#s.w.a.t.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

Chappell Roan hired a S.W.A.T. team to beat me up.

[dimpleskinard]

Lou Ferrigno Jr. as Donovan Rocker | S.W.A.T. -> 8x12 "Deep cover"

[dilfgifs]

JAY HARRINGTON S.W.A.T. 7.02 "Peace Talks"

[rafiscrazymofo]

I too like big arms.

I know someone with big arms.

[captain-flint]

Happy Birthday Lou Ferrigno Jr. (November 10, 1984)

[clubhoops]

[carolina-thiell]

Little Boss · Deacon Kay x Plus Size!Reader

Format: Fic (Part 1 of 2) Word Count: ~3.7k (for Part 1) Genre: Domestic Fluff, Humor, Slice of Life Warnings: Brief language, extreme cuteness, mentions of parenting chaos Status: Part 1 of 2 (Part 2 coming soon!) Summary: When a daycare emergency throws your morning into chaos, you end up bringing your two-year-old daughter to work—with Deacon. What follows is a glitter-filled, juice-box-powered glimpse into what life looks like when your world collides with his... and how seamlessly, sweetly, it all fits together.

Author’s Note: This fic was requested by the lovely @foxycrafterofgreenwood — thank you so much for the prompt and inspiration! English is not my first language, so any grammatical errors are entirely my own. I welcome kind and constructive criticism to help improve! Thank you so much for reading. 💛 Read part 2.

Lily screams bloody murder because I gave her the green cup instead of the pink one. Not even ten seconds into our morning, and I’m negotiating with a two-foot-tall tyrant in sparkly bunny slippers, all while trying to zip up her little jacket and answer emails on my phone. I manage to swap cups mid-tantrum without spilling juice on either of us, and I feel like I’ve won a Nobel Peace Prize.

“Okay, pink cup, pink cup,” I say, tossing the green one onto the counter like it betrayed me personally. “Tragedy averted.”

Lily sniffles, accepts the peace offering, and immediately moves on to her next demand: “Unicorn backpack.”

“You need pants before you need a backpack, baby.”

“UNICOOORN.”

I mutter something that definitely wouldn’t make it into a parenting book and kneel down to wrangle her chubby legs into a pair of leggings covered in dinosaurs. She looks like a tiny, angry natural history museum by the time I get her dressed. Her curls are wild, her sock has already slid halfway off, and somehow she’s managed to get peanut butter on her temple. How?

“Alright,” I sigh, picking her up and looping her arms into the straps of her prized unicorn backpack. It’s twice her size, glittery to the point of illegal, and jingles when she walks like some kind of enchanted wind chime. “Let’s go to work, Mama’s got a lot to do today.”

My phone buzzes again: Dispatch: All call logs uploaded.

Right; because the world doesn’t stop for daycare emergencies or forgotten pacifiers.

The lobby key sticks—again—and I have to hip-check the door open while balancing Lily on one arm and my purse, work tote, and her ridiculous bag on the other. We stumble out like a circus act, me sweating in business casual and Lily chewing on a plastic dinosaur like it owes her money.

The sun’s too bright, my caffeine hasn’t kicked in and I’m about to walk into the SWAT precinct with a two-year-old who calls pistachios “stachy-yos” and thinks Deacon Kay is some kind of jungle gym.

I pause next to the car, heart pounding. My reflection in the window looks exactly how I feel: overwhelmed, undercaffeinated, and dangerously close to crying or laughing—depending on which one happens first.

“You ready, bug?” I ask Lily, who promptly blows a raspberry in response.

Fair enough. I take a breath, open the door, and carry her in. The second I push through the double doors into HQ, it’s like someone pressed pause on the entire building.

Phones ring unanswered, someone's mid-coffee sip and a clipboard drops in slow motion. All eyes—all of them—go straight to the tiny human on my hip, her glittery unicorn backpack sparkling like a disco ball.

Lily blinks at the room full of cops; then she raises one fist dramatically and declares, “HI!” A few people actually flinch. I think I hear Tan mutter “Oh, no” under his breath—like she’s about to throw a flashbang.

“Daycare plumbing emergency,” I say quickly, shifting Lily’s weight. “She’s tagging along. I’ll keep her quiet, I promise.”

“Oh my god,” Chris whispers, appearing in front of me like she teleported. “Is this... is this her?”

I nod. “This is Lily.”

Chris covers her mouth. “Oh, she’s even cuter than the pictures.”

Before I can blink, Chris is gently tapping Lily’s shoe and squealing over her pigtails. “She has snack crumbs in her curls. I love her, I’d die for her.”

“She says hi,” I say dryly, as Lily rests her cheek on my shoulder and sighs like she owns the place.

Chris leans in close, still cooing. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea how many grown men around here are scared of your daddy. And now you’re just out here lookin’ like sunshine and fruit snacks?”

Across the bullpen, Hondo emerges from his office mid-conversation, spots us, and stops cold. “...What in the Fisher-Price is goin’ on out here?”

“She brought the boss’s kid,” Tan says like he’s narrating a nature documentary.

“Lily Kay, age two. Favorite color: sparkle” Luca chimes in, rising from his desk. “She’s a legend. I’ve seen more photos of her than I have of my own nephews.”

Hondo eyes Lily, then Deacon’s empty chair. “Where’s your dad, huh?”

“DEEDEE!” Lily suddenly yells, pointing behind me like she summoned him.

And there he is; Deacon walks in holding a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, wearing his usual calm-and-capable expression... until he spots us. His eyes soften. Like, visibly.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and warm, coming to a slow stop beside me.

“She wanted to come to work,” I say, and my voice wobbles, just a little.

He looks at Lily. She stretches toward him without hesitation—juice-sticky fingers, mismatched socks, and all. Deacon’s already setting down his coffee.

“I got her,” he murmurs, arms opening.

She practically swan-dives into his chest. And just like that, the room melts.

Even Hondo’s face twitches. “Well, damn.”

Street is fully grinning. “Okay, not to be dramatic, but I’d follow her into battle.”

Tan whistles low. “She really is Deacon’s kid. Laid-back, observant and ruthless.”

Deacon adjusts her on his hip, presses a kiss to her forehead, and says—quiet, just for me—“She already runs this place.”

“She runs you,” I whisper back.

His smirk answers for him.

Chris fans herself dramatically. “If this man starts singing lullabies I’m gonna cry right here on the floor.”

“You cried watching a tire commercial last week,” Street says.

“It had a dog in it!” she shoots back. “I have layers!”

And just like that, the chaos of HQ returns, louder and somehow more joyful than before—because now it includes juice pouches, animal crackers, and one very proud little girl curled into her father’s shoulder like he’s her whole world.

Which, honestly? He kind of is.

“Is she always this chill?” Tan asks as Deacon lowers Lily into an empty chair next to his desk and hands her a sippy cup like they’ve done this every day for years.

“No,” I say. “She’s just luring you into a false sense of security.”

Right on cue, Lily throws a cracker across the bullpen. It arcs and lands on a clipboard. Hondo doesn’t even blink.

“Better aim than Street,” he mutters.

“Hey,” Street protests from the couch, mouth half full of protein bar. “She’s got the advantage of small hands and no impulse control. I’m measured.”

“She’s got you beat by 30 IQ points and a sticker chart,” I deadpan.

Lily squeals at the attention. She clambers out of her chair and toddles over to Chris, who’s now seated on the floor like she’s at storytime. Chris holds out a pen; Lily grabs it, then shoves it in her mouth.

“Okay, no,” I groan, heading over. “That is not a snack.”

Chris laughs and wipes it off with a napkin. “She’s fine. I used to babysit my cousins, if nobody’s bleeding, it doesn’t count.”

“Sound medical logic,” Hondo says dryly.

Lily turns, scans the room, and zeroes back in on Deacon—who’s returned to his seat, clearly trying to do some version of work while watching her out of the corner of his eye. She marches over to him and points dramatically at his lap.

Deacon raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You need something, boss?”

Lily points harder. Deacon sighs like a man defeated and lifts her into his lap. And she just melts into him, arms around his neck, head on his chest like she’s known how to do it since birth. Which, well, she kind of has.

The room goes weirdly quiet again. There’s a beat where I don’t breathe, where nobody does. Because seeing Deacon—stoic, unflappable, 10-year-veteran-of-everything-Deacon—cradle our daughter with that kind of unconscious tenderness? It feels intimate, almost too much to watch.

Then Luca breaks the moment by whispering loudly, “Okay but he looks hot doing it, right?”

Tan: “I wasn’t gonna say it, but—yeah.”

Chris, fanning herself again: “Someone give this man a BabyBjörn and call it a calendar shoot.”

I bite back a laugh and pretend I’m fixing my ponytail. Really I just need to look away before I get misty-eyed in front of the damn snack station. I walk back to my desk, pretending to scroll through emails, but really I’m listening to Deacon’s deep voice reading a printout of tactical reports like it’s a bedtime story. Lily doesn’t understand a word, but she’s hanging on every syllable, legs kicking slowly as she leans into him like he’s the safest place in the world.

A few minutes pass and not much happens. Deacon shifts slightly, adjusting Lily’s weight as he continues reading aloud—not baby talk, not some animated voice—just his voice. Calm; low and steady.

Lily’s eyes start fluttering. She’s not asleep, but she’s in that in-between space kids go when they feel completely, utterly safe. Her thumb finds her mouth. One of her curls is stuck to his badge.

I’m pretending to work—emails, schedules, inventory logs—but I’m not really seeing any of it. I’m watching him, watching them. I’ve never wanted to cry over a man reading logistics reports before.

He looks up, like he can feel me watching and meets my eyes across the bullpen. His brow lifts—just barely and the corners of his mouth twitch. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to.

I stand and cross over slowly, smoothing down the back of my dress as I walk. My heels click softly on the floor. Lily stirs just a little when I approach.

Deacon glances at her, then at me. “She’s fading.”

I nod. “I know that face, she’s gonna be out in five.”

“You want me to...?” He starts to lift her toward me.

But I stop him. “No. You’re good, she’s good.”

I reach for her sippy cup on his desk and take a sip myself. He raises an eyebrow.

“She doesn’t backwash,” I say. “She’s very advanced.”

Deacon huffs a little laugh. His hand brushes against mine when he sets the cup down. We both pause, his thumb lingers. I look down, then back up.

We’ve been together long enough that there’s trust, affection, even comfort. But this is the first time we’ve really shared this space. My world—chaotic, soft, messy—is in his arms right now, asleep against his bulletproof vest. And he’s holding her like he never wants to let go.

“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now. Just for me.

I nod but something in my chest tightens.

“Wasn’t sure how today would go,” I admit. “Didn’t want to... I don’t know. Bring a circus into your world.”

Deacon looks at me like I’ve said something stupid. Like I’ve just apologized for breathing.

“You are my world,” he says simply. “Both of you are.”

My breath catches. And then, like it never happened, he looks back down at Lily and adjusts the hem of her little unicorn T-shirt so it doesn’t ride up. Like that confession didn’t just wreck me.

“She's got yogurt in her eyebrow,” he adds, deadpan.

And somehow, that almost does me in.

The bullpen hums again; not with urgency, but with something softer. Radios clicking and laughter echoing from the gear room. Street and Luca arguing over the best juice box flavors like they're prepping for a tactical op.

Deacon hasn’t moved. Lily’s sprawled across his chest now, fast asleep, hand fisted into the collar of his shirt like a baby koala claiming a tree. Her legs twitch every few minutes—dreaming, probably, of snack time or sticker charts or world domination.

I sit next to him quietly, sipping coffee someone (Chris, probably) shoved into my hand fifteen minutes ago. The edge of his arm brushes mine and we don’t speak for a while.

This is weirdly domestic. We’re not at home, there’s no couch or cartoons playing in the background. And yet, the rhythm of this moment—his hand on our daughter’s back, my shoulder leaning into his, the steady way we exist together—it feels like home.

He looks over at me just for a second.

“She’s out,” he murmurs.

“Out-cold,” I agree. “You’ve got the magic touch.”

“I don’t do anything special.”

“You just breathe near her and she goes limp. That’s sorcery.”

He smirks, eyes dropping to Lily’s soft, scrunched face. Then: “You okay?”

I pause.

Then I nod—slowly, carefully. “Yeah, just watching you.”

Deacon’s quiet for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say. And my throat tightens. “You’re really good at this with her and with me.”

He looks at me again; full-on, this time.

“I love you,” I say, and I don’t even mean to. It just falls out, like I’ve been holding it between my teeth for months and it finally slipped.

His expression doesn’t change much but his eyes do. Soft, warm and anchored. Then, without saying a word, he leans in—slow, deliberate—and brushes his lips against my cheek. My whole body goes still. And then, because I am a person who ruins things with humor when I’m overwhelmed, I blurt:

“If you kiss me while she’s drooling on your shirt, I’m gonna marry you by accident.”

Deacon’s laugh is soft but deep in his chest. “Then maybe I’ll hold off ‘til I’m wearing a fresh one.”

I don’t respond. I can’t because Lily stirs. Her tiny hand reaches toward his collar again and Deacon adjusts her like it’s nothing. Like he was born to carry this girl and all the weight that comes with her.

My heart feels like its blooming and breaking all at once and I know this isn’t just a relationship, it’s a family.

[wolverigrl]

When The Air Runs Thin [Part 2]

Dominique Luca x f!reader

A/N: This is the next part of "Banter"! There will be another part in the next few days, so stay tuned 🙂‍↕️

Summary: Y/n gets trapped during a mission gone wrong, struggling after a close call, and the team fights to reach her.

Warnings: mentioning of guns, swearing, panic, breathing problems, angst

Previous Part

Enjoy!

---------------------------------------------------

The locker room was buzzing like it always did before a mission. Half nerves, half banter. I adjusted my vest in the mirror, pulling the straps tighter until it hugged my ribs. Chris was next to me, methodical as ever, counting her spare mags like she didn’t trust the universe.

“Chris, relax.” I teased, smirking at her. “You’ve checked those three times.”

She glanced at me, lips twitching. “And when you run out in the middle of a fight, who’s gonna save your ass?”

“Street.” I shot back without missing a beat. “That’s his favorite hobby anyway.”

Across the room, Street looked up from tying his boots. “Save her? Please. She’d rather have Luca do it.”

Tan laughed under his breath, Deacon shook his head, and Luca, oh God, Luca, just looked at me with that smug little grin of his while fastening his helmet.

I groaned.

“You people are obsessed. You know how much I’d suffer if Luca had to rescue me? I’d never hear the end of it.”

Luca winked. “Damn right. I’d put it on a T-shirt.”

The others cracked up again, and even Hondo’s lips twitched before he stepped forward, voice steady. “Alright, jokers. Save it for after. Intel says this is a basic sweep. We’re looking at a smuggling operation, maybe some muscle on-site. We’ll clear it fast and clean.”

Deacon gave my shoulder a squeeze and a fatherly look as we filed out. “Stay sharp, kiddo.”

“Always.” I promised, but my stomach still twisted the way it always did before ops. Two years in SWAT, and I still got that little knot of fear. The difference now was that I had family around me.

---

The Warehouse

The building sat like a rusted skeleton against the skyline. Corrugated siding sagged, and half the windows were busted out, jagged like teeth.

Inside, dust floated in the shafts of afternoon light, making everything hazy. The air smelled like metal and old oil. Every creak of our boots echoed too loud.

I moved with Street, sweeping along the east wall. Our movements were automatic now, steps in sync. My light cut across crates, pallets, stacks of tarp-covered shapes.

Then I saw it. Prints in the dust. Fresh.

“Street.” I tapped his arm, crouching low. “There. Someone’s here.”

He followed my line, jaw tightening. His hand signaled caution, then he spoke into comms. “We’ve got tracks. East wall. Splitting could box them in."

There was a pause, then Hondo’s calm reply: “Copy. Street, take left. Y/n, you go right. Stay tight on comms.”

---

Ambush

Gunfire lit the corridor, bullets shrieking off metal. I dove behind crates, chest hammering.

“Contact right side!” I shouted, squeezing off rounds. My shots clipped one, but more came. Two, maybe three, pressing hard.

Every noise was thunder. The slam of shots, the snap of ricochets. My body moved faster than thought.

Fire, duck, roll, fire again.

Then I turned a corner too fast.

The gun cracked.

The impact hit like a sledgehammer just under my collarbone, so close to my neck I swore I felt death brush past me. Air ripped from my lungs, my knees buckling. My chest locked up. Breathing was impossible.

My throat seized, every inhale shallow, frantic. Panic crashed over me like ice water.

“-n... team- ” My voice broke into nothing but static and gasps.

“Y/n, report!” Hondo barked in my ear.

I couldn’t. I tried. My mouth opened, but only a weak rasp came out.

Tears stung as I fired back blindly, forcing them to duck before I sprinted, legs stumbling under me. A door appeared at the end of the hall, an old office. I shoved inside, slamming the bolt as boots thundered outside.

My back hit the wall. My chest dragged in ragged gasps, useless and thin. Out of ammo. My rifle clattered empty.

Hands shaking, I pulled my last flashbang. The metal was cold, grounding, but it felt more like a goodbye than a weapon.

I slid down until I was on the floor, knees pulled up, grenade cradled against my chest. Tears blurred my vision.

This is it. God, this is it.

My body didn’t listen. My chest kept fighting itself, lungs refusing. My ears rang with the echo of boots outside, pounding closer.

---

[Luca’s POV]

The hallway shook with gunfire as we pushed deeper. My heart was already racing, but when we rounded the corner, it spiked hard. Three hostiles were stationed right in front of the locked office door.

The door. Her door.

They were trying to force it open, shouting to each other in Spanish, one of them ramming the butt of his rifle against the lock.

“Contact!” Hondo barked.

The team opened fire in perfect sync. My shots cut down the one at the door first, so he wasn’t going to get another chance. Tan and Deacon dropped the other two cleanly. The corridor fell into silence except for our ragged breathing.

I was already moving toward the door when Hondo’s firm voice came up.

“Y/n! It’s us. Open the door!”

We waited. No answer.

“Y/n, talk to us!” Deacon added, voice tight but calm.

Still nothing. My chest squeezed.

Then Hicks’ voice boomed over comms, uncharacteristically sharp.

“Get in there! Now!”

That was all I needed. I kicked the door with everything I had. The wood splintered, the lock gave way, and the door flew open.

The sight inside froze me.

She was crumpled on the floor, back against the wall, flashbang clutched in white knuckled fingers. Her chest heaved, sucking for air she couldn’t find. Her face was pale, eyes glassy, tears streaking her cheeks.

“Y/n!” My rifle hit the floor with a clang as I bolted across the room. I dropped to my knees and scooped her into my arms before she could collapse sideways.

Her hand gripped at my vest, frantic.

“C… can’t—”

“I know, I know. I’ve got you.” My voice cracked as I pulled her close, pressing my forehead to hers. “You’re safe now. Breathe with me, okay?”

Deacon was right at my side, steady and grounding. “Y/n, slow it down. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Watch me.”

Her wide eyes flicked between him and me, but she couldn’t seem to catch it. Each breath rattled, shallow and fast.

I tightened my hold, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. “Look at me. Right here. You’re not alone. In… with me. Out… with me.”

Her trembling began to slow, not gone but easing as her lungs started catching small pieces of rhythm. Every breath she managed felt like my own.

Hondo’s voice came over comms, calmer now but edged with urgency.

“Command, 20-David. We have her. Alive, but she’s struggling to breathe. We need medics on standby outside Black Betty.”

“Copy.” Hicks replied, his voice thick with relief. “Medical is waiting.”

I held her tighter, whispering against her hair. “That’s it. You’re doing great. Just keep matching me, baby. In and out.”

Her body sagged a little, exhausted but breathing steadier. She looked up at me.

“It hurts…” she whispered, voice breaking.

“I know. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Deacon gave me a quick nod. “She’s stable enough to move. Let’s get her out.”

I helped her to her feet slowly, keeping an arm wrapped firm around her waist, her head leaning against my shoulder. She wobbled, but I held her steady.

“Easy. We've got you.” I murmured again, guiding her out into the hallway where the others fell in around us, weapons ready just in case.

The sunlight outside the warehouse hit us hard after the dim inside. And there, parked and waiting, was Black Betty, medics already rushing forward with gear.

The medics reached us, but Y/n still clung to me like she didn’t want to let go. And truth was, I didn’t want to let her go either.

Because in my arms, she was safe. And I’d make damn sure she stayed that way.

---

After the Medics [Y/n's POV]

The cool oxygen mask had done wonders. My chest still ached like hell, but every breath finally came easier. The medics hovered for a bit outside the warehouse, shining lights in my eyes, checking vitals, before Hondo waved them off with a nod.

“She’s good enough to ride back with us.” one of them confirmed. “Keep her calm. She’ll need rest and a proper check at HQ.”

So they bundled me gently into Black Betty.

Tan was already in the driver’s seat, hands steady on the wheel. Chris slid in opposite him, gear rattling as she sat. Street climbed in looking pale, his usual spark dimmed. Deacon sat to my right, solid and protective as ever, and Luca was on my left. So close I could feel the heat from his arm against mine.

The hum of the engine filled the silence as Tan pulled us out of the lot.

Street was the first to break it. His voice was low, guilty. “That was on me.”

Everyone looked up. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor. “If I’d gone right instead of left. If I’d been with Y/n, she wouldn’t have…”

He trailed off, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.”

Hondo’s tone was calm but sharp, leaving no room for argument. “Don’t carry that, Street. None of us saw them. No one could’ve known they were waiting down that hall.”

I nodded, my voice still rough but clear enough. “He’s right. It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t see them until it was too late either.” I caught Street’s eyes until he finally looked at me. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

He gave a tight nod, but the guilt still lingered in his shoulders. The silence returned, heavy in the hum of Black Betty’s engine.

Then Street huffed a breath, trying to shake it off. “Well… if nothing else, at least Luca finally got his knight-in-shining-armor moment.” He smirked weakly. “Guy’s been waiting two years for that.”

Tan laughed, Chris shook her head grinning, and even Deacon and Hondo chuckled deep in their chests. The tension cracked open as the whole team laughed, the sound filling the cabin.

I let out a small laugh too, my chest aching but lighter. When the noise died down, I turned my head toward Luca. He was already looking at me.

And for a long second, we just smiled at each other.