The Cook And The Teacher!
The Cook and The Teacher!
Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.
Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!
Trigger warning: Mentions of the asshole Chef David Fields, some angst and anxiety attacks.
It was late—too late.
Carmy barely registered the walk home, his body moving on autopilot, his mind still tangled in the chaos of the night. The cold air bit at his exposed skin, sharp and unforgiving, but he hardly noticed. The city around him murmured in the background—streetlights flickering, cars humming in the distance, the occasional shout from someone leaving a bar. But it all felt muted, distant, like he was hearing it through water. What lingered instead was the crushing weight of the night pressing against his ribs, a dull and relentless pressure that refused to let up.
Dinner service at The Bear had been a disaster. One of those nights where everything that could go wrong, did. The shipment. Late. So late that it threw off the whole prep schedule. Orders were late. Tickets stacked up like a goddamn mountain, looming over him, mocking him. Then, of course, one of the fryers broke mid-rush. The kitchen had been thick with tension, and every sharp movement edged with frustration. Richie and Sydney had gone at it—again—voices rising over the clatter of pans, cutting through the already fraying nerves of the staff.
And Carmy? He could feel himself unravelling. Patience thinning. Jaw tightening. His fingers curling into fists so hard his nails dug into his palms, but there was no outlet, no way to fix it. And then there was the heat. The noise. The pressure of it all, building and building, squeezing in on him until it felt like the walls were closing in, the suffocating knowledge that he should have done more, been better, made it work. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how many hours he gave to The Bear, it was still just a ticking time bomb of mistakes waiting to happen.
By the time he peeled off his clothes, shoving them into a crumpled pile somewhere near the hamper, his body felt disconnected from his brain. Like his limbs weren’t quite his own—like he was floating just outside of himself, watching everything happen from a few steps away.
His muscles ached, the deep kind of exhaustion that settled in his bones, making every movement feel heavier than it should. His head throbbed in dull, rhythmic pulses, the pressure lingering behind his eyes, threatening to split his skull in two. And his skin—Christ, his skin burned. Still clinging to the heat of the kitchen, to the suffocating weight of the night, to the stench of grease and smoke that no amount of showers ever seemed to fully wash away. It was embedded in him, stitched into his fibers.
And yet, still, he couldn't stop.
His feet carried him toward the kitchen before he even registered the movement, muscle memory taking over where his brain had given up. His fingers found the knob on the stove, twisting it with a practised flick until the flame flared to life, a small but immediate comfort.
A pan. Some oil.
Something simple. Something controllable.
He should be asleep. He knew that. His body screamed for it, his eyes burned from the strain of the day, his hands still bore the small nicks and cuts from rushed knife work. But sleep meant stopping. Stopping meant sitting in silence, letting the weight of the night press down on him again.
And if he let that happen—if he let himself sit in the quiet too long—he knew what would come creeping in.
The doubts. The failures. The voice of the fucking asshole, even now, echoing in his head. You’re too slow. You’re too careless. You’re not enough. You should fucking die.
He cracked the egg, let it hit the pan, and barely noticed the sizzle. His eyes weren’t on the stovetop. They were somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn’t claw his way out of.
His thoughts swirled, a chaotic loop that refused to quiet down. Back to the heat, the noise, the impossible weight pressing against his chest like a tightening vice. He rubbed a hand over his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes like he could physically wipe the memories away. Exhaled sharply. Tried to shake it off.
Too slow. Too much. Not enough.
His breath came a little too fast, his jaw clenching so tight it ached. Carmy barely noticed the first tendril of smoke curling through the air.
For a second, it didn’t compute.
His eyes followed the lazy drift of grey, sluggish, delayed, like his brain was still playing catch-up. Then— Shit.
The oil. The heat. The flames licking up the edge of the pan. The Déjà vu.
His body moved before his brain fully caught up. Fast. Sharp. Instinct taking over where exhaustion failed him. His hand shot out, killing the burner, while his other grabbed the lid, slamming it down over the flames before they had a chance to spread.
His pulse hammered in his ears. It was small—controlled—just a second of distraction. For a second, he just stood there, staring at the smothered pan, the burnt remnants inside. The acrid smell clung to him, to the walls, to everything. Embedded, like everything else.
Too much.
His feet moved before his brain could process it. He shoved open the door, barely feeling the cool brass of the handle beneath his fingers, stepping outside onto the hallway. The air hit him sharp, cold against his overheated skin. He inhaled deep, sucking in the crispness, trying to force his heartbeat to slow the fuck down.
Ground yourself. Breathe. Breathe.
But it wasn’t working.
Because the moment he lifted his head, he saw you. You were standing in the hallway, just a few feet away. Still. Watching him.
And you knew.
It was written all over your face. The way your brows pulled together, the way your lips parted like you were about to say something but hadn’t yet figured out how.
“Carmy, you okay?” Your voice was too soft—too careful—but somehow, it still cut through him like a blade.
His breath hitched, his pulse still too fast, too erratic, his body caught between the past five minutes and right now. He should say something. Smooth this over. Make it disappear before it became a thing.
“Was nothin’,” he muttered, shaking his head quickly. His voice came out hoarse, frayed at the edges. “Just—just got distracted.”
But you didn’t look convinced.
Your gaze dropped to his hands. The ones still trembling, even as he tried to disguise it, rubbing them against the fabric of his hoodie like that would erase the evidence. You stepped closer, slow, cautious, and it made his skin prickle.
“It doesn’t look fine. And that’s not what I asked,” you murmured, your tone even. Not accusing. Not pushing. Just… knowing.
And fuck, why?
Why did you have to look at him like that? Why did it feel like you were peeling him open with just a look?
Like you could see whatever was wrong, the way it clung to him, the way it seeped into his bones, wrapped around his ribs like a vice.
Why the fuck did you care?
His jaw tightened as he exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight, his thoughts too loud. His heart was still racing, his breath coming in short, shallow pulls, and the way you were looking at him—it made it worse. Annoyance flickered up, hot and sharp.
“Well, it is, alright,” he bit out, voice low, clipped.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back.
Your eyes held him there. Concerned, not pitying. And for some reason, that made it worse. “What’s going on?”
Your voice was gentle, but he still felt like it pressed against something raw in him. He swallowed again, the motion tight, too quick. His shoulders tensed. Like a cornered animal.
“Fucking nothin', alright?” His voice snapped—not loud, but sharp. A warning. “Just got fucking distracted.”
There was a bite to it. A finality. A 'don’t push it'. But you didn’t look away. He could feel his pulse in his throat, the weight of the night crashing down again.
“Left something on the stove too long.” His fingers twitched, restless. “It’s fucking fine, just—” He gestured vaguely toward your apartment, his frustration turning in on itself. “Just go back to your house.”
He didn’t mean for it to sound harsh. But it did.
Your expression barely flickered, but he saw the way your brows knitted together for a fraction of a second, the way you took in his words, measured them, and decided not to take the bait.
Carmy knew what he was doing. Knew the sharpness in his voice, the edge he was putting there—not to hurt you, not really. Just to push you away, to create space where there was none, to stop you from seeing too much. From seeing him like this.
But you just stood there, calm, unwavering, like you had all the time in the world for him to burn himself out. You took another step closer, slow and deliberate, your gaze never leaving his face.
“Okay,” you said simply, shrugging. “Fine.”
That threw him off. He expected pushback, expected you to demand answers or call him out. Instead, you just… accepted his words. His anger fizzled out slightly, like a match burning out too fast.
You shifted your weight, crossing your arms. “But if it’s fine, then you won’t mind standing here for a second and breathing with me.”
His brows furrowed. “What?”
You gave him that look, the one that was patient but somehow immovable. “I’m not asking you to explain. I’m not even asking you to talk. Just... breathe with me.”
Then, carefully, you reached out—not touching, not forcing, just holding a hand palm-up between you. Not a demand. A choice.
“Just once. If it doesn’t help, I’ll go inside, and you can keep pretending you’re fine,” you said, your tone gentle but sure.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. He hated this. Hated being seen like this. Hated the way you were giving him an out but also making it real fucking hard to take it.
His gaze flickered to your hand. Just sitting there, open, steady, waiting.
Like an idiot, he took it.
It wasn’t much at first. His grip was tight, rigid. Like he was bracing for impact. But you didn’t squeeze or try to pull him closer. You just held it. Let him be shaky. Let his fingers flex, then tighten, then relax—like an anchor, like something solid in the mess of his own mind.
Carmy clenched his jaw. He should tell you to go, to drop it, to just—leave him alone. But then you inhaled, slow and deep, through your nose. And for some fucking reason, he did it too.
Not perfectly. Not steady. But he tried.
“Good,” you murmured, nodding. “Now out.”
He exhaled, shakier than he wanted it to be, his fingers twitching again. You stayed quiet for a moment, watching him, letting the air settle between you.
You shifted slightly, tilting your head. “Again.”
He hesitated but did as you said. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. One breath at a time.
Until the world wasn’t pressing against his ribs like a vice. Until the knots in his stomach weren’t so fucking tight. Until his hand—still in yours—wasn’t trembling anymore.
Finally, finally, his shoulders dropped a fraction, and you let out a small exhale, like there you are.
“See? Now it’s fine,” you said, voice lighter, teasing but not pushing. “Knew I could get you to listen.”
Carmy let out a quiet, shaky huff—half a laugh, half an exhale. “Didn’t say it helped.”
You smirked, tilting your head. “But you’re not telling me to leave anymore.”
“Guess not.”
You let go of his hand—easing the connection rather than dropping it. Still, he can't help but flex it, missing the warmth, the feeling.
Carmy exhaled again, slower this time. His jaw was still tight, but the sharp edge of his frustration had dulled, faded into something closer to exhaustion. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at his temple. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” you interrupted softly.
That threw him off balance more than before. You weren’t asking for an explanation, weren’t searching for answers, weren’t waiting for him to fix himself before you’d stand there with him.
You just were. And for some reason, that made something in his chest pull tight.
Your smile softened, and you nudged his foot lightly with yours, the touch grounding, casual—like you weren’t standing there peeling back every layer of him without even trying. “You don’t have to say anything, Carmy. Just… let me be here, alright?”
Carmy’s chest rose and fell in a slow, measured breath. His fingers twitched, he wanted to reach you again but instead he let them fall, finally relaxing.
His gaze drifted over you then—really seeing you for the first time tonight.
The colourful oversized pajamas, a mismatched set that somehow made sense on you made you look impossibly comfortable. The messy bed head, strands sticking up in odd directions like you’d been in too much of a hurry to smooth them down. The thick glasses perched on your nose, slightly crooked, like you’d shoved them on without thinking.
And yet, none of it diminished you.
No, you were still—God, you were just so...
Soft in a way that didn’t feel fragile. Kind in a way that didn’t feel forced. For someone who should’ve looked a little ridiculous standing in the dim hallway at nearly midnight, dressed like a walking fever dream, you were still—
Still just you. Still perfect.
Not in the unattainable, polished way that made people feel like they had to measure up. No, you were real. Warm. The kind of presence that pulled people in without trying. Like someone who didn’t need him to be anything other than exactly what he was in this moment—messy, frayed, a little burnt at the edges.
His throat worked as he swallowed, the words forming but never making it past his lips. Instead, he just nodded once, short and barely there. But you caught it, you always did.
You smiled a quiet understanding passing between you and tilted your head toward your apartment. “Come inside. Just for a bit.”
Carmy hesitated, shifting his weight like he was already halfway out the door. “Nah, you really should go back to sleep. You, uh—you got to teach tomorrow, right?”
You scoffed, shaking your head with an amused little huff. “Please, I wasn’t asleep. I was on my Kindle, making poor life choices about just one more chapter.”
That made him glance at you, brow twitching slightly upward. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, waving a hand. “I sleep late all the time. Bad habit. I’m a terrible role model for my students. Preaching good sleep schedules by day, sabotaging my own by night. Not my proudest contradiction, but hey, I make it work.”
He pressed his lips together, unsure. He’d already taken up too much of your time, already made too much of a mess of himself in front of you. But before he could find another excuse to disappear, you tilted your head toward your apartment, eyes glinting mischievously.
“Tell you what—I’ll sweeten the deal." you said, "Come inside, and I’ll make you pancakes or something.”
His brows furrowed, but there was amusement flickering in his tired eyes. “You’re bribing me with pancakes?”
“I’m persuading you with pancakes,” you corrected, crossing your arms. “Big difference. One’s morally questionable, the other is just good business.”
He exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head as he glanced past you toward your open door. The warmth of your apartment, the contrast of soft, golden light against the dim hallway, was enough to make him hesitate just a little longer.
You sighed dramatically, tipping your head back. “Fine. I see how it is. You don’t want pancakes. You don’t want warmth. You don’t want the chance to experience my culinary prowess, which, by the way, is heavily dependent on boxed mix and sheer confidence.”
Carmy exhaled another small laugh, “That supposed to convince me?”
“I don’t know,” you mused, tilting your head. “Is it working?”
He hesitated, then glanced at you, eyes flickering between your expression and the soft glow of your apartment.
He huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over his face before looking at you again. “You even got syrup?”
You gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. “How dare you. Of course, I have syrup. And not just any syrup. The good syrup. The expensive kind that makes my pockets cry.”
He looked back at the open door, at the warmth, then at you—waiting, expectant, patient.
“…Alright,” he muttered finally, turning off his light and closing his door . “Just for a bit.”
Your grin widened as you stepped aside. “Good call. I was prepared to escalate to full puppy-dog eyes if needed.”
Carmy hesitated in your doorway, eyes flicking between the warm glow of your apartment and the quiet comfort of your presence. The offer was simple—pancakes, syrup, a brief reprieve from his own mind.
And for a second, just a second, it felt familiar.
Too familiar.
His chest tightened. He didn’t mean to think about Mikey, but the memory crept in any way—uninvited and unavoidable.
He wasn’t sure when he noticed it, that pull you had. The way you could turn a moment weightless without even trying. It was something about the way you carried yourself—unapologetically bright, effortlessly magnetic, like the room revolved around you but you never let it go to your head.
Mikey had been like that.
Carmy swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned against the counter, watching you move around the kitchen, talking about some ridiculous pancake technique like it was revolutionary. Like this was normal. Like he wasn’t just outside five minutes ago trying to claw his way out of his own head.
Mikey used to drag him into things, into late-night runs for shitty gas station snacks, into arguments about what actually made a perfect sandwich, into moments that felt like they meant nothing at the time but everything in hindsight
And now here you were, doing the same thing.
Pulling him out of his own head. Out of the spiral. Out of the weight of it all.
You didn’t even realize it, did you?
Carmy never thought he’d meet someone else like that. Didn’t think he deserved to.
But here you were.
Different, but the same in all the ways that mattered. You lit up a room without trying, turned things that should’ve felt heavy into something bearable.
“Alright, Chef,” you teased, flicking a bit of flour off your fingers, breaking out of his thoughts. “You wanna help, or are you just gonna sit there looking pretty?”
Carmy scoffed, rolling his eyes, but there was no real bite behind it.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, but his hands were already reaching for the whisk.
Mikey would’ve loved you.
A/N: Helloooooo. How is everyone!?? Okay first I want to thank you all for the support, for those likes, comments and shares ❤️ I still can’t believe the love for this fic. Thank you so muchhh.
And second of all I hope you enjoyed this one, I am personally not sure about it. It feels like it needs that je ne sais quoi factor… hopefully I'll have a good one for Valentine’s Day 🫶🩷
Be safe out there 🫶 Tell me if you would like to get tagged.
Tags:
@hiitsmebbygrl16 @urthem00n @svzwriting29 @tyferbebe @akornsworld @khxna @ruthyalva96 @beingalive1 @darkestbeforethedawn16 @turtle-cant-communicate spideybv28 veryberryjelly @daisy-the-quake leilanixx softpia cosmix-stxrs the-disaster-in-waiting memoriesat30 emerald-jade1 sabrina-carpenter-stan-account ateliefloresdaprimavera
More Posts from Myfictionalbfs and Others
Not So Grumpy (Part 2)
Part 1 Here!
Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!pregnant!wife!reader
Summary: Months after being introduced to the rookies, you get a chance to see them again. After your baby is born and Tim's grumpiness continues, you finally have a chance to properly meet them.
Warnings: grumpy!Tim is a softie for his wife and baby, there's a baby but no details about labor or anything, lots and lots of fluff, Wopez spoilers (s1-2)
Word Count: 1.3k+ words
A/N: This was better in my head. Oh well.
It’s been almost three months since Tim “introduced” you to the rookies. While you’ve been prepping the nursery, attending doctor’s appointments, and trying different stretches to prepare your body for labor, you haven’t seen Tim any more or less than usual. Halfway through your pregnancy, he got clingy with you and grumpy with everyone else. Though you haven’t been around the station recently, you assume that hasn’t changed. While thinking about Tim, you gasp and hold your stomach as you breathe through a contraction. You’re ready to meet your baby but still have a while to go. Plus, you have to make sure Tim is there. He’s grumpy enough without missing the birth of his first child.
You found the perfect onesie during your trip to the store and can’t wait to show Tim. You and Tim decided not to learn the gender of your baby, and the neutral-colored onesie with a police car and “My Dad’s a Superhero” made you smile, so you had to buy it. Plus, you’re experiencing contractions and miss Tim, so you drop by the station unannounced.
As you walk in, someone calls your name. You look up and smile when you see Angela Lopez waving.
“Hi, Officer Lopez,” you greet.
“Please, it’s Angela. Are you here to see Tim?”
“I am.”
“I don’t know where he is but come with me. We’ll find him.”
“Thank you.”
“How is everything? With Tim and the pregnancy?”
“Good. Baby’s healthy, Tim is amazing.”
Angela snorts before she tries to cover it with a cough. You don’t have time to ask her what is so funny before someone else says your name. At least you recognize the voice this time.
“Hi, Tim,” you reply with a smile.
He nods once before he takes your hand and leads you away from Angela. You wave over your shoulder, and she smiles knowingly. Alone in an empty hallway, you extend the bag toward Tim. He takes it but sets it down to hug you before opening it.
“You okay?” you ask as he pulls you close.
“Better now,” he answers softly.
“I can’t imagine you being grumpy,” you answer, rubbing your hand along his spine.
“I miss you.”
“Just a few more weeks and then you’ll spend every minute with me and a baby. You’ll be begging to come back.”
Tim pulls back and rolls his eyes at you. You know he will be a great father because he’s already an amazing husband. Not that you’d admit it, but you’ve been counting the minutes until he gets to stay home with you and help you recover and care for your baby.
“Officer Bradford,” someone says at the end of the hallway.
You step back and take the onesie from Tim as he turns.
“What?” he replies shortly.
“Grey needs to see us in ten minutes,” Angela adds, pushing her rookie Jackson away from Tim.
“Then I’ll be there in ten minutes. For now, leave me alone.”
“Angela,” you say, stepping to Tim’s side. “Thanks for the gift. I really appreciate it.”
Tim takes a deep breath before thanking her. She sent a gift home with him months ago, even though she didn’t really know you.
“Of course. I’m glad you like it,” Angela replies.
“And I’d- we’d- love to have you over for dinner after everything settles down. And Jackson, Lucy, and Nolan can come too, if they’d like.”
“We can?” Lucy asks excitedly. She steps around the corner and looks at you rather than Tim’s glare.
“About time we get to meet properly, right?” you reply.
“I’m going to go tell them,” Lucy cheers before disappearing again.
“Don’t you dare,” Tim snaps. “You got an invite. Learn to keep personal matters personal, Chen.”
You wrap your hand around Tim’s forearm, and his shoulders drop as he exhales. There’s no apology, but he stops yelling at Lucy.
“Here,” you say.
Tim races to hold you as you bend down to retrieve the bag. He scolds you lovingly for moving too much before he takes it from your hand. You smile and nod toward the bag. Tim shakes his head in loving annoyance before pulling the onesie out. He holds it up to read it, and his face softens as every semblance of grumpiness disappears.
Throughout the progression of your pregnancy, as his paternity leave gets closer, Tim has grown less grumpy. Part of him hates that he has missed so much of your pregnancy, though, and that anger and disappointment comes out at work. As he folds the onesie and places it back in the bag, he pulls you against his side and kisses your temple.
“Superhero, huh?” he asks.
“We think so,” you answer.
Tim looks down at where your hand rests on your bump and covers your hand with his.
“I promise not to miss so much next time,” he whispers.
“You haven’t missed anything,” you assure him. “Make sure you’re at the hospital to catch the baby, that’s all I need.”
“I will be. I’ll be there the moment your water breaks.”
You smile and tilt your head to kiss Tim’s jaw. “Wait, next time?”
5 Months Later
“Hi, Angela!” you say as you open the door. You pull her into a hug before leading her toward the kitchen. “How’s everything with Wesley?”
“Good. I found out he’s, like, disgustingly rich, so that was something,” Angela answers.
“Interesting,” you agree. “And the mom situation?”
“Remedied. I can understand his side of it now, too.”
“How do you know so much about this?” Tim asks from the kitchen. “He’s a lawyer, that’s all I know, and I have to see Angela every day.”
“Have to see,” Angela scoffs. “We’re BFFs, just admit it.”
“No.”
Someone else knocks, and you remind Tim to be kind as you leave to invite everyone in. Lucy, Nolan, and Jackson are waiting excitedly at your door. Lucy hands you a small gift bag as she enters.
“Thank you,” you say. “Come on in. Kitchen’s this way.”
The baby monitor on the island blinks before your baby’s cries fill the kitchen.
“I got it,” Tim murmurs. He picks up the monitor and drags a hand across your back as he walks toward the nursery.
“Did you find a solution to the closet problem?” Lucy asks as she sits beside you. “Oh, and you look amazing by the way.”
“Thank you. And I did.” You chuckle before pointing out, “You text with questions about where to go for a second date and I’m asking about storage solution for newborn clothes.”
“Because you’re happily married and not destroying your apartment in an attempt to look good for a guy who calls you the wrong name,” Jackson adds.
“Jackson!” Lucy exclaims.
“Sorry, but it’s true.”
“You text them?” Tim asks as he returns with your baby in his arms.
“Oh my gosh,” Lucy coos at the sight.
Tim narrows his eyes at her before looking back at you.
“Yes, I do. You wouldn’t introduce us, so I took it into my own hands,” you answer. “You need anything?”
“Hey, how long have you guys been together?” Nolan asks.
“I don’t like this,” Tim complains as he returns to the kitchen.
“He’ll drop the act soon,” you whisper conspiratorially.
“It’s not an act,” Tim calls. “So, it will go away when they do!”
After your dinner company leaves, you take care of the dishes while Tim spends quality time with your baby. As you walk into the room, he extends an arm toward you. You make yourself comfortable against his side as Tim holds the baby against his chest. He may be grumpy with everyone but the two of you, but you wouldn’t change a thing, and Tim wouldn’t either.
“I love you,” you whisper in the comfort of your shared home and life.
“I love you,” Tim replies. “Enough that I can stop being grumpy.”
Kinktober Special Part 3
Mo’s Kinktober Special
The Crew’s Whore (Part 3) (+18)
Summary: You are the former owner of the Grand Line’s most popular brothel. Your powerful fighting abilities got the attention of the captain of the Straw Hat Pirates. He had asked you to join their crew but what would you bring to the team? Your battle skills were hardly comparable to many of the other Straw Hats… but you actually had a great talent. Your years working as a high end escort had prepared you to become the private plaything for this pirate crew. You joined the Straw Hats as their personal sex toy.
Pairing: Zoro x afab!reader
WC: 3100
TW: Grumpy Zoro, Big Dick Zoro, accidental voyeurism, handjob, bathtub fondling, doggy style, pussy slapping, unprotected sex, creampie, being walked in on, piledriver, name calling, dirty talk, degradation, Zoro is mean :( Zoro is also cute :( poor Usopp :(
Chapter 1 Chapter 2
Chapter 3: The Swordsman
It was a quiet night aboard the Sunny. After dinner, you played cards with Usopp and Chopper for an hour before you started yawning. As the chatter of your crewmates and activity aboard the ship died down, you felt your body begin to notice the aches of your long day at sea. You excuse yourself from the game and made your way down to your room. With each dragging step towards your door, you felt your legs getting heavier and heavier. You reach your room and slump into it to push it open.
The sight of your bed makes your mouth water almost, so fluffy and cozy and waiting for you to swan dive into it. However, you look down at your grungy clothes and realize you haven’t showered or bathed yet today. Normally you would say skip it and do it in the morning, but your skin was extra salty and grimy. *a bath DOES sound nice…* You thought to yourself.
So, you stripped yourself of your sea-worn clothing and grabbed a fresh towel from your closet. You wrap the towel around your torso and head towards the bathroom for a quick soak. Popping into the bathroom a few doors down from your own, you walk over to the large tub to sit down on the edge and turn on the hot water. After putting in the plug and leaving it to fill, you moved from the tub to the bath cabinet, searching for something to make your relaxing bath just a bit more indulgent. You found some scented bath bubbles and brought them over to the tub and dumped a bunch in the running water.
You waited for the tub to fill in by sitting on the edge of the tub and rubbing your sore feet. Once the tub was filled to the brim with hot, steaming water and giant, white fluffy bubbles, you unwrapped the towel from your body and folded it nicely to place next to the tub impending your departure from the water. You stepped gingerly into the tub and began lowering your aching body into the warm embrace of the bubbles. You audibly moaned as you finally seated yourself fully in the tub.
You rest your head back onto the edge of the bathtub and let out a long, relaxed sigh. You were so glad you didn’t wait until tomorrow to bathe, this felt so good-
*WHAM*
The door to the bathroom slams open. You shriek on instinct while sitting up on your knees in the tub, sloshing a large amount of water and bubbles over the edge in the process.
“Ah!” You put your hands up in defense instinctively.
“AAAH!” A very confused, slightly tipsy swordsman had burst into the bathroom without knocking.
“Zoro what the FUCK!” You shouted at him. He looked around the room briefly to register where he was and then his eyes zoned in on your naked, wet chest.
“Hello?” You ask when he doesn’t respond, still staring at your breasts. His eyes finally snap up to meet yours and he takes a step backwards.
“I—y/n I— I thought this was my room!” Zoro stutters out, eyes darting from your body to your face, trying to keep his composure.
“Why the FUCK would this be your room? You LIVE on this ship, HOW does this keep happening? Also WHY do you open doors like that?!” You weren’t upset, just still startled by his sudden, loud intrusion.
As a man who isn’t easily criticized, Zoro immediately snapped out of his daze and and started yelling back at you.
“Oh it’s MY fault that YOU didn’t lock the bathroom door?! Also, as a fighter it is important to ALWAYS SLAM DOORS OPEN just in care there’s an enemy behind them! I can open this door any way I want, you-!”
“Goodness, Zoro. Relax.” You interrupted his rant.
Zoro breathes heavily.
“I think a little TLC would do you some good, Mr Swordsman…” From your position on your knees you lean your body forwards towards the edge of the tub, arching your back and poking your ass up. It was shining with water and covered in bubbles.
“Why don’t you join me? The water’s still hot…” You lean back again and squeezed your soapy breasts together, your cunt starting to heat up at the thought of finally having the green haired swordsman naked in front of you.
“Hmm…” Zoro looks at your slick body and considers your offer. “I guess it would get everyone off my back about smelling. Fuck it.” He closes the door behind him and turns towards the tub.
You smiled and sunk back into the tub on your stomach this time, and folded your arms together over the edge of the tub and laid your head on them, so eager to watch him undress. He gently laid his swords down first before removing each layer of clothing piece by piece.
He had no idea what he was doing to you. Reading the room was never his strong suit. You remind yourself to close your mouth, realizing that it had dropped open slightly as he began untying his pants.
He lets them fall to the ground and steps out of them towards you.
*Wow… more like four sword style…* You thought to yourself.
As Zoro walks towards the steaming tub, he notices your eyes on him.
“Enjoying the view, pervert?” He smirks at you.
“Very much so, actually, thanks for asking. Now get in here.” You smile seductively and lean back in the tub making space for him between your legs. He steps into the tub one foot at a time and lowers himself in. Once slotted between your legs, he leans his broad, muscular back into you, leaving your pebbled nipples pressed against his skin.
He lets out a sigh as he feels the warm water comfort his body, sore from all his training that day. You start to rub at his huge shoulders, trying to alleviate some of the tension. He smelled like sake and sweat. He hums in approval as he leans back further into your adept touch. As you work his back and shoulders, you felt him starting to relax under your hands. Your hands eventually make their way towards his scarred chest, rubbing and caressing him there, so small and dainty against his large torso.
“Y/n… what exactly are you doing?” Zoro asked as one of your soft hands made its way to his pelvis and started rubbing small circles on his hip bone. He leans his head back onto your left shoulder and turns to look at you.
“What? I’m just trying to help you relax… is that so bad? Is it that terrible to let go for a little while?” You shoot him a wink.
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt… it’s been a long day.”
Taking that as the go ahead you reach for his half-hard dick under the bath water and wrap your hand around it. He flinches slightly. You begin to stroke him painfully slowly underneath the bubbles. He grows erect under your hand, his length and girth becoming even more impressive. You apply more pressure and he lets out a low groan.
“Does it feel nice, Zoro?” You purr into his ear.
“Obviously. But this isn’t what you want.” You were confused, this is exactly what you want, this was what you were here for, after all.
“Of course this is what I want, I want to make you feel good.” You reassure him how happy you were just sharing this intimate moment with him, finally seeing him relax.
“Jerking me off in the bathtub isn’t the way you want to do that, is it?” He turned again to look at you from where his head was resting on your shoulder. His lips looked so soft… how you wanted to feel them on your body… Okay maybe he was right, maybe you wanted something else…
“Zoro I-“ you try to continue.
“I know you well enough by now, I’ve heard you with the others. You’re insatiable, always screaming for more… You don’t want this, do you? You’d much rather have me throw your body around this bathroom right now and use it as a personal fuck-doll until you’re screaming and crying to be full of cum, right, y/n?” Zoro says so casually.
His nonchalant delivery of these filthy words made your cunt clench with arousal. He was right, you’d love nothing more than being manhandled and railed by him at his full strength. Maybe he felt the slight twitch in your hips but he doesn’t wait much longer for you to respond.
“Hmm? Am I right?” He asks you again.
“Yes…” You breath out even lower than a whisper. You felt your cunt start to ache with need. You were perfectly fine with stroking him to completion in a nice warm bath, but now with his mention of fucking you it was the only thing you could think about.
“Sorry I didn’t hear the rest of that… yes what?” Zoro teases you further with his voice, needing to hear you say what you truly wanted.
“Yes I want it. I want what you said. I want you to fuck me hard, without stopping until I’m full of your cum. I want you to use my body for your pleasure. That’s exactly what I want.”
“Hmm.” Zoro smiles before rising up from the tub. He steps out and grabs the towel you set on the side of the tub to dry himself off. He tosses it aside and grabs another towel from the counter and lays it out on the wooden floor of the ship's bathroom. “Well? What are you waiting for princess? A formal invitation? Get the fuck over here. I don’t have all day.”
You quickly hop out of the tub and scramble over to the towel and lay down on your back, propped up on your elbows. Your head was foggy with lust as he stood over you, body still damp and large cock standing at attention. You spread your legs as far as they would go, putting on a little show for him. Your body was wet from the bath water, but he could see the sticky, slick arousal on your throbbing clit and pink inner lips that were swollen and peaking out at him. Now you were the impatient one, you were trying to incite him to get on with it already, fill you up.
“Now let’s get some things straight. I’m not anything like that stupid shit-cook. I don’t ‘make-love’ and I don’t ask for permission. I’m going to fuck you the way I want and you’re going to take it like the good little slut I know you are.”
The way your pussy clenched around nothing did not go unnoticed by Zoro. “Please just fuck me, Zoro. Fuck me hard, I need it.”
“Hmm.” He smirks at you pleading for him from the floor with your legs spread impossibly wide. “Face down, ass up for me baby.”
You quickly shifted onto your front and held your body up on your hands and knees. You spread your legs so he would have access to your throbbing core, while arching your back and poking your ass up in the air at him. Zoro walks over to where you’re presenting yourself to him and gets down on his knees behind you. He lowers his face so he can get a better look at your leaking pussy.
“This worked up already? I haven’t even fucking touched you, you dirty slut. You love being treated like this, don’t you? Look at the way this pussy squeezes when I call you a little slut… You just need cock so bad, huh?”
You hang your head down, so flustered by his filthy mouth, letting out a big sigh and pushing your hips back pleading for him to get inside of you.
*SMACK*
“AH!” You shriek out as Zoro delivers a harsh slap to your pussy.
“I asked you a question, princess, I expect an answer.”
*SMACK* with this slap, you moaned.
“OH- YES! Yes I need cock I need your cock, please just fuck me now, please!”
“Oh don’t worry, I will. I’m going to fuck you so hard that you’re going to regret begging for it. Now take this cock and be good-“ He says with a wicked glint in his eye. He spreads your lips and cheeks with his hands painfully far and lands a gob of spit onto your pussy. After chuckling to himself, he begins to slide his thick length into your sopping hole.
“Fuck!” You throw your head back and slam your eyes shut as you steel your body to accept the large intrusion. “Fuck, finally, yes-“ You gasp out desperately.
Once Zoro was fully seated inside you, he doesn’t give you more than a second before he pulls out and slams back in at full force. You scream. He continues to pull himself out to the tip and drill himself back into you, speeding up his pace.
“God damn, princess. Still so tight? Such a sloppy little pussy I hardly expected it to feel this good.” Zoro continues slamming into your cunt while he keeps a tight grip on your hips. You moan with every thrust, losing yourself in the immense pleasure. You head fell forward again. Zoro used one of his large hands to pull your hair in a tight grip and snap your head up.
“Head up, slut.” He kept his grip on your hair, pulling hard as he continued fucking you. He landed a harsh smack onto your ass cheek and you squealed out as your battered pussy squeezed his length.
“Oh you like when I hit you like that? So fucking nasty! A little painslut!” He smacks your ass 3 more times in quick success and you cry out his name.
“Yes,” you pant out. “I love it so much, please give me more!” You while staring at the bathroom door in front of you. You felt that familiar pressure begin to build in your abdomen. You began to slam you hips back onto Zoro’s cock, desperately chasing your orgasm. Suddenly, you’re pulled up by your hair and flush against the swordsman’s scarred chest as he wrapped his free arm around your front and harshly grabbed your breast, squeezing your nipple painfully. You loved it.
“Uh uh, princess. I’m fucking you, not the other way around. You stay still like a good little fuck toy, or this is gonna hurt.” Your cunt clenched around him again, pushing out more sticky arousal to drip down past his balls.
Zoro breathed out an exasperated sigh.
“Seriously? You want me to fuck your shit up that badly? Fine, you asked for it.”
He flips onto his back, pulling your body with him, his cock never leaving its spot nestled deep inside your cunt. Zoro hooks his arms under your knees, pulling your legs as far as they would go and put his hands locked behind your head, forcing you to look at your sloppy, speared pussy that was currently swallowing his dick whole.
“Gonna absolutely fucking ruin you…” Zoro grunted out while he planted his feet and pounded into you from below. You felt your orgasm quickly approaching due to the angle he was hitting your spot from.
“Zoro I’m going to-“ You couldn’t hold it anymore, it was happening so fast. Your body started cumming before you even registered what happened next.
The bathroom door that Zoro neglected to lock was ripped open by an unsuspecting Usopp. You screamed at both the intrusion and at your body that started spasming and your pussy squirted right as he looked down at you from the door frame.
“OH MY GOD- YOU GUYS?!” Poor sweet Usopp had just watched you cum on Zoro’s dick, thinking he was coming in to catch a quick shower before bed.
“A bit busy here?!?” Zoro growled at him from underneath you, not faltering in his thrusts, being so close to cumming himself and not giving a shit who sees him wrecking you on the bathroom floor.
Usopp was gone in a flash without a second word, the bathroom door slamming behind him. Zoro continued to fuck you at an inhuman pace as you babbled unintelligibly, tears streaming down your face.
“Fuck you got so much tighter, you thought that was hot? Having him watch you squirt like that? You’re so fucking filthy. I’m going to fill this filthy little pussy up, just like you want so bad.”
You find your words finally and yell out at him,
“yes… Please! Cum in me! Need it!”
“Take it, princess.” Zoro emptied himself inside of you, burying himself deep to the hilt as he did it.
Both of you gasping for air, you laid on top of him for a few moments trying to catch your breath. He picks you up off his cock and wraps you in a towel, your hands still shaking from the intense fucking he just gave you. Zoro puts his clothes back on and picks you up bridal style.
“Alright, let’s go to bed.”
He carries you to your room and strips you of your towel and lays your underneath the covers in your bed. It was dark and you hear him walking around in your bedroom, figuring he was heading to the door. To your surprise, you feel the mattress sink and Zoro climbs under the blankets next to you.
“You don’t strike me as the sleepover type, Roronoa.” You yawn as you finish your sentence.
“I’m not, you just wore me out and your bed is way more comfortable than mine. Shut up and go to sleep.” Zoro lays next to you on his back, slipped out of his clothing as well. You turn towards him and wrap an arm around his chest and throw a leg over his pelvis. You didn’t expect a response, but he uses his arm behind you to wrap around your shoulder and pull you in further to his chest.
"I think we scarred Usopp for life..." You mutter to him as you recall what happened earlier in the bathroom.
"Ehhh whatever. It's about time he finds out what sex is." Zoro yawned loudly.
You chuckle.
“Goodnight, swordsman.” You smile to yourself.
“hmm.” He was already asleep.
xx
I read your hc for Andy and i love it! I read it like 5 or 6 times. I have crush on Andy (crush on a fictional character is Silly i know) and Andy in this hc is sooo close to my imaginations. Exept that he got divorce after ten years from his wife (not laurie) which they always had problems an at the end she cheated on him and Andy saw them in bed! So if u accept request i want to ask for a hc Andy and young reader that she give him a BJ. Andy was just with her wife for like ten years and she really wasn't into it so this BJ is after long time and sooo diffrent from what he had in the past :)
notes: first of all, i’m so glad you liked that hc - it’s very near and dear to me and probably one of my favorite things i’ve written for andy! so i appreciate this ask as well :) i won’t lie, though, i did take some liberties with this because i felt more inspired keeping it in the same universe of the original hc! hopefully that’s okay, and you still enjoy this because i had an great time writing it - consider it our second look into fresh start!andy as i’ve started calling him! post break credit to the lovely @evansyhelp!
pairing: andy barber x reader.
warnings: 18+ / minors dni, oral sex (m receiving), face fucking but the tender kind, all in all sweet andy getting back into the swing of dating. you don’t have to read this previous headcanon to get this one, but it does add context for everything reader and andy are worried about!
wc: 1.7k
The first night you spend at Andy’s house is an accident. You’ve only been dating a few weeks at that point; each one more wonderful than the last but moving, at his request, at a snail’s pace.
So, waking up in his bed, head pounding from wine the night before, feels like a foot on the gas that you can only hope hasn’t ruined things. From the looks of it, he didn’t join you – leave it to him to be so selfless — but you can’t decide if that makes this better or worse. And when you finally emerge from his room, face washed and tongue stinging from mouthwash, it’s with a heart braced for the cold shoulder. For Andy, aching from a night on the couch he wasn’t expecting and irked by the crossed boundaries.
Instead, you’re met by his usual warmth; a broad smile when he sees you peek into the kitchen and a hand squeezing your hip when you’re close enough to reach. “Mornin’, sweetheart. Sleep well?” He asks like it’s nothing - like you’re right where you’re supposed to be - and when he presses a cup of something warm into your hands ( made just the way you like it ), you nod, preening.
Crisis averted.
The second time you spend the night, it’s storming. It’s in the depths of Massachusetts winter, just one month after the first night; so a blizzard isn’t all that shocking. But, it had been unexpected, the skies opening up to dump a few feet of snow in just a couple hours.
Andy had hosted dinner again and you’d taken extra care to pace yourself, not wanting to repeat the mistake from the month before. But after just one glance out the window as you pull on your jacket to go home, Andy himself nips that plan in the bud.
“Absolutely not,” he huffs when you insist you could make it back with your ‘state of the art tires’. “This isn’t stopping any time soon and there’s already a few feet down - just stay here and if it’s still bad in the morning, I can help take you back.”
The invitation isn’t the problem — in fact, your chest warms at his worry, tender spreading through every part of you. But, you worry, still, about imposing after the last slip-up. Even with your wits about you, there’s so much that could go wrong; so much you could do to overstay your welcome the first time you’ve actually earned it.
Caught up in your thoughts, you don’t notice Andy getting closer until he’s upon you, hands moving to guide yours off your coat. His touch draws your eyes to his face where he, again, has that big smile, this one laced with softness as he works your jacket off you. “Not sure what you’re thinking about so hard over here,” he muses, folding the coat over his arm once he’s done. “But, you’re not arguing with me anymore, so I’m going to take that as a win and get some blankets out here to keep us warm.”
His lips come down on the swell of your cheek before he turns and as you watch him pad towards his bedroom, you feel your heart flutter in anticipation.
There’s something about this you could get used to.
The third time you spend the night, Andy can’t stop kissing you.
It isn’t the first time you’ve made out, now four months into your relationship and long past the nerves that made him clam up at anything beyond a peck. But, it is the most intense, the most indulgent it’s ever been.
It’d started with a night out; with dinner at his favorite restaurant and drinks at your favorite bars. Each new spot found you closer, touching more and more until the levee buckles and you’re in his lap, head spinning equal parts from the alcohol and him.
He gets you home without putting much distance between you, fingers skimming any skin he can reach as you wait for a ride and pulling you into him once you’re both in the backseat. But he doesn’t kiss you again until you’re alone; until you’re back in that small apartment that’s started to feel empty when you aren’t there and he can lick into your mouth until your knees knock.
That’s all he really wants that night — to kiss until you’re both sick of it. But, some things have a way of taking a life of their own and it would seem tonight that that’s you. Or rather, the desire between you; this pent up, heavy thing that’s grown steadily for some time, but is at a full rage tonight, inevitably landing you here —-
You, on your knees before him while his chest squeezes with a desperate need.
He can’t remember the last time he’d been touched like this; could count on one hand the number of times Laurie took him into her mouth after those early years together. But, he knows better than to write his excitement – and the throbbing in his jeans – off as simply lust for what’s about to happen.
It’s because it’s you. It’s you who wants it, breathing the ache against his mouth so prettily – “Can we — could I taste you, Andy?” — he couldn’t deny you. It’s you sitting there, mouth moist from his kisses as you fish his cock out. It’s you sucking in that hungry breath, eyes watching the precum at his tip leak down over his veiny underside. And it’s you, his sugar-sweet girl, leaning up to trace it with your tongue until you can wrap your mouth around him.
The heat of it sends a jolt through him, something guttural rising from his chest as his hand finds the back of your head. You feel incredible; tongue slipping around him as if gauging the girth before your cheeks hollow and sets his entire body ablaze. “Jesus Christ,” he grunts, embarrassed by the way he actually has to work to keep his hips from bucking up.
You don’t make it any easier, of course. As if you can read his struggle in the tension at his shoulders, you start to move, head bobbing at a pace that’s slow to start. So much so that he’d think you were baiting him if he didn’t know any better. But, there’s something in your eyes, something in the way you devour his expression as much as you devour him that makes it clear that you just want to learn him - see what he likes, what makes it good.
The thought of it makes his body tremble and his fingers tighten some in their grip on the back of your head. It’s only slight, but you notice enough to move faster, the increased pace bringing with it messy sounds that make Andy lose his resolve, if only briefly, and rock his hips to meet your mouth.
Horrified, he’s stuttering out an apology before you notice, even starting to sit up as if to guide you off, but your hand on his hip stops him cold. You pull off of his cock, but only enough to be heard; he can feel your lips against him as you talk, in butterfly kisses that make his legs jump. “‘S okay,” you breath, giving his hip a reassuring squeeze. “‘S okay.”
You smile then, the curve of it plush against his cock, before you’re taking him back into your mouth, this time to the hilt. Andy’s head falls back against the couch, lips parting in a silent groan that starts to rise as you take on the fastest pace so far.
This time, he’s convinced you are baiting him, goading him to let go with the way you watch from under your lashes. And when his hip twitches under your hold, pulling one word from you before you’re back on him – “Please,” – Andy’s an absolute goner.
Eager, but still nervous, he fucks up into your mouth slow at first; cursing at the depth and slick that comes when you’re coming down to meet him too. He’s only a couple, careful pumps in when your fingers dig into his hip and tug; needy, demanding.
You want more.
It bowls him over; how much you want, how much you’ll give. And even with some lingering concern about going too far, he’s finally started to lose his head. Inhibitions lowered, he’s fucking up faster, more intently, as he pants your name into the still of his apartment. And you’re there to meet every stroke, mouth so wide you’re practically drooling just to make it easier for him to press into your throat.
Before long, he’s close, embarrassingly so, and thinks he should at least warn you before he goes over the edge. But, the words don’t come, not in any way that matters, and he’s stuck with stuttered gasps to try and make do. “Baby, s-shit – I’m–”
You catch on, quickly at that; but to Andy’s surprise, you don’t stop. No, you go faster, take him deeper until he’s lost to his climax, hips lifting all the way off the couch as he cums down your throat with an intensity that takes his breath away. And it’s only when you’re absolutely sure that you’ve gotten every drop that you pull off, a pleased sound rolling in your chest.
You barely have a chance to swallow or even wipe your mouth before Andy’s on you, hoisting you into his naked lap to bear down on you with kisses. His tongue fills your mouth like it’s seeking himself out in the edges and every time he tastes it, he grunts; kisses harder.
You’ve unleashed something, you think.
But, you don’t have much time to dwell on it when he’s breaking the kiss, nose knocking yours gently before he gives you a sated smile. It’s different from those big, beaming ones you’re used to – dopey and not as wide, but lovely all the same. It stirs you so much, you plant another kiss for good measure before pulling him forward to catch his breath in the crook of your neck.
Content, Andy settles right where you want him, mouth to your still-stuttering pulse. He decides right then that there’s something about this he never wants to lose.
Pull This Move
0.8k+ words of chaotic Tim Bradford fluff
A/N: Have you guys seen the "when he's copying your snaps so you pull this move" thing? I saw a drawing of it with the Batboys and then this happened.
“Tim never keeps his ringer on,” Lucy muses after your phone buzzes again. “Is that a cop-to-cop thing?”
“Yeah, some people have problems with it, others don’t mind,” you explain. “I usually have mine silenced, I just forgot.”
“Do you know why Tim is off today?”
“Just needed a break,” you explain. “Have to have to a balance in a job like this.”
“And Snapchat gives you that balance?” Lucy teases as your phone chimes with an incoming photo.
“If it’s from who I think it is, maybe,” you answer cryptically.
“Who do you think it is?!” she inquires loudly.
“Hold that thought, we’ve got a reckless driver ahead.”
During your lunch break, you open the new Snapchat and roll your eyes.
“So,” Lucy says as she sits beside you. “Who is it? New boyfriend? Potential boyfriend?”
“Let’s go with really good friend,” you reply. “Who doesn’t know how to use the app and just copies my snaps.”
“Cute!!”
You hum, then think of the snap you wish to get. So, you open the app and move the phone to one side to capture your flexed bicep. Lucy gasps as you lock the screen, and you furrow your brows at her.
“What?” you ask.
“It is a guy! Why else would you flex to have them copy it? Tell me everything!”
“New rule, when I’m substituting as your TO, you have to talk to me like Tim.”
Lucy sighs and raises her hands in surrender when your phone chimes again. Yet, after you unlock it, she snatches your phone out of your hand.
“Lucy!” you yell as she stands. “No, stop- listen. I will blue page you, Chen!”
Lucy freezes. Half-standing with your arm extended over the table, you exhale.
“Give it back and I’ll- I’ll let you see the picture. That’s it, and you have to learn to respect boundaries.”
“Will you tell Tim?” she asks, blocking your phone with her free hand.
“Not if you listen.”
Lucy nods and passes your phone back with a quiet apology. You sit, and Lucy pulls her chair beside yours. You click the red square in the app and lift a brow appreciatively at the muscled arm on the screen. There is a familiar gray shirt stretched tightly around the flexed bicep, and you hold the screen for several seconds to prolong your enjoyment of the picture.
“There,” you say, shifting your hips to slide your phone into your pocket. “Happy, Chen?”
Lucy doesn’t answer, and you turn toward her. Her jaw drops as she stares at you.
“What?”
“Was that Tim?” she asks.
“Why would you think that?” you say rather than answering.
“He wears a lot of gray shirts, and you… I don’t know how to say this without getting in trouble again.”
You cross your arms below your powered-off body cam and lean back in your seat. “Speak freely, Lucy.”
“Everyone knows you have a crush on him,” she blurts out.
“So, a gray shirt and a workplace crush lead you to believe that Tim - officer stoic and serious - would send me a Snapchat?” you challenge.
“Well when you put it like that,” Lucy mumbles, “it sounds ridiculous.”
“I’ll give you something if you give me something,” you offer. “I need some dirt on Lopez. Help me get that, and I’ll tell you something.”
“Done,” Lucy agrees. Then, she asks, “Wait, why? What’d she do?”
“No questions. Agree or don’t,” you reply. Lucy nods, and you say, “I’m going on a date with the guy in the picture tonight. We’ve been dating for a while.”
“Will you tell me more later? If things work out and I get something on Angela?”
You stand to return to the shop and say, “We’ll see.”
Walking into your house after your shift ends, you sigh.
“Did you actually help my boot today or just send Snapchats?” someone asks from the kitchen.
Laughing, you enter the room and lean your forehead between your boyfriend’s shoulder blades.
“Lucy saw the picture,” you say. “It was a really good picture, though.”
“How?” he asks, holding your arm as he turns toward you.
“She wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn’t tell her much, and she’s helping with our Angela problem.”
“Your Angela problem,” Tim corrects.
“Which will become our Angela problem when she finds out that my fiancé and my least favorite sergeant are the same man,” you point out.
“Shouldn’t have told her you were engaged.”
“I didn’t!”
Tim chuckles, so you sigh and fall against his chest.
“It’ll be fine,” he assures you.
“As long as you keep showing those Bradford biceps,” you grumble against his chest.
“Hey,” Tim begins carefully.
You pull back and narrow your eyes at him.
“If Angela already has an idea, and Wade knows… maybe we should ask them to help,” he suggests.
“You want Wade and Angela to be our witnesses?” you clarify. After a moment, you concede, “It could work. She’d keep it a secret if we let her come to the wedding.”
“Not what most people think about when they’re wedding planning.”
You smile and kiss Tim, thankful that your relationship is anything but average. Most people don’t have Tim Bradford going down the aisle with them, you think.
Someone I Care About
Requested Here!
Pairing: Lev 'Oz' Ozdil x fem!detective!reader
Summary: When Karadec pairs you and Oz on an unusual case, you get more than one confession.
Warnings: fluff, angst, typical show warnings, brief depiction of dead animal and animal autopsy, love confessions, PROTECTIVE OZ!!
Word Count: 4.0k+ words
A/N: I don't think I'll ever get over this scene. Someone please tell me I'm not the only one who didn't realize they changed his name despite watching the previous episodes over and over.
“Good morning!” you greet as you enter the bullpen with two donut boxes.
“Now it is,” Daphne replies with a smile. “Thank you!”
“Of course. Any leads on the parking lot case?”
“Morgan’s reviewing the security logs now, but nothing yet,” Karadec answers. You open a box and pass him a paper bag with an apple fritter as he tells you more about what Morgan is looking for.
“Thanks,” Oz says softly, taking his favorite from the open box.
Daphne shakes her head and looks at Karadec as you approach your desk. They can see that Oz is different with you, but she knows you don’t see it.
“I can check with tech to see if they recovered the camera footage from the gas station across the street,” you offer as your computer turns on.
“Yes, but check for other cameras while you’re at it. Most of the stores were closed last night when we went to the scene, so see if they’re willing to help out now,” Karadec requests.
“Will do.”
Oz watches you momentarily, then averts his gaze to the crime scene report on his desk. He knows he has a growing crush on you – though he wishes there was a better word for his feelings – but you’re partners first, and your work and safety are more important.
“I know who killed the man in the 1987 BMW M3 E30 coupe,” Morgan announces as she arrives.
“The couple in the orange tracksuits?” you ask.
Oz laughs, but when Morgan turns toward you with her brows raised, he stops.
“Did you get a confession?” Morgan inquires.
You shake your head and turn your monitor toward the rest of your team, and the gas station surveillance footage just emailed by the tech team shows the couple carrying pistols in high resolution.
“Morning,” Soto calls, stepping out of her office. “We’ve got a 10-54 and a 10-91d at Silver Lake Reservoir. First responders requested assistance from Major Crimes about 5 minutes ago.”
“We’ve got two suspects in last night’s murder,” Karadec responds.
“Then divide and conquer.”
Karadec nods, then turns to you. “You and Oz head to the reservoir. Keep us updated.”
“Yes, sir,” you reply. “I emailed the manager of the hotel beside the scene and they’re sending all of last night’s recordings over.”
Karadec, Daphne, and Morgan leave, and Oz offers to drive. While you gather your things, Daphne punches Karadec’s arm as he shifts into drive.
“What?” he demands.
“I know what you’re doing, and while I appreciate it, what if it doesn’t work?” she questions.
“Something has to happen. Everyone else can see how he feels,” Karadec grumbles. “Besides, it wasn’t my idea.”
“Selena?!” she exclaims.
“Force him close to her and something has to happen, right?” Morgan says. “I’m surprised you haven’t forced them into a closet or something already.”
“We’re professionals,” Karadec reminds her. “But if this doesn’t work, we might need a Plan B.”
“I know where the keys to the supply closet are,” Morgan offers.
“Let’s make imprisonment plan Z,” Daphne suggests.
“10-54 and 10-91d is a weird combination,” you muse as Oz drives toward the reservoir.
“What are the odds it’s a man beats the gun, gun beats gorilla, gorilla beats the man type thing?” he jokes.
“In Los Angeles? Slim to none.”
“Does dispatch have anything that could help?”
“All that’s in the prelim report is the presence of the bodies and a note that there was a suspicious vehicle nearby that left as soon as patrol arrived. Odd, but not inherently helpful.”
“Hey, thanks for the donuts,” Oz says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.
You smile and close the report as you reply, “No problem. It’s been a long week, it’s the least I could do.”
“Right,” Oz murmurs. As he hits the blinker to pull into the reservoir’s lot, he asks, “So, uh, are you doing anything this weekend?”
“No. Are you?” Before Oz can answer, he hits the brakes, you lean toward the dash, and you both whisper, “Whoa.”
“Is that…” Oz begins after he parks.
“A crocodile?” you finish. “Yeah.”
“I was going to say alligator.”
You exit the car together before you explain, “I babysat for Morgan while she was working a case - Ludo was busy - and Elliot showed me a documentary. Crocodiles are gray-ish green and have narrow, triangular snouts.” As you reach the crime scene, you squat and say, “Like this guy.”
“It’s a weird one, huh?” a nearby police officer asks.
“That’s an understatement,” Oz replies. “Were you first on scene?”
“Yes, sir, my partner and I were. When we arrived, the bodies were on the bank here. There was a .357 magnum in the vic’s hand.”
“The human vic?” you clarify with a smile.
“IT would make a much cooler story if it was in croc’s,” Oz says.
You grin at him, and Oz momentarily forgets to focus on the case.
“The report mentioned a suspicious vehicle?” you say, standing.
“Right. It was still pretty dark, but it was a van of some kind parked over there,” the officer states, pointing toward a taped-off section of Armstrong Avenue.
“Like a moving van?” Oz inquires.
“More like an ice cream truck,” another officer answers. “It pulled away with the lights off right after we arrived.”
“Someone could have moved the croc here in an ice cream truck,” you muse. “Human, too, I suppose.”
“You don’t think it died here?” an officer asks.
“Don’t think it lived here,” you correct. “American crocodiles are eastern animals. Most of them live in Florida. There’s close to no chance that this thing came from anywhere in LA.”
“But it looks like the vic killed it,” Oz adds. “We need to get the ME.”
“Croc is not going to be easy to move,” you murmur.
“You watched the documentary; how much do they weigh?” Oz asks.
“Females are about 400. Males can get up over 1,000, I think. This guy looks pretty big, so I’m guessing he’s a male.”
“Can you not just flip it over like a kitten?” one of the officers suggests.
“Not if it’s 1,000 pounds,” Oz points out.
“And not without sticking my finger in its cloaca,” you state. You furrow your brows and mutter, “I can’t hang out with those kids anymore.”
Oz pulls a pair of gloves on and retrieves the victim’s wallet. “No ID in here. I’ll call the ME, if you want to brainstorm what to do about croc.”
“Sounds good,” you reply. “And we’re going to need the evidence you collected,” you tell the officers.
“I’ll move it to your car.”
“This is weird,” Oz whispers as he raises his phone to his ear.
“You mean this isn’t going to be open-and-shut?” you ask incredulously. “Karadec will be so disappointed in us.”
“I’ll take the blame.”
“Gentlemanly, but no need.” You bump your elbow against Oz’s and add, “We’re going to solve this.”
“Yeah,” he agrees softly.
An hour after you return to the station, you spin in your seat while your phone’s speaker plays monotonous hold music.
“ME texted,” Oz alerts. “Cause of death appears to be blood loss from a traumatic injury to the abdomen. She can’t confirm whether that injury is a croc bite until she finishes the autopsy.”
“I’m betting it’s not that simple,” you say. “Even if it were, someone has to find out who dumped a crocodile in a reservoir.”
“I’ve got camera footage!” he cheers, beginning to type.
“I’ve got-” you glance at your watch before concluding – “another 45 minutes on hold.”
Oz nods, and your computer chimes before he wheels his chair beside yours. He knocks into your chair and grabs your hand to steady both of you. Your eyes lock, and you laugh before you open his email.
Oz curls his fingers into his palm, fighting the urge to reach for your hand again. The video from the traffic camera begins, and as you fast-forward through it, Oz takes the chance to watch you rather than the screen.
“Leo Sherman,” someone greets on your phone.
You reach across Oz and pull the receiver to your ear before you introduce yourself.
“Yes, I’m working a case involving an American crocodile… I took some measurements at the scene, one second…”
Oz sees your notebook before you do and passes it to you. You smile, mouth thank you,and tilt the phone where he can hear, too.
“Okay, it was 14 feet and 7 inches from the tip of its nose to the tip of its tail, the tail base was broad, and it was a male,” you read off.
“Good measurements,” Leo muses. “You confirmed it was a male?”
“I did.”
“Didn’t think LAPD had it in ‘em. Alright, so how’d this crocodylus acutus die?”
“.357 magnum shot to the head.”
“Ouch. Let me ask – how do I phrase this – did the body seem bloated?”
You look at Oz, who shrugs before he says, “I thought so. It’s legs looked too small, if that makes sense.”
“Perfect sense,” Leo replies. “Unfortunately, there’s not much I can tell you without seeing the body. If you have a lab that can work with it, I can review the findings.”
“But it’s not from here, right?” you clarify.
“Most certainly not. I’d guess it’s from the Southeastern US and was either heavily sedated or killed before it was moved.”
“Could it have survived here for any length of time? Specifically in a reservoir?”
Leo hums. “Hypothetically, it could have. These animals prefer salinity, and while I’ve seen them in river systems in Florida, I can’t imagine prolonged survival – let alone thriving – in a reservoir.”
You hesitate, then ask, “Any chance you’d like an all-expenses paid trip to Los Angeles to solve the mysterious death of this guy?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
After you end the call, you contact the morgue to ask them to store the crocodile however they can. With their confused assurance, you return your attention to the computer.
“It does look like an ice cream truck,” Oz says as the suspicious vehicle arrives at the reservoir just after midnight.
“Ice cream? You two planning a date?” Morgan asks as she returns.
You turn quickly, your eyes wide as you look at Daphne. She shakes her head, and you exhale in relief that your secret is safe.
“How’s the 10-91d/10-54 case?” Karadec asks.
“I have the same question,” Soto interjects.
“You first,” you insist.
“Daphne got the confession,” Karadec says. “Budget Bonnie and Clyde didn’t want to talk to me, so she told them about a high school boyfriend who became a petty thief.”
“They ate that up,” Daphne adds. “Maybe I should have been an actress.”
“Let me guess,” Morgan says, pointing at Oz. “Drowning victim and a carcass scavenged by a mountain lion.”
“Oh, you’re not even close,” Oz brags, smiling as he crosses his arms.
“For once, Morgan, I don’t think you’re going to guess this,” you comment. “By the way, Lieutenant Soto, I spent $1,500 of department resources to bring in an expert.”
Morgan scoffs and points at herself while Soto raises her brows in a silent challenge.
“We need his help,” Oz defends.
“And I’m asking for forgiveness,” you add with a smile. “Did I mention your hair looks really nice today?”
“I’m about to ask what you need an expert for, and if it’s something-“
“A dead crocodile,” you and Oz interrupt together.
The bullpen falls silent, and Soto says, “You’re forgiven.”
“Do you know what a group of crocodiles is called?” Morgan asks.
“Bask on land, float in water,” you answer as you turn back to your computer.
“Wait, go back,” Oz requests as you resume the video. “Look, something’s reflecting in the windshield.”
You lean closer and play the moment when the van enters the neighborhood beside the reservoirs.
“It’s an operator permit,” Morgan interjects. “State regulations require all operators to have one.”
“Aren’t they usually in windows?” you argue.
“Some places state that operators have to wear them while operating. Sec 250.1103(j)(2) of the Jacksonville Municipal Code, for example.”
“How do you know that?” Karadec asks.
“Documentary on how sex offenders utilize tourism and sales in Florida to choose targets,” she answers with a shrug.
“An ice cream truck from Florida could transport a crocodile from Florida,” you tell Oz.
Your phone buzzes, and you read the message before you stand. “We’re going to see the ME,” you announce. “Congratulations on the confession, Daphne.”
“Thanks! And good luck with the crocodile,” she replies.
“We don’t need luck,” Oz scoffs. He lowers his voice to add, “Thank you.”
“Dr. Sherman left Orlando about an hour ago,” you tell Oz as you enter the station the following morning. “He has several layovers, so he won’t be here until tonight. Morgue has the croc on ice until he can start the autopsy tomorrow.”
“A crocodile autopsy,” he repeats. “Florida’s a different place.”
“And Los Angeles is so normal,” you agree facetiously.
“I was looking at the ME’s autopsy report and the toxicology, and I don’t think John Doe died near that reservoir,” Oz explains.
“Okay,” you murmur, pulling your chair to his side. “Why?”
He spreads the files across his desk, then points to the diagram of the deadly wound on the unidentified victim.
“Silver Lake Reservoir is concrete lined, but the ME said the wound had sand embedded in it.”
“Sand as in beach sand or dirt?” you specify.
“Sand from a salt-water source. ME supports our idea that croc wasn’t from here but also thinks the vic wasn’t either.”
“I mean, yeah, that makes sense. Did you contact CDFA? If they drove the ice cream truck into the state, they would’ve gone through a border protection station.”
“Would you believe me if I said CDFA has no record of a Florida ice cream truck? The man on the phone said they’ve gotten pretty lax, and if It went through an auto lane, they probably waved them through.”
“That’s helpful. Great for the people who don’t want to stop, but not as great for us. Granted, I guess pre-packaged ice cream isn’t a plant and pest concern.”
“Pretty much what he told me.”
“Have you been here all night?” Karadec asks.
You jump slightly, moving back from Oz as Karadec walks to his desk.
“No, we just needed an early start,” you answer.
“I bet you did,” Morgan teases as she arrives. “So, catch me up, maybe I can help. Unless you want to keep looking at those reports sitting closer than professional work friends, in which case, continue.”
“Morgan,” Karadec sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“It’s fine,” you say. “Our crocodile expert won’t be here until tonight, so we’ve got a day to work without any information on where it came from. We think our vic probably came from the same place, so unless we can find the ice cream truck today, we have nothing to go on.”
“We requested a list of Florida’s registered ice cream trucks, but they told us it would take a while,” Oz adds.
“Put out a BOLO?” Karadec asks.
“Yeah, nothing so far.”
“We could go out and look,” you suggest. “Not like we have anything urgent here.”
Oz tilts his head, then nods. As you gather your things, Daphne enters the bullpen and asks to talk to you.
“Are you going to do something?” she asks after leading you into an empty office.
“About?” you respond softly.
She smiles and shakes her head. “You have feelings for him, and ignoring them won’t make them go away.”
“Do Karadec and Morgan know?”
“I don’t think so, I think they’re pointing it out for the same reason I do.”
“Pointing what out?”
“That you and Oz work well together, and you’d be great together in other ways, too.”
“He’s my partner, Daph, I’m not going to jeopardize that because I have feelings for him.”
“But you’ll jeopardize your happiness,” she argues. “That’s not better.”
“You don’t get it. I… I can’t lose him.”
“Then don’t let him get away.”
You nod, hear Oz call your name, and exit the office. As you follow him to the car, you wonder if Daphne’s right. What if ignoring your feelings leads to a worse outcome than telling Oz how you feel?
“Good morning,” Leo Sherman greets brightly. “I have some answers for you.”
“Can I take a picture for my son?” Morgan asks, her eyes wide at the crocodile on the oversized metal table.
“Please,” he encourages. “I love to see kids interested in science. The ones that aren’t exhibiting sociopathic tendencies, I mean.”
“We understand,” Soto assures him. “Now, what did you find that can help us?”
“This crocodile is from Florida. The body was nearly frozen after death but hadn’t thawed all the way when you found it at the crime scene.”
“How can you tell that?” you ask.
“Essentially, the body decomposed at different rates. Some of the organs are more preserved than the tissues. But, the body didn’t freeze entirely, so there is very uneven decomp. I understand your victim showed similar signs of offset decomp?”
“Yes, sir,” Oz answers. “ME couldn’t pinpoint time of death.”
“Then I’d wager the bodies were kept in the same place for similar lengths of time.”
“So we’re working a secondary scene and these, uh, victims were killed in Florida?” Karadec clarifies.
“That’s my best guess,” Leo says. “There’s nothing remarkable about this creature. It wasn’t a pet, cause of death was a gunshot to the head from a relatively close range, and it’s jaw was broken after death.”
“To frame him for the murder of our victim,” you connect. “We need to find the person or people driving that ice cream truck.”
As if on command, your phone rings with an incoming call from a Florida number. You excuse yourself to answer it in the hallway, then return with a bright smile.
“Ramone Sears,” you say. “He didn’t renew his ice cream truck registration, and you’ll never guess who just attempted to register one in Los Angeles.”
“Do you know where he is?” Oz asks.
“No, but I know which DMV he was at this morning, and he can’t be staying far from there.”
“Get out there,” Soto says. “Call in reinforcements.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you and Oz answer.
“Thank you, Dr. Sherman!” you call.
“Are you kidding? This is the best vacation I’ve been on since my honeymoon.”
“Ramone Sears,” you call as you approach the open ice cream truck.
“Buenos dias,” he replies.
“I know you speak English,” you say, flashing your badge. “We’re with the LAPD and have a few questions for you if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” He sits in the open refrigerated back and spreads his arms. “How can I help?”
“How long have you been in Los Angeles?” you ask as Oz moves around the truck. He shakes his head as he returns to your side.
“About a week,” Ramone answers. “Looking for a new start, you know.”
“Right. Out of curiosity, did you go through a border patrol station when you came in?”
“Sure. Very nice woman waved as we went through. It was busy and hot, poor thing.”
Nodding, you prepare yourself to ask, “Did the dead crocodile smell linger or did the constant AC help with that?”
“I don’t understand,” he murmurs, looking between you and Oz.
“We know that your truck was parked by the Silver Lake Reservoir three nights ago. The same night a murdered man and a dead crocodile were dumped in the reservoir,” Oz explains.
“I parked by the reservoir because I didn’t have money for a hotel,” he explains, laughing. “I pawned a few things the next day and got a room at the Motel 6.”
“And now you have the money to reopen your ice cream truck,” you muse. “How much stuff did you pawn?”
“Do you even hear your questions?” he challenges, defensive. “I couldn’t move a crocodile by myself. I’m from Florida, I’ve seen them.” He looks at you and lips his licks before he says, “I’m strong in other ways.”
You grow uncomfortable with the unwelcome flirting, but Ramone has the answers you need, and if you stay on his good side, you might get a confession or something else you can use.
“I bet,” you answer quickly before changing the subject. “If you were parked out here, maybe you saw something that could help us.”
“Can’t see much from inside an ice cream truck. Care to come in and see?”
“No,” you answer firmly.
You get a text and smile as you ask, “So, you’re from Florida. Do you know Trey Peters?”
Ramone’s eyes shift quickly, and you know he recognizes the name.
“I can’t say I do. Most of my contacts in Florida are women.”
“I bet,” Oz mumbles, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.
“Give me something I can work with,” you request.
“Oh, I can give you more than that,” Ramone flirts, pulling himself to stand.
He takes a step toward you, and Oz immediately moves between you. “Sit down,” he demands. “One more comment like that and you'll be in the back of a different vehicle. Clear?”
Ramone clenches his jaw but sits, and Oz moves to your side.
“If something happened, just tell us,” you encourage him.
“The crocodile didn’t do anything,” Ramone mumbles.
“Trey killed the croc?” Oz clarifies.
“For no reason.”
“And that made you angry,” you deduce. “So you…”
“Just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. He- he wasn’t supposed to die,” Ramone says quietly.
“Alright, stand up, arms to the side,” Oz instructs. “You’re under arrest.”
You call for backup, then notify Soto so she can contact the Florida police. After Ramone receives his Miranda rights and is placed in the back of a patrol car, you fall into Oz’s passenger seat and sigh.
“Thank you,” you say. “I wanted him to talk, but not like that.”
“It’s no problem,” Oz assures. He lays his hands on the wheel but doesn’t start driving. “I could tell you were uncomfortable. It made me angry, too.”
You turn to look at him, and Oz sighs.
“He overstepped,” he continues. “Which is enough on its own, of course, he was way out of line, and you’re my partner. But you’re also… You’re also someone that I care about, someone I have feelings for.”
You don’t speak, letting the confession hang between you as you consider Oz’s words. Consideration meaning you repeat them in your head with pure joy rushing through you.
“You’re someone I have feelings for too,” you confess softly. Oz looks at you, his smile growing when he sees the kindness in your gaze.
“Everyone else already knew,” Oz muses, taking your hand over the console.
“Except me, because I was too busy trying to make sure I didn’t lose you,” you add. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” he jokes. “You owe me so many donuts.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“Welcome back,” Soto greets when you return to the station. “Marshals are escorting Sears to LAX to be tried in Florida as we speak. They’ve added unlawful transportation of a dead body to the lengthy list of charges.”
“If we didn’t have the whole double jeopardy thing, I’d be writing up an affidavit for harassment,” Oz says under his breath.
“And what exactly does that mean, Detective?” Daphne questions far too brightly.
She looks pointedly at you, so you conceal your smile and say, “I think I have an idea.”
Morgan’s jaw drops, and she stands. “This belongs to your janitorial staff,” she tells Soto as she drops a key on Daphne’s desk.
“Morgan,” Karadec scolds. He looks at Oz and murmurs, “Finally.”
“Hey, you’re not the only one that had to wait,” Oz defends.
“But you didn’t have to see all the pining,” Daphne argues.
“Careful,” Oz warns.
Your friends don’t heed his warning, but their celebration and teasing seem to quiet when Oz smiles at you.
Later, your phone buzzes with a text reading: Still free this weekend?
The Flower and The Serpent : a Walt De Ville x reader FF : six
A/N: I have taken artistic liberties with this fanfic. For example, I have given Walt some different mind abilities and have removed the canon vamp claws because I find them distasteful and overkill, pardon the pun.
18 and up, y’all.
You spent the next couple of days receiving scandalised glances from the maids and even Mr. Field due to the blossomed bruise on your neck, the identical holes in the centre now gone. Mrs. Swift eyed you with obvious concern whenever she saw you, and even cornered you on your way out of your room one morning. You met her gaze with caution, stretching your neck out slightly.
“Miss Alexander, you must be careful” she insisted in hushed tones. “He may act human, but he is not. If you push him too far, he might very well kill you, whether he means to or not.”
Keep reading
The Better, Not So Hidden Half
Part 2 of The Better, Hidden Half
Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!reader
Summary: After Tim decided he didn't want to keep you hidden any longer, you meet the rest of his friends (colleagues, as he prefers), but not the way he planned.
Warnings: depiction of minor injuries (Tim), fluff, grumpy!Tim, Smitty, mentions of drugging
Word Count: 1.9k+ words
Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List
When Tim was infected by an unknown biological weapon, he told you that he wanted to stop keeping you separate from the rest of his life. You’re his better half, and he cares deeply about you and your safety, but that doesn’t mean you should be his hidden half. During his short stay in the hospital, Wade introduced you to Lucy Chen, Tim’s rookie, and John Nolan. Since then, however, Tim hasn’t done proper introductions or made any real changes. He has started wearing his wedding ring to work, though, rather than leaving it on a chain around your neck. Baby steps, maybe, but it’s progress.
Your phone rings while Tim is at work, and your breaths grow shallow when you see Wade’s name on the screen. The last time something happened to Tim, Angela called you; any time you see Wade Grey, Angela Lopez, or Talia Bishop’s names appear on your phone, your heart drops in fear for your husband.
“Hey, Wade,” you answer softly.
“Can you please come talk some sense into your husband?” he asks.
Wade's tone and accompanying sigh are all you need to hear to know he’s tired. Sirens have surrounded you all day, so you’re not surprised that something happened.
“About what?” you reply.
“Sorry for the surprise call,” he adds, “I know those can be concerning, so I’ll go ahead and tell you that Tim was in a minor accident, but he’s refusing to get looked at.”
“Shocking,” you joke. “I’ll be there soon. How is he?”
Wade begins to answer, but you hear Tim yell, “If I need a break, I will take one!” in the background.
“Sounds about the same as usual,” you say and answer your question. “See you in a few.”
“Thank you. You’re the best honorary cop I’ve got.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Sergeant Grey.”
When you walk into the Mid-Wilshire Station, Tim and Wade are nowhere to be seen. You see Angela waiting nearby, and she rushes to hug you after you wave.
“Are you finally here to meet everyone? Since someone decided that he needed to talk to you alone to heal last time?” she asks playfully.
“I’m here because Tim is injured and stubborn,” you answer.
“And he’ll still be injured and stubborn after you meet the boots who can’t stop talking about you.”
“Is he okay?” you whisper.
“He’s fine. Barely injured, I promise.”
You nod and thank her before she leads you toward a small crowd of officers. Talia says hello, and the three in long sleeves stand up straighter when they see you.
“Mrs. Bradford, nice to see you again,” Lucy greets.
“You too, Officer Chen,” you reply.
“Lucy, please.”
“You’ve met Lucy and Nolan – however brief Tim kept it. And this is my rookie, Jackson West,” Angela introduces.
“Nice to meet you,” you offer with your handshake.
“So, you married Bradford?” he asks. “Why?”
You chuckle at the question but can’t answer your cliched answer of because I love him, and he’s really just a big softie under the sarcastic eye rolls and grumpy yelling before Nolan asks another question.
“At the hospital, you said less than five words to Tim, and he listened. No complaining, no hateful looks, just immediately obeyed. How do you do that?” Nolan inquires.
“Wait – how did you meet?” Jackson adds. “Let’s be chronological.”
Nolan nods in agreement, and you prepare to answer.
“Then I want to know your first thought of Tim. Before you met, just saw each other, whatever… what did you see that drew you in?” Lucy asks.
Angela and Bishop smile as your eyes bounce between the rookies and their never-ending questions. You can’t answer one before the next one is asked, and though you don’t feel the same, you can understand why Tim didn’t want you to meet them all at once.
“No!” Lucy exclaims. “Where did Tim propose?”
“The place where they met,” Talia answers.
Nolan turns quickly to yell, “You knew Tim was married! Why didn’t you mention her?”
“She’s not my wife,” Talia replies sarcastically. “Not my story to tell.”
“I would have talked about her because she’s my best friend,” Angela interjects. “But Tim threatened me.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Bradford,” Jackson says. “We’re just excited and shocked and have so many questions.”
“Mrs. Bradford?” a passing officer asks. “You’re too young to be Mom Bradford, and you’re not his sister…”
“I’m Tim’s wife,” you finish.
“This is Smitty,” Angela tells you.
She winks quickly, and you nod in understanding. You’ve heard plenty of stories about Smitty, and more than enough complaints when you’re alone with Tim. He seems unique, to put it lightly (and kinder than Tim does).
“You married Tim Bradford? Was he by any chance in possession of narcotics or mind-altering drugs when you met? Because it’s pretty easy to convince a woman to do something these days, just a little powder in an uncovered drink, you know,” Smitty continues.
“Smitty, have you drugged a woman before?” Nolan asks. His suspicion is evident in how he asks and the narrowing of his eyes.
“Well, Officer Smitty,” you begin. You nod at Angela, and her smile grows when she realizes you plan to play along.
Tim stands with a quiet grunt of pain. He stretches to the side to fight the growing stiffness and sees Lucy talking to a group of people. Smitty approaches the side, and Nolan steps back to reveal the focus of all of the attention. Tim doesn’t think twice and races out of Wade’s office to save you from the boots.
You address Smitty but don’t say anything more before Tim wraps his hand around your arm while the other grips your hip and pulls you backward. Tim moves you away from Angela and ignores the protests that follow your sudden departure. You don’t fight him as he leads you into Wade’s office. Wade looks up and mouths a relieved thank you.
“Tim, as much as I love meeting the people you pretend not to care about, would you please stop getting hurt and giving me an excuse to drop by unannounced?” you ask.
“I didn’t get hurt,” Tim argues.
His hands are still on you, so you turn in his hold to look at him. Several scrapes litter his left cheek, and you run a gentle finger under them. You can see that his shoulders are tense but you're grateful that his injuries seem to be limited to some stiffness and scrapes.
“What did Wade tell you?” Tim whispers.
“That you were being stubborn and not listening,” Wade mumbles behind you. “I’m surprised she believed me.”
Tim keeps his eyes on you but doesn’t comment further on his injuries or the rookies you just met. He looks down, and you follow his eyes to his hands. His left hand is wrapped tightly with gauze and bandages as he slides his right hand into his pocket.
“Had to take this off,” he tells you.
You extend your hand to accept his wedding ring and curl your fingers around it. After unhooking your necklace chain, you slide his ring on and keep it safe against your chest. Tim nods once it’s secure with you and pulls you to sit beside him. You lay a hand against his right cheek and smile as he leans against your hand. He leans in and kisses you quickly before glancing at Wade to ensure he isn’t watching.
“He’s seen us kiss before,” you remind Tim.
“And I will never let you forget it,” Wade agrees, focusing on the paperwork before him.
“No mind-altering drugs required,” Tim says with a small smile.
“Now I understand why you didn’t want me to meet Smitty.”
“I warned you.”
“Luckily, Angela introduced me to the rookies first, and I invited them over for dinner on Sunday. Wade, you and Luna are welcome to come, too, if you’d like,” you say.
Tim groans as Wade promises to pass the invitation on to Luna. You sit back carefully as Tim leans against you. He’s grumpy about your new connection with the boots but loves you. Tim meant it when he said he didn’t want to keep you hidden and risk wasting his life by separating from everything else that matters to him.
“Lucy won’t shut up,” he realizes with a dramatic sigh.
“Yeah, because I’m sure you carry half of the conversation as it is,” you tease. “Don’t forget how well I know you, Bradford.”
“As long as you don’t forget that I don’t like these people, Bradford,” Tim counters.
“You let Angela come over all the time. And don’t give me the whole ‘she scares me’ thing; you love her.”
Tim moves closer to you to whisper, “I love you more.”
“Then go get a full physical examination. Make sure all the handsomeness is still put together like it’s supposed to be.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Then maybe you don’t love me like you claim to. That’s why you leave your ring with me, right? Easier to bring women in when no one knows you’re married.”
Wade fails to hide a laugh before he covers it with a fake cough. Tim shakes his head but kisses you again before standing. You follow him to the door and thank Wade for the call. Tim waves everyone over, and Lucy beats the rest of them by a solid three seconds.
“Hi again,” she tells you.
“I’ll go see the medic if you rescind the dinner offer,” Tim tells you.
“You’ll go see the medic either way, so no,” you reply.
“We’ve decided a better way to ask questions, and we’ll give you time to breathe in the future,” Jackson says. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay, Jackson. I understand the excitement; not the shock because, I mean, look at him," you wave toward Tim and continue, "but it’s not every day that you meet Officer Grumpy’s secret wife.”
“Did you just gesture to me like I’m a game show prize?” Tim murmurs.
“Tim and I will be happy to answer all your questions at dinner. It was very nice to meet all of you, and if Smitty asks again, I was absolutely drugged.”
Tim drags you away once again, and Angela only hears him ask, “Officer Grumpy?” before the door closes behind you both.
You turn and place a hand under Tim’s chin. One touch, a smile, and a kiss turn Tim back into your loving husband. He didn’t realize that keeping you separate from his work life gave you a unique power over him because he’s never had to hide his love for you or the physical affection he’s grown to crave.
“Be careful,” you request softly. “And call me if they find any other injuries.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tim answers.
“Don’t,” you warn.
“You kissed me first.”
“Thanks for letting me be part of your life, Tim.” He nods and kisses you slowly, but you push him away to warn him, “Ask Angela to tell you about Smitty before he says anything about our relationship.”
“You talked to Smitty, too? Maybe I should start leaving you at home again.”
“I love you,” you call over your shoulder.
“I love you,” Tim replies.
He walks back into the station with two things on his mind: learning what Smitty thinks about you and Tim that was worth a warning and getting home to you. Your touch, kiss, and the soft return of his ring will always be the best part of Tim’s day, and even though he wears his ring more often now, you still pull him in because he needs you more than he’s ever needed the ring.
Always Time for You
Requested Here!
Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!reader
Summary: After you move to Los Angeles to escape an abusive relationship, you meet Deacon Kay and fall in love. When your ex arrives in Los Angeles, you have to tell someone, but don't want to worry Deacon.
Warnings: former abusive relationship, depictions of domestic violence, abuse, angst, fluff and comfort (none of the SWAT men do anything abusive, it's an ex!)
Word Count: 2.5k+ words
Masterlist Directory | Deacon Kay Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List
The trip across the country is long and slow, each day spent holding your bruised cheek out of view and looking over your shoulder. You promise not to let your guard down when you finally reach Los Angeles. Surrounded by high rises and over 4 million people to blend in with, it would be easy to think you’re safe. But you know better.
Your little apartment in a quiet corner miles from downtown is nice, if not lonely. As you create a new life, you’re unbothered by the solitude, too concerned with being safe than having friends.
And then, in a moment, all of it changes.
1 Year Later
“Excuse me,” someone says behind you.
You flinch when a gloved hand raises beside you, then step out of the way and apologize to the officer. He nods once, then joins his team on the other side of the road. The police presence in your neighborhood today is too familiar. The last time you saw this many cops in one place was because you called them, and they barely made it in time.
Another approaching siren pulls you from your memory, and you step back from the curb. Something stops you, a feeling that going home would not be the right choice.
One of the SWAT officers looks at you and points in your direction. You freeze, remembering the officer who asked Well, did you tell him to stop? You provoked him; you shouldn’t do that if you already know what he’s like. When you look up again, two officers are walking toward you. Chewing the inside of your bottom lip, you hope they’ll walk past you.
“Hi, I’m Sergeant Deacon Kay, LAPD SWAT,” the officer who walked past you earlier says. “Do you live around here?”
“I do,” you answer softly.
“Would you mind answering a few questions?” the other officer, whose nametag says Street, asks.
“Sure,” you agree. “If I can.”
Deacon pulls a picture from his pocket, a folded piece of paper that he straightens before asking, “Have you seen this car around here?”
You lean closer, fighting against your memories, and answer, “I saw it last night. It sat across the street with its lights on from around 8 until midnight.”
“What made you notice it?” Street asks.
“The lights,” you explain. “When it turned, they lit up my living room, then didn’t go off.”
“Left around midnight, you said?” Deacon clarifies. You nod, and he points east to ask, “That way?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks for your help.”
They step back, and you ask, “Um, is it safe? Will he be back or is there anything I should be worried about?”
Deacon smiles and assures, “It’s safe. We’re going to get him.”
As he joins Street to return to Black Betty, Street asks, “We don’t know that; we’ve been looking for two days.”
“And we’ll find him today.”
The next night, someone knocks on your door, and you tiptoe across the room to look through the peephole. When you see Sergeant Deacon Kay, you open the door but hold it as you look at him.
“Hi,” he greets. “I just wanted to let you know we caught him.”
You sigh and whisper your gratitude.
“And… I came to ask you out.”
Smiling, you nod, and for once, you don’t think about your last relationship and let yourself hope for something new, something better.
1 Year Later
“Good morning,” you greet as you answer the phone.
“It is now,” Deacon replies. “How are you?”
“I’m better now.”
You open the door to leave for work but stop when you see a package on your doormat. Deacon says something, but the words across the top of the box are familiar, too familiar. You squat to see it better; the We’re back note is split by the box pulling open. You lift the flap with one finger and see a rope curled tightly inside, with two knots to form hand restraints. You jerk backward, falling onto the floor as you scramble from the box. Your phone hits the floor, and Deacon yells as you reach for it.
“Hey,” you breathe, staring at the box. “I’m okay, sorry, I got startled and dropped my phone.”
“Everything okay?” Deacon asks.
“Yes,” you lie. “Everything is fine.”
“Then I’ll see you tonight. Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
When you reach your car, a pack of matches is tucked under the windshield wipers, and you throw them into the backseat before slamming the door closed and locking it. Someone is close, and the fear you thought you’d left behind hits you like a train when you realize who it is.
Deacon knocks on your door an hour before your date, but he’s still in his uniform.
“I’m so sorry,” he begins. “I have to work overtime, for- for a while. I’m not sure when I’ll have time to make it up to you, but I will. I promise I will.”
“It’s okay,” you assure him. “Be safe and call me when you can.”
Deacon leans in, ignorant of how your muscles tense before he touches you. He kisses your cheek, whispers another apology, and leaves. As he drives away, you see a knife tucked behind the plant by your door. Rather than spend the extra time with the door open to look at it, you close and lock it. Your breaths grow heavy as your chest tightens, but you have no proof that he’s nearby. You can’t tell the police, and Deacon will get stressed with overtime, so you have to wait for this to pass on its own.
The following week, almost ten days after the first box arrived, you call in sick to work. Sitting in your living room, you watch the front window. You can see your porch and car. By noon, you haven’t seen anyone. Slowly, you open the door, and there’s a boxing glove on the first step, with what looks like dried blood across where the wearer’s knuckles would be. You feel a pressure building in your eyes and know that the terror you experience will kill you from the inside if you don’t tell someone or do something.
“Where are you?” you whisper brokenly, looking across the street but seeing nothing.
Your car catches your attention, a baseball bat propped against the back door, and a spray-painted X marking your door. You know the paint will draw attention, so you find a sponge and car wash in your storage closet before you hesitate at the door. If he was close enough to do this without being seen, he’s close enough to do something to you.
You set the cleaning supplies down and take your phone from your pocket. Scrolling past Deacon’s contact, you text someone else and then sit by the door, staring out the window as you wait for him to arrive.
“Whoa, what’s going on?” Luca asks when he sees your blotchy cheeks and blood on your palms, crescent-shaped marks created by digging your nails into your palm.
“He’s here,” you confide in him, struggling to breathe evenly. “Luca, he’s so close.”
“Who?” Luca asks, taking your wrists and looking into your eyes. “Who is he?”
“My ex, he- he hurt me, Luca, and now he’s here. There’s been knives, matches, rope… he keeps leaving stuff he used to use.”
“Use?” Luca repeats, his voice dropping. “To… to hurt you?”
You nod, then press against his forearms to plead, “You can’t tell Deacon. He’s so stressed with the overtime; I haven’t even talked to him in a week.”
“He needs to know.”
“No, no, Luca, promise that you won’t tell him. I’ll tell you if anything changes or if I actually see him, but I had to tell somebody.”
Luca hesitates, then nods. “Have you seen anything?”
“No,” you admit, dropping your head as a tear rolls over your cheek. “Just the stuff. And the notes… they sound like him, but they don’t look like his handwriting. What am I supposed to do, Luca?”
Luca shakes his head and pulls you into a hug. It’s not the same comfort you can get from Deacon. The realization that you can’t do anything until he’s close enough to see increases your terror to let you finally cry.
Three days after confiding in Luca and thanking him with dinner for cleaning your car, you decide to visit Deacon at the station. You must see him, so you steel your nerves and open the front door. A small pile of weapons and notes is built against your door, and it topples as you step out. You rush to your car and don’t take the time to remove anything from the windshield until you stop at a gas station a block from the station. Shoving the notes, matches, and short length of heavy chain into the trashcan without more than a glance, you hope that Deacon has time to talk. You won’t tell him anything, but you will ask for one of his hugs that make everything better.
As you round your trunk, a truck speeds in behind you. Suddenly, your arms are gripped tightly, and someone pulls you back quickly. Someone else pulls black fabric over your head, and you are shoved into the back of a car before you can think to scream.
“Not a word,” a man says, pushing a cold gun barrel against your ribs.
“We’ll do it,” Deacon offers. “Luca and I can drive by the residence in an unmarked car and bring back a report of what we can see.”
“Do it,” Hicks replies. “Go the long way around, check gas stations and restaurants in the area, too. We need to find her.”
Deacon leads Luca to his unmarked Charger, and Deacon takes the driver’s seat. As they drive toward the suspect’s residence, Deacon stops at a red light beside a gas station.
“Isn’t that your girlfriend’s car?” Luca asks, pointing to a gas pump.
Deacon’s brow furrows as he puts the car into reverse and backs into the station lot. He parks behind your vehicle, and he and Luca walk alongside it, then look over the top at each other.
“I’ll check inside,” Luca offers as Deacon dials your number.
“Thanks,” Deacon replies.
Your phone goes to voicemail, and Deacon looks down in time to see the screen light up in the center console. Luca runs out of the convenience store and calls, “Deac, get in here!”
Deacon runs into the store, and Luca asks the employee to play the security footage again. They watch as three men take you, and Luca takes a shaky breath before he says, “Deacon, there’s something you should know.”
“Time to go home,” one of the men in the car coos.
You stiffen, scared that by home he means they’ll hand you over to your ex. The car lurches to a stop, and you slam into the back of the seat before two sets of hands steady you.
“Well, look who it is.”
Shifting, you try to block out your ex’s voice, but knowing he can see you while you can’t see him makes your heart race and your chest tighten painfully. When he slips his hand under your fabric hood and runs his fingers along your jaw, you jerk backward. The man beside you shoves you forward so your hood can be ripped off.
“Don’t do that again,” your ex demands lowly, holding your jaw tightly.
You look around, hoping to see someone else around who can help you.
“You know the police couldn’t help before.”
“We did what you asked,” the man driving says.
“And? You’ll get paid when I pay you.”
With the distraction, you lean away from your ex. He slides his fingers into your hair when he notices the distance, pulling you forward by the roots. You gasp at the pain, but when you’re shoved out of the car and fall at his feet, suddenly, you’re the same scared girl you were before you ran. There is no escape, and no one knows to look for you.
“Gas pedal is on the right, Street!” Deacon yells from the backseat.
“We’ll get there,” Street promises, remaining patient even as he faces Deacon’s anger and fear. “We need the surprise.”
Deacon’s leg bounces as they approach the tradeoff spot in the note they found from your ex to the men who snatched you at the gas station. Your safety is the priority, but Deacon knows Hondo is worried about what he’ll do to your ex.
“I’m getting her out of there,” Deacon says. “You focus on the criminals stupid enough to email each other with their plans.”
“You got it,” Hondo responds. “Stay liquid.”
As they pull into the parking lot, Street parks by a fence where they can see the black SUV from the gas station and a grey Chevelle beside it. Street exits the driver’s seat in his civilian clothes and waves to the man standing at the back of the SUV.
“Hey, man! I’m trying to get to the road with the stars, uh, Walk of Fame or something? This city is so confusing, can you tell me where to go?” Street calls.
“Yeah,” the man replies, turning so Street can see him. “Away from here.”
Someone groans, and Street says, “Yeah, sure. You okay?”
“Better than you’ll be if you don’t go.”
Street puts his hands up, then smiles. “You’re not very observant.”
Luca and Hondo approach the car from the other side with their guns raised. As they yell commands, three men surrender and move to the side, but your ex remains beside you.
“Step back,” Street demands, moving directly behind him. “These guys have a bet going on how quickly I’ll get impatient today. I’m thinking about letting one of them win. Walk toward my voice.”
“You always were treated like you’re more important than you are,” your ex tells you. “Same cop,” he muses, looking at Luca. “No one wants you.”
“Yep, I’m impatient,” Street decides. He holsters his gun, grabs his collar, and hauls him backward.
As your ex hits the concrete, he begins fighting, so Street drags him across the rocky surface while Deacon rushes to your side. You hear Hondo radioing for backup but focus on Deacon as he kneels beside you.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
You nod and sit up carefully. Leaning against Deacon, you hug him tightly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Deacon asks softly, brushing his thumb over a bruise on your jaw.
“You were already working overtime, and honestly… I thought I was going crazy,” you admit. “He was leaving stuff and notes, but I never saw him, so I didn’t know.”
“Babe, I always have time for you,” Deacon assures you. He kisses your forehead and adds, “Especially if you’re in danger.”
“He… I moved to LA because of him,” you whisper. “He hurt me. A lot.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you had to deal with all of this alone, but you can tell me. Please tell me.”
“I will,” you promise. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“I love you.”
“I love you. I miss you.”
“I’m done with overtime; I’m coming home with you.”
You don’t argue, giving in to your craving for Deacon’s safety and comfort. He’ll always be with you, have time for you, and love you through everything and with all of your scars.
Anatomy of a Relationship
Requested Here!
Pairing: (established) Tim Bradford x fem!neurosurgeon!reader
Summary: When your friend comes over in the middle of the night to talk about guy problems, Tim finds out what your relationships really mean to you.
Warnings: brief angst, fluff, a Castle reference, Karah is loosely based on Regine from Living Single
Word Count: 1.8k+ words
Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Rules/Info
“11.25 millimeters,” you read. “That’s not good.”
“What’s not good?” your best friend, Karah, whispers as she lays her hand on your shoulder.
“I just got an MRI with an 11.25-millimeter aneurysm attached to the basilar artery,” you answer. “What’s up?” you murmur, flipping the page.
“Nothing,” she sighs.
“That was convincing.”
“It’s not as important as a brain aneurysm.”
You set your clipboard on your desk and turn toward Karah, shaking your head as you smile at her. “Most things aren’t, but I’m sure I can manage it.”
Before Karah answers, your phone rings. You mouth an apology as you answer and say your name.
“Got it, on my way,” you assure before you end the call. As you gather your things, you tell Karah, “We will talk later. Promise.”
“Go save a life!”
“I have been looking everywhere for you!” you exclaim as you enter a supply closet.
Karah hums but doesn’t speak past the nail polish applicator held between her teeth.
“Pretty color,” you muse as you sit beside her on a gurney.
“Thanks,” she replies as she removes the applicator. “Want some?”
“Surgical board frowns upon painted nails,” you remind her.
“Hence, why I’m doing my toe-sies,” Karah singsongs. “What are you doing with Sergeant Bradford tonight?”
“As little as possible, I hope. What are you doing tonight? Another date with the mystery man?”
“Another date, yes. Mystery man, no.”
“What happened?”
“Have you ever watched a cartoon where the characters kiss and they just kinda…” Karah closes the nail polish and shoves her palms together in demonstration.
“Sure,” you answer, nodding. “The PG version with no emotion and no lips.”
“Yeah, that’s how he kissed.”
“Ugh.” You shiver for emphasis, and Karah nods emphatically.
“And his lips were chapped, too.”
“We can’t have anything in this life.”
Karah scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Right, because you have it so bad with a hot police officer.”
“A hot police officer who cancels dates weekly and has minimal emotional availability.”
“But you love him,” she reminds you.
“That I do. Look, I’ve got a consult call before I leave, but call me later, let me know how your date went, okay?”
“Will do. Enjoy your date, if it happens.”
You shove Karah gently as you slide off the gurney. Opening the door, you call, “Love you!” over your shoulder.
“Smooches!” she replies.
“Stop staring at me,” Tim demands as he locks your door.
“Answer the question!” you reply. “I can’t let you sleep here if you’re lying to me!”
“It’s fine.”
“Why? How do you know?”
Tim sighs and takes your face between his hands. “It’s fine,” he repeats.
You pout, pushing your lower lip out as you blink at him.
“My neighbor is watching Kojo, so it is fine if I stay tonight,” he assures you with a sigh.
Your brows furrow as you ask, “You asked your neighbor to watch Kojo? Presumptuous.”
“I… Never mind,” Tim murmurs, his hands still on your face.
“We should probably have some dessert,” you whisper, leaning into his touch. “Not like that, Tim, get your mind out of the gutter.”
Tim huffs a laugh, then kisses your forehead and drops his hands to your waist.
“Listen,” you request, not moving to get dessert. “Don’t take this the wrong way, I’m not asking you to make any big decisions or anything, but if you want to bring Kojo in the future, you can.”
“Thank you.”
“Although, he’d probably never want to leave because I’m nicer than you.”
Tim tightens his grip on your waist slowly, waiting until you grunt to smooth his palms against your shirt. He leans toward you, and you murmur, “Dessert can wait.”
Your front door clicks closed around midnight, and you sit up in bed. Tim shifts beside you but doesn’t wake as he rolls away. Soft footsteps pad down your hall, and you relax, recognizing the gait. Karah steps into your room with her hair pulled back messily and her cheeks red from scrubbing her makeup off.
“C’mon,” you invite her, patting the mattress.
Karah pulls back the comforter and sits beside you with a heavy sigh. You move closer to Tim and lay your hand on his back.
“Is it me?” Karah asks.
“I hope so, considering you’re in my bed,” you reply softly. “What’s going on? And don’t tell me nothing.”
“So, I went on a date with the vet, right? And the next day, he ghosts me. Then mystery man seems to be the one until we kiss and then there’s nothing there, no spark, no more mystery.”
“Tonight?”
“He wanted to move way too fast. Was I wrong for not wanting to? I mean, what if he was the one – or, at the least, the best I can get – and I ruined it because I asked him to slow down?”
“He wasn’t the one,” you assure her, wrapping her in a hug. “If he couldn’t respect that and made you uncomfortable, then he 100%, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was not the one. You’ll know when someone is the one or has a chance of being him.”
Karah looks over your shoulder at Tim’s back and asks, “Are you sure?”
With a smile, you promise, “I’m sure. When the right man comes along, things aren’t always comfortable, but you’re willing to fight to get back to that comfort.”
“Unless there isn’t a right man,” Karah adds, falling back against your pillow. “I try, I get out and date, but maybe it is just me.”
“Maybe.”
Karah’s eyes widen, and you argue, “Exactly. There is no way it’s you. There are nearly 4 million people living in Los Angeles, so what if you can’t find the one perfect person for you quickly?”
“That’s only 2 million men, and half of those are married or not interested. The pool is way down and I’ve been swimming.”
“49 people in every 10,000 have a brain aneurysm each year. Just because it’s a low number doesn’t mean I’m going to quit my job. The 30,000 people who have an aneurysm rupture every year wouldn’t have a neurosurgeon if we all thought like that.”
“I see your point,” Karah grumbles. “But I still hate it.”
“I get it. But maybe a break would clear out some of the wrong men.”
“How do I find what you have?”
“The way I did it? Pure luck. Besides, most of the cops we get in the hospital aren’t like this one.”
“Maybe I should call Rick and see if he’s still single.”
“Rick who let his ex-wife crash at his house and walk around half-naked while you were dating? I’m going to veto that option.”
“He was rich.”
“And a terrible person.”
You scoot back to sit against the headboard as Karah tells you more about what she’s feeling, and as the night goes on, you do your best friend duty and don’t notice that your hand strays to Tim every few minutes.
“Okay,” you interrupt after hours of talking. “We need a pick-me-up.”
“What?” Karah asks.
“Let’s go.”
You lead Karah out of your bed and into the kitchen. After placing your kettle on the stove to heat water, you unlock your phone and scroll through your music library until you find the perfect playlist. The Bluetooth speaker tucked under your upper cabinet plays the opening notes of 2000s pop before Kesha sings, “Hot and dangerous. If you’re one of us then roll with us.”
Karah gasps in excitement, then leans forward to do the handshake you made up during your first year working together. The music plays too loud for the early hour as you dance around the kitchen together, but you don’t care because it’s cheering Karah up, which is the goal. Each word makes you feel better, more upbeat, and ready to do anything and everything.
As the playlist moves forward to a Britney Spears song, you freeze. Tim stops between the end of the hall and the kitchen and looks from you to Karah and then back to you.
“Is this why I was so squished last night?” he asks.
You nod meekly, and he waves his hand at you as he moves toward the kettle and the cabinet where you keep your tea and coffee.
“Breakfast?” he asks.
“Please!” Karah answers.
“Yes,” you say as you dance past him. “Thank you.”
You turn the music down at the end of the song and ask Karah if she feels better.
“Mostly,” she admits. “Now I just need a guy who makes me feel like Hips Don’t Lie does. Sorry, Tim.”
“I’m not even here,” he encourages her. “And if I was, I wouldn’t get involved.”
You shrug and gesture for Karah to continue.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you yet,” she murmurs.
“Well now you have to.”
“I agreed to go on another date with Ryan, the guy from last night.”
“What?!” you exclaim. “Why?”
“He waited. I mean he made me feel awful for asking but he agreed.”
Tim turns and passes Karah a mug of coffee before he sets your favorite drink beside your hand. “Dump him,” he encourages. “He didn’t mean it, he’ll keep pushing and dishonesty of that kind almost always leads to a misdemeanor, minimum.”
You look at Tim with your brows raised, then agree, “He’s right. A guy like that will try to pressure into not waiting. Don’t let him make you do something you’re uncomfortable with for any reason.”
Karah’s phone buzzes, and she groans as she reads the message. “Jill called in sick again, so I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at the hospital?”
“If you’re lucky,” you tell her as you hug her. “And cancel on Ryan, or ghost him, but don’t see him again.”
“I will. Thanks, Tim!” she calls as she opens the door.
When you turn back toward Tim, he lays his palms on the counter and glares at you, but you can tell he’s hiding a smile.
“Thank you,” you tell him with a smile. “She needed to hear it from someone who wasn’t me.”
“Karah has a key. What would you do if one of my friends climbed into bed with us?” Tim inquires.
“Which friend?” you counter. “Because Lucy has a key to get in here too.”
Tim rolls his eyes and returns his attention to the food on the stove. “Make sure Karah leaves him and let me know if you need some help getting the message through to him.”
“Such a softie,” you muse as you raise your mug.
“What was that?” Tim challenges.
“I said will do, sir.”
Tim hums, so you stand and walk behind him. With your arms wrapped around his waist, you say, “I love you.”
“Then you’ll tell me how many people have a key to your door before I replace the lock.”
Could you do fic for David 'Deacon' Kay with wife reader where she's a ballet dancer? Maybe he brought the team to see her and he's proud of her. I don't know if it make sense. Add something you'd like though. Thanks!!!
Of course! I know next to nothing about ballet, so hopefully what I found online is accurate lol. I hope you enjoy and please feel free to let me know what you think!! Proud, obsessed with his wife (and showing her off) Deacon is the best, so thanks for the great req!🤍
Warnings: just fluff! 1.1k+ words
Picture from Pinterest
Your Biggest Fan
People always say opposites attract. Most people don’t really believe it, though; you, for one, expected to find something compatible, comfortable, or, in other words, similar. That was until you met David “Deacon” Kay. He is your polar opposite. You’re a ballerina, and he’s a cop. You’re soft pastels, and he’s dark blues and blacks. But you love each other more than anything else and are proud of each other in everything you do.
✯✯✯✯✯
Since marrying Deacon and moving into his house, he has developed a ‘dance day ritual.’ He makes your favorite light breakfast and serves it with a single red rose. After he wakes you, he kisses you in the bedroom doorway, promising to be on time to watch you.
“You’re my biggest fan,” you murmur against his lips.
He nods, pulling you tighter against him as he wishes to spend the whole day with you. When you finally manage to direct him to the porch, you have to practically force him off you, laughing as he fights to stay in your arms.
“I will see you tonight,” you argue.
“Too long,” he says with a pout.
He steps backward off the porch, waving as he closes the door, and you begin preparing for your performance. From morning stretches to rehearsals, you have a full day leading up to the dance at the end of it. Deacon never leaves your mind as you prepare, cheering you on from miles away.
✯✯✯✯✯
“Dance day!” Luca cheers as soon as he sees Deacon.
Hondo, Hicks, and Luca always know when you have a recital because Deacon is in a better mood than any other day.
“You have our tickets?” Hicks asks.
Deacon nods, and Street inquires, “Tickets for what?”
“The ballet,” Luca answers.
Street’s brow furrows, looking back and forth between the men standing before him. He can’t tell if they’re serious but doesn’t know how to ask.
“Deac’s wife is a ballerina,” Hondo explains, filling in the gaps.
“Oh!” Street exclaims. “Cool. Have an extra ticket?”
Hicks laughs, gripping Deacon’s shoulder as he says, “Deacon would buy out the entire theater just to show off his wife if he could.”
Deacon shrugs but doesn’t argue. He knows what he’d do for you.
✯✯✯✯✯
Waiting backstage, you take a few deep breaths and smooth your hands over your stomach. Peeking out of a gap in the curtain, you easily find Deacon sitting in the center of the theater. It looks like he brought his entire squad, plus Hicks, Molly, Rocker, and his wife Val. You smile when you see him and step away from the curtain as you tap your wedding ring six times for good luck.
While you were dating and then engaged, Deacon didn't make it to six dances. In his wedding vows, Deacon promised never to miss another one, and so far, he has kept that promise. Once or twice, he’s come in a few minutes late dressed in full SWAT gear but has never missed an entire dance since becoming your husband. He's your good luck.
Approaching your backpack, you pull a small ring safe from the bottom, slide your ring in, and lock it. You hug your friends as you take your place, closing your eyes and focusing on the moves.
The curtain rises, and your eyes lock on Deacon as the music begins while you lift into a relevé. When you dance in front of Deacon, simply knowing he is in the audience takes all the stress away. Everything melts away except you, Deacon, and the dance you know. It begins to feel like a private show until you pause in the fifth position as the ballerinas before you glissade across the stage. Counting the beats, you find Deacon again as you move to the side, spinning into a fouetté before performing a grand gete. As you land, you hear clapping and are reminded that your husband and friends will always be in the audience cheering you on. Even if they don’t understand ballet etiquette.
✯✯✯✯✯
The moment the curtain touches the stage, you rush from your spot, finding your bag in the staging area and exiting in search of Deacon. You compliment your friends as you hurry past, promising to see them at the next practice.
As you rise onto your tiptoes to search the crowd for your husband, Deacon finds you, pulling you into his arms and spinning you around. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you raise your feet and laugh against his neck. You feel cellophane pressed against your back and smile as Deacon sets you back on the floor.
“Wow, they’re beautiful! Thank you” you exclaim as Deacon hands you eleven red roses. After you dance, Deacon always completes the dozen he began at breakfast.
Turning toward his team, you thank them for coming before you are showered with more praise and flowers than you think you deserve.
“Beautiful as always,” Luca says, pulling you into a hug as he passes you a bouquet that matches your costume.
“You always know just what to get,” you reply, thanking him.
“You were amazing! I understand why Deac gets everyone tickets,” Street says, smiling.
“What are you doing here?” you exclaim, pulling him into a hug. “I thought you would be against anything that happens in a theater.”
“I can give things a try,” he argues playfully.
“Okay, okay, my turn,” Deacon interjects, pulling you into another hug.
After a few minutes of talking to his team, you and Deacon say goodbye and he leads you to his car, setting your bag in the backseat before retrieving your ring and sliding it back on your finger. He stows your flowers safely in the back before returning all his attention to you. Deacon kisses your hand before pulling you closer by your waist.
“You were amazing, as always,” Deacon whispers.
“You’re amazing,” you reply, looping your arms over his shoulders to kiss him.
As you pull back, Deacon’s eyes narrow as he asks, “What?”
You tap his shoulder, leaning against him to say, “I have a chance to dance at Lincoln Center in New York City. But… I don’t want to do it unless you can be there.”
“Tell me when and I’ll be by your side the whole way,” Deacon promises. “Stuck to your side, actually. Like a leech.”
“Gross!” you exclaim with a laugh.
“I love you, twinkle toes,” Deacon teases.
You groan, pressing your forehead against his shoulder until he whispers an apology and helps you into the passenger seat.
“Where to?” he asks.
“Anywhere with you,” you reply.
He leans across the console, kissing you quickly before his big brown eyes meet yours. “I meant: do you want to get food on the way home?”
“Nope. Just get me home so I can shower you in affection.”
“That’s my job; you’ve been dancing all day.”
“You have no idea what I do on dance days, do you?”
“Stay on my mind,” Deacon replies, sighing as he takes your hand.
“You are my biggest fan.”
“That was never in question.”
-
toomany24s liked this · 1 week ago -
peachypxstel liked this · 1 week ago -
famers23blr-blog liked this · 1 week ago -
sunrisenbatuu liked this · 1 week ago -
patrika-aa liked this · 1 week ago -
teddysgrahamz liked this · 1 week ago -
maroblotz19 liked this · 1 week ago -
bleucoffeecup liked this · 1 week ago -
tremendouscoffeeprincess liked this · 1 week ago -
sugarspicendynamight reblogged this · 1 week ago -
sanfranssolomita liked this · 1 week ago -
dsnr18 liked this · 1 week ago -
empressuwu reblogged this · 1 week ago -
empressuwu liked this · 1 week ago
-
cocolovesyou247 liked this · 1 week ago -
lill-ana liked this · 2 weeks ago -
rebelatbay liked this · 2 weeks ago -
hoseokprides reblogged this · 2 weeks ago -
hoseokprides liked this · 2 weeks ago
-
hambyrd1909 liked this · 2 weeks ago -
faiirwinds liked this · 2 weeks ago -
djmaliksmix liked this · 3 weeks ago -
painfully-stupid liked this · 3 weeks ago -
4ppleofmyev4 liked this · 3 weeks ago -
oik-uwu liked this · 3 weeks ago -
pinkeiii liked this · 3 weeks ago
-
tidelqnds liked this · 3 weeks ago -
thebasketcase222 liked this · 3 weeks ago
-
seagull-on-toast liked this · 3 weeks ago -
elpixles liked this · 3 weeks ago -
malu940 liked this · 3 weeks ago -
s2hc liked this · 3 weeks ago
-
cocobuttababe liked this · 3 weeks ago -
6-paris-6 liked this · 3 weeks ago -
gillianegelstad liked this · 3 weeks ago -
dittoswrld liked this · 3 weeks ago -
lostgirl219 liked this · 4 weeks ago -
aestheticallyscrolling liked this · 4 weeks ago -
shadowgurl101 liked this · 4 weeks ago -
futuristicherobailifflamp liked this · 4 weeks ago
-
imean-its-just-me liked this · 1 month ago -
therandomofpink liked this · 1 month ago -
kat-mow-mow liked this · 1 month ago -
jennablue19 liked this · 1 month ago
-
redr4bbittt liked this · 1 month ago -
idk-meow liked this · 1 month ago -
bilsgold liked this · 1 month ago
