GIRL KATIE’S MOVING TO CHELSEA?? i mean she did kinda support them as a child i believe BUT SHE IS ARSENAL idk if my mind can comprehend with this new info😭😭
lots of love💞💞
This whole past month has been like, yeah these aren't enough blows, here’s one more and more and more.
And I get it, it was her preferred club when she was a child but she did spend like 11 years at Arsenal. And her joining Chelsea feels like a betrayal in the worst form. I genuinely don't know how I'm gonna survive the next season. So many club legends will be playing in a different shirt and I don't think I'm ready for it 😔😭
THISS like don’t get me wrong i’m SO happy for her🥹🥹 but like she’s my fav player so her going over to chelsea hits so bad😭😭😭 and like ALEXIA??? i did NOT see it coming next seasons gonna be wild and i’m lwk here for it😂😂
kiss your screen every time you see a typo or grammatical error in my fics because it means it's home grown and not some ai bullshit and im dead serious about this
• 𝒷𝓁𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒 — thomas shelby x fem!wife!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, oneshot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — the wife of the birmingham's most feared gangster, rewards him for his hard work, and he gladly accepts it with open arms.
• 𝓉𝒶𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 — thomas shelby x fem!assassin!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, series
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — an infamous female assassin has been paid an enormous amount of money by an italian to assassinate a fearful gangster, however, what once she thought would be simple, turned out to become a hectic mess once she realises she's fell head over heels for her target.
002. 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓮.
• 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 — tim bradford x footballer/soccerplayer!fem!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 —
redone it • 𝓌𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑔𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 — tim bradford x fem!agent!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — fbi agent reader
• 𝒷𝓇𝒶𝒹𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒹’𝓈 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉 P3 — tim bradford x fem!wife!uc!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, series
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — a year ago today, tim bradford, a stoic, hard faced cop, has a wife that went missing on a dangerous undercover mission. The officer reunites with her wife that went MIA. The officer reunites with her wife that went MIA, but the third time they meet, he vows that he is not letting you go.
• 𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓀𝓈 — tim bradford x fem!detective!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, series
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — ghosting the LAPD and beyond due to an incident that effected you deeply, they track you down and get called back, however, now from an agent that dealt with UC work and severe issues, to a regular police officer.
• 𝒿𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉 — seargent!reader's former t.o!tim bradford x higher up solo detective!tim's former rookie!fem!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, one shot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — reader flirts her way through her case, however the seargent does not take this lightly.
→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — teen!reader hates ice baths, which is one of the most crucial parts of being a professional footballer, so in response of her kicking off, her team players force her in.
• 𝓈𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝓅 — lionesses x teen!reader,
→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic, text imagine
→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — during the night, you decide to sneak out of camp, promising yourself that you’d be back before sunrise but end up staying out later than planned. your phone starts blowing up with concerned athletes.
→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — teen!reader hates ice baths, which is one of the most crucial parts of being a professional footballer, so in response of her kicking off, her team players force her in.
PLAYERS.
004–1. 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓱 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷
005. 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓵
• 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓅𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈 — steve rogers x fem!shieldagent!avenger!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — seventy years later, the ww2 soldier opens his eyes, just to be met with beauty that sticks to his side throughout the battle of new york.
006. 𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮
• 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 — eddie diaz x celeb!fem!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, oneshot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — responding to a call, a billboard catches the attention of a certain mexican paramedic who begins to feel a sense of need towards it.
• 𝒸𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 — evan buckley x fem!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — you and your firefighter boyfriend are looking after his niece as her parents are out of town, but the young girl won’t get to sleep if she doesn’t get what she demands for.
007. 𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓴𝓼
• 𝑜𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓀𝑜𝑜𝓀 — outer banks x fem!outsider!kook!reader, jj maybank x fem!outsider!kook!reader
↳ 𝓂𝒾𝒹𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒹𝑒𝒷𝓊𝓉 — jj maybank x fem!outsider!kook!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — angst,fluff
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — during the annual midsummers, a new girl is spotted, a new outsider kook girl, it becomes the talk of the night, attracting both sides of the cut.
008. 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓲𝓽𝓽
• 𝓈𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒶 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒 — the pitt x fem!doctor!reader, jack abbot x fem!doctor!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut,
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — dr. abbot loves to tease his fave senior resident!
• 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓎 — the pitt x fem!doctor!reader, michael robinavitch x fem!doctor!reader (platonic), dana evans x fem!doctor!reader (platonic), dana evans x michael robinavitch (platonic),
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — angst, fluff
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — dr. robby always looks after his residences, whilst dana mother’s the whole of the er, but what happens when they find out their unofficial work child gets abused at home?
Okay so, Arsenal and Barcelona respectfully, WHAT THE FUCK!!!!
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKETY FUCK!
I went completely off social media for a while, even Tumblr was a 2-second-scroll to focus on something personal. So when I tell you I had no idea you had such nuclear in your pockets, ready to blast in my face the second I opened my sm…ohhh my heart.
Surely, I was aware some heartbreaking news was waiting for me, but oh god, this- I don't have words. Devastation just doesn't cover it anymore.
I wasn't even gone for a full month, not even a full 30 DAYS, and this is what I'm returning to?!?
No what do you mean I won't be able to watch Katie Beth and Vic play with Arsenal anymore?!?
What do you mean Alexia, ALEXIA, ALEXIA FUCKING PUTELLAS WON'T BE PLAYING WITH BARCA ANYMORE?!?!?
What do you mean that I'll have tears streaming down my face now anytime I try to write a fic, anytime their name appears and I'm full on sobbing because I'm reminded they aren't there anymore?!?!?
If this is a dream pls wake me up. I've just spent the entire day watching their videos, reading their letters and I can't take it anymore. I can't!
If someone wants to know what my reaction was to everything hitting me at once and how I felt/feeling, it's
AAAGGGHHHHHHHHH!
That’s it! That's exactly what my heart is silently screaming.
(no hate for the players, obviously im well aware they are smart enough to decide what's best for them and there's absolutely nothing they could do that would make me hate them, I love them too much for that. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, because it fucking does)
the rookie x fem!ucdetective!reader, tim bradford x fem!wife!ucdetective!reader
↳ 𝓽𝔂𝓹𝓮 — angst,
↳ 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 — a year ago, tim bradford, a stoic, hard faced cop, has a wife that went missing on a dangerous undercover mission. The officer reunites with her wife that went MIA, but after getting shot and a few days later, he runs into her again.
↳ 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓮 — season one. (part two on ep 2)
↳ 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 ❗️ — drug use, physical abuse, emotional abuse, abduction mentions, swearing, reader’s abuser/abductor is actually gross (ew), (calls her “bitch” etc and is very manipulative),
↳ 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮 — so excited for the next one! i feel like the next fic will have more depth and will be so much more intriguing! • also kinda proof read LOL you guys know me😓 😓 • plus went from mobile to laptop so i could write this quicker for you! • i know it’s posted a bit late but, omg, is suvvie posting on the day she says?? that’s crazy LOL
↳ 𝓷𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷.
“Great morning, Officer Chen.” officer wrigley, lucy’s temporary TO for the day as tim’s still off due to his injury, says as he smiles at her awkwardly patting her back, “I'm gonna drop you here for lunch.”
“w—what..?” lucy diverts her gaze from the menu to her temporary training officer, her face morphed into confusion.
“oh, uhh, i like to go home to eat, y’know,” he begins stopping in his tracks to face his temporary boot and gestures to his uniform issued trousers, “get these wool pants off, air things out”
there’s a few seconds of awkward silence until he breaks it, “be back in 40!”
he walks out and lucy’s left there, so she goes closes the menu, trying to brush past that weird moment, but is clearly weirded out, as she scoffs lightly.
she now sits at a table, forehead resting against her fist (which is propped up onto the table) doodling and noting things in her pad as she eats what she ordered, but her peace gets disturbed.
“why the long face, boot?”
that familiar, stern voice makes her pause and look up, seeing her actual training officer.
“hey..” she greets, straightening her posture and watches him as he sits down opposite her, “what are you doing here?”
“heard you got Wrigley” his left arm rests onto the table, the other on top of the sofa—like seating style, “he always dumps his rookies here whilst he goes home to eat mac and cheese in his undies.”
lucy’s soundlessly scoffs looking away to the side then back down to the pad, clearly annoyed, “so, what? you came to check on me?”
“i live round the corner,” he answers, thumb pointing out the window carelessly, “i was getting takeout” his face goes towards the ordering area.
his gaze then returns to lucy, leaning forward for a second to see what she’s jotting down, but then back, “so, how’s it going?”
“it’s good” she looks up again, then back down, “officer wrigley is, uhm..”
tim tilts his head, urging her to continue,
“yeah, he’s.. he’s.. cautious.”
“he’s..” tim holds back a chuckle, “he’s what we call a slug.. just doing his time, allergic to real police work.”
“yeah.” lucy looks back down, nodding, “yeah”
“you must like the quiet, though” tim states, and as if on que, lucy’s radio chirps up. his eyes drift towards it.
“Wilshire units, store owner called with suspected shoplifter. Caucasian male, yellow track suit. 314 Franklin Drive.”
“that’s three blocks from here, boot.”
tim says, his voice underlined with something. something like it’s some tim test. but ofcourse, his rookie doesn’t pick up on this, not yet.
“What, a-am I supposed to respond? My T.O.'s not here, and I don't have a car.” she argues back
“you got legs” he sarcastically responds, “don’t ya?”
the poor boot hesitates, grabbing her radio and speaking, “7—adam—21, responding on foot”
she gets up,
“Uh, skipping out on the bill?” tim yells out, watching chen panic,
“no, no, right” she grabs a few notes out and places it down “uh whatever” she panics
“run, boot!” he exclaims, adding onto the poor girl’s stress, “run!”
he watches her run out and turns to her food, grabbing a chip, feeding himself like it’s a well deserved reward of what he just done.
he walks out the diner, the bag of his takeout occupying his hand as he takes his route back home.
but something stops him. someone stops him.
round the corner, he sees you. this is weird. you’re alone, leaned against a grey Toyota. messing with the cuffs of the oversized hoodie, hair messy, draped across your shoulders, lips chapped, eyes red — like you’ve cried — lower lip bit and leg bobbing up and down, in stress. he recognises that. how could he not? you’d always do that when your anxiety reaches at its peak. but his eyes are drawn to your neck, which is decorated with a red—purple mark going around, like you’ve been choked, strangled. to a civilian’s eyes, it’s missable. but to a cop’s? it’s far from missable.
his heart dropped at the sight. he slowly stepped towards you, feet moving before his own head could. the takeout in his hand forgotten. “y/n..?” he says and your head snaps, and your head turns, panic and fear invading your once emotionless face. you step back. and it breaks his heart.
“y/n, baby, it’s okay” he softly speaks, putting the bag of takeout down onto the pavement. the food is the least of his concerns, for all he cares, someone can pick it up, running off and he won’t even look back. but when he does, a shot of pain jolts through his body, his wound is still healing. he presses his lips together, masking the pain, “you don’t have to be scared, just come back to me, back home, you know i’ll keep you safe.”
you pick up on it, on the pain, even if he’s covering it up, like it’s oscar—winning. obviously you do, you know him better than anyone. you don’t miss the press of his lips, unlike anyone else would.
he opens his hands to you. not grabbing you. he knows that. he knows not to, he can tell what you’re going through, and he knows that grabbing you will only make it much more worse.
but to his surprise, you flinch back. his heart aches, tears prickle his eyes.
“you should go.” you pull out, your voice, ever so silent, is laced with something. anger, distain. and he’s taken aback. his own wife, his other half, a well—respected detective, speaks to him like he’s the most disgusting thing in the world. he knows it’s not true. not coming from you, but what’s been grained into you by those gruesome, minipulating men who abducted you.
his brows furrow as he steps closer, but you back away, which breaks him even more, “not without you, not this time.”
“i think you should do what the lady says.”
you look behind tim, seeing the familiar wide figure and you shiver slightly, from the cold, you say to yourself.
tim turns, trying to mask the pain again, mentally making a note to stop moving so harshly.
“and who are you to tell me what to do?” he grits out, facing the man.
he grins, hands going into his pocket and pulling out a pocket knife, “a cop off duty—on medical leave— really shouldn’t be engaging in dangerous situations.” his voice is petty, his dry lips crack as they move.
tim's eyes widen. how did he know? but he's been pulled out of his trail of thoughts when he hears a yelp out of your mouth. he snaps around, the stitches of the healing wound tugging on his skin, but he doesn't care. what matters is you and your safety.
he sees you, tears falling out as you're pressed against another man who he's convinced came out of nowhere and a knife is pressed against your neck, digging into it, drawing blood. you whimper, gripping on the second man's arm, trying to pull him away but that only makes him dig in more, muttering, "comeon pretty, be a good girl f'me, or else y'gonna get your throat slit," heat practically steams out of tim's ears, "and we don't want that, now do we?" the man mocks faking a pathetic pout as he digs the cut in deeper.
tim gets shoved by the first guy, knife drawn out on him as he gets pulled away from you. "think 'bout any cop funny business and not only her pretty face, but yours too will get cut open and i'll box it up sending it to y'station."
sirens are heard, a bystander clearly calling this in and they run away, lightly slitting the crook of Tim's neck and taking you away as you try and fight away from him to go to him, to aid his cut like you would a year ago, your bleeding cut the least of your concern but they inject you, making you pass out as Tim tries to get you back.
"Tim?" a familiar voice yells out, looking down at the ground where his once--warm bagged takeout sat, now spilled all over the ground by being kicked over carelessly, whilst the man himself stands in the middle of the road, hands on his knees catching his breath from trying to run to the car.
angela jogs up, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder as bishop also rolls onto the scene, jackson joining Nolan as they both watch the group of three from a distance muttering to themselves.
"what happened?" angela's face is full of concern, as she goes infront of him.
"sh--she was right here.. i couldn't save her this time.." he mumbles, eyes going glossy, but holding them back, touching his neck and feeling the blood bleeding out.
"7--Adam--15, requesting an ambulance on scene, white, male, (tim's age in season one because i can't remember LOL), has a cut to the neck." bishop radios and dipatch responds they're 3 minutes out.
she walks towards the two, "'she' as in--"
"y/n.." angela mutters, finishing talia's words, "Timothy, what did you mean you 'couldn't save her this time'?" she questions, emphasising on the words that came out of his own mouth.
"did you see her before?" Talia adds, standing next to Angela, with the same facial expression reading 'concern'.
he just nods and the paramdedics come on the scene, going to tim and assessing his wound, making sure its not infected. but thankfully, its not deep enough to need stitches.
angela and talia share a knowing look. knowing that this is a huge breakthrough, your case has been slipping through the cracks, unoffically closed due to how long its taking. the head of major crimes has given up. i mean, he's rumored to be a bit spectical, but there's no evidence. however not your fellow patrol cops, or wade and your captain, or some of the fellow detectives you worked along side. but the fact tim didn't say anything when he first reunited with you, makes them question why. they're going to ask him, and they wonder if lucy knows about this and why she didn't report it. but knowing Tim, he probably threatened her.
from afar, lucy rolls up with her temporary TO, walking towards nolan and Jackson, eyes laced with suspicion, "i heard bradford was apart of the scene, what happened?"
"we don't know.." jackson says, "but i don't think it's anything good, i mean, i've never seen him so taken aback before."
Lucy thinks, but she has seen him like this before. when he reunited with his MIA wife. But she doesn't say anything. Because its his privacy, which doesn't involve her.
"we should probaby do something instead of stare," nolan suggests, pulling his gaze away.
you wake up and feel the back of your head bleeding. you've been thrown against the wall and you begin to feel the pain, the numbness now disappearing and the pain taking over. you groan, your body hurts. like you've been thrown around like a rag doll, which you probably have. you think to yourself.
"ah, ah" your abductor sees you regain consiousness. he's got a joint rolled up, smoking it and walking towards you, bendinf down. you hear the crack of his joints as he breaths out the smoke in your face, your face scrunches. it smells. and he grins, amused.
"aw, baby," he mocks, getting up and walking towards the other guy he was with, much thinner than him, chopped hair, unmaintatined beard which looks like he tried to trim but gave up on halfway through. "you really thought he'd save you, your knight in shining armour?" his groggy voice is infultraiting, the other man laughs as the sent of smoke and alcohol lingers around in the room, laced with a bit of sweat, clearly radiating off them as their shirts are clinging to them, sweat patches evident.
"thick bitch." he laughs with the other guy, as they both go through the cash they stole from a bank, before the whole tim situation occurred. you cry. cry thinking that you had a chance. bad negative thoughts erupt in your mind as the day goes. it feels long, it streches as you get ragged around.
part three coming soon!
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tag list: @fuckingsimp4azriel @multifandombliss @bacheerawr @hiireadstuff @booklover2503 @otterluver05 (comment to remove yourself on this series taglist)
Summary: She is his rookie, but unlike the others before her, she refuses to break, no matter the Tim-test she has the answer. She’s stubborn, she’s an overachiever, and she refuses to let Tim make her fail.
Word count: 2.5k
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a/n: I wrote this chapter wayyy before anything else, so if anything doesn't make sense, that's probably why. I'm still really excited about it though, so let me know what youn think!
The call came in just after lunch; there was an active robbery at a local bank. You and Tim were the first to respond, your cruiser’s sirens cutting through the late afternoon traffic as you raced toward the bank. Lopez and Bradley got called in for backup and were a few blocks behind, coordinating with dispatch as you approached. Upon your arrival, the lot was eerily quiet. The doors were swinging gently in the wind, and the tellers were huddled together, eyes wide and trembling. Not a single robber in sight.
You stepped inside cautiously, taking in the scene: scattered money, overturned chairs, and a palpable fear that lingered in the air. After speaking briefly with the shaken employees, you and Tim waited for the rest of the team to figure out what to do next.
Later, back at the station, the team gathered around the security footage. All of the men had ski masks on, obscuring their faces, except for one. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, revealing a forearm that immediately caught your attention. While Grey, Bradford, and Lopez debated theories on how to identify the group, you found yourself staring at that arm. The tattoo etched there was unmistakably familiar.
You moved to the computer, pausing the footage and scrolling frame by frame until you had the clearest view. There it was, the tattoo, unobstructed, the design obvious.
Sergeant Grey noticed what you were doing mid-rant. “What are you doing?” he barked, eyes narrowing.
“Could someone zoom in on just the arm and enhance the image? I want a clearer look at that tattoo,” you said.
Grey’s face lit up with curiosity, and he shouted for someone to do exactly that. “Now, what exactly is the importance of this tattoo?”
You feel silly having this many eyes on you, especially since most were your superiors, but you had to explain your hunch, whether they believed you or not. During my time in the army, I saw a specific tattoo a lot. It belongs to a group that calls itself The Blooded Order. They weren’t official, just a club that spread around the ranks. From what I heard, they believed soldiers were above civilians and that rules and regulations shouldn’t apply to them. No one treated them as a real threat; they were just a bunch of guys puffing themselves up, trying to sound tougher than they were. But they used this symbol to recognize each other. A dagger inside a circle, with a single drop of blood at the tip. And I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what’s on that man’s arm.”
Grey crossed his arms, unconvinced. “And how can you be so sure? Your explanation sounds a lot like a theory. I don’t like theories.”
You don't know how to respond to that; you can only stare back and hope he trusts you.
///
Hours later, after running the enhanced image through the military database, the analysts confirmed it: several former members of The Blooded Order had relocated to Los Angeles. Many, disillusioned with following orders, had not reenlisted and instead reconnected on the outside. One name immediately stood out: Staff Sergeant Mark Kellan.
Records showed that just months ago, Kellan purchased an old warehouse in Vernon through a shell company. Since then, multiple sightings of Blooded Order members have been reported entering and leaving the property.
Now, a group of officers, including you, Bradford, Lopez, and Bradley, surround a table while Sergeant Grey spreads the aerial photos across the table, the warehouse circled in red. “Alright. We’ve got a warehouse in Vernon, owned by one of their own. That means they feel safe there. That’s our advantage.”
From there, a plan formed: stakeout first, gather intelligence, then a raid once there was proof that this was the group responsible for the bank robbery. Every detail counted. Every move had to be precise.
///
You were clearly stressing about having to stay later, and Tim could not for the life of him understand. He knows that when you’re on the clock, you don’t let anything distract you; in fact, he recalls a moment when you ridiculed him for allowing his personal life to distract him. And especially now, when you practically handed the lead to them. So why were you so upset about staying a couple of extra hours? Sick of watching you pace back and forth while doing something on your phone, Tim finally starts towards you.
“I know for a fact that you knew this was a part of the job, Boot, so why the hell aren't you jumping at the opportunity to help with this case?” Okay, maybe he should have been nicer about that, but Tim was getting sick of your dismissal of the job.
You look up from your phone, though you don’t seem to be pleased to be doing so, and give him the dumbest excuse he’s heard in a while. “My dog isn’t used to me being out this late.”
“Right, and why haven’t I heard about this dog before?” Seriously, if this is so important, Tim would have expected to at least have heard a name. Sure, you don’t talk about your personal life much, but most of his rookies loved to ramble about their pets above anything else.
“I didn’t think it was relevant to the job. But yes, I have a dog. She gets anxious if I get home even ten minutes later than usual.” You look increasingly annoyed the longer you spend talking to Tim. He’s seen your eyes glance back towards your phone twice already. “I’m trying to get in contact with my neighbor to check on her, but she’s refusing to answer.”
Tim finds your choice of contact interesting, especially because it’s taking way too long, and you both have a case to get back to. He decided to tell you exactly that, “Why, your neighbor, don’t you have a friend you can call?”
The look you give Tim confuses him more, but he wouldn’t have been prepared for what you were about to say, “I don’t exactly have friends, Glove. Phoebe takes up my entire social life. Which is another reason why I need to get in contact with my neighbor.”
As you try to get back to your phone, Tim can’t help but want to ask more. He might have if it weren’t for one of the detectives calling for him.
///
Later, the two of you were on lookout, parked in a nondescript vehicle across the street from the warehouse. Both of your eyes were fixed on the building, tense yet alert. Tim remembers your previous conversation and, surprisingly, decides to break the silence.
“You said your dog is your whole social life.”
That was it. Apparently, it was your job to fill in the blanks and answer him.
“She’s my whole world.” You hope that would be enough to satisfy Tim’s curiosity. You’re not in the mood to peel yourself open more than necessary.
Apparently, that wasn’t enough. “So no friends, but what about your family? Any siblings?”
You turn your head toward him, frowning. You don’t know why he’s suddenly digging into your life, and you can tell he doesn’t really know either.
“No siblings,” you say simply.
“And your parents?” he asks, even though he already knows the broad strokes.
You sigh through your nose. “Not people I rely on. Let’s leave it at that.”
He absorbs that, nodding once. There’s no push. No pity. Just quiet understanding. And that somehow makes the air feel heavier.
A beat passes before he asks, “So… Phoebe? That was the best name you could come up with?”
You huff out a laugh despite everything. “I love the show ‘Friends.’ And I found her in a cardboard box during a binge-watch, so yeah. Phoebe.”
Tim lets out a small scoff that almost—almost—sounds like amusement.
“That tracks,” he mutters.
You glance at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, gripping the wheel a little lighter than before, “I can see it. You being a Phoebe person.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and return your attention to the warehouse.
///
Time crawled.
The warehouse stayed dark, still, quiet, and you found yourself checking the time every few minutes. You hated staying out this late, hated the vague anxiety blooming in your chest over Phoebe, over nothing, over everything.
Tim notices. Of course he does.
He shifts in the driver’s seat, glancing over at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“You know,” he says finally, voice low, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
You keep your eyes on the warehouse. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not.” He pauses. Then— “Why didn’t you tell me you served?”
Your hand freezes halfway to the binoculars.
You swallow. “It never came up.”
“Came up today,” he counters.
You scowl lightly. “Because you needed the context to trust me on the tattoo.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Tim shifts to face you fully. He whispers your name, trying to get you to understand, “I don’t take the military lightly. You know that.”
You do. Everyone does. Tim Bradford, Army vet, by-the-book, iron backbone of Mid-Wilshire.
He drags a hand over his jaw. “You served four years in intel. Graduated top of your class at the academy. And you said nothing.”
Your throat tightens, but you keep your tone even. “Why does it matter?”
Something flashes across his expression—offense? disbelief? hurt? You can’t quite read it.
“It matters,” he says slowly, “because that’s a part of who you are. A big part. And I’m your TO. I should know what the hell you’ve been through.”
You blink at him. “Why?”
He huffs, frustrated. “Because it shapes the way you work. The way you think. Today, you recognized a paramilitary tattoo before anyone else. You knew exactly what it meant. You knew how those guys operate. That’s not nothing.”
You grip your hands together to keep them still. You stare at him, knowing he deserves something—anything—but unsure how to say it.
So you settle for, “I didn’t tell you because people make assumptions.”
He raises a brow. “Like what?”
“That I’m rigid. Or cocky. Or traumatized. Or stuck in old habits. Or that I think I’m better than civilians.” Your voice grows quieter. “Or that I have something to prove.”
Tim opens his mouth, then stops.
Because he knows he has made assumptions.
You look back toward the warehouse. “I didn’t want to be judged before I even started this job.”
For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. Then, “…I wouldn’t have judged you.”
You give him a look.
He sighs. “Okay, I might have judged you. A little. At first. But not now.” He nods, firm. “Not after seeing how you work.”
You don’t respond.
He watches you for a long moment.
Your chest goes tight. You open your mouth, then close it. The words stick to the roof of your tongue.
That’s when you see it.
The side door of the warehouse creaks open, a man stepping into the fading light. Broad shoulders, close-cropped military fade. Most importantly, half hidden beneath a rolled sleeve, you saw the dagger.
Your blood runs cold.
“Tim.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it slices through the silence.
He follows your line of sight, eyes narrowing. “Is that—?”
“Kellan,” you breathe. “Staff Sergeant Mark Kellan.”
“Are you sure?” Despite his questioning, Tim reaches for the radio.
“No doubt.”
Kellan scans the alley with practiced, predatory precision—checking angles, counting exits, and tracking shadows.
He knows you’re watching him, and he’s not nervous. He’s not running.
No, he’s conducting security.
“He’s confident. Too confident.” You glance towards Tim, hoping he saw what you did.
With a quick nod, Timm brings the radio up to his mouth. “7-Adam-19, we have visual on Mark Kellan. confirmed Blooded Order leadership. Requesting immediate units for containment.”
Lopez comes on instantly. “Copy. We’re two blocks out. Hold position.”
But Kellan isn’t alone. Two more men file out behind him, carrying duffel bags—heavy, sagging with the weight of something solid.
You don’t need X-ray vision to know exactly what’s inside. Weapons. Gear. Possibly explosives.
Tim tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “They’re gearing up for something.”
Your pulse spikes. “We can’t wait. If they leave—”
“We’re not letting them leave.” Tim’s already reaching for the gearshift.
Before he can move, the radio crackles again.
“7-Adam-15, visual confirmation from the rear alley. Multiple subjects are armed. SWAT is en route.”
You and Tim exchange a look, a silent agreement forged through instinct rather than rank.
This is happening now.
Tim breathes out once, steadying himself. “Boot, call it.”
You blink, momentarily stunned. “Me?”
“You recognized the symbol. You identified Kellan. You got us here.” His eyes are sharp and clear. “You call it.”
Your throat tightens, but you nod and raise the radio.
“All units, suspects are exiting the warehouse with gear bags. Possible weapons. Move in now. Repeat: move in.”
Every officer within range responds at once, sirens in the distance, flashes of movement around the perimeter.
The tightening circle of law enforcement is closing in.
Kellan hears it. His head snapped toward the street.
“Go!” Tim shouts, already out of the car.
You’re with him, boots slamming against cracked pavement, rounding the side of the warehouse just as Kellan shoves his men forward.
“Police! Stop!”
Instead of stopping, Kellan draws.
Tim fires the first warning shot.
Lopez’s voice roars from behind, “DROP IT!”
Max flanks wide left.
You move right. Instinctually, tactically, the soldier in you taking over.
Kellan’s men scatter, splitting into a formation you remembered.
“Bradford, go left!” You call without thinking. “Lopez, with me—cut right! Max, take the rear!”
Nobody questions your orders. Tim doesn’t even hesitate.
You break for the loading dock just as one suspect swings a rifle upward.
You slam into him before he fully sights you, sending both of you crashing into a stack of crates.
He swings wildly, combat-trained, but telegraphed.
You duck, pivot, and pin his arm, wrenching the weapon free.
Tim tackles another.
Lopez cuffs a third.
Max covers the front entrance.
But Kellan—
Kellan is escaping through a side door.
“Tim!” You shout, already sprinting.
He sees him. He sees you gaining on him.
And you both take off after Kellan, pounding down the dim hallway toward the back exit.
Kellan throws open the final door, escaping.
Only to freeze as six SWAT rifles snap up in unison.
He’s caught.
Tim skids to a stop behind him, weapon raised.
You stop beside Tim, chest heaving, adrenaline burning through your veins.
Kellan finally drops his gun.
His eyes land on you last. He smiles. A slow, cold, knowing smile.
“Well,” he says, voice calm as a heartbeat. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”
Tim looks at you sharply, but you don’t break eye contact with Kellan.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me neither.”
SWAT moves in, cuffing him, dragging him away.
Tim turns to you with a look you’ve never seen before. Half shock, half worry, half something else entirely.
“Boot…” His voice is low. “…what the hell was that?”
And for once, you don’t have an answer. Not one you’re ready to give.
Summary: She is his rookie, but unlike the others before her, she refuses to break, no matter the Tim-test she has the answer. She’s stubborn, she’s an overachiever, and she refuses to let Tim make her fail.
Word count: 2.5k
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a/n: I wrote this chapter wayyy before anything else, so if anything doesn't make sense, that's probably why. I'm still really excited about it though, so let me know what youn think!
The call came in just after lunch; there was an active robbery at a local bank. You and Tim were the first to respond, your cruiser’s sirens cutting through the late afternoon traffic as you raced toward the bank. Lopez and Bradley got called in for backup and were a few blocks behind, coordinating with dispatch as you approached. Upon your arrival, the lot was eerily quiet. The doors were swinging gently in the wind, and the tellers were huddled together, eyes wide and trembling. Not a single robber in sight.
You stepped inside cautiously, taking in the scene: scattered money, overturned chairs, and a palpable fear that lingered in the air. After speaking briefly with the shaken employees, you and Tim waited for the rest of the team to figure out what to do next.
Later, back at the station, the team gathered around the security footage. All of the men had ski masks on, obscuring their faces, except for one. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, revealing a forearm that immediately caught your attention. While Grey, Bradford, and Lopez debated theories on how to identify the group, you found yourself staring at that arm. The tattoo etched there was unmistakably familiar.
You moved to the computer, pausing the footage and scrolling frame by frame until you had the clearest view. There it was, the tattoo, unobstructed, the design obvious.
Sergeant Grey noticed what you were doing mid-rant. “What are you doing?” he barked, eyes narrowing.
“Could someone zoom in on just the arm and enhance the image? I want a clearer look at that tattoo,” you said.
Grey’s face lit up with curiosity, and he shouted for someone to do exactly that. “Now, what exactly is the importance of this tattoo?”
You feel silly having this many eyes on you, especially since most were your superiors, but you had to explain your hunch, whether they believed you or not. During my time in the army, I saw a specific tattoo a lot. It belongs to a group that calls itself The Blooded Order. They weren’t official, just a club that spread around the ranks. From what I heard, they believed soldiers were above civilians and that rules and regulations shouldn’t apply to them. No one treated them as a real threat; they were just a bunch of guys puffing themselves up, trying to sound tougher than they were. But they used this symbol to recognize each other. A dagger inside a circle, with a single drop of blood at the tip. And I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what’s on that man’s arm.”
Grey crossed his arms, unconvinced. “And how can you be so sure? Your explanation sounds a lot like a theory. I don’t like theories.”
You don't know how to respond to that; you can only stare back and hope he trusts you.
///
Hours later, after running the enhanced image through the military database, the analysts confirmed it: several former members of The Blooded Order had relocated to Los Angeles. Many, disillusioned with following orders, had not reenlisted and instead reconnected on the outside. One name immediately stood out: Staff Sergeant Mark Kellan.
Records showed that just months ago, Kellan purchased an old warehouse in Vernon through a shell company. Since then, multiple sightings of Blooded Order members have been reported entering and leaving the property.
Now, a group of officers, including you, Bradford, Lopez, and Bradley, surround a table while Sergeant Grey spreads the aerial photos across the table, the warehouse circled in red. “Alright. We’ve got a warehouse in Vernon, owned by one of their own. That means they feel safe there. That’s our advantage.”
From there, a plan formed: stakeout first, gather intelligence, then a raid once there was proof that this was the group responsible for the bank robbery. Every detail counted. Every move had to be precise.
///
You were clearly stressing about having to stay later, and Tim could not for the life of him understand. He knows that when you’re on the clock, you don’t let anything distract you; in fact, he recalls a moment when you ridiculed him for allowing his personal life to distract him. And especially now, when you practically handed the lead to them. So why were you so upset about staying a couple of extra hours? Sick of watching you pace back and forth while doing something on your phone, Tim finally starts towards you.
“I know for a fact that you knew this was a part of the job, Boot, so why the hell aren't you jumping at the opportunity to help with this case?” Okay, maybe he should have been nicer about that, but Tim was getting sick of your dismissal of the job.
You look up from your phone, though you don’t seem to be pleased to be doing so, and give him the dumbest excuse he’s heard in a while. “My dog isn’t used to me being out this late.”
“Right, and why haven’t I heard about this dog before?” Seriously, if this is so important, Tim would have expected to at least have heard a name. Sure, you don’t talk about your personal life much, but most of his rookies loved to ramble about their pets above anything else.
“I didn’t think it was relevant to the job. But yes, I have a dog. She gets anxious if I get home even ten minutes later than usual.” You look increasingly annoyed the longer you spend talking to Tim. He’s seen your eyes glance back towards your phone twice already. “I’m trying to get in contact with my neighbor to check on her, but she’s refusing to answer.”
Tim finds your choice of contact interesting, especially because it’s taking way too long, and you both have a case to get back to. He decided to tell you exactly that, “Why, your neighbor, don’t you have a friend you can call?”
The look you give Tim confuses him more, but he wouldn’t have been prepared for what you were about to say, “I don’t exactly have friends, Glove. Phoebe takes up my entire social life. Which is another reason why I need to get in contact with my neighbor.”
As you try to get back to your phone, Tim can’t help but want to ask more. He might have if it weren’t for one of the detectives calling for him.
///
Later, the two of you were on lookout, parked in a nondescript vehicle across the street from the warehouse. Both of your eyes were fixed on the building, tense yet alert. Tim remembers your previous conversation and, surprisingly, decides to break the silence.
“You said your dog is your whole social life.”
That was it. Apparently, it was your job to fill in the blanks and answer him.
“She’s my whole world.” You hope that would be enough to satisfy Tim’s curiosity. You’re not in the mood to peel yourself open more than necessary.
Apparently, that wasn’t enough. “So no friends, but what about your family? Any siblings?”
You turn your head toward him, frowning. You don’t know why he’s suddenly digging into your life, and you can tell he doesn’t really know either.
“No siblings,” you say simply.
“And your parents?” he asks, even though he already knows the broad strokes.
You sigh through your nose. “Not people I rely on. Let’s leave it at that.”
He absorbs that, nodding once. There’s no push. No pity. Just quiet understanding. And that somehow makes the air feel heavier.
A beat passes before he asks, “So… Phoebe? That was the best name you could come up with?”
You huff out a laugh despite everything. “I love the show ‘Friends.’ And I found her in a cardboard box during a binge-watch, so yeah. Phoebe.”
Tim lets out a small scoff that almost—almost—sounds like amusement.
“That tracks,” he mutters.
You glance at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, gripping the wheel a little lighter than before, “I can see it. You being a Phoebe person.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and return your attention to the warehouse.
///
Time crawled.
The warehouse stayed dark, still, quiet, and you found yourself checking the time every few minutes. You hated staying out this late, hated the vague anxiety blooming in your chest over Phoebe, over nothing, over everything.
Tim notices. Of course he does.
He shifts in the driver’s seat, glancing over at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“You know,” he says finally, voice low, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
You keep your eyes on the warehouse. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not.” He pauses. Then— “Why didn’t you tell me you served?”
Your hand freezes halfway to the binoculars.
You swallow. “It never came up.”
“Came up today,” he counters.
You scowl lightly. “Because you needed the context to trust me on the tattoo.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Tim shifts to face you fully. He whispers your name, trying to get you to understand, “I don’t take the military lightly. You know that.”
You do. Everyone does. Tim Bradford, Army vet, by-the-book, iron backbone of Mid-Wilshire.
He drags a hand over his jaw. “You served four years in intel. Graduated top of your class at the academy. And you said nothing.”
Your throat tightens, but you keep your tone even. “Why does it matter?”
Something flashes across his expression—offense? disbelief? hurt? You can’t quite read it.
“It matters,” he says slowly, “because that’s a part of who you are. A big part. And I’m your TO. I should know what the hell you’ve been through.”
You blink at him. “Why?”
He huffs, frustrated. “Because it shapes the way you work. The way you think. Today, you recognized a paramilitary tattoo before anyone else. You knew exactly what it meant. You knew how those guys operate. That’s not nothing.”
You grip your hands together to keep them still. You stare at him, knowing he deserves something—anything—but unsure how to say it.
So you settle for, “I didn’t tell you because people make assumptions.”
He raises a brow. “Like what?”
“That I’m rigid. Or cocky. Or traumatized. Or stuck in old habits. Or that I think I’m better than civilians.” Your voice grows quieter. “Or that I have something to prove.”
Tim opens his mouth, then stops.
Because he knows he has made assumptions.
You look back toward the warehouse. “I didn’t want to be judged before I even started this job.”
For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. Then, “…I wouldn’t have judged you.”
You give him a look.
He sighs. “Okay, I might have judged you. A little. At first. But not now.” He nods, firm. “Not after seeing how you work.”
You don’t respond.
He watches you for a long moment.
Your chest goes tight. You open your mouth, then close it. The words stick to the roof of your tongue.
That’s when you see it.
The side door of the warehouse creaks open, a man stepping into the fading light. Broad shoulders, close-cropped military fade. Most importantly, half hidden beneath a rolled sleeve, you saw the dagger.
Your blood runs cold.
“Tim.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it slices through the silence.
He follows your line of sight, eyes narrowing. “Is that—?”
“Kellan,” you breathe. “Staff Sergeant Mark Kellan.”
“Are you sure?” Despite his questioning, Tim reaches for the radio.
“No doubt.”
Kellan scans the alley with practiced, predatory precision—checking angles, counting exits, and tracking shadows.
He knows you’re watching him, and he’s not nervous. He’s not running.
No, he’s conducting security.
“He’s confident. Too confident.” You glance towards Tim, hoping he saw what you did.
With a quick nod, Timm brings the radio up to his mouth. “7-Adam-19, we have visual on Mark Kellan. confirmed Blooded Order leadership. Requesting immediate units for containment.”
Lopez comes on instantly. “Copy. We’re two blocks out. Hold position.”
But Kellan isn’t alone. Two more men file out behind him, carrying duffel bags—heavy, sagging with the weight of something solid.
You don’t need X-ray vision to know exactly what’s inside. Weapons. Gear. Possibly explosives.
Tim tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “They’re gearing up for something.”
Your pulse spikes. “We can’t wait. If they leave—”
“We’re not letting them leave.” Tim’s already reaching for the gearshift.
Before he can move, the radio crackles again.
“7-Adam-15, visual confirmation from the rear alley. Multiple subjects are armed. SWAT is en route.”
You and Tim exchange a look, a silent agreement forged through instinct rather than rank.
This is happening now.
Tim breathes out once, steadying himself. “Boot, call it.”
You blink, momentarily stunned. “Me?”
“You recognized the symbol. You identified Kellan. You got us here.” His eyes are sharp and clear. “You call it.”
Your throat tightens, but you nod and raise the radio.
“All units, suspects are exiting the warehouse with gear bags. Possible weapons. Move in now. Repeat: move in.”
Every officer within range responds at once, sirens in the distance, flashes of movement around the perimeter.
The tightening circle of law enforcement is closing in.
Kellan hears it. His head snapped toward the street.
“Go!” Tim shouts, already out of the car.
You’re with him, boots slamming against cracked pavement, rounding the side of the warehouse just as Kellan shoves his men forward.
“Police! Stop!”
Instead of stopping, Kellan draws.
Tim fires the first warning shot.
Lopez’s voice roars from behind, “DROP IT!”
Max flanks wide left.
You move right. Instinctually, tactically, the soldier in you taking over.
Kellan’s men scatter, splitting into a formation you remembered.
“Bradford, go left!” You call without thinking. “Lopez, with me—cut right! Max, take the rear!”
Nobody questions your orders. Tim doesn’t even hesitate.
You break for the loading dock just as one suspect swings a rifle upward.
You slam into him before he fully sights you, sending both of you crashing into a stack of crates.
He swings wildly, combat-trained, but telegraphed.
You duck, pivot, and pin his arm, wrenching the weapon free.
Tim tackles another.
Lopez cuffs a third.
Max covers the front entrance.
But Kellan—
Kellan is escaping through a side door.
“Tim!” You shout, already sprinting.
He sees him. He sees you gaining on him.
And you both take off after Kellan, pounding down the dim hallway toward the back exit.
Kellan throws open the final door, escaping.
Only to freeze as six SWAT rifles snap up in unison.
He’s caught.
Tim skids to a stop behind him, weapon raised.
You stop beside Tim, chest heaving, adrenaline burning through your veins.
Kellan finally drops his gun.
His eyes land on you last. He smiles. A slow, cold, knowing smile.
“Well,” he says, voice calm as a heartbeat. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”
Tim looks at you sharply, but you don’t break eye contact with Kellan.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me neither.”
SWAT moves in, cuffing him, dragging him away.
Tim turns to you with a look you’ve never seen before. Half shock, half worry, half something else entirely.
“Boot…” His voice is low. “…what the hell was that?”
And for once, you don’t have an answer. Not one you’re ready to give.
Summary: Years after leaving the LAPD to join the FBI, Tim's first boot returns to the city. You're working a stressful case, so Garza and Wade send Tim in to assist you and remind you of who you are.
Warnings/Word Count: angst, urges/temptation to smoke, depiction of terrorism, one brief flashback, fluff, touchy!Tim. 2.7k+ words (should've been longer... sorry), requested by anon
Directory | T.B. Masterlist | Request Info | Taglist
“How do I look?”
Glancing up from your desk, you narrow your eyes and shrug. “Same as always. Should I be noticing something?”
“You should be telling me I look great in this new suit.”
Deadpan, you offer, “You look great in that new suit.”
Garza rolls his eyes and buttons his blazer, then finishes his journey to your desk. “We’ve got new intel. You with us?”
“Not if it’s another trip to a commune,” you answer, leaning back in your chair. “What’s the intel?”
“Bomb threats throughout Los Angeles, mostly centered in Mid-Wilshire,” he explains. “I know you have history-”
“I’m in,” you interrupt. “What’s the plan?”
“Walk with me,” Garza encourages. As you exit the bullpen in a nondescript field office, he says, “LAPD is stretched thin with the threats, so we’re assisting with unsub identification and apprehension.”
“How?” you question.
“However we have to.”
You nod once, lifting your badge to show the security guard at the entrance to the superiors’ offices. They’re secluded in the building, but Garza calls you over often, so the guard doesn’t even seem to notice how you pat your pockets. The stress of a high-risk, high-profile case is already setting in.
“Bottom cabinet,” Garza murmurs, pointing without turning.
There’s a clear plastic shoebox in the cabinet filled with various types and flavors of gum. You find a pack you haven’t had in a while and slip it into your pocket with a soft expression of gratitude.
“We’re here for you,” Garza reminds you. “Say the word at any time, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” you agree. “Tell me more about the LAPD’s op?”
Garza watches you for a moment, then turns his laptop to show you a map covered in blue dots. “Mid-Wilshire is running point,” he begins.
Driving surface streets in Los Angeles is like asking to see innumerable gas stations and massive ads at every corner. Garza spares glances at you from the passenger seat as you gaze at the passing blurs. The gum in your mouth has long since lost its flavor, yet you continue chewing as if your life depends on it.
“I’m fine,” you insist.
“Until your jaw locks up,” he mumbles. “Look-”
“I’m looking at a city that might be the target of the next major terrorist attack,” you snap. Immediately, you close your eyes and sigh around your gum. “Sorry.”
“I get it, kid. Don’t try to do it alone.”
Huffing a laugh, you argue, “Easier said than done.”
Garza nods, then asks, “Is it better to let yourself down or know that people still care?”
“It’s better to not be stressed so I don’t have to worry about it.”
“Easier said than done, right?”
The sleek black SUV is very clearly a government vehicle, yet Garza’s newest recruit parks in front of the Mid-Wilshire police station with no concerns about who is nearby. Garza turns in the passenger seat to look at him, opening his mouth before deciding it’s not worth it.
“Home sweet home?” Garza asks as you enter the heart of the station.
Officer Smitty walks by, offering you a high-five. You lift your hand without hesitation, smiling when he yells something.
“Something like that,” you tell Garza.
“We have an idea,” Watch Commander Wade Grey says as he steps out of his office.
“Nice to see you too,” you reply with a smile.
“What’s the idea?” Garza asks.
He looks at you, and your shoulders drop, your mind tracing the route to the closest convenience store.
The last time you were in this café, you were a LAPD detective working a homicide case. Back then, you had no temptation, you weren’t chewing gum so hard that your neck was beginning to ache. But times change. So do people.
Outside the café you suspect the bomber frequents, Wade and Garza sit in an inconspicuous Honda Odyssey converted to a surveillance vehicle.
“She’s stressed,” Garza muses.
“It’s a risky position,” Wade agrees. “If the bomber clocks her as a fed, this goes south fast.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. If I leave her in too long, she could start again. More than her health or agency guidelines, she’d risk her mindset. Grey, I can’t lose her.”
“Wait,” Grey interrupts, lifting a hand. “She’s having urges again? Hasn’t it been-”
“Years,” Garza confirms. “Since her rookie year, I think.”
Wade nods, watching you trace a shape on a napkin. “You know her well.”
“I do. I consider myself lucky she trusts me. That’s why I’d like to call in the big guns.”
“Absolutely not,” Tim answers, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I’m not going to be a guard dog for a fed who thinks he’s better than me.”
“She,” Garza corrects. “Our undercover is a woman.”
“Answer’s still no.”
Wade steps to the side to block the door of his office. “Bradford, it’s your rookie.”
Tim’s arms drop, his jaw set as he looks at Garza. No one has to say your name; you’re the only boot that left a mark on Tim’s life. Not because you were the first, but because you were different. Everyone after you blurred together. But you? You’re special.
“She can take care of herself,” Tim argues after a moment.
Garza hums, then shares, “She almost bought a pack of cigarettes last night.”
This time, Tim doesn’t hesitate to ask, “Where is she?”
“I’ve got a name!” you announce, broadcasting your laptop screen to the large television in the private conference room. “I went through all of the receipts and store records that were flagged for possible terrorism and this name, Maximiliano Perez, came up four times. In the last month, he purchased acetone, charcoal, aluminum powder, chlorine trifluoride, and copper. He’s building a bomb; maybe more than one.”
“What do we have on him?” Garza asks.
“I’ve got an address, place of employment, and contact details,” another agent alerts.
“Where does he work?” you inquire, unwrapping another piece of gum.
“Uh, a gas station. Night shift, I think.”
You nod, looking at the list of items he bought. “I have an idea.”
Garza sighs, then admits, “It scares me when you say that.”
The gas station is busier than you thought it would be at eleven o’clock at night. Standing in line with two drinks, a handful of snacks, and a pack of gum, you glance at Perez. He seems disillusioned with his job, maybe his whole life, but that doesn’t automatically mean he’s your guy.
“Anything else?” he asks when you set your items on the counter.
Your eyes move past him to the large display of cigarettes. The brand you used to buy by the carton is in the center.
“No,” you force yourself to say. “Thank you.”
Perez lifts the gum and asks, “Trying to quit?”
“I think I always will be.”
He nods like he understands. When he hands you the receipt, you notice scrapes across his hand and a burn on his thumb. That could be from building a bomb, you think as you exit.
“Who is this guy again?” Lucy asks, leaning against the window.
“Name’s Maximiliano Perez,” Tim answers. “FBI thinks he’s the bomber.”
“But there hasn’t actually been a bombing.”
“Not yet. There have been threats, and he has everything he needs to build one. That’s good enough to be a bomber, Chen.”
“Sure,” she agrees softly. “The feds are here. Why are we watching him?”
“Because the feds are gearing up to move in.”
Tim’s phone buzzes, and Lucy scoffs when he reaches for it. He reads the message, then opens the passenger door.
“What are you doing?” Lucy demands.
Unbuttoning his uniform, Tim begins shedding anything that identifies him as a police officer.
“This is really weird, Officer Bradford,” Lucy hisses, looking in the side mirror. “We’re at work!”
“Perez isn’t here,” Tim says, dropping his belt onto the passenger seat. “Take all of this to the station and give it to Lopez.”
“I’m not supposed to drive without my TO!” Lucy argues.
Tim leans into the car, his hair tousled and his white shirt untucked. “Back to the station. Find Lopez. TO’s orders, straight from the watch commander and the FBI.”
Lucy swallows but can’t reply before Tim closes the door and walks down the sidewalk.
Five years ago, you were leaned over a desk, marking a map of Los Angeles based on what you found in a crime scene. Someone walked behind you and tapped your arm twice.
“Good luck,” you offered without moving. “Be careful.”
Tim stepped to your side, smiling at you in the proximity. Neither of you had said what you were really feeling, neither brave enough — or dumb enough — to admit that you craved being close. You took what you could get and hoped that some day it would be enough.
And then you were invited to join the FBI, and it seemed like everything you built was left in the past.
Yet, in the present, Tim steps into a café and his eyes immediately find you, as if no time has passed, as if you’re here just for him. There’s a pack of gum open beside you, a doodle-covered napkin tucked beneath your drink.
“Hey,” Tim greets kindly, dragging a chair to your side. “Sorry I’m late.”
You smile — a smile that Tim knows is not a cover, not part of your faux relationship. “You’re right on time,” you answer. “I was early.” You scan him then, his tousled hair, the untucked white t-shirt stretched across his chest and biceps, his teactical pants flipped at the cuffs to look like a fashion choice rather than a necessity. He looks good. Although, he always does.
“Incoming,” Garza says in your earpiece.
You look up at the door when it opens. Perez walks in, a hat pulled low over his eyes and a backpack secure around his shoulders. There’s no way to know what’s in his bag or what he’s doing here.
“Street is evacuated,” Garza alerts. “All cars passing are ours. Watch your crossfire if you engage.”
“How are we doing this?” Tim asks, brushing his fingers over your shoulder.
“Carefully,” you murmur, leaning into his touch. “I think he’s confused and desperate, not psychopathic.”
“That can be just as bad.”
You tip your head, conceding the point. “I have an idea.”
Tim grabs your hand before you can stand. “That usually prefaces something that stresses me out.”
“Join the club.”
You stand, electing not to argue when Tim joins you. Walking to the counter together, you smile at Perez, then look away.
“Hey, have we met?” you ask, stepping toward him. “Oh, the gas station, right?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “How’s the quitting going?”
“Some days it’s really easy, and then the next there isn’t enough gum,” you answer.
“It gets easier,” he offers. “Never goes away, but you start remembering how good it feels to beat the urge.”
“I hope so. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
He nods, then drops his head on his folded arms. His backpack is on the floor; one strap is hooked around his ankle.
Tim wraps his arm around your shoulder and drops his head to say, “I’ll get him, you get that backpack away from him. Toss it outside if you have to.”
“We can’t see his hands,” you point out. “Is the risk worth it?”
“Yes,” Tim decides.
You place your order, then step to the end of the counter to wait. Halfway behind Perez, you shift on your feet, waiting for him to show his hands. He doesn’t move for a full minute, so Tim nods.
He grabs Perez’s shoulder and pulls him backward, pinning his arms behind the chair as you surge forward to pull the backpack out of his reach. Perez screams, but when Tim twists to shove him to the ground, he goes quiet.
“I was going to help people like me,” he whispers against the tile.
You wave your arm, urging everyone out of the building and down the street to the waiting officers.
“By blowing up their city?” Tim challenges. “That’s not helping.”
“You don’t understand!”
“No, we don’t,” you agree. “But I know that you want to do the right thing. So, tell us where the bombs are.”
Perez drops his head before he begins to sob. Tim yanks him to his feet and mumbles, “I hate it when they cry.”
“Because feelings are for weak people,” you quote from your rookie days.
“Because feeling bad for yourself instead of taking accountability is for cowards,” Tim corrects.
“Do you want to talk?” Tim asks when you finish your affidavit for the LAPD.
You nod, following him to his truck. He drives in silence, the space around you comfortable until he reaches your favorite restaurant. Tim brought you here when you graduated to short sleeves, again when you made detective, and you’d planned to say goodbye here before you got scared of your own feelings and ran.
“How many?” the hostess asks.
“Two,” Tim answers. “Could we get the booth by the patio?”
“Sure.”
You slide into the vinyl booth across from him, sighing as you reach for a sugar packet. For the first time since you caught this case, there’s no temptation to smoke, just too many words and a lot of feelings.
“So, the FBI,” Tim begins.
“Is that what we have to talk about?” you inquire. “Because the last time we saw each other… I’m sorry for leaving like that. I thought that if I tried to say goodbye, I wouldn’t leave.”
“We were going to meet here. I had already made up my mind not to show, even before you left early,” Tim admits. “I would’ve asked you to stay, and you didn’t deserve being forced to choose.”
“I would’ve chosen you. You know that.”
“That’s why I didn’t ask.”
You chuckle, sliding the sugar packet toward him. “Garza sent you in because of the unapproved gas station run, right?”
“Maybe.”
“He’s never been a good liar. He’s protective.”
“He cares,” Tim amends. “That part I can understand.”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
“You gave me a piece of gum my first month. You wrote a note on the wrapper. I still have it. It’s in my phone case so I can look at it when I’m on a really stressful case.”
“How often does it happen?”
Shrugging, you explain, “There have been a few cases that made me, I don’t know, itch for it. It’s an urge for one cigarette, but that’s how it starts, you know? This case, the fear that I’d miss something and people would die, is the worst it’s been. Then you walked in and everything was fine.”
“You sound like you miss me,” Tim teases, flicking the sugar packet back to you.
“Of course I miss you,” you whisper, smiling at him. “I miss everything about you.”
Tim sobers, nodding. “I’m here now. You can call me too. I’ll always help you however I can.”
“However?” you repeat. “With cases?”
“What can I get you?” the waiter interrupts. “Our special today is-”
Walking down the street, you look at Tim’s profile. He’s always been attractive, but something about his messed-up hair and the soft smile on his face make him irresistible.
“Not just cases,” he says, his hand brushing yours.
You catch his fingers, smiling when he adjusts his grip to hold you better.
“I’ll help however I can with whatever you want,” he explains. “Same as before.”
“I started tapping you because it was easier than just saying I care about you and need you to come back alive,” you blurt out.
“I know,” he whispers, slowing under a streetlight. “Are you okay? Really?”
You step forward, pressing your chest to Tim. “Can we talk about us instead of just me? I happen to like you more.”
“There’s an us?”
“As soon as my transfer to the L.A. field office is approved.”
Tim smiles, releasing your hand to grip your shoulders. “You’re coming back?”
“There’s a lot worth loving here,” you murmur.
Tim’s smile widens, and your laugh dies in a hum when he presses his lips to yours. Holding Tim, you send Garza to voicemail.
“Thank you,” you whisper when you separate.
“Interesting reply,” Tim mumbles.
“You offered to help; I’m just offering my gratitude.”
“Well, you-”
Anytime Tim starts with well, he’s going to make fun of you, so you kiss him again before he can.
the rookie x fem!ucdetective!reader, tim bradford x fem!wife!ucdetective!reader
↳ 𝓽𝔂𝓹𝓮 — angst, fluff
↳ 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 — a year ago today, tim bradford, a stoic, hard faced cop, has a wife that went missing on a dangerous undercover mission. The officer reunites with her wife that went MIA, but after the reuniting, he ends up getting shot.
↳ 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓮 — season one. (part one eps 1 and start of 2)
↳ 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 ❗️ — drug use, physical abuse, emotional abuse, abduction mentions, swearing, reader’s abuser/abductor is actually gross (ew), (calls her “bitch” etc and is very manipulative),
↳ 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮 — follows most of the timeline in season one ep one to two (yes i did rewatch the first ep and second as i am writing this AND OH MY GOSH THE WHOLE LUCY AND NOLAN THING HELP??) • okay, so after the first call, it kinda js follows the rest of the story line BUT PLS STILL READ IT IT TOOK ME A WHILE TO WRITE😭😭💕 • sort of proofread lool
↳ 𝓷𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷.
“7-Adam-19, respond to 123 Oak Street. Code 2. Neighbor reports a 415 disturbance – loud construction noises. Caller states it started around 13:00 hours and is ongoing.”
the silence in the shop, where Bradford and his rookie, Chen, sit, gets disrupted by a call coming from dispatch over the radio.
“Dispatch, this is 7-Adam-19, call us responding; we are en route to the location.” chen says through the radio as her TO starts driving over to the area.
“Boot, what’s the nature of this call?” Bradford sternly asks Chen, his eyes not leaving the road.
Chen then speaks, responding to his question, “There’s loud construction noises, which have been going on for an unusual amount of time.”
Bradford hums giving a slight nod, indicating she’s right. He starts to pull up at the driveway of the house.
The two officers come out of the shop, the superior officer taking the lead, walking towards the door, where an unusual amount of drilling sounds were being made.
“LAPD, open up!” Bradford yells, as he knocks on the door, staying on the left side of the dorway, whilst Chen stations herself on the right — for safety purposes.
Suspiciously, there were no answer, so Bradford knocked again, to which also led to no answer. However, with each knock, the drilling sound got louder and louder. As if a warning to stay away.
After a few minutes, the sound comes to an immediate stop and a thud could be heard infront of the door.
The two officers immediately hover their hand infront of their guns, preparing themselves for whatever could be behind that door.
“Sir, should we kick the door down?”
“No, boot,” Bradford responds swiftly, “We don’t know what’s behind the door — it could be a bomb, and if we kick the door down, the bomb could explode.”
As he finishes his sentence, the door opens halfway, a woman appears, wearing a pair of joggers and an old, oversized t-shirt. She looks up, a faint cut on her chin, a bruise going around her neck, a faint slap mark on her face and bruises decorating her body. Her hair cascaded down her back, looking like it got pulled at.
with eyes full of fear, she looks up ever so vulnerably, “is something the matter, officer..?”
“y/n..” Bradford mutters, in disbelief. After a year of her going MIA, afraid she’s dead, missing, abducted or having different parts of her body buried in various areas -- asuming the worst, he stood there in utter shock.
Chen looks between them two in confusion, seeing how the usual grumpy, stoic, hardheaded cop has now softened, broken, with a glint of sadness and vulnerability shining in his eyes.
Bradford takes a step forward, putting his arms out, hoping she’d fall into them like the numerous times she did in the past.
“y/n, baby, it’s me.. tim.. your husband..”
you stare at him with watery eyes. ofcourse you recognised him the second you opened the door, but you did not dare to say or do anything.
especially because he could see everything that was going on outside from the inside through the cameras.
he comes closer, but you instantly take a step back, sniffling, closing yourself out, looking down at the ground allowing your hair to cover your face.
The woman he known, married, before going MIA — an independent, strong, well respected woman — is now replaced with vulnerablility, and fear.
Bradford's face morphs into shock when you step away from him. He knew those looks, the actions. He’s came across this all the time, yet this time is different. It was you, his wife who’s been taken advantage of.
“Ma’am, we revived a noise complaint,” Chen interrupts, “is it okay if we come in and check it out?”
“no.” you instantly say with a hint of panic snapping your head back up, tears welling up again.
“baby, if there’s something going on, please tell me.” tim urges, full of worry, desperacy evident in his voice. Chen notices the way her TO communicates with her with care, love, protection. It’s like he’s under a spell.
“nothings going on.” you sternly respond, “besides, i’m sure there’s more important calls you should be taking.”
before tim can even say a thing, you shut the door in his face, holding back tears. every part of your body wanted to run back into him, feel safe again, away from these people that abducted you, but you knew you can’t, not yet that is. his tone, his phsique, you couldn't help but miss.
Bradford stays standing at the porch, eyes glued at the door which leads to you. millions of thoughts ran through his head, wondering if he should kick the door down and take you back into his arms. but that would be breaking protocol, an he knew it.
“er, sir?”
lucy's voice snaps him from his thoughts and he takes a step back, his eyes glossy.
“7-Adam-15. Requesting additional unit to meet us at 1350 Bellevue Street. Possible location of our BOLO suspect. We are en route.”
the radio on his hip speaks out with talia's voice.
regaining himself, he takes the walikie and speaks in, “7-Adam-19. Show us responding.”
he turns back around, walking back towards the shop, “c’mon boot,”
you hear the shop leave, and you slide down the door, putting your head in your knees, silently crying, mentally beating yourself up for not taking your chance and running away. you’ve seen these sort of domestic disputes before you went MIA, but you couldn’t exactly put your finger on why many people didn’t shout for help when the help was right there. ofcourse you know that many may feel scared, or intimidated, but you just couldn’t wrap your head around how help was at their doorstep and they wouldn’t take it.
but know you know.
“oi, you” a slurred voice erupts and you look up.
he’s infront of you.
his fist is clenched.
a bottle of downed whiskey in the other.
white powder smudged around his nose.
your breathing quickens, muscles tightening, pushing back against the door.
“i—”
the empty bottle of whiskey gets smashed onto the floor, glass shards everywhere, “what do i fucking tell you?”
“WHAT DO I TELL YOU?” he yells, throwing the things off the entrance table.
you bite back a sob, “to not speak when not told to” you whisper, voice laced with terror.
he bends down, you can smell his foul breath, but you avoid his gaze,
“look at me when i’m talking to you, you bitch.” he grits out, and you do what he says, his face getting closer to yours. his unshaven, poorly maintained beard prickles your face. you try to pull away, but your already pressed against the door. his lips chapped and skin horribly taken care of. his breath reeks and you try not to gag. it smells of onions, garlic, alcohol and smoke.
lips pressed together, trying to hold back your sobs and tears, suddenly, a tear escapes. but weirdly, his face morphs into something. something you never seen before.
sympathy.
mocked sympathy.
“awh, my poor baby, are you crying?” he whines out, mocking you.
his thick, dry fingers dig into your cheek, wiping away the tears that escape.
“now, you poor thing,” he takes back his hand, placing it on his ripped jeans, and tilting his head to see you better, “what else do i tell you, what is rule two?”
a sob escapes your dry, cut lips, “to not have contact with the outside world.”
a fat, grim smirk plasters across his face, and then he hits you.
his dominant hand slaps you right around your face, now facing the left. you don’t dare to look back. the pain stings you and you begin to cry silently.
he doesn’t like the fact you’re not looking at him. so he grips your chin tightly and makes you face him,
“fuckin’ look at me”
you obey.
“now why did you break that rule? i saw how close you and that shittin’ officer were.”
“now my pretty,” he cups your face, “you know what happens when you break the rules”
his slurred tone is underlined with something.
something you can’t place your finger on. but you know it’s nothing good.
“that's our guy, Selby.” lucy speaks up, straightening her posture in the passenger’s seat.
she glances over at her TO, who’s eyes are still watery, his grip on the wheel tight. in his head, it’s you that plays on loop.
“call it in, backup and airship.” he sternly says, but there’s a tiny sense of sadness in his tone. his eyes don’t waver from the suspect, slowing down the shop and breaking.
“7-Adam-19. Show us code 6 on BOLO suspect. Need backup and airship.” chen does as she’s told.
bradford get out of the car and his boot follows along, but his gaze snaps towards her, his voice ordering, “no, no. you stay here ‘till we clear them from that car.”
hesitantly, she does as she’s told.
“LAPD, gentlemen.” he announces, “step away from the car and show me your hands!”
selby smirks, “is there a problem, officer?”
“there will be if you don’t show me those hands.” tim bites back, getting his weapon out of his hoister and holding it low, “now!”
selby and his companion ends up showing him their hands.
however, they’re not empty handed.
they’ve pulled guns out of the trunk and begin to shoot at the cops.
in response, tim and lucy shoot back, the shop doors acting as a shield.
but that wasn’t good enough.
a bullet shot through the shop door’s window, shattering it, and hit tim’s left lower abdomen.
a pained groan leaves his mouth as he falls back, clutching onto the heavily bleeding wound, bleeding out. his eyes notice the blood on his shop’s door and groans again, looking up at the sky.
his boot’s attention gets snapped to the left, seeing her TO go down.
panicked, she goes down and shields herself behind the shop and looks at bradford. getting her radio, her tones laced with panic, “7–adam—19, officer down, shots fired. in the ally of Bellview and Clinton. i repeat, officer down! please send help right away!”
putting her walkie away, she stands up, firing back again but then goes back to shield herself, looking at where her TO lays in pain.
his gun meters away from his hand, body flat on the ground, trying to get up.
so lucy goes to his side, hooking her hands under tim’s biceps, shooting back as she drags him to behind the shop.
as she lets go, another pained grunt leaves his mouth.
“don’t worry ‘bout me, shoot back!” he grits out.
the rookie does as she’s told, hesitantly.
suddenly, more sirens are heard, so one of the shooters gets into the grey car driving away, but gets blocked by bishop and nolan, and ends up crashing the car, knocking himself out.
talia and nolan get out, armed, and walks towards the grey car, cautiously. looking through the window, they see him knocked out.
“you good?” nolan asks, as he keeps looking back from where the gun shots are heard to his TO.
“yeah, cover me, i’ll cuff him.” talia replies, but before she can say anything, she looks to her left, seeing nolan run to the direction where shots are being fired, “nolan, wait!”
lucy’s still shooting, and tim’s still down. he reaches into his pocket.
but the shop’s set alight.
chen stops firing.
she puts her weapon away and turns to bradford who’s breathing heavily.
dragging him again, she pulls him away from the shop, but now tim’s exposed.
selby smirks and aims at him.
but before he can shoot, from behind, nolan fires.
so he turns and begins firing at nolan, letting tim and lucy get away.
nolan takes cover.
talia’s still at the car crash and goes to the driver’s seat, opening the door and is about to cuff him, however, he grabs her arm, pulling her into the car. the officer yells out, grunting as she’s now in the passenger seat. fighting. air support’s up and the ambulance is here.
nolan keeps shooting and shelby’s now running.
so nolan runs after.
the guy leans forward, using some plastic bag to choke bishop. but she kicks him off, and throws a punch at him. now properly knocking him out as his head hits the wheel. she cuffs him
nolan looses selby, and so he retreats, meeting chen and bradford.
“you okay?” he breathes out, trying to catch his breath, seeing lucy back away from tim and letting the paramedics take over, aiding tim’a gunshot.
“no!” he painfully yells out, his leg and head swinging to the side and his voice cracks, “i got shot!”
what a big baby.
“you go get him, boot!” he whines out like some child to stubborn to rest pain full and evident in his voice, “just go!”
lucy goes, hesitation still present. his TO got shot on her first day, should she even be doing this?
before nolan joins her, his TO blocks him, “when this is over, we’re gonna have a conversation about you running off.”
clearly, she’s not very pleased, especially since she got strangled.
“wheres selby?” she wonders
“he went through the alley” he answers
nolan runs, and bishop turns around but then back to where she was originally facing, speaking into her walkie, “suspect heading northbound towards residence on Clinton Street.”
“7–adam—07, arriving on scene.”
jackson’s voice is heard through the radio, as him and his TO, angela lopez, drives down the road, but end up getting fired at by selby.
the two get out the shop, as bullets fly in via the windshield
“officer west, get your gun out and cover me!” Lopez yells at him, but Jackson’s pressed against their shop, his breathing shaky, as he shakily takes out his gun.
angela fires, using the shop to shield her.
she goes down, turning to jackson, clueless on why he’s not following her orders, “Damn it! Get your ass up and engage with the suspect!”
“get up!” she yells
but jackson’s face is full of fear, he’s frozen.
lopez looks at, selby who runs away, to her rookie, going back and forth.
she gets up and shoot at selby, shooting his right leg as he runs, making him slow down and limp.
shes irritated and grunts, looking down at her frozen boot.
selby runs down the road, but nolan catches up, bishop and chen behind him.
“hey, hey” selby grabs a random woman, putting her in a chokehold, using the same gun and tries shooting at nolan, but he’s out of bullets.
dropping the now useless weapon, he gets out a pocket knife, opening it, “i’ll kill her!”
the knife presses against the stranger’s neck.
nolan’s gun aimed at selby, “drop it. drop the knife.”
“i’ll kill her! shut up!”
“you don’t have to do this. you shot a cop, but it seems you only managed to piss him off. you’re not a murderer yet!”
nolan yells out to him.
“get back!” selby screams at him.
“i can’t do that” the elder rookie responds
the poor woman whines, in fear for her life, trying to pull his arm, that chokes her, away from her.
“look, Selby we are in this moment together, alright?”
selby shakes his head at nolan’s words.
“what happens next could change both of our lives.”
his voice is now softer, “look I became a cop to help people, not kill them”
“but if you hurt her, i will pull this trigger and you will die”
“i’ll see your face every time I close my eyes, but you’ll never see anything ever again.”
she cries, “here’s what we’re gonna do,” nolan reasons, “i’m gonna lower my gum and you’re gonna let her go, okay?”
“nice and easy. lower that knife, nice and easy”
nolan does as he says, slowly lowering the gun, behind him, however, chen and bishop still hold theirs up, pointing at selby
“you’re gonna let her go” nolan urges
selby nods.
“i’m lowering my…” before nolan can finish the sentence, he shoots selby in his leg and the criminal falls back letting go of the woman.
he groans in pain.
“face down!”
nolan shouts out, gun still pointed down at him as he clutches his leg, “put your hands behind your back!”
he cuffs the criminal and lucy and talia lower their weapons.
backing away, nolan regains his breath, “call it in off we nolan.” his TO speaks up, raising a brow at him.
he looks at her then down to his belt, calling it in the radio, “suspect in custody. code 4.”
sirens wail in the background whilst bishop watches lucy and nolan interact.
a few days later.
tim’s wound is bandaged and he’s grabbing his shirt from the hook, putting it on.
as he does, the nurse wheels in a wheelchair, “checkout time, officer bradford.”
turning, he scoffs lightly when he sees the wheel chair, “yeah, no”
he is not wheeling himself out.
“i’m walking out of here.” he says, buttoning his top up.
“hospital policy.” she says, raising her brow at him. she’s getting him in this wheel chair whether he likes it or not.
“i don’t care.” he responds, sassily, but only to be met with the stern face of the nurse, reading ‘oh yes you are’
he sighs in annoyance looking away.
“so who’s picking you up?” she asks, finally wheeling him out and down the corridor.
he’s messing with his bag with his stuff in, “cab”, he mumbles
“is that all we are to you?” a familar voice calls out and tim’s gaze snaps up, pausing whatever he was doing, seeing the two other TOs coming round the corner.
“hey” he says furrowing his brows looking between the two.
“you know it’s funny, he didn’t tell us he was getting out,” talia teases, “‘cause he’s a tough guy”
“who doesn’t need anybody’s help” angela adds on.
“you two finished?” his finger flicks between the two, annoyed.
“nope!” angela and bishop grin, “smile!”
tim’s confused, but he knows that that look on both of their faces don’t mean anything good.
all of a sudden, they stand beside him and crouch down, angela’s phone snapping a photo, and the nurse behind joins in the photo, doing a ‘✌️’
part two out now!
comment to be added on the taglist for this series or join the taglist!
tag list: @fuckingsimp4azriel @multifandombliss @bacheerawr
❤️ is the second time the right moment? — part two here!
💙 third time's the charm? — p3 coming out by Wednesday update: i’m SO sorry! i’ve been so busy 📝📝📝 i had no time to finish it but i will have it done on friday by eight pm! once again so sorry!
• 𝒷𝓁𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒 — thomas shelby x fem!wife!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, oneshot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — the wife of the birmingham's most feared gangster, rewards him for his hard work, and he gladly accepts it with open arms.
• 𝓉𝒶𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 — thomas shelby x fem!assassin!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, series
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — an infamous female assassin has been paid an enormous amount of money by an italian to assassinate a fearful gangster, however, what once she thought would be simple, turned out to become a hectic mess once she realises she's fell head over heels for her target.
002. 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓮.
• 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 — tim bradford x footballer/soccerplayer!fem!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 —
redone it • 𝓌𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑔𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 — tim bradford x fem!agent!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — fbi agent reader
• 𝒷𝓇𝒶𝒹𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒹’𝓈 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉 — tim bradford x fem!wife!uc!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, series
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — a year ago today, tim bradford, a stoic, hard faced cop, has a wife that went missing on a dangerous undercover mission. The officer reunites with her wife that went MIA.
• 𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓀𝓈 — tim bradford x fem!detective!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, series
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — ghosting the LAPD and beyond due to an incident that effected you deeply, they track you down and get called back, however, now from an agent that dealt with UC work and severe issues, to a regular police officer.
• 𝒿𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉 — seargent!reader's former t.o!tim bradford x higher up solo detective!tim's former rookie!fem!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, one shot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — reader flirts her way through her case, however the seargent does not take this lightly.
→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — teen!reader hates ice baths, which is one of the most crucial parts of being a professional footballer, so in response of her kicking off, her team players force her in.
• 𝓈𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝓅 — lionesses x teen!reader,
→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic, text imagine
→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — during the night, you decide to sneak out of camp, promising yourself that you’d be back before sunrise but end up staying out later than planned. your phone starts blowing up with concerned athletes.
→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — teen!reader hates ice baths, which is one of the most crucial parts of being a professional footballer, so in response of her kicking off, her team players force her in.
PLAYERS.
004–1. 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓱 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷
005. 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓵
• 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓅𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈 — steve rogers x fem!shieldagent!avenger!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — seventy years later, the ww2 soldier opens his eyes, just to be met with beauty that sticks to his side throughout the battle of new york.
006. 𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮
• 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 — eddie diaz x celeb!fem!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, oneshot
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — responding to a call, a billboard catches the attention of a certain mexican paramedic who begins to feel a sense of need towards it.
• 𝒸𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 — evan buckley x fem!reader,
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — you and your firefighter boyfriend are looking after his niece as her parents are out of town, but the young girl won’t get to sleep if she doesn’t get what she demands for.
007. 𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓴𝓼
• 𝑜𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓀𝑜𝑜𝓀 — outer banks x fem!outsider!kook!reader, jj maybank x fem!outsider!kook!reader
↳ 𝓂𝒾𝒹𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒹𝑒𝒷𝓊𝓉 — jj maybank x fem!outsider!kook!reader
𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — angst,fluff
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — during the annual midsummers, a new girl is spotted, a new outsider kook girl, it becomes the talk of the night, attracting both sides of the cut.
warnings: friends to lovers trope, dirty talk, vulgar language, pet names, unprotected sex, creampie, riding that thick dick, praise, mentions of injury (reader), let me know if i missed anything<3
You were perched in front of the mirror, admiring the woman gazing back at you through long lashes.
“It's giving brat.”
False lashes, acrylic nails, threaded brows.
“You know, I'm actually kind of diggin’ it.”
Little black dress with an open back, Jacquemus handbag, golden hoops, perfumed skin, high-heeled boots.
“Damn, I look good.”
Through the mirror, you could see Tim still at it with the device, a little black box with an antenna that could detect signals from even the smallest, most high-tech recorders. It made a static noise as he hovered the stick over just about every surface and object.
“Alright. It's safe,” he finally concluded once he was content with his work.
“Could have told you as much. My contacts are good,” you sassed with a smug look, leaning your hand on your hip.
Tim shot you an incredulous look as he packed away the gear. “Yeah, you can drop the bratty attitude now, smartass.”
You chuckled as he removed the gun from his belt and put it on the dresser. “I don't know—it's kinda growing on me.”
Though you had never been undercover with Tim before, you were confident you knew him well enough to feel when something was off with him. You had known each other for a long time, and right now he was being off.
And you knew exactly why.
“Come on, it's not that bad,” you sighed, finally moving away from the mirror and stepping out of the shoes.
There was only one bed.
He arched a brow at you and rolled his eyes. “The hell it is. We're supposed to play brother and sister and we're sharing a bed?”
You snorted at his tone—speaking as if it would jeopardize the whole operation.
“Look, even if anybody thinks anything of it, I refuse to believe it'll become a problem. We'll just roll with it,” you reasoned nonchalantly.
“What?” he mouthed in disbelief. “Roll with it? I—” he cut himself off, brows knitted tightly as he ran with hands over his face.
You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction and folded your arms as you leaned against the wall. “I'm sure we won't be the first incestuous couple residing in Buttfuck Arizona.”
You were clearly making him uncomfortable and you were having way too much fun with it.
Tim seemed to be looking anywhere but at you. You wondered if it was the one bed or the way you looked in the dress. You hoped it was the dress.
His jaw clenched as he inhaled sharply through his nose, his mouth set in a tight-lipped twitch. He shook his head when he finally glared at you, quickly turning to unload the gear from your suitcase. "Okay—just… Get your head on straight, yeah? Meeting's set in twenty.”
***
You winced as Tim tightened the string working through the flesh of your upper arm, the hand that wasn't holding the needle holding your shoulder in a firm grip. The pain was nothing you hadn't experienced before, but his touch made you hyper-aware of every sensation in your body. Including the heat rushing to your cheeks and ears.
“Stay still,” Tim ordered, his steely blue eyes focused on his patchwork as he closed the wound and bandaged it for you. “Let me know if there's any discomfort.”
“Yeah, thanks,” you sighed, your tone lower and shakier than you expected it to be.
The deal had gone sideways, but not completely off the tracks. Tim seemed worried that your cover was blown but your instincts told you not all had gone awry—you had been caught in a knife fight with your target's enemies. While the target fled the scene and bullets ricocheted, you and Tim secured the gangsters before heading off, too, leaving the rivals disabled for when backup swooped in. You had convinced Tim the operation was not compromised—that if anything, you had substantiated your cover.
Tim went out to pick up some food and you jumped in the shower, careful not to ruin the work Tim had just finished on your arm. By the time you finished up, Tim returned with a plastic bag and you ate on the bed. You could practically feel the tension in him radiating from his body and though you tried to tune it out, there came a point where you could no longer stand it.
“Look, if you're that worried about it, we can call it off,” you proposed. “I trust your gut so if you feel like something's off, we just pull the plug. Check-in's in an hour.”
Tim looked up with a furrow, appearing confused by your suggestion. It had crossed your mind that the ordeal with the rival gang earlier on was not the only thing pressing him—the whole situation probably made him uncomfortable.
While you were used to undercover work, he had really only dipped his toes into the world. You had known each other for years; you've had drinks far into the morning, deep conversations, and seen each other adapt to life's challenges. You knew he felt comfortable around you, and you felt comfortable with him, but it made sense to you that this whole scene was somewhat unfamiliar to him.
Your jobs forced circumstances where you worked together, but you had never been entangled in a situation where either one of you got seriously hurt. It was one thing knowing someone you cared for could find themselves in a dangerous situation at any given moment; a whole other when you're present and see how things go south in a matter of seconds.
Tim shook his head, swallowing down a bite of his burger. “You've done this kind of work a lot longer than me, it's your call.”
It bothered you a tad, him showing you unconditional trust in a life-or-death situation. If he really thought there was the slightest chance you had been made, you would rather have his honesty.
You chewed your lip instead of the fry in your hand, watching him quietly, trying to read him. In all the years you had known Tim, he had always been stoic, his warmer traits only showing once his guard had been breached. While he wasn't exactly an open book, he was always blunt on his opinions—just not now.
It had to be more than just about the operation.
“We'll do the check-in to let them know we're good. We can revisit in the morning.”
Tim bobbed his head but didn't look at you.
You arched an eyebrow at him, deciding to switch topics. “So… you wanna flip a coin on the bed?”
Tim rolled his eyes. “No, you take it. I can make myself comfortable on the floor.”
Your brows knitted together and you gave him a quizzical look. “What? You sure—I mean I certainly prefer sleeping cozy, but it doesn't feel fair to just—”
“Doesn't matter. You take the bed. I'll be fine.” he insisted and finished his meal, wiping his mouth with a napkin before standing. “I'm gonna take a shower.”
Tim scrunched the trash together and threw it in the bin before locking himself in the bathroom.
You sighed and drank from your watered-down soda.
Tim planted his hands on the counter in front of the bathroom mirror, letting his head fall to level with his shoulders as he exhaled deeply. He cursed himself for agreeing to this operation.
It was one thing to know you got hurt, and another to see you suffer injury on his watch.
This is what you do, he reminded himself. You are used to this.
Tim was angry with himself for letting this get to him, although he was more disappointed that your - well, your character's - blatant flirting with the criminals bothered him in such a way—his blood boiling whenever someone looked at you with primal urges.
He had no right.
Even worse he was disgusted with himself for entertaining the thought—how your acrylic nails would feel scratching the skin on his back, how your soft and supple flesh would mold in his palms, how your glossy lips would whimper soft mewls, and how your lashes would flutter shut in bliss.
Tim inhaled sharply, clearing his throat, and turned on the shower. The splashes that hit the tiles added a backdrop to his obscene thoughts while he rid himself of his clothes, goosebumps forming on his skin.
He stepped into the downpour, leaving the shower head attached to the clasp in the wall. Tim subconsciously held his breath as he let the water burn his skin, feeling the need to inflict pain on himself to clear his mind. Regardless, the scorching sensation passed and soon enough he gave in and pumped his aching cock in his hand.
When he had showered - and shot his load down the drain - he put on a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a white shirt before walking back into the room.
You had already gotten under the covers, your eyes focused on the open page of your book. You had put aside two blankets and a pillow for Tim to make use of. The TV was on low volume, viewing a baseball game, and the remote was left at the end of the bed.
Tim’s jaw clenched and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him, seeing how you had laid out this display for him to feel comfortable when he had just jerked off thinking of you in a way friends were not supposed to.
He made a spot for himself on the floor, leaving his watch and handgun beside the pillow.
“You made contact?”
“Yup,” you replied softly, turning the page.
Tim hummed in response and settled on the hard floor cushioned by one of the blankets. When you felt his attention focus on the television, your absentminded gaze left the book and you watched him instead.
Even in a relaxed position, he maintained his characteristic rigid demeanor. Your gaze was caught by the broadness of his frame and the way his shoulders appeared constrained by the white fabric that hugged them.
Tim didn't seem too invested in the sports channel and soon he turned it off, lying down. You followed suit and put your book away, turning off the bedside lamp with a small grunt.
“You can read on if you want,” he said lowly.
You chuckled as you got comfortable in the bed, head leaning over the edge just enough to watch him from above. “Is that your way of telling me you're scared of the dark?”
A huff left his still body, and a grin pulled at your lips and although it was too dark to see, you could hear the smile in his voice. “Go to sleep.”
You laughed. “Yes, sir.”
You weren't sure for how long you had laid there before you began feeling restless. Instead of merely zoning out, your mind seemed to focus on every little detail. Outside the wind was ominously howling, a windchime clinking soft pitchy notes, and Tim seemed fixated on every little sound, whether it was a car door shutting or you turning in bed.
The silence inside was tangible, and you could practically hear Tim's mind running at a hundred miles per second.
Another heavy sigh escaped him as he turned on the floor with a grunt. Initially, he hadn't thought it would be that bad - Tim reminded himself he had slept in worse conditions while in the army - but now that he was here, the carpet smelled like tobacco and the ’80s pattern seemed to crawl.
He rolled on his back again, draping one arm over his eyes.
You shifted under the covers, the springs creaking beneath you. “How are you doing down there, bro?”
“Don't call me that,” he scoffed quickly, clearly far from sleep and you grinned.
You debated it in your mind before deciding to just throw it out there. It didn't have to be weird. You could literally just not make it weird. “You know, there's enough room for the both of us up here.”
Yeah, that wasn't too weird.
Right?
“What?”
Okay, you had made it weird.
The suggestion made Tim tense up, and his mind did not hesitate to picture the scenario. He knew you well enough to know the offer was innocent, but he couldn't help but imagine things far from innocent.
You chewed down on your bottom lip and tried to joke your way out of the position you had just put yourself in. “Easy, Sargeant—not offering to get handsy, just a side of the bed.”
There was another pause and the air was too thick for comfort. You were quickly coming to regret your offer, wishing the mattress would just swallow you whole before Tim could say another word. It had been a long time since you had been this embarrassed.
A moment later you could hear him move, but you didn't dare look.
“Move, then,” he suddenly muttered, and a shiver chilled your spine—he was already on his feet, so close.
You swallowed and made space for him in the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. You felt a heat rise to your cheeks when you realized he had brought the blanket from the floor, your subconscious having irrationally convinced you that you would be sleeping under the same.
Tim's movements were almost mechanical as he lied down, and you found yourself shifting further to the edge of the bed, afraid to accidentally touch him.
God, you wanted to touch him.
If nothing else, then just to see his reaction—find out whether he wanted you as much as you did him.
You stared up at the ceiling, trying to slow your breathing as your whole body tingled. You could hear Tim's breaths as well, measured and controlled like everything else he did and it bothered you for some reason. If only he would just slip up, be a little easier to read.
Tentatively, you tilted your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. His hands were folded across his stomach and his eyes were shut, taut muscles barely moving an inch as if it might actually kill him to shift.
Tim couldn't possibly be comfortable like that.
He looked like a damn robot waiting to be recharged.
While this rigid man lay unmoving beside you, your heart was hammering away in your ribcage and your thighs rubbing together like the act might stand a chance of relieving you in some way.
You returned your gaze to the ceiling, breathed out, and rolled onto your side so that your back was facing him.
The thought of what you might feel if you pushed yourself against him made you inhale sharply.
Stop it, you cursed yourself mentally.
You didn't know how long you were laying there, just staring at the wall, but at some point your eyelids finally grew heavy, sleep slowly but surely, pulling you in.
Tim wasn't as lucky.
His mind wouldn't let him get a second of rest with you lying this close to him. He tried to focus his mind elsewhere but he was all too aware of the proximity.
His mind continuously betrayed him, replaying every moment during the day that had made him feel like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—the way you had practically teased him while doting on yourself in the mirror, the way that damned dress hugged your body in ways that made him feel like a fucking schoolboy with uncontrollable hard-ons, the way you had flirted with the criminal at that meeting and the way it made him feel possessive in a way he had no right to.
Then you had offered to share the bed with him, making it sound so casual like you knew it wasn’t the worst thought you could have had—reigniting the idea of “getting handsy” in his already spinning head.
You had to know what you were doing to him.
He felt like a coiled wire about to snap; like the subtle heat radiating off of your body threatened to burn him alive.
Then you shifted.
A tiny, barely noticeable movement so small he might as well have imagined it.
But then it repeated, this time accompanied by a small sigh.
In your sleep you inch closer to Tim, instinctively seeking a warmth the covers fail to provide you.
At first, it's just your foot grazing his calf, but then you rolled over, closer to him, and your knee bent so that it rested on his thigh as you nestled deeper into the mattress.
Tim tensed and held his breath, his entire body going rigid beneath the sheets.
You didn’t pull away. Instead, you continued shifting, moaning as if displeased, and rolled closer, molding your body against his side as if it belonged there.
He knew he should pull away—you're asleep, completely unaware of what you're doing. But it really did feel like your body belongs this close to him. Tim can't make himself move.
But then your hips moved, ever so slightly, and it didn't feel so innocent anymore.
Tim couldn’t think straight, his head spinning, conflicted. He was as still as a statue, stiff and unmoving. You sighed, soft and breathy, content and utterly unguarded against his body, his scent filling your lungs with safety.
Worse is when you murmured his name in your sleep. Though barely a whisper in the quiet room, it slipped through the cracks and under his skin, searing Tim from the inside out.
Before he could stop himself his hand moved down, ghosting over your hip to see if you would stir, if this was real. It was the faintest touch and while you didn't flinch, Tim was spiraling at the feeling of the curve of your body hiding beneath the cover.
His hand tentatively weighed down on your hip, ever so carefully feeling you in his palm. He froze when you shifted again, but you only pressed further into his touch and his breathing stuttered in response.
Another content moan escaped your lips, and Tim's jaw locked while his fingers clenched in reflex, tightening his grip on your hip.
A sharp inhale caught in your throat and your spine went taut as Tim's grasp pulled you from your semi-asleep state.
Your lashes fluttered against your skin and for a moment you were afraid to open them fully, fearing the man whose scent had captivated your dream might not be real.
But Tim was very real and very close, the warmth of his hand seeping through the cover and into your skin, branding you.
It took you a moment to separate imagination from reality, but when it sunk in, you melted completely.
For a moment neither of you spoke, the darkness of the room swallowing everything bar the feel of one another. The creaking bed might as well have been a cloud, peacefully floating about in the dark of the night.
Tim felt captured as your gaze studied his features, your hazy eyes full of something he didn't dare assume, but could only hope.
“Tim—” you breathed quietly, lips quivering with the unspoken, and Tim's heart ached at your voice; a raspiness, a hesitance.
He knew he should pull away, apologize, do something, but he couldn't move or say a thing. Not with the way you looked at him with desire in your eyes and your bottom lip caught under your teeth.
You didn’t pull away, you couldn’t and you didn’t want to, and judging by his hand still holding onto you, he didn’t want you to either.
You weren't entirely sure what was happening, lust and warning bells waging war in your mind, but your primal needs took over and your hips did an experimental grind.
A curse slipped from his lips, low and guttural, and he exhaled your name, a confirmation that he wanted you as much as you did him. Tim's digits dug into your hip, his stormy eyes latched onto yours as he swiftly moved on top of you, bracing himself with a strong arm beside your head—
And fucking hell it was spinning.
His lips were so close, his warm breath ghosting your skin, raising goosebumps. Your chest heaved heavily with each breath but instead of the air entering your lungs it was only him.
Another second passed and it was one wasted not on Tim, so as the next ticked in you closed the space between you completely, pressing your lips against his in a feverish kiss.
Tim's sturdy body molded against yours, his rough palm sliding up to cradle your cheek as he kissed back with an eagerness resembling your own.
All that had pent up in the course of the day, or perhaps for longer, was released then, your bodies syncing to become one in the dark of the night.
Sighing against his warm lips, you allowed your hands to find purchase on his shoulders, feeling around for any inch of revealed skin. Your fingertips slid under the sleeve of his t-shirt, tracing the hard lines of his flexed muscles, and your other hand snaked up to the back of his neck.
You could feel yourself getting more heated by each second, hungrily licking into Tim's mouth as you allowed yourself to be completely engulfed in everything him.
In turn, Tim worked on removing the blankets separating you so that your bodies were flushed.
When you felt his frame pin you and his erection press against your sex, you gasped into his mouth, every stolen glance, every flirty comment leading up to this moment, suddenly sparking every nerve ending in your body alive. Feeling his undeniable lust for you made your world tilt on its axis, making this feel overwhelmingly real. And yet, it was somehow not real enough to convince you it was not merely another fever dream. You needed him inside you, to claim you and to fill you up, to leave marks on your skin that would linger in the morning.
You bucked your hips against him, pathetically trying to relieve yourself with some sweet friction.
A low groan vibrated against your wet lips and he held your waist down with a rough grip, squeezing the exposed flesh.
You whined, looking up at him with doe-eyes. “Tim, I wanna feel you.”
“You will,” he promised, ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear making you shudder and writhe.
His stubble tickled the sensitive flesh of your throat and his mouth suctioned the skin, tongue pressing and teeth scraping, quickly contorting the pout on your face into a breathless moan.
Tim's hand brushed past the waistband of your shorts and panties with practised ease, and when two long digits dragged through your wet folds, another breathy moan escaped you.
“Fuck,” Tim cursed as he felt how wet you were for him, watching your reaction with dark eyes as he dipped the fingers into your needy hole. “Tell me—did you have a little dream about me?”
Your jaw went slack, lips parted in a silent gasp, as he slipped two fingers into you, knuckle deep. No sound escaped your throat, but you couldn't exactly stop the wet squelch coming from your wet cunt.
His palm guided your face back to his, stormy blue orbs searching for an audible answer. You hadn't even realized you'd been holding your breath. “S'that why you've soaked yourself? Were you havin’ a little dirty dream ‘bout me?” Tim's fingers sunk back into your sobbing pussy.
“Yes,” you finally exhaled shakily, eyes rolling back as he slid his torturous fingers out and back in, curling them against your gummy walls. “F-fuck—yes!”
“Was it the first time?” he quizzed, clearly pleased with himself and—well, you were very pleased with him, too. He planted a chaste kiss just below your ear. “Hm? Have you dreamed of me before?”
“Ye-yeah,” you hummed, your mind barely grasping the words he spoke, everything a hot haze. “Sometimes… when I touch myself.”
“Good,” Tim murmured, scissoring his fingers into you while leaving feather-light open-mouthed kisses along your neck.
You shuddered, biting down on your wet bottom lip, focusing on the contrast between his delicate touch tracing down your collarbone and his fingers stretching you deliciously. He lifted your shirt, exposing your breasts and you moaned as he sucked on the soft flesh above your perked nipple.
Clamping down on his long fingers, you felt yourself getting closer to the edge. Breathing shallow, eyes rolling to the back of your head, Tim picked up on the clues.
“Let go for me, sweetheart,” he encouraged. “I got you.”
Tim continued fingering you through your orgasm, pumping slowly but purposely as you creamed around his digits. Thighs shaking involuntarily, hands struggling to hold on to anything, you cried out a shaky moan. Riding against Tim's hand, you clawed at his neck as you came down from your high, quivering lips teasing his.
“Attagirl,” praised Tim and softly patted your jaw, prompting you to open and he shoved his fingers down on your tongue. Barely out of your daze, pussy still throbbing, you moaned around his digits, sucking them deeper into your mouth when he pressed his erection against your thigh. “Shit.”
Tim pulled his fingers back out and hungrily licked into your mouth, tasting the honeyed essence on your tongue.
Your hips bucked against his hard cock, greedy for more. Looping your arms around his form, you turned him over and straddled him, the creaking of the mattress emphasizing your needy movements.
Tim inhaled sharply, large hands squeezing your waist, pressing you down against his clothes hard-on.
Steely blue eyes that looked to be brewing a storm watched you intensely, loving how fucked through you looked after just one orgasm. Hair disheveled, lips plump, neck and cheeks flushed.
Grinding down on Tim you sighed, leaning down to kiss him passionately, acrylics poking into his chest where you found purchase. You were still out of breath, but you didn't care—oxygen was no longer what kept you alive, he was.
Moaning your name, Tim felt a wave of heat rush over him, veiling him completely in your scent and desire. He could hardly believe this was happening. One thing was you dreaming, moaning his name and letting him care for you; a whole different kind of reality was you grinding down on him, rubbing your sweet little cunt over his rock-hard, twitching cock.
Tim's jaw clenched when you reached down to free his neglected erection, an inhale getting stuck in his throat as the feeling of your soft fingers wrapping around the base of his shaft.
He was heavy in your hand, certainly bigger than what you would consider average. Thick and veiny girth with an angry head leaking precum. Swiping your thumb across the weeping slit, you brought it between your lips, moaning at the salty taste.
Tim hissed and sighed your name, hips bucking upward, eager for you to sink down on him. He was getting impatient and you could feel it in the way he held you, so you drew his throbbing cock against the soaked fabric of your panties.
His grip tightened in warning before he spoke in a low tone. “Don't be a brat now, sweetheart.”
You choked on the chuckle you emitted when you pushed your panties to the side and lined him up. Pushing the angry head between your slick folds, forcing an intrusion— “F-fuck, Tim,” you cried out, sinking down on him.
The stretch was intense, a sharp pain that shot into your abdomen, but you tried to ground yourself in the moment, focusing on where you were—on an undercover mission with a colleague, a friend, a man you had suppressed your attraction to for all too long.
You inhaled deeply, your hands falling to where his were placed on your hips, guiding them up to your breasts as he allowed you to accommodate him. Doing an experimental squeeze around him, he cursed and you began moving.
“You're so big,” you shuddered, leaning forward so that your bodies were flush, grounding you, cupping your hand against his clean-shaven jaw. “Feel so full of you, Tim.”
Sinking back down on him, you began to feel the pleasure overpowering the pain, the stinging stretch becoming absolutely delicious as you felt how your walls hugged him, clinging onto him. A wanton moan rasped from your throat as you sunk back down on him, reveling in how your cunt molded to fit around his thick girth.
Picking up a comfortable rhythm that had him rubbing against all the right spots, you met his gaze, salacious eyes staring back at you through layers of desire.
“You're so beautiful like this,” he admitted coarsely, breaths heavy and jaw slack. “Ridin’ me like you were made for me—fuck… Sweetest girl, you feel so good around my cock.”
His praise settled in your chest, pulling at your heart's strings. Clashing your lips against his, you picked up your speed and Tim's hands squeezed at the soft flesh of your asscheeks, resting there, helping you keep the rhythm steady.
Your tits bouncing against his chest, ass slamming down on his thighs, and your tight, juicy pussy sucking him in—Tim prayed to God this was not the last time you would ride him.
The sexiest moan you had ever heard reverberated from Tim's chest, the sight of the strings of your slick attaching to his pelvis as you bounced bringing something resembling primal instincts out of him. A ring of your milky cum circled his engorged shaft like a pearl bracelet, hugging his base and making a complete mess on him.
“Shit, baby—I won't last long f’you keep going like that,” Tim rasped, but made no sign to stop you. A breathy, self-satisfied grin escaped you but it contorted into a moan when Tim's thumb began drawing tight circles on your bundle of nerves. He pulled you down by your hair, fingertips rough yet soothing against your scalp. “S'that what you want? Hm? Wanna milk me for all I'm worth, yeah—go ahead, sweetheart. I'll fill you up,” he coaxed.
The pressure Tim applied to your throbbing clit made you whimper pathetically, though it was barely audible over the obscene moans and slapping sounds of wet, sweaty skin-on-skin contact.
The muscles in your thighs were burning from the strain but you didn't dare stop riding him, needing him to fulfill his promise of filling you up with his seed.
Tim showered you with praise, spurring you on as he noticed how your moans crescendoed. His thumb rigorously rolled against your clit, hips bucking up and fucking into you as he chased his own orgasm. “That's it, baby—come around my cock.”
And the brink was no further away than that.
You came, pussy clamping down on his rock-hard cock, pulsing walls practically massaging Tim's thick shaft.
You desperately tried not to get sloppy, wanting him to fill you, but you were a moaning, writhing mess, and your movements stuttered.
Tim wasn't one to break a promise though, and he fucked you through your orgasm, cock relentlessly fucking into your crying pussy. Incoherent pleas for him to fill you with his cum tumbled from your lips, and he didn't leave you begging for long.
With a final thrust, hot spurts of his seed painted your velvety walls, Tim's swollen cock pulsing against your insides.
Breath heavy, panting, you slowly slid off him, limply falling on his side, barely grounded as the high wore off. Tim's large hands supported you, one cradling your cheek, thumb caressing the warm skin, while the other dragged between your legs as he whispered reverent praises.
“You did good, sweetheart.”
Your heart fluttered and you whimpered when he scooped his leaking cum from your pussy and made an effort to push it back in. Lacking the strength to do more, you merely nuzzled your head deeper into his embrace, and he pulled you closer. “Does that mean we can do this again?” you asked, somewhat sheepish.
Tim's chest rumbled with a chuckle and he placed a kiss on the crown of your head. “Of course, but you have to let me take you out on a date once we get back.”
The butterflies in your stomach began flapping their wings harder. “Deal,” you agreed with a tired smile and kissed his collarbone.
