing at you.
“You played the part beautifully,” he whispers. “He’s definitely gonna pay you extra.”
You snort. You expected that. With the performance you gave? This late? And last-minute? He’d better pay extra.
But then, Yoongi offers something unexpected.
His smoky eyes, catching you off-guard like they did when he opened the door. They search you.
Yoongi leans over you. Thinking.
You tilt your head back. Knowing.
And then he bends down, his fingernails sliding through your hair, starting just above your ear and then curling into a fist to tilt your head back even more. His mouth meets yours, drinking from your whiskey- and cum-coated lips, sucking so hard, as if he almost expects more to come out of them.
There’s a loud smack when he finally pulls himself away from you.
He looks at the echoes of rope on your skin.
He traces some of the lines with his pruned fingers.
“Fucking you was like creating art,” he murmurs, reveling in the sight.
He rises a little, letting your hair free and watching your head lean fall back to the sofa cushions.
The snake of rope slithers behind him as he disappears through a door. Different than the one you heard close just before.
Brain hazy, and body finally feeling exhaustion creeping in where dopamine and adrenaline are starting to leave, you rub your wrists and glance toward the laptop still sitting on the glass table.
The small camera is aimed at your heaving, dripping body.
The light is still on.
You make direct eye contact.
After you slowly lick your lips to collect the last of Yoongi’s spit, you take a loud, showy gulp with great satisfaction.
It’s like water.
You sit up.
Rest the soles of your feet on the edge of the, much like you, ruined, sofa.
Spread your legs.
Dance your fingers around your entrance, Yoongi’s cum dripping down your stomach and meeting Hobi’s cum as it leaks out of you.
You spin them around your index finger.
Like cotton candy.
You suck them both off.
And you flash your prettiest smile.
Another door opens.
Read the rest of the 3(0) for 30 series here!
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