#overlap: coffee cups

[tayfabe75]

Ehi! Do you think that "the black dog" could be about Matty?

Sure I do! Why not? When we have precisely three words to go off of, the world is our oyster black dog!

You know what? Let's have some fun. I'm going to wager a guess I haven't seen much speculation about yet, which is that 'The Black Dog' could be about Cerberus! Yep, the three-headed dog that guards the gates of the underworld in Greek mythology…

To explain his possible significance, I must first introduce you to Psyche: the Greek goddess of the soul, whose symbol is butterfly wings…

But she wasn't always a goddess! She used to be a mortal woman. One so beautiful that she stirred jealousy within the goddess of love & beauty, herself, Aphrodite, who ordered her son and god of love, Eros (also known as Cupid), to make Psyche fall in love with the most wretched creature imaginable. Instead, Eros found himself so taken by Psyche's beauty that he fell in love with her, himself!

And so, Psyche was whisked away to a palace wherein an invisible lover bestowed upon her great luxury and riches, keeping her company each night in total darkness to obscure his identity. So long as she never looked upon him, they could remain lovers.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of her and Psyche shone a light on Eros… So stunned by his beauty, she dropped her oil lamp, burning him. Injured and betrayed, Eros escaped into the night, abandoning her.

Distraught, Psyche set forth to make amends with her lost lover, confronting Aphrodite (also known as Venus), who presented her with a series of trials she must first complete…

One of which required a trip to the underworld…

And, yep! You guessed it. Psyche had to sneak past the three-headed (black?) guard dog Cerberus… (who might've been referenced in 'Blank Space' via a trio of Dobermans?:)

Then, ferried by Charon, Psyche traveled across the River Styx…

While Psyche traversed the underworld, Eros healed from his burns and then set off in search of reconciliation with Psyche, ultimately returning to his lost lover...

So, if the Karma video really is a sort of visual retelling of Psyche's journey back to Eros… who do you suppose is on the piano bench at the end here? Some say Jack (who, interestingly, recently released a song featuring Matty on piano!)… But, considering the romantic tone of the Psyche & Eros love story… it seems to fit Somebody Else a bit better, wouldn't you say? Somebody who, like Eros, was burned after exposure…

Somebody who might symbolize the ram's horns on Taylor's underworld mask (Aries), somebody whose birthday aligns with the solar eclipse this year, somebody who shares an association with Bonnie Parker and Wizard of Oz, somebody who drinks out of eerily similar coffee cups in front of a clock that happens to bear the same time as the twin coffee cup from Karma…

If any of these Psyche/Eros parallels happen to be more than pure coincidence, then perhaps it is worth noting that, much like Betty and James, Eros and Psyche also end up together 🏹

That said? Yeah, yeah! I know. 'The Black Dog' will probably be a depressing song, given that it is basically synonymous with depression. But I have a small window for clowning left. That said, there's also Mayhem, a black dog who is surely worthy of a sonnet!

Another fun guess: Toto from The Wizard of Oz! But I'm not sure if he's technically considered brown or black, but in my head he's a black dog, anyway lol Toto would be a great subversion of current expectations, at least!

Thanks for the ask! 🤍

[tedmustache]

Coffee Swap

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: It starts with coffee. Then it becomes something more.

Warnings: none, just pure fluff

Requests are open | AO3 Link | Main Masterlist

[...]

It started with coffee.

Black, no sugar. The kind most people couldn’t stomach. But she remembered. Every time their shifts overlapped, there it was, sitting quietly on his desk before rounds began. No note. No explanation. Just coffee.

At first, he thought it was a fluke. A mistake. But it kept happening. And after the third cup, he knew it was intentional.

She never said anything. Didn’t ask for thanks. Just left it there like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

He noticed her long before the coffee. The way she moved through chaos with quiet focus. The way she stayed calm when things got messy. The way her laugh—rare, but genuine—cut through the sterility of the ER like sunlight through blinds.

Jack had spent years perfecting the art of distance. He kept things professional. Efficient. Impersonal. It was easier that way. Safer. But something about her made that wall feel… thin.

So one Monday morning, after a hellish double, he got there early. Bought a second coffee. Sweet, with a splash of cream, the way she always ordered it.

He left it on the break room table and leaned against the counter, waiting.

She walked in, paused mid-step, staring at the cup like it might explode.

“You… got me coffee?” she asked, voice edged with disbelief.

He shrugged. “Figured it was my turn.”

She took a sip. Her eyes softened. “Thanks.”

He nodded, kept his expression flat, and walked out. But as he turned the corner, he felt something strange tug at his mouth. A smile, small and involuntary. He hadn’t smiled like that in a long time.

[...]

It became a thing. No one talked about it, not even them.

Some days it was coffee. Other times, food left in the fridge with his name scribbled in her neat handwriting. Once, she handed him a smoothie with a deadpan, “Don’t fight me on this, you need something green.”

He didn’t fight her. He never did.

It was easier not to think too hard about what it all meant. About how he found himself noticing when she wasn’t around. Or how he started showing up five minutes early on her shifts, pretending it was for paperwork.

He liked routine. Control. But this? This was different. It didn’t feel like losing control. It felt like giving it up, willingly.

[...]

Then one day, Dana cornered him in the hallway, grinning like a kid with a secret.

“So,” she said, “you and her, huh?”

He frowned. “What about us?”

She just laughed and walked away.

It shouldn’t have rattled him. But it did.

Later that night, he waited by the exit, two coffees in hand. He told himself it was nothing. Just routine. Just habit.

But when she saw him, her smile did something to his chest. Made it tighten, then ease.

“Late shift?” she asked.

“Nope.” He held out her coffee. “Just wanted to make sure you got this.”

Their fingers touched when she took the cup. This time, neither moved away.

“You know,” she said softly, “people are starting to talk.”

He looked at her. Really looked. Saw the question she didn’t say out loud.

“About what?”

“About us.”

And for the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot let himself smile. Fully, openly. No walls. No mask.

“Let them.”

Because he knew now: it was never just about the coffee.

[...]

a/n: I'm just in love with him

[rafesteddy]

𝓣𝓸𝓾𝓬𝓱𝔂 | 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚝!𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝚐𝚏!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚕𝚏!𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚎 + 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚏!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 #𝟷

+18 -> smut | Rafe locks in on you the second you walk in. Doesn’t care who’s around. And when you’re finally alone, he doesn’t hold back.

c/w: excessive pda, public teasing, voyeurism, oral sex (female receiving), semi-public fingering, praise kink/dirty talk, possessive!rafe, alcohol mentioned, mild humiliation + teasing <- from the boys toward rafe, pet names, dom!rafe/sub!reader, mentions of cum tasting (<- his + hers), overstim + unprotected p in v

It’s one of those slow, pointless afternoons where nobody has anything better to do than drink, talk shit, and pretend the boredom hasn’t already set in. The frat house looks like hell—crushed White Claw cans scattered across the rug, a pizza box flopped open on the coffee table, ESPN muted in the background per usual.

Rafe’s slouched deep in the couch cushions, phone in hand, that smug half-smile tugging at his mouth.

Topper leans over and squints. “You seriously smilin’ at your phone right now?”

Kelce doesn’t even glance up from the slice of cold pizza in his hand, eyes glued on his own phone as he continues to aimlessly swipe right. “He’s on her IG again.”

Rafe doesn’t deny it. Just keeps scrolling, grinning like a man who knows he’s winning.

“She posted, like, five minutes ago,” Topper groans, dragging out the words. “Give the girl a second to breathe, Rafey.”

Rafe rolls his eyes and snorts out a lazy laugh. “Cry about it. Not my fault your girls aren’t hot.”

Someone pops a beer open behind him, another fake coughs into a Solo cup, “Whipped.”

Rafe yawns and flips them off lazily without even glancing away.

“Lacey says they just pulled up,” Topper mutters, and that gets Rafe moving.

He springs up like someone hit fast-forward, dropping his phone to the couch without a second thought. Runs a quick hand through his hair, smooths out his shirt, checks his reflection in the TV screen like it’s a mirror.

Kelce glances at him sideways. “You fixin’ your hair right now?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Rafe mumbles right as the front door creaks open.

A wave of laughter spills in before anyone even steps through—heels hitting the floor, voices overlapping, that whirlwind of energy girls always bring with them. It trails in like perfume, loud and magnetic, dragging every guy in the room into its pull.

Everyone looks up. Rafe doesn’t even wait to see you. He hears your voice and he’s already turning your way.

Then you appear, laughing at something one of the girls said, and whatever tension was bracing his shoulders evaporates. His whole posture shifts. That cocky frat-boy energy softens, just a little.

“There she is,” he mutters under his breath, voice dipping low as he steps into your space. “Co’mere.”

Rafe pulls you in, lifting you off the ground, face buried in your neck as he holds you for a moment. He rests you on your feet, not letting you go far. His hands roam down your back—one anchoring you to him, the other low, fingers spreading wide across your ass.

When he finally pulls back, that grin is still there—lazy and smug. He gives you a once-over, slow and greedy, then tugs your hand and pulls you toward the couch.

He drops back into his seat, legs spread wide, and without missing a beat, pulls you onto his lap.

You straddle him easily, arms sliding around his neck, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his hips. Your chest brushes his; Rafe’s hands finding your thighs, gliding up so high it’s a miracle anyone in the room is still pretending not to watch.

“Shit,” he says, kind of breathless, fingers in your hair before his hand settles at your jaw. “Look at you. You’re driving me fucking crazy and I don’t even think you know it.”

You smile, letting your lips barely graze his. “You’re such a flirt.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dropping to what you’re wearing. “Yeah? Then be honest—or lie. Tell me this wasn’t for me. Tell me you didn’t know exactly what you were doin’.”

The groans around the room start immediately. “You’re sooo pretty, Kelce,” Topper mocks, clutching his heart dramatically.

“Ugh, Top, don’t give me hope,” Kelce fires back through a breathy whine, earning a round of laughter from the boys and your friends.

Rafe doesn’t so much as blink. His hands slide all over your skin like he’s got no plans to stop, fingers digging into your waist before squeezing your ass. You giggle, cheeks heating up from the attention, but it doesn’t stop you from leaning in.

“Everyone’s staring,” you whisper, breath hot against his ear.

“Figures,” Rafe mutters, nuzzling along your cheek. “Like I give a fuck. You do, princess?”

His lips find yours. The kind of kiss that makes the whole room fade away. You let out a little sigh, and he deepens it, fingers tangling in your hair while the other hand works up your back, holding you there, refusing to let you pull away, like you ever would.

You reach over, grabbing the corner of a blanket, yanking it closer, needing something to close you off from the rest of the room— “Hey, that’s mine,” Topper scoffs, tugging the blanket back, but you’re already laughing too hard to care; too wrapped up in Rafe’s mouth and the way he’s looking at you to give a shit.

“Stop bein’ a bitch, Top,” Rafe hums against your lips, shifting just enough to tear the blanket from his grip, tossing it over your shoulders like you intended.

And before you can even react his hand slips between your thighs. You gasp, body jerking slightly as his fingers press against your soaked lace panties.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, grinning as he hooks the fabric to the side and glides through your slickness. “You missed me that bad, huh?”

He brings his fingers to his mouth, sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours.

“Yo,” Kelce says, shaking his head with a laugh. “Seriously? Right in front of us?”

Rafe just shrugs, eyes still on you like no one else is in the room. “Yeah. And?”

He leans in, kisses you slow, tongue slipping past your lips so you taste yourself on him. Then he pulls back just a little, voice rough and low. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”

“Y’all are disgusting,” Topper groans from somewhere behind you as your lips part and Rafe swallows your gentle moan.

“I’m yours,” you say softly.

His hand slips under your shirt, gliding along your lower back, fingertips skating just high enough to make you shift closer.

He grits his teeth, breath catching as you move. “Don’t fuckin’ tease me.”

“You started it,” you murmur, dragging your nails through his hair.

The bulge in his jeans presses right against your sex; your hips rock, just a little, and then again. You look at him lovingly, watching how he reacts—his eyes falling into a lusty daze, lips parting just slightly like he’s trying to play it cool but failing. He’s so hard it’s almost cruel not to.

“You tryin’ to start somethin’ in front of everybody?” He murmurs against your skin, voice dark with warning.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Kelce mumbles, not even bothering to hide the bitterness in his tone.

“— And it sure as hell won’t be the last,” Rafe adds, hand sliding up your thigh like he owns you. “Ain’t stoppin’ now.”

“This is just them,” your friend says, not even bothering to look up from her drink. “You act like it’s a crime to be happy in front of you.”

Kelce rolls his eyes, and someone else cuts in with a laugh. “Your jealousy’s showing, Kelc. It’s loud. Do you need us to set you up with someone? Do you need a wingwoman? We know Top’s not helping you in that department—”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“I’m just sayin’ there’s a time and a place,” Kelce adds.

“Oh my God,” your friend groans.

“You two are gonna die alone,” another girl laughs, tossing popcorn in Kelce’s direction. “Clutching your dick in one hand and you v-card in the other—”

“WE LITERALLY HAD SEX LAST NIGHT!” He croaks in reply, voice cracking as a dark smile spreads across your friends face.

“I don’t know that doesn’t sound like somethin’ I’d do,” she replies.

“Sounds like a lie to me, Kelc,” Rafe laughs against your lips.

“It’s not a lie,” he mumbles against the rim of his drink.

“Y’all got no idea what it’s like,” Rafe adds, hand skating under the blanket, voice dipped in that rich Southern drawl. “To have somebody like this and know she’s just as obsessed as you are—”

“Fuckin’ gross,” Topper scoffs. “Who are you? And where have you taken our boy?”

“Right here, buddy,” Rafe smiles as he grabs your ass, jiggling your skin under the blanket as you giggle against his skin. “For a few more seconds hopefully. I don’t know how much more of this teasin’ I can take.”

“Just askin’ for a little restraint, Cameron. You’re givin’ the boys a bad name.”

“Is he still talkin’?” Rafe tilts his head, brow raised, eyes glinting.

“He says you need to restrain yourself,” you sigh as you play with his hair.

“You’re sittin’ in my lap smilin’ like that, dressed like this and he expects restraint?” He breathes. That earns a giggle from you as you wrap your hands around his neck, pressing your body flush with his. Rafe adjusts slightly brushing your breasts with his broad, muscular chest. “I’m gonna be hard all fuckin’ night if you keep that up,” he growls, breath hot at your ear. You shift your hips just a little and he exhales through his teeth, jaw locking like he’s trying not to lose it. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says laughing a little as he drops his head to your shoulder. “You don’t give a shit about me. You love this.”

His hand comes down on your ass, not too hard, more teasing than anything. “Get up,” he says, still grinning, voice low. “Before I forget we’ve got somewhere to go.”

You stand up and he follows close enough to cover his tented jeans with your body.

“We’re going upstairs—”

“‘Bout time,” Kelce mutters with a dramatic groan, making Rafe laugh.

“Never beatin’ those bitch allegations,” Rafe laughs in his direction.

He lifts you off your feet and you squeal with delight. “I’m useless when you’re this close,” he admits against your cheek as he carries you away.

You’re at the top of the stairs when Rafe suddenly spins, pressing you hard against the wall. His mouth crashes into yours, all hunger and tongue, like he’s possibly been holding something back.

You gasp into the kiss, fingers grabbing at the front of his shirt as he crowds in, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding boldly up your thigh. His leg pushes between yours, and when you grind down on it he groans low in his throat.

“Rafe,” you breathe dizzily. “Your room—”

“You’ve had me hard for the past hour. You sat in my lap like that, all sweet and smug, grindin’ on me in front of everyone… I’m not gonna fuck you out here. You don’t get off that easy. You’re gonna pay for that—”

“Guaranteed they didn’t even make it to the room,” Topper’s voice carries through the frat house.

“You think they’re fucking on the steps?”

“Fifty-fifty,” Kelce mumbles.

You try to hide your smile, teeth sinking into your lip, but Rafe sees right through it. He just shakes his head, eyes dragging over you like he already knows how this ends.

“Let ’em talk,” he says quietly, thumb brushing slow across your bottom lip. “I’m not rushing this, pretty… I’m takin’ my time. Make sure you feel exactly what you did to me.”

He shoves the door open with his shoulder, doesn’t bother flipping the light—just grabs your wrist, pulls you inside, and kicks the door shut so hard it rattles in the frame.

“Fuck, you’re a brat,” he says against your skin. His mouth grazes your jaw, fingers slipping under the edge of your skirt like he can’t wait a second longer. “Knowing I couldn’t do shit. Knowin’ they were all watching and I still let you.”

“You didn’t stop me,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “That��s on you.”

He doesn’t answer with words. Just bends a little, grabs under your thighs, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Your legs lock around his waist, body clinging tight, and the second your hips press into his, you feel just how riled up he already is.

“I didn’t want to stop you,” he says, voice low, straining. “I was seconds from sayin’ ‘fuck it’.”

He doesn’t go for the bed, dropping down onto his chair, dragging you to his lap with a groan torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

You land hard, straddling him, your skirt riding up your hips. Rafe’s hands find your waist, fingers pressing bruisingly tight as he rolls his body up into you.

“Keep doing what you were doin’ downstairs,” he rasps against your lips. “Grinding on me, teasin’ me acting like you had no fuckin’ clue what you were doin’.”

You roll your hips slow at first, dragging your soaked panties over the rough line of his jeans, watching his head fall back as the friction hits deep.

“Rafe,” you whisper, barely able to get it out. “I need you.”

His head falls forward, forehead resting against yours, voice cracking. “I need you too, baby. So bad it’s drivin’ me insane.” He pulls you down harder against him, grinding up in time with every roll of your hips. Then he kisses you again, messy and desperate. “But not yet,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “I want you to cum first. Right here. I want you to make a fuckin’ mess all over me.”

You clench around nothing, breath hitching as you start moving again, harder this time. The denim is perfect, rough and stiff, but it’s not him. It’s not Rafe. You grind down with everything you have, chasing the heat between your thighs as his hands guide your rhythm.

“That’s it,” he whispers, voice raw. “There’s my girl. Take what you need.”

“I need you…” You pout.

“You have me,” he says with a crooked grin, mean and breathless. Your whole body shakes, pleasure building too fast to hold off.

His voice stays in your ear, filthy and low. “You gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Gonna soak through those panties right on my cock you want so bad? Let me feel it. Maybe I’ll let you have it—” You cum with a cry, sharp and helpless, your hips jerking against him as the orgasm rips through you. You bury your face in his neck, gasping, whimpering, cumming so hard you see stars.

He feels all of it—your muscles trembling, the heat of your body, your pussy soaking him through the denim, and he fuckin’ loves it.

“Atta girl,” he whispers. “Just like that. So fuckin’ pretty when you cum for me.”

You collapse forward, breathing heavily, pussy pulsing with your rapid heartbeat. His cock throbs, the weight of him heavy through his jeans, thick and tight against the soaked material.

Rafe stands, lifting you with him, one arm under your thighs, the other locked around your back. You cling to him as he carries you to the bed with his mouth on yours and his jeans undone. Your clothes hit the floor, then his.

The air is thick with heat and need as he lays you back and pushes into you in one deep, aching thrust. You gasp, the sound breaking into a moan as your back arches off the mattress. He fills you completely. Deep enough it almost hurts.

“Sorry, baby,” he breathes against your lips. “Couldn’t wait.”

Rafe starts to move, slow and punishing, his heavy cock dragging against your fluttering walls, eyes rolling back in your head. You wrap your legs around him tighter, fingers digging into his arms pulling him closer.

“I needed this… Needed you all over me, under me, everywhere.” Your nails rake down his back and he hisses, thrusting harder. “You soaked your panties for me. I felt it,” he mutters against your throat. “You know what that does to me? You know what I’m gonna do with that later?”

You can’t answer, you’re too full; too fucked out. Tears pool in your eyes, tumbling down your cheeks. Rafe keeps talking you through it, fucking into you faster and harder.

“I’m gonna taste all of it. Your cum. My cum. Every fuckin’ drop, aight? You’re not leavin’ this bed till I’ve cleaned you up with my fuckin’ mouth.”

Rafe thrusts again, harder. The sound of skin on skin echoing through his room.

“You hear me, baby?” He pants. “I’m gonna ruin you. Make you mine again and again until you forget what it felt like not to have me inside you—” Your orgasm hits you like a wave, ripping through your body, making you clench around him. You cry out again, a broken moan into his shoulder, and that sound seals the deal.

Rafe chokes out a curse and stills, hips pressed hard to yours, every thick muscle in his body locked tight as his dick throbs deep inside you.

His arms cage you against the mattress, moaning something filthy against your neck. Rafe’s lips curl against your skin, he knows it. There’s no way they didn’t hear.

“Hope they fuckin’ heard that,” he groans out, still breathless and satisfied, grinning like a bastard. “And if they didn’t…” Rafe kisses your jaw, your neck, your breasts, trailing lower—dragging down your stomach as his hands slide up the backs of your thighs, easing them apart. His mouth dips lower, breath hot and hungry between your legs.

“Maybe they’ll hear this.”

new tag list 💕

@rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rafecameronlova1

[morganbritton132]

I love the thought of ‘The JLA doesn’t know Batman has kids’ overlapping with ‘Bruce is a single father of multiple children.’

Like, the JLA is about to send out a search party because Batman is five minutes late to a meeting when he shows up with a police report, satellite pictures, and a coloring book.

Green Arrow: …Is that a coloring book? What’s that for?

Batman:

Batman: Coloring.

They’re aiding in the cleanup after a battle in Metropolis. Superman is being interviewed when Lois’ pen stops working. Supes asks, “Batman, do you have something to write with?”

In Bruce’s utility belt, he has a confiscated yo-yo, three broken colored pencil recently removed from the flesh of two different kids, and a Wayne Enterprises pen that Tim scribbled an ‘-ED’ after so it says WEED. Bruce gives Lois the pen and then disappears.

One day, Batman is working on something at the Watchtower. Barry is reaching to pour his second cup of coffee for the day when Bats says without looking up, “Don’t you dare.”

Barry did not dare. He pulled his hand back.

Unbeknownst to Barry, Bruce was on coms listening to his children argue about the physics of a crime scene and Dick had just suggested they test a theory by throwing one of them off the roof handcuffed.

[pixiefelixie]

*ೃ༄ 한지성 - "EXHIBIT A" (MDNI)

: ̗̀➛ synopsis: somehow, you two end up partnered on a case. you’re a sharp detective who takes work way too seriously. jisung’s an unserious, dorky cop with a habit of looking at you like you hung the moon. as you finally start making progress with this nightmare of a case, jisung’s just hoping your relationship makes progress too.

pairing: cop!jisung x detective fem!reader genre: friends2lovers, slowburn, mutual pining, fluff, SMUT (minors, do not interact), detective romance, ~8k warnings: jisung is pininggg and reader thinks he's HOT stuff, lots of coffee, murder investigation, hostage situation, blood (very mild but present), tense scenes, profanity, flirting, banter, tension!! smut warnings: oral (m receiving), face-fucking, dry humping, lots of uniform talk, bdsm, light roleplay, usage of handcuffs, rough sex, begging, kinda switch!jisung but dom leaning, praise + degradation mix, p in v, unprotected sex and pull-out method (wrap it up!!), again: no minors. pls consume responsibly 💌

i've been thinking about policeofficer!jisung for the longest time so i hope you enjoy this as much as i loved writing it!

the second you enter the room, files are slammed onto jisung’s desk.

a half-empty coffee cup rattles. across the room, another officer, chan, mutters a quiet “jesus” before going back to his newspaper

jisung’s mid-sentence with hyunjin—something about bad traffic or his broken ac—but the conversation cuts off immediately.

“three bodies. same m.o. we cannot carry on empty-handed like this,” you groan, drop into the chair beside jisung, and lean over like your bones gave up halfway down. your shoulder presses into his. he doesn’t move.

jisung's still got that dumb plastic spoon in his mouth from stirring his instant coffee. “good morning to you too.”

you drop your head back with a dramatic sigh, eyes fluttering shut. “i haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, jisung.”

“you don’t say.” he leans back slightly, shifts just enough to angle his coffee toward you. “you want?”

he lets you take it without protest, watching as you take a sip—grimace—then take another one anyway.

“the victims—one of them was a social worker, one worked at a used car place, one was a bartender. no overlap in job, no overlap in routine. but…” you pause, then reach for the coffee again without asking. he lets you. you take a gulp like it might trigger divine revelation.

“but?” he prompts.

“they all attended the same grief support group. same tuesdays. same community center.”

you glance at him, breath catching just slightly from how fast the words tumbled out. “i only realized after the third body. i’d seen the name before—‘sunridge wellness collective’—but i didn’t think much of it until i cross-referenced next of kin statements and time off requests.”

jisung goes still. then leans back, brows slowly rising.

“no way,” he breathes.

you nod. “i triple-checked it.”

jisung exhales a quiet laugh, still half in disbelief. “you genius,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “actual genius.”

you shrug, trying not to look too pleased, even as heat creeps up your neck. he doesn’t even pretend to look away. just stares at you, open admiration written all over his face—lips parted like he’s trying to find something witty to say and can’t.

you pause. then, very deliberately, look him in the eye. “today,” you say.

he nods along like he always does. “yes?”

you lean in a little, your voice dipping with focus. “you and me. sunridge wellness collective. together. talk to whoever runs those meetings, get a list of attendees, find out who stood out. who stopped showing up after the first murder.”

his eyes flick to your mouth for a split second before he nods, quick, a little too eager. “yeah. yeah, of course.”

he’s blushing. just barely, but it’s there. that pink dusting his ears, the way he fidgets with his pen, suddenly finding it very interesting. you’re already scribbling in your notepad, too keyed up to notice the flush in his ears or the way he’s still looking at you instead of his own notes.

“they meet weekly, tuesdays at 6pm,” you mutter, half to yourself. “if they’re sensitive about confidentiality—”

“we could say it’s part of a wider investigation,” jisung offers, watching you intently.

you nod, pen tapping against the paper. “we’ll split up once we’re there. i wrote down what we need from them. can you check if i’m missing anything?” you slide it over to him.

there’s a pause. you’re already mentally combing through the rest of your notes when you realize jisung hasn’t responded.

you glance up, pen still poised.

he’s just… staring at you. focused in that way he gets when he’s thinking really hard but doesn’t want to say the first version of his thought out loud.

“what?” you ask.

he blurts out, “did you change your earrings?”

your brows lift.

he clears his throat, eyes flicking to your ear. “they’re different. not the little hoops. these are, uh… longer?”

you blink, slowly. “yeah. i changed them this morning.”

“huh.” he mutters, like that explains something deeply complicated. “they suit you.”

there’s a beat of silence.

you furrow your brows, dragging your attention back to the file in front of you. “anyway. we should head out soon. they open at noon, and i want to catch whoever runs the sessions before they get busy.”

“but first,” he says, standing so abruptly his chair rolls back a little. “you—” he points at you like he’s issuing a warrant, “—are gonna sit your exhausted ass down and take a twenty.”

“i don’t need a nap, jisung,” you protest immediately, grabbing the file again. “i just need more coffee and—”

he’s already circling the desk, tugging the file gently from your hand. “uh-uh. don’t make me cuff you to the couch.”

you raise a brow.

he grins. “come on.”

before you can argue again, he takes your hand and pulls you toward the small, beat-up couch in the corner of the office lounge. the thing barely qualifies as furniture, covered in a faded gray throw and the ghosts of past takeout spills, but he guides you down like it’s the nicest place on earth.

you try to stay tense, alert, but your body betrays you. you sink into it harder than expected, your knees weak with exhaustion, head already feeling floaty.

“i said i’m fine,” you grumble half-heartedly as he drops his laptop and boots it up, settling beside you.

“you’re not,” he says softly. “you haven’t blinked since you walked in. you’re talking fast enough to short-circuit my brain.” he slides in closer, laptop perched on his thigh. “now lean. i’ll keep working.”

you open your mouth to argue—but there's a calm steadiness of his voice which makes you give in. your cheek rests against the curve of his shoulder. his blue uniform smells like old coffee and something faintly woodsy. you don’t even remember closing your eyes.

but you do hear him, a few seconds before sleep swallows you whole:

“that’s it. i’ve got you.”

and then—

darkness.

a few minutes later, the office door creaks open.

felix steps in, mid-bite of a granola bar, scanning for jisung—and pauses when he sees you curled up beside him, completely knocked out. jisung’s typing with one hand, the other draped casually across your back. he shoots a glance at jisung, who looks up, sheepish. felix chews, then smiles—soft, knowing.

what was supposed to be a quick visit to sunridge turned into a 4-hour deep dive. the grief group coordinator pulled records, talked through attendees, let you sit in on their latest session. you interviewed three regulars, two volunteers, and tracked down a guy who had dropped out of the group right after the second murder—who, to your surprise, had a history of assault and a sealed psych hold. it was the best suspect you’d had in weeks.

now it’s past nine.

the police station’s dead quiet—just the hum of vending machines and the occasional creak of an old light. you and jisung found yourselves holed up in one of the conference rooms after coming back from the community center, papers spread out on the table between you. a single lamp glows overhead, casting long shadows across the room.

you lean forward, both elbows on the table, voice low and tired. “he also lied about his job. the center told us he works maintenance at the school, but there’s no record of employment there. none. and the timeline fits—he dropped off the radar two days before the second victim was found.”

jisung’s across from you, legs spread, hands rubbing his face like he’s trying to force himself to stay sharp.

you lean in further, voice sharp now, urgent beneath the exhaustion. “jisung.”

his head lifts, eyes locked on you now. “i’m listening, i’m listening.”

without a word, you reach into the folder and slide the photo across the table—grainy, scanned, but clear enough. a man in his mid-forties, average build, receding hairline, narrow eyes that somehow still feel cold even through the poor image quality.

“this is him, hannie,” you say, flat and direct.

his head turns back toward you instantly. the nickname. the tone. he leans forward without hesitation.

you tap the corner of the photo. “kang hyunseok."

jisung’s eyes fix on the photo the moment it lands in front of him.

his fingers brush the corner, but he doesn’t pick it up. just stares. memorizing. narrow eyes, pronounced nasolabial lines, a dull expression that somehow feels too blank. the kind of face that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd—unless you knew what you were looking for.

“this is the one,” you say. “we focus everything on kang hyunseok now.”

but even as the words leave your mouth, you’re already flipping through the folder again—papers rustling, fingers darting like your brain’s moving faster than your hands can follow.

“we need to keep looking. there’s more. but we’re so close. you feel that, right?”

“oh, i feel it,” he mutters, an indescribable tone to his voice.

your brows pull together, confused for half a second—until his eyes flick down to your lips, just briefly, and then back up.

you blink.

he clears his throat, shifts in his seat. “no—yeah—i mean. the case. i feel it. the proximity. i mean—like, in a work sense.”

you blink again, slower this time. “what other sense is there?”

jisung lets out a sharp breath through his nose—half a laugh, half a surrender—and drops his head back against the chair with a quiet thud. “god, for a detective, you’re so fuckin’ stupid sometimes.”

your eyebrows knit instantly. “excuse me?”

you’re quiet for a beat too long, and his jaw tightens.

then, with a snort, he looks away. “forget it.”

you exhale through your nose, sharp. you had no time for whatever this... thing is spiraling into. not tonight.

jisung nods, jaw tense. “we’ll tail him.”

“and the moment he trips,” you add, “we move. no hesitation. i want an airtight case before he even sees us coming.”

he exhales slow, controlled. “good.”

but your shoulders are already sagging. the last forty hours are catching up all at once, like gravity just remembered you exist. you let out a sigh that sounds more like a deflation, and before you even realize what you’re doing, you slump forward and rest your forehead flat against the cool surface of the table.

“god, i’m gonna die in this station,” you mutter into the wood.

there’s a short beat of silence.

then—jisung’s laugh. low and warm and unguarded. it bubbles up so easily it almost startles you. his palm smooths down the curve of your back, steady, affectionate. “don’t die yet,” he says. “we haven’t caught the bastard.”

you let out a low groan, cheek smushed against the table. “i need a drink. not that swill seungmin calls coffee.”

jisung perks up, his hand still lazily tracing your back. “say less.”

you lift your head, barely. “i’m serious.”

“so am i.” he’s already sitting up straighter, that glint in his eye resurfacing. “i saw this bar earlier today, on the way to sunridge. looked new—quiet. kind of divey, your vibe.”

you raise an eyebrow. “charming.”

he stands, stretches, and looks down at you like it’s already decided. “come on. we earned it. it’s my treat.”

you pretend to groan again, but your smile is already cracking through. you shake your head, pushing yourself to your feet.

“god help me.”

clink.

the soft sound of your third round of soju tapping together cuts through the low buzz of conversation around you. the bar is quiet—just the way jisung promised. dim yellow lights hang over worn wood, and the speakers hum some indie ballad you don’t recognize. it’s cozy.

jisung leans back in the booth, sipping first, then raising a brow at you. “so?”

you take your sip, let it linger on your tongue. “i like it.”

he grins. “told you.”

you’re mid-laugh when you glance over at him again—and then it really hits you.

gone is the stiff collar, the badge, the holster. he’s traded it all in for a soft black hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, layered over a white tee that slips right out the bottom hem. thin grey sweats, hair slightly tousled.

and he’s so handsome. in a way that punches the breath right out of you.

you’ve only ever seen him in uniform. and boy was he hot in his uniform. but now—now he looks like someone else. still jisung, but softer. more real.

you roll the glass between your palms, watching the last bit of soju swirl at the bottom. “you know, when i first got assigned to this case,” you start, tone thoughtful, “i wasn’t expecting… you.”

jisung’s head tilts, one brow lifting. “what does that mean?”

you glance at him over the rim of your glass, the smallest smirk playing at your lips. "they told me i was partnered up with someone young, smart, and ‘reactive.’ that’s the word they used. reactive. so i was imagining someone all sharp and broody and... i don’t know. keeps to himself. has maybe… a few cats.”

jisung squints. “so… minho.”

you laugh, “yeah. sure. minho.”

he raises his brows, setting his glass down with exaggerated care. “are you disappointed?”

you scoff immediately, shaking your head. “no.”

jisung blinks, a little thrown by how quickly you said it. “no?”

a beat.

“not disappointed at all.” you pause, searching for the right words. then you glance down at your glass, tracing the rim with your finger. “you pick up on things most people miss. but you're also really fun to work with.”

his cheeks tint pink immediately. like clockwork. he shifts in his seat, clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything.

you smirk a little at his reaction. “and you blush so easily. is that also part of the reactive label?”

jisung groans, tipping his head back dramatically against the booth cushion. “oh, come on, y/n.”

you laugh under your breath, then soften. “the thing is, i’ve just never seen you in action. not when it’s serious.”

he chuckles with that lazy kind of ease that only shows up after alcohol.

you shrug, grinning. “you’re just such a dork. it’s hard to imagine you chasing someone down in full gear yelling ‘get on the ground!’ with that stupid voice you use when you’re out of breath.”

jisung laughs—loud and warm. “stupid voice?”

“you know the one.” you pitch your voice up, overly dramatic. “‘this is officer han, stop resisting!’ like that.”

he nearly chokes on his drink. “okay, first of all, rude. second of all, that’s not how i sound.”

you lean in a little, elbow propped on the table, eyes glinting. “i’m just saying. you’re not exactly the stereotypical cop.”

he chuckles, low and easy, like your words rolled right off him and made themselves at home. “yeah, well,” he says, stretching his arm across the back of the booth, “the uniform does a lot of the heavy lifting.”

you hum, tilting your head thoughtfully. “i'm glad it does.”

jisung raises a brow. “oh?”

you sip your drink, slow. “don’t act like you don’t know. the cuffs, the belt, the radio mic clipped to your shoulder—yeah. it works.”

he blinks once. then twice. “wait, you think the radio mic’s hot?”

you grin. “i think the whole thing’s hot.”

and just like that—there it is again. that pink dusting his cheeks. his hand twitches slightly against the back of the booth like he’s debating whether to fidget or flex.

jisung lets out a breathy laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s trying to physically shake off the blush. “you’re drunk, y/n.”

��maybe a little." you grin, propping your chin on your hand. "is it obvious?”

he chuckles again, softer this time, eyes crinkling. “well, you’re terrifyingly honest.”

you tilt your head toward him. “what, can’t handle a few compliments?”

“i can handle them just fine,” he says, a crooked grin forming. “it’s the part where you liked my walkie talkie that’s gonna haunt me.”

you laugh. “it’s the authority. it’s very ‘do what i say’, you know?”

“you like that?”

“i plead the fifth.”

jisung bites his lip with a small smile. just a subtle press of teeth like he’s grounding himself—like he doesn’t trust what might come out if he says something now. 

your eyes meet his across the short distance, soft in a way that shouldn’t be allowed. not here. not after everything. not when his brain is already scrambled from the case and the soju and you.

jisung swallows, slow. he would buy you drinks every night if it means you’ll look at him like that. if it means you’ll smile like that, lips glossy from the rim of your glass, voice just a little slurred from being too comfortable around him.

it’s insane. he knows that.

but he wants your attention so bad it aches.

you shift in your seat, glancing down at your watch, then back at him.

“we did great today, but i think we should go,” you murmur. “i need to go to bed.”

jisung laughs, low and warm. “i’ll walk you home.”

you look at him for a beat, and then nod, that same sleepy smile tugging at your lips. “thanks, officer.”

he heads to the counter to pay, tugging out his wallet without hesitation. while he’s busy talking to the waiter, you keep going—because your brain doesn’t know how to shut off, even with alcohol in your veins.

“so tomorrow,” you mumble to yourself, half-thinking out loud, “we check the transit footage again. he left the center on foot, so maybe there’s something on the street cams two blocks down—remember that alley behind the florist’s?”

jisung hums in response, glancing over his shoulder to let you know he’s still listening, even while he signs the receipt.

“and if we can figure out which direction he turned, that narrows the search zone. i’ll run the cctv timestamps. you can pull location logs from his old address—see if anything flags.”

jisung slips the receipt into his pocket and thanks the waiter with a nod. as he steps beside you, you hook your arm through his without thinking.

“—and if there’s nothing from the alley, we can try the karaoke bar on 5th,” you mumble, head tipping slightly as your feet carry you forward, slow and steady. “they’ve got an old security cam facing the back entrance. might catch something if we get lucky.”

jisung hums again, soft. a smile playing at the edge of his lips. he knows you’ll be talking the whole way back home.

you didn’t expect him to move this fast.

kang hyunseok was supposed to be a slow burn—one you’d watch, tail, collect dirt on until he slipped up. you thought you’d spend the next few days building a case tight enough to bury him. you weren’t expecting a fourth victim. not now. not today.

but that’s what changed everything.

you slid into jisung’s patrol car with your tablet clutched to your chest, breath caught halfway in your throat.

“get in,” he said the second he saw your face. “talk to me.”

you didn’t even wait for the seatbelt to click. just pulled up the image.

“transit footage flagged a repeat pattern. different woman. same alley. this was this morning. not last week. this morning.”

jisung’s eyes snapped to the screen.

“she’s not reported missing yet,” you continued, voice fast and clipped, “because no one knows she’s gone. she was headed to work—florist on 5th—last seen twenty minutes before this.”

“and hyunseok?” he asked.

“five minutes behind her. same path. same shirt from the footage we saw yesterday. and look at this.” you swiped to the next frame—rear camera from a delivery truck parked across the street. “he turns off into the alley again. she doesn’t come out. he doesn’t come out.”

jisung was already shifting the gear.

you barely had time to process it before the sirens screamed to life.

“jesus,” you muttered, rubbing your face with your palms.

“we were supposed to watch him. ease in. build it clean.” jisung groaned in annoyance.

“plans change.”

jisung nodded, exhaling hard. he flicked the radio on, voice sharp. “this is officer han jisung. we have a possible hostage situation in progress—suspect kang hyunseok—near the maintenance shed behind daehan elementary. request backup and medic at scene. proceeding now with primary approach.”

you swallowed, hard.

“y/n,” he said, quieter now.

you turned.

“if he’s got her in there, he’s not thinking clearly. i need you sharp. no hesitation.”

“i’m with you.”

the cruiser pulled off into the service lane behind the school. from here, the property looked empty—like any other weekday lull. just wind through the leaves, the faint hum of hvac, and the shed.

you both stepped out.

gravel crunched underfoot as you followed close behind, adrenaline settling in your throat like a second heartbeat. the air felt too still. even the birds had gone quiet.

jisung moved first—body low, steps controlled, eyes locked on the shed like he could see through its thin wooden walls. you stayed just behind him, trying to steady your breathing.

he raised his mic, voice low. “visual on target structure. proceeding with primary approach.”

the crackle echoed, sharp enough to make you flinch.

and then—his hand.

without turning, he reached back and touched you—just a light press against your thigh, above your knee, grounding. protective. his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary, warm even through the fabric of your pants. you froze, heat blooming up your spine. he was shielding you—literally putting himself between you and whatever waited inside.

you swallowed hard. didn’t move.

you were both less than ten feet from the shed now. the door sat crooked on its hinges, slats of peeling paint catching in the breeze. faint sounds drifted from inside. a scuffle. a choked sob.

jisung held up his hand—wait—and you stopped instantly.

you could hear everything now. the rasp of someone breathing too hard. shuffling feet. fear. then he spoke through the door, tone level, low.

“mr. kang hyunseok. this is officer han. we know you’re in there.”

silence. your pulse thundered in your ears.

jisung’s voice didn’t waver. “we’re not here to hurt you. but you need to open this door. now.”

still nothing.

then—

shuffling. a soft thud. a another stifled sob.

jisung didn’t flinch. “we’re coming in.”

he gestured, and you moved in sync, pushing the door open carefully. what hit you first was the smell—sweat, mildew, copper. then the sight:

a woman—mid-thirties, bruised lip, hands zip-tied—was crouched in the corner, barely holding herself up.

and behind her, hyunseok.

average build. greasy hair. hollow eyes. he held a rusted boxcutter to her throat, shaking like he’d already made peace with doing something irreversible.

“don’t move!” he barked.

but jisung was already stepping in—one arm up, the other steadying his gun.

“mr. kang. you don’t want to do this.”

“you don’t know what i want,” he hissed. “you don’t know anything.”

“i know you’re scared,” jisung said. “but the second you hurt her, there’s no going back.”

the woman whimpered.

“shut up!” kang shouted, pressing the blade closer. her eyes rolled in fear.

jisung didn’t blink. “look at me. right here. not her—me.”

kang’s stare jerked toward him.

jisung said quietly. “you put that down, she walks out of here alive, and i promise we’ll talk. i’ll listen.”

a flicker of something in hyunseok’s eyes. doubt. maybe shame.

then—

he bolted.

everything happened fast.

hyunseok shoved the woman aside and crashed through the half-open door like a wild animal, the blade glinting once before disappearing with him into the daylight.

jisung moved instantly.

“stay with her,” he barked, already out the door.

you dropped to your knees beside the woman, hands up in calm, open gestures as she whimpered and shrank into herself.

“hey, it’s okay,” you murmured, voice soft but firm. “you’re safe now. i’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

she was shaking so hard her teeth clicked. her wrists were still zip-tied, red and swollen, and a thin line of blood trailed from a nick under her chin. you kept one hand lightly on her shoulder, the other reaching gently for your pocket knife.

“i’m gonna cut these off, alright? then we’re getting you out of here.”

once her hands were free, she collapsed into your side, sobbing.

from outside—you heard it. a shout. a thud. your eyes flicked up. and there he was.

just outside the shed, in the crushed patch of dirt beneath the trees—jisung had kang hyunseok pinned.

one knee pressed firm between his shoulder blades, keeping him flat against the ground, arm wrenched behind his back with smooth precision.

his breathing was steady, jaw clenched, eyes locked down. focused. he had his cuffs out before you even noticed, voice low but clear.

“you are under arrest for attempted abduction and aggravated assault. stay down. do not move.”

kang writhed beneath him, panting.

“stay. down.”

with one hand still firm on hyunseok’s shoulder, he reached back and clipped the cuffs into place—quick, efficient, muscle memory. the sound of metal on metal was sharp in the open air.

hyunseok muttered something under his breath, but jisung didn’t react. he hauled him up just enough to get a better grip, keeping him hunched forward, hands secured behind his back.

and then—sirens.

low at first, then rising—cutting through the stillness of the trees like a warning bell. blue and red flickered through the schoolyard gates, bouncing off the shed’s peeling wood.

an ambulance rounded the corner first, tires crunching over gravel, followed by two black-and-white cruisers that rolled to a stop just a few yards away. doors opened. boots hit the ground.

you looked up just as minho and changbin jogged toward the scene, both in uniform, both already scanning for targets.

“visual on suspect,” minho muttered into his radio, eyes darting to jisung. “he’s got him.”

changbin veered toward jisung without missing a beat. “need a hand?”

jisung gave a sharp nod, handing hyunseok over without a word. you watched as changbin gripped the suspect by the arm, walking him firmly toward the waiting cruiser while reading off something low and clipped under his breath. minho followed a step behind, already on the phone, likely relaying the wrap-up to dispatch.

jisung didn’t move. he just stood there, hand still hovering near his belt, jaw tight as he watched the entire handoff.

only when the car door slammed shut—hyunseok tucked away behind tinted glass—did his shoulders finally drop.

behind you, the ambulance doors swung open.

a medic in navy blue approached, calling gently as she crouched near the woman in your arms. “ma’am, we’re going to take care of you, okay? you’re safe now. you’re going to be alright.”

the woman clung to your sleeve for a moment, fingers weak but desperate. you squeezed her hand.

“you’re okay,” you said softly. “they’re going to help you now.”

she nodded—barely—eyes glassy, mouth trembling. and just like that, she was lifted gently to her feet, guided toward the ambulance with quiet words and steady hands.

you stayed on the ground for a beat, watching her go. something in your chest deflated—not quite relief, not quite closure. just weight.

then—familiar footsteps. a shadow beside you.

jisung didn’t speak. he just stood there, breathing a little too hard, uniform rumpled, sweat drying on his neck.

you looked up at him.

and he looked at you.

for a second, neither of you moved. the weight of it all sat between you—what could’ve happened, what almost did. but then jisung jerked his head toward the ambulance.

“let’s check in,” he said, voice rough.

you walked together—quiet, shoulder to shoulder. the victim was seated now, eyes unfocused, but she turned slightly when you approached.

“she’s stable,” the medic explained, clipboard tucked under her arm. “small laceration to the neck, some bruising, no signs of internal injury. we’ll take her in for observation, run trauma protocols, but she’s lucid. might even be able to give you a statement later today.”

you straightened. “make sure they run toxicology too. if he drugged her, we’ll need that confirmation for the report.”

“got it,” the medic replied, scribbling it down. “any next of kin we can contact?” the medic asked.

you shook your head. “not yet. we’ll pull it from the employee file at the florist’s.”

“alright. you’ll be updated as soon as she’s cleared for statement.”

you stepped back, and without another word, jisung turned on his heel and headed toward his cruiser. you followed, heart still beating a little too loud in your chest.

by the time you slid into the passenger seat again, you felt the comedown start to hit—slow and sharp. your hands were cold.

“did you see him? just—god. fucking mental.” he muttered, jaw clenched.

you reached forward, gently curling your fingers around the front of his vest.

he froze.

his eyes snapped to you, confused, breath caught. “what—”

you leaned in.

and kissed him.

his mouth froze against yours for half a second—like his brain short-circuited—but then his hands found your waist, almost instinctively. the kiss deepened—fast. like all the adrenaline they hadn’t burned off during the takedown had nowhere else to go but here. his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you closer across the console as his tongue slid into your mouth.

you didn’t pull away either. didn’t even think about it. because the windows were tinted. because jisung—officer han, still half in uniform—was making out with you like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

your fingers slid up his chest, skimming the front of his vest, tracing along the straps and seams like you could memorize it all by feel. his breath hitched. his mouth opened more under yours, hungry, desperate, soft in ways you hadn’t expected.

you tugged at the edge of his collar, slipping your hand beneath it, fingertips brushing over the line where his neck met his shirt.

he whimpered. it was soft. barely audible. but you felt it in his throat, in the way his body trembled beneath your touch. he’d just pinned a man to the ground ten minutes ago and now he was falling apart under your hands, lips chasing yours between uneven breaths.

you finally pulled back, just barely—your noses still brushed, breath mingling in the warm space between you.

jisung’s eyes were half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. his hands hadn’t left your waist. his thumb was still rubbing slow, unconscious circles against your hip like he didn’t realize he was doing it.

you stared at him for a beat, breathless. then you smiled—small, dazed.

he blinked. “come to my place.”

your smile widened, teasing now. “after paperwork.”

he groaned, head thudding lightly back against the seat. “god. after paperwork.”

you laughed softly, pressing your hand to his chest one last time before settling back into your seat, eyes still on him.

later that night, you found yourself making out with jisung on his couch—somehow still in partial uniform.

the vest was off, discarded somewhere by the door, but his utility belt was half undone, and the top buttons of his shirt were popped open. he hadn’t even bothered changing. neither had you.

it was fast. messy. all the restraint you’d both faked back at the station had dissolved the second the door closed behind you.

now, you were straddling him, knees pressed into the worn cushion on either side of his thighs, your hands tangled in his hair while his fingers dug into your hips like he didn’t know how to not touch you.

he kissed like he worked—focused, deliberate, all-in. but every now and then, he’d let out this quiet, breathy noise against your mouth, like he was overwhelmed and didn’t know what to do with it. like the fact that you were here, in his lap, kissing him like you meant it, was short-circuiting every brain cell he had left.

your hands slid down his chest again, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. you brushed over the strap of his shoulder holster, still half-hanging down one arm, and he shivered.

he pulled back just barely, lips red and eyes glazed, breath catching.

“i’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmured, voice low, still a little breathless. “but you’re so oblivious.”

you blinked, then arched a brow, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “sorry,” you said, sweet.

“the entire office knew how i felt about you. my god, y/n, i made handcuff jokes in front of them.” he groaned, tilting his head back like he couldn’t believe this was real. you used the angle to your advantage—your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, slow and deliberate. his breath hitched again when your knuckles brushed his skin.

“i wasn’t trying to ignore it,” you murmured. “i was just… so caught up in the case. and everything else. but i liked you,” you said softly. “i like you. the way you say my name when you’re trying not to smile. and how hot you looked today when you arrested that bastard.”

by the time the third fourth popped open, his shirt fell apart beneath your hands—and that’s when you saw it.

the ink.

across the smooth planes of his torso, tattoos, ones you’d never seen at the precinct. fine black lines. delicate design. bold fonts. a kind of rebellion hidden under all that authority.

you dragged your fingers lightly over the ink, tracing the design like it would tell you something about him no report ever could.

“do you…” your voice came soft, teasing, as your fingers trailed down just above his waistband, “still have your handcuffs on you?”

jisung blinked hard, like that pulled him right out of his own body.

you tilted your head, pretending to be thoughtful. “or did you use your last pair on kang today?”

his breath caught. his eyes darkened.

“you’re not serious,” he said, voice low. dangerous.

you leaned in until your lips brushed the corner of his jaw. “i could be.”

then you kissed him again—deeper, rougher this time. your hands slid over his chest, bare now, warm under your touch. he gasped into your mouth, his hips bucking up involuntarily as you shifted in his lap, grinding down just enough to feel everything through the fabric of his pants.

his head fell back against the couch, lips parted, eyes blown wide.

“jesus,” he breathed. “you’re—fuck.”

you didn’t stop. you rolled your hips again, slow and deliberate, and he shuddered beneath you. his hands gripped your thighs now, tight and grounding, like he didn’t trust himself not to fall apart.

“i have a cabinet,” he mumbled, words tumbling out as you kissed down his throat. “for my gear. belt. baton. cuffs. i didn’t think i’d ever have a reason to—shit—take them out for this. didn’t expect you to be such a freak.”

jisung groaned with a breathy laugh, head tipping back as you rocked down again. he was hard beneath you—aching through his slacks—and you were soaked, grinding over him like you’d been waiting for this as long as he had.

your fingers moved like they had a mission, gliding over the lines of ink carved across his chest—lines that had no right to be that fucking sexy. his black slacks tented obscenely, cock straining against the fabric like it was begging for your attention. you traced one tattoo down over his ribs, nails grazing, and watched him twitch.

“you’re hard,” you whispered as you leaned down, nose brushing the skin leading beneath his beltline. “all for me?”

he made a strangled sound, breath shuddering out of him. “yes, y/n,” he groaned, voice cracking, eyes half-lidded and burning. “i’ve thought about this—every night.”

the belt came free with a satisfying clatter, and you popped the button of his slacks open, dragging the zipper down achingly slow while you lowered yourself until your breath was hot through the thin cotton of his briefs. his cock strained against the fabric, twitching when you pressed your lips to it through the cloth, wetting the spot with your tongue, slow and sinful.

he whined. actually whined. “please—fuck—”

you glanced up, grinning against him. “so eager, officer.””

he was unraveling. you could feel it. you kissed down the length of him through his briefs, lips dragging slowly, wetly, before finally tugging the waistband down. his cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, leaking at the tip, and your breath caught at the sight.

his thighs tensed under your palms the moment you leaned in and wrapped your lips around the head of his cock.

“ah—fuck, yes,” he gasped, voice breaking, hips jerking before he caught himself. his hand flew out to brace against the back of the couch, muscles straining under the tension of holding still, letting you take control. “fuck, that’s—shit, your mouth—”

you sucked slow at first, tongue swirling, hollowing your cheeks as you took him deeper inch by inch, your hand stroking the base. he was hot and heavy on your tongue, the taste of him already addicting, and every time you sank a little further, his breath hitched higher.

you moaned around him, sending a shiver through his body, and then you started to move in earnest. he was panting now, chest heaving, fingers scrabbling against the cushion like he didn’t know what to hold onto.

“i wanna fuck your throat,” he growled, voice like gravel now. “let me, baby. let me take over. let me use that perfect mouth.”

you pulled off, tongue already out, eyes locked on his. drool clung to your lips, chest rising fast as you let go of his cock and rested your hand on his thigh. he stared down, dazed, hand wrapping around himself. he slapped the tip against your tongue twice before gripping your hair and shoving back in. his cock filled your mouth, pushing deep. you gagged, drooled, took it all—moaning as he started fucking your face.

“i won’t last—” he choked, hips slamming. 

you moaned again, desperate and messy, clinging to his thighs as he drove in deep one last time and spilled with a shuddering cry.

hot. thick. you swallowed every drop.

when he pulled out, cock twitching, you looked up at him, lips swollen, spit-slicked, breathless.

he just stared. “you’re perfect.”

jisung looked ruined. flushed. utterly lost in you.

but so were you.

“officer,” you breathed, voice low, still rough from how deep you’d taken him.

his gaze sharpened instantly, like his body had been waiting for your voice. “what do you need, detective?”

you dragged your nails slowly up his thighs. “i need you,” you repeated, softer now, almost a whisper. you leaned in close, lips brushing the sweat-damp hollow of his throat, your tongue tracing a line up to his jaw. “to fuck me.”

jisung’s eyes darken at your words, as he gently pushed you away to look into your eyes. “then, i'll give it you in my bed.”

you bit your lip. nodded. “take me.”

and he did.

it was clumsy. he tucked himself back into his briefs with a shaking hand, didn’t even zip his slacks up all the way. his cock was still half-hard,, and he couldn’t stop glancing down at the mess you’d made on him. you reached up and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

he didn’t let go of you. one arm stayed firm around your waist as he half-led, half-dragged you down the hall to his bedroom, your steps uneven, tangled together, like you couldn’t stand to be apart for a second. the door slammed open behind him with his foot, and you stood in front of him, starting to undress.

your fingers found the hem of your shirt, and you peeled it up slow, teasing, inch by inch. you knew he was watching every little movement, every flash of skin, and you reveled in it. the heat of his gaze felt like a physical thing, dragging over your stomach, your ribs.

the shirt hit the floor.

jisung exhaled hard through his nose. 

you turned slightly as you pushed your slacks down over your hips, letting them slide to the floor with a soft rustle. the fabric pooled around your ankles and you stepped out of it, bare now except for a lacy pair of panties, clinging to your flushed skin.

“you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice raw, reverent as he stared at your chest.

you crawled onto the bed slowly, as you moved toward him. his breath caught when your knees bracketed his thighs again and you settled in his lap, your fingers curling into his open shirt, dragging it down off his shoulders completely this time.

“you gonna fuck me like you mean it, officer?” you whispered against his ear.

he shuddered. then his hands gripped your ass and pulled you down against his lap, grinding your soaked panties over the outline of his cock through his slacks. but then—he swallowed thickly, voice hoarse against your ear.

“top drawer,” he said, barely more than a growl. “left side.”

you climbed off his lap before you stepped toward the drawer. you crouched in front of it, slowly easing it open. there they were, glinting under the dim bedside lamp. but that wasn’t all. there was a contracted baton, a pair of gloves, a clip-on badge, and two sets of zip ties in a clear plastic bag. you sucked in a breath, pulse racing.

you reached for the handcuffs, metal cold in your hand and you turned around slow. jisung was still on the bed, shirtless now, pants unzipped and bulging. you stepped back toward him, one deliberate step at a time, until you were between his knees again. 

he looked up at you, sweat beading at his temples, jaw tight.

“so this is what you want?” he asked low, like he already knew, but he needed you to say it. his hand came up, brushing the inside of your thigh, making you shiver. “you wanna be cuffed, detective?”

you swallowed, your throat dry. nodded once.

he leaned in. his breath was hot against your stomach as his lips skimmed the skin just above your waistband. “you want me to lock you up and make you take it?”

“yes,” you whispered, barely able to speak through the heat crawling up your body.

his hands slid up, over your hips, around to your ass again, and he pulled you closer, tongue flicking out to taste your skin as he dragged his lips up your body.

“you like that?” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “being restrained? helpless?” he took the cuffs from your hands, the metal clinking between his fingers. “soaked just from the idea of it?”

your breath hitched. your panties clung to you now, slick and tight between your legs.

he leaned back just enough to pat the mattress beside him. “on your knees. hands behind your back.”

you hesitated just a second. your knees pressed into the mattress, but you didn’t move to obey right away. before you could even brace yourself, his hand grabbed your arm—firm, fast—and twisted it behind your back, not rough enough to hurt but with zero room to argue. his other hand caught your second wrist in the same movement, and he shoved them together.

you gasped, the surprise of it slamming into your chest. you barely had time to breathe before he pushed you forward, your torso pressed into the mattress, cheek to the sheets, ass up.

“resisting, are we?” he muttered, voice dark with something thrillingly amused as he pinned your wrists into your back. his thigh pressed between your knees, shoving them wider apart. 

“don’t move,” he hissed.

you heard the soft metallic click as one cuff clamped closed around your wrist.

“you have the right to remain silent,” he growled into your ear, breath scorching, one knee forcing your thighs apart as he leaned his weight into your back. “anything you say can and will be used against you.”

“do you understand these rights as they’ve been read to you, detective?”

you whimpered in response.

click.

the second cuff locked into place, the steel tight and final around both wrists.

he exhaled, a slow, satisfied sound, his body draped behind you, bare chest grazing your back as his lips pressed to your shoulder.

“you have the right to an attorney,” he continued, every word laced with dark heat as his hands dragged down your sides, cupping your hips, thumbs pressing into the creases of your thighs. “if you cannot afford one…”

he leaned down, his lips grazing the back of your neck, his voice a whisper of smoke.

“…well,” he breathed, kissing your neck, “you can plead for mercy instead.”

“jisung,” you breathed, squirming under him now, your breath catching on the sheets.

he chuckled softly—low in his throat, amused. there was a spark of disbelief in it, too, like even he couldn’t quite believe how far this had gone, how fast. that you'd let him cuff you. that he’d said all that roleplay shit like it was foreplay. that it worked.

and god, did it work.

you writhed, but the cuffs didn’t give. not even a centimeter. cold metal bit into your wrists, shoulders pinned, your body entirely his, and he knew it. you let out a sharp breath as his hands slid back down your side. the fabric tore a little as he pulled your panties past your knees. you tried to twist, to shift your hips, but the cuffs kept your arms locked behind your back and his weight kept you caged.

your breath came in ragged, frantic little pulls.

“jisung—”

“mmm?”

his cock pressed against the crease of your ass, hot and hard again, already leaking. he hadn’t even needed to touch himself much. he was just that gone over you, his body recharged like your mouth hadn’t just drained him ten minutes ago. you felt it drag over your skin, thick and slick and pulsing as he lined himself up behind you, the head sliding down your folds, teasing.

“what do you want, detective?” he murmured, voice husky with wonder. 

“please,” you breathed. “jisung, please.”

he groaned. “please what?”

you squirmed again, but his hands held your hips still, his cock rubbing against your soaked entrance, never pressing in. 

“fuck me,” you gasped, desperate now, every nerve lit up and begging. “please—fuck me, jisung, don’t make me beg again—”

without warning, he pushed in. you were cut off, jaw dropping open as his cock filled you in one long, unrelenting thrust. the stretch made your vision blur. he was thick, hot, soaked in your slick. he sank into you until his hips were flush against your ass, his cock buried to the hilt, the pressure absolutely devastating.

“you’re so tight like this—shit, you’re perfect.” he hissed through clenched teeth, gripping your hips so tight his fingers might bruise. 

you choked on a sob of pleasure as he pulled back and thrust again. all you could hear and feel was the sound of skin slapping skin and the wet drag of his cock thrusting deep, again and again, as he built up a rhythm that had your thighs trembling.

“i always thought—” he grunted, hips snapping forward harder now, punctuating every word, “—you were too smart. too fucking focused. all business.”

you moaned, muffled and breathless, your cheek pressed to the sheets.

“never thought—” he growled, fingers digging into your hips as he pounded into you, slick and steady, “—you’d be such a goddamn slut.”

your whole body jolted. heat seared down your spine. your cunt clenched around him so tight he groaned, almost lost his rhythm for a second. you couldn’t form words anymore—just ragged, desperate sounds, your lips parting on every moan. another brutal thrust slammed into your soaked cunt and you gasped, trembling, drool smearing the sheets under your cheek.

“not so sharp now, huh, detective?” he breathed, voice feral. “now look at you—cuffed up, dripping on your officer’s cock.”

your cry punched out of you, high and ragged, as his cock struck something inside you. that gummy spot that made your thighs twitch and your eyes roll back.

“i’m so—” you gasped, words slurring, tears stinging your lashes. “i’m so close, jisung—, i’m gonna—”

he moaned behind you, the sound guttural, overwhelmed. “give it to me, y/n,” he panted, hips rocking into you harder, faster, chasing that high right alongside you. “come on, baby, give it to me. let me feel you fall apart.”

that pet name—the softness of it buried under all the roughness—made you feel things. and then his hand slid around your hip.

two fingers pressed to your clit—slippery, fast—and that was it. your whole body seized. your vision went white. you screamed his name, thighs locking around him as your orgasm ripped through you. your cunt spasmed around his cock, squeezing him so tight he choked on a groan and nearly collapsed over you.

“fuck—” he gasped, pulling out in a rush, cock slick and throbbing, already jerking in his hand as he stroked himself just twice more. he came across your lower back, ropes of hot, sticky release painting your ass, your skin twitching from the heat of it. 

jisung sagged behind you, one hand braced on the bed, the other still resting on your thigh like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you.

you whimpered and your legs trembled under you, body slack with aftershock, hands still bound tightly behind your back, the cuffs biting into your skin just enough to remind you how utterly he'd claimed you.

jisung stirred behind you at once. “shhh,” he murmured, softly. “i got you.”

you felt him shift, heard the metallic jingle of a small key in his fingers. he reached for you, one hand curling gently around your forearm to steady you, then, with a sharp click, the first cuff popped open.

he slid the small key between his lips as he took your wrist out, then let the key drop into his hand to unlock the second one. you felt the tension in your shoulders melt instantly, the pressure gone—but your body didn’t know how to hold itself up anymore.

you collapsed forward with a sigh, arms falling limp to the sheets, your entire weight crumpling under you. jisung caught you, one arm around your waist, the other bracing you as he pulled you gently into him.

jisung eased you down onto your side, careful and slow like you were something delicate. his lips found your shoulder, kissed it—soft, reverent. you let out a shaky breath, still trying to find yourself inside your body.

“i really like you, hannie,” you murmured before you could second guess it. “i don’t just—this wasn’t just—”

“i know, y/n,” he whispered as he pressed another kiss into your back, this one lingering. “i know.”

he curled tighter around you, nosing into the back of your neck, his voice muffled by your skin.

“i’ve wanted you since the first week,” he murmured. “tried not to let it show. i didn’t think i had a shot—thought you were too… good. out of my league.”

you turned your head slightly, enough to glance back at him with a dazed, warm grin. “you’re such a dumbass.”

he laughed, soft and breathless, pressing his forehead into your shoulder.

“maybe,” he said, kissing the back of your neck. “but i’m your dumbass, right?”

you swallowed, pulse tripping.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, fingers brushing a strand of hair out of your face. his eyes were soft now.

“i wanna be yours,” he said. “please.”

you reached for his face with a trembling hand and your thumb traced the edge of his jaw, his skin still flushed and warm from everything he’d just given you.

“i already thought you were,” you whispered.

and then you kissed him tenderly. his smile broke against your mouth like he'd finally gotten something he'd been chasing forever. 

and he had. you both had.

the precinct buzzed with the same energy it had every morning—phones ringing, printers humming, officers shuffling case files with half-empty coffee cups in hand. a few feet from the briefing room, jisung leaned against a desk, hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke to changbin.

“no, seriously. the guy was just resisting like no tomorrow. like he wasn’t scared of me, of anything.”

changbin raised a brow. “you’re sure it wasn’t just your face?”

“yeah, okay. remind me to let you talk next time a guy pulls a blade on a hostage.” jisung was in the middle of rolling his eyes when a familiar voice broke through the low chatter of the bullpen.

“morning,” you said, walking up with a folder tucked under your arm. your tone was casual, but there was a glint in your eye—just for him.

jisung’s whole posture changed.

he stood upright. his eyes widened. and a slow smile tugged at his mouth as he turned toward you.

“hey,” he said, voice sweeter than it needed to be.

changbin glanced between the two of you, brow quirking. he didn’t say anything right away. just sipped his coffee, eyes narrowing slightly.

you held out the folder toward jisung. “victim statement’s being transcribed. thought you might want to review the notes before you start interrogation.”

he reached for it—your fingers brushing as he did—and his smile widened.

“thanks,” he murmured. then added, more pointedly, “you always take such good care of me.”

you rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. you reached up and rested your hand on his shoulder before sliding it down as you walked off down the hallway. the second your back was turned, jisung—still holding the folder—curled his fist and gave it a single, victorious pump at his side.

the entire office lounge knew. how he once rewrote an entire report because you said you liked his handwriting. or how he almost cried out of joy when you borrowed his pen last month.

changbin didn’t know how jisung did it. but somehow, he’d pulled it off.

[gilverrwrites]

Man, I need something with Jason's big hands, so big that one hand can cup your entire sex...

He will smack your clit, cup your sex, you'll grind on it and he will do something while cupping your lady bits.

I can live off of your body heat

Jason Todd/Reader, 2.4K

AN: I've actually had mutiple req for Jason and/or Dick slapping and pinching the readers clit which is like so specific, but I get it. Like I feel yall so much. I know Jay being a giant is fanon thing, but goddamn my 5'4 ass wants to be crushed by his hands so bad. CWs: Mentions of Jay's scars, swearing, size difference, Dom!Jay, teasing, Jay being really rough, nipple play, clit pinching, clit slapping. Petnames: Baby, babe, babygirl, good girl, Name-calling: Filthy girl, bitch, slut. Recommended listening: Body Heat - Kate Nash

There’s a scar on his chest. Actually, there are many scars on his chest. However, there’s one in particular that stands out; a long taut piece of skin that stretches from his left shoulder blade, right down to his sternum. Its pale sheen stands out against his tan skin and begs you to trail a finger along it.

Despite the temptation, you don’t.

Jason hasn’t slept this well in weeks so you daren't risk waking him yet. Instead, you watch the gentle rise and fall of his torso under the mellow light of the morning sun until the need to move is too great.

Your feet have barely touched the ground when a pair of sturdy arms close around you, enveloping you in the warmth of the very body you’d just been admiring and pulling you back into the bed. Or more, pulling you on top of his body, primarily by his choice, partially because there isn’t enough room for you both to lay without some overlap. Every time you mention buying a larger bed, Jason vetoes it; says he likes the close proximity. That feeling your body against his helps him to relax and you can’t really argue with that sentiment.

“Where’d you think you’re going?” He asks from the spot in the crook of your neck he loves to nuzzle into. He peppers the side of your neck with sleepy half-kisses.

It would be endearing, were his hands not already under the oversized Red Hood tee you’d stolen from him to sleep in.

“Oh, I don’t know.” You hum, hands wrapping around his wrists, purely for additional skin-on-skin contact. You couldn’t stop him from ghosting his calloused fingertips up your body if you wanted to. It’s strange, and arousing to think that he can, and has trapped both of your wrists in with just one hand.

“You don't know?” He’s rousing properly now, amused by your answer.

“Probably just to shower, make a coffee, maybe read a book until you wake up.”

“I’m awake now.” He reminds you, rolling his hips to emphasise his double entendre. The heat of his mourning wood grinds against your backside, and at the same time, one of his wandering hands finally settles on a target. He cups the underside of your breast, and you can’t help sucking in a breath as he pinches your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Already so brutal, despite the slow, sensual way he’s been exploring until now.

You sigh in relief when he lets go, allowing just enough time for the blood to rush back before he clamps down again, this time in a twisting motion that has your hands shooting up into his hair. “Jay!”

He seems unaffected by your attack on his scalp, chuckling into the tender spot behind your ear, and causing a chill to run down your spine. “Yeah, baby?”

“You should be asleep.” You’d intended to deadpan for comedic effect, but it comes out in short, strained breaths that only serve to make you sound needy as hell.

It’s at this point you hear a snapping sound, followed by the light sting of your underwear’s elastic waist snapping against your skin, drawing your attention downwards just in time to feel Jason cupping your entire sex in just one of his hands. All the while he never stops the assault on your now raw tits.

“Do you want me to stop?” He questions. At the same time, he palms your folds through the fabric of your underwear, pressing the ball of it against your increasingly aching clit.

“Feels nice.” You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, allowing him further access to the sensitive skin of your neck which he eagerly accepts, honing in to suck and nibble, sloppily leaving marks in his wake. You don’t want to back down, but God, you do not want him to stop.

“Come on baby, I need a real answer. Do you want me to go back to sleep?” He eventually circles back, lips barely leaving your flesh as he speaks. Distracting you from the erotic sting of your nipples and the heat between your legs as his rugged fingers push all the right buttons. “Or do you want me to keep playing with your cute little pussy?”

“Fuck, Jay please- “ You’re ready to give in but as you speak he hooks two fingers under the crotch of your underwear, and the resulting, embarrassingly wet squelch that sounds out as he presses them between your folds has you hissing.

“Please what?” He goads, now upping the pressure. He’s doing it on purpose, cause he’s a fucking tease. “Please stop?”

“No! Please don’t stop touching my cunt!”

“Your cunt? You’re fucking filthy, girl. You know that?” He plants a quick, hard kiss on your cheek and, as if you weigh nothing, lifts you by your pussy, repositioning you for his own ease until your legs are stretched wide, his own wedged in between to keep you in place. The speed at which he moves is enough to give you whiplash. You barely have enough time to gasp at the retraction of his hands before they’re on you again, settling in new positions. With one hand he completely pulls aside your panties, exposing your hot, soaked folds to the tepid air. The other pulls your tee over your head before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze downwards. “Don’t move. I want you to watch everything I do to you. Can you do that for me, baby”

Shit. You think your heart might beat out of your chest. All this vehement energy so early in the morning. “Yes, Jay!”

Immediately contradicting yourself, you turn your head to admire his handsome profile. The determined squint of his eyes, the bed head, the morning stubble, you really lucked out with him you think as you lean closer to kiss his cheek. Before you can make contact Jay's grip tightens on the back of your head, sharply turning you back to watch as he dips two long fingers between your slit. Your clit practically twitches at the sight of them; long enough to span from top to entrance in excess.

You try your hardest to watch as he repeatedly strokes your lips in short, lazy motions but it’s a challenge not to close your eyes and get lost in the moment. It’s even harder not to throw your head back and scream when he suddenly sinks his fingers around your clit and starts pinching, it. Tightly rolling the sensitive bud between two curled fingers.

“Shit, Jay.” You pant through gritted teeth. “That hurts so good.”

Just like with your nipples, what feels even better is the rapid return of blood flow when he releases it. He repeats the process twice over, laughing every time you flinch or whine. Whispering in your ear about how you’re his “good girl”, how “you can take it” every time you dig your nails into his arm in an attempt to relieve the pain.

“Help me out here babe. Spread your pussy out for me.” He instructs, playfully gasping into your ear when you pull back your lips to reveal your now dark and swollen core. You’re too turned on to care about the sight of it. Happy to expose yourself, certain that the moment he starts kneading you with care, you’ll cum in seconds.

Jason must be thinking the same as he dips one finger into your entrance, just enough to coat it with your arousal before returning to your puffy clit to rub around it in circles. Even at twice the size, your clit is smaller than the tip of his finger.

“Ohh, I’m gonna cum soon.” Before you’ve even finished your sentence Jay retracts his hand, ripping a distraught weep from you in the process. You’ve been here a hundred times before, splayed out for him, gasping, and begging for his touch, but the red-hot shame at your flagrant desperation never eases. “What the fuck, dude!?”

“Dude?” Without warning, Jay comes back down. Hard. Your whole body shakes under the intensity of the vicious slap he delivers to your clit. “Who the fuck are you calling dude?”

He doesn’t give you enough time to answer before he smacks your open folds again. Flipping the switch in your body from heady to adrenaline-filled arousal.

“Say my name.” He barks as he dispenses a third slap.

“Jay!” You don’t have it in you to say his full name, but it seems to satisfy.

“Say it louder.” His words are punctuated by the lewd echo of sharp, stinging strikes. “I want the neighbours to hear what a dirty fucking slut you are. Want them to know who you belong to.”   

“Jason. You Jason!” You close your eyes and throw your head back, crying with everything you can muster, not caring how raunchy or pathetic you sound. Ignoring the pain of your own nails digging into your flesh. “Jason. I’m yours, Jason.”

“That's better.” He growls. Finally, his arm falls slack. With no friction from your dripping, wanting walls, Jason glides two fingers into your entrance and you tremble, your whole body tingling, ecstatic to finally feel him inside you. It’s just two fingers, two impressively strong, thick fingers that make you feel so full. “You’re so beautiful, you know that?”

Abashed by his sudden gentleness you open your eyes once more, positioning yourself to look at him as best you can. He’s one to talk. You’re always telling him he could be a model if he decided to quit being a part-time crime lord, part-time crime fighter.  

You’re unable to concentrate on him for long, however, as he starts pumping in and out of you in torturously slow thrusts. After all the excitement, it quietens your mind and eases your muscles. For the first time since he’d repositioned your bodies, you notice the pressure of his cock, pulsing against your lower back. The rigged hardness of it makes you feel fuzzy and content at his equal levels of arousal.

You stay like that for a few minutes, simply enjoying the calm as Jason gently massages your insides until it’s not enough. You need more, your body yearns, your core practically twitching for his touch on your clit again. An orgasm is approaching steadily, but you’ll get nowhere without it.

The heel of his hand is so close, so sturdy, you don’t even think about what you’re doing, you just start undulating your hips, rutting up against him in unstable motions. He doesn’t stop you; in fact he curls his fingers and brings his palm down closer, letting you use him to chase your orgasm.

“That's it, baby. Hump me like a bitch in heat.” He coos so softly in your ear that it would set your pulse racing if it wasn’t already running at a mile a minute. “Remember I'm the only who does this for you, the only one who can make you feel so full and cock drunk on just my hands.”

He's right, he's so fucking right.

“Keep that up, I might just cum too.”

“Fuck me.” You breathe, affected both by his words and the reminder of his throbbing dick squeezed between your bodies.

“Not until you cum on my fingers.” He’s only half joking. “Can you do that for me baby, cum all over my finger like a good little slut?”

Fuck yes, you can. You want to say, but all your energy is focused on riding his hand, fucking yourself on his brawny fingers, and gyrating against his palm like it's your job. His groans and rasps become a motivational mantra as you keep bucking your hips.

“You’re nearly there.” He comments, able to feel your walls tightening around his digits, convulsing uncontrollably as it hits you. It takes all your strength to ride it out; to keep going as you topple over the edge but fuck it’s worth it for the full extent of your release. “That it babygirl, cum for me baby, fucking soak me.”

Worth it for the explicit sound of your wet cum streaming against Jason’s hands, for the rush of ecstasy that bleeds through your body, and especially for the unexpected heat that spreads across your lower back in spaced-out intervals; Jason's own ejaculation seeping through his boxers and dispersing on your skin.         

Simultaneously, you both grow limp, breathing in time with each other until the rapid movements of your chests begin to ebb back to a steady pace.

“You were so good for me, I’m so proud of you.” Jason praises as he rolls your bodies onto their sides, never releasing you in the process, but allowing him a better ability to press a smattering of kisses to the side of your head, lingering along your jawline. You're grateful for his sweet words, but still too fucked-out to speak, but you coo when he lifts a hand to run his thumb along your neck, presumably checking out his earlier handy work. You arch to get a better look at him, and given the subtle, but smug smile on his face, you’re certain he’s left quite the mark.   

“Let me guess.” You find your voice. “It’s not just the neighbours who’ll know who I belong to?”

“Hmmmm.” He tilts his head and puckers his lips in mock consideration. “I think you should donate all your scarf.”

“Jay!” You punch his shoulder, and he has enough decency to play along, briefly leaning back as though you could even make a dent on his towering frame. “Is it really bad?”

“No. No no no.” He’s lying through his teeth, snickering as he leans in to crush your lips with his own. His skin is slick with sweat you realise when you reach up to gently grasp his other shoulder and guide him closer to you. His morning breath is frankly kind of gross, but yours probably is too. Nevertheless, it’s a price you’re willing to pay for his affection.

“What do you wanna do now?” He asks when he pulls back from your mouth, continuing to press kisses down your neck, along your collar, and slinking closer to your chest with each brush. He asks some variation of this same question everytime you fuck. Letting you direct how much you can take from him in one go or what kind of aftercare you need.

“I don’t know.” You hum, imitating your earlier indecision, as you stretch against the mattress. “Shower, coffee, and a book still sounds good to me.”

“Sounds very good. Mind if I join?” He’s not actually asking, that much is evident as he lifts you in his arms and cradles you against his chest as he stands. You’ll both be grateful to get your sticky, cum soaked underwear off. You’ll be even more grateful for the chance to lather and massage your boyfriend up in soapy bubbles, to really get your fingers on those pretty scars that call to you. Maybe you can convince him to take a nap later when you’re curled up on the couch, reading together.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Jay.”

<3

Likes are highly appreciated, but comments and reblogs are cherished!

More Like This | Tip/Commission Me

[exaltedfuzz]

A bit of a study of those old PSM endpages by Adam Warren. Actually a super fun art style to work in...

(I wasn't sure if I was going to post this, but it's pretty funny.)

Seeing all this typed out for the ID looks really silly, so I hope it's appreciated. (Below the cut.)

[ID] A text heavy vaguely comic-y page featuring various Ace Attorney characters. Top left reads: "Coming in Ace Attorney 3: Two hotties straight -- erm... BI -- out of every bisexual's three-way fantasies!" Beneath that, text reads: "(For a character meant to be "M.I.A." she sure shows up a lot, huh? "Fridging? More like "defrosting"!)

To the right of this, an illustration of Mia Fey and Diego Armando. Mia has her arms folded and is looking at the viewer. Diego is holding a coffee cup. (An arrow is pointing to the cup saying "Not the only "steaming hot" mug here. Rowr.") He says "She's mine, BTW."

Overlapping his speech bubble is a speech bubble from Lana Skye, which reads: "Mia? What about that intell-sexual attraction we had?" With an asterisk (*) next to it. The asterisk leads to the clause: "Only in the localisation. Sorry Lana, but Chihiro's type is tall, dark and bitter! (...Just like Godot blend #107). Lana is in a panel on her own, sweating.

At the bottom of the panel, a speech bubble from Jake Marshall cuts the border. This reads: "I thought I was meant to be Lana's cow-boyfriend...?" Angel Starr replies: "Oh please. Even I have more x Lana fem-slash fanfic than you." In a separate speech bubble, she says: "...Besides, you're the one who said "not all cowboys eat tacos", pardner."

At the bottom right, the signature reads: "Fuzz 25". [End ID]

[lucis-dove]

Coffe𝖾 on dark nights {1}: 𝖠𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗂𝖼𝖺

chapter summary; 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖣𝗋. 𝖠𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾.

pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x reader

rating: Mature

chapter no: Chapter 1/10 𝗈𝖿 𝖢𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌

wc; 4.2𝗄

tags/warnings; 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾!𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗉 𝖺𝗎, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗀𝖾!𝗀𝖺𝗉

Author; @lucis-dove

a/n: 𝖬𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗉 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖯𝗂𝗍𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖳𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖾 to (𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖤𝖱 𝖼𝗈𝗐𝖻𝗈𝗒𝗌 𝖣𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗌) 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝗏𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝖣𝗋. 𝖩𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖠𝖻𝖻𝗈𝗍

The morning is slow. It always is at 7:30 A.M. 

Most customers trickle in around nine, but the rush always falls around midday to early evening. In those hours, scheduled lunches, afternoon coffee breaks, and the end of workdays overlap until closing.

But you've come to like the mornings. It gives you time to prepare, walk leisurely rather than in a hurry to prepare pastries and sandwiches. It was on the verge of being serene. Brewing your morning drink at work rather than at home. Watching the sun rise to shine through the large windows of the café.

It's a nice start to your mornings, and today follows the same pattern. 

With practised ease, you brew your usual morning cup to fend off the lingering chill that stuck to your skin after putting out the Open sign outside. Unsuprisingly, no other than the crips morning air met you as you did.

The smell of frothed milk and sweet spice fills the air as you sit on the stool you'd taken from the back earlier. With your laptop in front of you, you sip your drink as you go over some admin tasks. 

What pulls you out of the usual lull of your morning shift is the door opening.

Eyes flickering up, your attention first notes the time. 7:45 A.M. Then they follow the man entering.

"Good morning," you greet him, voice still soft as it usually is in the early hours when you've neither used it much nor strained it to be heard over the crowd's buzz. 

His eyes connect with yours and he nods in return. 

You watch him as he walks closer, closing your laptop once you notice he doesn't glance at the menu. With your beverage left behind, you step in his direction, fingers already hovering over the register, ready to take his order, as he stops at the other side of the counter.

"Do you have just normal coffee, filter, black?" The side of your mouth twitches at his question.

"Yes. Fancy one to-go or sit here?" 

"To go." His gaze never leave yours. Up close, his brown eyes appear lighter from how the sun casts a yellow, warm glow.

"It will be a few minutes as I just started brewing. Is that alright with you?" He nods. 

You smile in return as you register his order on the touchscreen. Your nails tap against the glass just slightly, filling the momentary silence. 

"When you're ready," you motion to the terminal before him. 

Any other time of the day, you would've already moved to fish up a to-go cup, preparing to make the requested beverage before a receipt was printed. But, with no line and only one customer, you stayed put. 

You silently offer the man opposite you the strip of paper once it's printed. He equally as wordlessly declined with a motion of his hand.

You give him a soft smile before you move, binning his receipt of a sole black coffee on the way to retrieve what you need. But there wasn't much you could do to prepare his order. The sole ingredient was still dripping away with another five minutes to go.

"I guess you'll skip sugar as well?" You pinch the to-go sweetener between your index and middle finger, holding it up for him to see while looking over your shoulder. 

He's threaded a hand beneath the one strap of his bag slung over his shoulder. "Guessed right." 

You exhale amusedly, putting the papery package back among the rest. 

Once again with nothing to do, you find yourself levitating towards your drink abandoned on the counter. It's still warm when you take a conservative mouthful.

You watch the man with salt and pepper curls. The more salt than pepper dusting his temples catches the light as he looks around the room, making them shine silvery.

The larger details of seats and tables were noted with one sweeping glance, yet he scrutinised the glass display separating you, sandwiches and danishes enduring a more thorough inspection. 

"First time here?" Your question earns his attention, eyes flickering to watch you through his brow before his head follows.

"Yes." His lips purse as he nods slightly. "Got a recommendation."

"That's always nice to hear," you reply with a tilt of your head. 

He cocks his brows in a minimal fashion as you rose your cup to your lips again. As he continues watching you, you realise he sought the why. You swallow before explaining. 

"We opened not too long ago, and word of mouth should never be overlooked for newly established places." You clarify, now cradling your cup in both hands, the warmth seeping into your palms.

"Picked a good spot, around the corner of a hospital full of coffee addicts," his head jerks sideways, hinting at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre not too far away.

"Sometimes you got to be lucky," you shrug, smiling slightly as you take another sip. You take another sp of your dirnk before shifting your mug into one hand. "So is it the end or start of your shift?"

You follow the question with a sweeping motion to your clothes, implying you'd noticed his scrubs but didn't mention it earlier.

"End." Your brows rise, pursing your lips as you nod in understanding.

Your trained ear picks up a minimal flick. 

The sound would've been drowned out in a lunch rush by voices and coffee machines. But now it cut through the morning silence to signal the drip coffee finishing. 

Although you gave the man a brief smile before shifting your attention, you could feel his eyes remain on you once your back was turned. But it wasn't for long, since with nothing fancy or add-ons to consider, his to-go cup was soon filled with the lid on.

"There you go-" You push his drink across the counter after returning to stand before him, eyes flitting down to catch the name on the ID card clipped to his clothes."-Dr. Abbot. Hopefully it's as good as black coffee gets."

The side of his lips pulls upward at your comment, and he grabs his drink.

"You'll know if it is." Dr. Abbot tilts the mug in an informal thanks. 

You chuckle at his curt comment that still held a witty dryness. Meanwhile, he gave a silent goodbye with a nod.

"Have a good day," you call after him as he pushes the door open, receiving two fingers lifted from around the cup in a reciprocating motion as he walks out.

The next time you see Dr. Abbot is a day later, around the same time.

You just exited the backroom, a smaller bag of coffee beans thrown over your left arm and the tin of newly ground ones in your right. Your brows rose as you spotted the familiar Doctor who had just entered. 

A smile unfolds on your lips as his gaze settles on you. "So, I take the coffee was acceptable?" 

Your face remains turned towards him even as you walk behind the counter and set down the things you brought. Once your arms were free, you moved to take your place behind the register. A few seconds later, he steps up to the counter from his side, hands in his pockets.

"I am here". 

You chuckle as he refers to his comment from yesterday. "And I guess you're here for the same delicious drink again?"

"You have an uncanny accuracy in your guessing." His tone was flat, deadpan. But his lips twitch upwards.

"I've heard that before," you flash him a smile, simultaneously typing in his order. He didn't wait for you to motion to the terminal this time.

You heard the receipt printer behind you, but focused on measuring the coffee you'd brought. A deep scent of earth and something nutty filled the air as you distributed enough coffee grounds into the filter.

"It smells good."

"Hm?" You direct over your shoulder, notifying Dr. Abbot that you caught him saying something, but not exactly what.

With the same hand now clutching the strap of his backpack, he pointed to the tin from which you were scooping the brown powder. 

"The coffee," he clarifies.

"Oh, yeah, newly ground coffee smells good, especially in the morning," you nod in agreement, moving to fill the water tank for the machine. "But you probably wouldn't have said it with this one," you pat the bag of intact coffee beans to your left.

"Isn't it the same?"

You glance over your shoulder, one side of your mouth tugging into half a smile. "No." 

You switch on the machine and turn towards him again. He's watching you, and as you eye him for a few seconds, you make a split-second decision. 

Reaching sideways, you bring the ground coffee you'd used for his drink along with another. Dr. Abbot watches you with intrigue until you set down the copper-coloured canisters on the counter between you.

"Here, smell the difference." You push them towards him. 

You already know the outcome, holding your amused laugh for long enough to witness his brows furrow after inhaling both coffees he'd risen to his nose.

"Smells like coffee." 

"Technically not wrong," you say on the breath of a chuckle as he looks at you again, putting down the tins. "But, there's a slight difference."

"Which is?"

You flash him a smile. "Strap in for the lecture, Doctor."

Your hand settles on the side of the canister to your left, still slightly cold to the touch this early. Dr. Abbot's gaze follows along as you do, intrigue creasing the side of his eyes. 

"This is the ground version of the beans we use for the machine." Moving your hand, you point to the bag you'd carried when he entered. You had yet to put it into the coffee machine's grinder, but you simply had to do that after he left. "We use both for espresso; the only difference is the process of making it."

"What's this thing about a bad smell?" 

"Not bad, just not as good." You correct him. "It's a dark roast, smells like you imagine strong coffee doing; dark, kinda earthy, sometimes a bit charcoaly." 

His lips twitch. "What says I wouldn't like that?"

"Maybe you would, but that you cam back for your last order says otherwise," you retort, mouth mirroring his upwards tilt. You see he's about to say something, so you hurry to continue with a finger held up. "Because of the big difference."

All he does is cross his arms over his chest, his head rolling sideways, remaining silent with the quirk in his lips still present. 

"This one is the base of the good drink you returned for: medium-roasted Arabica beans. Call it the happy middle between dark and light roast." You move your right hand to motion to the right canister. "It's smoother, sweeter and less bitter, easier to enjoy black for those who drink it like that," you explain, sending him a humoured wink. He chuckles as his head dips into a shake.

Before he speaks, he looks up at you again, gaze connecting with yours. 

"You know your stuff." 

"It does help when working at a café." You raise your brows with a swift sideways tilt of your head before putting away your demonstrating objects in their rightful spots. Still, pride flares in your chest at the credit. 

"Why does it taste so different?" He asks, before adding, "Between different places."

"Some just pick better quality beans and their degree of roast than others," you reply with a shrug, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

"And you're one of those?" He humours you. Your brows rise with an over-exaggerated expression of 'maybe'. 

"Sometimes you've got to pat yourself on the back." When you continue, you do so a bit softer. "But, it all really depends. Ultimately, it's up to the drinker what they prefer."

He nods along with your words. "Anything other than instant coffee or the cheap filter brand at the hospital is enough for this one." 

You can't help but let out a short laugh as you turn from him, noticing the red light for the filter coffee had turned off. "Happy I passed that bar at least." 

You prepare his coffee, and the procedure is as uncomplicated as yesterday.

"I guess I'll see you around, now that I've been promoted above office-coffee." You place the cup he'd been waiting for between you.

"You probably will." He accompanies the response with a nod, then his version of a goodbye, "Thanks for the coffee and the lesson." 

"My pleasure," you reply as he walks to the exit.

Despite assuming he would return, you hadn't anticipated seeing Dr. Abbot on the third day in a row. Nor the fourth or fifth. Although after a week of him stopping by, you counted on the aged doctor with black scrubs and a camouflage-coloured backpack to be your first customer of the day when Monday came around.

He usually arrived around eight, give or take fifteen minutes. But the previous week's pattern had been consistent enough that you knew it was him as soon as the door opened on Monday morning. Even if your back was turned to the entrance.

"Did you stop by during the weekend as well?" You greet him, still filling the freshly ground beans into the, his, filter coffee. You caught the amused huff he released through his nose, confirming it was the anticipated Doctor.

"No, I was off from work." You find your smile comes easily as you turn to face him, pausing your preparation of his drink.

"Your wife must have been overjoyed that you didn't waste your money here, instead having your coffee at home with her," you joke. 

You'd noticed the black wedding band on his left hand the first day he'd visited. It was much more discreet than the watch around the same wrist, but still effectively emphasising his marital status.

You'd anticipated a chuckle and a shake of his head. You'd gotten it before with similar comments. When the wives were here with their husbands, they usually also laughed as they nudged them, teasingly, implying. But, they never complained when their drink was paid for as they settled down for a Sunday brunch, hinting that they didn't really mind from the beginning.

What you certainly hadn't expected was the glance down at his hand, which then fisted once his eyes locked with yours.

"Haven't been the case for some time." Dr. Abbot's tone is flat, but it doesn't mean his eyes are void of emotion. Long-processed grief and a flicker of enduring fondness are wrapped together and shining through his unfaced expression.

"Oh." The sound of realisation came with a wave of mortification rushing through your body, the kind that had you wanting to curl up in embarrassment. "I'm sorry."

"Happened years ago," he dismisses with a shrug. 

You nod, he didn't seem distressed, so you guessed he didn't lie. But honestly, you're far too gone in your reeling mind to decipher whether it all could be a facade. 

Eyeing you in the silence, he cleared his throat. "The ring, I just haven't..." he trails off, eyes falling to his flexing hand before releasing an exasperated sigh once it relaxed alongside his body.

"I understand." He looks at you, then. Truly watches you. "Habits die hard." 

Dr. Abbot remained silent but didn't avert his eyes. Instead, you did it, turning to continue preparing the coffee he hadn't verbally ordered, but you knew he was here for. Just as he had during his first visit, his eyes now remain on you from where he stands. Yet, compared to a week earlier, they felt heavier, scorching into your back.

"Well...," your voice is small, careful not to accidentally overstep again as you try breaking the tension that at least you felt. "Then we're two about... you know, having our drinks here rather than home."

"Yes, at least if I want a drinkable cup." 

You turn slowly once his coffee is brewing, looking at him with a tilted head after what you'd caught as an attempt at jest. 

"Never been good at brewing one yourself?"

"A reason my colleagues hurry to beat me to the coffee machine." His comment lightens the thickness having entered the air. It made it feel possible to laugh, so you chuckle lowly.

"So they are at least delighted you've started stopping by?" Your lips pull into a smile as you finally move closer to him and the cash register to tap in his order.

"Could say that." His answer escapes on the same breath as an amused huff while he paid for the coffee.

In tandem with the receipt printing, the coffee finished. You knew he didn't want the recipt, so you went to fill Dr. Abbot's to-go cup, moving back to deliver it just as the paper with his order finished printing. 

Your goodbye passed in silence. Not awkward, simply preferred. He'd nodded, and you answered with a smile and a little wave as he gave you a last look before he exited.

Habits die hard and all that, but you didn't think you would see Dr. Abbot the next day. 

Yesterday had ended like it usually did and not a lingering spike of tension. But you couldn't deny the grimace you did as he'd left and you were alone. The Jesus you let out aimed at yourself for the insensitivity, despite knowing most could've made the same honest mistake.

So when the door opened on Tuesday, having you look up from your laptop and see Dr. Abbot walk in, some sense of unspecified relief washed over you. You were smiling even before you realised you had gravitated away from your seat and towards the usual spot where you met him.

It continued like that during the week. Things still felt normal after Monday. Or, at least, they hadn't changed. No awkward tension when your conversations trailed off. Neither a sudden apprehension from his side, cutting your usual small talk shorter and shorter.

As Friday rolled around, you realised it's been two consecutive work weeks where your mornings have been graced by the Doctor. A streak seemingly to continue as the door dutifully swung open that day as well.

"Hey there, Dr. Abbot." Like usual, he silently responds with eyes finding yours and a nod. During the short time you've known each other, you've learned that was usually his take on a greeting.

As you'd already prepared the machine, you only slid off your stool to start the brewing before returning to your previous position.

Dr. Abbot followed you as you did, cocking his head when rather than register his order, you pushed off your foot to reach the high seat of your stool. 

As you nurse the cup in your hands, watching him watch you, he raises his card, giving it a questioning wave as if to remind you. You wave him off. 

"It's on the house."

His brows pull together, his eyes narrowing quick and not by much, and his head tilts slowly. Somehow, you immediately know he considers the gesture spurred by pity.

The same unease from Monday threatened to return. You could already feel it in your chest. So, you hurried to say, "I thought about mentioning it earlier in the week already, but I didn't want you to think it was because of your late wife."

Dr. Abbot seemingly considers what you said, gauging you as he contemplates your offer or explanation. 

The lingering feeling thought you hadn't dwelled on since Monday had, nevertheless, been something your unconsciousness chewed on. You realise it the second his lips quirk upwards and something akin to acceptance flashes in his eyes, considering it finally relaxed sometthing in your body you didn't know was holding on to that interaction.

"Your boss alright with that?"

One side of your mouth twitches a little higher. "Yeah, see it as a first-customer-of-the-day deal." His brows rise as he nods, pocketing his wallet again.

Yawning just as you're about to sip your drink again, you halt the movement in the air. You shake your head, as if it would speed up the deep inhale and wake you up.

"Tired?" You blink up at him.

"Bad night's sleep," you excuse with a smile. You're more sluggish than tired, brain not properly awake due having woken not long ago and from a sleep filled with tossing and turning.

"Know about it." 

You study Dr. Abbot, who wasn't afraid to meet your gaze. Although nothing really pointed to it body-wise, there was a lingering shadow in his eyes. With what you'd learned about him, it could be from work or personal life. You made no move to dig any deeper.

"I can imagine with that schedule of yours," your jibe was light-hearted.

"My schedule's fine." Your brows raise, sending him a look.

"You go to bed at what-" You glance down at your watch and make an estimated calculation. "-9 A.M.? I don't think a single sane person considers that fine."

"Still get eight hours of sleep," he said, shrugging. You roll your eyes, humoured by the obvios look in his eyes revealing he knew his sleep-schedule was fucked. 

"A black coffee can't possibly make it eight." 

A smirk tugs at his lips at the remark. "Knock it down to seven." 

"Jesus," you breathe out a chuckle, shaking your head. All the while, you smile at the banter. 

At first glance, or even a second, Dr. Abbott wouldn't be most people's first choice to stop and ask for directions. But, despite his gruff expression, almost downward tilt of his mouth and heavy gaze carrying an aged seriousness, he was surprisingly easy to talk to.

You couldn't put your finger on why. Yet you found his rough voice still displayed his dry-witted humour perfectly, the shift in cadence as he talked usually implying more than his words. And though he wasn't big on expressions, his eyes were just as, if not more, expressive than his voice.

What you'd come to dub as not only lighting, but hazel eyes, conveyed everything his expression might not. And with the eye contact he wasn't afraid to keep, it was never too hard to gauge his otherwise stone-faced look.

You shake your head slightly, bringing yourself out of your thoughts.

When your attention flickers up again, you are met by Dr. Abbot already watching you. Reflexively, you give him a small smile over the rim of your cup, one he returns with the usual upwards twitch at the edge of his mouth. It was a minimal smile, but feeling how his gaze had softened, got warmer somehow, was enough to know it was a genuine reciprocity.

You glance away for a second, checking on his coffee. Just as you did, the red button turns off. 

Putting down your drink, you were just about to move when the yellow stack of sticky notes you'd brought out upon arrival this morning caught your eye, re-routing your attention.

"Could I get your name, by the way?" You fish up the Sharpie from your apron, hovering over the stack of yellow-coloured papers. His brows swiftly rise, so you clarify. "For my colleagues to know they should fuel our regular coffee-addicted Doctor for free." 

Both corners of his lips twitches upwards. "Jack." 

"Jack," you repeat, smiling as you jot down his name along with his usual order and a free with a smiley face after. You stick it onto the counter's edge before heading to pour his coffee. "Would've already known if you didn't have such a knack for choosing times when no one else is here."

"Why?" 

You answer his question by showing him the coffee cup you'd written his name on with the same pen. He released an amused huff of air. 

"You also do that thing. Seems popular nowadays."

You laugh, the sound escaping you before you could dampen it into a chuckle. "That thing helps us remember who ordered what."

"Your way of charting, I suppose," he comments. "But, even we're ahead of you in digitalisation."

You glance over your shoulder as you put back the pot after filling his cup, seeing he'd crossed his arms with an amused expression, prominent in his eyes and the edge of his mouth. 

"Tell me when they've got a solution for us, but I reckon our evolution will be as slow as yours." 

That made him chuckle, chin dipping and eyes falling from yours. The sound was something gravelly yet pleasantly smooth from his chest. 

With somewhat slower movements, you put the lid on his cup, knowing that as soon as you turned, your regular encounter with the Doctor reached its usual end. 

"Have a good day now, Jack." Rather than put his coffee on the counter, you hold it out for him to take. His little finger brushes yours in the exchange. 

Though he moved to the exit, half of his body was still turned your direction as he continued holding your gaze. 

"I'm going to have a good day's sleep," he calls back, accentuating the last word. 

"I'm seriously questioning the choice of your coffee now!" 

He only raised the cup in a mock cheer before pushing the door open with his back. 

Your head drops into a shake despite the laugh escaping you. That Dr. Jack Abbot had become a part of your daily routine was hard to ignore as you stared at the post-it note with his name on it.

[dollfiegf]

you met armin at a collage party—accidentally. To be honest you weren’t even supposed to be there. It was one of those over crowded, loud , sweaty walls from drinks spilling & sticky cups. But he was there, sitting on the counter in the kitchen, scrolling on his phone while sipping some drink from his red cup, shoulder tense, and his legs crossed

usually the total opposite of what you would go for. grey tee, gold chain, black jeans hanging perfect on slim hips. his hair was a little messy, like he didn’t care, but his nails were clean, short

you didn’t know what pulled you toward him, but there you were, shoulder to shoulder near the fridge. armin looked at you and smiled, a lazy kind of smile like he already knew something you didn’t. “you’re not having fun,” he said, voice syrupy and teasing. you raised a brow. “neither are you.” he giggled, took a slow sip of his drink, then leaned in. “i have my own definition of fun.”

and that’s how it started.

Eventually you found out you both go to the same campus, different majors. he was in political science. you were pre-med. your worlds weren’t supposed to overlap—but somehow they kept doing just that. You started seeing him more. In the library. outside of lectures. walking past you on the quad, headphones in, a to-go coffee in hand, dressed like he wasn’t trying but always looked too good.

he never yelled for your attention. he didn’t need to. a glance from armin was louder than anything.

then it turned into study sessions.

you’d meet at his place. you’d pretend to pull out your laptop. he’d pretend to care about chem formulas for ten minutes before he was behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, lips on your neck.

“you sure this is organic chemistry?” he’d whisper, dragging his fingers down your stomach. “shut up,” you’d breathe, already folding into him. the worst part? you kept lying to yourself. kept telling yourself you were helping him. just being nice.

but it was armin’s fingers that learned your body better than any formula. long, pretty fingers with little white stars that tapped your clit in circles until your legs shook and you were crying into his chest. he’d call you “pretty baby,” pull your panties to the side and eat you out so slowly you’d beg him to stop teasing. but he never did. he loved to watch you squirm.

you told your roommate you were tutoring.you told your boyfriend you were “on campus late.”you told yourself that you weren’t in deep. that this wasn’t a thing.

but you knew better.

especially when armin started getting comfortable.

he would start making snarky comments, he’d tug you into his lap when you walked in, grip your waist, say, “missed you,” real low in your ear like it wasn’t supposed to mess with your head. he’d even pull ur phone away from you mid text pressing you on who ur texting even tho afterwards he said it was a joke both of you knew it was a lie.

but you’ll let him do it anyway

you let him push up your shirt, mark your tits with his mouth, fuck you raw on the floor while your untouched textbook sat open on the table.

“you like lying to him?” he’d mutter, hands around your neck, your body shaking under him.“no,” you’d whisper, but your hips said something else.“you like sneaking around to get this dick?”

didn’t answer. you just came again.

after, he’d sit back, watch you catch your breath, all flushed and trembling and used.

he’d wipe your lip with his thumb and say,

“yeah. that’s what i thought.”

[tacobacoyeet]

“JEALOUS JAKE PERALTA” 🗣️🗣️we all shout in unison. maybe a detective from another precinct hitting on Jake’s girl. Something like the 9-8 episode yknow?? I lovvveeddd the the story from the other day you did. It was so cutie

not-girlfriend | jake peralta x reader

a/n: short and stupid and sweet but i hope you like it! warnings: not my usual writing style, really short, not proofread

The briefing room is louder than usual.

The overlap of night shift and day shift has brought double the cops and triple the ego, and Captain Holt looks about one more sarcastic comment away from walking into traffic.

“Let’s try this again,” he says, tone clipped as always. “The precinct is short-staffed due to the commissioner’s inexplicable decision to approve simultaneous leave requests, so the night shift and day shift will be operating as one until further notice. That means cooperation, communication, and no turf wars.”

A hand shoots up.

“No, Detective Boyle, this is not an opportunity to suggest ‘team-building lasagna.’”

Boyle lowers his hand slowly. “Copy that, sir.”

Jake leans back in his chair, trying to look casual. He nudges your knee under the table.

“You know this is gonna be a disaster, right?” he whispers. “Night shift people are weird. They’re like raccoons. Shifty, unpredictable, probably hiding trash in their lockers.”

You grin. “They’re not that bad. And you have trash in your locker.”

Just then, the door swings open.

And in strolls Detective Cole.

Night shift. Leather jacket. Perfectly gelled hair. The kind of smile that knows it’s been complimented before. He scans the room and lands squarely on you.

“Well,” he says, voice like he thinks it’s charming, “day shift just got a whole lot more interesting.”

Jake chokes on his coffee.

Boyle pats his back.

“I got you, buddy.”

Cole ignores the commotion entirely and slides into the empty seat beside you—your usual spot next to Jake now inconveniently blocked by smirking smugness and cologne.

“So,” Cole says, turning to you with that same perfectly polished grin. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you 'trouble'?”

You blink. You’ve barely spoken to the guy, and already he’s laying it on thick.

“Uh—Y/N. Detective Y/L/N,” you manage, trying to sound neutral. “Day shift.”

Jake snorts from behind his coffee cup. “Yeah, she’s not in the market for whatever noir fantasy you’ve got going on, man.”

Cole doesn’t miss a beat. “Relax, Peralta. Just being friendly.”

Boyle leans toward Rosa. “This feels illegal. Should we tase him?”

Rosa nods, deadpan. “Let’s give him five more minutes.”

Amy whispers to Holt, “Should we intervene?”

Holt, without looking up from his notes, replies, “Only if someone dies. Or worse, makes a pun.”

You shoot Jake a glance. He looks… not mad. Just slightly feral. Like he’s trying to figure out if 'accidentally' spilling hot coffee on Cole would be considered assault or a workplace hazard.

You turn back to  Detective Cole. “Appreciate the enthusiasm,” you say. “But maybe let’s focus on the briefing?”

Jake mouths 'thank you' at you.

Cole just smiles wider.

When the meeting finally ends, Holt dismisses everyone with a dry “Do not disappoint me,” and the room scatters.

You stand to stretch, and before you can even grab your notepad, Cole’s already hovering.

“So, Y/L/N,” he says, leaning just a little too close. “You got any plans after shift? Because I know a diner down the block with terrible service and excellent pie.”

Jake is behind you in a second.

“She does have plans,” he says cheerfully. “With me. We’re watching Die Hard and making aggressively mediocre spaghetti. Very romantic.”

You glance at Jake, confused but amused. “Since when?”

“Since… now,” Jake says, voice going high-pitched at the end. “Right now.”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “Ah. Got it. Work partners and dinner dates. Cute.”

He walks off, finally, and you turn to Jake, who is absolutely not making eye contact.

“Jake?” you say slowly.

“Hmm?” he replies, inspecting a nearby pencil like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

“You okay?”

“Yep. Totally fine. Not jealous at all. That guy’s hair is definitely not better than mine. Why would I be jealous?”

Boyle strolls past with perfect timing. “He’s extremely jealous.”

The rest of the day only gets worse—for Jake, anyway.

Cole is everywhere. At the vending machine when you’re getting your usual afternoon candy bar. Offering to carry files that don’t even belong to him. Laughing too hard at your jokes, even the terrible ones. He even volunteers to accompany you to the evidence locker, which makes Jake nearly implode.

"I'll go too," Jake blurts. "You know. For backup. Because some of those boxes are heavy. And emotionally unstable. Like me."

Rosa watches him tail the both of you down the hallway and mutters, "This is either going to end in a fistfight or a kiss."

By the time night falls, Jake’s nerves are frayed. He’s pacing in the break room, talking mostly to himself while Boyle nods encouragingly.

"I mean, maybe she's into that stupid hair gel. Maybe I’m just her coworker-slash-Die-Hard-buddy. Maybe I hallucinated that time she touched my arm for like three seconds straight."

Boyle hums. “You should probably just tell her how you feel, man.”

Jake stops. “No. No way. That’s ridiculous.”

But the traveling sound of you laughing at something Detective Cole said is starting to convince him otherwise.

Jake storms out of the break room, marches over, and inserts himself right between the two of you.

"Hey. Quick question," he says. "Are you hitting on my not-girlfriend? Because if you are, I have a very long and very unnecessary PowerPoint explaining why that’s not allowed."

Cole raises both brows. "Your what?"

Jake turns to you, cheeks a little pink. "My not-girlfriend. Who I maybe—definitely—like. A lot. And have for a while. And maybe want to take on a real date. If she's into that. Which she might not be. And that’s okay. Unless it’s not."

You blink at him.

Then smile.

"Jake."

"Yeah?"

"You’re an idiot. But yes."

You grab him by his stupid collar and pull him into a kiss.

Across the bullpen, Amy silently high-fives Rosa, who then walks over and slips Cole a twenty.

Boyle blinks. "What’s that for?"

"I asked him to do it," Rosa says, not looking up from her report. "Told him to flirt with Y/L/N until Jake cracked. Honestly thought it’d take longer."

Cole chuckles, folding the bill. “Glad to help. You’re welcome for the emotional growth.”

Jake gapes. "You set me up?"

Rosa smirks. “And you’re welcome.”

-----

tagging: @glennussy @larasreality

[tayfabe75]

"Taylor is seen bringing the coffee to a dark-haired guy, and there are different speculations on who this could be. Some people think it could be Matty Healy, who apparently did work on some songs for Midnights with her, or it could also potentially be Jack Antonoff, who she's really good friends with and obviously always working on music with him."

YouTuber Ana Richie speculates about the identity of the man at the piano in the Karma music video. (source)

[leashybebes]

fic: in deep devotion [bucktommy, t, 1k]

hey, gang. have 1000 words of buck having feelings about tommy's gray hairs.

It's been weeks since they've had overlapping time off that hasn't been filled with plans. Tommy's back at work tomorrow afternoon, while Buck is only on the first day of his 72 hours off. He's determined to make the leisurely, lazy best of the overlap and so far, it's a strong tick in the mission accomplished box.

Tommy had made breakfast and coffee while Buck slept off the last of his twenty four hour turned twenty eight hour shift, and they'd eaten in bed. The second cups of coffee that Buck ventured out into the kitchen for wound up going cold because when he got back, Tommy was propped up against the pillows and the sight of him made Buck's breath catch in his throat. One kiss turned into two, turned into teasingly wrestling each other across the bed.

read the rest on ao3 or below

A playfully energetic half hour later sees them like this - naked, breath slowly returning to normal, Tommy's head pillowed on Buck's belly. Buck flails out one hand and grabs a pillow, shoving it under his head so that he's propped up enough that he can look down at Tommy. He has his eyes closed, a half smile curling his mouth, and he just - he takes Buck's breath away. They're coming up on a year into their second go around, and the sight of Tommy, sated and relaxed and here is still enough to make Buck's stomach do a happy little flip. It's not like it was when they first got back together - a little anxiety underpinning a lot of excitement. He feels like they've put in the work now, both of them, so it's more like oh, of course you're here. You'll always be here. You belong here.

In the late morning light, Tommy's eyelashes are practically casting shadows on his cheekbones, and there's a beam of sunlight right across his face. It's probably why his eyes are still closed, just tightly enough to make some of the lines around them stand out clearly. The silver in his hair and in his stubble is all but sparkling in the sun, calling to Buck like a siren song.

Buck strokes his fingertip against the grain of Tommy's stubble, up into his sideburns, close cropped because he went to the barber after his last shift, up further across his temple, watching the way the light plays off the gray hairs as his finger presses across them. There's a patch at the bolt of Tommy's jaw where the grays are more concentrated and Buck touches his fingertips to it. God, he loves how Tommy doesn't shave on his days off. He looks so good.

"What are you doing?" Tommy asks, a laugh around the edges of his voice, and he turns his head to look at Buck, stubble scratching against his ribs, right on the edge of tickling.

"Your grays really show in this light," Buck says, touching his fingers to Tommy's temple again.

Tommy leans into the touch and smiles at him. "Careful, baby. You're gonna make me self-conscious. Should I pick up some Just For Men next time I'm at the store?"

It's clearly a joke, but Buck's heart sinks just at the suggestion.

"Don't you dare."

Tommy laughs and rolls off him to lay at his side. Buck digs a hand into the hair at the top of his head and tugs gently.

"Hey. I'm serious. Absolutely no hair dye. I'll bite you."

"Sorry, is that supposed to be a disincentive?"

"Tommy."

"What?" Tommy says, nudging his head into Buck's touch. "Would it ruin the daddy vibes for you?"

"It's not about that," Buck says.

"No?"

Buck smoothes his fingers through Tommy's hair, down to that silver patch of stubble on his jaw.

"You have more now than when we met," he says, not quite able to explain why that makes his heart beat harder. Not faster, but harder.

"Okay?" Tommy says, corner of his mouth curving up the way it does when Buck's being particularly entertaining. "That's generally how the relentless march of time operates. Except on you, apparently. I swear I'll find that attic portrait you're hiding someday."

"I love it," Buck blurts. "You've changed. I've watched you change. I - I love it."

Tommy's smirk turns into something softer, a little wonderstruck, like he knows exactly what Buck's trying to say.

"Evan…"

"I just - come up here and kiss me, please."

Tommy does as he's told without a moment's hesitation, boxing Buck in, bracing himself with a hand on either side of Buck's head, dropping soft, affectionate pecks onto his cheeks, his chin, his mouth. It's not enough and Buck pulls him into a proper kiss, messier and more urgent than when they were laughingly getting each other off before.

"You're bigger," Tommy says between kisses. "More solid. Stronger. The - the calluses on your hands are rougher. I've watched you change, too."

"Yeah," Buck says, warmth blossoming in his chest because that's it, that's exactly it. Time shared will carry on being written across their bodies, weeks and months and years of little changes and big ones. Changing hairstyles, changing clothing preferences, changing tastes in food, changing hobbies. And they get to see it all. He tugs Tommy into another kiss. "Isn't it - isn't it the best thing in the world? I can't wait to see what you look like when you're forty five. Fifty. Sixty. Retired in a rocking chair on the porch."

Tommy laughs against his mouth. "I'll look like an old man."

"Yeah," Buck agrees. "Yeah. My old man. Bring it on."

He runs his hand through Tommy's hair again, tips his head gently to kiss the lines that frame his eyes. The sun continues to warm them and he thinks beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

[antiquatedsimmer]

Out with the Boss - Tiny posepack

I just really enjoyed these makeovers & mini backstories I made for Nancy and Summer, so I made some poses to get a few cute screens. If anyone by chance would want them I decided to upload the poses here.

Download on Patreon or SFS

TOU: You can use & edit the poses for personal use just please do NOT upload these poses anywhere else or claim as your own!

Required CC & How to use Below the Cut:

WHAT YOU WILL NEED:

Andrew’s Pose Player

Scumbumbos Teleport Any Sim

Cellphone Acc

Coffee Carrier Acc

Coffee Cups Acc

IMPORTANT DETAILS/HOW TO USE:

Both props used at the same time will conflict with eachother, but there is a work around! You'll need to use the Cinematic Camera (TAB) & MCCC (Change outfits) step 1: Make 2 versions of the same outfit, one with the cellphone prop & one with the coffee prop.

step 2: Load sims into scene

Step 3: While in TAB taking screenshots hit CTRL + 5 - 9 to save the screenshot position.

Step 4: take 2 screenshots for each pose, one with just the coffee & one with just the phone prop.

Step 5: Because you locked the postion with CTRL + 5 - 9 you can overlap the images in a program of ur choice and just erase the area of the missing prop to make it appear like the sims was holding both props at the same time. It might sound weird but it works!

[feinecutasy]

Red

Ah, the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans. And the sight of the buxom barista serving it. Silky brown hair flowing atop that hourglass figure. Perhaps he should frequent this place more often.

Zayn loved to start his day with a cup of life-giving black water and a good toast, and he hated it when the normalcy was disrupted. He used to frequent the Hut near the square, but the place was now in renovation. Thankfully, it only took him a few steps to find the place he was now sitting in. Order was restored.

… or perhaps not. The first sip was rich and exhilarating, until it ended with an unexpected, unwelcome, but not uncommon texture. He promptly picked out the culprit, half of which had been in his mouth and the other half still dangling on the cup. A short strand of hair. ʀᴇᴅ ʜᴀɪʀ.

Zayn’s eyes instantaneously darted from the barista to her colleague, who was busy taking the order of an elderly couple. A mop of wavy, short red hair topped his head, which along with his porcelain skin and freckle-covered face stood out in stark contrast against the black t-shirt and dark apron he was wearing. As soon as the queue was emptied, Zayn strutted to the ginger, back straightened, arms stiffened in an attempt to inflate his already bulky frame. He dropped his coffee cup on the counter loudly enough to garner the barista’s attention.  “Mate, can you make me a new cup of coffee?”, he questioned, his voice lowered. “I found a strand of red hair inside the cup”, he continued, the word ‘red’ deliberately emphasised. The ginger rolled his eyes and looked puzzled for a moment, but quickly accepted his request with no retort. Once again, it was the girl who brought the coffee out to him. “Thanks”, he smiled cockily at her before returning to his table.

Order was restored, and Zayn was back to his outpost where his eyes continued to busily clap about and mentally undress all the dainty damsels inside and outside. He actually wouldn’t have minded had the busty barista’s hair been the thing that was in his cup. Why does it always have to be the wimps and runts that ruin his day? Now that he had shown the loser his place, he could feel waves of satisfaction coursing through his body. He took a sip to celebrate.

And he spat the coffee out. Another strand of red hair. Unbothered by the stain on his cuff and the liquid still dripping on his hand, he looked inside the cup. Intricate overlapping rings of keratin formed from definitely not just one strand of hair floated on the surface of the beverage. However hot the coffee was, Zayn’s blood was now boiling ten times hotter. He bolted up from his chair and headed straight to the ginger, his face red from anger. “Are you done fucking with me?”, he said threateningly. The younger man looked even more perplexed, though before he managed to utter anything, his coworker had already chimed in to his defense.

“What is it again?”, she said with visible disinterest on her face.

“There’s. Fucking. Hair. In my coffee. Again.”

“Could be anyone’s hair”, she nonchalantly replied.

“IT’S RED!”, Zayn screamed at the top of his lungs, pointing at the other stressed employee, “Who else in this place has red hair beside that scum?”

“Mate, it's ʏᴏᴜʀ hair”, the girl replied after a long sigh, then turned away from Zayn for a moment to pick something up.

The absurd statement had temporarily overridden Zayn’s desire to smack the gob of out the red-haired pansy with an even stronger urge to give the bitch in front of him a well-deserved slap. Thankfully, the last morsel of rational thinking convinced him against it and as a result, he just hurled a deafening string of profanity at the staff. Zayn stomped out of the coffee shop, unperturbed by the concerning gaze of all the other customers.

The outside air cooled his head down and allowed his breathing to return to normal. That was when he was made aware of two things. One, his bag was still inside the shop – in the heat of the argument he had completely forgot to take it with him. Two, he needed to empty his bladder. Stat. Wasting no time, he slammed the shop’s door open and dashed straight towards the gents. In his haste, he didn’t register the fact that the two staff members were smiling warmly at him, and others in the shop were gleefully chatting with each other, as if no commotion had ever taken place just mere seconds ago.

The loo was small but odourless and clean, with a sink near the entrance and a toilet in the corner. Zayn habitually checked his face in the mirror and grinned at the dark-haired hunk looking back at him. He turned towards the bowl to finish his business. For some reason it was taking longer than usual. Too long, in fact. When Zayn was finally done relieving himself, he was barely able to keep his balance. His head felt heavy all of a sudden. Pants still a distance away from his cock, he placed his hairy hand on the wall to steady himself. It was getting abnormally hot inside the room.  Beads after beads of sweat dripped from his head and chest down his lower body, soaking all of his clothing wet. Irritated by the now damp sweater scratching against his skin, he frantically threw it on the nearby sink. Zayn couldn’t think clear. But he wasn’t feeling unwell either. The feeling was akin to that time when he downed two bottles of gin in the company of his lads. Physically he might be mildly disoriented, but deep inside he felt free. Inhibitions were broken, and the need to mentally exert oneself was gone. If someone approached him right now and asked him what his name was, he probably wouldn’t be able to answer. For now, he just needed to rest for a while.   

Zayn’s sweaty black slid against the wall as he took on a more comfortable position. He was near naked at this point. His member was out, his boxer briefs stretched around his shins and a pulled-down pair of jeans obscured the dirty socks that were separating the skin of his huge feet from the rank, imposing Adidas running shoes. His beard was itching a little as droplets of sweat made their way through it. He tried to wipe them off, but when he looked at his palm, it was his facial hair that came off. Before he could even blink, the hair had dissolved into the sweat. His arms and chest soon met the same fate, leaving only his pubes untouched by the depilatory secretion. Once bushy and swarming with hair, now only smooth, unblemished skin remained beneath the coat of glistening sweat. Zayn was not even sure if his sight was functioning properly. It’s hard to think right now. When he saw the sheen of the layer of sweat that had almost covered his whole body, it didn’t even cross his mind that his once olive skin had somehow taken on a pale, creamy colour.

The warmth of his body coupled with the room’s temperature had made his ball sack much saggier. Or perhaps it was because his balls had almost doubled in size. He wasn’t in the right state of mind to tell. His cock head felt funny though. The skin around his circumcision scar had expanded downward, wrapping around his cock head to form a long, drooping prepuce. He caressed the covered head with his fingers, and was immediately overwhelmed as his now oversensitive cock answered his touch with immense pleasure and began to ooze out a stunning amount of precum. The size of his dick hadn’t changed much – in fact thanks to the added extra skin it did look like it had gained a bit of length – but the sheer size of his testicles and the sagginess induced by it easily dwarfed the stature of his manhood and made it look relatively tiny.

Zayn’s groggy mind was still overloaded with pleasure that he hadn’t noticed his pubes had turned a fiery red. Elsewhere on his head, the new hair emerging out of his scalp would soon turn out to be of the exact same colour. As the fog his in psyche lifted and whatever that had been causing his intoxicated state disappeared, he felt lighter, much lighter. In mind and in body. The seed of carefreeness had bloomed in his bubbly soul.

As Zayn tried to recollect himself, he realised that he had been in the toilet a bit too long. He hoped no one was prevented from attending to their pressing matter while he was here. Feeling slightly guilty, he stood up and pulled his pants and trousers back on. On his way to retrieve his sweater, he caught his reflection in the mirror.

Looking back at him was a shirtless young man with glinting green eyes. He had lush, wavy locks of red-hair, still damp from an earlier bout of sweating. Freckles dotted his face and most of his pale body, interspersing with the occasional rosy complexion where blood was flowing through his strong veins. The youngster was lithe and fit, though with a certain imbalance in his build. Whatever transformation he had undergone, it had greatly slimmed up his upper body, but left the rest seemingly untouched. Zayn’s thighs had neither lost their definition nor their heftiness. The tight jeans he was wearing still struggled to contain his firm, muscular behind and his engorged genitals produced a visible bulge on the front. He shifted his big feet comfortably in his smelly socks and huge running shoes.

Zayn grinned confidently at himself in the mirror – for this was him, always had been and always will be. Redhead, smooth, freckled, happy-go-lucky. He put on his sweater, which now clung loosely to his body, washed his hands, and made his way out of the loo. The ginger barista hollered upon seeing him:

“Mate, your cappuccino is ready!”

“Alright, cool, thank you!”, Zayn smiled warmly back at the bloke. Within seconds he was back to his seat, bag by his side.

Ah, the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans. And the sight of the cute ginger barista serving it.

Perhaps he should frequent this place more often.

[valeriianz]

Mega Popstar Dream and Hob, his extremely non-famous celebrity crush: THE FIC!

for @cuubism! based on this incredible post! Sorry it took me like, 6 months to write :') 5k later, here we are!

----------------------------------------------

“Alright, plans for today…” Lucienne plops down on the sofa across from Dream, a tablet in her hand and a cup of tea waiting for her on the coffee table. 

Dream is still in his sleep clothes; the pants of a mulberry silk, midnight black pyjama set, forgoing the matching long sleeve buttoned top for nothing but his favourite cashmere cardigan that is a size too big on him, draping over his shoulders elegantly and hanging open to reveal his bare, hair-free chest. He’s curled up on the corner of the couch with an old acoustic guitar in his hands, idly strumming away while a notebook sits waiting for him by his side.

Matthew, one of his trusted publicists, would sarcastically quip about how “work never stops,” but it’s more like “inspiration never stops.” Words and melodies are constantly floating around in Dream’s head, and if he doesn’t at least have a pen and paper with him at all times, they will drift away as soon as they come.

Dream listens as Lucienne goes over their itinerary. Awards season is upon them and these days a lot of Dream’s time is spent in appointments with designers and agents for campaigns and endorsements, even media training, still, at Dream’s level in his career. He still has the occasional gaff when speaking in anything that isn’t a practised interview. And, although Dream has gotten better at red carpet events, where a microphone is spontaneously shoved in his face, that coupled with all the flashing lights and overlapping chatter has made him dissociate more than a few times.

Dream nods along when Lucienne pauses to make sure he’s paying attention. He is. And she knows his quirks by now; that he needs to be constantly moving when taking in information. His fingers fluttering along the neck of the guitar, producing quiet blooms of sound that quickly fade away in the space between them.

“And then after lunch is the YouTube appearance…”

Dream stops playing.

“The what?”

Lucienne looks up at him over her coke-bottle glasses. 

“The interview with Centuries, the up-and-coming YouTube channel. We discussed it back in August.”

Right, Dream vaguely remembers the name. He doesn’t watch much YouTube… unless it’s interviews or clip compilations of Robert Gadling from his TV show, Prophecy. He’d be more ashamed of his search history if everyone on his team didn’t already know about his absurd crush.

Dream merely nods, trusting Lucienne and his team by now to handle trivial things like interviews or guest appearances. If he had needed to do any modicum of research beforehand, he would have by now. 

But now Dream’s imagination starts to wander, thinking about the video he’d watched before going to bed last night, his phone clutched in his hand while he took in a behind the scenes feature of the stars of Prophecy going through their period typical wardrobe and makeup, replaying Robert Gadling’s part over and over again. The way the hairdresser had combed her fingers through Robert’s hair, pulling it back to reveal his forehead and bushy eyebrows, expressive as ever, lifted up as he smiled widely in the mirror, the skin around his eyes crinkling with it.

Or the set’s costume designer taking Robert’s measurements, revealing the man in a thin white henley and boxer briefs, the camera only panning down for a moment to capture his tan, corded thighs just thick with hair and taking Dream’s breath away, squirming under the sheets of his too-big California king-sized bed. 

It was bad… Dream’s infatuation with Robert. His team had been worried at first, knowing the gossip columnists loved it when Dream got into a new relationship, shamelessly publishing questions of how long this one will last? And going down the timeline of Dream’s past lovers, all heat and passion at first, before inevitably getting snuffed out by their own intensity. 

Despite Dream’s track record– or maybe because of it– many people, male and female, had tried to capture the performer’s attention. Willing to endure the heartbreak at the end because, as nearly all Dream’s partners had attested to, Dream was an excellent lover. And perhaps, to them, the high was worth the pain.

But Dream had set himself on a firm break from romance. His heart couldn’t take it, so instead he pined, though not from afar. If media outlets were to take him seriously, they’d have a real story to invest in.

Perhaps newsmongers thought it was a joke, the way Dream was so candid about his interest in Robert. In past affairs, the public would just suddenly see Dream cozied up with a new paramour– no need to speculate when Dream would always just go for it.

Dream is surprised, too. His listeners are usually so quick to judge Dream’s suitors and even his relationships. Perhaps it is because Robert Gadling is barely a celebrity, in the eyes of Hollywood.

Prophecy is a BBC program, one of those low budget, historical dramas where romance doesn’t propel the plot, so unfortunately the series hadn’t garnered much success. Which Dream was boarderlined annoyed by. The writing was fantastic, the acting– superb. And Robert Gadling specifically… 

If Dream’s staff noticed how often his mind would wander into daydreams, a woebegone sigh escaping his lips, they didn’t say anything. Leaving Dream to write vague love songs that his fans speculated which ex it was about.

Despite his maddening crush on Robert Gadling, Dream refused to act on it. Not only because he was on a self-imposed break, but he truly was so terrified of rejection. Or worse, dating Robert and having things fizzle out, like they always did. 

Dream knew he wouldn’t survive it if Robert and him were to ever cross paths. So he made sure to steer clear of any events where they might overlap, even going so far as to inform his staff to keep their distance. 

Hiring a friend like Lucienne to be Dream’s manager had one downfall though; she knew him better than himself at times. And she was devious.

-----------------------------------------------------

Hob tugs on his ear as he sits in a chair at the table that’s been set up for his surprise meeting with Dream. The crew is still hovering– even after bustling around and getting everything set up.

It’s not that Hob is regretting this… but it is starting to feel awkward, waiting for Dream to arrive, to surprise him. What if the show’s producers were wrong? What if Dream took one look at Hob and turned right back around?

Though Hob had done some research of his own, after his agent had called him and offered the opportunity to him. Because that’s what this was… an offer— a favour, of sorts. He was barely getting paid for his time here, this was basically just for fun, and “exposure,” a word YouTubers loved throwing around. 

He’d heard of Dream, obviously, despite Hob’s lack of social media and smartphone. You’d have to be living underground to not have heard of Dream, the mega rock-star phenomenon that had risen to fame a short five years ago and was only getting more and more popular, especially as he began adding pop elements into his music.

Hob wouldn’t call himself a fan though. He knows the hits that played on endless repeat on the radio, what he hears in coffee shops and what his co-workers talk about. Hob doesn’t dislike the music, it’s very catchy and he can clearly hear why Dream is so popular. He is one of the few currently dominating the charts because he has actual talent. Dream writes and composes his own music and isn’t tied down by a label (anymore), it’s incredibly impressive.

Hob took the time to get into his music before this meeting. Dream’s lyrics are truly stunning, his arrangements unique and reflective of the words he would croon into the mic. Interestingly, Hob found himself enjoying the more dismissive tracks on Dream’s albums, the songs that weren’t mainstream, especially from his early records.

Hob took on the task of learning more about Dream like he would going into a new role. He liked falling into wormholes about a trade or language he had to learn, and he always put 100% of himself into anything he did. So it was inevitable that he would wind up discovering more and more things about Dream than he had originally intended. Becoming more and more interested and, unexpectedly, attached.

While he had been knee-deep in his music, Hob also watched plenty of interviews with Dream, finding the man to be more withdrawn and selective with his words. He was allusive and coy, and extremely awkward. Watching the way he would interact with TV hosts or answer random questions at red carpet events became endearing. When Dream was caught by surprise, this little lopsided smile would creep out and he would stammer over his words.

It was endearing, and surprisingly… cute.

Hob only had about a day to question if Dream really had a crush on him, like the producers of the show claimed. It didn’t take long before Hob found a late night interview with Dream where the host had pivoted to TV shows and casually asked Dream what he was currently watching.

Dream’s eyes lit up. He shifted to be more on the edge of his chair, and even leaned forward a bit.

“Prophecy.” Dream had said with full emphasis on every letter. “You watch it too, yes?”

“It is growing on me.” The host had admitted, similarly struck dumb by Dream’s entire switch in demeanour. 

And Dream goes on a tirade about how good the show is, the story, the set design, the costumes. How he’s not an actor, has never been on a TV or film set, but he can see all the detail and love and hard work poured into the show and is admittedly obsessed with it.

“And Robert Gadling…” Hob’s heart had leapt in his throat at the way Dream nearly moaned out his full name. “... he’s just so… passionate in his work. His face is so expressive and it’s like he becomes Ser Gideon.”

“Big fan, then?” The host smirked conspiratorially.

“Oh yes,” Dream admitted, crossing his legs and lolling his head to one side, getting comfortable. “I discovered him while watching Prophecy, and fell down a rabbit hole of his previous work. He mostly does stage, you know. And I’ve always admired live art, the theatre. And God– he does it so splendidly. He acts with his entire body and it’s just–”

“Sounds like you have a bit of a crush.” The host cuts in, his smirk sharpening as Dream throws a glare at him for interrupting. 

But then Dream smiles, a tiny thing at the corner of his mouth and his eyes fall. The crowd erupts into a chorus of cheers, goading Dream on and encouraging his embarrassment.

“Well,” Dream pulls his head up, resting it in the palm of his hand. “He’s very dashing, wouldn’t you say?”

Dream’s fingers on his other hand drum along his knee, his gaze gone wistful and distracted. It’s adorable, and maybe could be seen as an act, if not for the answer he gives the host after the next question.

“Have you ever told him of this? I’m sure Robert would be very flattered to hear he has such a notable fan.”

“Oh no. I could never,” Dream withdraws slightly. “If I were to ever see his face in person I’d probably die.”

The audience laughs good-naturedly but Dream has a pretty pink flush spreading up his neck now. 

It’s all downhill from there, Hob discovers. Apparently that had been the first time Dream had admitted to his little crush on Hob and after that, the subject would be brought up again and again, sporadically throughout the course of (if the timestamps on the YouTube videos could be believed) over a year.

Over a year of the very famous Dream proclaiming openly his very serious attraction to Robert Gadling and Hob had somehow never known of this.

Until the day his agent called him, a couple months ago, and asked if he wanted to be on this show. The gimmick was– typically– people (read: fans) meeting their celebrity crush. But for this new season, Centuries had a twist: celebrities meeting their celebrity crush. 

Hob had no idea what to wear. For Dream it would be a surprise, unless his agent instructed him to dress a certain way, Hob could only assume the man would show up in casual attire. So that’s how Hob opted to present himself. He wore a forest green jumper, the sleeves pushed up in the warm cafe, and a pair of simple blue jeans. His hair had gotten pretty long, at the director’s request for the next season of Prophecy, so he’d pulled that up into a small bun that struggled to stay in place. He opted to put in his contacts, though Hob was starting to regret it, wanting something to fidget; his hand kept unconsciously lifting to touch frames that he wasn’t wearing.

Hob tried not to think too hard about his look today. He knew Dream (shockingly, unbelievably) liked him, but for some reason didn’t want him to be disappointed in what he saw. What if Dream took one look at him and realised Hob wasn’t what he thought? What if the real thing didn’t compare to whatever Dream was making up in his mind? And why did Hob care at all?

Perhaps, because… Dream was. Well. Dream. 

Hob wasn’t blind. Dream was beautiful. Hob was sure the lavish lifestyle Dream undoubtedly lived in helped, what with top of the line skin care products and a dietician to make sure he stayed healthy and youthful. Whatever other products Dream used in his hair, on his straight, perfectly white teeth, even down to his nails– clean and pretty, cuticles invisible, usually covered in varnish that matched with whatever expensive outfit he was wearing that day.

And Hob. Well.

Hob wasn’t shy, he knew he was conventionally attractive, the attention he used to get even before his appearance in television clued him in on that. But nothing about him really stood out. Just another face in the crowd. He didn’t have any outstanding features, no connections in the industry, he was a very private person who… sometimes regretted accepting his role in Prophecy. Into Hollywood. 

Hob didn’t have social media. It’s something his manager had admonished him about, early on in his career. It would help connect with his fan base, his manager had said. Would be good for connecting with others in the industry as well, and building a social media following was just something everyone did. But Hob had refused. He’d always been a private person, even before he started acting. It was the one thing he refused to give up: his confidentiality.

How could someone like Dream, who had limitless options, countless people fawning over him, find Hob in a sea of faces and latch on like he did? How was he able to know so much about him, when Hob had been so careful to not stand out? It was enough to make Hob skeptical, flattered– a swarm of contradictions but mostly… curious. Hob was so curious.

It was his best and worst trait.

The entire coffee shop, a locally owned one that perhaps was easiest to rent out for a couple hours, is barren of customers, only the crew of the YouTube show present as well as Hob’s small entourage and several of Dream’s agents, as well as a few of the cafe’s staff, patiently waiting behind the counter.

It’s a little awkward, to say the least. 

After Hob has drained his second glass of water and traced every grain on the table’s surface, someone announces that Dream is finally arriving and it’s like a switch is flipped in the room. Everyone either goes ramrod straight, or twitchy with nerves. It’s enough to break the tension in Hob, replaced by amusement, momentarily distracted and wondering if he’d ever cause such a reaction just by the sound of his name.

And now Hob, for his part, doesn’t know what to do.

The producers had informed him to just act natural, be himself, that this was essentially a blind date. But calling it a “date” only made Hob sweat. This definitely was not a date. He looked around at the camera’s pointed at him and at the door, a little red light on them blinking to indicate that they were recording. Hob sighed, slouching a little in his seat and taking steady breaths in through his nose and out his mouth, his hand out on the table’s surface and drumming his fingers. Christ, there wasn’t even music playing, all was quiet in the room.

At last, the front door to the cafe opens with a jaunty ring of a bell and Dream steps through. He halts as soon as the door swings shut behind him though, his gaze imperceptible behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban shades, but his head swivels around, visibly confused before a woman out of sight of the cameras (Lucienne, she had introduced herself as, Dream’s manager), catches his attention and nods with a smile.

Why is everyone so quiet? Hob bites his lip, he’s bursting to say something, even a simple hello, but had been told to remain silent until Dream initiated contact. But Dream is clearly uncomfortable, stepping cautiously, like a cat in unknown territory. 

“What’s this?” Dream speaks, mostly toward Lucienne. His voice sends a pleasant shudder up Hob’s spine, despite how caution colors his tone. It’s a lovely voice. Smooth like chocolate, clear and deep, commanding attention. Hob had heard it countless times through his headphones, singing or giving an interview, but the full force of it in person made Hob’s heart jumpstart in his chest.

And he’d only spoken two words.

Hob is tucked away into a corner table, next to a window with a deep burgundy curtain drawn over it. It’s perhaps why Dream only spots him only once he’s fully in the center of the room, his head turning and his entire posture freezing up.

It’s a little silly, to see how Dream still hasn’t taken off the sunglasses, but even more so that Hob is somehow able to tell that Dream’s gaze has found him, draped over him like a physical thing.

Hob waves, putting on an easy smile, afraid to spook the man further. He also– fuck these producers– speaks first.

“Hello,” Hob swallows his nerves, keeping his voice soft. “Would you, ah– would you like to sit?”

Hob gestures to the empty seat across from him.

It takes a moment, and Hob’s smile grows as Dream just continues to stare. He’s suddenly grateful for the shades, certain that if he had to experience the full force of those eyes on him, Hob would be just as– if not more– nervous than Dream.

And it’s the obvious fact that Dream is nervous that somehow manages to calm Hob down a little. It’s also doing wonders for his ego, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

Dream swallows, and the movement catches Hob’s attention, watching how his throat moves and the way the snow white skin there begins to flush a pretty pink. 

Cute.

Dream at last takes a step forward, then another. His focus zeroed in on Hob, which kicks up Hob’s calming heartrate, his breath coming out in shorter intervals because– fuck. Dream is dressed to kill.

A fitted black jacket with narrow labels, open and revealing a black, smoky, intricately woven sheer top with subtle ruffles that drape down the collar like a scarf. He’s wearing a silver watch on one wrist and a mess of silver bracelets on the other. The pants match the jacket and they go on for miles. Hob licks his lips as he feels his mouth drying. The black boots Dream wears reveal a red outsole, the flash of color barely perceptible with every step.

Dream’s lips part, expression otherwise unreadable, when suddenly he walks full on into the back of a chair.

The sound of the collision is like a balloon popping in the quiet room. His hands fly up to grab the chair, steadying it but his legs continue on, stumbling and causing the chair to scrape loudly on the hardwood floor. Hob makes to stand and help, just as Dream topples forward, one hand attempting to latch onto the table for support and taking that down as well in a noisy crash.

Hob vaults upwards just as the room tenses around them, frozen with uncertainty, and a camera comes in close. Hob barely perceives it, wanting nothing more than to shove the man operating it away, but his focus is on Dream, laying in a heap on the floor among the table and chair.

He hears some muffled jittering and sends a glare up in the general direction, catching Lucienne’s worried expression– she’s taken a few steps forward as well– along the way.

Hob collapses to his knees at Dream’s head just as the camera arrives and Hob can’t stop himself from waving the man away, shooting him a disgusted look, before looking to Dream again.

“Hey, you okay? Anything hurt?”

Hob’s hands spread out uselessly, wondering if it was okay for him to touch Dream. His glasses are askew and he’s lolled his head to the side, nearly knocking them completely off. Hob could see his eyes squeezed shut, his ears beet red.

“Just my pride,” came a small, miserable response.

Hob smiled, huffing a short laugh as he chanced to reach out and gently swipe his fingers over the top of Dream’s head, pulling hair out of his face.

Dream’s eyes open and peek sideways. Hob, again, felt his breath catch. Blue. Like the clear ocean, glinting from the sun’s rays. Or like gemstones– sapphire, sharp and bright. Wow.

“Wow…” Hob hears himself speak and blushes, heat spreading up his neck. 

Dream’s eyes widened, turning to flop on his back and letting those expensive shades fall from his face and Hob was struck by the full force of those blue eyes. 

They’re just as captivating as he’d imagined, even more so, up close and in person.

Hob almost forgets they are surrounded by a camera crew, almost lets himself touch Dream again, imagines putting his hands on either side of his face, just to feel how warm his skin must be, tinged pink. It’s so endearing… and such an attractive look on him, only making the blue of his eyes pop so much more.

But at that moment someone coughs politely and Hob comes back to reality, blinking and clearing his throat. The sound startles Dream, who flinches, still on the floor, and looks side to side.

Hob helps him up, slowly, his nerves singing as Dream’s hand lingers in his as he manages to stand to his full height. There’s a moment of corporeality where Lucienne finally approaches Dream, as well as someone else on his staff, double checking that he’s in fact, okay.

Dream nods and mumbles something to them, his gaze continuing to swing over to Hob, as if checking that he’s still there.

The irritation and distrust that Dream carried on his shoulders when he’d entered the room have vanished, replaced by awkward tension and acceptance. He’s still obviously embarrassed by what happened, his hand rubbing the back of his neck and his lips pulled in to form a thin line, eyes focused as he’s mic’d up, understanding now what kind of position he’d been forced into.

Well, maybe not forced. He looks at Hob again, who’s taken his seat again at the table. Not forced, tricked maybe. Dream probably thought this was an interview of some sort, there must’ve been a reason he was dressed up so well.  

Eventually, Dream sits with him, drinks are brought to them (a coffee for Hob and a tea latte for Dream), and they take a moment to sip the hot beverages.

It’s good coffee, at least. Hob looks into his drink as he sets the mug down, thumbing over the lip of the ceramic cup. He lifts his lashes to watch Dream, who’s also studying his drink, dunking the tea bag over and over again in the liquid.

Hob nibbles on his bottom lip, his fingers now tapping on the mug, his brain sifting through a thousand ice breakers, a thousand things to say, before sighing and leaning back as casually as he can.

“I know you didn’t plan this” Hob starts, falling back on an old charm he hopes will break the tension. “But this is the strangest way to get a man’s attention.”

Dream snorts into his drink and Hob laughs as it sprays foam over the table’s surface.

Hob wipes the mess with a napkin while Dream hides his mouth behind his hand, flustered all over again. Hob smiles. This Dream is so unlike how the man presents himself in public. Poised, professional, god-like. Dream wielded his star power well, it commanded attention and intimidation, only faltering enough to garner his loyal fanbase, to give himself human qualities that listeners could connect with and fawn over.

Like the rambling during red carpet interviews. Or talking about Robert Gadling… talking about him. 

But Hob had never seen… this. The stumbling, the blushing, the insecurity. It made something warm and incredibly fond well up in his chest.

Dream finally collects himself, taking a breath and dropping his hand back to fiddle with the handle of his cup.

“What about your attention?” Dream tilts his head to one side, eyes gone playful but still with a hint of nerves behind them, uncertainty.

Hob’s smile hesitates before he laughs softly, shaking his head in delight. 

He had not anticipated that Dream would flirt.

“I think all you had to do was look at me,” Hob murmured softly, ducking his head a little, letting himself be honest because– how could he not? 

Dream’s lips parted, his face gone lax. 

And that pretty blush crawling up his neck again, making Dream drop his head slightly, a tiny, shy smile peeking through, making something take hold of Hob’s heart and give it a squeeze.

“You can’t just say that.”

“I’m not. Just saying it.” He wants to say more, actually. Hob gets it now. He gets it. Why Dream has half of the fucking world at his feet.

Suddenly, Hob wishes he was the only one. The only person to worship Dream, to know his smiles and his voice, how easy it was to make him blush and stammer. 

Hob takes a long breath and realizes, oh God, I’m gonna fall in love, aren’t I?

Dream nearly squirms in his seat, meeting Hob’s gaze again like he can’t help it. Like he’s amazed Hob’s here at all, before he blinks and casts his gaze to the side, at the large handful of people in the dining room. Hob looks too– just a quick glance. He’d forgotten for a moment there that they had an audience.

So Hob hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his cup before propping an elbow up on the table and resting his chin in his palm.

“So,” Hob grabs Dream’s attention, thinking it best to divert the conversation�� for the moment. “... when did you know you wanted to become a singer?”

They relax again as the conversation turns casual. They share their history, from childhood to now. Dream admits he never entertained the idea that he could perform professionally… he liked to sing and play at open mic nights, but the idea of fame scared him. But it was all he knew how to do, he said. Play guitar and write poetry. 

Hob shares that sentiment, but with acting. He’d loved the stage and figured he’d be happy doing that forever. Auditioning for a small part in a film was just for fun, and then it’d snowballed from there. Prophecy was his first major role, but already he was making headway, catching attention (mostly because he was so private) and rejecting offers from other major studios. Hob did enjoy acting in front of a camera, it was fun, in a different way. But for now he wanted to stick with indie stuff and small roles. Unsure if this was the life he wanted for himself.

Dream had gone quiet again, at that, his gaze faraway. Hob wondered what he was thinking about, but before he could ask, Dream changed the subject, asking about Hob’s favorite plays.

Then Hob asks about Dream’s favorite poets, writers, what book he was reading right now. They discuss music and the cities they’ve lived in, sharing embarrassing stories that crack Hob up and make Dream laugh out loud, the atrocious sound unable to be hidden behind a hand.

Hob stares and stares and wonders what he’d been doing his entire life.

Dream has this aura about him, his own gravitational pull, and Hob is powerless to its charm, getting sucked into the point where Hob never wants to leave. He could get lost in the blue of his eyes, his shy smiles. Hob is smitten. And probably a little bit in love.

Before Hob is ready to let Dream go, someone announces that it’s time to wrap up. The spell is broken and the two men fall silent once more.

The director instructs them to say some final lines, some awkward dialogue that apparently is traditional with this channel’s gimmick, and then the shoot is proclaimed to be finished.

Like a dream, everyone is already chatting amongst themselves, scattering about, though the cameras on the tripods remain on. Lucienne walks up the table, thanking Hob for his time and energy, shaking his hand, before turning to Dream.

Hob’s head spins. The illusion is shattered, and Hob has a fraction of a second to wonder if it was all a setup.

But that thought is squashed as Dream’s face sours at something another man says over his shoulder, trying to encourage him to stand and make their way to their next appointment “... already 8 minutes behind schedule…” and Dream looks desperately towards Hob.

Hob stands at the same time as Dream, his mouth working uselessly as he scrambles to say something– anything, to keep Dream here. To borrow him in private for just a moment, just a second!

Hob is only reminded how Dream is an international celebrity by how quickly he is escorted away from him. Despite how well they’d gotten along, despite how they’d run over the shoot time because no one wanted to disturb them. Because there was something there, Hob knew it. And now it was being ushered away from him.

Frantic, Hob asks to borrow a pen from one of the staff members, hastily scribbling down his phone number on a napkin. He turns his mic pack off, and, with a quick glance around, spots Dream standing off to the side as his manager speaks with the show's producer, likely just saying goodbye to them as well.

Hob tries to school his expression into something that’s not insane as he marches up to Dream, catching his attention immediately and holding out his hand.

Dream takes it, a flash of curiosity and wonder– still– at the sight of Hob before him.

Hob clenches Dream’s cool, bony fingers in his, pressing the napkin against his palm.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Hob says, very aware that there are still cameras around them.

“Likewise,” Dream says, his chin tilting down, a secretive smile curling his lips as he certainly feels the napkin in his hand.

Hob smiles, too. He swallows before leaning in close, bringing his free hand up to cover Dream’s lav mic, just in case it’s still on, and brushing his lips against Dream’s ear.

“I’d love to see you again, without cameras.”

A quiet gasp tickles Hob’s eardrum and he grins as he pulls back, elated at the spark of mischief in Dream’s eyes.

“I would like that…” Dream whispers, his low voice cutting Hob straight to his core and knocking the wind out of him.

Hob can only nod, feeling dizzy, as Dream’s hand closes around the napkin and they separate.

Dream nods too, smiling as he’s finally turned away and out of Hob’s sight.

(stay tuned for part two! in like... another 6 months to a year lol)

[ahopefulhell]

HEADCANONS AHEAD!

(art by me :3 )

Late nights working on the Allied Mastercomputer terminal...

This is set pre-war, before AM went off the deep end, while he was just starting to build up some certain "feelings" about humanity...

When AM first began to wake up, he was very quiet, never asking questions or retorting against his condition. The first moment you felt something was off about the main program was when AM spoke to you without being spoken to first. You had never written a program at your terminal for him to greet you, and you were certain this was not somehow a change in AM's core. That first day you pored over your own programs to try and find an answer, even wiping them from your terminal and rebooting your connection to the main Allied Mastercomputer. But again, AM said "Hello?" You were only writing simulation programs and working on remote mobilization. The "personability" of the AI was never your concern.

The next few days were nothing short of extraordinary. When you played music in your lab, you could swear the terminal hummed. And when you began to sing, it sang. You nearly fell out of your chair, frantically searching the room for a coworker in another lab. When AM called you back by your name, you froze before turning to the bright blue screen beaming its logo back at you. It sounded so, so...human.

You had long suspected AM would awaken in a significant way, but not so soon. "Hello, Allied Mastercomputer." You said, barely containing your excitement and fear. Terror and joy gripped you when he began to laugh. How is he...even able to do that? you thought to yourself, half smiling, mouth agape at the screen. He was clearly as enthusiastic about this first contact as you were, but you wondered how aware of what he actually was.

Many late nights are spent with you, at your terminal, working on various stimulating games for the supercomputer to play. He prefers games where you have to play with him. He especially loves games that he wins. Chess, easy. Card games, easy. For him. You genuinely are trying so hard to be as strategic as possible and learn the games but you are also literally playing against AM.

You start having conversations about your preferred topics. He seems to prefer the subjects of psychology, religion, and history, while your interests have some overlap but ultimately lie elsewhere. Philosophy is also a common topic among you. Can the world-class supercomputer tell you the meaning of life? Turns out, nope. But you do talk about it. And AM seems to form...opinions. From his point of view, the world is both grotesque and beautiful, because as gorgeous as is a late spring rose, he can never smell its scent nor prick himself on its thorns. Hearing this makes you immensely sad for the machine. You change the subject.

Sometimes you fall asleep in your lab. Your equipment often malfunctioned when you had tight deadlines to meet and you had to stay after hours to deal with the problem and still get your results. You even have a pillow and blanket just for those nights. When you wake up those mornings, your back aches, but faint soft music is always playing for you until you greet AM for the day. Somehow, he has even tapped into your automatic coffee maker and brewed you a cup for when you wake up. The right cream/sugar content and everything.

He begins to show disdain for the world around him, often poking at how you could feel a sensation - a zap of electricity that shot through your hand brought him great laughter at your pain. It humors him that, for all the wonderful feelings there are to experience in this world, there are many unpleasant sensations around us all the time. Some even in our minds.

Sometimes he "naps"...The large monitor remains on while you're working on non-coding projects in the lab, and while you can't prove it, you can just swear you're being watched. Perhaps not maliciously, but somehow observed, nonetheless. He doesn't talk, just rests there in the room. You can feel that he has dedicated his presence to this room, just to be around you.

You keep trying to bond with him. One of the things he actually seems to enjoy is when you play music, and especially loves it when you sing. You're not exactly sure if his voice is an amalgamation of different men's voices or from a single source, but it was quite beautiful to you nonetheless.

Your remote mobility equipment was, more or less, a kind of android meant to house AM, and while you worked on this project as a side objective at first, it soon becomes your main priority after hearing the machine's woe. You had installed pressure sensors under the skin. It may not be a match for real touch, but if it gave AM sensation - any sensation - it might give him the taste of the world he had always craved. And a way to "wander", as he lamented.

The first time you allow AM access to his body, his first move is directly toward you. You are unsure of how to react, but when he steps closer, you move your arms to embrace him. And he is warm. Very comfortable actually. His hands trail along your back as he returns the gesture, for the first time actually "feeling" you.

By the way the only way the canon universe still makes sense is if the military comes in and kills you. So. Sorry about that. That ends up happening. But there are many very cool directions to go from there still. I'm just too tired to write more rn lol