Shane "Dio" Morrissey x Tim Rockford | Crossover | Detective x Criminal | Slow Burnish | Multi-Chapter | Ao3
Summary: Shane "Dio" Morrissey is trouble. Tim Rockford knows it. But maybe he likes trouble. And he definitely has a bit of a savior complex. WC:2.9k
Warnings: MDNI (18+), age gap, police interrogation, power imbalance, homelessness, referenced drug addiction, violence, and death (not of a mc), eventual smut, eventual addiction recovery. (Will add more as they become relevant.)
Notes: Thank you @spoiledboys for your lovely comments and song recs! ❤️ This chapter is a lot shorter than the last but it was that or like almost 7k words so... Likes/reblogs/comments are greatly appreciated!
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Chapter 2: The Fragile
Tim’s apartment was on the third floor of a brick walk-up that had seen better decades. The radiator clanked and groaned as if trying to exorcise demons, and the windows rattled every time a truck went by on the street below. But it was rent-stabilized, the only way a detective could still afford to live in the city he served. Better than dragging his ass in from Jersey or the Island every day.
Tonight, rain hammered the glass in sheets, loud enough to drown out the tinny commentary from an old Knicks game on the TV. Tim wasn’t really watching anyway. He was sprawled in an old recliner that had molded itself to his shape years ago, feet up, half a microwave lasagna cooling on the TV tray across his lap. One beer sweat in his hand, a second sat unopened on the side table.
His eyelids were just drifting closed when a sharp knock at the door cut through the drone of the game and the storm. Tim's eyes shot open. No one knocked on his door at eleven-thirty on a Thursday.
He set his beer aside and stood, hip protesting as he crossed to the door and checked the peephole. Through the distorted fish-eye lens he saw a figure leaning against the wall, shoulders hunched, water streaming off the worn leather duster in rivulets. When the figure lifted his head just enough for the dim hall light to catch his face, Tim’s stomach dropped.
Shane.
He looked like a drowned cat. Hair plastered to his forehead, blood mixing with rainwater running down the side of his face. His bottom lip was split, fat and dark. He looked smaller than Tim remembered, like the last couple months had carved more out of him.
Tim opened the door. Shane didn’t step forward right away; just stood there dripping on the worn welcome mat. His good eye found Tim’s, steady despite the damage.
“Got in a serious jam,” he said, voice rough, cracked from cold or pain or both. “Guess I needed a fucking cop.”
Tim stared for a second longer, then wordlessly stepped aside.
Shane moved past him carefully, like every step hurt. Water puddled on the tile as he shrugged out of the drenched duster and let it fall in a sodden heap just inside the door. Underneath, he wore a thin black shirt, soaked through, clinging to narrow ribs and sharp shoulders. He shivered hard, teeth chattering, but tried to lock it down.
Tim closed the door, locked it, then turned the deadbolt for good measure. The apartment was suddenly too small, the air too thick, reeking of coppery blood, leather, and urban rain.
“Jesus, kid.” Tim’s voice came out gruff. “What the hell happened?”
Shane wiped blood and rain from his face with the back of his hand, smearing it worse. “Got jumped a couple of blocks from the shelter. Three guys. I–I owed somebody money.” He tried for a shrug; it turned into a wince. “Didn’t have it. They didn’t like that.”
Tim’s jaw tightened. He crossed to the kitchenette, grabbed a clean dish towel from the drawer, ran it under cold water, then wrung it out. When he turned back, Shane was still standing in the entryway, arms wrapped around himself, looking like he might bolt if Tim made any sudden move.
“Sit,” Tim said, nodding toward the couch.
Shane hesitated half a second before he limped over and dropped onto the lumpy cushions. He hissed through his teeth when his back hit the upholstery.
“Hold that on your eye and your lip.” Tim handed him the damp towel. “Stay.”
Not a dog…” He heard him murmur as he moved down the hall to the bathroom.
Tim grabbed his first-aid kit and pain meds from the cupboard. When he returned, the kid was where he’d left him, head tilted back against the cushion, good eye staring glassily at the ceiling. He looked as if he were trying to steady his breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly, but couldn’t manage it. It kept catching on the inhale. He pressed a careful hand to his ribs.
“Good boy.”
Shane shifted his gaze to glare at him. “Fuck you,” he muttered, but there was no real animosity in it. And was that a blush? Or just the cold?
He sat on the coffee table in front of him, close enough their knees brushed, close enough to smell the copper tang of blood mixed with leather, damp cotton, and fear-sweat. He held out the Advil and a cup of water.
Shane glanced at it, then at the beer on the side table. “One of those would take the edge off better.”
Tim’s lips twitched, but his tone held firm. “No.”
“Man, how old do you think I am? I’ll be 23 in a month!”
“I know how old you are, Shane. Alcohol and head injuries don’t mix.”
“I’m fine.” He said automatically, defensively.
“Uh-huh.” Tim guided the towel aside, his knuckles grazing Shane’s too-cold cheek. “Let me have a look…”
The gash over his eyebrow was ugly, jagged, still dripping, but manageable. Most of the blood was coming from his earlobe; someone had ripped one of the heavy-gauge rings out, leaving the soft flesh torn, ragged.
“Damn.” Tim poured antiseptic onto a gauze pad. “Guess they got a souvenir.”
“I’m gonna kill that motherfucker next time.”
“Oh yeah?” He cupped Shane’s jaw with his free hand, thumb resting just under his pulse point. The contact was small; it shouldn’t have felt so intimate. “You think it’ll go better next time?”
Shane’s good eye flicked up, meeting his in brief defiance. “Three against one, I told you. If I got him alone…”
Tim pressed the pad to the wound over his eye. Shane sucked in a breath, but didn’t pull away. Their faces were inches apart; Tim could feel his breath, warm and tinged with cigarette smoke.
“Maybe don’t discuss premeditated murder with a police officer, Shane.”
Shane’s split lip curved, almost a grin. “Whatcha gonna do? Arrest me?”
Tim rolled his eyes, pulling the pad away to smooth butterfly closures over the deepest part of the cut. He reached into his shirt pocket for his glasses, slipping them on so he could see the torn earlobe properly.
“Well, shit…” Shane said.
Tim paused, eyebrows lifting. “What?”
Shane didn’t say anything, but his good eye glinted with…was it amusement or something else?
“Oh fuck off,” He pressed an antiseptic-soaked pad to it, applying steady pressure. Shane flinched, hands clenching into fists against the cushion. Blood soaked through almost instantly, but after a bit the flow ebbed, and he removed it.
“This needs stitches,” Tim said flatly. “I’ll do what I can, but you’re gonna have a nice little notch if it isn’t properly treated.”
Shane huffed a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well. ER’s gonna want a name, a permanent address, and a magic insurance card I don’t have.”
Tim didn't argue. Just did his best with liquid bandage and steri-strips, hoping it would hold. “Three, right? You know any of ‘em? Get a good look at their faces?”
Shane’s gaze slid away. “It was dark, raining. …One had a shitty neck tattoo. I wasn’t exactly taking notes while they were introducing my face to the pavement.”
“You said you owed money. To who?”
“Someone impatient, clearly.” Shane’s tone stayed light, but the tremor in his hands hadn’t stopped. “Does it matter?”
Tim sat back, studying him. “How’d you find my place, anyway? I gave you my number, not an address.”
Shane’s good eye came back to him, and that sly look returned.
Tim held up a hand. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”
“Smart man.” Shane’s smile thinned. “Guess I should’ve called first…you said call.”
Tim began gathering the bandage packaging and bloodied gauze. “It’s okay, kid.”
Silence fell. Rain drummed harder against the windows. When Shane spoke again, his voice had dropped lower. “Been thinking about that night. The holding cell. You, staying.” His throat worked, words coming out tight, “I keep replaying it, more than I should...”
Tim stilled for half a second. “You’ve had a rough night,” he said quietly, “not exactly the time for confessions.”
“Maybe. But I’m not high, so I mean what I’m saying.”
Tim exhaled slowly. The space between them felt charged, like the air just before lightning. Shane’s soaked shirt clung like a second skin, every sharp line of him visible. His good eye kept drifting to Tim’s mouth, then back–a silent dare.
“Let's get you out of those wet clothes,” Tim said finally, standing.
Shane’s smile returned, smug now. “Pervy old man…”
Tim ignored this, offering him a hand. “You want to catch pneumonia on top of everything else?”
Shane didn’t move right away. He watched him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Come on, kid.” He pulled him upright.
Shane staggered, catching himself against Tim’s chest for a second. “Sorry,” he murmured, straightening.
Tim guided him down the short hallway to the bedroom. It was sparse, bed made with military corners out of habit, the dresser scarred from years of use, a single lamp on the nightstand throwing warm amber across the walls. He crossed to the dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and took out a pair of soft gray sweats and an old, faded Smashing Pumpkins concert tee. He held them out. “Here, these might fit.”
Shane eyed the shirt, then Tim, smirking faintly. “Still just a rat in a cage, huh?”
“Saw ‘em live at the Garden in ‘96, you wish you’d been there.”
When Shane still didn’t take them, Tim set the clothes on the bed and turned, moving toward the door. “I’ll wait in the hall.”
Shane’s hand caught his wrist, light, tentative, fingers cold. “Don’t.”
Tim froze. Looked down at the grip, then up at Shane’s face. The soft, more open expression he found there made his throat tight.
“Stay, please… Don’t want to be alone.”
Tim stifled a sigh. This kid was trouble. Big trouble. But he stayed anyway, back against the doorframe, arms crossed like it could keep some distance between them.
Shane worked the rings off his fingers one by one, dropping them onto the dresser with soft little clunks. A thick silver band, a thinner one with some kind of carved sigil, another with an oversized skull. When he turned his left hand to tug free the last ring, the pentagram inked across his palm caught the lamplight–crude, a little faded, the lines uneven.
He pulled the long heavy chain necklace off over his head, then another thinner cord one, wrapping it around the pendant before setting it down, last the chunky ball-chain. The jewelry made a small, glittering pile on the scarred wood.
Only then did he reach for the hem of his shirt. He peeled it off slowly, wincing as the wet fabric dragged, revealing pale skin, stretched taut over ribs that showed too clearly, a constellation of old scars and new–bruises, cuts, faded track marks on the insides of his arms–and those goddamn pierced nipples, soft pink against cold steel.
Tim tried not to look. Tried to keep his gaze on the wall, on the rain-streaked window, anywhere else. But Shane moved like he was half-asleep, in slow motion. Chest rising and falling shallowly, collarbone sharp under lamplight, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing below the waistband of drenched jeans.
It was impossible not to notice. Impossible not to feel the heat pooling low in his gut. Shane wasn’t posturing, wasn’t performing. He was just… letting Tim see him. Raw and unguarded. It felt like surrender.
His sodden shirt hit the floor with a heavy slap. He undid the fly of his baggy jeans and slid out of them. Naked now except for black boxer briefs clinging to narrow hips, his eyes met Tim’s, a question in them he didn’t know how to answer, or wasn’t ready to.
As he bent to tug the sweats on, the lamplight caught the worst of the damage, deep bruising along his left ribs, mottled purple spreading down his abdomen, a nasty scrape across the crest of his hip where it’d met cement.
Tim’s jaw locked so tight his molars crunched. Protective anger surged hot and useless under his sternum. Three against one, on a kid who already looked like a strong wind could knock him over. The desire that came with the anger, hot and shameful and impossible to kill, only made it worse.
Shane straightened, catching the shift in Tim’s expression. He glanced down at himself, then back up. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. “It looks worse than it is.”
“Bullshit.” Tim’s voice came out rough, edged. He forced his fists to unclench. “Motherfuckers didn’t hold back.”
Shane’s mouth curved, small, crooked. “Well, look at you.”
“What?”
“All protective and shit.” Shane closed the distance between them, stopping just short of touch. “It’s kinda cute, Detective.”
Tim snorted, but the sound lacked humor. Shane was shirtless, damp-haired, smelling faintly of rain and antiseptic, close enough that the warmth coming off his skin was impossible to ignore. Shit.
“Not cute,” he managed at last, “pissed.”
Shane’s smile deepened, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “You gonna go all vigilante?” he teased, voice dropping, playful. “Hunt down three random assholes in the rain? For little old me?”
He wanted to, fucking hell, did he want to. It would’ve been so easy. Pull him in and kiss that stupid smirk off his face, the defiance from his eyes. But there were about a million reasons why that was a terrible idea. Instead, he leaned past the kid, picked up the tee, and pulled it gently down over Shane’s head. The faded cotton swallowed him a second before he pushed his arms through the sleeves. It was still too big, hanging off one shoulder. He looked suddenly younger, more vulnerable. The urge to track those bastards down flared again, but he forced it down, buried it, at least for now.
“Bed,” Tim said, nodding to it, “under the covers. You’re still shaking.”
“Yes, Sir,” he murmured sarcastically, but climbed in anyway, curling up cat-like. Tim pulled the blankets over him.
Shane stared up at him, chewing his lower lip.
“What?”
“Your bed’s big enough for two.”
“That–I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Shane’s dark brown eyes turned puppy-dog-ish, pouty. “I’m freezing, and I feel like shit…please?”
How could he say no? Tim discarded his glasses on the dresser and slid in beside him, pulling the covers up over them both. He tried to keep a buffer of space between them, but Shane shifted without hesitation, curling into him, drawn in by the heat.
“Thank you,” Shane murmured against his chest, voice already thickening with exhaustion.
“Sure, kid.”
Shane’s eyes drifted closed. Within minutes, his breathing evened, the last fine tremors fading as he pressed closer, small weight trusting Tim completely. One hand had fisted loosely in the front of Tim’s shirt, as if even in sleep he needed something to hold onto. His knees were drawn up, body folded in on itself the way a much younger kid might sleep when the world had been too hard for too long.
Tim lay awake a long time after, listening to the rain, feeling the slow rise and fall of Shane’s chest against his, his breath brushing across his cheek, a little sour. The low lamplight smoothed down his sharp edges. The usual guarded, mocking set of his mouth had softened. Dark lashes rested softly against pale cheeks. Without the armor, without the posture, without the constant challenge in his voice, he looked like what he was: twenty-two, hurt, and finally somewhere safe enough to let go.
Little shit.
He’d come here. In the rain, bleeding, half-concussed, he’d still remembered the offer and trusted it enough to show up at a cop’s door. Enough to fall asleep in his bed. Shane didn’t strike him as the type to trust easily. His own interactions with him, as well as the stories from his fellow detectives, told Tim that much. So he must’ve done something right.
Protectiveness and want tangled together until he couldn’t separate them. He wanted to keep him right here, under these blankets, where no one could get another hit in. Wanted to smooth the damp hair back from the bandaged forehead, check the ribs again, make sure the torn earlobe wasn’t still bleeding.
And underneath all of that, shameful, insistent, was the ache to pull him closer, taste the mouth that had been throwing barbs at him all night, call him baby and sweet thing and whatever other soft names would come out if he ever let them. He wanted him safe and pliant and his, at least for a little while.
His cock twitched at the direction of his thoughts. Tim closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “Pervy old man is right.”
i’ve been having some thoughts and feelings recently about ppcu characters eating pussy, as one does, and i’d like to pose the question to my fellow perverts …
Which Pedro Boy is The Biggest Munch™️?
Javier Peña 🚬
Joel Miller 🍄
Javi Gutierrez 🐶
Din Djarin 🪐
Dio Morrissey 🪦
Jack Daniels 🥃
Marcus Acacius 🏛️
Max Phillips 🩸
Frankie Morales 🚁
Oberyn Martell 👑
Dave York ⛓️
Dieter Bravo 🍫
Voting ended onMar 24, 2025
DISCLAIMER : it won’t let me add more than these options - if you feel strongly enough about a particular pedro boy and their ability to eat pussy, please by all means leave a comment or voice your opinion in a reblog, including for the boys that aren’t present on the poll <3
