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kurooh · 4 months ago

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WICKED GAMES !

⊹₊˚. DESC — hawks is stuck at a dumpy strip club with dabi until you come along to help him in more ways than one. / or, hawks’ initiation and corruption, all at once.

wc. 8.8k

warnings. 18+ content — mdni, f! reader, stripper / strip club au, threesome, manipulation, spit roasting, oral [m/f rec], unprotected sex, public-ish sex, degradation, some alcohol, pussy slaps, creampie, rough sex.

hawks has better things to do than sit around with dabi, wasting his time in a dumpy strip club somewhere deep in the brightly lit maze of kabukicho. it didn’t surprise him in the least that he’d been dragged out this way, but it stresses him out, makes his feathers quiver with unease. he’s in too deep with the league, risking his public image just to appease someone who he considers half friend, half enemy.

strip clubs are meant to be hot, enjoyable places; patrons are not typically agitated, unable to stop twitching in their seats. despite looking like it’s closing down from the outside, the club surprisingly booms with some life, including that of japan’s number two hero.

“throwing a tantrum, hero? as i recall, you agreed to come here if you lost the bet.”

dabi just likes to rub his luck into hawks’ face, electric blue eyes following each movement of his twitchy wings. he tends to write off all the movement, assuming that it’s just something that comes along with the quirk, just like his resistance to colder temperatures. feeling like he’s being pinned down by that sneer, hawks draws his wings in close to his back, shooting a golden glare at his snarky co-conspirator.

dabi couldn’t begin to understand any of the hero’s concerns about reputation and the press, or anything positive concerning the fickle public eye. all hawks needs are a few negative news reports and his cover as a two-timer is completely blown, leaving the public safety commission and the rest of the country in limbo.

“you switched it up on me, dabi,” he purses his lips, miffed. “if i were in my right mind, i’d be gone by now.”

“too bad you’re in your left. you agreed to stay an hour, and you’re going to,” dabi smirks, pleased by any opportunity to get under hawks’ skin. he’s always got something to say, and he’s endlessly amusing—so damn easy to piss off or tease. a scarred arm is happily thrown around hawks’ shoulders, only aggravating him all the more. “now, loosen up and enjoy the fucking show.”

it’s uncomfortably hot in this establishment, all too humid for his liking. too many people are packed into the tiny club at once, and a miasma of sweat and sex hangs in the air, practically emanating from the shoddy walls. raunchy posters plastered around the club peel halfway off the walls and add nothing nice to the atmosphere, only making it look all the more trashy. fading bass booms out through the speakers, either because the song is coming to an end or because the speakers need to be replaced. not to mention, dabi’s like a bloodhound: picking up on traces of discomfort or annoyance and exploiting it in ways that will bring him the most entertainment. hawks rudely shrugs off the weight and tries not to act too sour, planning to block out his surroundings for the fifty five minutes he has left.

it’s bad in here, with every little noise making his wings tingle urgently—he can hear the pants of onstage strippers, the groans of men getting lapdances in the back, and footsteps in every single direction.

he lifts his drink with a small sigh, appreciating the cool burn that the alcohol leaves in its wake. the strippers on the stage shake some more ass to the fleeting beat before stuffing bills into their thongs and slipping off the stage to mingle with customers. hawks steals a glance toward dabi, searching his face for any interest in the scene unfolding before them. lazily leaning back in his chair, a foot propped up on the edge of the table, dabi swishes his whiskey around in the glass and regards the stage with an unreadable look.

god, this is so fucking annoying. hawks was dragged here and threatened, only for his abductor to not even end up enjoying himself. sulkily, he recounts the events of his relationship with dabi, finally able to focus now that all the noise starts to hush as an air of quiet settles over the club. dabi could be interested in corrupting him, leading him into a life full of nightly visits to strip clubs and shared cigarettes on public sidewalks; dabi also could’ve just taken him here because hawks had unintentionally admitted that he’d never been to a strip club over beers with the league.

red stage lights melt into a mix of pink and purple. dabi sniffs, tipping back the rest of his whiskey and setting the glass down onto the table. at least the electrical system’s running well.

a quieter, darker song begins to play, melodic vocals flowing through the speaker. this is certainly a far cry from what had just been reverberating through the club, and some of the tension ebbs away from his tense shoulders. hawks isn’t familiar with this song; he hasn’t heard it through his feathers when heading down the streets beside endeavor, and doesn’t quite recognize the artist.

the barest expressions of awe are written across the faces of many of the club’s patrons, something that definitely piques his interest—sharp gold eyes flick over to dabi, just in time to catch the unmistakable lifting of the villain’s scarred lips. after spending so much time around him, hawks has come to memorize some of dabi’s many facial expressions; this isn’t his usual smarmy smirk or scowl he wears around his colleagues.

of course he’d brighten up in a place like this! hawks has never seen that much appreciation when he goes out of his way to snag a bag of pretzels for that goddamn ingrate.

an annoyed huff slips out of him, and he looks toward the stage, chin propped up on his fist.

i left my girl back home, i don’t love her no more / and she’ll never fucking know that

a shadowy figure can be seen at the far back of the stage; draped in lace, you step out into the glow of the colorful lights, skin illuminated by hues of pinks and purples. you sway to the music, hooking a leg around the pole and giving a sultry spin that actually impresses hawks. each movement is purposeful and punctuated with an elegance he didn’t expect to see in a place like this. he gasps quietly, then covers it up with a hacking cough before dabi can look over, earning himself some unnecessary glares from nearby patrons.

the lace snugly hugs the curves and slopes of your body, standing out against your skin while your heels catch and reflect the overhead stage lights. through lidded eyes, you look out into the audience, allowing yourself to sway and swing against the pole in a way that is more tantalizing than it should be. you’re someone he’s never met, but judging by the way you carry yourself, you’re not just anyone—certainly not to the people in the club, who look on, just as entranced as he is. through his feathers, he can hear the bartender’s rag against a glass stop moving as they pause to watch you.

like a shooting star across the night sky, your eyes are twinkling as you skim over everyone in the sea of faces. it’s a clear sign of enjoyment, and your head tips forward to his table. a small smile tugs at your glossy lips when your eyes land on him, and warmth simmers under the skin of his cheeks. hawks’ charm is a practiced, polished facade, but he knows when someone’s checking him out, understands why they are. flattered, his red feathers puff out behind him.

bring your love, baby, i could bring my shame / bring the drugs, baby, i could bring my pain

hawks is suddenly grateful for dabi’s insistence to sit so close to the stage. he’d never admit it, but if he gets to finish watching this magnetic dance, this will have been his most successful trip to a strip club in his entire life. you’re not even finished and he already knows that nothing could ever top this; it’s hard not to look so damn starstruck, and as if dabi can hear his thoughts, he scoffs, shaking his head like he’s just thought of something funny.

bills are tossed onto the stage from all directions, floating in the air and drifting toward the floor like autumnal leaves. praise is given in the forms of drunken cheers, shrill wolf whistles, and money—none of it impedes your rhythm, heels clicking with each graceful step. another playful grind against the pole, and you’re strutting to the edge of the stage, hands set on your swaying hips. you’re close, close enough for hawks to catch a whiff of sweet perfume and steal a glance at the intricate lace adorning the edge of your panties.

you’re some kind of angel, too alluring to be just human. everything about you is too graceful to have been learned, too fucking perfect to be normal. he notices that he’s breathless, feathers absorbing the sounds of your soft breaths and delicate footwork across the floor.

just let me motherfuckin’ love you / listen, ma, i’ll give you all i got / get me off of this

for a moment, you bask in the limelight, chest rising and falling just enough for him to notice. hawks reaches for his glass, covering up the lower half of his face with the wide rim to hide the flush high on his cheekbones. you turn, heading back to the pole, but you make sure to throw him a heated look over your shoulder. it’s as if you’re both clued in on a secret, and the idea of sharing anything with you makes him sick with desire. a drink, a handshake, a kiss—he inhales sharply, wanting to focus on the rest of your dance.

you drop into a squat, glossy lips parting for breath as your thighs spread open widely, panties threatening to tug too far to the side. once you’ve allowed the visual to sink in longer than necessary, only inviting more tips and cheers, you sway to each side to bring your knees closer, a giggle slipping out of you when you’re pulling yourself to your feet. it doesn’t last for long; the air is practically punched out of hawks’ lungs when you swish your hips to the music, curling a leg around the pole to perform an impressive whirl around.

so tell me you love me, only for tonight / only for the night / even though you don’t love me

his wings are tingling by the time you slide to the floor with an arch of your back, something bittersweet rising on his tongue. he’s frustrated, so frustrated—he wants to talk to you, get to know you better in a private room in the back. talking would be better than a dance, but he definitely wouldn’t turn you down if you offered.

by the time the dance inevitably ends, hawks feels like he’s crashing back down to earth like a meteor, blood running hot and thrumming hard in his ears. if he could, he’d keep watching, soaking in the sight of you and letting it dominate his thoughts. it’s unusual that he’s so bothered by something like this, something of dabi’s doing; he’d allow himself to think further into it if he wasn’t so busy focusing on the swing of your hips as you head down the little steps at the corner of the stage. you’re looking at him like he’s a bullseye you’re aiming for with a bow and arrow, eyes set on him as you ignore the advances and conversation starters of other patrons.

hawks is caught in your orbit, wanting nothing more than to spin closer in ways that would likely spoil some, if not all of his reputation as the no. 2 hero of japan. out of his control, a few pesky feathers start to twitch noticeably as you come closer, the soft sound of your footsteps becoming louder against the booming club music. what will he say to you? how can he come off in the best way possible, make himself look a little better than he is? his mind is racing with deliberations, so many coming all at once that he doesn’t quite notice the way you step past him until it’s too late.

his head swivels to the side, where he takes in the scene with indignance and disappointment flaring hotly in his chest. the angel of the club—his nickname for you, since he doesn’t know your name yet—is fraternizing with dabi! hawks blanches, all the color draining from his face. don’t tell me, he thinks desperately, you were looking at dabi the whole time. it feels like he’d been swinging high and happily on a swing, and the chains have just broken, sending him catapaulting to the ground. he wants to shriek in embarrassment, frustration practically seeping through his pores as he struggles to haul his jaw up and off the floor.

“look what the cat dragged in,” you say, voice lilting teasingly; it pulls him back to reality, and hawks is suddenly aware of how long he’d been spacing out. “you two must be good friends, if he got you to come down here.”

dabi, the ‘he’ in question, lets out a huff and nudges the tip of his boot against an empty seat at the table. “we’re not friends, and he lost a bet.”

“i lost a bet,” hawks echoes, trying to shake life back into his droopy feathers. “sunshine over here threatened to incinerate me, so i couldn’t get out of it.”

you look toward his wings, admiring them unabashedly. it’s an odd feeling, having the no. 2 hero of japan this close to you—and in a strip club, no less. it’d be a shame to see something so beautiful be reduced to ash, all over some kind of stupid bet. hawks doesn’t miss the frown you direct toward his colleague, lips tugging downwards in disapproval.

dabi grunts, tone derisive. “you’d feel the same if you were stuck with this chicken all day.”

hawks lets the jab slide, clearing his throat as though he never heard it at all. “i’ve never seen so many people quiet down when a dancer gets on the stage.” you offer him a little smile, noticing the barely concealed awe in his voice.

“you’ve never seen the inside of a strip club, birdbrain,” dabi’s quick remark is like a sharp needle, sticking right into a vein in his forehead. obviously, he’s trying to make hawks look stupid in front of you, because you’re friends or lovers, something he hasn’t distinguished quite yet. the vein throbs, inspiring a headache that dabi’s entirely at fault for. hawks’ nose whistles softly when he breathes in, an apologetic grin splitting across his face. he’s not sure what he’s trying to apologize for—how awkward he is, or dabi’s rudeness that you’re probably familiar with.

he plays it off with a breezy laugh. “should’ve taken me sooner, dabi.”

this gets the villain’s attention. his head lifts up and off the backing of the chair, electric blue eyes pinning hawks down, searching his face intently—searching for a shred of sincerity or truth. dabi’s unable to believe it, smirking as the cogs in his brain function, certainly coming up with some kind of competition. “oh, don’t tell me,” he starts, a scornful cackle bursting out of him, “you’re tired of toeing the line, hero?”

with a raise of his brows, hawks slips back into his casual charm. he may not wear anything but a visor on his face, but this is his mask; unlike the material of heroes’ costumes, this one rarely comes off. he looks at dabi, gold meeting turquoise as he challenges the villain right back. “yeah. i have been, since before i got involved with the league, dabi.”

back and forth.

push and pull.

this is simply how it is. their dynamic is not practiced or understood in either black or white; you’re lucky to witness it in all its intensity, and the air warms with what is undoubtedly dabi’s quirk. their staring match lasts until dabi slams his hands down on the table, a manic smile tugging at the corners of his lips. hawks doesn’t even look startled, his expression cool and open, as if to welcome whatever challenge dabi’s come up with.

a drunken passerby burps into your face, fingertips brushing against your shoulder for less than a millisecond before you’re swept away by hawks. his reflexes are as fast as the papers say.

“want—wanna dance,” he slurs, offering you 150 yen clutched between stubby fingers.

dabi’s on his feet, palms sparking with flashes of blue flames. he’s in the guy’s face, but doesn’t have to say anything to make him stumble off toward his obnoxious group of friends. hawks takes a step away from you, giving you some space as he starts to sit down again, but he is unceremoniously yanked away from the chair by a strong, scarred hand.

“you’re tired of playing hero, huh?” his voice rumbles in his throat, intimidating. “fucking prove it.”

hawks’ nose crinkles. dabi’s palms grow warm, gripping tighter around a jacketed forearm.

“private room. now.”

you lead the venture to the back of the strip club, passing closed doors on either side until you finally arrive at the room at the very end of the hallway. dabi’s simmering, wound up too tight by the time you get inside; hawks watches as you lock the door behind you, likely questioning how common this practice is.

carelessly, dabi throws himself onto the couch, just barely spreading his knees.

hawks is first to break the silence. “so, dabi? we’re all here now, what’s your master plan?”

“why, you scared?” dabi flashes him a wily smile as his eyes meet yours. this back and forth isn’t quite apart of your typical routine, but you step past hawks, skin brushing lightly against his feathers. he tenses, body rippling slightly as he tries to muffle something like a shudder; for someone so composed, he seems to struggle with controlling some of his physical reactions to different stimuli.

no wonder dabi’s always toying with him.

hawks scoffs, choosing not to dignify dabi’s vitriol with a clear response. “i’m thinking about heading out. we agreed on this earlier, i don’t have to stay longer than an hour.” for further effect, he tilts up his chin, but he just looks petulant.

you take your seat on dabi’s lap, facing his colleague with doe eyes and lips jutted out in a pout. as expected, he bristles, willing himself to resist; he’s the sole captain of the skies, all day, every day—seeing him squirm as the knowledge that he isn’t control washes over his face ignites a wicked delight in your chest.

“i was hoping you’d stick around, number two,” you barely arch your back, and the band of lace sitting beneath your tits hikes up a few precarious inches. “aw, i haven’t even given you a dance yet.”

dabi emanates unnatural heat through his pants, temperature soaring as you egg hawks on. it’s clear that he’s jealous, a little possessive—but this is all apart of the game. as a hero, he needs to prove himself, show how he can endure the mildest fall from grace; mingling with dabi, at a strip club, is barely scratching the surface.

“it’s considered bad form to leave a strip club without at least one dance, hawks.”

it’s the way you say his name, the way you’re able to almost hypnotize him with the simplest of movements; this serves as the final blow in a sequence of needling attacks, finally breaking away the first wall. his ears tinge pink at the tips as he comes forward, taking a cautious seat beside dabi.

you turn around, moving further up dabi’s thighs and facing him although your eyes settle on hawks. each movement is just as perfect as it was on stage, much closer and all the more mesmerizing now that you’re finally gracing him with your attention.

“keep watching her and you’ll wait twenty minutes longer,” dabi grouses, although he makes no move to impose the same sort of restriction onto you. “i’ll fuckin’ make sure of it, birdie.”

hawks’ gold eyes move from you to dabi, who he observes rather obviously. it’s hard to pretend he doesn’t want you to be entirely focused on him, but he’ll be damned if he takes these ridiculous demands lying down. he’s a bird, not a dog.

“you’re so rude, dabi,” you giggle, playfully sticking your tongue out as you push yourself up and off of his lap. the villain is affronted, clearly bothered by your sudden absence and uncharacteristic focus on someone else. “this is my room, don’t forget that.”

pressed back against the couch, hawks’ sensitive feathers puff up, indicating his smug triumph. you’ve chosen him over dabi, for the first time tonight—he’s too excited to concern himself with how long he’ll have your favor. it takes everything he has to bite his tongue and avoid making a quip, for fear of dabi possibly taking it to heart and burning down the strip club just to make a point.

there are two major differences that distinguish the lapdance you were giving dabi and the one that you are currently giving hawks. first, you’re seated atop his crotch and pressing your chest against his. second, you’re giving him your full attention and even going so far as to nudge at or under his jaw. this is his seventh heaven, and dabi’s second circle of hell.

“oh, i—” hawks begins softly, already struggling to form a coherent sentence with you grinding all over his lap to the low music flowing into the room. it’s a smooth, sensual song much like the one you’d performed to earlier, and it only amplifies the experience more. “i didn’t quite catch your name.”

dabi snorts loudly, knee knocking into his. then, not so quietly, he mutters, “dumbass.”

you’re completely unfazed. “i didn’t get yours either.”

“hawks,” he tries, cheeks starting to burn under your gaze. “but you already know that.”

“that’s not your real name, hero,” it doesn’t take long for him to understand what you’re playing at. eye for an eye, quid pro quo. “tell me yours and i’ll tell you mine.”

you half expect him to actually do it. anyone could see how infatuated hawks is with you—they could also see the way you’re playing him like a violin, pausing in between notes to make it a little less obvious. you learned from the best, after all; many of dabi’s tricks make up your arsenal.

he chews his lip, blood rushing between his legs as he devises a way to hedge around the demand. “another time, then?”

it makes you laugh, but the sound is not as derisive as dabi’s. hawks is cute, too new to the strip club for his own good, and so damn naive. this is the last place for someone seeking honesty or connection to come to, especially this far out in kabukicho.

you’re not as much of a stranger as hawks believes you are. you’ve heard everything about him from dabi, whispered low and honest in the privacy of dark alleyways or this very room over a shared cigarette after sex. his breezy, casual demeanor is just as it was described to you, and his tendency to fluster when razzed enough is not at all an exaggeration.

“see, that’s the thing about strip clubs,” you say, gently skimming a manicured nail over his cheek, “you’re supposed to embrace the fantasy, hawks. being a hero or a villain means nothing here.”

hawks can no longer hear through his feathers, and is finding it difficult just to hear over his own heartbeat. blood pounds in his ears, sounding something like a beating drum as it blocks out dabi’s annoyed comments and the impatient tapping of his boot on the floor. the day’s tension slowly filters out of his muscles, and his body’s a little less rigid under yours, anxiety tapering away all thanks to you.

rolling your hips against his and settling both hands on his chest, right above his heart, you lean in purposefully. to give him a kiss, tell him a secret, or maybe even share a meaningful silence with him—he doesn’t expect you to do almost everything, all at once.

“you ought to come here more often,” you murmur, dangerously close to the shell of his ear. “i’d take care of you like this any time.”

if it wasn’t for this infiltration mission, hawks would drop everything and come whenever his feathers tingled at the thought of you. however, it is crucial that he is careful not to attract negative attention or do anything too out of the ordinary; frustrated, his teeth dig into his lower lip.

“i can’t just come here whenever i want.”

“hawks,” just saying his name commands his undivided attention. in an instant, his surroundings become an unimportant blur and he’s only focusing on you. “you’re always in control, aren’t you? hasn’t the thought of temporarily letting go ever crossed your mind, pretty bird?”

here we go, he thinks, although warmth flares in his chest. it’s already enough that dabi doesn’t ever stop with the bird nicknames, and now you’re starting up the same kind of thing.

your nose brushes against his neck, and your voice softens to a volume intended for his ears only. “doesn’t it feel good to be something other than perfect?”

god, yes.

his memories and thoughts become hazy at the corners when he’s in your presence, and hawks is losing the sight of the lines he’s drawn in the sand. maybe you’re right; maybe he can shed his learned, polished persona in exchange for something more real here with you.

sweet perfume curls in the air when your head moves up and away from his neck, something daring flashing across your face. it’s the kind of look that tells him you don’t expect him to say or do much, although you clearly want him to—he’s leaning in, preparing to prove you wrong, and everything’s beginning to fall into place all at once.

you are promptly tugged away, and his lips drag along your cheek, having missed the kiss.

“kissing him before me?” dabi tuts, easily seating you on his lap and guiding you toward his mouth with a rough grip on your chin. “thought i told you how much i hate being betrayed, baby.”

hawks stares. he stares so hard his eyeballs grow dry, begging him to blink or at the very least turn away from such a terrible sight.

dabi snickers against your mouth; you moan into his, eyelids fluttering shut as his hands skim the expanse of your back, fingernails grazing against soft skin. for a moment, heat simmers dangerously below the surface, desperately seeking to release ultrahot steam.

hawks’ hand finds dabi’s thigh, and he makes sure to dig into the covered flesh, squeezing hard. the villain pulls away with a laugh, a glossy string of spit connecting your lips to his. his fingers slip under the lacy band of your underwear, allowing him to shamelessly grope your ass.

dabi reads hawks like a picture book, a smarmy smirk tugging at his mouth. “shit, you’re out of your goddamn mind if you thought you’d be her first kiss.”

“what happened to proving myself?” hawks asks, defensiveness creeping into his voice. “this whole thing was such a joke.”

“take her from me,” dabi goads, tugging a hand out of your underwear to land a sharp slap across your ass. the impact makes you squeal in surprise, hips wiggling against his own. “go ahead and fuckin’ take her from me, hawks.”

and he does just that, accepting the challenge without a shred of hesitation.

hawks kisses you hard, a gloved hand rising to the back of your neck to gingerly hold on while the tip of his tongue swipes at your lower lip. it’s fast, and the kiss spirals quickly; it was never chaste to begin with, but damn—he’s probably doing all of this just to royally piss off dabi. teeth clink against teeth, but it doesn’t deter him in the least, not when he’s already thrown caution to the wind.

your tongue swirls with his and you moan, dragging your hips over the obvious bulge in dabi’s pants. it catches nicely against the thin material of your panties, and heat burns its way through your body, pooling right in your gut. even when hawks groans, pushing closer, dabi doesn’t interfere just yet. they’re simply testing each other, seeing how far they can go before the other snaps; it’s expected from their natural rivalry.

you’re dizzy by the time you part for air, lips slick with spit and skin tingling from the scratch of his stubble. dabi regards his colleague with a face that’s half impressed, half pissed—this is the only way he expresses approval with hawks.

“didn’t think you had it in you, birdie,” dabi’s words are dripping with condescension as he hooks his fingers under the band of lace again. without being asked, you lift your hips off of his lap, wet arousal soaking through the fabric and clinging to your cunt in sticky tendrils as he slides the material down your thighs. the garment is carelessly tossed to the floor. “so fuckin’ messy for me, baby.”

he swipes a finger through your folds and sticks it into his mouth, making a show of swirling his tongue around it. hawks’ face is beautifully flushed, strokes of pink on his cheeks slowly spreading to his neck; his eyes gleam hungrily as he watches dabi, too interested to pull away. his pupils are large, expanding splotches of black against molten honey; his eyes are glazing over with something primal, characteristic of a bird of prey.

dabi gestures indiscriminately, a hand flipping to the side. you adjust yourself, still sitting on dabi’s lap but in a way that allows hawks to directly see the mess between your legs.

“i – dabi, please,” a whimper tumbles forth from your lips, voice soft and desperate. hawks is rock hard. “i want—i need you.”

the simple correction gets hawks’ heart racing faster than it should. you’re not even talking to him, but everything about your plea is fucking delicious. it’s the spread of your plush thighs, the excited rise and fall of your chest, the slickness of your eager cunt, and the way your eyes are lidded with desire. to be wanted—needed, by one person and on such an intimate level, is something he wouldn’t mind in the least.

dabi’s rough fingertips ghost along the tender skin of your inner thighs and he barks out a low laugh. “is this all for me?”

of course it isn’t, and he knows that. hawks had a hand in this too, after all.

his fingers are so close to where you need them to be, and you nod urgently, not wanting to risk losing his touch when you’ve almost got it. but he smacks your cunt instead, tightly holding you against his chest when a sob tears out of you, whole body thrashing in response to the unexpected impact.

“why don’t you ask hawks to get you off, huh?”

fresh tears gleam in your eyes, threatening to spill over and cascade down your cheeks. hawks feels a twinge of both pride and sympathy in his chest when you raise your chin, looking at him like you’re desperate to be wrecked by his hand. sitting up on your elbows, you spread your thighs once more, bra hiking up an inch to expose a sliver of the lower half of your tits.

“hawks,” you begin imploringly, cheeks quickly growing hot, “p-please, put your mouth on me.”

“i got you,” he coos, trying to sound smooth although the pitch of his voice betrays him. hawks adjusts himself appropriately, bends forward for you; his wings twitch as he works himself between your legs, pausing to fully take you in. there are still traces of your sweet perfume, wafting through the air and telling him you’d sprayed some right between your legs.

he sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the swollen bud experimentally at first. despite his reputation, hawks hasn’t been with that many women—he’s still new to sex in some ways, but he’s seen enough porn, hasn’t he? technique matters, he thinks, but an eagerness to both learn and please should be more important, right? you gasp sharply, breath hitching in your throat when he finally gives you that long-awaited bliss you’ve been dying for since stepping out onto the stage.

the whole time, you’d been performing a flawless dance to dabi’s favorite song. it’s a sacred ritual, implicitly understood between the two of you; to patrons, it is simply another show for cash.

your fingers push through blond curls, tugging nicely when hawks’ spit-slicked fingers slide into you. he can feel the sticky ripple of your walls, gummy and hot as you bear down around him; it’s impossible not to imagine what this would feel like around his cock. you’re panting now, hips weakly thrusting upwards as you push his face further into your pussy, each stroke of his tongue scratching a lustful itch in your brain.

an irritated sigh slips out of you when he pulls up for air, bushy brows tugging in concern. it’s not like you’re verbally guiding him, so he’s not sure if he’s doing this the way you want him to.

“is this how you want—”

hawks is unable to finish his sentence, because dabi interferes, once again. he cups the back of the hero’s head, careful not to snag any staples, and slams him down hard enough to nearly break his nose.

this bitch, hawks thinks, already predicting the shape of a nasty bruise in the center of his face.

“can’t even follow a simple order,” dabi goads, a self satisfied grin stretching across his face. “she told you to put your fucking mouth on her pussy, birdbrain.”

hawks’ fingers curl, pressing right into your sweet spot. he supposes that perhaps this isn’t the time to ask any clarifying questions; clearly, neither you nor dabi have the patience or interest to answer. this room isn’t a place for tenderness, and despite your allure, the sex is entirely meaningless. he remembers where he is—a shabby strip club somewhere in the district of kabukicho, a place where morals are left at the door like shoes—and hardens.

dabi’s hand remains where it is, and listening to hawks’ gasps for breath every now and then doesn’t seem to phase him in the least. you shudder as he eats your pussy, heels digging into his shoulders as a litany of moans spill out from your lips. euphoria shoots through your veins, curling through your limbs in a way that is thoroughly intoxicating; from what you can see of hawks’ face, his cheeks are glossy with your slick. his nose is red, probably still throbbing from when it was smashed against your pubic bone.

he continues to drink you in thirstily, as if he’s been without water for days.

“hawks,” you gasp, whimpering around his name, “fuck, you’re so good. oh my god—yeah, yes, right fucking there.”

curses just keep falling from your lips, a wayward praise embedded in each word. you’re twisting in dabi’s lap and using hawks solely to get off through little humps of your hips against his face or by grinding into his fingers. he doesn’t even notice the embarrassing way he’s been rutting against the couch cushions until he shifts and feels a growing wet spot in his boxers; all the more reason to shed all of his clothes and let them join your panties on the floor.

another curl and flex of his fingers before he draws them back, beginning to scissor them in and out of your fluttering cunt.

the wet, squelching sounds are amplified through his feathers. they fill the room, his ears, and his entire head. hawks is able to acutely hear the pounding of all three hearts, the heaviness in his own breathing, and the silent creaking of the couch beneath all the weight. if the three of you were to end up fucking on top of the junky piece of furniture, it’d end up giving out pretty quickly into the endeavor.

one tear pours down your cheek and is swiftly followed by many more. “nghhh, oh my god, ‘m gonna cum, please don’t stop—”

your back arches off the couch and dabi’s lap, hips jerking erratically as all the euphoria hits you at once. hawks’ fingers are pushed out of you as you cum hard, whole body trembling as you ride out the pleasant wave; his face is shoved deeper into your cunt, and yet he still makes quick work of everything you have to offer him. after all, it’s the polite thing to do when treated to a meal.

dabi only lets him up when you start to whine, rearing your hips away from all the overstimulation. hawks raises his head, breathless and sputtering for air; he fixes his colleague with a teary-eyed glare. “what, dabi? trying to kill me now?”

the prominent bulge between his thighs speaks volumes otherwise. chest heaving, hawks scoots back, the lower half of his face shiny with your cum. it’s a lewd sight, the kind that makes your cheeks burn as you realize just how empty your pussy is—and how much you want to be stuffed full.

“not just yet, birdie,” dabi smiles dangerously, tilting his head to the side with an almost predatory gleam in his striking turquoise eyes. “looks like someone still wants you around.”

you mewl when his palm lightly smacks against your sensitive clit, sparks of both pain and pleasure shooting up your spine. slowly, you sit up on your knees to look at hawks with such need in your eyes he feels himself melting inside. “come here, hawks.”

oh, fuck. you’re so goddamn pretty, and although your words were framed as a request, there wasn’t much of a choice for him—he’d be out of his mind to deny you.

he comes closer, letting his eyelids fall shut as you pull him into a kiss, manicured nails lightly raking along his jaw and against his stubble. the personification of unattainable, you’re dabi’s favorite sin—and yet you kiss someone else so gently, as if you’ve been waking up by his side day in and day out. hawks doesn’t register or react to an unbuckling belt, or the slam of the metal against the floor.

rough palms stroke over your back, fingertips faintly pressing into the dimples there. dabi only laughs when you gasp into hawks’ mouth, the sound muted against his tongue; he continues to venture on, slipping his hands past your sides until he splays his fingers against your thighs. you’re feeling up hawks, pressing your hands to the hard lines of clear cut abs and wispy hair trailing up his stomach.

“you’re such a slut,” dabi leans in, sucking the tender skin of your neck between his teeth as his voice drops into a low growl. “just so goddamn greedy for dick, baby.”

why is he talking to you like that? hawks can’t help but feel indignant, close enough to smell the smoke and petroleum jelly on dabi’s skin. once, he mentioned using it before he goes to bed—something about moisturizing the staples so they don’t tear his skin as easily. hawks, heroic at heart, is ready to pull back and question dabi, until he feels and hears your responding moan against his lips.

you allow dabi to push you forward onto all fours, lips falling away from hawks’ despite being still connected with a sticky string of spit. he thumbs it away while dabi spits onto his own cock and teasingly rubs the tip between your ass cheeks—when did he take his dick out?—some kind of warm up to get you begging.

“dabi, come on,” you’re just so easy that hawks actually starts to understand dabi’s degrading comment, the dynamic between you and him. it’s something like his own, except there’s the sex and strip clubs. “i can’t – oh my god, jus’ fuck me already.”

just for that demanding, bratty tone, dabi heats up his palm and smacks it against your ass, nodding to himself when you shriek, unintentionally jerking back against his cock.

“always fuckin’ talking too much.”

“fuck you,” you bite out rudely, while hawks divests himself of his boxers. he swallows as his cock bobs in the warm air, not sure what to think when you look at it with this unreadable expression on your face. hawks is supposed to be a people person, the kind that can understand body language and the particular tells that every single person has, too natural to hide.

if he focuses hard on his feathers, spreading out his wings, he can almost discern the sound of wetness in your mouth. saliva slicks up your tongue and throat, and he realizes that you’re not judging the leftward curve of his cock, but instead sizing it up and getting ready for it.

“yeah, i’m trying to,” dabi grunts, cursing under his breath. “god, fuck.”

then he notices the unusual quiver of hawks’ vermilion wings, the puffing of his feathers, and the bright flush high on his cheeks. it’s pretty much spread to the hero’s chest and dabi just wonders how embarrassed his colleague must be. out of his depth in a place he’d never voluntarily go to, about to fuck someone he’s hasn’t formally met or introduced himself to, and with dabi of all people on the other side, directly facing him. dabi’s eyes meet his, the look lasting as long as the flash of a digital camera, and a smugness swells in his chest.

hawks hasn’t quite proved himself yet, but he will.

you complain again, although your heart-filled eyes are glued to hawks’ cock.

he inhales sharply through his nose, feeling the metal piercings grow warm with his aggravation. “just shut her up already, hawks.”

hawks slips his fingers under your chin, tilting your head up so he can look at you; desire swims in pools of gold, his eyes pouring into yours. “guess you’re the boss. open wide for me, baby.”

the head of his thick cock is leaking with sticky precum that gets onto your lips when he nudges his hips forward, a sigh escaping him at the contact. you do open wide, practically drooling by the time his heavy cock is sitting against your tongue; it’s a tight fit, but goddamn is it worth the stretch—a few stray feathers fall away from his wings, littering the floor. his head tips back, and the rosy column of his throat gleams with sweat under the light; the number two hero of japan looks nothing less than appetizing.

despite the gagging and sting of tears in your eyes, you power through, pushing further and further. each inch is one step closer to heaven, which he finally reaches at the back of your throat. hawks’ cock throbs, and he shakily pushes a hand through his hair, shoving it out of his face.

“isn’t she just impressive?”

you start to choke, teary lashes fluttering, when dabi finally presses his own cock inside of you. it’s long, fraught with veins, and big enough to leave you feeling full for days afterward—body and mind. an obscene mixture of hawks’ spit and your slick gathers on dabi’s cock as he grips your hips and pushes in, the heated silver spheres along his length dragging deliciously against your walls.

in the beginning, when you’d first seen dabi’s cock, both worry and excitement coursed through you. the ladder of silver piercings embedded along the underside of his cock was nothing short of intimidating; in retrospect, there wasn’t much point in worrying. he still split you open and fucked you until you forgot your name; the piercings are only a lucky addition to the package.

“she likes havin’ her throat fucked,” dabi rasps, sneering, “give her what she needs instead of sitting around, birdbrain.”

“shut the fuck up, dabi,” hawks rolls his hips forward, breath catching once he feels the squeezing and tightening of your throat around him. it’s . . better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, silky smooth and gripping him like a vice. “oh my god—hah, s-so pretty like this.”

another experimental roll of his hips, and you let him slip a little deeper.

while hawks develops a sloppy, rough-at-the-edges pace into your throat, dabi is keenly aware of his colleague’s disappointing performance. because he’s an asshole, he points it out.

“forget i said anything, birdie,” and the disappointment is so pronounced in his words that hawks quickly reaches the end of his rope. he’s not one to swear often, but when he does, each word is said with enough weight to reveal how he really feels. dabi and his commission handlers are the only ones who hit the nerve that makes him transform into a sailor.

“what?” he snaps, accidentally thrusting with too much force. it makes you choke loudly, and you suck in air through your nose, eyes stinging with tears. he’s still defensive, but he bends and thumbs it away, murmuring an apology before returning to glare at dabi.

“that,” dabi supplies unhelpfully, languidly rocking his hips against your ass, “fucking like a hero is so goddamn pathetic. do you really think she needs all that sweetness? she’s a slut, so fuck her like one or don’t fuck her at all.”

hawks does pause at this. a glance at your face reveals a depraved greed for more; dabi’s right. you fuck villains, not heroes. you practically told him that earlier, when you were riding his cock through his pants—god, he needs to remember his place here. how many times has he come to this kind of conclusion in the past hour?

gently, as if he’s handling a glass figurine, hawks’ hand cups the back of your head. your heart sinks a little; you thought that dabi’s small speech would knock enough sense into him, but maybe hawks is too much of a hero. old habits die hard, or whatever.

but then, he fills his lungs with air and slams you down. your nose brushes against his pubes, and your arms nearly melt into useless jelly under you.

“hell yeah,” dabi’s getting serious now, arousal ripping through his body. this is a real tag team.

hawks’ entire demeanor seems to change. muscles ripple under his skin, all of them pulling taut like a bow string as he uses your throat, finally taking hold of the opportunity that’s been presented to him. the commission decides everything for him—how he acts in public or in interviews, how he’ll talk with dabi to extract information about the league, and even what he can or cannot have in his home.

it’s time to take control for once, he thinks bitterly, thoughts foggy with arousal, this is the one thing that the commission isn’t all over when it comes to their star. hawks’ wings spread out, beating the air and producing a cold breeze that cuts through all of the heat inside this little room. he shudders, forgetting about everything that had concerned him before as he enjoys the moment, no longer acting. it feels so sweet to have some goddamn control for once, especially the kind that doesn’t slip through his fingers as quickly as it got into his hands.

dabi grunts, his hand locating the softness above your pubic bone. it’s already hard to breathe, with hawks shoving his dick down your throat and dabi fucking out all the air you manage to inhale through your nose—dabi just makes it ten times harder, pressing down forcefully.

stars flash across your vision and you moan, throwing your ass back onto him as best you can. being plowed from both ends—double stuffed—is another level of pleasure, as overwhelming as it is.

with your mouth forced open and your cunt being pounded into oblivion, it doesn’t surprise dabi when you start to slump, tired of holding yourself up. it does, however, piss him off; he didn’t spend all that time stretching out your throat with his dick for nothing, and those marathon sessions weren’t just because he was pent up. he grabs at your hair, wrapping it around his fist and dragging you up, forcing your back into an arch.

“keep that fuckin’ arch, you hear me?” dabi’s demand cuts through the steam filling the room and hawks’ choked groans, too clear to even dare to ignore. there’s nothing to do but nod, a whine slipping out from your bulging throat.

you really are an obedient slut.

“good girl, just like that,” he praises shortly afterward, voice lilting into something almost flattering.

the couch creaks dangerously, yawning under all the weight and movement. it’s an old piece of junk that has finally reached its limit, but nobody hears it. you’re too busy slutting yourself out to hear it; hawks doesn’t care at all; dabi’s inspired to go harder.

hawks’ orgasm sneaks up on him. heat coils tightly in his gut, and each thrust into your throat makes his tip throb with euphoric sensitivity; he looks at you, noticing the streaks of mascara infused tears running down your cheeks and the drool streaking down your chin, dripping onto the couch. his heart swells in his chest, beating right in his dick, and he knows right then and there that he’s fucking done for.

the final, warning moan is everything but villainous, and he can’t bring himself to care.

“oh, i—” hawks’ abs clench, a few beads of sweat racing down between the ridges of muscle and disappearing in the trimmed hair of his pelvis, “hah, fuck. cumming, baby, please—”

dabi lets go of your hip, fingers searching for your clit. once he finds the swollen, sensitive bud, he pinches it—hard enough to push you right over the edge and into bliss. it’s a messy mix of orgasms, with hawks cumming thick and hot down your throat as you squeeze around dabi’s cock, cunt tremoring from the strength of it.

dabi is last, but seeing you and hawks fall apart was entirely worth the wait. “fuck—” he groans, biting down into his lower lip hard enough to taste the unmistakable tang of blood, “f-fuckin’ take it all, greedy pussy can never get enough.”

he babbles on, muttering unintelligible curses and filth until the euphoria hits him like a high, finally shutting him up. you can feel the smooth metal of his piercings pressing deep as his cock twitches, spilling hot cum against your cervix. it’s the kind of load that’ll prevent you from going back onstage—as if your legs could handle it after this sort of event, damn—soaking through your panties and running down your thighs to show the whole club what you’d just gotten up to. cum pours out from your abused hole, splattering your skin with gooey white as it drips onto the wrecked couch. dabi loves to see you in white—covered either in lace or his own cum.

the stench of sweat and sex hangs in the air, hot and heavy with silence. dabi lets your hair go, making sure to keep his softening cock inside of you as he lounges against the armrest of the couch to catch his breath. hawks carefully pulls away, shaking out his wings and flopping back against the cushions.

“ready to head back to your cage, birdbrain?” dabi pants out, rubbing a hand over your back as you stretch out, exhausted. then his lips pull into a mean smirk. “might wanna rough up your handlers while you’re at it. you’re in.”

hawks’ head spins. he parrots the words back. “i’m in?”

“the league. no turning back now, hawks.”

☆ ☆

hawks still remembers the date and time of what ended up being a two hour long visit at the strip club in kabukicho. he returns a few weeks later, despite being ordered not to hang around these kinds of areas anymore (some reports with photos had been aired online), but he doesn’t give a damn. the thin skin under his eyes is dark with a lack of sleep and too many missions piled onto his back. he never heard anything from dabi about staying away (not that he can recall), so it must be okay.

he makes it right before you get onto the stage, sitting down in a chair heavily. it’s the same singer playing through the speakers, but it’s not the same song as last time. nonetheless, your movements are languid, body flowing like water against the pole. everything is almost the same as his last trip here, except this time, you strut up to him after the performance and seat yourself in his lap, purring into his ear.

“came back to see me, pretty bird?”

“why else would i come here?”

with eyeshadow shimmering under the club lights, you grin as if you know something he doesn’t. “perhaps you’ve developed a penchant for lapdances. who knows what you’ve been up to since the last time we saw one another?”

956 notes · View notes

quokkaholic · 4 months ago

Text

Otaku Hot Boys minsung

Warnings/tags: MDNI, smut w/plot, friends to ?poly?, picking on reader, cussing, light degradation, some mxm but like its not the focus, giggly, sweet, threesome with some body worship, oral both, protected👏 p in v, subby!Han bc i can’t stop myself, dom!Lee know the dynamics only extend to the reader, shy/embarrassed reader, weeb slander. This is biased towards Han bc I too am biased towards Han. Lightly edited

Synopsis: At your weekly "otaku club" to discuss all things manga/anime with your two close friends, they seem to be a bit too interested in your recent spike in bl media enjoyment.

Terms for you non-losers: bl/yaoi- boys love or media centered on gay relationships, gl/yuri- girls love or media centered on lesbian relationships, otaku- person consumed by their interests (typically anime, manga, video games, etc.), fujoshi-means rotten girl, it's typically a girl who is really into bl media

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨(๑ > ᴗ < ๑)୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨(๑ > ᴗ < ๑)୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

Tonight is the night. The night you look forward to every week. It's your friends’ otaku club, the night where you and your two fellow weebs get together to talk about any new media you’ve consumed usually centered around anime and manga. You've been steeped in this type of media since the moment you were introduced to it years ago. So much so that, you even became a part time worker at your local manga cafe/bookstore. Beyond supplying some extra income, the employee discount is unbeatable. At work is actually where you met the guys.

Minho wandered in one day, drawn in by the cheerful anime themes bumping through the speakers and the promise of cute, themed drinks. After ordering a pudding latte, he browsed the isles for what seemed like an eternity, long enough that you actually went to offer assistance, which you never do. Generally speaking, anime lovers aren’t the most comfortable in social situations, and you were no exception. Plus, the type of person that comes to a manga cafe tends to know what they like, or came in for a specific title.

He had done a few laps around the place before you decided it was enough, you had to say something. Begrudgingly, you placed down the volume you were enjoying, being careful to keep your spot but not damage the book, as you weren’t intending on buying it. If you bought every volume of every manga you read, you’d be hugely indebted to this place, more than you already are; the owner, luckily, is cool enough to allow you to take some books home and just deduct the total from your next paycheck. After cautiously approaching the seemingly lost Minho, you greeted him,

“Hi, is there something I can help you find?” your ears heated at simply having to speak to him.

“Oh no!” he responded quickly, surprised as you had pulled him out of his mind and back to reality,

“I’ve never been here and was just looking around; you guys have a great selection, good mix of the new, classic, and obscure,” he complimented between sips. The nerves had you briefly spacing out on the chunks of pudding rising up the straw, snapping out of it when you noticed the silence. It was your turn to talk,

“Yes, thank you, I’ll be sure to tell the owner. She’ll really appreciate that. Well—let me know if you need anything,” you rushed away, retreating back to the stool behind the counter to pick up reading where you left off. Minho continued to look around for a while, occasionally picking up a book to read the back cover or sample the art style. He remained until he finally checked his phone, eyes bugging at the time displayed. He practically ran out the door, but not before apologizing for not buying anything and promising he would return with his roommate, and he did later that week.

You three were not fast friends. They, like your typical customer, kept to themselves. Similar to Minho, Han’s first time in the store was spent in awe, walking up and down the same isles trying to take in the entire stock while sucking down the chocolatiest drink on the menu. After that, they were regulars. Visiting at least once a week, buying a few volumes or anime merch each but sometimes just visiting for a sweet treat of tea or coffee.

Though you never talked to them outside of your scripted retail speech, you were always happy to see them in the store. They were admittedly pleasant to look at, but beyond that they were always kind and friendly to you, and it was cute to see the best friends interact.

You longed for a relationship like that. You had a few good friends, but none of them shared your interest in this form of media. You could talk about it with customers, but you could never share your unadulterated opinions or gossip about characters with the strangers. On top of being a joy to look at and interact with, the guys actually had good and diverse tastes, not just solely interested in shonen, action, and fanservice. You had actually picked up a few of the stories they had bought from you. Some you had heard of and some were definitely outside of your typical genres, but they were all shockingly good, one of them even making it into your top tier. After finishing their unknowing recommendations, you’d toy with the idea of complementing their choices, practicing what you’d say if you saw them at work.

Of course, they would never come in on the days where you had built up the courage to say something, and you’d tell yourself you were disappointed, but it was secretly a relief. Then, when they would be there, you’d find some other reason not to say anything, maybe they looked like they were in a hurry, or were too deep in their own conversation, or you’d simply psyched yourself out of it by convincing yourself that they would be weirded out by how much attention you pay to their purchases.

This went on for weeks until finally Jisung crossed that customer/employee line for you. He eagerly strode up to the counter, Minho following leisurely in toe, with the first volume of the manga you were currently enjoying at your post by the register,

“I’ve seen you reading this series the last few times we’ve come in, is it any good?” he’d asked cooly, placing it along with a few others in front of you to ring up. His impassioned energy and deviation from your usual interaction, made your heart race and stomach flip. You didn’t or maybe couldn’t respond, just stared as he minorly fumbled around checking all his pockets for his wallet. You stayed like that for a few moments until Minho finally arrived at the counter, casually reaching into his jacket and pulling out the man's wallet and handing it to him only after bumping him with his elbow in a silent scold for misplacing the wallet for the umpteenth time.

“Oh— yeah. It’s definitely worth a read; I have my issues with the plot, but stunning art makes up for it,” you’ve probably already said too much. You’re paid to make sales, not to be a manga critic, but Jisung doesn’t make any moves to put the book back. He just hands you his card like always, before asking,

“Really, like what?” That’s where the friendship started. That day, they stayed leaned up against the counter until the end of your shift discussing their recent reads and watches and asking your opinions on the classics to gauge how similar your tastes were, of which they were shockingly similar.

Although you were nervous at first, you had built at least a little rapport with them through the months of being their cashier, and talking about a major interest of yours made it that much easier to overcome any sort of social anxiety on both yours and their parts. Even after it was time for you to head home, Minho bought you a drink from the cafe, and you all found a quiet corner to continue your discussion. This became a regular occurrence. If you were there when they came in, and they didn’t have somewhere else to be, they’d spend time nerding out with you. Eventually, they learned your schedule, and made sure to come in on your shifts to hangout. It was never an issue beyond the occasional shush from reading customers when your “friendly” debates got a bit too rowdy.

You never liked the shift manager; they were unsympathetic and rude, doing things like denying time off requests for no good reason and timing breaks just to excerpt any semblance of power they had over the other workers. They even tried to get you in trouble for reading on the job, when you first started, but luckily the owner was able to pick up on the blatant absurdity of the complaint. Since then you didn’t have any more problems with them, but at the staff meeting when they made a “completely general” and “unpointed” comment about ensuring we weren’t neglecting job duties to “flirt with hot boys”, you knew they were talking straight at you. Despite always getting all you work done and then some, you knew you had to put an end to the on-the-clock book club, or it would become an actual problem, warranted or not.

The thought of not getting to hang out with Jisung and Minho circulated your mind non-stop after the initial embarrassment and anger over getting indirectly called out at work. Not only were you anxious to have a weird friend breakup, you were sad that you could be back to having no one to talk to about your more niche interests. They’d never seemed interested in seeing you outside of work; would this be the end?

You endlessly mulled over how to deal with it until the very second they walked through the door on your next shift, their cheery faces dropped upon laying eyes on your obviously stressed demeanor. They’d whisper something back and forth before speed walking straight over to cautiously greet you.

“Hey guys,” you say, cringing at the thought of what you’re gonna say next, “so I may have gotten in some pseudo trouble and was told I can’t hangout at work any more,” you quickly spat out, trying to get it over with as soon as possible, and they just stared back expectedly, waiting for whatever has you so visibly upset, as if you didn’t just say it.

“That’s it?” Jisung asks as almost simultaneously Minho snarkily remarked,

“It's about time. You don’t get anything done when we’re here.” sending you a mocking disappointed glare.

“I will not stand for the slander. Maybe from the manager, but not from you. I always get my tasks done while providing satisfactory customer service. It’s usually a race against the clock after you guys leave, but it always gets done,” you drone on, finding yourself getting a little defensive at his jest causing his smirk to widen to a full smile. You’ve grown to learn that Minho enjoys playful arguments maybe a little too much, but you attempt put an end to it before it can spiral,

“Whatever, I don’t need to defend myself to you,”

“Not me, but maybe this manager of yours,” mocking you for not standing up for yourself. He’s poked fun at you before, so you know its a sign of his friendship, but as if on cue, sensing that you are taking the bait, Jisung butts back in,

“Really though is that it? Is that what has you worried?” You were the one staring back in anticipating and stunned,

“Of course I’m upset; I just said we can’t hangout anymore,” you tried to explain calmly, but you were feeling frantic due to their apparent lack of care at the idea of not talking anymore. Ji’s eyebrows knit together in utter confusion before looking over to his best friend who was looking once again disappointed in you with a slow shaking of his head.

“We can’t hang out here while you’re working,” he slows down his speech emphasizing the key parts of your mandate, hoping you can gather why they aren’t worried about the future of your relationship. While you remained confused, Jisung’s forehead relaxes as his face turns to one of realization, mouth forming a perfect O before returning to his just-entered-my-favorite-bookstore smile and shrugs his shoulders to brush off your concern before he offered the most obvious solution,

“You’ll just start coming over to our place,” he stated, as if it were nothing. He didn’t ask, it was plain to them. You weren’t exiting their life, you were entering their apartment. Minho’s lazy shaking turned to nobbing as if he had been just waiting for you two to finally catch up. That was the end of that. They quickly grabbed what they came for but did stay and chat for a little, but only to make plans for you to come to their place that weekend.

Such was the inception of your weekly otaku club, meeting at their place once a week or having a group call when schedules got too hectic. With weekly meetings, they quickly climbed the ranks, and have become some of your best friends.

This week was the first in person session you had in weeks, and you were beyond ecstatic, stopping at the store to grab drinks and desserts as they were providing the meal and snacks. Upon entering the familiar flat, you remove your shoes and head to the source of the delicious smell and friendly voices. You find the guys setting out the snack and plates for the food Minho must’ve cooked, it looks too good for Jisung to be responsible.

After the meal, you all follow the cute book club ritual of pulling out the books you have been enjoying, and have a show and tell, even though you all already know what eachother are reading. Jisung is working through a sports drama you had recommended, and Minho explained the convoluted plot of the isekai he just got into. When it was your turn you lifted the brightly colored, second to last, volume of the series, you’ve absolutely flown through over the past week,

“I’m almost done with this romance. It’s kind of short, but I have really enjoyed it, and I feel like they took the story in a new and interesting direction,” you continue to give a brief synopsis of the story, leaving out any spoilers, in case they want to read it after you. They had a few questions about the plot and your feelings on it, but there was one blaring question they really wanted to know the answer to,

“What kind of romance?” Ji asked with an inquisitive expression, but it wasn’t pure, there was just a twinge of mischief in his eyes,

“It's an office romance,” you explain hesitantly, trying not to sound condescending as you just gave the summary.

“Yeah?” Minho chimes in trying to draw the answer they really want out of you.

“Well the main guys are salarymen, so its an adult office romance,” your statement sound more like a question as the last words pitch up and die off. You go on, thinking there’s no way they are this dense, and they aren’t, but you might be. At the mention of the main characters being guys, they share a knowing look, silently communicating something to each other, leaving you out of their telepathic conversion.

“Don’t make it weird! I read romance about all sorts of relationships,” they have matching stupid grins as they go back to munching on their food, letting you sit in your slight embarrassment at their implicative shared look. Minho gives that look that says, he’s trying to rile you up before askings nonchalantly, as if there are no intentions behind his words,

“Wasn’t the last series you read yaoi as well?”

“I mean yeah, but Jisung recommended it! It was a good story,” Minho just gives a grunt of acknowledgement to say ‘sure whatever’. Jisung giggles at Minho’s antics, but doesn’t comment. He looks at you with a goofy smile and slight sympathy for the teasing as he searches your face for any signs that Minho is getting to you, but he of course is not. You’re used to banter from Minho, and honestly Jisung too. Maybe being away from you for so long had softened him up a bit, or maybe it was his favorite beer you had brought a case of.

You thought it was the alcohol that buttered Jisung up, but instead the drinks just opened the razzing flood gates. The “bl lover” schtick continues through the evening. The poking fun is usually spread evenly among you three, and if one person becomes the butt of the joke for the night, it never continues to next week so as to not make anyone the punching bag. They love to tease, but are also very considerate about not crossing the line.

The hippocritic taunting continues no matter how many times you remind them of all the yuri, yaoi, and straight romances they themselves had brought to book club. Later, when you play a few rounds of video games, they add ‘fujoshi’ to the normal colorful language they use to curse your name the times you end up winning.

Sometimes you will pick a show to watch together, and although you guys decided to forgo that tonight in favor of catching up, you still pursue the streaming sites sharing insights to for next week, and they hover over every bl they come across and jokingly suggest it or ask you opinion as if you had already seen them all, or simply just stare in your direction with raised eyebrows.

Around the time you usually excuse yourself and head home, you are all sitting around the coffee table finishing off the beer and munching on the snacks. You begin gathering your empty cans and miscellaneous trash, and the conversation abruptly halts as Min sternly questions your actions.

“Just wanted to clean up a bit before heading out,” you explain, rising to your knees to reach for some of their garbage since you’re already headed to the kitchen.

“You should stay here,” he says matter of factly shoving another chip into his mouth and gesturing to the empty beers in your arms, taking the rational approach. Jisung, with his sweet round eyes staring up at you, chimes in with the emotional persuasion. They make a great team.

“The couch is really comfy, I promise.”

“I’ve only had four of these beers over the past few hours, plus I took the bus here anyway,” attempting to politely decline. It would be nice not having to make the commute home at this hour, but you’d hate to burden them.

“The last bus is in 20 minutes, you’d have to run to the nearest stop,” Minho makes a good point, but the cringey thought of them having to kick you out the next morning allows you to remain stubborn, but before you can refuse again, Han’s words make your heart squeeze,

“We don’t want you to leave,” now you’re definitely staying. You still take the trash to the kitchen and sort out the recycling before grabbing one more round of beers from their stash upon the guys’ request. You resume chatting over some background music, occasionally singing along. While you are far from drunk, with the alcohol in your system, it's getting harder and harder to ignore how devastatingly good looking your two friends are. It doesn’t help that their frequent whispering back and forth gives you ample uninterrupted time to gawk. They are of course closer to each other than they are with you, but it does seem like they’ve been conspiring quite a bit more than usual.

A chaste glance from Jisung breaks your trance. He turns back to Minho and it is your turn to look anywhere but at them, studying the rug, reading the nutrition facts on your drink, admiring the wall decor, looking away until you can get your blushing under control. Your efforts were all in vain, as when you finally look back towards the men across the table, you lock eyes with them as if they were waiting for your gaze to fall on them before doing the very last thing you ever would’ve expected. They stare back at you with a look commanding your eyes to remain locked on them as they turn to each other, already closer to one another than the last time you looked their way. Minho looks down to Han’s plush lips just as his tongue peaks out to moisten them putting on a sultry show for you. Minho gives a miniscule nod before they lean closer impossibly slow to drag out your suspense.

Are they really doing this? Talk about committed to the bit. The moment their lips meet, you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, causing the corners of their connected lips to quirk up. This is exactly what they wanted. The kiss wasn’t long, but to you watching, it felt like an eternity. You tried to look away, but you just couldn't, maybe due to your own curiosity or maybe as to not disobey their silent order to watch. When they pull away a thin string of saliva still connecting them, the slightly raised corners of their spread to full faced grins at the sight of your hands shooting up to cover your flushing face.

“I think she liked it,” Jisung remarks, running his hands through his hair, pushing back the stands that fell out of place during the kiss. His typical silly, awkward self melting away leaving behind his confident, charismatic side you had seen on a few occasions, emboldened by him and his best friends scheme going just as they had hoped.

“I knew it,” Minho adds, even though you haven’t built up the courage to look at them, he sounds closer to you than before.

“She’s a freak just like we thought,” he adds, definitely closer. Once you gather the strength to uncover your face, you find your friends have moved to join you on your side of the table, one on either side near enough to feel the heat radiating off their bodies. Though they haven’t explicitly stated it, their intentions are beyond clear, their eyes hungrily wandering over you,

“Do you want this?” Minho questioned in a low and calm tone, tamping down his eagerness until you give him an answer,

“If not, we can blame this on the liquor and just move past it, pretend nothing even happened,” Jisung assures you, unable to conceal his brimming desire as well as Minho, his eyes locked on your lips as he reaches for your hand for support. Staring down at your intertwined fingers, you contemplate for a moment,

“I do, but—” you start, Minho’s hand slipping into your field to rest on your mid thigh, softly moving his fingers side to side in reassurance,

“What about our friendship? What about otaku club?” your query makes them giggle, embuing you with the strength to look up to their eyes. They are quick to answer, as if they prepared for this exact question beforehand, Jisung talks first,

“Nothing has to change if we don’t want it to,” he speaks into your hair as he leans in to plant a sweet kiss to the side of your skull, when Minho picks up where he left off,

“We really like you y/n, and love spending time with you. Whether we go back to the way it was or forge something new, we aren’t going anywhere. I’m not sure of anything beyond that, and that we’ve wanted this for a long time,” his words make your heart lurch. God you’ve wanted them too, but didn’t want to jeopardize the amazing relationship you had built. You know them. You trust them. You can navigate this together. A small nod of your head has Minho smashing his lips to yours, passionately enough to suck the air from your lungs.

His kiss is powerful and demanding while still being highly cognisant of your response and adjusting his fire to keep you comfortable. Your mingling lips quickly find timing against each other, his tongue gently coaxing your lips to part for him to explore you. Tingles flooding your body when his warm tongue finally touches yours.

Jisung continues to kiss along the side of your head and down to your ear. He places feathery kisses over the cartilage, playfully nipping at your earlobe, careful to avoid your piercing. He lets out a happy sound when you squeeze the hand he’s still loyally gripping. He trails his kisses down to the soft spot below your ear before peppering your cheek, inching to your lips ready for his turn with your mouth. He gets close enough to catch the corner of your mouth in his before he’s able to bully Minho off you. You’re barely able to take a breath before Jisung’s lips are on yours. His movements are more timid but also more desperate, his need evident in his pace and little groans. This moment is better than you could've ever imagined. Despite Ji’s neediness, you are the one giving short licks at his full bottom lip asking for entrance, which he grants immediately.

Minho has moved to your neck, sucking and kissing, his arm snaking around your waist pulling you closer to them. Arching into them, your hands slide up to rest on their built chests, and you can feel them both smiling against your skin. Your chest is heaving from the lack of oxygen and immense lust thick in the air.

“We should get off the floor; I fear if we don’t do it now, you’ll be bent over the coffee table,” Jisung suggests causing Minho to let out a hushed laugh. Despite knowing full well that is where the night is headed, you can’t help your coyness at his words. It’s hard to believe this is actually happening. Both men rise and extend hands to help your ascent, which you are more than grateful as the heady desire coursing through your veins has you feeling unsteady. They guide you to the hallway, shooting glances between one another, having one of their classic silent talks, but this time it seems more like an argument as you all stand at the point of the walkway where you have to decide which path to take to each of their rooms, knowing you will probably end up sleeping in whichever bed you land in. They attempt to make you choose, but you refuse to pick sides, both rooms are lovely and each bed equally comfortable. You just want to be with them. Minho makes the decision for you all when he drags you towards his room, just tired of trying to get two indecisive people to make a simple choice.

Minho’s room is just as you remembered, simultaneously minimal but full of little pieces that make it full of character. There's no time to look at the new photos on the mirror or trinkets on the desk before you're playfully pushed towards the bed urging you to jump on, crawling to the center in order to make room for them, expecting them to follow you. But when you turn your back to the luxe pillows, you find yourself alone in the big bed with a cheek cramping grin on your face that melts when you see them removing their shirts and tossing them to the corner before approaching the end of the mattress staring down at you. Your mouth slightly agape as you take in their tan skin and sculpted builds,

“This is so fucked up,” you strangle out of your drying throat, shaking your head in disbelief, and they just chuckle and move to join you. You sit legs outstretched in front of you, and they’re each on their knees sitting back on their ankles. They get you high on love, taking turns passing your lips back and forth, as the other plays with your hair, or rubs your shoulders, or simply lets their hands roam your torso. It is impossible to tell how long this went on, the only moments of clarity being when a gentle hand would guide you off one with a brief second for you to fill your lungs before connecting to the other. However, the makeout session is punctuated by the tug you feel on the bottom of your shirt to which to instinctively raise your arms for its removal which immediately follows, causing Jisung to groan, annoyed he had to release your lips before he was ready.

Much to your dismay, neither pair of lips return to yours once you’ve been disrobed, the men just lean back to drink in the sight, causing your skin to burn impossibly hotter, your exposed chest flaring with redness that their eyes seemingly can’t be pulled from. If this is actually going to happen, you can’t be mortified the whole time,

“I swear, if you guys keep embarrassing me, we’ll have to stop. I can’t take it,” you half confess and half warn the pair, but it doesn’t shake their gazes.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Jisung offers his apology but continues defiling you with his eyes.

“We’re just as shocked as you, jagi, just let us savor it,” Minho defends their staring while lightly scolding you right back. You start to feel cold from the lack of touch, but luckily, Jisung cracks, diving into the crook of your neck licking down, across your collarbone, to the crevice between your breasts before kissing up the swells. Minho takes a different approach. He shifts his seating and leans down. He pulls the waist of your pants just enough to expose your hip bone that he gives a hard open mouthed kiss before working his way up to meet Han, worshiping your tummy and waist. They meet at your chest, quickly going to work with their hands and mouths. Jisung’s more needy palming is juxtaposed by Minho's firm, but cautious grasping, as they work in tandem to kiss every inch from the base of your neck to your shoulders to your sternum before finally landing on your sensitive buds with just the most gentle of kisses causing the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding to release in a sigh. While they both had distinct styles, Jisung using wilder, sloppy strokes and Minho more direct and teasing, they were both gentle and attentive, causing your abdomen to tense, barely raising your shoulders off the cushions you rest against, and soft moans to pour from your lips.

When you compose yourself enough to look down at them, you once again find them staring at you, up through their thick lashes, pure adoration in their faces. The sight causes your head to fall back with a groan, mostly due to the absolutely errotic vision and feeling, but also partly at being tired of them being so damn perfect. Maybe you really were the pervert they imagined; this has to be some sort of hyper realistic wet dream. You have all been too consumed by lust to talk but Minho speaks up for the first time in a bit with a snarky remark,

“We can’t stop embarrassing you, if everything we do makes you embarrassed,” he chides against your velvety skin. Causing you to giggle and place your hand on his cheek and try to push him away in retribution, but he clamps down not hard enough to hurt, but when you start to push his head, it tugs on your nipple, hissing as your hand to fall limp at your side for him to continue his torture.

At your submission, he lets out a sound of satisfaction and resumes his pilgrimage back the way he came, moving back down your body, hooking his fingers in your waistbands, and you rise for him to rid you of your final pieces of clothing. Jisung’s passionate tonguing winds back down to loud kisses and then to slightly shaking his head side to side, ghosting his softly smiling lips over the bud, pulling whimpers from your swollen lips. After a quick kiss, he shuffles around, to sit amongst the pillows, slotting you between his legs. Turning your head to the side, he gives a loving kiss to your temple before wrapping his arms around you, holding you to his front and lazily kissing up and down the column of your neck and shoulder.

You between Jisung’s legs and Min between yours, the beautiful man is covering your hips and thighs with wet kisses. You gaze down and see Minho’s bunny pink lips inches from where you need him, hot breath fanning over your slick core, using his fingers to spread you, just admiring. You lean your head back to rest on Jisung’s shoulder to brace yourself for the incoming rush pleasure. As you anticipated, Min’s first probing lick already has you arching into his mouth, gasping, pushing back into the warm chest of the man behind you. All of the foreplay combined with the months of yearning have you reaching an unprecedented level of sensitivity; it won’t take much, especially with Minho’s skilled movements. He gives an arrogant huff against your cunt at the way he already has you squirming on his tongue sending delicious vibrations that only make you squirm harder. He skims his index finger up your thigh as a sign of what he is about to do, not wanting to shock you when he slides the finder inside just to the first knuckle. He slowly plunges it in and out while sucking mercilessly on your clit, drawing noises from you that will haunt his dreams for the foreseeable future.

Jisung is checking in regularly to which you always respond positively, but still Minho pumps the brakes for a brief moment to allow you to calm down a little. He moves to kissing over your silken folds before giving small, soft licks to either side of your clit, giving the perfect amount of pressure and teasing. Your eyes are screwed shut, and the breath is caught in your chest as you feel your climax barreling towards you. Pulled from you blissful rapture by Ji’s voice,

“Breathe, baby. Look at Minho; doesn’t he look so pretty?” His words alone could have made you cum, but when you peel your eyes open and raise you head to see the cat like man giving you the most seductive eyes, his nose and lips glistening in your essence, white hot pleasure explodes through your body with a flood of curses out of your lips. You lie there, panting, weak in Jiusung’s arms as he lightly drags his fingers up and down your arms and across your chest soothing your involuntary tremors. The sound of the condom wrapper being torn open reminds you of where you are. You see Minho finishing rolling on the protection on his flushed cock, and he shoots back a faux guilty look, like you’d caught him in a naughty act, he giggles before asking one last time,

“You want this?” He asks with a cheeky smirk, half confirming consent and half teasing out your desperation. You respond, over feeling bashful about your desires,

“So bad, babe,” with a grin, he grabs your hips and twists them, encouraging you to flip over on to all fours over Jisung who is smiling massive and genuinely up at you before puckering, asking for more kisses. Minho is kneading your ass probably the roughest he’d been all night, as he lines himself with your entrance. He teases you with the tip, dipping it in once, twice, and then rubbing it through your slick lips, causing you to whimper against Jisung. When he goes to enter, he takes it painfully slowly, inching in while raking his fingers down your back in a sign of affection, loving the way it makes you shiver,

“Minho you feel so—so good,” you sputter out, complimenting the way Minho makes your brain go fuzzy. He just gives a cocky hum back in response, trying to act cool, but truthfully he doesn’t trust his voice enough to speak. Your lips reconnect to Jisung’s as you reach down into his sweats to give him some well deserved attention. He lets out a long groan against your lips, bucking up into your hand. Minho’s fighting his moans, but they escape out in strangled grunts. His slow thrusts gain in speed as he grips tightly to you hips, but he remains fucking impossibly deep, leaning forward to kiss your shoulders and upper back, pushing you back to your climax. You and Jisung are trading sounds of pleasure into eachothers open mouths, pumping him in time with the thrusts, he’s lost in the pleasure, until his realizes his orgasm approaching at lightning speed, shocking him, and he begs for you to stop the twisting of your wrist,

“Please don’t make me cum. I want to fuck you so bad, please,” he's thankful when your hand flies from his cock to land on beside his head to you steady your shaking body. When he is sure your orgasm is passed, Minho frantically frees himself, ripping off the condom, and coming around to face you, kneeling, pumping himself to keep himself on the edge. Jisung shimmies out from under you allowing Minho to scoot closer looking at you with pleading eyes. You open for him and he is instantly in your mouth. You take him as far as you can, causing the saliva to build in your mouth to slick him up. You find your rhythm, occasionally focusing on the tip and swirling your tongue around it before returning to taking all of him. He is no longer holding back cries, groaning and hissing at your moves. He runs his fingers through your hair, before dragging his fingers down your cheek to caress your chin, staring down at you,

“So fucking gorgeous, feels so good,” your pattern of sucking and licking is harshly interrupted when you hear spitting and feel warm liquid slide down your cunt threatening to drip off before Hans’s flattends tongue licks a broad stripe up you slit, forcing a muffled shout to revererate from you and you to lurch forward in surprise. You lightly gag around Minho, catching you both by surprise. The motion causes Minho to paint your throat with a string of whines,

“Ah, ah, aaah—” You swallow, loving his taste. He dramatically falls to the bed with a look of pure bliss plastered on his face. He moves to you to bestow a few passionate kisses laced with gratitude to your puffy lips before rolling off the bed. You are too distracted by the euphoria flowing through you to see where he goes as Jisung is devouring you, every lick, languid but methodical, wanting to gather every last drop of your essence. It's messy and hot, and when you look down, between your legs, you not only Ji’s angry cock oozing precum, but the growing pool under you of your juices and his spit drooling off your pussy. You plea to him. You don’t want this to end, but you are so dumb on pleasure and needy, you want him inside you,

“Hannie, I need you inside, please,” but he doesn’t budge. He might be wanting to draw yet another orgasm from you, but it's more likely that he is too pussydrunk and is just hypnotized by your addictive taste and filthy sounds,

“Jisung, please,” you try again, as Minho enters again, holding waters and towels. After placing the goodies on the nightstand, he crawls back into bed beside you, admiring the salacious scene before him and your sweet sullied expression before nudging Jisung,

“Give the girl what she wants, before I do,” Ji releases your pussy with a wet pop and once again, your hips are grabbed, guiding you to flip over, this time having to aid you a bit more as your muscles are starting to give out. Jisung gives your forehead a kiss before aligning himself with your entrance, but is interrupted by the flying condom smacks him in the chest and falls to land on your stomach. He swiftly tears it open and rolls it on, embarrassed that he almost forgot, caught up in the moment as Minho shames him under his breath. Minho holds your chin to face him as Jisung slips in, watching you intently since he didn't get to see your face when he had his way with you. He holds your gaze, and when you try to close your eyes, he gently taps your cheek reminding you to return his gaze. Jisung is savagely pounding into you. He has been waiting for so long, as much as he wanted to be sensual like Minho, right now, he just couldn't hold back,

“You’re perfect, baby. Shit, i’m not gonna last,” he mumbles, thrust already getting erratic. Minho frees you when Jisung falls forward onto his forearms to cage you in, attacking your mouth with desperate kisses, the kissing shifts to just moaning and whimpering into each other as you both reach your highs, Jisung mumbling your name on repeat, looking almost as wrecked as you, giving a few final powerful thrusts before collapsing down to your other side. The room is quiet besides the heavy breathing as you all bask in the lustful aura, Min breaks the silence,

“I can speak for Jisung on this, when are the vows?” he chuckles out, causing you all to burst into breathy laughter. After cleaning up and hydrating, you all lay in bed together rolling around snuggling and kissing in the post-sex lovey state. Minho goes to the bathroom to complete his night time routine leaving you in bed with Jisung where you two giggle and take turns tracing imaginary patterns on each other's skin. When Minho returns dewy faced and in neat pajamas, Jisung leaves your side to do the same. Minho holds you tight against his side, your head resting on his chest as he hums, lips pressed into your hair. Jisung offers up some of his boxers and Minho provides a tshirt for you to sleep in, and then you too go wash up and brush your teeth and hair, trying not to get existential or horny while you stare at yourself in the mirror recounting the evening’s events.

When you return, Minho is already under the covers on his side of the bed. He’s prepped the other side for you, pulling back the covers, giving you some extra pillows, and placing your water and a snack on the nightstand, but Ji is just sitting on the edge of the bed. When you approach he stands and opens his arms for a hug,

“I wanted to wait to say goodnight,” he offers. You can't help the look of disappointment,

“We all it fine on the bed earlier, so couldn’t you just stay? Is that okay?” you ask timidly, that embarrassment you’ve been able to shove down all flooding back since the emboldening lust has been quelled. Jisung doesn’t respond, simply pulls you into a tight embrace. You guess he wasn’t okay with that suggestion, but before you could tell him that it's fine to tell you no, he is tackling you onto the bed, and pulling the duvet up over all three of you causing Minho to give an exasperated sign.

Breakfast was sure to be interesting, but as you lay curled around Jisung, his thick hair tickling your cheek with Minho pressed to your back, a strong arm slung over your waist resting on Ji’s side, the one thing you know is that you could definitely get used to this. Figuring this out was tomorrow's problem.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨(๑ > ᴗ < ๑)୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨(๑ > ᴗ < ๑)୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

pic creds x x x

A.n- Thanks for reading. This is a bit of a longer one. The longest thing I've written in fact. I just hava lot of felling about this. I hope it's not too niche/reaches the right horny nerds

-mo :)

Masterlist

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galaxy-stardust · 6 days ago

Text

Simon Ghost Riley x you

"This song..."

It started with a passing comment.

You didn’t even remember saying it, really. One evening curled up on the couch, your legs over Simon’s lap, some random playlist humming in the background. You were tired, head tilted against the armrest, the kind of tired where you don’t filter what you say.

“This song always makes me feel safe.”

You hadn’t said it to him. Just… out loud. A passing murmur between thoughts. But he stilled under you. You didn’t notice. He didn’t react.

He just remembered.

You only realized something had changed two weeks later.

You were brushing your teeth after a long shift, hair up, skin exhausted, mind numb. The flat was quiet, Simon somewhere in the kitchen. But then - there it was.

That song. Playing softly from the living room. Not from your phone. Not from a speaker you recognized. The sound wasn’t crystal clear, either - muffled, warm, like it was playing from a tape deck, or an old handheld recorder.

You paused, toothbrush in hand.

The song ended. Another started. Another one you knew. A different one from that sleepy-night playlist you had months ago. Ones you always listened to when you were homesick. Ones you used when you couldn’t sleep.

You stepped out slowly.

Simon was standing near the bookshelf. Something small in his hand. He looked up like you’d caught him mid-crime.

He cleared his throat, stiff. “Made something.”

You stared. “What do you mean?”

He held it out like it might burn him. A tiny black MP3 player. Old-fashioned. Bulky. Ugly. Covered in matte black tape like it had been customized or repaired. A patch of dark thread tied near the headphones, like a marker - your favorite color.

“I don’t know shit about apps,” he mumbled. “Don’t trust streaming. So I… downloaded the ones I heard you mention. Or hum. Or play when you think I’m not listenin’. Put them all here.”

You blinked. “Why?”

His ears were red beneath the edge of the mask.

“So if I’m not here, and you need quiet... or need to feel safe… you’ve got it.”

You held it in your palm.

It was heavier than expected. Not just in weight - emotionally. You knew he must’ve sat at his computer for hours, hunting down files. Listening. Learning. Piecing this together with those massive hands that usually held knives or weapons.

“You made me a mixtape,” you whispered, throat thick.

He winced. “Don’t call it that.”

“It’s a mixtape.”

“I’m not twelve.”

You smiled, tears pricking. “Simon. It’s perfect.”

He looked away, like he didn’t know what to do with the warmth in your voice.

You stepped forward, pressed your hand to his chest. Felt the steady thud under his black shirt. His arm came around you, slowly, careful, protective in that way only he was. Mask brushing your hair.

"Still don’t know what I’m doing," he said quietly.

"You don't have to," you whispered back. "You already do everything right."

And later that night, when he thought you were asleep, he tucked the player into your hand under the blanket. Just in case you needed it again.

#cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #cod fandom #cod fanfic

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begginmonty · 2 years ago

Text

working with mike

(this doesn't follow the plot directly and mike works like more than just 3 shifts, also this is legit 2k words long i got so so so carried away im just so in love with mike, apologies!! its also not been proofread sorry <3)

before mike is hired alongside you, steve raglan had given you the job a week or so ago after you had lost your last job over a silly customer dispute (the customer is never right) and steve was your last hope at job, and bingo he had one. here you are 2 weeks later, waiting by your car outside the rundown pizzeria, waiting to train the new guy whose supposed to help you

a car pulls up and out comes a very pretty, but very tired/drained, looking guy, you introduce yourself with a small smile and he doesn’t return it, and is like “im mike”, you give him the benefit of the doubt that he hasn't smiled at you, new jobs are stressful.

the first shift goes fine, you tell him the basics and show him the training video tape, which alongside your commentary of making fun of some of it and nit-picking little things finally gets an amused smile from him. you can see him ease up a little. he doesn’t talk as much as you do but he seems to enjoy your ramblings.

you show him the showtime performance after he looks confused about ‘animatronics’ . watching his reaction of the animatronics rendition of talking in your sleep by the romantics is a little amusing to you but you were the same way when vanessa had shown you originally.

“its something isn’t it?” he doesn't reply, he just stood looking in disbelief.

when morning rolls around, you show him how to lock up and then give him his own key that steve had given you.

“wasn’t so bad was it?”

“it was..different”

the second shift alongside mike is different but a good different. he’s running a little late and walks in on your blasting an 80s hot pop hits tape over the old speakers, vacuuming the main dining area. a smile, that melts his heart a little, lights up your face as you see him walk in.

“im sorry i’m late the babysi-”

“hey, dont stress it. you still made it!”

he is not used to someone being so nice and friendly to him?? its foreign but he finally cracks you a small smile, watching you as you turn on the vacuum and continue listening to the music. (i need to hug him i stg)

he hasn't met anyone as nice as you in a long long time, it’s refreshing for him

and not in a creepy way !!!!!!!!!!! but he watches the cameras and watches as you just listen to the music as if the world isn’t there and continue to clean the area.

“need a hand?”

mike speaks up as you take a break leaning against a table, facing the main stage, the curtains open (as your next task is going to clean around the animatronics, it’s getting too dusty), music turned down quietly. he comes and leans against the table with you. you start small talk, saying something about the animatronics and you guys talk a little.

“so, you said something about a babysitter, do you have, like, a kid or something? sorry if im being too nosy, please tell me to shut up or something” mike cannot get over how nice you are

and then mike explains his living situation, and then the two of you get into a discussion about how families can suck and be shitty ect

and mike really likes how you don't pry or ask him lots of questions like others have done in the past, this man is really liking you and he’s only know you for two days

“this guy…must’ve been on something to make this place” and mike laughs a little !!! for the first time you got him to laugh !!

“yeah it’s something isn’t it..” both of you are sat against a table just staring at the animatronics in front of you

the two of you make small talk as you wipe down the dust covered tables but you can see how tired he is, he’s yawning a little bit.

“hey, you know, you can like sleep on the job by the way?” he looks up at you from the table, “sometimes i take a good couple hours nap in the office, no ones breaking into this place anytime soon”

he tries to protest and mentions towards the cleaning products and you brush him off, “go, you need it”

mike feels a strange warmth in his heart the hasn't felt, maybe ever? and he naps for a few hours whilst you continue to clean around. cleaning isn't in your job description but honestly you’re worried about the level of dust entering your lungs y'know

a loud thud and chair scraping noise comes from the office and you run to it and see mike on the floor, he looks confused and you help him to sit up. you ask if he’s okay but he seems out of it, “mike, whats wrong?”

sitting on the floor together, mike explains everything to you and opens up to you about a little brother he had, and tells you about his dream issues and sleep issues and you can see he’s upset and shaken by this dream. He shows you the sleeping pills and he explains the dream theory he’s been reading about.

“this is the part where somebody usually calls me crazy”

“you aren’t crazy, mike” mike notices how kind you eyes are and how warm your voice is, “i’ve seen crazy. you are far from it” you joke a little and he has the faintest smile tug at his lips.

finally home time woo !! as you lock up the gate, you watch as mike goes to his car, “mike wait!”

he turns around almost instantly at your voice as you run up to him, you pull something out from your hoodie a fazbear security badge and hand it to him, “you’re officially security now” he takes it from you and thanks you with that small smile.

3rd shift passes (you could’ve sworn foxy was standing in a different spot and bonnie’s hand placement looked completely different) and vanessa comes for her weekly visit and meets mike. when you aren’t with them, vanessa brings up the fact that you’re one of the kindest and nicest people she’s ever met and mike agrees.

next shift goes by and another and you guys have a long conversation about everything and you tell him more about yourself. hes never really been romantically involved with anyone but somebodysss got a crush (its him and well, you do too). and then you let him sleep and decide to tackle the old kitchen. (you could’ve sworn you heard someone walk down the hallway but you double check and no ones there)

mike dreams again and you swear you hear a groan and you walk to the office to see him, out of breath, breathing, clutching his arm and theres blood coming from it and he looks up at you trembling. “oh my god mike, what happened?”

you sit opposite him, patch him up and make him a hot drink, and he's explaining everything to you and you can tell he’s really getting bothered by these dreams. (you also think hes hurt himself from falling off the chair somehow..unbeknownst to you)

he’s tearing up a little and you just hold his hand in yours, and he's looking at your kind eyes and he doesn’t know how to react to being touched, he stops talking (mike is incredibly touch starved oh my god) and, carefully, you lean forward and hug him very gently.

he’s stiff at first but you can feel him relax into the hug and he wraps his non-injured arm around you and grips onto your back, “its okay mike. you’re okay” you can tell he really needs this hug and you can tell no one has really hugged him in a long time.

when the shift ends and you say goodbye for the day, your car just refuses to start. you cannot start it at all. you get out the car and look at it in a huff, but lucky for you mike hasnt driven a way yet

he gets out his car and you explain to him about your car, and he offers if you want a lift home or at least back to his house (his house is much closer than yours) and you can call someone about the car and you agree.

the drive is nice, you notice he has a great taste in music

meeting abby!! mike excuses himself for a shower whilst you're ringing the mechanics for your car, and he accidentally falls asleep on his bed after. when he wakes up (a good hour or so later, which you really don't mind) he walks into the living room to see you and abby sat on the floor colouring together with a cartoon on the tv, and you guys are really getting along and she’s wearing your security guard vest and badge. (her friends told her to trust you)

“uh abby, why dont you get ready for school?” mike speaks up, causing you both to look in his direction.

you can't fight the fact that he looks hot with joggers and shirt on, looking sleepy as hell aHHH

“okay” abby smiles and gives you back your stuff and runs off to her room to get ready for school.

he walks over to you and sits down on the couch, “im sorry for falling asleep-”

you sit next to him and place your hand on his arm and smile, “its fine, mike, really. your sister is lovely”

mike looks up from your hand and looks at your face. he looks sleepy and gorgeous and you look gorgeous to him and your eyes are so kind and theres a moment. some sort of magnetic force kinda pulls your faces closer together.

“im gonna be late!” says abby running into the room.

mike drops abby to school and you stay in his house, waiting for the mechanic to eventually call you back like he says he will. you feel a little awkward sitting on his couch watching tv but you have nothing better to do.

he comes back he offers you a shower and some of his clothes as he feels bad for you having to sit in work clothes.

the way his heart feels when he see’s you walk out to the bathroom and back to the couch next to him wearing one of his sweatshirts and a pair of his joggers as well hMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmm (too early for love?)

he smells good

you must both drop off to sleep, as a few hours later mike opens his eyes for a minute to the TV showing some drama show, and then he notices a heavy feeling on his chest. there you are, passed out, in his clothes, head on his chest peacefully asleep.

this is something he’s never felt before !1!!1

he blushes (thank god you’re asleep) and brushes a hair out of your face, staring down at your sleeping face (uh oh someones in love) before grabbing the worn blanket from behind him and throwing it over your exposed legs.

you stirr a little, your arm wrapping around his lower half and he's so flustered and sleepy and aHHHH

he wraps his arm around your shoulders gently and passes out again (PART 2??)

#mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt #fnaf x reader #five nights at freddy's #five nights at freddy's x reader #fnaf movie #fnaf movie x reader #fnaf movie imagine #mike schmidt imagine #five nights at freddy's imagine #william afton #movie ver

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puckinghischier · 6 months ago

Note

thinking about comforting nico during this weird playing period.. he comes home upset and frustrated with not only the team but with himself.

he’d be so mopey, just kind of dragging around, not really saying much. mumbled answers to your questions, saying he’s not hungry, no input on what to watch. he’d kind of just go lay in your shared bedroom, headphones-in-and-staring-at-the-wall, kind of mopey.

you’d pad softly into the room, knowing you had to bust him out of the slump somehow. he had every right to be frustrated and upset, but you hated seeing your bright boy so down and dark.

he’d have his head leaned back with his eyes closed, legs stretched out in front of him with his hands resting clasped on his stomach. you softly crawl onto the bed to sit cross-legged beside of him. you poke at his soft belly a few times to get his attention.

peeking one eye open, he raises his head and removes one ear bud.

“what’s up?” he flatly asks, so unlike himself.

you smile at his fuzzy hair, his lack of properly drying it before slipping a beanie over it to leave the rink evident.

“let’s go for a drive,” you propose.

he scrunches his nose up at your suggestion, not interested in the slightest at getting back out into the cold air and riding around the city he keeps disappointing.

“not really in the mood,” he shakes his head, going to put the bud back in his ear until you grab his arm.

“please?” you give him your pouty eyes, hoping they’ll work now just like they do every other time.

reluctantly he agrees, tossing a sweatshirt on and covering his messy hair with a hat.

you bundle up yourself, slipping on a pair of comfy shoes before meeting him at the door, his hand reaching for the keys resting on the hook on the wall.

your hand beats his, though, grabbing his car keys before he can.

“you’re passenger princess tonight, bud”

he rolls his eyes, holding open the door so your smug self can walk out, making your way down to the drafty parking garage and seating yourself in the drivers seat of his lush mercedes.

pulling out of the garage, you turn the radio on to play whatever he was listening to last, some swiss rap you couldn’t understand the words to playing softly through the speakers. nico isn’t talking, just looking at the various lights and buildings as you drive through the quiet city.

most of the traffic from the game is already dispersed, giving you an easy ride to the mystery destination you didn’t tell him about.

you half expect him to figure it out based on your pattern of turns and familiar surroundings, but he must really be in his head, because when you park his car on the street outside of your destination, he’s still staring, unaware that the car even stopped moving.

“hey, neeks, come back to me,” you softly touch his arm, startling him a bit.

he looks over at you, almost like he forgot where he was, relaxing once his brain registered there was no threat. just you, looking over at him sweetly, as you always do.

“sorry, got lost thinking,” he mumbles, a little embarrassed. you smile at his accent shining on “thinking”, the subtle slip of his lips when pronouncing the word one of your favorite things about him

“s’alright. we’re here, though, so we gotta get out of the car.”

his thick eyebrows furrow in confusion, turning to look out the window to figure out where “here” is.

once he sees the familiar logo on the building right next to your parking spot, he looks back over at you.

“are they even still open?” he asks you, his tone lifting in a hopeful tone you haven’t heard for days.

you shake your head yes, trying not to grin like an idiot as his small show of excitement. “called them before we left, asked if they’d stay open a little bit longer for a special customer.”

the small, swiss owned bakery was somewhere you and nico had found on one of his few days off, simply setting out to explore the city with no plan in mind. on your lengthy walk, the sky had unexpectedly opened up, drenching both of you to your core. you ran into the closest storefront you could find, needing cover from the downpour.

the second your soaked figures trampled into the store, you were met with some of the most delicious smells you’d ever encountered in your life. the small space was empty, other than a plump older woman cleaning a display case of some of the most delicious looking pastries you’d ever seen.

“oh je!” the woman exclaimed when she saw the state of the two of you.

you thought the expression has sounded familiar, but couldn’t place it before she started speaking again.

“oh you poor kids, please, come sit, let me get you something to dry yourself,” the woman insisted, pulling out a couple of chairs at a small table, rushing off to find something dry to give you.

you heard her voice conversing with someone, a language you definitely had heard before, while you took your seat in the wooden chair.

she came back out to the two of you with warm dish towels, allowing you to at least rid your face of the excess water. nico was eyeing her suspiciously as she was bumbling about her husband making both of you a hot tea and something warm to snack on with it.

when he started speaking swiss german to her, you had no clue what was being said, but you loved the way he melted into being able to use his native language with someone who understood him and spoke it back. a tall, thin old man came out of seemingly nowhere in the middle of their conversation, two mugs of tea in hand.

the older man joined right in their conversation, his kind face just as excited as nico seemed to be.

the two of you ended up sitting in the small bakery for longer than anticipated, the rain long gone before you made your exit. the conversation had eventually switched back to english, the woman explaining how they had moved to the states many years ago, their dream of owning a bakery in the city finally coming to fruition a couple of years ago.

nico was amazed at the selection of swiss desserts they had, and praised their recipes as being reminiscent of his mothers. the couple insisted you take a whole hoard of stuff home, wanting nico to have a piece of home to enjoy.

the hidden gem ended up being a frequent weekend destination for you and nico, making a visit at least once a week when he’s home. the shop was so small and off the beaten path that nico never had to worry about someone spotting him there, going and sitting and conversing with his new friends for hours as you sat and watched their animated conversations.

you even found yourself frequenting the bakery on your own when nico was gone for any length of time, needing your own pastry fix. always being welcomed with open arms, you never left without a special pastry just for nico to have when he returned home.

which is what lead you here tonight, wanting to bring him even the smallest bit of comfort you could.

“schätz, did you really?” he uses the term of endearment you loved the most, having heard the shop owner utter it to his wife several times during your visits. “you shouldn’t have, they need their rest.”

you roll your eyes at his insistence on never wanting someone go to any extra lengths for him. he never wants anyone to be inconvenienced for his sake, even during times like these when he deserves to be made to feel special.

“hush, they insisted on it. you know how they are, too stubborn for their own good,” you wave off his concern, the concerned tone of the woman fresh in your mind when you called and explained the situation. “they even told me they were making something extra special for you tonight, so i hope you’re hungry after all that skating.”

nico doesn’t react to your words, staring at you so intently you were beginning to squirm at the gaze.

sensing your shift in body language, nico breaks the loud silence of the car.

“i love you, you know that?”

you giggled at his words, because of course you know that. he tells you all the time. every day. as often as he can.

“yes, neeks, i know that. and i love you too.”

he shakes his head slightly.

“no, i mean it. i love you so much. you…you always know what to do when i’m being a pouty mess. you never fail to make me feel better by just being you, but when you do things like this, even though i’ve been closed off and pouty this whole week because of the team and how our game is right now, even when i don’t deserve it, you still always manage to know exactly what i need.”

he grabs your hand in the middle of his small speech, needing to touch you so you can feel his words and his sentiments.

“well, you do deserve this. you always do. especially with how things have been going for you lately, because you’re giving it your all, always. and i’m proud of you. win or lose, i’m so proud of you, nico.”

you squeeze his hand in yours, emphasizing your point.

nico can’t stand how far away you are from him all of a sudden, reaching over and pulling your face across the console to meet his, consuming himself in you. the feeling of your lips on his melts away any thought in his head about his job and is filled with only you. the taste of your fruity chapstick, the softness of your face in his hands, the smell of your perfume still left over from earlier.

he tries to tease your lips open with a swipe of his tongue, but you give a small laugh as you pull yourself back.

“alright now, can’t be doing all that, now. you’ve got a hot, home cooked swiss meal waiting on you i promised some very eager people you’d be by to try ten minutes ago. don’t want them to think we flaked, do you?”

“oh god, i hope it’s traditional fondue,” he groans at the idea. “i’m sorry, baby, but this american version is shit, and i can’t pretend to like it anymore,” he completely switches up on you, taken over by the thought of food, completely unaware you’d already expressed to the owners how it was his favorite, a hot pot of the cheesy dish awaiting him behind the door he’s speeding towards.

#so this was way longer than i meant for it to be #but once i started i couldn’t stop #i hope it’s what you wanted !!#hockey #nhl #new jersey devils #nico hischier #nico hischier blurb #nico hischier fanfic #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier one shot #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier x y/n #nico hischier x you #hockey blurb #hockey fic #nhl fic #nhl fanfic #nh13

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gingersxng · 7 months ago

Text

Payment

Pairing: f!reader x San x Mingi

Genre: smut 18+

Summary: You follow your dad to get his car fixed. Although getting a car fixed is quite expensive, your dad and the mechanics have another idea how to pay for the service.

Notes: sub!reader, dom!sangi, San & Mingi are mechanics, readers dad kinda sells her?!, pervs, flirting, dirty talk, stripping, nipple play, oral (f&m receiving), fingering, lots of cum, creampie, bigdick!Mingi, unprotected sex (DONT), kissing, one spank, taking a pic, teasing, threesome, double penetration, reader gets called (baby, little girl & chippie), many rounds, swallowing. Forgot something, maybe.

Words: 2k

Today was a quite boring day. You had to follow your dad to the car service with his car to get it checked. He thought, since you always spent time indoors doing nothing, you could as well keep him company for a change.

The car ride to the service was quiet. None of you said a word, only some background music was heard through the speakers.

As you approached the car service which by the way, were nothing like you’d expected it to be. It was a large, dusty building with a faded sign that you almost couldn’t read. It gave you the chills.

Your eyes were immediately drawn to the two mechanics standing by the entrance. One was tall and kinda big. His eyes, hidden beneath a pair of shades, held an intense gaze that made you slightly nervous. Alongside him stood another mechanic with a mischievous smile and a lean, muscular physique. Both of them were covered in grease and sweat, their work clothes hugging their bodies in all the right places.

As you and your dad got out of the car and headed towards the guys you felt a wave of anxiety rushing over you.

"Dad, why are we here?" you asked, your voice laced with hint of nervousness. You could feel a strange vibe hanging in the air of this place.

Your dad gave you a wink and a mysterious smile. "Just you wait and see, sweetheart. These guys will take good care of us."

Great..

As you entered the garage, the sound of rock music blaring from an old radio filled the air, mingling with the metallic clanks and the hum of machinery. The place was a chaotic mess, with tools scattered everywhere and car parts piled high.

Mingi and San greeted you both with nods, their eyes tho, seemed to never leave your figure. You felt slightly exposed under their intense scrutiny, your cheeks flushed, trying to avoid their stares.

"So, what seems to be the problem with your car, sir?" Mingi asked, his deep voice rumbled through the garage walls. Kinda hot..

Your dad explained the issue, a minor engine problem that needed attention. As he spoke, you could feel Mingi's eyes roaming over your body, taking in every curve and the way your tight tank top hugged your small frame. It was kinda exciting but so embarrassing at the same time. The thoughts in your head ran wild, trying to figure out what went through their minds. Even though you knew…

San held a wrench in his hand, his muscular arms flexed with every move while he fiddled with the silver tool. He cleaned the grease off it with a cloth and put it back on the desk. He then turned around and walked towards you. While your dad was busy talking to Mingi he sneaked up to you and leaned in to your ear.

"You know, we could give you a special deal, a little discount for such a pretty customer," he whispered, his breath tickled your ear. Your heart raced as you felt his warm body press against yours. San backed off and placed himself on the car's hood looking at you with a raised eyebrow, casually waiting for you to answer, loving the way he made you tremble in front of him.

Mingi cleared his throat, a low rumbling sound that demanded attention. "Yeah, we can definitely work something out. Why don't you two have a seat in the waiting area while we take a look at your car?" He gestured towards a small, dingy office, its walls covered in pin-up posters and car magazines.

Your father seemed to understand the unspoken offer the guys were talking about, and with a sly grin, he guided you towards the office. "Y/n, can you wait here while the boys do their thing. I’ll be back in a jiffy." He patted your head and walked out of there, giving both the boys a steady handshake, as a confirmation on their offer. As soon as Mingi and San saw your dad get out of sight, they exchanged looks and put away their stuff. You were alone with them now, the atmosphere in the office changed quickly. San closed the door behind him, their eyes were burning with raw desire.

"You know, we don't usually do this,"Mingi said, he placed his shades on his head making his bicep flex. "But for a sweet thing like you, your father we're willing to make an exception."

A sudden feeling spread along your spine hearing the last sentence, almost like it was coated with ice.

San moved closer, his eyes meeting yours. "Yeah, we can fix your dad's car, but we want something in return. Something special."

Your heart pounded in your chest, those two wanted to have sex with you, and they were willing to barter their services for your body.

You took a deep breath.

"What... what do you want me to do?" You asked, your voice was barely above a whisper.

San's fingers trailed along the strap on your top. "We want to show you a good time, baby. We want to make sure your dad leave here satisfied with his car."

Mingi's hands joined in, sliding under your tank top and cupped your breasts. His thumbs teased your nipples, causing them to harden instantly. "You'll let us fuck you and we’ll fix your dad’s car. Fair trade, right?" Mingi whispered, you felt how he smirked against your ear.

San helped you up and guided you towards a worn-out couch, its leather surface was cool against your bare skin. With a shy look, you looked up at them.

“Strip” San demanded.

The mechanics' hungry gazes devoured you while you stripped of your clothes, their rough hands were exploring your body within seconds.

Mingi's lips found your neck, his kisses leaving a trail of fire down your collarbone. San's hands worked their way down your thighs, pushing the legs apart as he knelt between them. You felt his breath against your core, his fingers tracing the outline of your wetness through the panties.

"You're so fucking wet, baby" San growled. "Let us take care of that for you."

With a swift motion, he tore your panties aside, exposing your glistening pussy to their eager eyes. A gasp left your mouth as you felt his warm breath on your sensitive flesh, his tongue traced your folds, tasting your sweetness. Mingi's hands continued to explore your breasts, pinching and tugging at your nipples, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

"Oh god, yes," you moaned, you couldn’t help but to throw your head back as San's skilled tongue flicked and teased your clit. His fingers joined the dance, sliding inside you, filling you with a delicious fullness. Mingi's mouth claimed your in a passionate kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of San's fingers inside you.

The sensations were overwhelming, and you could feel your orgasm building. San's tongue worked relentlessly, his fingers curled and thrusted in perfect harmony.

"Cum for us, baby," Mingi urged, his voice rumbled.

Your release hit like a tidal wave, your body convulsed as you cried out in pleasure. San's mouth and fingers continued their assault, milking every last drop from your trembling body.

As your orgasm subsided, Mingi pulled away, his eyes screamed sex.

"Bet you want to fuck some cocks now right? Wanna get fucked real good?."

Mingi’s cock strained against his work pants, just waiting to be buried inside your little pussy. Your eyes wandered down to meet his clothed bulge, the boy was huge.

It made you a little scared.

Mingi wasted no time, positioning you on all fours. You felt so exposed and vulnerable, with your ass raised high, your pussy still throbbing from your recent climax.

Mingi's greasy hands gripped your hips, he caressed your ass gently before landing a smack on it. It made you flinch, but in a good way.

Mingi let his cock spring free and you could hear a deep chuckle behind you. First he placed his giant dick on your ass to get a pic. He then teased your hole with the tip making you whine softly. In one swift motion with a slow, deliberate thrust, he filled you, stretching you to accommodate his size. Both of you left a trail of moans and curses.

"Oh, fuck- stay still, don’t move your hips."

San, unable to wait any longer, positioned himself infront of you, his thick cock was inches from your swollen lips. He pushed his thumb in your mouth tugging at your bottom teeth, a dirty smile crept up along his face. "Be a good little girl and open your mouth for me, baby.”

You opened up and San let out a long raspy moan as his dick entered your warm, wet mouth.

Mingi's pace quickened, his grunts filling the air as he pounded into your tight pussy. You could feel his balls slapping against your clit with each thrust, sending ripples of pleasure through your body. San's hands roamed over your back, his fingers sneaked down to tease your nipples, adding to the overwhelming sensations.

"Oh fuck, yes." Mingi groaned, his voice was turning hoarse. "This pussy is gonna make me cum so hard."

Your sore body trembled as you felt Mingi's cock twitch inside of you, his hot seed filled you up. He slowly pulled out, his thick cum poured down into the leather couch. Mingi placed a sloppy kiss on your ass before he tried to regain his composure.

You by the way, was totally occupied somewhere else. San’s cock plunged down your throat and you had a difficult time not to gag on it. Tears rolled down your blushed cheeks, while long strings of saliva dangled from the corners of your mouth.

San pushed you against his pubic bone, holding you there for a second while releasing down your throat. A panicked breath left you gasping for air when San pulled his cock out. You stuck your tongue out to show them how well you swallowed every last drop of San’s cum.

Mingi and San stood over you with their chests heaving and their cocks still hard and ready for more.

"Looks like our cocks wants more pussy." San teased.

"We've got a few more minutes before your dad comes back. It would be a shame for your own dad to see his little girl turn out to be such a chippie right?."

Mingi teased with a grin.

The entrance door opened and in stepped your dad. He walked up to San who were busy working on the finishing touches on the underside of the car. He got up to greet your father who had a pleased look on his face.

“Is the car done?”

San swept away a small droplet of sweat from his forehead and gave him the keys.

“It’s like new sir, although it required some hard work.” San smiled, letting out a small laugh.

Meanwhile you and Mingi walked out of the office to join the others. You adjusted your skirt and met your dad with a warm smile. Mingi brushed a hand through his hair to get rid of the mess you’d made while holding onto him as he fucked your brains out on their office desk 2 minutes ago.

“There you are honey, ready to go home?” Your dad placed a hand on your shoulder.

You gave him a tired nod.

“By the way, what about the payment boys?”

“No worries about that sir… our pleasure.” Mingi smiled, adjusting his pants. He raised a brow at you before he put on his shades again. Your dad was more than satisfied and so were you, with a smile on your face and butterflies in your stomach you got into the car.

“Thanks boys for your incredible job… also for taking good care of my daughter.” He said with a wink, knowing exactly what they’d been doing while giving both San and Mingi a hard pat on the back.

“Anytime.”

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez smut #kpop smut #mingi #mingi x reader #mingi smut #song mingi #choi san smut #san x reader #san smut #san #choi san

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sevikaswinkinghole · 18 days ago

Text

The Music in our Hearts Pt. 1 ˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞.

Your favorite DJ was performing a set for an underground event in your city, but you want more than barricade views. You want her.

SFW

CW: RaveDJ!Sevika, Fangirl!Reader, hard techno music, yearning and mutual pining, Sevika and reader are 4 years apart in age, mentions of reader smoking weed

Word count: 2.7k

၊၊||၊⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆၊၊||၊

Music poured out of the old brick concert hall as sweaty bodies surrounded you in the thick crowd of people. The second to last DJ of the night was finishing their set as people cheered and screamed for the random artist you couldn’t even name. The rave event for the night featured a lot of great DJ sets, but you didn’t know any of the first artists. So you spent the beginning of the evening tapping your foot and swaying to the music, not impressed by the selection compared to the rest of the crowd. You were waiting for the main event of the night.

Your favorite DJ, The Enforcer, was performing as the closer for the event and it was mere moments before they came on stage. You saw them perform at your first college party as a freshman and you became obsessed with their music ever since. They gained a huge following on social media after graduating, so in true fangirl fashion you followed their sets and attended almost every single one. You were there from the smallest backyard, to their largest music festival performance with over thousands of attendees. You burned cds of their mixes when they weren’t available to stream, bought every exclusive merch item they dropped, and knew their signature producer tag by the first beat. You always had fangirl tendencies, but your love for The Enforcer ran deeper than any love you had experienced so far.

You loved their music so much, you willingly spent years following around a faceless artist nobody even knew the first name of.

No fan knew the true identity of The Enforcer, they kept their identity so private, their die hard subreddit fans couldn’t even guess their gender. Everyday you grew more and more desperate to know anything more about them, so now, you stood at the barricade of some concert hall you didn’t even know existed just to see the masked artist you adored.

As the DJ finished his set, the crowd pushed closer to the barricade and conversed excitedly for The Enforcer. Hundreds of adoring fans cheered when the multi-colored neon strobe lights soon shined bright purple, you grinned as smoke machines pumped thick puffs of smoke through the crowd. People screamed and cheered so loudly, you started getting nerves that sent tingles up your spine, you thought smoking before the show would help but your state of mind just made the purple haze more alluring.

Booming bass pumped through the speakers as a tall masked figure slowly walked out onto the stage. They stood tall and strong in the smoke as the purple light illuminated their dark shadowy figure, their face adorned in a high tech custom respirator with neon wires that glowed a bright purple and pumped a shimmery liquid through the mask. They wore a black cape with a large hood that covered their head and most of their body, leaving their arms exposed as well as their captivating grey eyes. Their mechanical arm matched the glowing purple tech of the mask, you watched intensely as they used the arm to reach up and to hold the mech hand in the air.

With a simple lift of their hand, they managed to command the entire room of excited rave goers into silence with one motion. The room was silent as the intro stopped, the glow of the strobes illuminating The Enforcer in heavenly purple light before their producer tag rang through the hall. The booming gravely voice blasted through the speakers before the beat dropped, causing everybody in the crowd to go wild for the mix. The hard techno style of music sent chills through your body as the people around you jumped and danced along to the beat.

You watched in pure adoration, your knuckles turning white from your death grip on the barricade. Everything about the masked DJ enthralled you. Their commanding presence, the control they had over the mixes and transitions in the music, even the view of their skilled hands working the deck captivated you in ways no other artist ever could. Their unique DJ style and devoted fan base created a community you felt truly at home in, and you were having the time of your life behind the barricade.

But you wanted more.

Your love for the masked artist ran so deep it was well past parasocial. You wanted to know their favorite color, how they liked their coffee in the morning after a night of partying and mistakes, you wanted..no, needed to experience every part of The Enforcer.

You needed to know what made them the person that gave you such a warm feeling in your heart. You needed to know how those strong hands felt on your skin. Feeling up your sides, gripping the plush of your thighs, you just knew their slender fingers would encase you in pure ecstasy.

Your mind raced at the thought of everything The Enforcer could be behind the mask, and you were determined to find out.

You could feel your heartbeat a mile per minute, the heavy rain outside the concert venue drenching you as you stood outside. The set wasn’t over, far from it. You raced out the show before the crowds of people would be leaving, determined to act out your shitty plan the weed in your system was telling you would be fool-proof. You had one chance to get the half-assed plan right, and if you fucked it up you’d regret it. But if you didn’t try at all, you’d regret it even more.

You slipped down the alley next to the venue and peaked behind the brick building where The Enforcer’s truck was. Two black minivans were parked behind and in front of a much larger blacked out sprinter camper. Their popularity had gone up so much, they were able to upgrade to a real tour bus and security. You felt a pang of pride for their accomplishments.

Two security guards stood outside the large van, their all black outfits and rain coats intimidating. You watched quietly in the rain as another guard came out of the back door and ushered them to come grab equipment. The Enforcer’s set was almost over and they would have to strike down quickly since they were the last performance of the night. The guards scanned the area before leaving, the door to the camper left exposed as they ushered into the building.

Your heart dropped to your ass, using the opportunity to haul it over to the door. You pull your hoodie up over your head and curse at the heavy rain as you grip the handle with hesitance.

“If it’s not open, it’s not meant to be..” You muttered before pulling at the handle with your shaky hand.

Click

As soon as it opened you gasped and booked it inside, shutting the door behind you and leaning against it breathlessly. You looked around the tour bus like you just stepped inside the MOMA.

The van wasn’t large but it was cozy. The entrance led straight to the driver side of the van before leading into the steps up to the rest area on the left. Black leather seats and tables lined either side of the caravan, accompanied by storage above them for bags and equipment. You stepped through the van nervously, taking in the view of the lived in tour bus with hesitance. Scattered fast food wrappers and crumpled garbage cluttered the small space, yet the whole bus smelled like a white musk and amber scent you hoped would stay in your nose forever.

You knew it was wrong to sneak onto your favorite artists tour bus, it was wrong to walk through like you were a groupie worthy of The Enforcer’s time, and it was especially wrong to open the back door of the camper into the small bedroom. Your brain was screaming and gnawing at you to turn around, save yourself the embarrassment from breaking into such a sacred place, but you ignored every instinct and opened the door anyway.

The room was cramped and littered with clothes, empty energy drink cans, and slews of tech equipment. An unmade bed was tucked away in the corner while a small table near it was covered in mechanical tools and half drank energy drink cans. The small messy space was nothing like the version of The Enforcer you created in your head. They seemed a lot more…lost than you suspected. Messiness and disarray exposing their state of mind more than the hidden secrets laced into their music. The dirty room grounded you in the moment, and in the deep shit you’d gotten yourself into, the anxious feeling in your stomach urging you to leave and never look back.

You turned to run out the room and beg whatever god was listening for forgiveness, when you noticed a tall cloaked woman was watching you with wide eyes. Her piercing grey eyes watching your movements with such precision you thought she would explode you with her mind.

“O-Oh shit i’m sorry!” You jumped and squeaked out, suddenly flushed with embarrassment as you tried to step back from the towering figure who stood 5 feet from you.

“I didn’t realize someone was coming, I-I was looking for the bathroom and-“ You lied through your teeth, not recognizing the person at first glance so you said whatever you could to make it seem like you weren’t a crazed fangirl intruder (even though that’s exactly what you were…..)

“It’s…you.” The woman spoke breathlessly, her face also flushing, yet darker than you expected. You looked confused, you didn’t immediately recognize the arm or black cloak, but those eyes. You’d know those eyes in a crowded room without your glasses on, it was them. Or better yet…her. The Enforcer, in all of her 6’1 glory.

“M-Me?” you asked softly, worry and anxiety beginning to creep up your body as you tried to memorize every detail of her face before she kicked you to the curb.

The bold short cut of her hair, casual after show attire underneath her signature black cloak, and high tech mechanical arm whirring softly was so much to take in up close. A million emotions could be seen on her face, her gorgeous sculpted face that you could not believe she’d ever cover with a mask. Everything about her from the dark blush on her cheeks that matched the supple brownish red of her lips, to the gap between her teeth you could barely see between her gaped lips, you were practically eye fucking her with no shame. Completely forgetting the fact you were breaking and entering…

She took a step closer to you, snapping you out of your dazed state making you realize the severity of the situation.

“I’m sorry!” you blurted out, anxiously pushing past her and running out of the van into the freezing rain.

You ran and ran until you couldn’t run anymore, how could you betray the trust of your favorite artist? You felt so ashamed, your legs ran you all the way home until you were breathless and sobbing. How could you ever face her again?

Sevika paced angrily around the camper, anxious hands running through her short hair and gripping the jet black strands with fervent. She couldn’t believe you were right in front of her, snooping through her things and acting as if you were in some sort of trouble for being there. She knew your face, you were her biggest fan and number one admirer from day 1, she noticed you at every show you attended. From the moment she saw you at her small college shows, her heart yearned for the moment she could talk to you. She wanted to learn your name like lyrics to a song, poke and prod your brain to find out why such a beautiful soul liked her stupid bedroom metal techno fusion music enough to come to every single one of her shows. No matter how much she gained popularity on social media and in crowd size, she always looked for your sweet face among the crowd. It gave her the confidence to perform and be the best she could be, to impress you.

You had no clue of Sevika’s true feelings and since you left so fast, she couldn’t wrap her head around what to say until it was too late.

She paced the van until her manager, Mel walked into the camper. Her coily hair was slicked back into a low bun and she wore a crisp white blazer and perfectly pressed jeans flared over white heels. She was so pristine and heavenly, it was a wonder she took the time to manage Sevika who was so bold and brash. They met in college as music majors, and since then Mel managed so many artists across so many genres, yet Sevika remained her only DJ and closest confidant.

“Who was that I saw leaving?” Mel asked, not even looking up from her phone as she sat on the nearest seat to continue sending emails. She worked so hard, tirelessly everyday to manage her clients and keep them happy, but she could sense Sevika was currently far from it.

“I…I think it was that fan I told you about” Sevika let out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. She looked around the van at all the disarray you had seen, and it filled her with shame no industry hater could replicate.

“What?” Mel finally looked up from her phone and looked around in a slight panic “She was…in here!?” She exclaimed. Mel was used to crazed fans, but none had the audacity to run onto her clients tour buses. You were truly a special case.

Sevika sighed and started picking up her mess around the van, not listening to Mel’s rant about security and ‘keeping her and the tour bus safe’. She didn’t care about any of that, your perception of her was hanging in the balance and something had to be done about it. She continued cleaning and throwing trash away while Mel followed in the small space with a click of her heels.

“Where were the guards?? I have to beef up security for you and-”

“Mel, none of that matters to me.” Sevika cut her off, stopping in her tracks and spinning so Mel crashed right into her chest. The curly haired girl didn't even stumble as she gawked at the larger artist, looking up at her while crossing her arms.

“None of it matters? Sevika this is your safety we’re talking about! You don’t even know that girl-”

“You know I can take care of myself, safety isn’t the issue. Plus, she’s been to all of my sets. I know her well enough” Sevika grumbled, shrugging as she put the collected trash in the bag to be taken out. Mel sighed and shook her head, she knew her star DJ was in over her head about a fan she never even had the confidence to bring on stage after all these years. But in all of Sevika’s stubbornness, Mel couldn’t help but feel for the lovesick fool.

Sevika plopped on the van seat and buried her head in her hands. Even though the show went great, and the crowd loved the new mixes she debuted, she couldn’t get her mind off you. How you looked even prettier up close instead of behind a stupid barricade..how she could have had you with a few simple words..how much she regretted years of not interacting with the people that enjoyed her craft the most, all because of her fears.

“I need to find her..” Sevika mumbled from shaky hands before placing them down to look up at Mel who had sat across from her at the table.

“Sevika…as your manager it’s my job to keep you satisfied. But as your friend, I want to make you happy,” She spoke softly, placing her gold ring clad manicured hand over Sevika’s “So if you really want to find this girl, I’ll help you” She smiled through pearly white teeth, unsure about the situation but trying to put on a brave face for her friend.

"Really?" Sevika grinned and squeezed her hand gently “Thanks Mel..”

“Anytime Enforcer” She teased and laughed, pulling her phone back out to do some digging on the mystery fan.

Sevika sighed and laid back against the seat, watching as her small crew of security and the tour bus driver all piled onto the van to get ready to leave the venue. She peered out the window to see a couple fans exit from the building to see the van, their yelling and pining for Sevika’s attention making her stomach turn. She wanted that affection and adoration from one person, and this time she wasn't letting you go.

၊၊||၊⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆၊၊||၊

RAAAAHHHH NEW FIC ALERT NEW FIC ALERT!!!

Sooo I was gonna start the 2nd part of 'A Weekend in Paradise' but got distracted thinking about DJ!sevika.....sorry 😅

I think her style would be hardcore and a little weird, so the best comparison would be DJ Jovynn if you want an example of hard techno!

As always, thank you for reading! I love seeing all the notes and reblogs, and your comments always make me smile 🥹

Please let me know how you like it! I promise smut will come soon, and so will ya'll after i'm done writing the next part >w<

Love,

Squuoosh ❤︎₊ ⊹

Taglist: @lonerslug , @mewl3tte , @sapphicstrawcore

#sevika #sevika arcane #sevika my love #sevika x reader #DJ!Sevika #arcane #*´¯`*fics #squuooshworks

184 notes · View notes

missmaymay13 · 4 months ago

Text

whiskers - l.hughes x fem!oc

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l.hughes x fem!oc | 10k

summary: whiskers was a quiet oasis for those who needed it. a place where everything else in the world just disappeared for a moment and you were able to just. breathe. what happens when a certain new jersey devil stumbles upon this place and can't leave?

masterlist

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The scent of freshly brewed espresso clung to Mallory White’s sweaters like a signature. No matter how many times she washed them, the faint aroma of dark roast and steamed milk lingered in the fibers, a soft, constant reminder of where she spent most of her waking hours. Whiskers—her aunt’s pride and joy—was tucked into a quiet street corner just off Ferry Street in Newark. It was the kind of place you only found if you were looking for it, or if you needed it in a way you couldn’t explain. A cutesy, whimsical blend of mismatched armchairs, crowded bookshelves, twinkle lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling, and window seats that always seemed to catch the best kind of sunlight. Cats draped themselves lazily over the tops of couches, curled in the corners of shelves, or pawed at the steam curling up from customer mugs. Every one of them was adoptable. Some stayed a day, some stayed months, but all of them came to know Mallory’s gentle voice and steady hands.

She’d been working there part-time for years, ever since her aunt offered her the job to help cover books and groceries while she finished school. Full-time student, part-time barista, amateur therapist to half the neighborhood regulars—Mallory made it work. She always had. Psychology fascinated her, not just the clinical definitions or brain chemistry, but the little things. The way people picked at napkins when they were nervous, how eyes darted when a lie teetered on someone’s tongue, the unconscious rituals of grief, of joy, of healing. People told her everything. She had a face for it—open, calm, curious without being invasive. The customers who wandered in during slow mornings often left with more than caffeine. Confessions, vent sessions, old wounds cracked open over chai lattes. Mallory listened the way the cats did—quietly, patiently, without judgment.

Her life was quiet, a patchwork of routines and late-night study sessions, paper deadlines, and morning coffee grinds. She lived in a tiny walk-up two blocks from Whiskers, a third-floor studio with crooked hardwood floors and plants crowding every windowsill. Her rescue tabby, Clementine, ruled the place like a queen, sprawled across textbooks or wedged herself into the sink just to make a point. Mallory found comfort in the familiar—her regulars, the way the sunlight always hit the front window just right around 4 PM, the hum of soft jazz that played through the speakers when the place began to wind down for the night. She had her favorite mugs, her favorite playlists, her favorite pens for annotating psychology textbooks. Everything in her world had a place, a rhythm. Even the chaos felt choreographed.

Newark had never seemed small to Mallory, even though she’d never left it for long. She’d traveled a bit—trips to Boston for conferences, the occasional weekend in Philly with friends—but New Jersey was in her bones. It was in the cadence of her voice, the way she knew what joint served the best pizza at 2 AM, the way she rolled her eyes when people asked why she hadn’t moved to the city yet. Newark was home. It was messy and overlooked and constantly changing, but so was she. Her childhood was rooted in its cracked sidewalks, her adolescence mapped across its diners and bookstores, her adulthood unfolding in the scent of espresso and the soft, low purr of content cats.

Whiskers was more than just a job. It was her second skin. She knew every creaky floorboard and which chair the orange tabby preferred for his midday naps. Her aunt, Nora, had turned the place into a refuge, and Mallory—without even realizing it—had become part of the soul of it. She knew when a regular was having a bad day by the way they stirred their coffee, knew how to distract a lonely heart with a stack of books and a napping kitten. On weekends, families came in just to sit and laugh and maybe fall in love with a pair of green eyes and a twitching tail. Mallory floated through it all with practiced ease, pouring lattes and restocking biscotti, recommending paperbacks and refilling water bowls.

Lately though, there’d been a tug in her chest. A sense that something—or someone—was coming. Something she couldn’t name. Maybe it was graduation looming closer, the unknown pressing in now that her final semester had started. Maybe it was the weight of a future she hadn't quite mapped out yet, pressing against the edges of her carefully ordered life. Or maybe it was the way Clementine had taken to sitting in the window every night, watching the sidewalk below like she was waiting for something. Her tail would flick, her eyes fixed, as if she knew something Mallory didn’t. It made her uneasy, but also… hopeful.

Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was everything.

Whatever it was, it was on its way.

Jack Hughes was not having a good season. On paper, the numbers weren’t bad—solid stats, some strong games, the kind of season that didn’t raise alarms. But under the surface, it was a different story. The pressure was relentless, an invisible weight pressing down on him every time he stepped onto the ice. Every game felt like a test he couldn’t afford to fail. Produce. Lead. Win. Repeat. There was no room for off nights, no space for mistakes. The joy—the spark that used to fuel him—was flickering dangerously low.

So that night, with the sky heavy and gray over Newark, Jack laced up his sneakers and left his apartment without a destination in mind. He needed to breathe. No fans. No expectations. Just air. The city buzzed around him—cars, voices, the clatter of life continuing at its own pace. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and walked, letting his mind wander, his steps aimless but searching.

That’s when he saw it.

Tucked away between a boarded-up corner store and a laundromat with flickering lights, there was a shopfront Jack swore hadn’t been there before. The windows glowed with soft amber light, and the sign above the door read simply: Whiskers. It was quaint, inviting, oddly out of place in the gritty stretch of street. A place that felt… safe. Like the Room of Requirement from Harry Potter if it catered to coffee snobs and cat lovers instead of stressed-out wizards.

He pushed open the door, and immediately, the scent of espresso and vanilla filled his lungs. Warmth wrapped around him like a blanket fresh from the dryer. The bell above the door chimed softly, and before he could fully take in the space, a cat—an elegant gray tabby with white paws and an air of dignified authority—padded over to greet him. She sat in front of him, blinking slowly, tail flicking once.

“Oh. Uh. Hi,” Jack muttered, crouching slightly as if unsure how to proceed. The cat continued to stare, unimpressed but accepting. Missy, as he’d later learn, had that effect on people.

Jack stood up and glanced around, wide-eyed. The place looked like a Pinterest board come to life—string lights, overstuffed chairs, cat beds tucked in every corner, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that made the air feel thick with stories. It was the last thing he expected to find on a quiet walk meant to clear his head. And yet, it felt like exactly where he was supposed to be.

He thought he was alone until he spotted her.

In the back corner of the café, nestled into the cushions of a sun-drenched window seat, sat a girl with strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a loose, practical knot. A half-dozen cats lounged around her like they’d claimed her as one of their own. One lay across her lap, another perched on the back of her chair, while two more batted lazily at the dangling strings of her hoodie. Her eyes were glued to the screen of her laptop, fingers tapping away in focused concentration.

Mallory White glanced up at the sound of the doorbell, expecting a regular, or maybe someone looking for directions. What she saw instead was a tall brunette standing near the entrance like he wasn’t sure if he’d stumbled into a dream or a fever-induced hallucination. His eyes were wide, darting around the shop, lips slightly parted in bewilderment. He looked both exhausted and in awe.

“First time?” she called out, voice light but kind. She already knew the answer.

Jack turned toward her, nodding slowly. “Yeah…”

She smiled, something soft blooming in her chest. There was always something beautiful about watching people find Whiskers for the first time—especially the ones who clearly needed it. They came in burdened, distracted, lost. And they stayed, because something about the place told them they were allowed to rest. To breathe.

And for Jack Hughes, that was exactly what was happening.

Jack approached the counter slowly, his gaze sweeping over the handwritten chalkboard menu, though his eyes weren’t really reading. The place still didn’t feel real. Like he’d slipped into some alternate version of Newark, one where life moved slower and smelled like cinnamon.

Mallory stood behind the counter now, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a cat—Oscar—draped around her shoulders like a fuzzy scarf. She gave Jack a smile that didn’t force anything out of him, just offered something steady. Comfort without pressure.

“What can I get you?” she asked, pulling a mug down from the shelf.

He blinked, momentarily thrown. “Uh. Just… coffee? I think?”

Mallory bit back a grin. “Bold order.”

Jack laughed softly—an unintentional sound, like it startled him. “Right. Sorry. I’m more of a… dog guy.”

Oscar meowed in protest from her shoulders. Mallory feigned offense. “You can’t just walk into a cat café and say something like that.”

“I know, I know,” he said, hands raised in surrender. “I’m already on thin ice, aren’t I?”

“Extremely,” she teased, but her tone was still light, welcoming. “Lucky for you, the cats are forgiving. Mostly. Missy already gave you a pass, so you’re basically in.”

Jack watched her pour the coffee with a kind of reverence, like the ritual of it was grounding him. Something simple. Something normal.

Mallory set the mug in front of him, her voice dipping into something softer. “You look like you needed to find this place.”

He looked up, startled—not because she was wrong, but because she’d said it out loud.

He didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, lips pressing into a tight line before he picked up the cup and took a slow sip.

Mallory didn’t press. She just moved around him with quiet ease, giving him space while staying close enough to offer more if he wanted it. Eventually, he found a seat by the window. The same one she’d been curled into earlier, now cleared of cats. Like they knew he needed it.

The hours slipped by.

They started talking slowly, in fits and starts—about nothing at first. The coffee. The cats. The weather. But Mallory had a way of asking questions that made Jack want to answer. And she listened—not like she was waiting for her turn to speak, but like she actually cared about the in-between moments. The pauses. The sighs.

Without realizing how or when, Jack started to talk. Really talk.

About the season. About the pressure. The weight of being expected to be everything, every night. About how he couldn’t even remember the last time he played just for fun. How even on good days, he felt like he was chasing something he couldn’t name. He didn’t mention who he was. He didn’t have to. Mallory never asked.

She just sat across from him, legs curled under her, sipping tea and nodding quietly. When he stopped, she’d offer a thought, something gentle and reflective that didn’t feel like advice but helped anyway.

It was effortless. Unscripted. Safe.

And somehow, in the middle of that cozy café with jazz humming low and cats circling their feet, Jack Hughes—hockey star, exhausted athlete, public figure—let himself breathe.

When he finally looked at the time, hours had passed. The sky outside had gone from moody gray to a soft indigo. The shop was even quieter now, a few lingering customers curling up in corners with books and content kittens. Mallory stood behind the counter again, cleaning up with a rhythm born from years of closing shifts and late-night routines.

Jack stood, stretching like he was waking from a dream.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low but real. “For… I don’t know. This.”

Mallory looked over, smiling like she knew exactly what he meant. “Come back whenever. Whiskers shows up when people need it—but once you find it, it’s easier to return.”

Jack nodded, lingering in the doorway for a second. Then he stepped out into the cool night air.

And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

Not for a fan. Not for a camera. Not because he had to.

But because he wanted to.

__ Jack didn’t plan on going back to Whiskers.

Not really. It had felt like a one-time thing—some serendipitous stop on a bad day. But the next time the pressure swelled again, sitting on his chest like armor he couldn’t get off, his feet led him there without thinking. And when he opened the door, the same warm scent of coffee and cat fur greeted him like an old friend.

No one batted an eye when he came in. Missy trotted over to him again, dignified as ever, and gave his shoes a once-over before returning to her perch by the window. Mallory was already there, at her usual table in the corner, laptop open, hair pulled back, surrounded by open textbooks and cats who insisted on lying across her notes. She looked up when the bell chimed and gave him a soft, familiar smile. Like she’d been expecting him.

From then on, he became a regular.

He didn’t always talk. Some days, he didn’t even get coffee. He just… existed. Found the seat by the window and sat with whatever book he was working through, or nothing at all. Sometimes he stared out the glass, watched the city move in its chaotic rhythm while inside, everything was quiet. Safe. Still.

There were days he came after a loss, his body heavy and tired. Days he came before a game, needing to ground himself. And days where he just needed a reminder that there was more to the world than headlines and ice time. That there were places where no one needed anything from him.

Mallory didn’t pry. That was what he liked most. She always greeted him with that same smile, then returned to her work. Her energy was calm, a quiet presence that didn’t demand attention. He learned she was finishing up a psych degree, that she helped run the café with her aunt, that she was the kind of person who read three books at once and always had pens tucked behind both ears. He also learned she had a cat named Clementine who hated car rides and a soft spot for vanilla scones.

Their conversations were scattered and slow. Shared glances over their mugs. A dry joke exchanged when a customer knocked over a display. Quiet chuckles when a kitten decided Jack’s lap was the best nap spot. But mostly, they sat in silence.

The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

Jazz played low in the background. Mallory’s keys clicked against her laptop. The espresso machine hissed softly from the bar. A cat would leap from one chair to another. And Jack, for the first time in months, felt okay not saying a word. Just breathing. Just being.

That bond—unspoken but steady—grew in the spaces between the stillness. In the shared routines. She would slide him a drink without asking. He’d bring her a croissant from a bakery he found downtown. Neither of them acknowledged the softness curling between them. It just existed. Natural. Unrushed.

Whiskers became his sanctuary. A place untouched by expectation or fame. A place where he wasn’t Jack Hughes, hockey star.

Just Jack.

And in that little corner café with cats lounging in the sun and Mallory humming under her breath as she typed, Jack found something he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for:

Peace.

It didn’t take long for Luke to notice the shift.

At first, it was small things. Jack stopped snapping at reporters after games. He didn’t spend as much time glued to his phone, doom-scrolling between practices. He started showing up early to workouts. Smiling more. Laughing, even. And not the hollow, media-trained kind of laugh either—the real kind, the kind that lit up his face and softened the edges of his exhaustion.

And then came the disappearing.

Luke would be halfway through a lazy off-day, sprawled across the couch, and Jack would toss on a hoodie, grab his keys, and say, “I’m heading out for a bit.”

“To where?”

“Nowhere. Just… around.”

Luke arched an eyebrow. “That’s not a place, Jack.”

“I’m just going for a walk. Or maybe a drive.”

He never offered more than that. No details. No specifics. Just vague, noncommittal answers. And then he’d come back three hours later like someone had hit reset on his entire nervous system—relaxed, clear-eyed, a little too peaceful for someone playing in a pressure cooker like the NHL.

It was starting to freak Luke out.

One afternoon, after a tough practice and an even tougher media scrum, Jack came home humming. Humming. He dropped his bag, cracked open a bottle of water, and leaned in the doorway with the kind of serenity usually reserved for people on vacation or heavily medicated.

That was the final straw.

Luke narrowed his eyes. “Are you doing drugs?”

Jack choked on his water, coughing so hard he had to lean forward, hand braced on the wall. “What? Are you crazy? No! Jesus.”

“I don’t know, man!” Luke threw up his hands. “You disappear for hours with no explanation and come back looking like you just won a million dollars. Or just got laid. Or both.”

Jack just laughed, which only made Luke more suspicious.

“So where do you go?” he pressed.

“Nowhere.”

“Stop saying that. You can’t just ‘nowhere’ your way into this weird Zen state. I know you. You're like a caged animal half the time and now you're… this.”

Jack shrugged, trying to hide the way his lips twitched like they wanted to smile. “It’s not a big deal.”

“If it wasn’t a big deal, you’d tell me.”

That part wasn’t wrong. Jack could tell Luke. He probably should. But there was something about Whiskers he wasn’t ready to share yet. Something about that cozy little corner of the world that felt untouched by everything else in his life. He wasn’t ready to let anyone else in. Not even Luke.

So he gave another half-assed answer.

“Just a spot I found. Good coffee. That’s all.”

Luke squinted at him like he was trying to see through the lie. “You don’t even drink that much coffee.”

“Maybe I do now.”

Luke groaned dramatically, flopping onto the couch. “You’re so annoying. Just admit you’re seeing someone.”

Jack didn’t respond.

He didn’t have to respond. His silence said enough.

Luke sat up slowly. “Wait. Are you?”

Jack finally met his gaze and smirked. “Didn’t say that.”

“You are! Oh my god, you’re totally sneaking off to see someone. That’s why you’ve been all floaty and weird.”

“There’s nothing weird about it.”

“Nothing weird about being in love with a barista and hiding her from your own brother?”

“I’m not—" Jack paused. "—in love.”

Luke raised both brows.

Jack shoved him with a pillow.

“Shut up.”

Luke grinned, already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna figure this out.”

“No, you’re not,” Jack said, and for once, his tone was firm. “Not yet.”

There was a pause.

And then Luke looked at him, just a little softer. “Okay. I’ll drop it. For now.”

Because even he could see it—whatever Jack had found, it was helping. It was healing something.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

The truth?

Jack had fallen in love.

He hadn’t said the words out loud. Not even to himself. But it was there—in the way his feet carried him to Whiskers without hesitation, in the way he looked at her like she held all the quiet parts of the world in her palms. In the way just being near her was enough to make his chest loosen and his breathing slow. He wasn’t ready to explain it to anyone, not even Luke. Especially not Luke.

So he kept it to himself. Kept her to himself.

Until that night.

It was late. The apartment looked like the aftermath of a storm. Hockey sticks leaned haphazardly against the wall, gear dumped across the floor in a way that suggested frustration more than forgetfulness. A half-empty protein shake sweated on the coffee table beside a crumpled game schedule. Luke slammed the front door so hard that a picture frame rattled on the wall. He didn’t say anything right away, just paced—his strides tight, erratic, jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

The Devils were out of playoff contention. And it had gutted him.

Jack watched from the hallway, arms folded, leaning against the doorframe like he wasn’t sure if now was the time to step in or stay out. Luke didn’t get mad like this—not usually. He was intense, sure. Emotional, absolutely. But this kind of fury? It felt heavy. Personal.

Jack didn't ask. He just said, “Get in the car.”

Luke frowned, thrown. “What?”

“I’m not asking. Just come with me.”

Something in Jack’s voice silenced him. A low, steady kind of calm that didn’t leave room for argument. So Luke grabbed a hoodie, still in his joggers and sneakers, and followed his brother out the door.

The drive was quiet. Newark passed them in streaks of streetlight and shadow, the car a cocoon of tension and unspoken words. Jack didn’t say where they were going. Luke didn’t ask. The only sound was the occasional click of the turn signal and the low hum of the tires against pavement.

When they pulled up to the quiet corner of the city, the streets were quieter. Whiskers sat tucked beneath a canopy of trees, its windows glowing golden against the dark like a secret waiting to be shared. The string lights on the awning flickered gently, casting soft halos across the brick sidewalk.

Luke squinted. “A café?”

Jack was already out of the car.

The second the bell above the door chimed, Luke was hit with a wall of warmth—coffee, cinnamon, faint vanilla. The soft lilt of jazz floated through the space. Cats lounged on cushions and curled in baskets tucked between bookshelves and furniture. Mismatched chairs, faded rugs, low lighting. The place looked like it had been pulled straight from a dream.

Behind the counter stood a girl. She had soft strawberry-blonde curls tied back loosely and wore a slouchy sweater that had definitely seen a few too many cat naps. A content gray tabby nestled in her arms like royalty.

Luke slowed his steps, eyes flicking from her to Jack. Was this her? The girl Jack had been seeing? She was gorgeous, effortlessly so, and clearly comfortable in this magical, cat-infested café. Luke felt a small, unexpected flicker of disappointment. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it felt too… obvious. Too perfect.

Then Jack walked right past her.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said with a grin, reaching for the cat in her arms—the regal, unbothered Missy.

Mallory handed the cat over with a knowing smile.

Jack cradled Missy like she was made of glass, his entire demeanor shifting into something almost unrecognizable—softer, lighter, like someone had peeled all the pressure off his shoulders. He crossed the room, sank into his usual corner chair, and opened a book, Missy curling into his lap like she’d been waiting.

Luke stared.

That was the girl?

Jack didn’t even glance up. Just scratched behind Missy’s ears and exhaled like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

Then a voice called out, warm and curious.

“Hi J! Who’s this?”

Luke turned—and that’s when everything tilted.

Mallory was standing a few feet away now, closer. And suddenly, Luke saw her clearly. Her eyes, a shade of green that didn’t quite make sense. Her voice, melodic and kind. Her smile—soft, genuine, like she’d known you forever.

She extended a hand. “I’m Mallory. You must be the brother.”

“Yeah. Uh. Luke.”

She smiled and motioned for him to follow her to a small table near the window. He did.

And something shifted.

Mallory had a way of talking that didn’t feel like talking. It felt like being. Like she saw people the way they didn’t even see themselves. She asked about the game without pity, about his season without poking at wounds. Her voice was smooth, steady, laced with humor and grace. When she laughed, it was this low, genuine sound that settled something deep in his gut.

He didn’t even notice the time passing. Didn’t realize he was leaning in, actually smiling, until he caught his own reflection in the window and barely recognized himself.

Somewhere in the background, Jack flipped a page and shifted Missy on his lap.

He hadn’t said a word since they walked in.

Because he didn’t need to.

Whiskers did what it always did.

And Mallory—Mallory did the rest.

Luke leaned back, eyes still on her, and exhaled the weight of the entire season.

He got it now.

He really got it.

Luke started going back to Whiskers.

At first, it was innocent enough. Just a second visit. Then a third. Then one day he realized he was typing the address into his GPS without thinking. The café had imprinted itself on him—the warmth, the quiet, the smell of cinnamon and fresh espresso. But more than anything, it was her.

Mallory.

She was always there when he arrived, tucked into her favorite spot with a mug in one hand and her laptop open in front of her. Sometimes she was surrounded by cats, sometimes it was just her and the quiet music humming through the café. She always looked up when he came in. Always smiled. And Luke… yeah, he felt that.

Where Jack disappeared into Whiskers like it was a sanctuary, a place to go silent and still, Luke leaned into the space differently. He didn’t want to disappear—he wanted to see. To learn. To ask questions. And more than anything, he wanted to understand the girl who made a place like this feel like a refuge.

“Back again?” Mallory asked one morning, raising a brow as Luke approached the counter.

He grinned. “Addicted. To the coffee. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” She handed him a mug without asking what he wanted. She already knew.

He sat at the bar that day, watching her move through her rhythm—refilling the pastry case, whispering something to one of the cats, rearranging a stack of well-loved paperbacks. Everything she did had intention, but never felt rushed. She moved like someone who had nowhere else to be, even though Luke knew she probably had a dozen deadlines waiting.

“What are you studying?” he asked after a while, casually sipping his coffee.

She looked over, a little surprised. “Psychology.”

“Like… therapy?”

She nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Something like that. I want to work with athletes, actually. Mental performance, pressure management, that kind of thing.”

Luke blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t expect that.”

“Didn’t peg me as someone who understands sports?” she teased.

“No, I didn’t peg you as someone who understands me,” he said, quieter than he meant to.

She looked at him for a long moment. And then she smiled. “Maybe I do.”

That was how it began.

He started showing up more often. Sometimes in the mornings, grabbing a corner table while she worked behind the bar. Sometimes in the late afternoons, when the light poured through the front window and caught the gold in her hair. They started talking more. Long conversations that drifted from childhood memories to late-night game rituals to their favorite kinds of cereal.

She asked questions. Real ones. And Luke found himself answering, actually wanting to answer. He told her about growing up in a hockey family, about Michigan, about the pressure of always being someone’s little brother. She listened like she hadn’t heard those things a thousand times before. Like they meant something.

And sometimes, she talked too.

She told him about Whiskers—how her aunt had started it as a little dream project, and how she’d helped build it into what it was. She talked about losing her parents young, about how her aunt had raised her, about how cats were easier to understand than people sometimes. She laughed when he confessed he was still a dog person, and even more when Missy curled up in his lap for the first time anyway.

Luke didn’t realize how often he was showing up until Jack called him out one night.

“You’re there more than I am,” he said, lounging on the couch with his book, Missy sprawled across his chest like a queen.

“Maybe I just like cats,” Luke offered.

Jack didn’t even look up. “Maybe you like Mallory.”

Luke didn’t respond.

He didn’t have to.

It took Luke a few weeks—okay, maybe closer to a month—to finally ask Mallory out. Not because he didn’t want to. God, he wanted to. But there was something about her that made him nervous in a way he wasn’t used to. She was grounded, graceful in her own soft chaos, and totally unaffected by who he was. She didn’t care about NHL stats or jersey numbers. She cared about whether he slept well, whether the cats had taken to him yet, whether he’d been kind to himself that week.

She saw through him, and he liked it.

So one quiet Thursday morning, when Whiskers was still waking up and the smell of cinnamon rolls hadn’t yet left the oven, Luke leaned on the counter and said, almost casually, “Hey, do you wanna grab dinner sometime? Like, just us?”

Mallory’s eyes lifted from her tablet, a smile already forming. “Like a date?”

He nodded. “Yeah. A date.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’d love that.”

He didn’t dare take her to a coffee shop. No way. That felt too close to home, too close to Jack’s territory. Besides, it would be weird to take a barista to drink coffee, right?

So he went for the most classic, chaotic New Jersey move he could think of.

Pizza.

He picked her up that Saturday night wearing a hoodie and a nervous grin, and drove her twenty minutes outside the city to a tiny brick oven place tucked between a car wash and a liquor store. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was his spot. The one he’d found during his first year with the Devils. The kind of place where the booths were squeaky and the paper plates were flimsy, but the sauce was perfect and the crust had that exact amount of char only Jersey could do right.

Mallory eyed the storefront with an arched brow. “You’re taking a Jersey native to your favorite pizza joint? That’s bold.”

“I know,” he grinned, opening the door for her. “You’re either gonna be really impressed or never speak to me again.”

To his immense relief, she was impressed.

They shared a pie—half pepperoni, half plain—over a checkered tablecloth and canned soda. And it was easy. So easy. The conversation flowed like it always did with her—effortless, rich with little revelations and teasing jokes. She told him about how she once tried to make her own dough and ended up with a flour explosion in her apartment. He told her about the time Jack got into a screaming match with their mom over pineapple on pizza.

She laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from the corner of her eyes.

But it wasn’t just the laughter. It was her. Luke couldn’t stop watching her. The way her eyes lit up when she told stories. The way she listened—really listened—when he spoke. The way she saw the world with this quiet sympathy that made everything feel less sharp. Less scary. It was… admirable. Magnetic. And it was messing him up, in the best way.

He drove her home, walked her to her door, and lingered there with both hands shoved in his pockets, heart thudding like it was trying to leap from his chest.

“I had a really good time,” she said, voice soft.

“Me too.”

And when she leaned up and kissed him—quick, but sure—Luke felt like the entire world tilted into place.

Later that night, after Jack had already passed out on the couch with Missy on his chest and a documentary droning in the background, Luke stepped out onto the tiny balcony with his phone and scrolled through his contacts.

He called Quinn.

“Hey, you good?” Quinn asked after the first ring. “You never call unless something’s wrong.”

“No, it’s not— It’s not bad. I just… needed to talk to you.”

There was a pause on the other end, then the familiar sound of Quinn settling into a chair. “Shoot.”

Luke rubbed a hand down his face. “I think I’m in love. Like… really in love.”

Quinn didn’t laugh. Not at first. Just let that sentence sit for a moment before replying.

“With the girl from the cat café?” he said knowingly.

Luke blinked. “How do you—?”

“Jack talks in his sleep,” Quinn deadpanned. “Apparently a lot about Missy. And someone named Mallory.”

Luke laughed, the tension breaking like a dam.

Quinn chuckled too, but his voice stayed gentle. “So you and Jack are both in love, huh? One with the barista. One with the cat.”

“Don’t say that,” Luke groaned. “It’s not like that.”

Quinn was quiet for a beat. “You really like her?”

“Yeah,” Luke admitted, his voice quieter now. “I like the way she sees people. Like they’re all worth knowing. Like nothing is ever too broken. I don’t know how to explain it… She makes everything quieter.”

There was a smile in Quinn’s voice when he replied, “Sounds like she’s your Whiskers.”

Luke let that sink in. Yeah. Yeah, maybe she was.

“And what do I do?” he asked, suddenly young and unsure.

Quinn didn’t hesitate. “You hold on to it. You show up for her, the way she shows up for everyone else. And you tell her. Not with flowers or grand gestures. Just… honestly. You tell her when you’re ready.”

Luke looked up at the sky, the stars faint through the city haze. “Thanks, Q.”

“Anytime, little bro.”

Luke hung up, slid his phone into his pocket, and stood there in the quiet.

In love. In awe. In it—completely.

And somehow, not scared at all.

For all the time Jack and Luke spent at Whiskers, it had taken a few weeks before they formally met Nora—the soul behind the café, the woman who’d built it from scratch and passed down her love for quiet corners, cat cuddles, and warm mugs to her niece.

Nora was soft-spoken, but fierce in the most gentle way. She wore chunky knit cardigans and always smelled faintly of peppermint oil and flour. She had this way of looking at people that made them want to sit down and tell her things—stories, secrets, fears. Mallory was clearly her mirror image in spirit, molded by kindness and quiet strength.

“She’s the reason this place exists,” Mallory had told Luke one evening, her voice soft as they watched Nora teach a young couple how to coax a shy kitten out from under the armchair. “And honestly… probably the reason I exist the way I do.”

Nora wasn’t just Mallory’s aunt. She was her anchor.

So when Luke’s phone rang late one night, vibrating loud and angry against the nightstand, he answered without hesitation.

Mallory’s name flashed on the screen.

He answered with a sleepy, “Hey, Mal?” but was met only by ragged breathing.

“Mallory?” he said again, now sitting up straight, tension lacing his voice. On the other end, she was sobbing—hysterical, broken sounds that Luke had never heard from her before.

He was instantly alert. “Mallory—what’s wrong? Are you okay? What happened?”

But her words were tangled. Mumbled. Drenched in pain. Luke tried to focus, heart racing, trying to make sense of it.

Then, finally, through the tears: “Nora… she’s gone. Luke—she… she had a heart attack. They couldn’t—she—she didn’t make it.”

The words landed like ice water down his spine.

Without thinking, still holding the phone to his ear, Luke stumbled out of bed and crossed the hall. He shoved Jack’s shoulder once, then again, harder.

Jack startled awake, groggy and disoriented. “What the hell—?”

“Get up,” Luke said, his voice flat but shaking. “Something’s wrong.”

Jack sat up fast now, reading his brother’s face. The look in Luke’s eyes—he didn’t need more explanation.

“Mallory’s on the phone,” Luke said, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “It’s her aunt. Nora’s—she’s gone.”

Jack didn’t say a word. He just nodded, already pulling on sweatpants and grabbing his keys.

They didn’t speak in the car. Didn’t need to. The silence said enough.

When they got to the hospital, Mallory was sitting in one of those terrible plastic waiting chairs, curled into herself like she was trying to disappear. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, her hands trembling in her lap. She looked so small. So un-Mallory. Like her light had flickered and gone out.

Luke approached slowly, kneeling down in front of her.

She looked up.

And then she broke.

She folded into him with a sob so raw it felt like it tore through the sterile white walls of the ER. Luke wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other anchored around her waist. She clung to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

Jack sat quietly beside them, eyes glassy but steady. He didn’t speak. Just placed a soft hand on her shoulder.

Mallory had always been the one who knew what to say. Who had the right words at the right moment, the kind of comfort that wrapped around you like a blanket. But now?

Now she had none.

And Luke knew—this was the moment that mattered most. Because what do you do when the strongest person you know is suddenly falling apart?

You hold them.

You show up.

You say nothing, but stay anyway.

Hours passed in quiet fragments. Nurses came and went. The waiting room emptied. Mallory stayed curled against Luke, her tears dried but her eyes vacant. Luke stroked her back gently, murmuring things he didn’t even know he was saying—soft nothings, reminders that he was there, that she wasn’t alone.

At some point, she whispered, “I don’t know how to do this without her.”

Luke tightened his hold.

“What would you say to me if it were the other way around?” he asked, voice low.

Mallory was quiet.

“You’d tell me it’s okay to fall apart. That I don’t have to be strong right now. That it’s okay to lean on someone. So lean on me.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t pull away either.

That was enough.

When the will was read, no one was surprised.

Nora had always made her intentions clear in the soft, matter-of-fact way only she could: Whiskers would belong to Mallory. It had been her safe place before it ever became her responsibility. The deed was signed over, fully paid off, wrapped in quiet generosity and love. No debts. No catches. Just a little corner of the world with her name on it now.

But standing behind the counter alone that first morning, Mallory felt twenty-two in a way she never had before.

The keys jingled in her hand as she unlocked the door, her reflection in the glass looking slightly too pale, slightly too tired. She could recite the opening checklist by heart. She knew how to balance the books, how to feed the cats, how to fold biscotti bags just right. But knowing and owning were two different things.

She was still a student. She was still grieving. And now, she was running a business.

Her older cousin, who had flown in from Oregon the moment the news hit, was the only reason she was holding it together at all. He’d taken over the official business side—taxes, inventory orders, payroll—and left Mallory to focus on keeping the doors open, the espresso flowing, and the regulars feeling like nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

Mallory pulled double shifts most days. Woke up at five to start the baking, stayed late after closing to do homework that never seemed to end. She hadn’t written a clean to-do list in weeks. The fridge at her apartment was empty. Clementine had started dragging her sock into the bed at night like a peace offering. And the exhaustion? It clung to her skin like sweat.

She didn’t complain, though. Because this place was hers now. And she had to make Nora proud.

Then one Thursday morning, after burning the muffins, forgetting to restock oat milk, and crying in the mop closet for twelve solid minutes, she stepped back behind the counter only to find two tall figures loitering near the espresso machine with entirely too much confidence.

“Morning, boss,” Luke said, already tying on one of the spare aprons.

Jack grinned beside him, flipping a bar towel over his shoulder. “We figured it’s time you trained us properly.”

Mallory blinked. “What?”

“You can’t get rid of us anyway,” Jack shrugged. “Might as well make us useful.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Luke was already setting up the grinder with perfect form. “I Googled it,” he said with a wink. “We’re basically professionals.”

“I don’t—guys, you don’t have to do this.”

“We want to,” Luke said, voice softer now. “Let us help.”

Mallory stared at them for a beat, her eyes glassy from more than just sleep deprivation. She could argue. She could pretend she had it all under control. But she didn’t.

And God, it felt good to let someone hold part of the weight.

“Fine,” she said, grabbing a third apron and tossing it at Jack. “But if you mess up the espresso, you’re on bathroom cleaning duty for a month.”

Jack caught it midair. “Deal.”

From that day forward, the Hughes brothers became part of the Whiskers crew.

Luke handled the register—charming customers, flirting with old ladies, remembering people’s orders like it was second nature. Jack took on espresso duty with laser focus, determined to master the art of a perfect pour-over. They bickered constantly over music playlists, tripped over sleeping cats, and oversteamed milk more times than anyone could count.

But it didn’t matter.

Because Mallory wasn’t alone anymore.

They filled the café with laughter again. With extra hands and clumsy help and early morning coffee runs. Luke took over breakfast duty some mornings so she could sleep an extra hour. Jack learned how to do inventory. Mallory caught them reading How to Manage a Small Business for Dummies one night after closing and pretended not to cry.

Whiskers stayed open. And somehow, through the chaos and grief and spilled oat milk, it thrived.

Mallory often found herself pausing in the middle of it all—hands dusted in flour, hair pinned back, cats weaving through legs—just to watch the two of them. Luke flirting with a regular who was at least seventy. Jack trying to argue with Missy about which stool he was allowed to sit on.

She’d never imagined she’d love two hockey players like this. Like family. Like breath and comfort and sunrise.

The truth was, she didn’t just love the Hughes boys.

She needed them.

And they showed up for her in every way that mattered.

It had been weeks—months, even—since Mallory had a proper night off. The kind where she wasn’t multitasking between homework and baking, or replying to emails with flour on her cheek, or falling asleep on the café couch with Clementine purring on her chest and the sound of the espresso machine still buzzing in her ears.

Sure, Jack and Luke helped. Constantly. Relentlessly. But they were still professional athletes. There were away games, long practices, press responsibilities. And Mallory, in her ever selfless way, refused to let them take on more than they already were. Especially since they refused to accept even a dime in return for the hours they clocked in as honorary baristas.

So Luke Hughes made a plan.

A real one. An honest-to-God, no-half-measures, operation-code-named “Date Night.”

He got Jack on board first. That was easy. Jack was all in, especially when he heard it involved breaking and entering—technically—with the emergency key Mallory had given them months ago.

Then came the cousin. Mallory’s older cousin, who had become the business brain of Whiskers, gave them the official stamp of approval. As long as nothing caught fire and all the cats survived, they had a green light.

And finally, the recruits.

By midnight, the lights inside Whiskers flicked on one by one, the glow pooling across the dark sidewalk like a secret. Inside, a sight to behold: a squad of confused but eager New Jersey Devils players, sleeves rolled up and eyes wide as they stared at coffee beans, brewing guides, and—most intimidating of all—Missy, perched atop the counter like a very judgmental manager.

“Okay,” Luke clapped his hands. “If we can run power plays, we can run a damn espresso machine.”

“Speak for yourself,” Curtis muttered, already holding the milk steamer backwards.

Nico Hischier, ever the captain and certified coffee enthusiast, took his training very seriously. He had a notebook. He had questions. He had already pulled three sample shots to get his “ratios right.”

Jack, self-declared floor manager for the evening, barked out orders with Missy balanced like a loaf of bread in one arm. “Dawson, front of house. Jesper, you’re bussing tables. Don’t look at me like that—you’re tall, you can carry stuff. Nico, stop trying to make foam flowers and listen to Luke.”

“It’s a leaf!” Nico snapped.

“It’s a blob, bro.”

The chaos was immediate. Cats weaving between skates left by the front door, espresso dripping unevenly, someone accidentally knocking over a bag of biscotti.

But the effort? Impeccable.

Luke taught them everything he and Jack had learned. How to pull a shot, how to tamp the grounds just right, how to gently nudge a cat off the register without being mauled. They practiced for hours, growing a little more confident—if not a little more competent—by the minute.

By 3am, the café was spotless, the lights dimmed back to their usual glow, and the boys slipped out the door with high-fives and groggy laughs.

The next morning, Mallory showed up just before opening with dark circles under her eyes, a bag full of books, and the expectation of another long, exhausting day.

What she wasn’t expecting?

A gaggle of very tall, very smug hockey players already inside, all donning matching Whiskers aprons with varying degrees of confidence.

She blinked. “…What the hell?”

Luke popped up from behind the counter, grinning ear to ear. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Why are you here?”

Before she could even process the full scope of the invasion, Jack appeared beside her with Missy cradled in one arm and a clipboard in the other.

“Team’s here. We’ve got this. Go put on something cute. You’ve got plans.”

Mallory looked around, genuinely speechless. Nico was fiddling with the espresso machine (and yes, proudly presenting his latte art to Jesper, who clapped even though it still looked like a leaf-shaped blob). Dawson was carefully arranging the pastry case. A cat was curled up in Timo Meier’s lap while he read a children’s book aloud like it was his own kid.

It was absurd. Beautifully absurd.

Mallory opened her mouth to argue. To protest. To insist that this was her café, her responsibility, her weight to carry.

But then she looked at Luke.

He stood there by the door, coat in hand, holding it open like a promise.

And suddenly, her knees didn’t feel so steady.

So she let herself be led out into the morning air. They walked hand in hand down to the docks, the world still waking up, the air crisp and quiet around them. Luke didn’t talk much. He didn’t have to. He just walked beside her, thumb tracing soft circles over her knuckles.

They stopped at the edge of the pier. Boats rocked gently in their slips. The water glittered like glass.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “But you needed a break.”

She looked up at him, heart so full it almost hurt. “How do you always know?”

Luke gave a small, crooked smile and leaned in, brushing his nose against hers. “Because I read you like a book, remember?”

Mallory let out a breathy laugh, soft and full of wonder.

She kissed him.

And for a moment, the world held its breath.

Because she loved him. God, she really did.

And Luke?

Luke had known it long before now.

Whiskers was at max capacity—and Mallory was at her limit.

The café had quietly become one of the busiest fostering hubs in the city, thanks in no small part to the steady stream of attention it had been getting from hockey fans and latte art lovers alike. But lately? It was too much. Too many cats. Too few hands. Every time Mallory turned around, another furball needed medicine, food, or affection. She had tried to downsize, to slow adoptions until things were more manageable, but that only made the list grow longer.

And Jack? Jack was one tiny, blinking kitten away from adopting all of them.

“This one’s looking at me weird,” he said one evening, cradling a tabby in his hoodie like it was his newborn child. “I think he’s trying to tell me something.”

“Jack,” Mallory sighed.

“He said my soul is his home.”

“Jack.”

“He’s already named. Horatio.”

“JACK.”

But Luke didn’t laugh like he usually would. He watched from across the café, leaning against the counter, something quietly forming in the back of his mind. That night, Mallory passed out at the café desk again, face in a textbook, Clementine perched protectively on her shoulder. Luke tucked a blanket over her and pulled out his phone.

He had an idea.

And this time, he was going big.

Within a week, the Devils’ media team was involved. Actually, they were obsessed. Once Luke pitched the idea—an adoption event pairing each player with a foster cat—the social media interns practically burst into flames.

“It’s like… a cat draft.”

“No. No. It’s a cat red carpet.”

“Devils x Whiskers: Catwalk to Forever.”

“Stop, I’m going to cry.”

Plans moved fast. The team created promo posters. Luke personally organized the players, matching each one with a foster cat like it was fantasy hockey but furrier. The rules? Each player had to spend a few days bonding with their assigned cat, then debut them at the event in a themed outfit of their choice. Yes, even the cats had to be dressed up. Tastefully. Adorably.

Mallory didn’t know what hit her.

One minute she was trying to wrestle a tuxedo onto an uncooperative calico, and the next, she was watching Curtis Lazar strut down a mini red carpet holding a gray kitten in a sequined bow tie like it was a high-fashion handbag. Timo Meier wore matching sunglasses with his foster. Jack came out with “his” cat (Missy, obviously) in a black tutu and announced she was debuting her solo album.

But the true highlight?

Nico Hischier, cradling a shy orange tabby named Peanut Butter, who was dressed in a custom little captain’s jersey. Nico tried to act indifferent, but by the end of the night, he was lying on the floor feeding Peanut Butter treats and telling Jack, “He seems really chill. I mean… if no one else wants him, I guess he can come home with me.”

Jack screamed. Mallory cried. Missy blinked once in approval.

And somehow—miraculously—every single cat was adopted by the end of the night.

Families came, fans came, people who had never even heard of Whiskers until the Devils posted an Instagram reel of Jesper Bratt waltzing with a tabby kitten came.

And Luke?

Luke stayed in the background, smiling the whole time.

That night, after the café had been cleared out and the lights dimmed, Mallory found Luke sweeping glitter off the carpet.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glassy.

“You did all of this.”

He shrugged. “You needed help.”

She stepped closer. “You got Nico to adopt a cat.”

“He loves Peanut Butter. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“And you—” she swallowed hard, emotion catching in her throat. “You made my whole heart feel so… full.”

Luke looked up at her, and for a moment, the whole café was still. The lights twinkled low, the faint scent of espresso and fresh catnip lingered in the air, and the boy who never really saw himself as anything more than a hockey player was suddenly the reason everything worked.

Mallory cupped his face in her hands and kissed him slow.

“You’re my Whiskers,” she whispered. “You know that?”

He smiled against her lips. “I was really hoping you'd say that.”

And from her cozy little café filled with love, fur, and far too much glitter—Mallory knew something with absolute certainty:

Luke Hughes wasn’t just the boy she loved.

He was home.

The morning after the adoption event was quiet.

For once, Whiskers didn’t open at its usual hour. A printed sign hung crookedly on the door, written in Mallory’s neat handwriting: Closed for the morning. Thank you for all the love. See you this afternoon.

Inside, the café was still. Sunlight filtered in through the front windows, scattering soft gold across the floorboards. A few of the permanent resident cats lounged in their usual spots—Missy on her throne of a cushion behind the counter, Clementine perched on the window ledge like a queen surveying her kingdom.

In the back, the tiny staff room smelled like fresh linens and vanilla. And in the corner, curled up together on the old loveseat that barely fit one person, let alone two, were Luke and Mallory.

She wore his Devils hoodie, sleeves swallowed over her hands. He wore a Whiskers apron that had definitely seen better days and smelled vaguely like cinnamon and cat treats. Their legs were tangled together, and Mallory’s head rested on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing.

It had been a whirlwind—the red carpet, the press, the laughter, the chaos—and now there was only this: the quiet after.

Luke stirred first. He blinked slowly, taking in the way the light danced in Mallory’s hair, the way her fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie like she didn’t want to let go. He didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

His heart was full. His world was soft. And she was here.

Mallory shifted, murmuring sleepily, “Are the cats making coffee without us?”

He chuckled. “Missy’s working the register. I think she’s unionizing.”

She smiled against his chest. “Good. It’s about time someone did.”

They stayed like that for a while. No pressure to move, no rush to clean or prep or respond to emails. Just silence, interrupted occasionally by a distant purr or the creak of an old chair settling.

Eventually, Mallory sat up, stretching and yawning like one of the cats. Luke watched her, chin resting on his palm, totally, hopelessly gone.

She caught him staring.

“What?”

He just smiled. “Nothing. You’re just… glowing. You know that?”

Her cheeks pinked. “I think that’s exhaustion.”

“Nope. It’s joy. And cat hair.”

“Mostly cat hair,” she agreed, brushing a tuft from her sleeve.

He sat up, hands finding her waist, thumbs pressing into her sides gently. “I meant what I said yesterday,” he told her. “You’re it for me. You always have been. I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to carry anything alone.”

Mallory’s eyes stung. The good kind of sting.

“I love you,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. “So much, it scares me sometimes.”

“Good,” Luke said. “That means we’re doing it right.”

A soft knock came from the front of the café.

They both froze.

Jack’s voice called out, muffled through the door. “If you’re decent, I brought muffins. If you’re not decent… I’m still coming in.”

Mallory snorted. Luke groaned.

But when they stood, when they opened the door and saw Jack standing there in sweats, holding a bakery bag in one hand and Missy tucked under the other like a furry football, Mallory smiled so wide it hurt her cheeks.

Because this was it.

Her home. Her people. Her peace.

And she wouldn’t trade it for anything.

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idolindrawer · 11 months ago

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IVE Yujin x Male Reader Smut 3.4k words

I'm not a native English speaker, so some expressions might sound odd. I'm always open to suggestions for improvement.

"Whatever you wish for will come true if you wish for it correctly,” the fortune teller says.

"That's not what I came here for," you say, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray with a huff of annoyance. "Don't you have any better advice?"

"This is the best advice I can give you," the fortune teller replies, completely unfazed. "The key is to do it correctly. Wishes need a trigger."

Growing increasingly irritated, you begin snapping your fingers repeatedly to vent your frustration. You came to see this highly praised fortune teller, only to be sorely disappointed.

The fortune teller seems oblivious to your anger and says cheerfully, "There you go, use that as your trigger. Whenever you make a wish, snap your fingers."

"This is like throwing 50,000 won down the drain," you sigh in exasperation, grabbing your bag and jacket, ready to leave the fortune teller's tent.

"Well, feel free to go,” the fortune teller says, looking surprised as if he had never met a customer who didn't believe in his words. "But it'll be worth 50,000 won if you give it a try."

Because of that fortune teller, the lunch break was wasted. You hurry along the path to your office, but as usual, you get held up by the traffic lights just 200 meters before. Being late is unavoidable.

While waiting, a bank advertisement on a nearby building catches your eyes. A celebrity girl dressed in the bank's signature green gives you a broad smile. You've seen her in other ads before. Isn't her name An Yujin or something? She must be a member of some idol group. You vaguely recall your niece being a huge fan.

Even when you look back at the red light of the traffic signal, you can’t get her out of your mind. How much did she earn from that bank ad, anyway? She’s probably around twenty, but her bank account must hold far more than my lifetime earnings... Damn it.

Seriously, if I were giving that huge amount of money to a young girl like her, I’d demand a much more provocative ad. I’d have her wear a skirt so short that her underwear can be seen in front of the press and have her shamelessly flaunt her ass to the cameras. Now that would be sure-fire marketing! You snap your fingers idly, indulging in this wicked fantasy of degrading celebrities to satisfy your ego.

Suddenly, someone's shoulder bumps into you from behind, jolting you back to reality. The light is green.

Just before leaving work, you scroll through social media and are stunned. It turns out that the girl from the ad you had seen at your lunch break was involved in a promotional event just a few hundred meters away. Moreover, she was wearing a skirt so short that it was almost revealing her underwear. The innocent young girl from the ad photo, now in a video from just two hours earlier, was dressed as if the whole of Korea had run out of fabric, shamelessly revealing her toned thighs to the gathered crowd. With a playful twirl, she revealed a glimpse of her white underwear covering her buttocks.

You happen to recall the words of that fortune teller: "Whenever you make a wish, snap your fingers." Did I actually snap my fingers? If so, then that fortune teller must have been a true psychic. If, as he said, wishes can really come true, is there anyone who wouldn't wish for something bigger?

Mesmerized by Yujin's legs on the screen, you swallow hard and imagine her sensual image. Tight-dressed Yujin is kissing in the dimly lit hotel room. As her dress is unzipped, black lace lingerie is revealed. Her buttocks are just covered with a bare minimum G-string, which she teasingly lets fall to her ankles, spreading her legs to accept the cock...

You snap your fingers once, forcefully. If this is going to work, the closer to her, the better chances might be. The event should have ended about an hour and a half ago, but is she still there? Hastily gathering your belongings, you clock out and run out of the office building towards the event venue.

The streets around the venue are teeming with people who have gathered information from social media, yet Yujin is nowhere to be seen. Disappointed to find that the event has ended, most people slowly drift into nearby cafes. Some remain standing, visibly dissatisfied, and frantically searching social media for any trace of her.

You open social media, but find it worthless due to the numerous accounts already capitalizing on her popularity and leveraging it to gain attention. “We're selling rare photo cards!” “Try this dating app for guaranteed meet-ups.” #IVE #YUJIN “Click here for an AI-generated celebrity sex tape...” In the sample video, a porn star with Yujin's face, digitally altered and occasionally glitching, kisses a naked man in a hotel room. His hand reaches for the zipper at her back, unzipping it to reveal her skin, which is trimmed with black lace lingerie...

Wait, can this really be the wish come true? The video is eerily close to what I imagined, but if this is it, then it’s a joke taken too far. The fortune teller must have been a fraud after all. Feeling everything is suddenly absurd, you shove your phone into your pocket and start walking toward the station.

Near the venue, the same posters of Yujin that you saw during the day are displayed, her trusting smile reaching out to you. The fortune teller's words echo in your mind: "The key is to do it correctly." What if the fortune teller was a genuine psychic, and the way to wish was wrong? The first wish came true, after all, and her sex was pulled off even in a rubbish way. It might be too early to conclude that he is a fake psychic.

There could be several reasons for the failure, but simply imagining her sex scene wasn't enough. That is, it requires imagining myself having sex with her. As vividly as possible, the feel of her body, myself slipping in between her legs...

You imagine carefully, snapping your fingers. Fate should take care of the rest. If this doesn't work, tomorrow I'll storm back to that fortune teller and demand my money back.

Before catching the train at the station, you detour slightly to use the public restroom. Using this station over 250 days a year, you know exactly where to find the always empty and relatively clean toilets.

You finish your business, wash your hands carelessly, and as you lift your head to see a tall girl staring at you from the mirror. Her white skirt is so short that her underwear is almost visible.

"An Yujin...ssi?"

It's definitely her. She's wearing the same outfit she had on at the daytime event, her arms crossed, looking slightly displeased at you.

"Why are you here?" you ask timidly.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" With that, Yujin strides towards you, her hand reaching for the belt of your pants without hesitation. "Let's get this over with."

Intimidated by the girl's boldness, you calmly scan the surroundings to ensure it’s safe, then guide her by the arm into the cleanest stall you can find.

"Are you the real An Yujin?" You whisper, keeping your voice low to avoid being heard.

"There's another me?" She glances at you exasperatedly, then returns to dealing with your pants. With the same detachment as unlocking a door, she unbuckles your belt, lowers the zipper, and pulls off your pants. Her movements are awkward, but she's completely focused on her task, as if you weren’t even there, and that annoys you a little.

Despite her businesslike demeanor, every time her slender fingers brush against your lower body, your cock stiffens with the intimacy of contact you haven't felt in a long time and the anticipation of what's to come.

“But I haven't done anything yet?” Her fingers caress through your underwear, confirming your arousal. Looking satisfied with the heat of your groin, she smiles.

“May I take these off?” Before you can even nod, she’s already crouching down, pulling the waistband of your boxer briefs down to your ankles, revealing you completely.

Yujin remains crouched, staring at your exposed cock with interest. As you glance down, you notice her tight white mini shorts peeking out from under her skirt. Your cock responds to it, twitching with excitement before her eyes.

“You like being watched, huh?” Yujin says with a knowing smile. As she wraps her hand around your cock, giving it a few strokes, she stands up. You, expecting oral sex or something more, are disappointed and surprised.

“Hey, is that all?”

"I'll do what you wished," she says with a mischievous grin. Then, balancing on her tiptoes and spreading her legs slightly, she holds your cock between the middle of her thighs carefully. "Feel free to move.”

You realize you've messed up again. When you snapped your fingers, you may have been too focused on her legs, and the wish was misinterpreted as thighfuck with her.

“Uh, wait a moment, let me snap my fingers again. This time, I’ll do it right,” you babble in a flustered tone, causing Yujin to look at you with curiosity. “Snap your fingers? What do you mean? Are you already satisfied?”

No way. The wish may have been downgraded, but it's the worst outcome to lose the favorable situation that's already come true. You pull yourself together and direct your full attention on the sensations of her two legs.

Her thighs are curvaceous compared to her slender waist, wrapping around your shaft and transferring her warmth from all directions. As you hold onto her thighs and move your body slowly back and forth, you can feel her bare, soft skin follow together, and the firm muscle layer beneath grips your cock tightly and never releases it.

"Your legs are incredibly gorgeous," you mutter, and for the first time, Yujin looks genuinely embarrassed. It's unclear why this celebrity girl was sent here, but it’s clear that she’s here to provide sexual services to this stranger, so why not make the most of it?

You put your hands on her hips and accelerate the reciprocating motions. As you press your lower body against her legs, the silky surface of her thighs ripples in response. Yujin grips your shoulders to stay balanced, trying to keep steady despite the constant kinetic energy. Your chin rests on her shoulder, and her hair brushes against your face. The sweet scent of her conditioner unexpectedly captivates you.

As sweat beads on your forehead, you wonder why, even though the wish was downgraded, things are still happening that you didn’t expect. Perhaps there’s no rule saying that once a wish is granted in a silly way, nothing else can occur. It might be up to the one who wished to make use of the situation.

To get the most out of the circumstances, you begin to secretly explore the boundary. Slide your hands back on her hips slightly, then cover her ass. There is no indication of her resistance. You knead on Yujin’s tight buttocks and move as if you were thrusting her. It seemed you heard a faint noise leak out of her mouth, but she didn’t stop you.

Then you bring your hands a little bit towards her waist, slipping them under the hem of Yujin’s blouse. Carefully touching her bra in her clothes, your eyes meet hers.

"Can I touch them?"

“Get it done quickly, okay?” Yujin says, looking away. You take that as approval and rub her breasts roughly. She's wearing something like a bandeau bra with no wires underneath her clothing, and you can feel the softness of her breasts even though they’re covered with the bra. But seized by an inevitable urge to see the hardness at the center, you forcefully pull the bra down.

Yujin's breasts are perfectly proportioned, and their distinct curvature and firmness bring a sense of satisfaction. When you touch their smoothness, you’re amazed to see your fingers sinking more than you expected. At the center, a reddish-brown areola the size of a coin surrounds a taut, protruding nipple. You pinch them lightly, then electricity runs through her body. She bashfully covers her mouth with the back of her hand, trying to hide her rough breath.

When you get carried away and go to kiss her, she pulls you away. With her flushed face, she said, “Focus on finishing this” while suffering the pleasure of her upper body.

As you explore Yujin’s youthful body freely, your cock is growing more sensitive and nearing release under the pressure of her thighs. However, your overwhelming passion for the ultimate goal makes it impossible to be satisfied with just releasing your desire between her legs.

“But I wanna be inside you.”

“Just come like this,” she responds bluntly. Expecting this answer, you decided to try another approach.

You stop moving for a moment, pull the hot shaft out from between her legs, lift her hips up, and then push it back in, at a higher position than before, so it can rub against her mini shorts.

“Wait, what are you…” Yujin becomes upset, but when you start moving it, she lets out a small moan. Thrusting your thickness, you can feel the softness of her pussy through the fabric. As you adjust the angle to hit her sweet spot, her hips twitch slightly in response to the pleasure.

Yujin grabs your shoulders and lowers her head, rounding her back to resist the temptation. Although you can't see her face, her shallow, quickened breaths sync with your sensation. You shift one of your hands from her hips to her chest, palming her breast and teasing her nipple with your fingertips.

Her short cry echoes in the empty train station restroom, and both you and she look at each other in surprise. The air feels frozen for a moment, but as you realize there’s no one around to hear it, you both resume the session.

As you gaze into Yujin's eyes, she meets your stare with disheveled hair and a messy face. She is flushed and damp with sweat, and her eyebrows are filled with shame and pleasure. Every time you tease her breasts with a nipple, she bites her lower lip, indicating that your treatment isn’t wrong.

“Keep going,” Yujin murmured with words that were neither order nor plea, revealing her desperate need for ecstasy. You see this as an opportunity to negotiate with her in the heat of the moment.

"After I get it into you," you say clearly, and Yujin seems unsure of how to respond, looking confused. The wish granted you fake sex with IVE's Yujin, but if you want anything more, you’ll have to achieve it on your own. So, does this mean that the An Yujin in front of you is genuinely struggling with whether or not to accept your cock, regardless of the power of the wish?

You think the last push is necessary and sneak your hand inside her shorts, searching for her clit. Her pussy is already soaking wet, and as you slide your fingers on her sensitive skin, which is coated with lube, unbearable pleasure spreads throughout her body. Yujin lets out a muffled moan, and she hugs your neck to keep herself from collapsing. Finally, she gives in and says, "Okay, okay.”

She looks at you awkwardly, pinches the waistband of her shorts, and then lowers them with a polite gesture. As she lifts her leg and removes the high heels from her shorts, you catch a glimpse of her completely shaved pussy. With a hand on the stall door, she turns around and slightly lifts her skirt, presenting her buttocks to you.

"Oppa, hurry up.”

Her curt tone sounded like a cheap whore, which rather turned you on. You place your cock against her wet labia and press gently. You are permitted to enter through her moist skin and proceed into her feverish depth. As your head glides along with her mucus walls, she groans in sensation. Retracing the path, you feel her pussy waves and grips your cock tightly, pulling you back to inside.

While you teasingly savor her insides, Yujin gestures with her sweaty hand to thrust more. You grab her waist roughly and drag her buttocks toward your pelvis. The sounds of skin slapping against skin echo through the empty restroom, her buttocks undulating, and the young idol's unrestrained cries fill the air.

Yujin's breathing becomes irregular and intense as a result of your relentless thrusting. She tries to soften the impact by moving away from you, but the small stall offers no escape. Despite her effort, the insistent slamming continues unabated, and she appears to be on the edge of collapse.

“Oppa, I need a…" She manages to whisper, shaken by the assault from behind. You pretend not to hear her while constantly stirring her pussy. You fiercely grasp the artistic shape of her ass with both hands, thrusting the heated shaft in and out of the lubricated hole in the center.

With one thrust, Yujin rounds her back and convulses her whole body. After a few seconds of trembling, exhaustion overwhelms her, and she’s about to fall. You quickly catch her, turn her around, and sit her down on the lid of the closed toilet.

Her face is flushed red, and she is barely catching her breath. Her nipples move up and down as she breathes, and her legs hang on either side of the toilet, displaying her undressed lower body. The contrast with her cheerful smile in the advertisement is intensely stimulating, but you avoid staring at her to keep her from realizing how she looks now and getting back to reality.

Yujin's inner thighs are glistening with a few streaks of wetness. You take and place them on your shoulders, inserting your still-hot cock from the front. She moans softly and becomes addicted to the sensation of your shaft stretching out her vagina.

As you push your cock through her labia and into her depth, the force causes her breasts to jiggle. You are immersed in the awareness of your movements piercing through her entire body, unable to stop yourself from moving frantically. Instinct guides your hands to her swinging breasts, your lips to her sweat-slicked neck, and then to her lips for a kiss. This time, Yujin doesn’t resist and gives in to your approach. You and this idol caress each other's lips, entwine their tongues, and share the taste of saliva.

Slamming your shaft into Yujin's pussy, you rub her clit with the thumb of one hand a few times. She twists her face and manages to remain silent in a desperate effort, but as the moment of release approaches again, her expression turns into a mix of fear and anticipation.

She presses both hands against her mouth, and after a split-second of weakness, her body trembles with orgasm on the toilet lid. Her inside is spasming around your cock, but you can't stop moving because you feel the dopamine approaching. Thrusting her lube-soaked, fluttering cunt just a few times, hot semen rushes into her depths.

Breathing heavily, you and Yujin watch the cock is pulled out of her pussy, which is glistening with mucus, and the sperm runs out. Yujin's hair is tangled, and she appears fatigued, but there is a strange satisfaction on her face as she looks at the spilled secretions.

As you're wrapping the toilet paper, you hear a few men entering the restroom. Hey, come on. It's gonna take a while to get out. The instant you are distracted by the noise outside, you feel a warm, wet touch on your lower body. Yujin is bending over, eagerly putting your cock into her mouth, and bobbing her head to suck out every last drop of your cum. Surprised, yet unable to resist the seductive sensation of her tongue gliding over your shaft, your cock quickly returns to its earlier state.

"Looks like we can't go out yet," leaving lips from your cock, Yujin whispers teasingly. "There's still time for another round, right?” she says, carefully sitting back down on the toilet lid so as not to make any noise, and spreading her graceful long legs wide.

Damn, it’s really worth 50,000 won.

#smut #kpop smut #girl group smut #ive smut

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