warnings: nsfw, a little bit of smut, fem!reader, definitely more sub!reader, degrading, fingering, unethical relationship (who cares it’s fiction)
author’s note: the request wouldn’t let me reply to it, so this is for the anon who requested this!
ೃ⁀➷ lucy chen
i can totally see morning sex with lucy. sometimes not even coffee can motivate her to get out of bed, but an orgasm can. whether it’s her getting one, giving one to you, or both, she absolutely loves stepping into roll call with that unmistakable glow and extra pep in her step.
“lucy, you have to wake up. your alarm’s been going off for five minutes, and i want to go back to sleep!” you groan, giving her shoulder a lazy shove.
lucy finally sits up with a dramatic sigh, hair messy, eyes half-lidded—and then she notices you.
you’re in one of her old, worn-down band shirts, and the lace underwear you call your “comfy pair”. it isn’t doing much to help her focus. your leg’s thrown over the blanket, and she gets an amazinh view of smooth skin and curves.
“yeah.” she murmurs, a small smirk forming, “you’re definitely not going back to sleep right now.”
safe to say you were okay with the early up wake-up despite lucy rushing out the door.
and if the sex was really good that morning? she would brag about it to everyone. i can just imagine tim hearing it and yelling at her for discussing her personal life while angela just snickers beside him.
ೃ⁀➷ angela lopez
tension sex all the way. this woman lives for teasing and building anticipation for later in the night. you could be stopping by the station to drop off a psychiatric profile, or just to bring her lunch. either way, angela always finds a moment to corner you somewhere private and leave you flustered.
sometimes you even beg her in the mornings not to tease you when you have to go over there for work, but that only makes angela want to do it more. you’re used to it by now. so much so that you’ve started planning ahead.
“ang, i thought we agreed none of this today.” you whisper breathlessly as angela traps you between her arms, pressing you against the wall.
“well, plans change, sweetheart,.” she rasps, flashing her signature grin before leaning in. but right as her lips are about to meet yours, you turn your head—mouth brushing her ear instead.
“i guess you’ll have to see what i’m wearing under this later then.”
angela always gets back at you when you tease her. every time. to the point where you might be walking a little unsteadily the next day, but she’s always there, offering a helping hand and a satisfied smile.
ೃ⁀➷ nyla harper
absolutely hate sex!! especially when she first becomes a training officer after coming back from her undercover work. as a detective, nyla’s a bit full of herself, and it drives you insane as one of the other TOs beside tim, angela, and formerly talia.
angela mostly keeps to herself, almost admiring nyla’s confidence. tim avoids her altogether after she bruises his fragile ego. but you? you refuse to let her think she’s better than everyone else. both of you are stubborn, sharp-tongued, and know exactly which buttons to push to set the other off.
one shift, nyla makes a reckless call during an all-hands case that nearly jeopardizes the whole operation. she gets an earful from sergeant wade but somehow walks away without repercussions—and somehow, that’s what leads you to her apartment that night.
“you came to my house to what? prove me wrong? or was it to gloat?” nyla hisses, standing inches from you.
“you were completely out of line today. you may think you’re better than all of us, but—”
before you can finish, nyla strides forward and pushes you back against the door, crashing her lips onto yours in a fierce, dominating kiss that cuts your words short.
“be careful who you’re talking to.” she warns, voice low. “i’m a detective, and that’s what you’ll be addressing me as for the rest of the night. got it?”
from that night on, you make it your mission to get under her skin even more at the station because by the time you clock out, the payoff is always worth it.
ೃ⁀➷ zoe anderson
i had to go with forbidden sex. zoe anderson is every inch a model captain—composed, precise, by-the-book. at least she was…until you. you’re her officer. her responsibility. her line she swore she’d never cross.
you both knew it was not only wrong, but could jeopardize both of your careers. you tried to resist until you both eventually agreed to keep secret until you were able to transfer out.
not one person had any inkling about your relationship, which made the occasional risks you took feel even more thrilling, though, zoe never took them lightly.
“you’re supposed to be heading home, yet you decide to come into my office like a needy slut and tease me.” zoe snarls as she pushes your head further into her desk while her other hand works inside of you.
you’re bent over her desk, cheek pressed to the wood, bare from the waist down as your arousal drips down your thighs. with ever pump of zoe’s fingers, you want to moan out loud, but you use ever fiber of willpower you have to keep your mouth shut.
“i’m going to make you regret breaking the rules, baby.” zoe rasps into your ear before laying a soft kiss and removing her fingers from you, leaving you with an emptiness. “go home before you make it worse.”
eventually, you’re both in too deep. if anyone or anything ever came close to exposing what you had, one of you would be willing to step away from your duties if it meant keeping each other.
ೃ⁀➷ talia bishop
its secretive sex. talia absolutely despises anyone knowing about her personal life, aside from maybe angela. whether you work beside her or somewhere completely unrelated to the LAPD, she keeps quiet.
it’s never against you. she adores you, treats you like a queen. that’s actually why she doesn’t tell anyone. because behind closed doors, talia bishop is a total softie when it comes to you.
it’s the end of her shift, and nolan’s driving. her phone suddenly chimes with the special sound she specifically set for your contact. nolan’s rambling about whatever minor disaster he’s dealing with while she casually glances at her phone.
you: *sent an attachment*
you: hope you get home soon. i miss you.
talia silently thanks herself for keeping her screen dim, because the photo you’ve sent—a seductive mirror shot in new lingerie she hasn’t seen yet—would definitely raise questions.
“are you blushing? i didn’t know you were capable of that! so who is it? ss it new? what is she—” nolan stops mid-ramble when talia turns her head and fixes him with that sharp, unamused glare.
“glad you stopped talking before i assigned you with tim.” she warns, voice flat but terrifying. then she finishes typing her reply, lips twitching into the smallest smile.
talia: you better be ready. you almost got me caught.
eventually, people do find out about you. and to your surprise, she’s…relieved. but she’ll never show her soft side in public, not even then.
Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.
POV: A rookie who forgets to eat. A training officer who notices. It starts with late-night takeout, and ends with quiet care. Tim Bradford doesn’t say much—but actions? They speak loud enough.
TW: Reader goes through the motions of poor eating habits due to prioritising work, resulting in brief mentions of weight loss. Tim ensures reader gets back on track with eating in various ways, including often asking reader if they’ve eaten and observing if they’ve eaten enough.
A/N: Okay, first of all, I literally whipped up 70% of this oneshot and forgot to save it. So, apologies if this oneshot doesn’t hit different because it was made with frustration (Because I had to rewrite it all over again,) and not love like usual. :( Which also explains why I didn’t post once a week because my motivation went downhill after I realised it didn’t save—but we persevere!! So, here it is!
It was nearing the end of shift, and Tim could already feel the exhaustion setting into his shoulders. The paperwork was never-ending, the bullpen too loud, and his patience was at about 4%.
But when he looked across the room and spotted you, hunched over your desk with a blank stare and twitching fingers—he knew something was off.
You hadn’t said a word in the past hour. Not since the last dispatch call ended. Not since you got back to your desk.
Your knee bounced restlessly under the table, fingers twitching against the edge of your laptop. Your eyes were glassy—focused on nothing, staring straight through the screen in front of you like it wasn’t even there.
Tim watched you from across the bullpen, jaw ticking.
“Kid.”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch. Just blinked—slow, like the thought had to travel a long way before it reached your brain. Then you looked up, bleary-eyed and sluggish, like you’d been wading through molasses.
Tim pushed back his chair with a scrape and crossed the room, arms folding as he stood beside your desk. “You good?”
You gave a fast, jerky nod. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
Too quick. Too rehearsed.
Tim glanced down at your desk—the same granola bar had been sitting there since morning. Unwrapped, untouched. The coffee cup next to it was long since empty.
“Did you eat today?” he asked, voice low.
Your eyes flicked to him, then away. “Wha—yeah. I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t the question,” he said flatly, brow raised. “Did you eat?”
You hesitated. Just enough to answer the question for him. Then you muttered, “Had some coffee.”
Tim exhaled through his nose. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t call you out or scold you.
He just looked at you. Stared long enough that you started to fidget, then glanced at his watch.
“Come on.”
You blinked. “What?”
He was already walking away, grabbing his jacket. “Hurry up before I leave you here.”
For a moment, you just sat there, watching him near the exit before you shook your head profusely, as if snapping out of a trance that had it’s way with you for far too long before bouncing to your feet and jogging after him.
The ride was quiet—typical with Tim. No music, just the soft murmur of the radio and the occasional irritated grunt when someone on the road pissed him off.
You sat curled into your seat, arms crossed, stomach finally realizing it hadn’t been fed in over twelve hours.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a faded parking lot. The diner looked like it belonged in a postcard from the ’80s—neon lights buzzing, chrome siding catching the glow of streetlamps. The windows glowed warm and yellow in the night.
You squinted. “Diner?”
“Midnight special,” he replied, cutting the engine and getting out like it was a regular routine. “Get moving.”
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old grease, pancakes, and brewed coffee. You slid into a booth by the window while Tim nodded to the woman behind the counter. She brought two steaming mugs of coffee over like she already knew the drill.
Tim didn’t open the menu. Just sipped. Watched you.
“You’re gonna order,” he said finally, nudging a menu toward you with a finger.
You blinked at him. “What should I get?”
“All of it.”
You stared. “What?”
He took another slow sip of coffee. “Everything you’ve been skipping. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Pick something from every section.”
Your shoulders stiffened. “Sir—”
“Don’t even start,” he cut in. “I’ve seen corpses with more color than you today. You’re running on fumes and stubbornness.”
You huffed, looking away, cheeks burning. “I’m not a kid.”
Tim raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push. Instead, he nodded toward the menu again.
“Then order like an adult who knows how to take care of themselves.”
You grumbled under your breath, but something about the steadiness in his voice—like he noticed the way you’d been shrinking lately, the way your uniform was a little looser—made you obey.
And for once, you didn’t have a retort. Just stared down at the laminated page, swallowing hard as your stomach let out a quiet growl.
You pointed, finally. “I’ll take the fries, pancakes, hashbrowns, and a milkshake.”
Tim grunted, satisfied. “Atta kid.”
Tim just nursed his coffee, occasionally stealing a fry off your plate once the food came. He didn’t push. Just watched you eat with that unreadable expression of his.
Halfway through your milkshake, your shoulders sagged.
“Didn’t realize how hungry I was,” you mumbled.
Tim gave a small nod. “That’s the thing with burnout. You don’t feel it ‘til it’s already bleeding into everything else.”
You looked down at your fork.
He leaned back in the booth, exhaling slowly. “You’re not a machine, kid. You don’t get extra points for starving yourself through the shift.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know,” he said, softer now. “That’s the problem.”
You went quiet again.
The syrup was starting to stick to your fingers. The milkshake was giving you a headache. But the warmth in your chest—warmth that wasn’t from the food—was harder to ignore.
And when he flagged down the waitress for a to-go box for the leftovers you couldn’t finish, you didn’t argue.
After the midnight diner run, something shifted.
Tim Bradford, usually content to let his rookies suffer through learning things the hard way, was now on your ass like a hawk about one very specific thing:
Food.
It started the next morning—quiet, early, just before roll call.
You were half-awake, rubbing sleep from your eyes and yawning into your shoulder as you fumbled with your locker. The clatter of boots on tile barely registered until a shadow stretched across the floor beside you.
“Did you eat?”
You blinked, turned your head, and found Tim standing there—arms crossed, face unreadable, looming like a silent judgmental stormcloud.
“Uh… yeah?” you offered, voice raspy from sleep.
He tilted his head slightly. “What?”
“Granola bar?” you tried again, already wincing.
He let out a low, unimpressed sound. Somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. “That’s not breakfast. That’s a snack pretending to be one. You’ve got five minutes. There’s a vending machine in the breakroom. Find something with protein—go.”
You opened your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to ask if he was serious—but the sharp look he gave you shut it right back.
Your legs moved before your brain caught up.
By day three, the mission had evolved.
Now he was personally escorting you to the food trucks during break like your own surly, broad-shouldered chaperone.
“Go big or go home,” he muttered, squinting at the chalkboard menu propped on the sidewalk. “Get the loaded burrito.”
You stared blearily at the options. “Which one?”
He stepped forward slightly, pointing without hesitation. “Not that one. The other one—with potatoes.”
You followed the direction of his finger, and it took you a second to realize your own hand had drifted to match, your finger hovering just beneath the menu item like a trained reflex.
“Yeah,” he said with a small, victorious nod. “That one.”
You gave him a look. “Are you seriously micromanaging my lunch right now?”
“Damn right I am,” Tim said without missing a beat. “Not risking my rookie blacking out during a foot chase because you skipped breakfast again.”
You just rolled your eyes with a defeated huff, stepping up to the food truck to place your order.
By day five, it was no longer a secret.
In fact, it had become something of a running joke at Mid-Wilshire.
“Hey,” Jackson whispered across briefing during roll call, nudging Lucy with his elbow. “Why does Tim follow Y/N around like a grumpy golden retriever with a lunchbox?”
Lucy smirked without looking up from her notes. “He’s on full food patrol. They skipped a meal once and now it’s like… a vendetta.”
Even Grey caught wind of it.
During roll call, right as the morning briefing was about to wrap, Tim leaned over casually and murmured, “You eat anything yet?”
You muttered a tired “Yes, sir.” under your breath, and Grey paused mid-sentence.
His eyes flicked up. “You feeding your boot now, Sergeant?”
Tim didn’t even flinch. “Can’t train a rookie running on fumes, sir.”
From the back of the room, Nyla raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “Didn’t know T.O. stood for Take-Out Officer.”
Angela snorted beside her. “Please. More like Dad-ford.”
You buried your face in your elbow and tried not to laugh, whilst Tim just shook his head, deadpan as ever, but didn’t deny a thing.
Because by now, it was true.
And everyone knew it.
Later that day, when he caught you trying to sneak away with just a cup of coffee for lunch, he reached out, plucked it from your hands, and deadpanned, “Caffeine doesn’t count as calories, kid. Let’s go.”
You groaned but followed.
And maybe, just maybe, the food tasted better when he was sitting next to you, silently eating his own lunch like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t made it his full-time side quest to make sure you were okay.
By day six, Tim was satisfied with not only the improvement in your eating habits, but also with the fact that everybody in Mid-Wilshire hadn’t mentioned a thing about his part in it ever since the day before in roll call.
Until..
Nyla and Angela decided that it was too good of an opportunity to not mention it once the break room was quiet, save for the low hum of the vending machine and the occasional clink of mugs against the counter.
Nyla perched on the edge of the table, sipping her tea, while Angela leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Tim stir way too much sugar into his coffee.
“You know,” Angela started, her voice carrying that amused edge she always got when she was circling in on something juicy, “you’re not exactly subtle.”
Tim didn’t look up. He was leaned against the breakroom counter, hands wrapped tightly around his coffee mug like it was anchoring him. His shoulders barely shifted.
“About what?” he muttered, tone just this side of defensive.
Nyla raised a brow, sipping from her own cup as she leaned beside him. “Your rookie.”
He let out a small, tired breath. “I make sure they eat. Big deal.”
Angela gave a short laugh. “You make sure they eat. And sleep. And drink water. You drag them to food trucks, you check in before every shift, and I swear to God, I’ve seen you watch their plate like a hawk to make sure they finish what’s on it.”
Tim gave her a flat look but didn’t deny it.
“I’m not coddling them,” he said. “They weren’t taking care of themselves. I stepped in.”
Nyla crossed her arms, eyes steady. “You stepped in like a one-man wellness program, Bradford.”
He didn’t respond right away.
There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He stared down at his coffee like it might say something back to him. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before—less like a retort and more like the truth slipping out. “They’re young,” he said. “Too used to burning themselves out before they even recognize the damage. Always pushing through, always trying to prove something. I’ve seen that break people. I’m not gonna let it break them.”
Angela’s teasing faded into something softer, more thoughtful. She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “Most T.O.s would’ve chalked it up to ‘toughening up.’ Let them figure it out the hard way.”
He gave a small shake of his head. “Yeah, well. I’ve been the guy who figured it out the hard way. It sticks with you.” His tone had gone distant. Like he was seeing something none of them could. A memory, probably. One that hurt in ways he didn’t speak about.
The room quieted for a moment. Even Nyla, who usually had a comeback for everything, didn’t say anything right away. Then she tilted her head, voice quieter. “You’re a good T.O., Tim.”
Angela nodded. “Little overbearing. Lot grumpy. But yeah—solid.”
He rolled his eyes, but it didn’t quite reach the rest of his face.
Before he could respond, the door creaked open behind them, and your voice cut through the silence like sunlight filtering through blinds.
“Hey, sir? I grabbed you an extra taco.”
All three of them turned. You stood in the doorway with your jacket half-zipped, hair a little mussed from your earlier nap in the shop, holding out a foil-wrapped taco like it was a peace offering.
Tim’s entire posture softened in a blink.
His brows lifted—not in surprise, but in quiet warmth—and he straightened from the counter. When he reached out to take the taco from your hand, his fingers brushed yours gently. He didn’t rush it.
“Thanks, kid,” he said, his voice lower, more grounded.
You smiled—small but bright—and gave a quick nod before stepping back out, the door closing quietly behind you.
For a moment, the three of them just stood there.
Then Nyla took a long sip of her coffee and smirked. “Okay, but that was actually adorable.”
Tim groaned and tipped his head back against the wall. “I swear to God, if that name sticks—”
“Oh, it already has,” Nyla said with a shrug. “You’re toast.”
Angela raised her cup in a mock toast. “To the dadliest T.O. in Mid-Wilshire.”
But the thing was—Tim didn’t argue. He didn’t snap back with a sarcastic jab or roll his eyes too hard.
Instead, he just looked down at the taco in his hand. His thumb brushed over the warm foil, slow and thoughtful, like he was still hearing your voice echo in his head.
And there, alone with his thoughts while the others teased, Tim let the smallest smile pull at the corner of his mouth.
