❝ 𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒
❝ 𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 (𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐎) !! ❞
❝ A LOVE TRIANGLE GONE RIGHT ?! REPORTING FROM THE SET OF THE HIT SHOW JUJUTSU KAISEN ! ❞
✧ pairing: actors!satoru gojo and suguru geto x actor!reader
✧ summary: rumors swirl about a love triangle between you and your two heart throb co-stars on the set of jujutsu kaisen. except in this case, you and your two co-stars are happily dating. but what happens when you get casted in a movie where they want you to have a PR relationship with your co-star? especially when your boyfriends find out who it is—
✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut, no curses, modern au, jjk is a tv show, actor au, yes the actors and characters have the same names lol, reader is dating both of them, funny interview hijinxs, this is kind a lot of crack, jealous! gojo + geto, sukuna is here lmao, innuendos, oral (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), handjob (m! receiving), semi-exhibitionism, face sitting (f! receiving), multiple positions, multiple orgasms, sex (p in v), double penetration, creampie, multiple rounds, swearing, fanart by @ / _3aem
✧ wc: 17,900
“Reporters say the love triangle between the actors Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto and their co-star has become even more shrouded in mystery than the show itself!” an influencer reports on your social media of gchoice that morning, nearly vibrating from assumedly her three espressos, “the stars of Jujutsu Kaisen, the fantasy horror drama series written by Gege Akutami have been embroiled in dating scandals over the last few weeks—“ your phone’s notifications cut the audio from the video for a moment until you switch it to silent, “after being spotted leaving Suguru Geto’s loft just two nights ago, she was then seen having a lunch rendezvous with Satoru Gojo—“
You lock your phone, rubbing your temples, as the device nearly had an aneurysm from your social media notifications — buzzing itself off your dining room table and into an early death. Your agent was going to have a field day with this, and the main event is going to be your murder.
“What are they saying about us now?” Suguru sighs, as he emerges out of the shower in only a towel wrapped around his waist, steam rolling out of the bathroom, as you offer him a coffee, his fingers brushing yours as he takes a sip, “my agent is demanding I call him— and I’d like to know what we’ve done now before he kills me,” he says, though he continues to sip his coffee nonchalantly, unbefuddled by the thought of his death.
“Oi oi, calm down, shouldn’t you be more upset at the reporters than me?” Satoru comes from the bedroom, “Nanamin, just take care of it. Tell them we’re just friends if they ask you — do me a favor and pay off the reporter who got a picture of us kissing—“ and you nearly snort at the thought of Nanami Kento doing any sort of favor for Satoru.
“You let him kiss you?” Suguru raises an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips, as your cheeks burn, rolling your eyes.
“Not so much ‘let’ as he just kissed me without a second thought,” you shake your head, drinking your coffee as Satoru continues to bicker with Nanami, “I told him I thought I saw paparazzi but—“
“Satoru is do first, ask questions never,” Suguru sighs, but still the smirk remains, as he leans closer to you, his large palm against the back of your chair, “you never let me kiss you in public,”
And you’re resisting the urge to bite your lip, “You know better — look at what Satoru’s done now—“
“And was it worth it, Princess?” Your mind wanders to the kiss — Satoru’s hand against the nape of your neck, his lips sliding against yours, the faint taste of the strawberry cake he had for dessert lingering on his tongue and now yours, and the sticky heat that settled over your body from the too humid night air and his warmth leeching onto your skin, and the eyes watching his need for you made it all the more—
“Maybe,” you mumble, choosing to sip at your drink as Satoru cut off your conversation with his own.
“Just deal with it, Nanami, that’s why I hired you after all, huh?” He earns a swear from Nanami for the claim that he ‘hired’ him in any way whatsoever, and then his lips curl. “No they aren’t here with me—“ the bespectacled man shouts from the other line, “eh? What do you mean I look and sound like a man who only lies?” And then he’s hanging up, running a hand through his hair, a pout on his lips, “I was supposed to wake up to the two of you, not Nanami’s tirade,” he groans, as he makes his way over to you, only to wrap his arms around you from behind.
“Well, it is your fault, Satoru,” Suguru smirks over the rim of his cup, “someone couldn’t keep their hands to themselves—“
“Jealous, Suguru?” he replies, as he presses a kiss to your neck, “jealous that our princess is much more affectionate with me,”
Suguru cuts you off, “more like she babies you,” and Satoru’s face sours into a scowl, “if she had stayed at my apartment for the week, this wouldn’t have—“
“And then they would have seen me coming to your place, and what good would that do?”
“Guys—“ you try to speak, but you’re cut off again.
Suguru tilts his head with a small grin, “Are you lonely? Why don’t you find someon—“
“Stop, guys,” you couldn’t take this bickering this early in the morning, though you had grown used to it, “we have bigger problems to deal with than your egos,” you sigh, rising from Satoru’s grip even as he pouts, “we have to be more careful,”
“But how? We’ve already cut down our appearances together for behind the scenes and even stopped going out for dinner or dates,” Satoru pouts, running a hand through his hair, “next thing you’ll want to break up,”
“That’s not gonna happen,” you flick Satoru on the forehead, “but we have to do something, otherwise our agents will have us murdered,”
“And Nanami will join them for sport,” Suguru adds, and you snort, finally finishing your drink, before he walks over to you, fingers under your chin, “so what’s your idea, sweetheart?”
“Just take a break for a few weeks until the public finds something else to fixate on,” you sigh, “while the episodes air, all we’re going to get is more attention,”
“We could just take a trip,” Satoru offers, “I own a private island—“
“Of course you do,” Suguru says, and Satoru only chuckles.
“Being envious doesn’t become you, Suguru,” the snow haired actor clicks his tongue at him, before he’s pulling you into his arms, “we could go for a few days, get away from all the noise,”
“It’s a good idea, but you’re forgetting one thing, Satoru,” Suguru tilts his head, “won’t they notice if we all go on vacation at the same time?”
“Plus we have interviews to do in the coming week,” you remind Satoru, and he’s sighing, burying his face in the crook of your neck, “but maybe we can go after?”
“Unless you get that role,” Satoru mumbles against your skin, pressing sweet kisses to the nape of your neck, “have you heard anything yet?”
You shake your head, a sigh stuck in your throat, “It’s a long shot. This is such a big role and it’s for the lead,” and Suguru is finding his way to you, warm fingers cupping your cheek.
“They would be lucky to have you — do you know how many people say you were their favorite character? They were ready to fight me and Satoru for you,” he adds with a chuckle, lips ghosting over the swell of your cheek, “I think they would beat us with sheer numbers,”
“Nah, I’d win,” Satoru says, and you snort, rolling your eyes, “but he’s right princess, how crazy would they have to be not to cast you?”
“There’s so many other talented people up for the role—“
“There’s always going to be someone else,” Suguru cuts you off gently, as his fingers find yours, lacing with yours so perfectly you wondered if it’s what they were made for, “but that doesn’t mean you’re any less valuable or incredible,”
“And you’re already far more talented than you give yourself credit for,” Satoru adds, “but when do you get the role, inevitably,” Suguru smirks at him, “when would shooting begin?”
“Probably just after our press wraps for season two,” you lean into their touch, “they still haven’t casted the two leads, but apparently both are down to the final audition,” and you’re pressing nosing Satoru’s cheek, before pressing a chaste kiss to Suguru’s nose, “and that’s why we’ll have to cool it for the next few weeks, ok?”
But you don’t — or rather they don’t.
“Who is Satoru Gojo’s…” Satoru rips off the tape off the cardboard printout of Googled questions, “favorite actor to work with?”
“We all know the answer to that,” Suguru replies with a sigh, his eyes sliding to you, and you roll your own.
“Look who’s talking — these two are obsessed with each other,” and Satoru has a shit eating grin, sitting back and watching the two of you argue, “the two of you are soulmates — and I’m not talking about your characters,”
“Don’t go there,” Suguru scoffs, and you tilt your head, lips curling, as your gaze meets his.
“Are you begging?” and you can’t help the way your tone bites back, falling far over the line of playful teasing and into blatant flirting, and you can only hope the camera plays off the dark glint in Suguru’s gaze as he smirks as teasing rather than what you know it is — lustful.
“You’re both wrong anyway,” Satoru cuts in, “obviously my favorite actor to work with is Megumi!”
And you and Suguru both snort, words falling from your lips in unison, “Poor Megumi,”
“Ehhh? What do you mean by that?” And Satoru smacks you both playfully with the piece of cardboard an intern probably painfully put together before tossing it away.
“What happened to Suguru Geto….” in Jujutsu Kaisen?” Suguru reads.
“Dead,” you and Satoru answer in unison, and Suguru raises an eyebrow.
“You both are a walking spoiler,” and you gape at Suguru.
“They asked, and he’s the spoiler warning — he read ahead and told me that his character—“ and Suguru covers your mouth, looking the camera dead in the eye.
“You’re welcome—ow!” And he pulls his hand away, “did you just bite me?”
“You weren’t complaining last night,” Satoru says, earning a whack to the face with the cardboard printout from Suguru, “when you tried to steal her snacks—“
And you weren’t really helping either.
“Do you think of yourself as a heartthrob?*” You ask Satoru, hooked up to a lie detector, the polygraph examiner studying the results closely, as Suguru didn’t bother biting back his smile.
“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m not—“
“It’s a yes or no question, Satoru,” you cut him off as he sighs dramatically, running a hand through his snowy locks.
“Then I’ll have to say yes,” and he’s winking at the camera, and you’re snorting, looking at the lie detector reader.
“It’s the truth,” he says simply and the examiner nods, and you scoff, as Satoru only pouts at you.
“Have you ever,” Suguru lets a chuckle escape his lips, “look at fan accounts for yourself? I can answer this one, yes he does, I’ve watched him do it—“
Satoru scoffs, doubling down, “can you blame me? My fans do such wonderful edits—“
“And inflate your ego to a catastrophic size—“ and Satoru is reaching across the table to cover your mouth.
“Be careful she bites,” Suguru warns, leaning back in his chair, as you grin against Satoru’s hand, and he shrugs, lips curling.
“Don’t worry, I like it,”
The examiner nods, “that’s the truth.”
“We’ll start out tame,” you say, as you look at the list of thirst tweets in front of you and choosing one of the more…hinged ones, “Suguru Geto, I would let you kill me like the monkey I am, and I’d thank you for it,” and you show the tweet, “monkey emoji covering their face,”
“That’s a tame one?” Suguru covers half his face with his hand, much like the emoji, “what the **** are the wild ones?” And you open your mouth to reply and he cuts you off, “I don’t want to know,”
“Sweetheart, I’ll read one for you next,” and Satoru scans his list, and he clears his throat, holding out his hand to you, your name on his lips, “the only way I could die happy ever is if I suffocated when you sat on my face,”
And heat climbs your face at his words, a single chuckle giving way to full laughter, “***, that’s a lot of pressure to put on me—“
“And on them,” Satoru adds, and you’re glaring at him only to dissolve into giggles, “I can't blame them. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go,”
“It’s my turn,” Suguru scans the list and grimaces, “I don’t want to read this,” and then he runs his fingers through his hair and sighs, “I’d let Satoru Gojo **** me, spit in my mouth, and make my daddy issues worse, and I’d thank him for it, respectfully,”
And you’re doubled over in laughter by the time he gets to the end of his monotone reading, while Satoru only grins at the camera, leaning against the table, as he pulls his sunglasses on only to tilt them down his nose.
“I’m available.”
No, this press junket did not help at all.
“Fuck,” you grumble, propping yourself on your elbow, your knuckles pressed to your lips, “how are we still trending? Aren't there other things to talk about?”
“Stop checking it, it’s only making you crazy,” Suguru sighs, collapsing next to you on the couch, his hand thrown over the top of the couch, before it slips down behind you, warm palm resting on your hip, “there’s nothing you can do,”
“My agent said she’s definitely going to get news on whether I got the part tomorrow — and tomorrow is when the last episode of the season is airing, and when—“
“The scene with Kenjaku at the end, I know,” Suguru presses a sweet kiss to your forehead, “think I could pull off stitches?” He drags a finger across his forehead teasingly.
“If you’re asking for a lobotomy, I always wanted to try doing one,” Satoru walks in from the shower, hair still damp, as he squeezes on your other side, “Princess, you can be my nurse, hm?”
“Did you already have one?” Suguru bites back, and Satoru doesn’t reply, burying his face in the crook of your neck, “she’s still worried about tomorrow,”
“Don’t you know there’s no such thing as bad publicity?” Satoru presses a sweet kiss to your neck.
“Not when they’re speculating if I’m dating or cheating on one or both of you,” you shake your head, “what if the director thinks I’m a liability?”
“If the director thinks you’re a liability after seeing your work and meeting you, then he’s clearly blind,”
You flick his sunglasses down, “can you say that four eyes?”
“Don’t you mean six eyes?” Satoru sticks his tongue out at him, and Suguru’s fingers find yours, laced hands against your thigh, “whatever happens, happens — you know your worth,”
“And your worth is far too high for you — only I could afford it,” he wiggled his eyebrows, and you shove Satoru, but he grabs your wrist and pulls you against him, his lips grazing the soft skin behind your ear, “how much?”
“For you? A billion dollars,” and his lips find yours in a kiss, lazy but warm, heat from his touch spreading like a flames carried by the wind.
“That all? What a bargain,” Satoru pulls a breath away, his lips curled in a grin, only for Suguru’s fingers to cup your chin and make you turn around.
Deep purple irises you grew lost in, his thumb dragging down your kiss bitten lips, “and for our princess?” He hums, lips grazing yours teasingly, “a steal,”
“Well, you both stole my heart so you might as well have the rest,” and Suguru’s lips finally find yours in a real kiss, deep and full, until your mind is filled with nothing but him — and Satoru, whose lips ghost over your shoulder and collarbone and hands slip under your shirt, warm palms against your far too heated skin, “fuck—“ you’re sighing, melting agaisnt them, “Sugu, Toru,” you’re whining already, drawing smirks to both of their lips.
“Let us take care of you, sweetheart,” Satoru whispers, lips finding your earlobe and sucking at the sensitive skin, and Suguru pulls away from your kiss for a moment, a string of spit connecting your lips.
“We’ll get your mind off things, Princess,” and his fingers tease the waistband of your shorts, “all night long.”
And they do, they keep their promise — the three of you falling into bed in a jumble of limbs, and you forget until the next morning.
And in the morning—you get the call, “okay, thank you,” you hang up, still between mussed sheets and arms wrapped around your waist, “I got it!”
“Heh, I knew you would,” Satoru mumbles, burying his face in your side, “I’m so proud of you, baby,”
“Hm? Proud of her for what?” Suguru murmurs, half asleep, black locks strewn around his head like a halo.
“I got the role, Sugu,” you lean down and kiss his nose, and he’s grinning wide, fingers winding into the back of your head to pull into a kiss, “you’re looking at the leading actor of a movie,”
“You’re going to be in demand now, Princess,” Suguru says, dragging a thumb down your lips, “will you still make time for us?”
“Of course, always — you’ll visit me on set right?”
“You sure, sweetheart? Maybe you’ll be too busy for us,” Satoru leans up and presses a kiss on your neck.
“Maybe for you,” and he’s pouting, and you lean down to kiss his pout away, and then you get an email, “oh it’s the casting sheet for the other roles,” you scan the list, “oh,”
“‘Oh?’” Suguru raises an eyebrow.
“The male lead, he’s someone we know,” you sigh, rubbing your temples, “and I’m already getting a headache,”
Satoru furrows his brow, as the two of them lean over your shoulders to look — Satoru scowling and Suguru glaring at your screen, as they say his name at the same time — as if summoning him from the underworld.
“Sukuna?”
Ryomen Sukuna was both famous and infamous in the industry — famous for his portrayals of villains and antiheroes alike, ability to make you despise the enemy to the point of near or blatant admiration, and his skill of stepping into each role and taking it as his own. And he lives in infamy for, well, what happens between takes of the camera.
“Look any longer and I’ll have you thrown off set, brat,” Sukuna says, without a glance at you, newspaper in hand as if he was pulled from thirty years ago, his phone seemingly laying discarded on a nearby. The P.A.s nearby cower a few feet away, trying to look preoccupied, as their terror has fully set in of this man.
Or should you say monster?
“I see the stick up your ass makes you as pleasant as ever,” you mutter, and you don’t see that it earns you a smirk from him, his dark gaze takes over you, earning a glare from you, “now who’s staring?”
He leans against the arm of his chair, “I was just noticing how lovely the view is without those two pests hanging on your every word,” and you’re rolling your eyes.
“Jealous?”
“Of your little throuple? No,” he smirks, rising from his chair, hands sliding into his pockets as he brushes by you, “because unlike those two,” he pauses, voice dropping to a whisper, “I know how to satisfy a woman on my own,”
And you grit your teeth, holding your tongue — your relationship with Satoru and Suguru was a badly kept secret on the set or Jujutsu Kaisen, but it never was a problem — until now.
You follow behind him, heading to the director’s trailer for your meeting before rehearsals began.
“You want us to what?”
“We spoke to your agents, and they agreed with us that it would be good publicity for the two of you to pretend to be a couple during the filming and leading up to production,” the director leans back in his seat, “it shouldn’t be a problem — the two of you have worked together before right?”
You can’t hide your aghast expression in time, not before Sukuna glances at your face and sees the horror, and it puts a rare grin on his lips, “I’m in, what’s a little more acting?”
You’re swallowing thickly, eyes flitting over Sukuna’s smug grin so fast you only hoped your gaze was sharp enough to cut, “Can I please speak to you privately?”
And Sukuna gets up from the edge of the table he leaned against, flashing you a wry grin, “see you out there, sweetheart,” and you wished you could rip out his heart and show him how very sweet you were — but you bite your tongue, waiting for the door to swing shut, “I—“
“Do you know part of the reason we choose you over the other actor vying for your role?” The director cuts you off, arms crossed over his chest, and you shut your mouth, shaking your head, “Jujutsu Kaisen has done tremendously this season — one of the most viewed shows across the world and do you know part of the reason?” and again you shake your head, “your P.R. stunts with Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto,”
You knit your brow together — not your talent, your work, or art — but your boyfriends? “Your ability to have chemistry with the both of them have enticed the public and the number of times you’ve trended alone this season—“
Your fingers curl into fists, “With all due respect—“
“If you do this, the film will be a hit — i see you two already, there’s chemistry—“
You scoff, “more like a fucking bomb,” you mutter, running your fingers through your hair, “bottom line, do I have a choice?”
“You do,” he says, arms crossed, “but so do I,” fuck, you grit your teeth.
You emerge from the office, Sukuna waiting right outside, leaning against the wall right beside the doors, “you fucking make this difficult—“
“And you’ll do what, brat?” his face twists with his frown, as he leans over, lumbering over you, “what do you think you could do to me?” And he’s clicking his tongue, the condescension rolling off of it, “director told us to play nice, so be nice,” his lips curl, “but I like you mean too,”
He stalks off and you’re scrubbing a hand down your face. You were so fucking screwed.
“You what?” Satoru’s mouth gaped at you, twisted in pure disgust, while Suguru only stared at you, as expressionless as Satoru was expressive, “and you agreed?”
“She didn’t have a choice, Satoru—“
“That’s because the bastard didn’t give her a choice,” Satoru’s face twists again, this time in anger, brow furrowed, but lips in a sharp smile, “so why don’t we not give him a choice either?” Satoru is pulling his phone out.
“What are you doing—don’t—“
“One call, and I’ll have this guy firing Sukuna—“
“And there goes any actors or directors who will want to work for me if these guys go off, and you know they will,” you shake your head, “I’ve run this — it’s either I do the movie or I don’t,”
Suguru frowns, hands in his pockets, “What do you want to do?”
Your face in your hands, “I don’t want to drop the movie because of this, I can’t—“
“Then you do it,” Satoru rubs the back of his head, and Suguru tilts his head at him, “and after you become the biggest star out there, I’ll take care of that director and Sukuna,”
You and Suguru both snort, “Well that was verging on heartfelt,” Suguru shakes his head, “but he’s right, you can’t let two bullies kick you off your movie, you earned this role — and when you act circles around everyone else, you’ll have carried it too,”
You wrap your arms around both of them, “How’d I get so lucky?” You murmur, and Satoru’s nose brushes against yours before meeting your lips, while Suguru kisses wet kisses against your neck, “encouragement and threats of violence,” and Satoru only grins, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of your lips.
“Anytime, sweetheart,” and Suguru rolls his eyes, before his arm slips around your waist.
“And he really means anytime, last time you talked to Toji, he pouted for two hours,” Satoru glared at Suguru, while you laughed, pulling the snowy haired actor close.
“It’s so cute when you’re jealous, Toru,” you kiss his chin, eyes sliding to Suguru, “but you’re terrifying,”
“What are you talking about?” And Satoru chuckles, tilting his head.
“You mentioned me during Toji? You nearly yanked our princess away from him,” and Suguru furrows his brow, lips a thin line, “maybe we should drop by during rehearsals,”
You scoff, “Yeah that sounds like a terrible idea,” and Suguru’s arms are wrapping around you, “Sugu—“
“If we can’t spend as much time together, then we better make this time count, isn’t that right, Satoru?”
“You’re right,” and Satoru’s hands slide under your baggy t-shirt, “better use all the time we have,” and as they lead you to the bedroom, your limbs entangled, you knew you weren’t sleeping that night.
But you didn’t know that would be the last time you’d be sleeping with them at all for the next month.
“You have to cut down the time you spend with anyone else — especially other men,” your agent told you, “that goes for Gojo and Geto too,”
“Why is this role controlling everything in my real life too?” you mutter under your breath, “why does it matter we won’t get caught—“
“Like all the other times you didn’t get caught?” and your words leave you abandoned as no articulate response comes to mind, “it’s for a couple months. You can have them visit on set, you can still see them once a month, but not every day,”
“But why—“
“Once a month reduces your chance of being seen with them exponentially over the next few months. Just deal with it. After this, you won’t have to put up with bullshit,” she hangs up, as you stare at your phone screen, squeezing it at the sight of Satoru and Suguru’s good luck texts — and why did it feel like you still always would have to keep putting up with bullshit?
“Better not fucking cry. We have to pretend to fall in love in ten minutes — I would rather not be looking at something ugly this early,” Sukuna cuts into your thoughts, hands in his pockets, as he sips his coffee.
Exhibit A.
“We’re not shooting for an hour,” you were on set after getting ready, waiting for the weather to clear up for the shoot, and he gives a gruff chuckle
“Not that shoot.”
“Looks like Sukuna not only has taken over Itadori’s body, but also the heart of one of Jujutsu Kaisen’s fan favorites,” you groan, earbud slipping out for a moment, just like your life was slipping, “the actress and co-star were spotted getting cozy off set before shooting had even begun for the day,”
Oh what the fuck.
You toss your phone away before falling back in bed, far too empty without Satoru and Suguru, only their pillows to keep you company as you twisted in the sheets. You had passed off your social media to your agent to handle — it was bad enough when you were caught in a love triangle with Satoru and Suguru, but now Sukuna? You can only imagine what people would say about you.
And you didn’t need to see it to do that.
But that wasn’t important. It was your day off, you turned over in bed, burying your face against your boyfriends pillows — nothing a nap couldn’t fix.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Or maybe not. You slide from the arms of sleep reluctantly, already missing the warmth of the covers as the cold air hits your skin. You’re rubbing your eyes as you check who it is before opening it.
“Satoru? What are you—“ and his arms are around you in a moment, your breath catching, “Toru—“
“You see what they’re saying online?” His gaze is stoic, lips a thin line.
“We can’t—“ and he’s shutting the door before locking it, before he’s had you pressed against the wood, the grain dragging against your skin.
“They said you two make the perfect couple,” he cups your chin, his breath warming your lips, “even more than me or Suguru—“ his hand slides against the swell of your hip, “a walk, a coffee? Was that all?”
Your brow knits together “Of course, you know I would never—“ and his lips ghost over the juncture of your neck and shoulder, nosing at the soft skin of your neck, “Toru—“ you bite your bottom lip.
“I know you wouldn’t, sweetheart, I know,” he says softly, “but I have to make sure he knows that,” his teeth grazes over your soft skin, “knows that you’re mine,” and his teeth digs into your soft flesh, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips, pain melting into pleasure, as your head lolls back against the door.
“Toru, no I have rehearsals in a week,” you whine, but that just makes him soothe the blooming love bite with his tongue, “Toru—“
“Do you really want me to stop now, sweetheart?” he’s pulling your mouth open with his thumb, “your face says you don’t,” and his large palm slides down your body and into your shorts, the wet squelch and the brush of his fingers through the drenched fabric, “and your pretty cunt seems to agree,”
“Toru,” you’re biting your lip, “fuck, you’re impossible,” and his mouth travels lower, as his other hand slides up under your shirt, squeezing your chest.
“You’re the one who slept without anything under your clothes,” he murmurs in your ear, lips sliding against your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin there, “you’re so wet already, hear that? Did you touch yourself thinking of us? Want us to fuck you that bad after a week?” his lips ghost over your jaw.
“Fuck, you talk so much,” you’re pouting, thighs pressing together, but he’s pushing them apart, “why are you teasing me so much?”
And he pauses, ocean blues stormy instead of the tranquil skies you’re used to, “Sukuna touched you. He got to hold you,” he’s pouting now, “that privilege is for us, and he got to so easily,”
“I didn’t want him to,” and he’s nuzzling your neck.
“Let me erase his touch,” and he’s lifting you with the practiced ease he always had.
“Where’s Suguru—“ and you yelp as he playfully tosses you on the bed, pulling his shirt over his head with one hand, a grin as he watches you bounce.
“He’ll be here later,” and he’s kissing up your body, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts to pull them down, half lidded eyes with deep lust finding yours, “for now, you’re all mine.”
“I-I can’t,” you’re whimpering, your hands clutching at Satoru’s back, fingernails digging crescents into his perfect skin, only hoping he doesn’t have a shirtless shoot tomorrow, but you barely can register that with three of his fingers in your pussy, “Toru,”
How many times had you orgasmed? Six or seven at least — it was nearly second nature at this point. Satoru knew what spots to touch, where to press, how to move to have you writhing underneath him in a moment. He’s knuckle deep, spreading your walls as his thumb toys with your clit, drawing another moan from your lips. Your release soaked his fingers and sheets underneath, his fingers surely wrinkled from their time spent inside your walls.
And by his smirk against the swell of your breast, he knew it.
“Yes you can baby, I know you have one more f’me,” and you’re already so close, but you have been — it’s been a repeated coil winding and snapping over and over, and you’re nearly to tears, back arching as he plunges his fingers somehow deeper, “know this pretty pussy too well, look at the way you’re sucking me in,” your insides flutter around his digits again, the tips dragging against your walls, “practically begging me to fuck you more, sweetheart,”
“I’ll say,” and your eyes barely can flit up to meet Suguru’s wry smile, corners of his lips curled, “I see you’re as impatient as ever, Satoru — started without me,” and he’s tugging his shirt over his head, “but at least you’ve gotten her ready for me,”
“Sugu—“ and Satoru adds a fourth finger, stuffed full with him, drawing a gasp from your lips.
“Don’t want you to say Suguru’s name when I’m the one pleasuring you,” Sstoru clicks his tongue, “wanna hear you moan my name, sweetheart, when I make you cum,”
“You’ll have plenty of chances to moan my name,” you make a whining noise in the back of your throat, pleasure felt as if it had burned out your nerves, but it still was able to overload them, the throbbing in your cunt a telltale sign, “you g’nna cum, pretty? Use your words for me?”
“G’nna cum—ngh, Toru,” you feel that familiar knot in the pit of your stomach, your walls wring his fingers as you cum, hard, your head thrown back against the pillow. And the squelch of your cunt rings in your ears, as he finger fucks you through your orgasm.
“Fuck, she’s so pretty everytime she falls apart for us,” Suguru groans, as Satoru leans over to kiss you, “so good for us, Princess,” you only moan in reply, lost in the pleasure that still floods your body, as Satoru pulls his fingers from you.
And your eyes catch a glimpse of Satoru licking his fingers clean, one by one, “Still the sweetest thing I’ve ever had,”
“Don’t hog her, Satoru,” Suguru is pulling Satoru away, settling between your thighs, “you both made such a mess,” and you gasp, as his lithe fingers brush against your still too sensitive folds, spreading them only for your juices to slip out, “I’m always stuck cleaning up, but in this case,” he drags the flat of his tongue up your needy cunt, a moan falling from your lips, as your fingers fisted in his black locks, “I don’t mind at all.”
But that night wasn’t the end of it — no, not by far.
It wasn’t enough for them to ravish you, now they have to show up on set — their schedules lining up just perfect to see your rehearsals (though you think their schedules had some help from using the words “contagious” and “sickly”). However the only thing they were seemingly sick with was jealousy — especially so as you sat with Sukuna, going over lines for the next scene.
You rubbed at your neck, feeling lucky that the marks they left had faded, but they still had begged you to show up to the shoot.
“We won’t make you uncomfortable,” Satoru pouted, nuzzling your side, as you snort.
“Just like you said you wouldn’t leave hickies on me?” You scoff, and suguru buries his face in the crook of your neck, pressing sweet kisses along the marks Satoru left.
“She has a point,” Suguru murmurs, but Satoru only pouts, “but I would like to be on set so that freak doesn’t try anything,” and you run your fingers through Satoru’s snowy locks, while leaning into Suguru’s touch, “he has a reputation of making moves on all his co-stars,”
“So? It’s not like I’ll let him,” and Satoru’s gotten you pinned to the bed, your hands trying to break free but you can’t.
“It’s not a matter of letting him, it’s matter of him trying to do something you don’t want,” and your brows knit together, as Satoru presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
“There’ll be other people—“
“Other people who may very well look the other way, for someone like Ryomen Sukuna,” Suguru sighs, words almost whispered against your ear, “you know that’s how this business can be,” and it was — it could be. The Jujutsu Kaisen set was a rare exception, but this movie — the director’s words still ringing in your ears — it was different.
“Let us just make sure you’re safe, make sure you’re okay, and then we’ll go.”
And that’s how you ended up with their states boring into the back of your head.
“You bringing a pair of guard dogs with you everywhere now?” Sukuna spares a glance at your boyfriends, who were relegated to stand near your trailer — Satoru stood, arms crossed over his white t-shirt, a black jacket thrown over it, his blue eyes narrowed in frustration, as if his crossed arms were the only things holding him back from throttling Sukuna. While Suguru leaned against your trailer, scrolling on his phone in his dark navy button up, stealing glances at the two of you, his eyes narrowed and lips a thin line, “don’t know if they are ready to rip you apart or me,”
You bite your tongue, wanting to say they had already ripped you apart last night, but you only shook your head, “They insisted on coming today, I don’t know why,”
He grunts in reply, “It’s bad timing on your end, brat,” and your eyes snap to his, and he tilts his head, leaning against his hand, “you didn’t hear? The director wants us to film our big kiss at the end of the movie,”
Your blood runs cold, “Since when?”
“Since you were late to our morning meeting, assuredly because of those two,” he jerks his head in the direction of Satoru and Suguru, before giving them both a wide grin, “they don’t know do they?” Your silence is all the answer Sukuna needs to give a rare laugh, “oh this will be entertaining, brat, and I thought acting with you would be boring.”
Oh, you’re fucking screwed.
“Cut!” The director called for the billionth time, and you were about ready to wring his neck, and you were not the only one — if looks could kill, Satoru and Suguru would have had the director skewered a million times over by now. Unfortunately for them, looks did not kill, “we need more passion,”
And you’re biting back a groan, as Sukuna smirks, leaning over to whisper, “don’t look so disappointed, I see the two idiots haven’t taught you to kiss,”
“More like the partner I have doesn’t make kissing him appealing,” you bite back, running a hand through your hair as you spoke to the intimacy coordinator again, but your eyes keep sliding over to Satoru and Suguru, “fuck,” how were you supposed to do this with them staring you down?
“Let’s try it again,” you both get in place for the shot, the clap of the clapperboard, as Sukuna’s fingers brushed against your cheek again. You stepped into the role, letting yourself be consumed with the passion of your character, channeling what you felt for your own loves.
And finally your lips met his — you felt nothing, only the pressure of lips meeting one another, but you tried to show emotion, fingers clutching at his shirt in desperation, the small gasps and sighs parting your lips between kisses, and the way your hand then slid up to rest at the nape of his neck.
“I love you, more than anything,” you murmur against his lips, nose brushing against his, “more than anyone. You can’t go. Not without me,”
“What choice do I have?” Sukuna mutters back, his arm coiling around your waist, “it’s too dangerous for you to come along,”
“Who said you get to make my decisions for me?” your lips curl, “and who says I can’t buy my own ticket to come with you?” And he’s shaking his head, “listen,” your fingers cup his cheek, “don’t think, just let it happen,” and you’re leaning even closer, breath warming his lips, his breath hitching.
“Cut!” And you’re trying to pull away, but Sukuna holds you there, leaning forward, making you flinch, only to whisper in your ear.
“Sorry, just wanted to give them more of a show,” and he lets go, lips curled in a wide grin, “looks like we have a break now, so have fun, but not too much,” he laughs, as the director beckons him over.
You glance at Satoru and Suguru — oh fuck.
“Sugu—uumph—“ Suguru barely let you get a step inside the trailer before he pinned you to the metal door, his hands dragged over your sides.
“Hold still, Princess, I have to overwrite every place he touched you,” his fingers trace over your cheeks, lips grazing your jaw, his thumb dragged over your lips, before catching on your tongue, “did you brush your tongue against his — run it over the seam of his lips before slipping it inside? Flick it over like you do? Did you enjoy kissing him, sweetheart?”
“Of course I didn’t—“ and Satoru’s taking the opportunity to kiss you, teeth dragging over your bottom lip.
“Course she didn’t, but I’m sure he did,” Satoru’s fingers traced over your jaw, “enjoyed our sweets’ even sweeter lips, didn’t he?” And Satoru kisses down your jaw, while Suguru is sinking down to his knees, large palms sliding up and hiking up your dress, “should leave some marks to remind him who you belong to,” his teeth dig into the soft of your flesh.
“Toru! No, I still have to finish the shoot — the makeup artists—“ you whine, but god, it feels so good, as his tongue flicks against his teeth marks, “fuck,”
“Be careful, someone will hear you, Princess,” Suguru murmurs, soft kisses to your inner thighs, “hear how good you’ll feel,” his teeth sink into your thigh, nipping and sucking, “and how good we’re both making you feel,”
“Sugu, ah, I—fuck,” and Satoru is eagerly swallowing your moans with his lips, taking the chance to slip his tongue in, while Suguru noses at the soft of your thigh.
“She’s already dripping, how are you so pretty here, Princess?” And he doesn’t give you a chance to reply, not that you could with Satoru’s tongue down your throat, as his lips press a kiss to your messy folds, nose bumping against your puffy clit, “tastes even better,” he moans, sound reverberating against your sensitive cunt.
“Oh that won’t do at all, we’ve barely started,” Satoru tsks all the while tugging your sleeves down to reveal your bare chest underneath the dress barely on your body at this point, crumpled fabric pushed up and down into the middle by them, “no bra, Princess? For us or for the camera?”
“For you,” you manage between moans, Suguru’s tongue tracing teasing circles around your clit, “always for you—“ the word trails off into a moan, as Suguru meanly sucks on the sensitive nub, “ngh, fuck—“ your knees are buckling, quaking as if your bones were made of rubber, a gasp pulled from your lips, when Satoru’s lips press a teasing kiss to your already erect nipple, while he toys with the other between his forefinger and thumb, pinching and pulling. And he switches, welcoming the other with a graze of his teeth and the flick of his tongue.
The sounds of the lewd squelch of Suguru’s mouth against your dripping cunt filled your ears, volts from his touch reaching every inch of you, “so wet f’me, pretty, you like thinking someone could hear us fucking you?” Suguru mutters, his lips pulling away for a moment, as his long fingers spread your folds for him — every inch of you exposed, “fuck, you’ve dripped all over the floor of the trailer, Princess,”
“All that just from Suguru’s mouth?” Satoru smirks, dragging a finger down your puffy lips, while his other hand gropes at your breast, “imagine how sopping you’ll be when we fuck you,”
And you’re whining, as Suguru teases your entrance with a finger, “You fuckers—“ you yelp as Suguru picks you up with ease and tosses you into the nearby bed — a request you had made so you could nap between scenes or during times you weren’t needed on set — not that you had gotten to use it, until now.
Satoru’s pulling the dress up and over your head, tossing the garment away, both of their gazes dragging over your exposed skin. Satoru flips you onto your stomach, and you hear the creak of the bed behind you and you know Suguru repositioned himself between your thighs.
“On your knees, pretty,” Suguru’s hands are lifting your legs, his fingers already teasing your sopping hole again, and he’s bracing an arm around your thighs, “such a good girl,” and his fingertips breach you only to pull away, even as your walls try to beckon him inside.
“Fuck,” you’re groaning, needy cunt begging for release, you needed it, needed it so bad.
“Such a filthy mouth,” Satoru clicks his tongue, as he undoes the buckle of his belt, tugging his boxers and pants down to free his weeping erection. And god, his cock is so pretty — long and pink, with beads of pearly precum dripping from the slit, lovely veins running up and down his length, “how ‘bout I put it to use sweetheart?”
And the tip brushes against your face, smearing against your lips, before you part your lips and let his dick slap against your tongue, before letting it part your pretty lips. The tip of your tongue traces his slit, tasting his pre, as you sucked and licked along his length, until his sweet grunts slipped from his lips. And fuck, you know he would feel so good inside you, long cock reaching the places he always did and that you never could.
But it was hard for you to stay focused when Suguru bas two thick fingers buried in your right cunt, dragging against your walls, moaning around Satoru’s length. And it feels almost too good, as if you’d melt between them, burning from their touches. And you’d still always ask for more.
Satoru’s fingers dig into your locks, as he moans, “Fuck, s’good for me, baby,” his hips buck against your mouth, his hair sticking to his forehead, sticky with sweat, “not gonna last much longer, Suguru,”
And Suguru pulled out his fingers, licking them clean, his face still sticky with your cum, as you whine at the absence, “she’s not either, but I think she needs something more,” and you feel his cockhead drag against your folds, and you’re whining, “not gonna put it inside baby, too much of a mess, and can’t do too much, can we?” And you feel his lips curl in a smirk, “after all, your boyfriend out there might mind,” he’s pressing your thighs together, beginning to rock forward, sending you deeper onto Satoru’s cock, making him hiss.
“Fuck, take it, sweetheart,” his fingers tilting your head up slightly to find your eyes glazed over in pleasure, puffy lips with saliva and precum dripping from the corners, and it only makes him want to fuck your throat, “gonna go back on set like this? All messy from your ‘side pieces?’”
“Fuck, she twitched hard when you said that,” Suguru is fucking between your thighs, his hard cock rubbing against your dripping slit again and again, delicious friction sending you closer and closer, “fuck, g’nna cum for me sweet girl?”
And you’re moaning around Satoru, and his tip brushes against your throat with one particularly hard thrust from Suguru, and that’s it.
Satoru’s moaning your name, unable to hold back, as he cums in your mouth, his hot load pouring down your throat, dick twitching as it continues to spurt as he rocks his hips into you. Suguru pinches and rubs your clit hard, rocking his leaking cock into you, and you cum, walls fluttering around nothing, as you soak him in your release.
The moans of their names on your lips send Suguru tumbling over too, as he pulls back and pumps, before cumming all over your back with his thick seed.
You’re pulling yourself off Satoru, with a wet pop, cum and spit trickling down your lips, as your tongue flicks out to clean it off. And Satoru groans, as he lays down and settles beside you, “don’t make me fuck you right here,”
And Suguru helps you turn on your side, legs still shaking from your orgasm, as he slips up behind you, his softening cock pressed against you, pressing sweet kisses to your sweat soaked skin.
“Think anyone heard us?” you mumble, burying your face in the crook of Satoru’s neck, and their chuckles rumble against you, making you shiver.
Suguru answers, “No, if someone did, they would have come—“
There’s a harsh knock on the door, followed by the call of your name, “The director’s calling you to set,” it was your agent’s voice, “so I suggest all three of you clean up and come out.”
Well, fuck.
“How has shooting the film been so far?”
“It’s been wonderful. It’s so different from filming a television series, and I’ve loved learning the nuances of film and how it’s made,” you say, sitting in the worlds most uncomfortable chair behind Sukuna, who managed to look interestedly disinterested.
“Speaking of which, you two have worked together before, right?”
“We have,” Sukuna replies before you have a chance to answer, “the two of us haven’t had many scenes together before, so being able to finally act together is…fate,”
You force yourself to give a wry smile, “I forget he’s such a romantic, when he isn’t too busy calling me a brat,” the words slip out and you’re instantly regretting your words — fuck, fuck, fuck. You really just said Ryomen Sukuna called you brat — in an interview that will air on TV but also live on the internet.
“A brat huh?” The interviewer chuckled awkwardly, “is she a bit of a diva on set?”
“Oh and off,” Sukuna’s grin grows all the more wide, leaning against his hand and stealing a glance at you, “but I know how to tame her,” and you self consciously tug at your high neck sweater, the bites Satoru and Suguru well concealed — and you’d never have him pass it off as his own.
Oh, you would kill him. If not for the fact that you had dug your own grave, and he only did you the favor of pushing you in and burying you. No the only funeral was your own.
“How bad?” You ask your agent on the way home, earbuds in your ear as you sit in the back of the car, partition up as the driver makes their way to your home.
“How bad? You mean how great! We’re getting so much traffic on that interview. People keep talking about you and Sukuna. You’re trending again,” and that was the last thing you wanted to hear and the first thing she wanted to tell you.
Why the fuck did you want to be an actor again?
“What are they saying about me?”
“There’s some negative stuff about both of you, but that’s expected — mostly people surprisingly, uh, like you better with Sukuna than Gojo or Geto—“
“What? Why?” God, fuck the public’s want for an older man.
“I don’t know. You guys have this chemistry in interviews. The way you guys banter it feels so personal and electric I guess?” Her voice almost makes it sounds like she agreed.
“Are you saying that or the fans?” The only thing electric about your conversation with Sukuna was the feeling of rage running through your veins faster than a million volts.
“I don’t know. I’m sure it’s mostly fangirls of Gojo and Geto who are relieved they aren’t taken,” she adds, your silence seemingly scaring her, “you should look on the bright side, people are really excited for the movie, and after what happened in your trailer…the director’s happy too,” you see a text from Satoru and Suguru.
The Boys 💕🤍🖤
Bangs Baby: when are you coming home?
Six Eyed Dork: we’re already making dinner.
And you scrub a hand down your face, never having such irritation over the prospect of dinner, “Tell that to my makeup artist,” because you know you’ll be littered with marks by the end of this.
“We’re adding a sex scene,” and you nearly spit out your drink that morning, sitting at the round table with the director, several staff members, and an extremely unfazed Sukuna.
“What?” you say, trying hold your tongue, that was only writhing under your hold to say something much, much worse, “that’s not anywhere in the script or the source material,”
“It was my suggestion,” Sukuna lifts his hand casually, before pressing his hand to his chin, painted black nails gleaming in the dim light of the early morning, “the characters felt lacking,”
Then play your role better. That’s what you wanted to say. But instead you ask, “how so?”
And Sukuna glances at the director, who clears his throat, eyes shifting from him to you, “We thought it would be better to build more intimacy between the characters. Add a certain level of—“
“Raunchiness?” you scoff.
“Tasteful raunchiness,” Sukuna corrects, doing nothing to suppress his smirk, “if you don’t want to, I’m sure we can make due with the stunt double—“
Fucker. He could have his pick of any movie — he was a pillar of the industry, but you had to be stuck with him. And stuck with the director following his every, irritating whim.
You grit your teeth, “when are we shooting it?” And Sukuna grins wider, leaning back in his chair.
“About that—“
“You’re going where?” You resisted the urge to rub at your temples, as you pack your things, Satoru’s pout filling the majority of the screen.
“You heard me. We’re filming in Canada,” with a flight that left the next day, you barely had time to pack, much less talk. Fuck, you don’t have a thing for the cold, but you were told that coats and thermals would be provided — or at least they better be, “I’ll be gone for a couple weeks,” you say, wondering if the sounds of you packing would be enough to drown out or enough sweaters would somehow soften the blow.
“Weeks?” Suguru repeats, taking the phone from Satoru, “sweetheart, you had said filming would be over soon enough — you said a month of filming in Japan—,” and you sigh, it seems like you had been doing a lot of that lately.
The throbbing in your head only got worse — the long shoots and lack of sleep weighing on your body like iron weights around your neck, “I know, love, but the director wanted to add more scenes,” you swallow the lump in your throat, “there’s one more thing,” and Satoru is pushing into view of the camera as well, a click of Suguru’s as he shoots a glare at him, “the director decided to add…an intimate scene to the film,”
Silence, but Suguru speaks first, “And that wasn’t in the script before?” And you shake your head.
Satoru gives a bitter laugh, “Such bullshit. They planned it and got you to invest yourself in the movie—“ he cuts himself off, “sweetheart, I want to have a word with the director,”
“No, Toru, it won’t help,” you run your fingers through your hair, trying to keep your tone level, “it just won’t. It will just make me look like I have to rely on my boyfriends for protection,”
“It still isn’t right, what they are doing to you is exploitative,” Suguru cuts in, “adding a sex scene last minute after you already spent weeks filming—“
“You don’t think I know that?” you say quietly, “what am I supposed to do? Quit? Let you guys run to the director to protect me? Great, either way, my career would be over,” the words slip out far more cutting than you want, but this has been a knife you’ve honed against stones thrown at you, and you were tired of being the one to take the blows.
Satoru furrows his brow, “What are we supposed to do? Watch you get taken advantage of?”
“No, but don’t talk down to me like I don’t understand what’s happening,” you snap, “these weeks I’ve had to deal with fucking Sukuna and these shoots, while balancing your feelings too and I’m tired of it. I’m just done,” you shake your head, willing your voice not to break, “I’ll text you both when I board and land, ok?”
“Sweetheart—“
“Baby—“
“Bye,” and you hang up, eyes burning not just from your lack of sleep but now everything else too. You didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t see them. You couldn’t quit the movie. You couldn’t fix this. You couldn’t do anything — you glanced at your suitcase — except keep going.
“You look like hell,” you don’t bother looking at Sukuna when he speaks, and out of all the seats, how did you end up next to him? Either you had the absolute worst luck in the world — or bad luck had a little help from your agents and the director.
“You look like you’d know—been to your kingdom lately?” you’re placing your suitcase away when a flight attendant rushes over to do it for you, and you thank them, before rifling through your bag for your headphones. Noise canceling headphones that were going to be your best friend as long as you were stuck with him.
“Why visit a kingdom when my queen is here?” Your eye twitches, and you only wish that planes worked the same as ships when it came to jurisdiction. And if so, you would have tossed him into the high seas without a second though. You could start over — no extradition on Satoru’s island.
You glanced at your phone — no reply to your text about getting on the second flight. And they had both barely responded to your other texts about boarding and landing. Maybe it was your fault. You had blown up at them, and ignored all their calls and texts all day, until they finally stopped (even Satoru had given up sending you selfies of him crying). You switched it into airplane mode and locked it, tucking it away into your bag, before taking your seat and buckling your seatbelt.
“Trouble in paradise?” And you scowl, pulling out your headphones, “c’mon you can tell me about your other boyfriends — I know I’m your favorite,”
“Do you ever shut up?” You put your headphones on, your eyes growing heavy as the plane begins to prepare for take off. You choose a playlist, and start to fall asleep. The only good thing about this flight was you could finally get some sleep.
And maybe your life wouldn’t be hell when you woke up.
“I already got us a private jet,” Satoru walks into Suguru’s place, suitcase in hand, as he tugs his mask off, “we can be in Canada by tomorrow—we just need to pack—“
“What are you talking about?” Suguru looks up from his phone, “have you even thought this through, dumbass? She barely wants us coming over because of paparazzi, you think if someone sees us in Canada with her that they will write it off as a coincidence?”
“If we’re careful, it won’t come to that,” he sets down his things, “you heard her, Suguru, she said she’s done,”
“She’s just tired and frustrated,” Suguru sighs, tossing his phone aside, “we haven’t exactly made this any easier on her either,”
“I know, which is why we should go make it up to her,” Satoru sighed, “I can tell by her texts that she’s upset — it’s all periods and short one word responses. Y’know that’s bad,” he’s pulling out his phone to show Suguru your texts — and Suguru ignored the several sad selfies Satoru had sent, before handing it back.
“And we should make her more upset by doing the one thing she told us not to do?” Suguru shakes his head, “we’re better off waiting for her to calm down and come to us—“ and Satoru stares at his phone, “what is it? Did she text?”
“No, worse,” he shows Suguru a news article — ARE THINGS HEATING UP ON AND OFF SET? SUKUNA SPOTTED WITH HIS COSTAR GETTING COZY ON PLANES AND IN THE AIRPORT.
And below were images of you and him asleep, fingers interlaced on the plane, and a picture of him with his arm around your waist walking through the airport.
Suguru’s eyes narrow, “Do you want risk losing her, Suguru?” And he knows it’s a bad idea, he knows it may only make things worse, but — he looks at the pictures of you and Sukuna again — losing you would be far worse.
“When’s the flight?”
CLICK!
You stir at the sound, as you hear it again and again, shifting in your sleep. Fuck, what was that noise? Everything’s heavy, thoughts swimming through thick syrup as it tries to break to the surface and into consciousness. Another click makes you grasp at your headphones with one hand, the other caught on something, but you feel nothing but your neck and shirt. And finally, your eyes fly open just to find a camera lens in front of your face, and something holding your hand.
Or rather someone.
“What the—“
“Finally woke up? How was your coma?” and the photographers are shooed away, as you pull your fingers free only for him to drop your hand, wiping your hand on the seat, “I didn’t do anything but hold it,” he shrugs, “probably—“
You scowl, “my headphones?” He holds them up, and you gape at him, “they fell off. You’re quite the restless sleeper,” and you snatch them back.
“They fell off or you took them off for that photo op,” you snap, glancing at him, “since when did I give my permission to be photographed while sleeping?”
“When you decided to go into this business,” he replies drily, dry as his skin was from holding his hand, “are you that naive? Can anyone keep anything from anyone without paying them off one way or another? I’m pretty sure that’s how your little throuple does it,”
And you couldn’t deny it — the paparazzi more than ever was a toll or a tool — a toll to pay when you wanted word to stay quiet, and a tool when you wanted things to blow up. And Satoru had been paying them off since the three of you had started this — insisting that his connection gave him discounts, but it was more likely to blow his father’s money.
“So what was that photo op about?” The plane is slowly descending now, your ears popping, as you spare a glance outside, and he only scoffs, as if to ask if you were that stupid?
“To announce our arrival.”
“Why are there so many security guards and people?” you mutter, tugging at your mask, as you hurry through the airport with what felt like a military and police escort of men around you.
“To create a scene, generate interest,” Sukuna seemed uninterested as he strolled along the airport, raising an eyebrow, “not used to this? The adoring fans,” and you spare a glance at the crowds, taking pictures more than even looking at your actual faces.
“This is adoring?” and then the security guards begin to stumble as the crowd grows a rowdy, as people push through to get through their gates, others try to duck between the security guards to get closer. A security guard knocks against you, nearly sending you tumbling, “what—“
And a wrist grabs you and pulls you hard, as the security guard tumbles to the ground, another arm around your waist. He steadies you, as you sigh, glancing to find Sukuna.
“Be careful,” you blink — wow was he actually a nice— and then he nearly shoved you away, “don’t need you getting injured and messing up my movie,” he strides off, and you watch dumbstruck, as you watch his back recede until bodyguards check on you and urge you along.
You can’t believe you thought even for a second that Ryomen Sukuna was nice.
And now you had to spend the entirety of tomorrow kissing up to him — literally.
Fucking ass.
“You can’t seduce me into letting you go,” Sukuna smiled, one hand on your hip and the other resting against the wall, pinning you against the headboard of the bed, “just because I let you win tonight—“
“Then I’ve won the battle,” you reply, fingers toying with a lock of his hair, twirling it around your finger, before dragging a finger down his cheek, “it’s only a matter of time until I win the war,”
He chuckles, hand cupping your chin, “such a brat, how did I ever fall for you?” And you only lean close, brushing your lips against his chin, delighting in the way his body shivered, “fuck—“
“You love it,” and he’s gotten you pinned to the bed in a moment with one hand, the other large palm sliding up your body, dragging your shirt along with it—
“CUT!”
You both sigh, glancing at the director as you both untangle yourselves — how many times did that make? Twelve? Fourteen?
“I think we’ll be dead before he gets it right,” Sukuna mutters under his breath, as a P.A. brings him a towel to dab at his skin.
“We’re calling it for the day,” the director announced, hair askew from the number of times he had pulled at it, “we’ll resume tomorrow, first thing,” there was almost an audible groan from the crew as everyone packed up for the day.
After all that, you’re making your way to your hotel room when someone stops you, you’re trying to brush past them absentmindedly, but his voice stops you dead in your tracks.
“Can’t run from us that easy, sweetheart,” and your head snaps up, finding Satoru in front of you, and you’re speechless, no words finding their way to your lips, before the hotel room next to yours opens up.
“Princess, in here, before anyone sees,” and Satoru’s hand tries to find yours, but you ignore it, walking into the room, not speaking until the door clicks behind Satoru.
“What the fuck are you guys doing here?” and you waver when you see Satoru’s sad gaze and Suguru’s tight frown, and you sigh, evening out your tone, “sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped — what are you guys doing here? I told you it’s risky—“
“We didn’t want to leave things the way they were, I couldn’t. Not like that,” Satoru shakes his head, “we needed to see you, baby, I couldn’t—“ he breaks off.
Suguru speaks in his stead, “We couldn’t fathom that was the last time we spoke,”
Your brows knit together, “Why would you think—“ and you’re sighing, scrubbing a hand down your face as your words ring in your own ears, and you know where their minds had went — fuck, “I would never ever break up with you two,” you’re stepping forward, “you’re idiots, but you’re mine,” and their arms are slipping around you in an instant, “I just got frustrated with everything, it wasn’t just you guys — the movie, Sukuna, long shoots, lack of sleep, and not seeing you two—“
“We should be the ones who’re sorry,” Satoru mumbles, burying his face in the crook of your neck, “we made it all about us and didn’t see that you needed us,”
“We’re never going to make that mistake again, Princess,” Suguru presses a soft kiss to your neck, and you sigh, stress melting under touch with the ease of a lit candle wick melts wax, “we’re sorry for being so selfish,”
“Yeah, Suguru’s sorry—“ and that earns Satoru a sharp elbow from said actor, “and I’m sorry too. We didn’t mean to add more stress. You’re already dealing with so much. We should have been there for you, sweetheart,” he finds your lips in a sweet kiss that has you sighing, “we trust you — it’s just—“
“Him, I know, but I hate him,” you say, and Suguru chuckles, fingers turning your head towards him, pressing his forehead agaisnt yours, “seriously, everything we’ve done is just for the movie or for publicity,” Suguru kisses you, teeth teasingly running along his bottom lip.
“You seemed pretty cozy with him in those pictures,” Satoru presses open mouthed kisses along your neck, and you blink.
“What pictures?” and then it occurs to you, “on the plane? They framed those—“ and Satoru’s cutting you off with another kiss, “Toru—“ and Suguru nuzzles the nape of your neck, “Sugu—“
“Just let us take care of you tonight,” Suguru murmurs, lazy fingers drawing circles on your hips, “been too long since we’ve seen you, Princess,”
In a moment they have you on your back on the bed, Satoru’s eyes gleaming with need, their hands slipping up your body, “I’m yours,” you murmur, “both of yours.”
And that’s all they needed to hear.
“Toru, I’m trying to make us breakfast,” you chuckle, half laughing, half exasperated, as he nearly engulfs you in a hug from behind, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
“So? I’m not in the way,” Satoru mumbles, sighing as he kisses the skin behind your ear, “right, Suguru?”
“You’re hindering the process, Toru,” you’re trying to flip pancakes for said boyfriend as he traces constellations of kisses against your shoulder and neck, “right Sugu?”
“Now, now, play nice you two,” Suguru replies drily, glancing at the two of you from the couch, “can’t blame us for missing you, sweetheart,”
“Y’know how many months I had to go without being able to cuddle you,” Satoru’s pouting against your skin now, “I have to make up for all that lost time,”
Shooting had finally ended three months ago — after a month and half spent in Canada, you flew back to Japan. Satoru and Suguru had taken up residence in a hotel room next door (under fake names of course) for about a week before flying back because of work. Satoru had tried to convince you to let him fly back and forth, but for the sake of the environment (and your sanity), you sent them both home.
And still, they both were acting as if you had been away for several years, not months.
“Does it have to be now?” And Satoru nods, grinning, and you relent, “well, this is much better than having dinner with Sukuna,”
“There’s a name we haven’t heard in a while,” Suguru raises an eyebrow, as he strolls into the kitchen, hands in his pockets.
“Thankfully,” Satoru adds, brow wrinkled, “what does he want?”
“Just a dinner to celebrate the end of production,” you sigh, as you step past Satoru to grab a plate for the pancakes, “the movie is going to have its premiere in a few months, so it’s also to plan ahead for that,”
“Did they announce a date yet?” Suguru asks, leaning against the counter on the other side of you, beginning to prepare coffee.
“Not yet, but it should be sometime this coming summer,” and you’re flipping pancake after pancake for the three of you, a stack forming, until you’re finally done. You catch the two of them shsring a look, until Satoru asks:
“Can you get us tickets to the premiere?”
“Of course I’m inviting the entire JJK cast,” you smiled, leaning over to press a kiss to Suguru’s cheek, “why would you two be any different?”
“And what about us two?” Satoru hums, as he shuts off the stove for you, daring less than an inch away from your lips, “Do we get the VIP treatment?”
“Uh-huh,” you bite back a laugh.
“Does the VIP package include you?” Suguru murmurs, a smirk against your ear, catching your earlobe between his teeth,
“Of course,” you murmur, as Suguru’s arms wrap around your waist, lips brushing against your pulse, “once we’re away from cameras and phones and press,”
“All access?” Suguru murmurs, large palms slipping under your shirt, making you shiver from their cool touch, and you roll your eyes, as Satoru presses a kiss to your forehead.
“All access.”
“I don’t understand why we had to get ready together,” you grumble, assistants gather around you, one adjusting your gown, another fixing your makeup, and a third trying to tame your hair, “we could have just been picked up and taken to the venue together,”
The two of you had been ushered into these adjoining hotel rooms bright and early — much too early for you to even be awake, much less have to deal with Sukuna. The only consolation was while you were getting your makeup and clothes on, you didn’t have to see him.
“Someone might have seen us,” Sukuna replies, letting the assistant put his watch on, “or your throuple would undoubtedly get in the way,” you shoot a glare at him.
“Can you not call us that? They have names,” and Sukuna scoffs, fingers running over his charcoal suit coat to ensure there wasn’t even a single crease, the cut of his lapels sharp as knives.
“Like I care to remember them, brat,” and you raise an eyebrow.
“Do you even know my name?” he bears no reaction, but the corner of his lips twitch, “you don’t even fuc—“
“Are we all ready?” Your agent enters the hotel room with the director, “we should start heading to the venue,” and Sukuna brushed past you, and out the door, his entourage following behind him.
And you sighed, you were surely ready — ready to put this movie and Sukuna far behind you.
But of course he wasn’t behind you, so much so that he was beside you. Plastered to your side for the press to eat up, his arm slithered around your waist, as you both made your way down the carpeted premiere.
You had been to a premiere for both seasons of Jujutsu Kaisen — but never like this. The camera flashes were blinding, the sounds of the crowd deafening, and the walk down the carpet amongst all these others was disorienting. You were almost grateful for Sukuna’s gruff and short temper, he kept most interviews on the carpet from dragging too long,
You finally make your way inside and Sukuna parts from your side a moment without a word, beckoned off by someone or another. And it feels like too much. The day, the long hours, the carpet — all of it bears down on you at once, and you feel as if someone sucked the air from your lungs, using it to fill this hall with the smallest remnants of oxygen.
Fuck, you grasped tightly to your clutch, you were going to pass out if you didn’t go somewhere, somewhere else with less goddamn people, but where?
And you only take a stumbling step forward, before an arm is around your waist again, and a different voice murmurs in the opposite side, “Lost without us, sweetheart?” Suguru’s voice steadies you, keeps you from slipping deeper away from them, while Satoru’s touch grounds you.
“Let’s get her somewhere private, hm? Does that sound okay, Princess?” And you’re nodding; as the two of them discreetly usher you away, you barely can keep your eyes open, still feeling your breath lodged in your throat, choking on the very thing that was supposed to keep you alive. It doesn’t feel okay until you’re sitting on a bed, holding your head.
You feel the bed divut in as they both sit on either side of you, and their bodies brush against yours as if to ask for permission; and you’re leaning against their touch, until they engulf you in it.
And this was what you needed.
You don’t think about premieres, ruining your makeup, tripping, cameras, or anything else — just both of them and you.
“Are you okay, baby?” Suguru murmurs softly, and you’re nodding, “did you get overwhelmed?” And you nod again, and he sighs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I really wish you could have come with us,”
“I told ya we should have just taken her with us anyway,” you know Satoru’s face is scrunched up in worry, “the movie’s out anyway,”
“Not like I didn’t agree — I just told you she would never agree,” Suguru muttered, most assuredly rolling his eyes, “plus, we said we wouldn’t do that to her again,”
“Can you guys not talk like I’m not here?” and they instantly refocus on you, as you bury your head in the crook of Suguru’s neck, while Satoru does the same to you, pressing butterfly kisses to your skin, as Suguru carefully carded through your locks. And you just sat like that for a while, until you grew calmer by the second and finally lift your head, “sorry,”
“What do you have to be sorry for?” Satoru furrowed his brow, “you didn’t drool all over Suguru’s suit did you?” and you elbow him lightly in the ribs.
“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t mind anyway, I’m used to you drooling on me one way or another,” and now you glare at Suguru, “you’re the one apologizing for no real reason,”
“There is a reason,” you sigh, shaking your head, “we should be out there enjoying the party, but instead, we’re—”
“All alone, with the two most important people to us?” Satoru tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “if anything, this was exactly the VIP treatment I was looking for, just us alone, in a room together?” Satoru’s tilting your head if only to press kisses up the side of your neck, nosing your pulse.
“He’s right, princess, we only came here for you — no one else, we’re so proud of you,” Suguru murmurs, his hand finding its way onto your thigh, “and all we want is to see you happy,”
Happy? When had been the last time you had been happy in the last few months? It had been far too long since it had been consistent — but the two people that ran consistently through every up, far too little downs? Satoru and Suguru. It had been so hard — and now it was almost over. Only a few more interviews and public appearances, and you would be done with Sukuna.
But you didn’t want to think about Sukuna now — you wanted them. More than ever.
Your lips find Suguru’s first, lips sliding against his — a hesitation for a millisecond, before he’s melting into it, his tongue dragging against the seam of your lips, before you’re pulling away, soft pants filling the silence, until a warm hand is turning your head, and Satoru kisses you next, needy and persistent, as he always was, his fingers threaded in your hair, grazing against the nape of your neck. But Suguru doesn’t waste time, a hand sneaking up the silt of your dress, dragging against your pantyhose, snapping the skintight, translucent fabric against your skin.
You part from Satoru for a moment, a string of spit connecting your lips to his, and you see the lipstick smeared on both their lips — you can only imagine what little you have left is painting more than just your lips at this point.
“If we don’t stop right now, don’t know if I can, baby,” Satoru murmurs, guiding your palm to his already hard erection, “it’s risky,”
“It is, someone could catch us,” Suguru is still drawing tempting circles on your upper thigh, his nose brushes against yours as he presses his forehead against yours, “What do you want to do?”
And you knew the right thing to do would be to fix your faces and return to the party, act as if this hadn’t happened, as the three of you suffer through an evening without each other — until you get home far too late and far too tired to fall asleep beside them. That was the right thing, the sensible thing.
But your need for them both was hardly sensible. It wasn’t sensible when the three of you had gotten drunk multiple nights after shooting together — Satoru only drinking a shot each time at your and Suguru’s insistence to get far too plastered too quickly. It wasn’t sensible when the two asked you who the better kisser was — your character the envy of every fangirl as you got to kiss the two “strongest” sorcerers — and then when you cheekily replied you weren’t sure, they didn’t hesitate to kiss you then and there, one after another — and you realized you never wanted to stop (and the three you never did that night). It wasn’t sensible to hook up again a few nights later, heading back to Satoru’s place to hang out, only for the three of you end up in bed together yet again — a habit formed, but that you couldn’t quit. And it surely wasn’t sensible when the three of you had started to date — it was far from it, in a business like this. But you did it anyway — because it was them.
It was always them.
You rise to your feet, facing them a moment, before turning your back to them, looking over your shoulder at them, “Well? You’re going to have to help me get out of this dress because I’m not letting you two ruin it.”
And they share a look, before their lips curl into grins, as they reply.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Of course, baby.”
“Suguru no—“ and he snaps the fabric of your pantyhose against you making you whimper, “I told you not—“
“To ruin your dress, you said nothing about your pantyhose,” his nails digging crescents into your lovely thighs, “and you should worry more about Satoru,”
Satoru’s lips were nearly glued to your neck, tongue dragging up the side, until he pulled away to scowl at Suguru, “Eh? Why me?”
Suguru shrugs, “who left all those marks all over her neck last time?”
“You left marks over her thighs,”
“Jealous?”
“No, but I think you are that everyone saw mine, but no one saw yours,” and Suguru scoffs,
“My marks aren’t for anyone else but me,” and his fingers tear at the fabric of your pantyhose, as you whine, lips curling as your skin is freed, “and if anyone else was seeing them, well,” his thumb drags across the swell of your far too wet cunt, drawing a pretty gasp from your lips, “I’d have to punish her wouldn’t I?” He kisses the skin exposed between the patchwork tears, making you whimper, “make her cum over and over, until she begs me to stop, show everyone how I fuck her well,”
“Not as well as I do,” Satoru replies, “isn’t that right, Princess?”
“I’m not answering that,” you scoff — you knew nothing good came from getting between their fights, except maybe getting between their bodies.
“Then maybe we’ll have to remind you,” Suguru’s hands drag over your legs again, tugging off the shreds of your pantyhose off, “give you our dicks over and over until you tell us which one’s better,”
“Sounds good to me, yeah?” Satoru leans down to kiss the valley of your breasts, before his fingers follow, finding the front latch with a grin, “planned for this sweetheart? And I thought I was the one who wanted this the most,” and he undoes the clasp with practiced ease, your chest exposed to his touch, nipples pebbling under the cool air.
“You still are,” Suguru replies, as he nips at your thigh, eyes flicking down to Satoru’s obvious erection straining against the fabric of his slacks, “ready to burst just from looking at her chest, bet you wouldn’t last a minute getting her off,”
“Oh yeah? Then let’s see who lasts longer,” Satoru undoes and tosses his shirt with ease, his deep blue suit coat long discarded, before he pulls you up into a sitting position while he lies back, and then lifts you with ease onto the middle of his bare chest, “you in her mouth or me eating her out,”
“Toru—“ you squealed, as you squirmed, your already embarrassingly wet panties clinging to your dripping cunt, slick against his skin, but he holds your hips steady with large hands, “I can’t — I’ll crush you—“
“Ride my face, baby,” Satoru smiles up at you, that same smile you could never say no to — the one that made your stomach tie itself in knots, “wanna watch you cum all over my face, wanna walk around covered with your slick m—“
“Fuck—“ you cover your face, cheeks burning, “stop,”
“Already embarrassed? That’s not good, Princess,” Suguru clicks his tongue, as gentle but teasing fingers pry your hands off your face, “can’t have that, we barely started,”
“Please, baby?” Satoru pouts, and you can’t resist — a small nod, and his thousand watt smile almost makes it worth it, “take your seat on your throne, Princess,” you snort, almost.
You gingerly shift yourself over him, still hovering as you hesitate. You whimper as he inhaled, a shudder leaving his body, “how is it possible for you smell so fucking good?” And you hear the distinct sound of him unbuckling his belt and the zipper of his pants, and you knew he was already palming at his length.
Yet still, insecurity creeps up your body from his gaze, as he gazes up at your messy folds “Are you sure I won’t suffocate—” and he leans up to drag his tongue up your clothed cunt, nose bumping against your puffy clit, “ngh, Toru,” his name comes out far too needy for your taste, knees already beginning to buckle, quivering when he tugs at your drenched panties to snap them against your glistening folds, “fuck—” and he’s pulling the thin fabric aside, his warm breath sending ribbons of heat up your body, nearly shuddering from anticipation alone, and it’s nothing compared to when he pulls you down to seat you fully on his face.
“Fuck,” your body folds forward, and you barely catch yourself, as Satoru’s needy tongue drags over the length of your dripping cunt, “Toru, oh my god —- fuck,”
You barely register the creak of the bed, and the rustle of clothes or the click of the belt, “That’s the idea after all, princess,” Suguru knelt before you, his pretty cock aching for you and an inch in front of you — he was thicker than Satoru, lovely veins that you wanted nothing more than to trace, and pretty beads of pre-cum dripping from his slit, “are you going to be a good girl and—” he hisses when your lips part to suckle at his tip,tongue flicking over his slit, before you let his cock part your lips again.
But Satoru wasn’t one to be ignored — his tongue circling your clit faster, as his hands rest on your ass, squeezing, before slapping his hand down against the sensitive flesh, sending you forward onto Suguru’s cock.
Suguru grunts, fingers threading into your strands, nails digging into your scalp, “s’fucking good for me, princess. Such a good cockeater,” his fingers cup your chin, forcing your gaze higher, eyes blown out in pleasure, boobs bouncing with the way you rocked against Satoru’s face and Suguru’s shallow thrusts, the heavy weight of his dick on your tongue.
And Suguru can’t resist — palming at your breasts because you’re so pretty when you whine, as he pinches your erect nipples before rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. You moan around Suguru’s length, your hands grasping at his hips, sloppily sucking him off, as Satoru grinds his face against your cunt.
The wet squelch of your pussy rings in your ears, greedily lapping at your juices like a man wanting to drown, diving deeper and deeper to depths unknown. And when his thumbs reach up to part your hole further apart, you’re nearly choking on Suguru’s dick, as Satoru’s tongue slips into your entrance.
You whine when he teasingly pulls away, pressing sweet kisses to your clit, “Gonna fuck you right, sweetheart — make sure you can’t remember anything tonight except the feel of my tongue inside you, that is, until I fuck you open,” and he’s burying you back, moaning at the feeling of your juices slipping off the side of his face, “gotta open wide for you baby — gotta swallow this whole cunt, yeah?”
And you would have moaned if you hadn’t had your mouth full of Suguru’s dick, nearly beginning to choke on it when he began to lazily thrust into your mouth, a shiver down his spine as he looks at you drooling around his length, sloppily tracing his veins, a graze of his teeth against the sensitive skin, and a hiss parts his lips, “careful there,” and he gives a particularly hard thrust, “don’t want me to fuck this throat do you?” and your moan makes a mean smirk curl his lips, “or maybe you do,”
Fuck, you were getting close — and so was Suguru by the way his hips began to buck into your mouth, and Satoru for that matter — the wet sounds of his fisting his cock along with the messy moans against your cunt sending more pleasure up and down your spine. And fuck, his bucking against his hand was making the bed shake — and god, you’d reach behind you and jack him off if you weren’t holding onto Suguru for dear life.
“That’s it, sweetheart, swallow my cock, fuck, g’nna cum soon,” Suguru’s balls slap against your face as he begins to fuck your mouth in earnest, “Toru looks he’s about ready to burst too, gonna clean up our cocks before we fuck you, pretty?”
“Fuck, she nearly clamped down on my mouth from that,” Satoru says, thoroughly muffled from your heat pressed tight to his mouth, his tongue then returning to fuck you, as you ride his face to find your release, unable to think about anything else but cumming, “cum on my face, baby,” and when Satoru sucks around your clit, a sharp palm bearing down on your ass again, you’re cumming, grinding and riding out your high on his face, as he welcomes your release with an open mouth. The wet sounds of his slurping and sucking, as your juices roll off both sides of his face and stain the mattress underneath him.
And then you’re eagerly sucking at Suguru’s cock, swallowing around him as he fucks your face, “g’nna cum, are you gonna let me cum alone — are you going to help Satoru cum too?” and he’s helping you reach back, leaning back with you so his cock never parts your pretty lips, and right as your fingers brush against Satoru’s cock, squeezing around the base, you hollow out your cheeks, letting Suguru’s tip brush your throat.
They both groan your name as they cum, thick spurts of Suguru’s release down your throat, while Satoru cums all over his stomach and your hand. They slowly still their movements, Suguru slowly pulling his cock from your mouth, strings like a spiderweb of cum and your spit connecting your lips to his dick, and Satoru helps you off his face, eyes shut as your legs are still shaking from the way he ate you out still, as they lay you down on the bed.
Your eyes flutter open to find Satoru licking his face clean, still glossy with your release and his spit, “Fuck, sweetheart, how do you taste so good?” he murmurs almost reverently, a grin on his lips, “I’ll have to sit on my face more often,” and you’re rolling your eyes.
“I don’t know if I’ll be sitting on my throne very often, you weirdo,” you chuckle softly, far too breathlessly, and you turn to Suguru to find him leaning on his elbow, gaze still dark.
“Well, you do have two thrones after all,” Suguru leans down to find your lips in a kiss, tasting himself on your lips, a soft moan pulled from your lips, “you’ll have to use the other at one point or another,”
“Jealous?” you echo Satoru, and Suguru has you pulled into his lap in a moment, your back pressed flush to his chest, his cock already far too hard, far too quickly, and your head falls back as he drags the tip over your still sensitive folds, “a-ah, Sugu, I—”
“The only thing I’m jealous about is that the only thing that’s been in this pretty pussy tonight has been Satoru’s tongue,” and he’s tilting your head down, to watch your cunt rub against his length, a whine leaving your throat that you barely recognize as your own, “think we should fix that, shouldn’t we?”
“Room for another over there?” Satoru adds, drawing closer, his length in hand, as he lazily pumps it to full mast, and you whimper at the sight of him, “our princess is so needy, she needs two of us to fill her, yeah?”
And Suguru takes the opportunity to spread your folds with his hand, and sink his length into you, your head falling back into his shoulder, as a pornographic moans parts your lips, and Suguru is shushing you all the same, as he works himself into you inch by inch, “Don’t want anything to think we’re filming a different kind of movie in here, hm?”
“Imagine the headlines then,” Satoru hums, as he teases your clit with his cock, “movie star found cheating on her co star — one dick just wasn’t enough — she needs two,”
“Can they blame her?” Suguru’s finally inside you fully, his stretch far too delicious, shorting out your nerves with the pleasure — and you swear your cunt was making a mold of his cock, complete with every lovely vein, pretty curve, and each inch, “this pussy deserves the best after all,”
“S’full,” you’re a mess, walls already fluttering around Suguru, practically begging him to begin moving, while welcoming Satoru in with folds that only craved his cock, “so big,” you whine.
“Mmhmm, I know, baby,” Satoru’s tilting up your chin, lips curled in a grin, “Suguru’s almost too much for me — how are you going to fit me too?” and you whimper, shaking your head, “you still want me?” and you nod far too eagerly, and he chuckles, “well, you heard our princess, Suguru, mind giving me a hand?”
And you furrow your brow, unsure, until you feel Suguru’s hands reach around to your front and spreads your pussy lips wider for Satoru, making your cunt clamp down on him, “fuck, she just got tighter,” but Satoru takes it in stride, gathering some of your juices on his fingers to further lube himself up.
“No matter how much we fuck her like this, she’s always so tight for us,” Satoru’s pressing his tip to your spread entrance, and you whimper, “maybe tonight,” his fingers tilt your chin upwards, “we’ll finally fuck her to remember our shapes,”
And he guides his cock into you, and Suguru braces your body against his as your back arches, as both of their lengths stretch you open — like they said, no matter how many times they did this, you never quite got used to it.
But this pleasure? You were far too used to — they had ruined you for anyone else, because no matter what, no man could please you like either of them, much less both of them.
“S’full, fuck, I-I can’t—” your walls are squeezing them hard, dicks rubbing together, drawing deep groans from both of them.
“Don’t have to break our dicks off to get us to fuck you all the time, baby,” Satoru mutters, panting, as he lifts your leg, hooking one around his hip, “already gonna fuck you stupid anytime you want,”
“Shit, I’m not gonna last that long, Satoru,” Suguru says through gritted teeth, pressing heated kisses to your neck, “gonna start moving, sweetheart,” and you’re nodding, as they both begin to fuck you in tandem. Suguru thrusted upwards steadily, forcing you to ride him, allowing his dick to sink into sweeter depths, pleasure ripping up your spine, while Satoru fucked into you at a rough pace, hands gripping your thighs as he did. Both of their movements drove the other deeper into you, reaching depths you didn’t think were possible.
“F-fuck, Sugu, Toru,” you’re babbling, lost in the thick haze of pleasure, dripping over your skin like hot molasses, slow but burning all the same, as your walls fluttered around both of them, “s’good, I can’t—” tears burning at your eyes, as your hands brace themselves on Satoru’s shoulders.
“That’s it, such a good girl, been thinking about you spread out on me like this since the moment I saw you,” Suguru grunts, rutting into you faster, “couldn’t wait to rip off this dress to fuck you right — didn’t think you’d let us so soon,” and you swear their cocks were kissing your cervix at this point, and surely you’d look down and see a bulge in your stomach from how deep they were.
“Pretty girl takes us so well, no one compares to you, sweetheart,” Satoru sighs, watching the way his cock sunk into you again and again, “you’re ours, just ours,”
“I’m close, s’close, g’nna—” pleasure built like a coil in your stomach, ready to snap, and they were only more than happy to pull you apart, as long as they were the only one to put you back together.
And Satoru rubs at your clit, a moan on his lips, “Cum for us princess,” and you do, toes curling as you cum hard with their names on your lips, clamping down around both of their cocks. Low moans of your name leave their lips as they fuck you through your orgasm, hips stuttering when they slowed, “g’nna cum,”
“Where—” Suguru chokes out, and you’re leaning into Suguru, while your arms wrap around Satoru’s neck, pulling him close.
“Inside, please, give me your cum,” And they both moan, slowing until they notch themselves deep as they both cum, thick releases painting your walls, continuing to fuck their cum deeper inside, “ngh, fuck,” And Suguru finds your lips in a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth, as Satoru digs his teeth into your neck, no protest coming to your mind, only just a want for more, more, more.
And they slow, creak of the mattress and the pants stilling into silence, as you lean back against Suguru, Satoru’s face buried in the crook of your shoulder as the three of you bask in the afterglow.
And finally, Satoru slowly pulls himself from you, groaning as he watches the evidence of the double creampie they gave you drips from inside you, “Fuck, sweetheart, we filled you up,”
“A shame to waste it,” Suguru murmurs, as he pulls his softening erection from inside you, “should we plug her up, make her keep our cum inside her for the rest of the night?” and you’re biting back a moan, but Satoru doesn’t miss the way your lower lips twitch.
“Oh, she likes that,” Satoru grins, cupping your face to find your lips in a languid kiss, and you taste yourself on his tongue that teases teasingly over the seam of your lips, “or maybe we should fuck her again and give her more until it drips down her thighs all night, hm?”
And the moment is fraught with tension, as the two of them lean in again to kiss you, before the door bursts open, making all three of you freeze.
Fuck (and not in the good way).
“Oi, what the fuck,” the three of you glance over, as Satoru and Suguru hurriedly covered you up with Suguru’s nearby discarded jacket, “you fucking idiots—”
“Look who’s talking,” Satoru scoffs, “fuck off,”
“I would say the same to you, but you already did,” Sukuna shakes his head, “all night you’ve been gone, and you can’t be bothered to keep track of the time?” and your brow knits together, “it’s nearly time for the fucking—”
“Question and answer, with the press,” the warmth of their embraces erased in a moment by the news, a bucket of ice water spilled over your head, “fuck,” you’re trying to scramble to get up, “fuck, fuck, fuck, I can’t out there like this—”
“No fuck you can’t,” Sukuna scoffs, and Suguru glares at him, as he helps you into your dress, while Satoru stands with his jacket as a partition.
“Stop talking if you’re not going to help,” and you’re lucky the dress doesn’t require six people to get into, and you had chosen something relatively simple, with a fucking string corset you were beginning to regret as Suguru tried to retie it as best he could, “fuck, why was this dress so easy to take off?” But he finally gets it, as you open the bathroom to look at yourself in the mirror.
“My makeup, my hair — I can fix it, but not the way it was before,” you’re covering your face, how was your career over before you barely started? “Fuck, what do I do—”
“It’s simple,” Satoru sighs, “as much as I hate to suggest this, and I probably will go gouge my eyes out—”
You sigh, “Toru—”
“I have an idea,” Satoru’s eyes slide to Sukuna, disgust evident in his face, until he glances back at you, “but we’ll need his help,”
“Don’t worry, I don’t know your name either,” Satoru’s head snaps back to Sukuna.
“You don’t know—”
Sukuna smirks, “What’s the plan?”
Satoru’s expression sours, as he scratches the back of his head, “Well…”
“You surprised me, brat,” Sukuna says, as he holds your arm, as the two of you make your way back into the ballroom, and you’re adjusting your dress, still far too self conscious — as if everyone could see what you did — even though that was the plan.
“That I agreed to this?” you murmur.
“No, that you bit me that hard,” he rubbed the mark you left on his neck, as your cheeks burn, “didn’t expect a tiny thing like you to be able to bite that well,”
“Well, I had to make it look real,” you look away, but look back when you’re about to reach the doors of the ballroom, “fuck, everyone is going to look at us, aren’t they?”
“Let them enjoy the show,” an arm slides around your waist, “you know they will.”
~~~
It’s only been a few weeks since the film premiered, and it’s already far surpassed some of the top grossing films this year. A lot of the buzz generated from the film has been around rumors surrounding the relationship between the two lead co-stars—their tumultuous relationship seems to have come to an end—
And you tune out the video for a moment, scrolling into the comments to see what people are saying:
sukunasthirdleg69: damn can i get on him next? 👅
gegesnumber1hater: wonder if she got back with gojo or geto again? 🤭 I’d like to see that groupchat pop off.
gogecutestprincess replied to gegesnumber1hater: no way she lost her chance with gojo and geto 😤 they deserve better…like each other
You chuckled, at least the news of you and Sukuna had spread as planned. You had enough of the coverage of the premiere with the zoomed in images of your clothes and the marks on both of your bodies. But finally it was done — but how long would it be until you slipped up with Satoru or Suguru and the rumors would begin again?
“What are you thinking about so much? Aside from me,” Satoru collapses on the couch beside you, hair still damp from the shower, arm slipping around your waist, as he leans over your shoulder, “what are they saying now?”
“Just more rumors — some are wondering if we got back together,”
“How could they ever think we let you go?” Suguru presses a kiss to the top of your head, before sitting beside you.
“I still hate that they think the marks I left are from Sukuna,” Satoru mumbles, as you flip through the comments, burying his face further into the crook of your neck, “how could they not realize it was my hard work that put those marks there?”
“Because it’s so distinct,” you snort, and he’s pouting as you press a kiss to his cheek, “not everyone has your sharp eyes, Toru,”
“And yet you saved every picture they got of her,” Suguru smirks, and Satoru glares at him, “but I did too,”
“What are we going to do when they start talking about us again?” Satoru tilts his head at your question.
“Let them,” Satoru leans back on the couch, fingers toying with a strand of your hair, “and if you really don’t like it, we can pay them off,”
“And if I don’t want to pay them off?” Both of them furrow their brows, “what if I want them to know?” You add, chewing on your lip, “about us?”
“You want to?” Suguru’s gaze softens, “but more than us, it could impact your career,”
“It already had,” you scoff, when had it not recently? If it was going to be like this, you would at least like to be in control of the narrative, “everyone is always talking about us, well,” your lips curl into a grin, why don’t we give them something to talk about?”
“And what would that be?” Satoru hums.
You lock your phone screen, “When does shooting and press start for season three of jjk?”
~~~~
A few months later….
“A successful film, several offers to be in other blockbusters, and now you’re back shooting season three of Jujutsu Kaisen,” the interviewer leans back, shaking her head, as she fans herself with her interview cards, “I think we were lucky to get an interview with you now! Although it isn’t in person this time,”
“Well, you can’t forget your roots,” and you couldn’t — this was the first show that had requested you for an interview all those years ago when season one of Jujutsu Kaisen was airing, even if you had relegate them to a video interview, “it feels like this year has been that in many ways,”
“Oh? How is that?” and your lips curl.
“Last year with my first feature film and everything else, it felt like starting over — starting from scratch with something so new that I barely recognized myself at some point,” your hands clasped in your lap, “this year, after the film gained so much traction, and going back to film the show that made my career, it just feels like coming home — especially to the cast,”
“Speaking of the cast, are you going to see more behind the scenes with Gojo and Geto?” she grins, “so many of your videos with those two went viral — are we going to see more of the three of you messing around?”
And you can’t help the smile on your lips, “Oh definitely you will be seeing more of that,” you’re tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and the lights glint off a set of two rings on your finger, diamonds glinting as if begging for notice, and you hear a small gasp.
“Is that—” and you freeze a moment, before your smile grows wider, and the interviewer squeals, “Are you married?”
“Guilty,”
The interviewer grins harder than you are — and you’re not quite sure if she’s more thrilled at the news or of getting this exclusive, “Who’s the lucky man?”
And you open your mouth, when the camera goes out of focus for a moment, only for it to come back into focus with Satoru and Suguru leaning into the frame of the camera, their arms around your sides. And Satoru lowers his sunglasses with a smirk.
“Who said it’s just one?”
✧ a/n: ahh this was super fun to write just because of how much crack it was hahah, i hope you guys enjoyed <3
✧ taglist: @forest-hashira , @supilyu , @yamaguccitadashi, @kentocalls, @magicalgirlb, @ssetsuka , @isabeauwolf , @lemonintrovert01 , @astraecea-silversin , @cerene-dipity , @whorefornoodles , @hobimysolecito , @risuola , @ja-zz , @spider-fan72 , @jayathelostdragon , @therealestpussyeater , @too-much-snow , @umarureid , @rosso-seta , @maddie-jayne , @at-the-chateau , @cherrypieyourface, @sleepysaurusworld , @lucilferz , @spltbtch , @bobfloydluvsblackwomen , @johannakhalafalla , @augustwinesworld , @catsgomurp , @psychxbby, @hellkaiserinphoenix , @sleazymac-n-cheesy , @cstandsforchaos , @sunamatic , @lycoris-01 , @mua-for-now , @being-me-is-not-a-sin , @voids-universe , @caelestine-the-caelicatto , @gorouenjoyer
More Posts from Myfictionalbfs and Others
Words to Die By
The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover
Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader
Summary: Seven years after failing to become an LAPD officer, you return to Los Angeles as a literary analyst with the FBI's behavioral analysis unit to catch a serial killer.
Warnings: angst, violence, discussions of autopsies and forensic science, literary references, fluff and banter, improper use of a meat locker
Word Count: 13k+ words
Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules
As the slick black SUV with US government plates parks outside the LAPD Mid-Wilshire station, you try not to reminisce. It would be too easy to remember how excited you were to walk in on your first day after the police academy, too easy to remember the devastation and heartbreak you felt walking through the same doors after surrendering your badge. You open the car door and focus on the current job, keeping your head down as you follow your team into the station that once felt like home. After finding an empty space out of the officers’ way to wait while your boss speaks to the watch commander and captain, you unlock your phone and scroll through the case details you reviewed on the flight, looking for anything you might have missed.
“Can I help you?”
You look up from your phone, the case detail email disappearing as you press the power button and smile at the LAPD officer standing before you.
“Sorry, I’m waiting for the rest of my team,” you explain before brandishing your badge.
“Oh, no worries. This is my first time working in a task force,” she replies. “It’s exciting.”
You nod and subconsciously tug on your sleeves. Officer Chen is obviously a rookie, and her enthusiasm is refreshing.
“Is this your first time in LA?” she asks.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Chen, Bradford wants to see you before roll call,” another officer calls.
“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.
“He is. Do you know him?”
You look around, then say, “Tim is on, what? His tenth plain clothes day washout?”
“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.
“Nice to meet you, Officer Chen.” You offer your hand and say, “I’m number five.”
Chen’s jaw drops before she asks, “And now you’re FBI? How did that happen?”
“Long story… But I’m a literary analyst for the behavioral analysis unit, not exactly a field agent.”
A passing officer stops, then steps backward to look at you. “Are you on Hotchner’s team?”
“I am. I assume you remember him?”
“You know an FBI agent, Officer Lopez?” Chen asks.
“He was responsible for over 100 convictions of corrupt cops six or seven years ago. Five of them were LAPD, and one was our watch commander,” Lopez explains. “Chen, we need to get to roll call.”
You nod to Lucy, then return your attention to an email from Penelope.
“Your phone should be at least twelve inches from your face to limit blue light exposure,” Spencer says as he enters the station. “Sixteen to eighteen inches is preferable.”
“Spencer,” you reply, smiling as you turn toward him. “Penelope used what appears to be 6-point font and then zoomed out. I appreciate the concern for my eye health but take it up with her.”
Spencer frowns and murmurs, “Sounds like a job for Morgan.”
“What’s that, pretty boy?” Derek inquires as if he was summoned by the utterance of his name. “Gettin’ girlie here a date?”
“In Los Angeles?” you ask incredulously. “Hard pass.”
“Right, because the location is the issue with the plan. Not the fact that we’re working a case, and new evidence was discovered this morning,” Hotch deadpans from your side.
“I can multitask, boss man,” Derek defends, tossing his arm over your shoulders.
“Psychologists have determined the human brain isn’t designed for successful multitasking,” Reid begins. “It can cause switch cost, which results when attention and information retainment are suddenly redirected from one task to another, and cognitive efficiency and performance diminish-“
“Says the walking brain with at least fourteen tabs open,” Derek jokes.
“They’re waiting for us,” Hotch reminds. “I mean, only if you’re ready.”
“Your station,” Derek tells you, shaking your shoulders gently as he follows you toward the roll call room.
“… and there is no excuse for failure to communicate,” Sergeant Wade Grey continues as you follow Hotch into the roll call room.
You stand between Hotch and Derek as he speaks and look around the room. Fourteen officers are seated at the tables, listening intently even as their eyes stray to the case board. JJ joins you a moment later, mouthing an apology to Hotch before passing him a folder.
“More evidence?” you whisper.
She nods, then whispers something to Spencer, who furrows his brows and squints at the case board. You know the look, and it increases your concern about the case. Though there have been two notes and a book tied to the previous crime scenes, you’re unsure why Hotch decided you needed to join them in LA. You could have stayed in Virginia with Penelope, you think, but you trust him and the rest of your team. Turning away from JJ, you fight the urge to peek into Hotch’s open folder as you run your eyes up and down the rows of officers. You recognize Chen and Lopez from this morning, but stop when you see Tim Bradford.
Hotch notices your shoulders stiffen in the split second before you relax, and he taps his elbow against you. You look up at him, and he nods once to reassure you. You’re not alone, and unlike the last time you were in this station, someone else knows the truth of what happened.
“Any questions about the case?” Grey asks. He sighs when someone raises their hand and says, “Yes, Nolan?”
Nolan doesn’t seem concerned with Grey’s lethargy. “What’s the connection between the zoo and the first victim?”
Spencer shifts beside you, and Derek shakes his head in amusement. You can imagine the rambling fighting to get out of Reid, and you smile at Derek rather than laugh.
“I should’ve been clearer. Any questions about our side of the investigation?” Grey amends, and this time the officers stay quiet. “In that case, I’d like to introduce Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI, the BAU unit chief, who has brought his team across the country to assist in this case.”
Hotch walks to the front of the room and sets his files on the podium. He fixes an evaluating glare on the officers before him, then nods.
JJ leans toward you and asks, “Remember how intimidating that look used to be?”
“Still makes me stand up a little straighter,” you admit.
“We’re here to help,” Hotch begins. “But that means that we need you to be as committed to solving this case as we are. If you’re not ready for that, you’re free to go.” No one moves, so Hotch says, “Good. Sergeant Grey has briefed me on each of you. You’re good officers, but street smarts and police procedure won’t get this monster off the street.”
“But talking about the suspect’s feelings will?” one of the officers jokes.
Hotch’s eyebrows raise, and his serious look fades into a knowing glare. “You must be Bradford.”
JJ takes your hand, and Derek exhales. They know more about your history in LA than the people in LA do, and you appreciate their friendship and presence.
“Sorry, sir,” Tim replies. “I only meant that there is tangible evidence at these scenes, and it seems to me that concrete proof will help us find this guy faster than dissecting his mind through his habits and words.”
Hotch returns behind the podium and admits, “I understand how our process could seem like a waste of time, and criminal profiling is not an exact science, we’re wrong sometimes, but you know as well as I do that there’s no one right way to solve a crime. The important thing in this situation is to get a killer off the streets before he claims more lives. If our behavioral analysis can assist in that, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“I can assure you that you have the LAPD’s complete cooperation,” Sergeant Grey interjects, looking pointedly at Tim. “And anyone unwilling to do so will be removed from this task force.”
Tim crosses his arms across his chest and nods, a position you remember well from your limited days as a rookie. You expected this type of attitude from him and possibly more cops. You truly believe that the BAU can offer insights Tim can’t glean from analyzing a crime scene or going through the processed evidence.
“Do any of you have questions for me or my communications liaison?” Hotch asks.
Several officers ask questions about task force protocol, what your team does, and other run-of-the-mill inquiries about the federal agency and its duties.
“I believe it is time for introductions?” Hotch says, stepping to the side as he welcomes Sergeant Grey back to the front of the room.
“The LAPD has selected fourteen of its best officers-“ He turns away from the room and lowers his voice to tell Hotch, “If you’re against rookies on the team, I’ve got some other officers on standby.”
“If you trust them, they’re welcome to stay.”
Grey nods and turns, then continues, “Officer Lopez, Officer Bishop and her rookie, John Nolan, Officer Janssen…”
You tune out most of the officers’ names, trusting Spencer to fill in any blanks for you, until you hear, “Officer Bradford and his rookie, Lucy Chen.”
You were in Lucy’s position just over seven years ago, and now you’re looking in from the outside. You love your job and appreciate the FBI and the BAU for giving you a home and a rewarding career. Yet, sometimes you’re still plagued by the inevitable wondering, what if?
“Pleasure to meet you all,” Hotch responds. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, behind you is my team: Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau…” Hotch meets your eyes before introducing you, and you watch him rather than Tim, who turns quickly in his chair and stares wide-eyed at you before controlling his expression and returning to his usual composed demeanor.
“How is a literary analyst helpful?” someone questions softly.
“This unit has taken down more serial criminals than you can name,” Wade snaps. “Show a little respect.”
“We’d like to brief you before the media,” Hotch explains. “If it’s possible to reconvene before tomorrow’s patrol begins, of course.”
“Not a problem. I want all of you back in here fifteen minutes before beginning of shift tomorrow,” Wade tells his officers. “Keep the conversation in this room, understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the officers respond as they stand and file out of the door, some whispering together, others leaving quietly and alone.
“I think that went well,” Derek says as Hotch gathers his things.
“Socially speaking, there was a divide and a complete lack of faith in us,” Spencer argues. “Though there is the question of authority and a misunderstanding regarding our purpose and purview.”
“Pretty boy and I are going to go find some coffee.”
As Derek and Spencer leave, and JJ excuses herself to answer a phone call, you’re left alone with your current supervisor and former watch commander.
“It’s good to see you,” Wade says, smiling as he pulls you into a hug.
“You, too,” you respond. “Sorry I haven’t been back as much as I’d like.”
“I understand,” Wade assures. “And it seems that you’ve found your perfect place in the BAU.”
“We like to think so,” Hotch agrees. “Although…”
“Bradford won’t be a problem,” you interrupt.
Hotch tilts his head questioningly, and you add, “He fights back on new things, but he’s a good cop, so he’ll do what’s right in the end.”
Hotch hesitates, then asks, “Do you trust him?”
“With my life.”
“He’s the best I’ve got,” Wade comments. “But if there’s a question about him…”
“He’s Morgan, but more serious,” you tell Hotch. He doesn’t change his stare, so you sigh and promise, “I want him here. There’s no bad blood between us and he’s going to be invaluable in this.”
Hotch nods and looks away from you finally and begins asking Wade about one of the files turned in the night before, which you understand as your cue to leave. After you step out into the bullpen, Derek returns to your side.
“Where’s Spencer?” you ask, looking over his shoulder.
“Telling Officer Chen about the health benefits of doing something boring. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Hotch doesn’t seem to think so.”
Derek gasps and holds your shoulder to exclaim, “You have two overprotective father figures to work for now!”
You consider arguing for less than a second before you realize he’s right. Wade stayed in touch after you left LA. Hotch has never left room for you to wonder how he sees you and his need to protect you. So, you’re working on a case that feels like two different versions of your personality, and parts of your life have combined into one perfect yet terrifying case. And you haven’t even talked to Tim yet.
“I hope our hotel has a hot tub,” you lament.
“Plain clothes day washout number five, huh?” Lucy asks Tim as they patrol Los Angeles.
Tim shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He’s gone seven years without talking about you, only having to relive the heartbreak on your face and the disappointment he felt during his loneliest nights. Tim saw great potential in you, considered you more than a rookie, and taking your badge had affected him in a way he never expected. Now, you’re in the FBI, which is news to him, and you’re working on a case that he hasn’t been able to solve even with ten crime scenes to work with.
“What happened?” Lucy tries.
“None of your business, Chen,” he snaps. “That case, Hotchner’s team, all of it stays in the roll call room for now. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
A bell chimes above your head as you enter your favorite Los Angeles diner. It’s your first night in the city, and since you don’t know how long you’ll be here, you wanted to revisit it while you had a chance. When you mentioned the diner, your team gave you their orders to bring to the hotel, where they’re currently reviewing the autopsy reports. It feels wrong to leave them, but you sigh in the comfort of a place that once provided you a refuge after long days.
“Old habits?” you ask as you approach the counter.
Tim looks up from the laminate and watches you. You don’t meet his gaze but look at the menu while you wait for the waitress to return. This was your favorite diner when you started at the LAPD, and Tim has never given himself time to wonder why he kept coming back even after you left.
“Something like that,” he says. “So, uh, the FBI. That’s incredible.”
You shrug. “Not what I wanted, but I love it.”
Tim nods, unsure what else to say. You’re not the girl you were on day one in the academy, not even the girl who left the station in tears after washing out. Tim still sees you, the woman who fought for what was right never gave up, and was smarter than she ever realized. That’s not the person he saw your last week on patrol, but he knew you were still in there somewhere.
“How long have you been with the BAU?” he inquires.
The waitress returns, and you take the excuse to not answer Tim. You retrieve your phone from your pocket and read a large order from the screen, then pass a shiny, FBI-issued credit card over the counter.
“It’ll be a few minutes, hun,” the waitress informs as she returns the card. “Feel free to have a seat.”
You thank her and slide onto a stool, ensuring you leave an empty seat between you and Tim.
“Failing to become a police officer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced,” you confess. “A few months later, Aaron Hotchner knocked on my door. There was a case nearby, a serial rapist who was leaving personalized love letters with every single victim. He found my résumé on a local job board and came to ask for help because of my background. The rest just fell into place, I guess.”
“You get to carry,” Tim points out, gesturing toward the holster on your hip, concealed from everyone else by your shirt. “They don’t let people who just ‘fall into place’ do that.”
“I did everything by the book, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m wondering what changed on plain clothes day,” he responds. “You were on track to be an amazing officer, and then that last week, you just… something changed.”
“I did.”
“There’s more to it.”
“There’s really not,” you insist. “If you don’t want to be on this task force-“
“I do. I wish you could see that you have the potential to lead it.”
“Hotch saved my life. I trust him.” Tim understands the part you don’t say: that you trust him more than yourself.
The waitress returns with two full bags, and you stand as you take them from the counter.
“Goodnight, Tim. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”
As you leave, the bell chimes over the door again, and Tim hears your voice in his head, the promise of another chance, but he doesn't miss the fact that you leave every time you see each other.
“What if - and hear me out on this - you just told him the truth,” Derek suggests.
You take a drink from a cheap Styrofoam cup and nod. “You’re right, Derek, why didn’t I think of that?”
“You know, most hotel chains serving breakfast fail to maintain proper culinary heat-“
Hotch raises one finger before Spencer can ruin breakfast for everyone. “Don’t.”
“I agree with Morgan,” JJ says. “There’s clearly questions there, and if you explain what happened, he’ll trust you more.”
“And he can deal with some of the guilt,” Hotch grumbles.
“What guilt?” you inquire, pausing with a cheap metal fork in your hand.
“He clearly blames himself for letting you lose your position,” Hotch explains.
“He knows how good you are, so that final week probably doesn’t make any sense to him,” Derek adds.
“He doesn’t,” you mutter. “He told me last night-“
“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.
“I ran into him at the diner.”
“He still goes to your diner?” Derek questions.
“It’s just a diner! But I saw him there and he insisted that there was more to what happened than me changing.”
“And you lied to him?” Hotch responds. “It’s over, you can tell him, you can shout it from the top of the Chinese theater.”
“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.
“And wouldn’t change anything,” you add. “We’re here to work a case, not mend a bridge that has been-“ you scramble for the right word before finishing, “disintegrating for nearly a decade.”
Derek groans as he leans back in his seat, and Hotch finally looks up to say, “If this gets in the way of the case, I’ll have Garcia email him everything he needs to know.”
“I’m cutting holes in all of your quarter-zips tonight,” you threaten in return.
Hotch frowns and mouths, You’ll never find them all.
“Good morning,” Sergeant Grey calls as the door closes behind the twentieth and final member of the task force. “SSA Hotchner is going to fill you all in.”
“Thanks for coming in early,” Hotch begins. “There have been no new developments in the case since yesterday, but my team has created a preliminary profile based on the preexisting evidence and details from the first ten victims.”
Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from Garcia, and you exit the room to answer. “Whatcha got for us, gorgeous?”
“Ooh, does Derek know you’re talking to me like this?” she replies, her keyboard clicking in the background.
“Not like he’s competition,” you say with a playful scoff. “Find anything on the deep dive?”
“Nothing inherently helpful. The prelim suspects are all pretty similar, though one of them did alibi out. Carson Gillery was working remotely from Chicago during the second and third murders. Hotel and airline checks corroborate that.”
“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Fine. Why?”
She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.
“Garcia?” You ask.
The line beeps as she disconnects, and a phone on the desk closest to you begins ringing. A Virginia area code appears on the caller ID, and you stretch across the desk to pick up the receiver.
“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.
“He’s in the data!” she explains, typing again. “He’s not doing much, but someone is overriding minor coding and there was another line tied into our call. I could hear him breathing; thought you were crying at first, but now I’m running a backward search to find this psycho.”
“None of the prelim suspects would know how to do that,” you point out.
“Uh oh,” Penelope breathes. “I think… I think he left you a message.”
“What is it?”
“It’s in the seventh victim’s ME report, overwriting the details of the posthumous wounding to the back. It says 2/18/17… It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”
“Henley,” you murmur, trying to connect the dots as you forget the first half of the message.
“There’s more,” Penelope says. “A copy of your one-way ticket to Virginia with an alternate ID that says, ‘thanks for the perfect opening night.’”
“It’s about me?” you whisper.
“I’m going to trace these messages,” Penelope declares. “You tell Hotch about this, and please, please do not try to investigate this on your own.”
“You got it. But can you send me a scan of page 39, no- 38, from the William Ernest Henley book in my office? I need the annotated copy of Invictus.”
“You got it. Tell Morgan and I said hi and I’m wearing-“
You hang up and take a deep breath as you return the receiver to the cradle.
“Agent Hotchner,” you call as you return. “I need a word.”
“Let me finish-“
“There’s been a development,” you interrupt. “An urgent one.”
Hotch sees the look in your eyes and calls Spencer to the front of the room to continue reviewing the patterns in the killings and to discuss the psychological traits and drivers they suspect the killer will have. Derek watches as Hotch and Grey follow you out of the roll call room. Meanwhile, JJ watches Officer Tim Bradford as he manages to conceal his concern but not his interest as he watches you through the glass walls.
“Garcia called with information on the prelim suspects,” you explain. “Someone tapped into the call, and then… whoever it was started manipulating her date on the FBI server. She did say that Carson Gillery alibied out, he was out of state for several of the murders, but whoever this guy is, he is incredibly close to this case.”
“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.
You wring your fingers together as you answer, “He left a message. Garcia thinks it was for me.”
“Left it where?” Grey inquires.
“The seventh victim Mel Houghton’s autopsy report. It was a date and a line from a William Ernest Henley poem.”
“The date?” Hotch presses.
You inhale deeply before saying, “February 18, 2017.”
“The day you lost your position in the LAPD,” Grey remembers. “What does it mean?”
You look toward Hotch, and he shakes his head twice. There isn’t an obvious answer to Grey’s question, but the implication that this case has something to do with you isn’t good.
“He… he also had a picture of my plane ticket to Virginia and added a note, something about ‘thanks for the opening night,’” you add. “Hotch, if you have to take me off this case-“
“We need you,” he interjects. “The literary aspect of this case is progressing.”
“Does that mean we could limit our suspect search?” Wade asks, looking between you and Hotch.
“Not likely,” you reply with a sigh. “Plenty of literature enjoyers can’t be located purely based on that. There’s no evidence he’s educated or active in book clubs, debates, anything.”
“Garcia’s tracing the data changes?” Hotch assumes.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we work what we can until she gets back to us.”
“I need to see the novellas left with the victims,” you request. Hotch begins to speak, and you add, “Not the scans, the actual, physical stories left with their bodies.”
“I’ll get someone to go through the evidence with you,” Wade assures. “Any preference?”
You look into the roll call room through the glass sheeting, your eyes drifting past Tim as you decide, “Officer Chen, please.”
Wade nods once, then returns to the podium inside as Spencer concludes his comments on the psychology of the killer’s modus operandi.
“What are you expecting to find?” Hotch asks you.
“I really wish I knew,” you answer softly. “Hotch, what if this is all my fault?”
“The delusions of a killer have nothing to do with you. If something you did as an officer triggered him to start, there is no reason to assume he wouldn’t have started later. He’s clearly reality-challenged, living in a space between this world and the events of his imagination, and that is not on you.”
You nod, rubbing your forehead as you think. “Literature is clearly important to him. If it comes to it, will you let me go with JJ to a press conference?”
Hotch hesitates, and you know he doesn’t like the idea of putting his team in public view, unless absolutely necessary, but he says, “Fine. Only if it gets that far.”
“Hotch? February 2017 had massive storms. Urban flooding, mudslides, wind, snowfall, there was mayhem that week. I mean, a police chase with a DUI driver, a car fell into a sinkhole. I used some of those cases to…” You trail off, remembering all of the things you did wrong.
“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.
“Any one of the people who had contact with the LAPD that weekend could have been pushed over the edge. He could have been killing for seven years, since whatever happened, but just got bold and brazen enough to make it public.”
Hotch leaves your side for a moment to wave Spencer out. When he joins you and Hotch in the bullpen, Hotch gestures for you to explain your theory.
“I suppose,” Spencer muses. “The killings have progressed minimally since the first victim three months ago. It does point toward a more practiced unsub, someone who has, in their mind, perfected their method. Yes, it’s completely possible.”
“The books,” Hotch points out. “Those are new. Unsolved cases with novellas or poems shoved down victims’ throats would have caught someone’s attention by now.”
“Serial killers gain experience with each new offense,” Spencer explains. “The learning curve is steep because of the logistics it takes to commit a murder. If he’s been killing without being caught, the thrill of killing would empower him to take more chances. In this case, the trophy aspect of his MO could easily have changed, but his idiosyncratic psychological needs remain the same.”
“We don’t have enough people to comb through seven years of cold cases to find similar killings,” you lament.
“We do have the media,” JJ interjects, sliding her phone into her pocket as she approaches. “It’s a long shot, but if we could find one or two, would it be enough to complete a profile?”
“An estimate of how long he’s been at this, with Garcia’s trace and the analysis of the literature at the scene… Yes, we could establish a firm MO and improve the unsub’s psychological profile.”
“Hold on,” Derek urges into his phone as he joins the rest of your team. He looks at you and says, “Give me your phone.”
You pass it to him, and he flips it in his free hand as he listens. He gives you an apologetic look and then drops it.
“Morgan!” Hotch exclaims as Derek brings the heel of his boot down on your phone screen.
“Unless Penelope told you to do that, I’m going to be very mad,” you say.
“Alright, baby girl, tell us all,” Derek requests as he puts his phone on speaker.
“I found our guy, or his IP address at least,” Penelope says.
“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”
“That’s the thing. He’s in an apartment a few miles from the station.”
You recite your previous address and Penelope murmurs, “That’s the one.”
Penelope explains how she traced his data trail before you interrupt to ask, “Is there anything about another cop in it?”
“Uh, there were some numbers,” she answers.
“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”
“Amongst others, yeah. Do they mean something to you?”
“One is Officer Bradford’s badge number. The other is Sergeant Kenneth Adamson.”
“I’ll run the rest of the numbers against the LAPD database and get back to you.”
“Are all of our phones in need of stomping?” Spencer asks before Penelope hangs up.
“Not yet,” she replies, and then the line clicks.
“Running everything is going to take too long,” you complain. “He’s probably already targeted his next victim. He could be writing the novella for all we know!”
“His system is organized,” Spencer explains. “We can use that. The past victims have been a week or more apart. Even if he does change his timeline because we’re here, he needs time to plan, write, correct?”
“Yes,” you answer. “He could do it overnight if the circumstances called for it.”
“Assuming he’ll take a break between kills, however…”
“We have two days,” Derek concludes. “Let’s hope he’s not too organized, doc.”
“He’s a criminal,” JJ says. “They all get stupid and forgetful.”
“We don’t change anything. He’s changing the rules, pushing himself, but we’re not playing his game,” Hotch says. “And, for the moment, we keep the LAPD connection to ourselves.”
“What if they could help?” JJ argues.
“No.”
“Act like we have a week, and he won’t expect us to be ready to go,” you say. “In that case, I’ll start analyzing the literature.”
“Speaking of which.” JJ pulls a paper from her bag and says, “The homicide detective said CSI found this on a secondary scene analysis.”
You read the scan of the evidence, and your eyes widen as you look up at Derek. “Good thing you came with. He’s building a bomb.”
“Whoa,” Derek says with little intonation in his voice, but his hands raise as he moves his head in surprise. “Explain the progression from writing stories to bombs.”
“Postmodern literature is the most recent literary movement that contains vulgarity in diction and violence. It’s often used as an authentic portrayal of humanity, depicting violence against gender, race, and the human body,” Spencer answers. “Epic poetry was one of the first storytelling forms to depict interpersonal violence.”
Derek rolls his eyes at Spencer’s reply to the rhetorical question, and you add, “The Victorian literary period was marked by violence through the use of suffering and physical dangers as literary themes. The gothic genre aestheticized the darker elements of human life, explored sexual violence, dramatic monologues, and realistic violence like robbery, beheadings, even serial murders.”
“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.
“William Ernest Henley was a prominent figure in the later years of the Victorian movement. He sent lines from Invictus to Garcia, and that piece has been the poem of choice for extremists and terrorists to justify their violence in the last few years. There is some hardship beyond our killer’s control, and this is how he’s dealing with it.”
“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.
“Wouldn’t he have to stop all of the suffering somehow?” JJ asks.
“Yes. But he hasn’t decided on an endgame yet, we’ll see the signs of that when it comes. The beginning of a plan for a bomb isn’t concerning yet. For now, we continue as planned, but he will likely strike again in 24 to 48 hours.”
“They’re getting concerned,” Derek whispers, waving toward the roll call room.
“I’ll handle them. You have your assignments,” Hotch states. “We reconvene tonight after end of shift.”
“Yes, sir,” you agree with the rest of your team.
As you return to the roll call room between JJ and Derek, you keep your eyes on the front of the room, ignoring how Tim turns to look at you. Hotch gives an acceptable excuse for your team’s private meeting and then provides tasks with Sergeant Wade.
“What about me?” Lucy asks as the other officers exit into the bullpen.
“You’re with me,” you reply, stepping toward her as you smile. “If that’s okay.”
“Yes!” Lucy cheers. She clears her throat and amends, “Yes, of course, I’d love to help.”
“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.
“Yes, sir. Oh, and…” You move your fingers in a scissor motion to remind him of your previous threat before concluding, “Spencer has the information you asked for.”
Hotch nods once, and Wade smiles. Suddenly, you’re hit with the feeling of being torn apart, stuck between the life you wanted and the one you have. When the case is solved, the killer is behind bars, and you’ll have to leave these people again. At least you’ve finally remembered that planes travel both ways.
“Ten victims,” you say as you pin the last picture to the bulletin board in the office you and Lucy have set up. “Six novellas, a book, two pamphlets, and a bloody poem.”
Lucy’s eyes follow the red thread connecting the victims to their evidence and the order of the killings as you stare at the T.S. Eliot poem from the fifth scene with your hands on your hips.
Plus, a William Ernest Henley poem meant to bring me into the killer’s world, you think.
“Ready?” you ask Lucy.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You laugh and invite her to use your first name, then spread the evidence pictures from the first murder on the metal desk. It isn’t the same as reviewing the physical books and poems, the thick paper holding the twisted ideas of a serial killer left warm from the printer beside the lives he claimed for the sake of his own story. It’s the best you can do for now.
“Janice Davis, our first victim. The killer stapled a San Diego Zoo pamphlet to her chest.” You flip through the case file and add, “Antemortem. Ouch.”
“That looks like a building staple,” Lucy muses, leaning over the picture.
“It is. Your forensics lab determined it’s a Powernail galvanized seven-eighths inch crown staple. Intended purpose is woodworking and flooring, and one side of the staple extends out at an angle, so even if she was conscious long enough to try removing it… well, it would’ve hurt more to take it out.”
“What was the cause of death?”
“Unknown,” you read, furrowing your brows. “Manner of death: homicide. But it looks like they couldn’t determine the cause. Any chance ME Daniella Smith is still around?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy confesses. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Sorry, you’re good at this, I keep forgetting you’re a rookie.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever told me.”
You smile, then return to the evidence before you. “The next victim, Gregory Hunter, was found with a copy of Orwell’s Animal Farm open beneath his head. The page, as far as I can tell, is irrelevant.”
“Then what’s the point of leaving it there?”
“Hunter was Davis’s boss, and apparently they had been involved a few years prior to working together. Animal Farm presents Orwell’s ideas on power, equality, socialism and corruption.”
“All things the San Diego Zoo has been accused of abusing throughout history,” Lucy adds. “Along with the animals.”
“Precisely. Then it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that our killer was wronged by a failing class structure, abuse of power and control, inequality, or socialism.”
“That’s a lot of options.”
“Which is why we keep looking. Victim number three had a personalized novella…”
“The method of killing has been consistent with every victim. They’re injured, kept alive for three to twelve hours, and then killed. Janice Davis, victim one, was ruled as undetermined cause of death, but there was no evidence of blunt force trauma, gunshot wounds or poisoning, which we’d expect based on the sudden killings of the others,” Spencer explains.
“You can tune him out,” Derek whispers. “When his voice drops an octave, he’s about to ask a question.”
Tim nods, but he wasn’t listening to begin with. His mind keeps drifting to thoughts of you. He watched you talk to your team, has worked with you, and knows the depth of your talent and potential. Yet he continues to wonder how you truly came to work at such an elite division in the FBI and what you’re hiding.
“Do any of you have experience with crime scene investigation?” Spencer asks.
Several officers raise their hands, including Angela. Tim has guarded scenes and looked around on his own time, but he isn’t sure when his unique skills will be required for this case.
“Morgan,” Hotch calls from the doorway. “Take an officer to gather the literary evidence. Someone with a station ID has to sign it out for us.” He looks towards the front of the room and sighs. “And tell Spencer to wrap it up.”
“Doctor Morgan,” Derek calls as he stands. “Perhaps we should move on to the evidence snapshots and physical profile?”
Spencer nods and shifts his attention to the tools and proposed appearance of the killer.
“I’ve got a station ID,” Tim tells Derek. “If you need that evidence now.”
Derek sighs but waves for Tim to join him. He remains quiet while they walk to the evidence lockers, largely because he’s evaluating Tim. Derek knows about your time in Los Angeles, and even if he did encourage you to talk to Tim, he isn’t sure if Tim deserves your time.
“You were military?” Derek asks as they wait for the evidence to be thoroughly signed out and accounted for.
“Army,” Tim responds. “FBI always the goal for you?”
“Oh, nah, I started as a cop up in Chicago. Things just happened.”
“Seems to be a lot of that,” Tim murmurs, remembering your ‘fell into place’ excuse.
“Why be a TO?”
Tim shrugs. He’s never had a good answer for that question, and if he starts thinking, he might get caught up on his fifth washout.
“Special Agent Morgan,” the evidence officer says as he places a large box on the ledge. “Your supervisor has to sign this form upon evidence return.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
Derek picks up the box and steps back, but the officer places another box behind it. Tim takes it without a word and follows Derek to an office with a closed door.
He taps his foot against the door and calls, “Open up, pretty girl, these muscles are just for show!”
You smile as you open the door, and Tim clenches his jaw at the realization that Derek Morgan just called you ‘pretty girl.’
“I fear you’ve mistaken me for Penelope,” you tell him as you hold the door. “Thank you so much.”
Tim nods as he places the box down, and then looks at the case board.
“Oh, Tim,” Lucy says. “Do you know if ME Daniella Smith is still working?”
“She retired,” Tim replies.
You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”
“I can get her address and phone number, though,” he offers, partially to help and partially because he hates how disappointed you look.
“That would be amazing!” you reply happily. “Lucy, feel free to go with him, move around for a few minutes.”
Lucy follows Tim, and you close the door to talk to Derek. You explain that the literature points toward class structure, abuse of power, or socialism.
“Maybe he should move to Canada instead of killing then,” Derek muses. “Have you told Hotch?”
“Not yet. There’s also the string of violence in the literature. At first, it was metaphorical violence, a symbolic representation of the dangers of power in society, but it’s gotten more blatant, more Victorian in its realism.”
“The novellas?” he guesses.
“I haven’t gotten to read them in their entirety yet, I’ll start that now, but I’d guess he’s outlining his preferred method of violence as well as the reason.”
“Think it will shed some light on the explosives schematics? Which, by the way, are pretty weak. A bomb like that would be hard pressed to flip a Prius, it wouldn’t do major damage unless it was an incredibly confined space.”
“Ask Spencer what he thinks about the space,” you suggest. “The killings have been in relatively open spaces, but he’d know better than me if it means anything.”
“I’ll run it by him if I can get a word in.”
You laugh at Derek’s joke, but he turns serious again to ask, “Are you okay? I know this can’t be easy for you, working a case here after seven years.”
“I’m okay,” you promise. “I’ll let you know if that changes and I need a Morgan hug.”
Derek smiles as he opens the door, and Tim and Lucy return soon after.
“She lives three miles from here and said she’d talk to you,” Lucy relays.
“Let me tell my team.”
Tim raises a hand to stop you as you gather your things and repeats, “She said she’d talk to you. She recognized your name.”
“Oh.” Hotch walks by the door, and you step out quickly to explain, “I found the ME who couldn’t determine Janice Davis’s cause of death. She’s retired, but lives nearby and agreed to talk to me, but only me.”
Hotch weighs his options, but when he sees Tim behind you, he suggests, “Then you should probably take your TO.”
Your eyes widen in shock, but you trust Hotch, so you nod and step back into the office.
“You don’t have to,” you begin as Tim asks, “Ready?”
You fail to find the right words for several moments, then say, “Lucy, do you want to help Derek Morgan review crime scenes for construction and security?”
“Sure! Let me know if you need more help with this stuff when you get back,” she responds. “Good luck!”
“Thanks,” you say, though you think I’ll need it.
“Do you want to drive or should I?” Tim asks once you’re alone.
You lift keys from your pocket and say, “I will. Do you think Smith will be any help?”
“We can hope.”
“Can I address the elephant in the room?” Sergeant Grey asks.
“Be my guest,” Hotch answers, not looking up from his improved profile.
“Bradford isn’t operating at his usual level.”
“She is.”
“Which is why I think there may be more to his side of the story.”
Hotch looks up to propose, “You think he had something to do with Adamson’s misconduct?”
“No,” Wade assures, “nothing like that. But two days of fire-able offenses and not a single correction from her TO? Bradford either didn’t care that she gave up or, for some reason, he wasn’t in a position to.”
“The corruption we found ran deep. There’s a chance he was hoping to get a piece of the takeaway… or he was in a similar position to her.” Hotch reaches for his phone quickly after he speaks and raises it to his ear. “Garcia, I need you to run the badge numbers again. Tell me how many of them had a direct connection to Keith Adamson.”
“One second,” Penelope requests. “Software’s running it now. Oh, the medical examiner, Smith, she resigned less than an hour after the charges against Adamson came in. Thought that was interesting.”
“That’s one connection.”
“Okay, yep, all ten of the badge numbers embedded in the coding have connections to Adamson. Seven subordinates, his captain, and two IA investigators.”
“Thanks, Garcia.” Hotch ends the call and tells Wade, “Whatever Adamson did, it wasn’t just skimming the evidence pile, it pushed our killer over the edge.”
“I remember Janice Davis,” Daniella Smith says as she passes you a mug of hot tea. “She was young, twenty-six, I believe, and had a construction staple in her sternum.”
“Your official report listed the cause of death as indiscernible,” you reply, wrapping your hands around the mug as your thigh presses against Tim’s on the small settee. “Do you remember if you may have had any hypotheses?”
Daniella sighs as she lowers into a chair across from you. “It was asphyxiation. Her mouth was sealed with superglue, and she couldn't get enough air after a few hours of lying horizontally.”
Tim looks at you before demanding, “Why didn’t you put that in the report?”
“I was scared.”
“And you think the people living here weren’t?”
“Tim,” you whisper harshly. You shake your head as Daniella shrinks in her seat. “Why were you scared, Ms. Harris?” She shakes slightly, and you give her a moment to breathe before you ask, “Did someone at the police station ask you to lie?”
She laughs once, a sad sound before she wipes her nose and corrects, “He threatened me if I didn’t.”
“Who?” Tim asks.
“Sergeant Keith Adamson. He was the watch commander at the time. My career, my life, my marriage, he threatened to ruin it all if I didn’t cover up how she was killed.”
“Was there residue?” you inquire. “From the superglue?”
“There were trace amounts, and the lab was able to identify it easily.”
“It was the only death to be covered up, why do you think that is?”
Daniella looks up quickly, her eyes wide as she states, “Because it was an experiment. The others were killed more conventional, faster: a slit throat, hammer to the temple. Her death would have taken time.”
“Was the time of death in your report accurate?” you ask. “Because it was around the same time as the others even with the changed MO.”
“It was,” she explains, “he must have taken her earlier to get a head start.”
“You said it was an experiment,” Tim repeats. “She was victim number one. If it didn’t go well, wouldn’t the others have just been an improved, or changed, MO?”
Daniella frowns, and you lean forward to ask, “How many more were there?”
Tim slams the passenger door as you return to the car. Daniella disappears from the front window, crying as you start the engine.
“The FBI will charge me if this car gets damaged,” you mumble as you shift into reverse.
“Thirty deaths that she knows of!” Tim exclaims. “How could she cover all of those up?”
“Pretty easily. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.”
“This monster has been at it for years. You were probably on the job for some of his murders, how can you say that?”
“It’s not my place to judge everyone involved in this case, Tim. Not yours either.”
Tim scoffs, but he’s interrupted by your phone ringing. You answer by saying your last name and Hotch’s voice fills the car as he speaks.
“There’s been another murder,” he says. You slap the steering wheel before he continues, “A double murder. I’m sending you the address. Drop Bradford at the station and meet us there.”
“Yes, sir.”
After the call ends, you grit your teeth to keep yourself from yelling. You spent too much time with the retired ME, and two more people are dead now.
“I’m going with you,” Tim states.
“No, you’re not. You heard him, you’re going back to the station.”
“You need me-“
“Actually, we don’t. We have jurisdiction now, Tim,” you snap.
“Do they know about everything you did your last week on the job?” Tim challenges. “How you ignored calls, put yourself, and me, in danger just to let the clearly guilty criminals go? I mean, you let a guy get away with assault and your handcuffs!”
You don’t reply because your mind begins racing. You had forgotten about that specific incident. Your last two days on the job were a blur, just forty-eight hours you have done everything you could to forget.
“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.
“What?” Tim snaps.
“Nothing, Tim. I’m sorry you’re not happy, but you don’t have authorization to join me, and I’m done breaking the rules.”
“Convenient.”
You hit the brakes too hard as you stop outside the back entrance of the station. Tim slams the door again before he walks inside, and you shift into park to call Derek.
“Are you still at the station?” you ask when he answers.
“We’re about to leave,” he replies. “Did you beat us to the scene? You know speed limits still apply to federal agents, right?”
“No, I’m at the station too. I need you to - without raising suspicion - get Hotch and Sergeant Grey out here.”
“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”
“Because I think I know who the killer is. Bring the novella from the ninth scene, it’s Heralded Angels.”
“You got it.”
You can hear the strain in Derek’s voice, but there’s too much on your mind to dwell on his reaction right now. After Hotch, JJ, Derek, and Spencer join you in the FBI-issued SUV, you follow Sergeant Grey, driving an unmarked car, to the double murder scene.
“You had something for me?” Grey asks as you approach the townhouse.
“I do. Trust me for a few more minutes and I’ll tell you everything?”
Wade nods, and you enter the bloody living room with your team. JJ waits outside, and as you squat beside a bookcase covered in blood splatter, you know you’re right.
“Alexander Riley,” you announce, pushing against your knees to stand. “I think he’s our killer.”
“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”
“Alexander Riley is one of the men I should have arrested my last week as a rookie.” You look toward Wade as you continue, “He assaulted a store owner while looting during a flood, and I let him get away. He ran away with my handcuffs, but I didn’t try to stop him because I was sure Sergeant Adamson would have used it against me.”
“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.
“Right, and class system. You know, cop doesn’t do what cop is supposed to do. So, he may have taken his escape as a sign that something needed to change.”
“Based on his killings, I’d agree that he saw a wrong that needed to be fixed, but why murder?” Wade asks. “How does that fit his idea of making things right, evening everything?”
“He chose victims he viewed as outliers,” Spencer explains. “The first two victims were romantically involved, and then she got a job in his company.”
“The fifth victim was a single man with adopted children, and he left a copy of T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Hollow Men,’” you add. “He went after people who didn’t fit into our traditional class system or who benefitted from misused power. And, if that isn’t enough… there’s an extra novella in here.”
“What?” Hotch and Wade say, stepping toward you simultaneously.
“It’s a little bloody, but the words cop, dirty, and corrected system are showing up pretty well. My name’s on the first page, and I’d guess it’s on the last, too.”
“He’s going to target you?” Derek translates. “That’s not okay.”
“We need to find him first,” you reply. “He’s not going to press pause until he can get to me, he thinks he has to fix the entire world.”
“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.
“Wait, Sergeant Grey,” Hotch calls. “I think this should come from us.” He turns toward you and adds, “It would mean more from you.”
“I’ll do it. Although, some of those cops aren’t going to like hearing that I had something to do with it.”
“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.
“Our profile is complete,” you begin, looking at the entire task force. “And we’ve used that profile, along with scene evidence, literary analysis, and previous arrest records to identify Alexander Riley as our killer. Sergeant Grey has posted a BOLO, and we’d like to send you out in patrol teams to assist in the search for Riley.”
Tim has his folder open, and you’re sure he’s reading the incident report filed after you let Riley get away.
“Maybe you should get out there and find him instead of sitting in our station and reading,” he snarks, closing his folder.
“Bradford,” Wade begins.
“No, it’s okay,” you assure. “I will be assisting in the search, and I will admit that my incompetence likely played a role in Mr. Riley’s progression from petty thief to serial killer. However, we have reason to believe he was killing in private long before he felt the need to leave his victims in plain view for Los Angeles and all of America to see.”
“Officer Bradford, he listed you by name in the novella left at Liza Renner’s murder,” Hotch interjects. “Do you know why he may have done that?”
“No idea. Sir.”
“I’d appreciate if you would stay and help review the story to find an idea, then.”
You look between Hotch and Tim quickly, but their icy stares make you look away before you continue explaining what the manhunt entails and how the FBI will assist.
“Be safe out there,” you conclude.
As officers stand and leave, Hotch and Wade walk to Tim’s side, and then all three of them exit through a different exit.
“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.
“On the bright side, no one has been publicly executed in the US since 1936, so it’s unlikely you’ll be burned at the stake,” Spencer says.
“That is bright,” you respond. “Thanks, Reid.”
An officer asks for your assistance and leads you to an observation room. Your eyes widen when you realize Tim and Hotch are on the other side of the glass in an interview room. Rushing into the room, you’re surprised when Hotch invites you to take a seat. As the door closes, Tim clenches his fists and begins to stand.
“Sit down,” Hotch demands, unmoving as Tim rises from his chair. Tim turns, face-to-face with Hotch. “Sit down,” Hotch repeats, quieter yet firmer.
Tim falls back into his seat and crosses his arms to stare at you.
“You can blame me if you want,” you offer. “But it won’t change anything. Twelve people are dead because of me.”
“Then why is my rookie still patrolling the streets of LA looking for the man your team decided did this? Hotch here covering for you again?” Tim challenges.
“Shut up,” Hotch says as he sits beside you, across the Table from Tim.
“Kenneth Adamson,” you say. “Do you have any idea of what he did?”
“Fired you for taking the easy way out when you decided you didn’t want to be a cop anymore?”
“Intimidated me,” you reply. “Got indicted for it, but it was never made public knowledge because ‘he was facing enough personal and professional issues for the widespread results of his corruption.’ Good excuse, right? Tim, I happened to be the person who put cuffs on Alexander Riley and allowed his delusion to take over. I didn’t mean to turn him into a serial killer, but I still feel like I have blood on my hands.”
“Wait,” Tim requests, raising his hand. “Adamson intimidated you?”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me.”
You scoff, and Hotch raises his brows. “Like you would have believed me,” you reply.
Tim leans across the table, ignoring how Hotch moves closer to you, protective and ready to finish this case.
“He intimidated me too,” Tim confesses. “We should have told each other, but we messed up, and I’m sorry for that. Adamson was going to tell IA about something I did in the Army and twist it to get me fired if I didn’t find a way to get you off the force. Then you suddenly stopped trying and I thought… I guess I didn’t think about it, or I would’ve seen it.”
You look at Hotch, who shrugs. There likely isn’t proof that Adamson did to Tim what he did to you, but you have to make a choice. You can believe Tim Bradford or walk away.
“I caught him stealing evidence,” you say. “Skimming money from scenes before CSI got there, pulling jewelry from robbed houses, little things he didn’t think anyone would miss. When I saw him outright lie to a victim who only wanted her late mother’s locket back, I said something. And he was going to make my life a waking hell for it. So, I did what he asked and threw away my career.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your apologies, Tim. I want you to help me find Alexander Riley and put cuffs on him before he goes after another innocent person, because there is nothing to stop him from progressing to killing cops he sees as corrupt. We kept it from the other officers because of that, so please don’t make me regret trusting you.”
Tim nods and murmurs another apology. You read his lips as he says it, and when Hotch stands, you’re prepared to accept it.
“One more out of line comment and you’re off this task force, Officer Bradford,” Hotch says as he buttons his blazer.
“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything I can to assist you.”
“Do you know why Riley would have used your name as a cursed wanderer in Liza Renner’s novella?” you ask, standing beside Hotch.
“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.
“Remorseful, unabsolved character tormented by their fate and their actions.”
“He must not remember you well,” Hotch tells Tim.
“He’s not a very good writer,” Spencer mutters as he flips the page of one of Alexander Riley’s novellas.
“Maybe we should find a way to charge him for that too,” Derek grumbles. “I mean, ‘Tim Bradford carried the weight of his sins, heavier than the Kevlar on his chest. Each day he was forced to face the memories of how he’d failed his partner, the only woman he may ever love, but would never deserve.’ That’s awful.”
You and Tim turn to face each other quickly, each wondering if you heard what Derek read correctly.
“Derek, does that- when you read it, does it seem like he’s saying his partner is the only woman he’d ever love? Same person?” you ask.
“Yeah. You.”
“That’s what I got too,” JJ agrees. “There’s characters in the third novella that look exactly like the two of you, but they’re married. Doomed by the narrative to watch each other die, but…”
“Are there characters like that in all of them?” Hotch asks.
The sound of papers flipping precedes several firm answers of “Yes.”
“They always die?” you add. “But he doesn’t know. He sees a relationship that isn’t there.”
Tim doesn’t say anything, but you ignore him as you ask JJ to use her laptop. After signing in to your email, you pull up the scans Penelope sent you from the books in your office.
“In the clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed,” you read. “Black as the pit from pole to pole.”
“Are you gonna explain it or is this like Jeopardy?” Derek questions.
“He doesn’t portray our characters as corrupt,” you cheer. “We’re unfortunate, ‘doomed by the narrative’ players in a bigger game. I need the newest novella, the extra one from the double homicide scene.”
Wade knocks on the open door as you look through the evidence boxes on the table. He glances between you and Bradford before he asks, “Have any of you heard from Lopez and West?”
“They’re revisiting the last scene,” Hotch says. “They haven’t checked in?”
“Not recently.”
Tim looks at you, and when you meet his eyes, he offers, “We’ll find them.”
“Be careful,” Wade implores. “And keep me updated.”
“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.
“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.
“Look for any sign of restoration or avenging. It’ll probably be in the first novella, but I need to know if my character in his story is avenged somehow.”
“Revenge is a psychological response to wounds from others,” Spencer says. “Why would he be motivated to retaliate and justify this level of violence for you, if you’re the one who did wrong?”
“I think he may have changed his motives after Keith Adamson was indicted. If you find something, let me know, if not, Hotch probably has a better idea.”
You follow Tim to an unmarked car and ride in the passenger seat like you’ve pressed play after seven long years of having this part of your life on pause. Somehow, it feels better than before.
Tim's radio crackles as he makes the last turn to reach the crime scene.
“07-Adam-07,” Angela radios. “Sergeant Bradford, contact on channel 3.”
Tim changes the dial to channel 5 as he slows on the curb. You point to the dial, and he raises a thumb to tell you it wasn’t an accident.
“07-Adam-19,” he replies. “Go ahead, Lopez.”
“I think we found something that might be helpful to the detectives. Meet me at the scene and see if you agree?”
“I was already on the way. To tell you the truth, I don’t trust the feds. ETA two minutes.”
Tim returns his radio to the dash and then sits back to wait.
“Don’t trust the feds, huh?” you ask, smiling as he rolls his eyes.
“You really think he realized we were just as aggrieved as him?” Tim asks.
“Big word,” you murmur before dodging Tim’s weak backhand. “Why else would he keep us in the grand story he’s trying to write?”
“You said your character died in the new one.”
“All I saw was my name. I made an assumption without enough evidence. It was stupid.”
“Welcome to the club.”
Your phone buzzes, and you shake your head as you read the message from Penelope. “FBI tech guru Garcia hacked into the house’s security system. She’s got cameras inside. Riley has Lopez and West holed up in the master bathroom. My team and your watch commander are watching, ready to breach if this doesn’t go well.”
“You think it will?”
“I think Derek is going to be very mad after I do something reckless. That’s how it usually goes.”
Tim clears his throat awkwardly, then asks, “Are you and Morgan…?”
“No,” you answer with a laugh. “He’s just one of the many protective men I work with.”
“It’s been a minute and a half,” Tim says, changing the subject and breathing a little easier. “Are you ready?”
“I hope so.”
You exit the passenger seat as Tim pops the trunk. He passes you an LAPD bulletproof vest and a standard-issue belt to help you look more like a cop and less like a fed. After pulling the vest over your head, you struggle to get the belt in place beneath it. Tim gently takes it from you, his hands moving carefully around your waist as he clips the tactical buckle and slides the gun holster to its correct position.
“Thanks,” you whisper as he straightens, mere inches from you.
Tim drops his hands away from your sides but doesn’t move away. “Channel 3 is Lopez’s code,” he explains. “She only uses it when something’s wrong.”
Your phone buzzes again, and you turn away from Tim to answer it. “Hello?”
“Riley is armed,” Hotch says. “He’s got Lopez and West in the master bedroom on the ground floor. They’re uninjured, but he’s fidgety.”
“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”
“He did,” Spencer replies. Hotch’s phone is likely on speaker, and you turn your phone to allow Tim to hear too. “The bomb schematics were for a very closed-in space… like the townhouse you’re about to go into. It’s not incredibly enclosed, but given that Riley has issues with control, it could be a manifestation of claustrophobia. If his anxiety has caused a fear of enclosed spaces, based on the fear of losing control in those spaces, then he may be attempting to overcome that by giving himself power in the situation.”
“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.
“What is that?” Derek asks, and you can imagine him looking around Wade’s office.
“I haven’t seen evidence of it,” Spencer answers. “He doesn’t seem to mind being closed in; the murders in the townhouse didn’t seem to affect him, but he is clearly concerned with power, control, and the hierarchy of those. It relates more to claustrophobia. Though I wouldn’t advise locking any doors to test it.”
You hang up suddenly and gesture to the townhouse. Tim looks up in time to see the curtain in an upstairs room fall back into place. He takes the lead, walking to the door with purpose and his hand on his gun. You follow him and look around the front porch for any sign that Riley is planning to kill anyone today.
Tim pushes the door open carefully, nodding to tell you it is unlocked before Angela calls his name. The novella with your name in it is still by the bookcase, and you remove it from the evidence bag and slide it under your vest. You trade places with Tim, going up the stairs first as he covers you. At the top of the landing, Alexander Riley steps out into the hallway with a gun strapped around his shoulders.
“You made it,” he says.
“We’re here to help, Riley,” you explain softly, holding your hands where he can see them. “You know that.”
He nods before jerking his head toward the doorway. You walk past him and stop in the center of the bedroom, scanning Angela and Jackson for any wounds. Luckily, they appear to be fine other than the handcuffs secured around their wrists.
“What’s the plan here?” Tim asks. “Not much room for error, Mr. Riley.”
“Give me your gun,” Alexander replies, holding his rifle with one hand as he extends the other toward Tim.
Tim complies, but his glance at you is a clear communication to not surrender your FBI-issued piece.
“Against the wall,” Alexander tells Tim. “You’re right, there isn’t room for error. But I’m prepared. I’ve been preparing since I lost everything.”
Tim sits against the wall, less than a foot from Angela. Alexander turns toward you, and his gaze softens. You were right, it seems. Alexander Riley has a soft spot for you; he thinks you’re like him, wronged by corruption and abused power, and you’re going to work that soft spot until he’s in cuffs.
“Take your vest off,” he requests. “Please.”
You don’t move but look pointedly at his gun before raising your eyes to his face.
“I won’t hurt you.”
Despite your instinct to refuse, to call in the cavalry and help Tim incapacitate the killer before you, there is too much at stake, and the longer you’re compliant, the longer Riley will keep everyone alive. So, you pull the vest over your head, not bothering to catch the novella as it falls to the floor, the blood on the cover contrasting the neutral carpet below your feet.
Back at the station, Hotch clenches his jaw as you open yourself to Riley, and Derek says, “Don’t do it… I might kill her for that.”
“You wrote it, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the stapled manuscript. “You wrote all of them.”
Riley fidgets, then nods.
You step toward him, keeping your expression soft and conveying understanding as you add, “I read some of them. They’re good, Alex. Can I call you Alex, or do you go by something else?”
“Alex is fine,” he replies, whispering your name under his breath like a prayer.
Tim shifts as Alexander’s attention changes slightly, morphing from a fierce protector into someone who wants to be by your side after you’ve been saved. You don’t spare a glance toward Tim, and for a brief moment, he wonders where you learned to do this. Then reality crashes back in like a wave that knocks Tim off his feet, the reminder that he could have taught you if he hadn’t let Keith Adamson get to him.
“In Brightest Day, you wrote a character who was a young cop, naïve and desperate to do the best thing,” you continue. “Who was she?”
“You know who,” Alex mutters.
You smile and ask, “Was I in all of them?”
“Of course.”
“That’s why you went to my old apartment before you sent the message to my friend in the FBI? Because I’m part of this? No, because you’re improving the character, right?”
“You were so far away,” he whispers.
“Alex, did you learn how to code just to talk to me?” you inquire softly.
He nods, then looks to the novella at your feet. The toes of your boots are inches from the paper, and his mouth twitches like he wants you away from it.
“Kick it,” he demands.
“Why? It’s art, it’s part of your soul,” you argue.
“Kick it.”
Tim nods in your peripheral, and you swallow before kicking it toward the door. Alex doesn’t hesitate to shoot the paper. You turn away from the noise, covering your ears even though it’s too late to keep your head from pounding. As the noise fades and your hearing returns, you see the shredded paper surrounding the hole in the floor.
“How does the story end, Alex?” you ask, stepping toward him again. “Are you like the truck drivers in Animal Farm? The cursed wanderer in Render Down you wrote for Liza? Or are you some new character that only cares about usurping the power for yourself?”
“It was never about me!” he replies, louder than you’ve heard him before. He softens his voice to repeat, “Never.”
“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.
Alex spins on his heel, the barrel of his rifle rising as he faces Tim. You shake your head wildly, desperate to stop him from saying something that will make Alex pull the trigger again. Angela looks down quickly, and you see her gun beneath the bed. As Alex’s chest heaves, his eyes locked unblinking on Tim’s, you move closer to the weapon, to Alex, and to freedom where you all walk out of here alive.
“I was saving her!” Alex roars. “From corruption, from Adamson, from you!”
“Adamson is the only one who hurt her,” Tim argues.
“February 17, 2017. You took your rookie to a noise disturbance call, and when you got there, four stupid young men were looting a flooded store during a break in the storms. She handcuffed one of them, but the rest ran. Then… then you started yelling at her, blaming her for all of it. While you were busy berating her, the other man ran with the handcuffs. I got away, but the power, the corruption, the greed was all getting to be too much. We hurt the owner because she was too worried about not getting insurance money for the water damage to empty out the register.”
“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.
He doesn’t move away from Tim but stops talking to listen.
“In the first novella, it was you and me, wasn’t it? You wanted to make a new world together, save me from the love you thought would corrupt me.”
“Adamson used you too,” Alex tells Tim. “I made room for you to come with us and this is how you repay me? Chasing me for making things better. You’re back where you started.”
“Maybe now isn’t the time to act,” Jackson West says. “What if the world could’ve healed on its own and the people you killed might have helped?”
“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”
As Alex’s finger slides onto the trigger, he turns toward Jackson. You don’t hesitate to lunge forward, closing the distance between yourself and Alexander. While you tackle him to the floor, he squeezes the trigger, and the shot rings through the now-silent townhouse and seems to echo for hours as your team watches in horror.
Tim pulls the handcuff key from his belt and passes it to Angela before he crawls on his hands and knees to reach you.
“I hope somebody got scans of that novella before he shot it,” you groan as you sit up.
Tim sighs, taking your face in his hands as he wipes blood from your temple.
“Is his writing really that good?” Jackson asks as he stands.
“It’s a little preachy,” you reply with a smile.
Your phone rings, and you swipe the screen to answer, then immediately hang up.
“That was your boss,” Tim points out.
“He can yell at me when he gets here.”
“Alexander Riley has been charged in the deaths of twelve Los Angeles residents,” JJ says at the press conference the morning after your encounter with Alex. “His victims include Janice Davis, Gregory Hunter, Bryce Keller, Hank Sheller, Peter Bristol, Liza Renner, Mel Houghton, Destiny Crest, Angelica Thomson, Alissa Alvarez, and Jack and Cassidy Wilson. Nearly three dozen cold cases are now being reopened, and the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit supports the LAPD’s claim that Riley could have committed these crimes as well. I’ll welcome any questions at this time.”
You scrunch your nose from the side, resisting the urge to remove the bandage on your forehead. Tim stands beside you, watching you.
Tim notices that the bandage is loose but doesn’t move before Hotch warns, “Don’t do anything in the public view that you don’t want to get out and give Riley a chance at walking.”
When the conference ends, Derek sighs and walks past Hotch to return to the hotel and pack. As he approaches you, he smiles and says, “And you didn’t want to come because I can’t help, and LA is too sunny.”
You try to punch Derek for his poor impression of you but miss as he breaks into a jog. Shaking your head, you turn to Tim and prepare a joke about how you don’t sound like that. Tim’s serious expression stops you, though.
“You didn’t think you could help?” he asks. “You were going to be an amazing cop, and I regret playing a part in taking that opportunity from you.”
You shrug and respond, “I like the FBI, and I got to tackle a murderer, so it all worked out.”
“Yeah,” Lucy interrupts, walking to your side. “But now you have to go back to Virginia.”
“Thank you,” Wade says, stopping at your side. “Come back soon, okay?”
You smile as he hands you a paper. As you read it, you sigh, then shove it into your pocket. The email came in this morning telling all active FBI agents about the new tactical unit, one which will work closely with the BAU. They’re actively recruiting, but if you tell Tim, you’re asking him to choose between you and the job again, and you can’t do that to him. Asking Tim to leave LA would be cruel, you think, so you force a smile onto your face.
“Thank you for everything,” you tell him. “Especially the part where you saved my life and the apology. I’ll try not to stay gone so long this time.”
Tim nods, and you smile at Lucy before following your team. He watches you walk away, ignores Lucy’s encouragement for him to chase you, and waits until you leave to whisper what he wants to say. But Tim lost his chance again. Worse, he lost you again.
Two Weeks Later
“Which one of you wants to die first?” the armed suspect asks, swinging his curved meat hook between you and Spencer.
“Probably you, right?” you whisper. “You know, my blood’ll be on it if he kills me first.”
“The mean value of Staphylococcus aureus in raw meat is 3.84 in a butcher shop,” Spencer replies. “I don’t know where that thing has been. At least your blood has been relatively well contained. And any amount of water on that thing increases the number of bacterial specimens transferred from the meat surface.”
The metal door of the meat locker blows open suddenly, and when the butcher before you turns to see what caused the noise, two men in tactical uniforms subdue him and confiscate the meat hook. Spencer rushes out of the facility, and you watch as the new FBI team takes your suspect into custody.
“I could have done that,” you complain.
“Sure you could, boot,” one of the men says, his voice muffled by the helmet.
You look toward him with your eyebrows raised. He takes his helmet off, and your jaw drops. Tim Bradford.
Smiling, you step toward him with questions racing in your mind, but he extends a gloved hand, holding it against your waist to stop you as he whispers, “Morgan has cameras everywhere.”
As you walk into the BAU bullpen together, Hotch looks up from a paper. He looks at you, then Tim, then back to you, and smiles. With wide eyes, you hide behind Tim’s shoulder, unsure what a Hotch smile could mean in this particular circumstance.
“We’re wheels up to Los Angeles in forty-five,” Hotch says.
“Why?” you ask, stepping out from behind Tim.
“There’s a domestic terrorist leaving Shakespeare at foreign-owned businesses hours before they’re bombed or become mass murder scenes.”
You nod, but before you can speak, Derek calls, “Bring Bradford! We could use the Army experience.”
Hotch narrows his eyes at Tim, then shrugs and agrees.
“Good, good,” you mumble, wrapping your hands around Tim’s arms. “I’ll show him the ropes then and we’ll be back in thirty.”
“Please do.”
You quickly forget the ropes as you drag Tim into Penelope’s empty office. He smiles and prepares to ask what this has to do with terrorism, but you slide your hands onto his jaw and kiss Tim. Finally. Tim's hands meet your waist, and he pulls you closer as he kisses you, both of you melting into one another and getting lost in the moment you’ve waited so long for. When you pull back, Tim keeps you close, smiling like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time, though he’s known your heart and potential for nearly a decade.
A quiet gasp draws your attention, and you both look to the door as Penelope says, “I’m telling Chocolate Thunder!”
eddie brock wanting to go out with reader, so she dresses up but venom takes over and compliments her in his own weird ways <3
Your ring nearly snags a thread on the inside left cup of your dress, and you carefully retract it before it can tear the garment. There's a lace edge beneath your bra that's itching something fierce, and you can't wait to take the dress off tonight.
Or, of course, have it taken off of you.
"Eddie?" You call through the apartment, now peering down at your necklace as you try laying it against your chest in a particular way, "Ready to go, babe?"
"Yeah," He calls from the kitchen, the soles of his dress shoes clicking against the wood floor as he comes to find you, "I was thinking we could- woah."
His abrupt stop makes you glance up, and he's got his eyes glued to your dress. It's a new one, a rich brown hue that drapes down your frame like you're a modern-day Jessica Rabbit.
I take it you like the dress," You laugh, watching Eddie's cheeks go pink. He needs a moment to recover, and you're patient enough to give it to him, but venom isn't.
With a series of ungodly squelches the symbiote envelops your boyfriend, sharp, jagged teeth already set in a grin that barely holds back his massive tongue. His eyes are narrowed and it makes his grin that much more predatory, a look that sends a shiver down your spine.
"I do not know why Eddie will not talk." Venom leans in, hulking figure crowding your own smaller one, "But I want to. You look delicious. You look like chocolate."
"Yeah?" You grin at Venom, fingers fiddling with the silky fabric of your dress, "Thanks, Venom."
"Do you know what I do to chocolate?" Venom leans in farther still, until you can feel his breath fan over your face. He's intoxicatingly large, and your vision is entirely taken up by him.
"I do," You laugh, reaching up to cup his cheek, "I've found enough massacred remains of hershey bars around this place to know you're not gentle with them."
"I would like to do that to you." Venom's tongue comes out to lick over his teeth, a slimy, dripping, circular path, "But for your comfort I think that we should do it on your bed."
"Not right now," You lament, leaning your forehead against his and kissing the space where his nose should be, "We have to eat first. But maybe you can arm wrestle Eddie for me later, big guy."
"I would win an arm wrestle." Venom boasts, thinking literally instead of picking up on the broader meaning of your words, "Eddie is a weak loser."
"A weak loser who's paying for my dinner tonight," You pinch at Venom's arm, though you're sure it doesn't hurt him, "Lemme see him again, V. We can't be late to this place or we'll lose our table."
Venom is very polite with you. He follows orders seamlessly, shrinking back into Eddie until the man's tanned skin breaks through the black goop that had been swarming it. He's on you in an instant, hands against your hips and nose knocking into yours, "You think I'm a weak loser?"
"No!' You laugh, kissing the smile he's trying to tamp down in the name of dramatics, and wriggling from his grip to grab your helmet off of the counter, "I just think Venom could beat you in an arm wrestle."
"It's true," Eddie calls after you, jogging to catch up as you head for the door, "But it's not nice!"
i bet on losing dogs
Description: Roy & Y/N have big news to share with Oliver and Dinah but it doesn't go well
Warnings: pregnancy, talk about roy's addiction/sobriety & oliver being a bad mentor, angst
Word Count: 1.1k
Roy felt weird being in Star City after so long. He felt even weirder as he pulled into the driveway of Oliver's house. Well, more like a mansion. His hand was tangled with Y/N and she could feel the nervousness radiating off of him. She took his hand and placed it on her stomach, reminding him of the life growing inside of her.
"We don't have to do this. We could go home, order takeout, cuddle while watching shitty movies," Y/N offered. She knew that Roy could push himself to prove a point but sometimes he'd get hurt in the process.
"That sounds nice but look we're already here. C'mon, babe, why are you so nervous?" Roy wanted this to work out. He wanted to have a conversation with Oliver like an adult and he wanted his family to keep growing.
"I know that you and Oliver aren't on the best terms. I just don't want you to feel like we have to do this," Unfortunately, due to the circumstances of Lian's birth, Roy wasn't as present as he would've liked but he promised himself that this time would be different. He decided to start with his relationship with Oliver and Dinah, which was estranged, to say the least.
"I feel bad that Lian has missed so much with Oliver and Dinah. I want our baby to have a big family. I want our baby to have the birthdays with both sides of the family. I want our baby to have what I didn't," Roy reminisced on his days after being taken in by Oliver. It was surprisingly lonely until he met Dick and Y/N.
"Okay, okay. You ready?" She fluffed her dress so that her little baby bump wasn't prominent. While she was only a few months along, the two of them wanted to keep a secret until a little closer to her due date. It was a miracle that her dad and siblings hadn't figured it out yet.
"As ready as I'll ever be," He murmured after getting out to open Y/N's door. The two of them walked to the front door of the large house. Y/N noted that it was smaller than Wayne Manor. Roy hesitated before finally pressing the doorbell.
"Roy, Y/N, it's so great to see the both of you," Dinah opened the door and she hugged Roy almost immediately. She took a step back and ruffled his hair before giving Y/N an even bigger hug.
"It's great to see you too, Dinah." Dinah let the two of them into the house before shutting the door behind them.
"Oliver is just in the dining room," She said and guided the couple to the area.
"It's been a long time since you've been back, Roy," Oliver greeted his former protege and gestured to the chairs on the opposite side of the table. Roy pulled out Y/N's chair before taking a seat next to her.
"Yeah," He agreed. He expected the awkwardness.
"Well, let's eat," Dinah said before describing the various dishes that were laid out on the table. Small talk was made, it felt like picking at a scab that was aching to come off. There were even small jokes that were made. Y/N felt a sudden bout of nausea and the unease was present on her face.
"Are you alright?" Roy leaned over and asked. His eyes scanned hers with worry clear on her face.
"It's just my stomach," She said reassuring him and patting her stomach lightly.
"I'll walk you to the bathroom," Dinah offered, mainly to give Oliver and Roy a chance to talk. The two of them had rarely spoken since Roy got clean and stuck out on his own.
"How far along is she?" Oliver asked the obvious question. Bruce was gonna be pissed that he didn't know first.
"Almost four months," Roy admitted
"So, this is a shakedown then?" Oliver's tone was condescending as he fumbled in his suit pocket for a checkbook.
"What?" Roy was confused. Nothing about this suggested that he was here to ask for money.
"Money? I'm assuming Daddy Bats isn't kicking out money for the baby and that's why you're here," Oliver had never been more wrong in a deduction in his life.
"You really think that's why I'm here?" Roy's voice cracked and he could feel blush creeping up his neck. He felt like the scared teenager he used to be. His hands were clenched hard on his thighs.
"Yes," Oliver's voice was definite like he had already decided that this was clearly all Roy wanted.
"I don't want your money, I just wanted my kids to have a relationship with the man who made me a hero," Roy admitted, surprisingly calmly
"Roy," Oliver tried to interrupt.
"I know that I wasn't the greatest sidekick ever and yeah, I fucked up. But why is it so hard for you to realize that I am better now? I got better without your help because you left me." Roy said gesturing to himself. He thought he was doing alright in life all things considered.
"I didn't leave you," Oliver tried to correct it but that's certainly not what happened. At least, that's not what happened from Roy's perspective.
"Oh, so what would you call it?" Roy almost yelled. Oliver wasn't there when Roy was living in alleyways when he was going through withdrawal for what felt like an eternity, or when he finally put himself back together because he found out about his daughter.
"I didn't know how to help you. You were addicted to God knows what. Oh, and poor Y/N was just throwing away money to keep you in rehab," Oliver threw the final jab, revealing a new tidbit about one of Roy's rehab stints.
"What?" Roy damn near yelled. He knew Y/N was there for him but he didn't know to what degree.
"She never told you?" Oliver's face softened at the last moment. Roy didn't notice and just stood from the table. He could feel threatened to spill. He refused to let them fall in front of Oliver.
"Tell Dinah, I said thank you for the meal and that I'll call her later," Roy gathered himself before finding Y/N and Dinah obsessing over her small baby bump. Y/N could tell something was wrong right away.
"Roy, what's wrong?" She asked walking up to him and placing her hand on his stubbled cheek. His hand covered hers and he gave a shy smile.
"Let's do those shitty movies and takeout," He spoke so softly that she had barely heard him.
"Okay, babe," She knew now wasn't the time to poke for answers but she was sure he would tell her when he was ready.
Click here for part 2
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It's Bubba
Here is a new Evan Buckley imagine, requested by a lovely anon. I hope you will all like it, let me know what you think.
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Evan Buckley Masterlist
Part 2
Birthday Wishes (Prequel)
Summary: When Evan's parents come into town, they aren't happy to find their grandson prefers Bobby over them. And they take their frustrations out on (Y/n).
Enjoy.
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(Y/n)'s lips curved into a grin and she couldn't help the relief that overwhelmed her when she realised who was at the door.
"Come in." (Y/n) opened the door wider and took a step backwards to allow Bobby inside.
Her eyes followed him as he stepped into the hall, one hand tucked into his pocket and the other stretched down to push the small pedal bike through the hall. She closed the door, pressing her lips together to dampen her smile that threatened to reach her eyes. She watched Boby push the pedal bike towards the stairs so it was just out of the hallway so it wouldn't be a trip hazard.
"All fixed for the little man." Bobby stuffed both hands in his pockets and turned to face (Y/n) as she stepped past the stairs.
James had spent the weekend with Athena and Bobby and the three year old had tried riding his bike around the block, with Bobby's supervision of course. The four year old was rather fast when he had his training wheels but one of them came loose and the bike took a tumble.
Bobby had fixed the wheels back on and checked it over and he knew James would want the bike to play on before next weekend when he was due to spend the night with him and Athena again.
"Thank you, he'll be very pleased."
"Is he around?"
(Y/n) gave Bobby's arm a squeeze and pointed into the lounge. She stayed close behind him as he walked into the living room and took a peek around. Cartoons were playing on the tv, there was a colouring book on the table and crayons scattered along the floor.
And there was James, curled up in a ball on the sofa, head almost hanging off the edge and arms bound to his chest. Drooling onto the pillow as he dozed off in a power nap.
"Want a coffee?" (Y/n) kept her voice quiet, not wanting to wake James just yet when he had only been asleep for a good ten minutes or so. He would wake up soon and he would be thrilled to see Bobby when he did wake up. The three year old was under the impression that Bobby was his grandad and nobody would or wanted to correct him on that.
"Sure." Bobby patted his hand on the back of the sofa, grinning at the little boy that always stole his heart, before he spun on his heels and moved towards the kitchen.
He had come round today because he had the day off and Bobby hated to swing by and leave in a hurry. The one time he had tried to do that James had cried when Bobby didn't come inside for a drink or stay long. He wanted to hang around and chat to his grandson when he woke up.
"So, how are you?" Bobby took a seat at the kitchen table while (Y/n) flicked the kettle on and got some mugs out ready.
"Did Evan tell you his parents are in town?"
The way (Y/n) arched a brow and glanced over her shoulder at Bobby made him whistle lowly and hang his head for a moment.
No, indeed, Evan had not mentioned that little fact. Although it did explain why Evan had been restless on shift yesterday and why he had been so twitchy and distant instead of involved and forever bombarding the team with facts and new information he had learned.
"Oh, so that's who you're expecting?" He noticed (Y/n) had seemed a little jumpy when she opened the door.
(Y/n) didn't want her in-laws turning up when Evan wasn't here. She never knew what to say to the Buckley parents, things were always tense and awkward and she needed Evan to play referee and keep the peace and the tension down.
They were in town now and they had visited Maddie this morning and they should be coming to visit (Y/n) and James anytime soon. (Y/n) was dreading it, but if Bobby was here it might calm the waters a little. She hoped.
"Evan's on shift, how lucky." (Y/n) joked and placed a cup down in front of each of them, using the table as leverage to ease down and try to shake the discomfort in her back.
She slouched back in her seat, pushing her knees forward into the table while her shoulders jabbed back into the chair. The looser she sat, the easier the pain was to handle in her back and stomach.
(Y/n) hadn't been in this much pain when she was pregnant with James, but then again, she was having twins this time.
She almost wished Evan and Maddie hadn't told their parents she was pregnant. They wanted to come down more often now they knew she was having twins, just like they visited a lot when they had been expecting James. They rarely visited Evan before then, but once James was born they were down every other month and kept calling to see how he was. Evan had never had so much contact with his parents since he moved out at eighteen.
It was nice that they were trying to make an effort, but it was too little too late. They were in contact much more often now that Evan had his own family, but it still wasn't enough. Going from almost nothing to a few visits didn't make James see them as his grandparents. He thought of (Y/n)'s parents as his grandparents and he saw Bobby and Athena as Evan's parents, therefore they were his family.
Bobby had been there when James was born, he had seen him almost every day and cuddled him and took care of him. He and Athena were always taking James on days out and having him sleep over and were teaching him to ride his bike. They were his grandparents.
"I'm sure he doesn't feel very lucky. Does the little man know they're coming?"
"No, just in case they don't turn up today."
(Y/n) didn't see any point in telling James in case the Buckley parents didn't make it here today or something came up. And she knew James wouldn't be excited to see them like he would when he saw Bobby. James didn't spend a lot of time with Evan's parents and it had been months since they had last visited and over a year since they had taken him out anywhere.
They pledged when he was born that they would spend a lot of time with him and take James out places, because he was their first grandchild. So far they hadn't kept up with that ideal, and Evan hadn't expected them to either.
"Oh," (Y/n) took a quick sip of her coffee, pursing her lips when it burned the back of her throat. She set her cup down and moved her hands to the table, pushing herself up despite only just sitting down.
She aimed for the fridge and pulled down the latest scan photo Evan had pinned with a magnet, next to James's latest drawing. Which happened to be a stick figure James said was Evan, stood next to a bright red fire truck.
"Here," She couldn't hide the smile from her lips when she slid the photo over to Bobby and sat back down.
Her left hand moved to glide across her stomach where both twins were kicking up a storm. Her right hand began to tap against the table as she watched a soft but proud smile flutter across Bobby's face as he skimmed his thumb across the picture. He still had the first picture Evan had given him to announce he was going to have his first kid. Now he was having two for the price of one this time.
"For me?" He murmured quietly, wafting the picture before he got his wallet out his back pocket to keep the picture safe when (Y/n) nodded. "Only two months left."
"I can't wait." As much as (Y/n) was happy to be pregnant, she was eager for it to be over and to have both babies in her arms.
The timing was hopefully going to work out though. They had been warned (Y/n) could go into early labour because she was having twins, something which had put Evan on red alert and set off his anxiety. But (Y/n) was hoping that wouldn't happen because in three weeks it would be James's fourth birthday. Which happened to be on the same day as Evan's thirtieth birthday.
She wanted to get the party out the way and celebrate both her boys before she had the twins. The last thing they wanted was her to go into labour just before the party and ruin the day for James or take the attention away from him and Evan. Or to go into labour now and have two screaming babies disrupting the little family party they had planned out.
Maddie had taken the lead in organising a party, of course Evan had to know about it because it was for his son, but he didn't know the details. All he knew was he had his birthday off work and so did his team so they could all have a big get together. Evan didn't know where it was happening, what time, what was planned. Nothing.
It was a big birthday for him and Maddie and (Y/n) wanted to celebrate.
Evan had been head over heels when the day before his twenty-sixth birthday, (Y/n) went into labour. And when James was finally born, they looked at the time and realised it was three in the morning. Officially Evan's birthday. He got to share his special day with his boy and it had been the best present he had ever gotten.
"I'll bet. So, what's he asking for his birthday this time?" Every time Bobby asked James what he wanted or what he was expecting, he seemed to ask for something different.
"A fire truck. Like, a real one, he wasn't impressed when Evan told him he couldn't get one."
James had sat in the truck before and been for a ride and he was enthralled by the work his dad and grandad both did. He loved the trucks and the ambulance and he asked if he could have one. Evan politely explained the best he could do was get his son a replica toy truck for now which made James cry.
He wanted Evan to bring the truck home. James was under the impression that since his dad was a firefighter, he should be able to drive the truck whenever he liked and use it as his personal car.
The doorbell broke apart the conversation and (Y/n)'s shoulders visibly slumped and the way she flopped her head forward had Bobby's face softening.
He reached out to pat her arm before she pushed up and sighed, trudging out the kitchen towards the front door.
They were here. (Y/n) couldn't imagine it being anyone else at the door, she wasn't expecting anyone and she knew Maddie would be on shift this afternoon which was why her parents had gone to see her first this morning. It had to be Evan's parents.
Please don't stay until Evan gets home!
She had a horrible gut feeling that they would hang around all afternoon and stay until Evan came home from work so they could see him. (Y/n) didn't want to have to entertain them all day, but it seemed like that was a big possibility. Part of her hoped she could manage to persuade them to leave later this afternoon and come back tomorrow when Evan was off.
It would be easier for everyone, (Y/n) wouldn't be so drained if they turned up tomorrow, Evan would be home and recuperated after a good nights sleep and James would be a bit more lively.
The calmest, controlled look (Y/n) could muster plastered across her face when she opened the front door and was met with the sight of her in-laws.
Their smiles were warm and made some of the nerves in (Y/n)'s stomach die down, but it still didn't feel right to see them without Evan being here. He always controlled the situation, he steered the conversation and stopped his parents from causing any arguments. And if an unsettling topic arose, Evan squashed it immediately.
Despite everything Evan had been through with his parents, somehow, he was always calm and composed and (Y/n) didn't know how he did it.
"Hi, you made it. Come in." (Y/n) moved to let them in, watching the way they shrugged off their coats and hung them up as if they were round here every week rather than every couple of months.
They were more at ease than they used to be, but they still looked and seemed out of place here. Not like when they visited Maddie. They were happier visiting her, and for the longest time (Y/n) couldn't understand why. Until it was made clear why Evan had been born in the first place.
"Do you want to go into the kitchen?"
(Y/n) led them into the kitchen, locking eyes with Bobby who took another sip of coffee and stayed seating. He didn't feel the need to stand up or shake hands or try and make any effort in a big hello with the Buckleys.
"Would you like a drink?" (Y/n) rolled her lips together and watched her in-laws as they dithered, debating whether or not to sit down at the table or stand near the counter. They seemed to settle on sitting opposite Bobby at the table, although they looked perplexed as if wondering why he was here.
"A cup of tea would be nice."
She rattled through the cupboard for any teabags. Evan could drink coffee like it was water and most of the team had a preference for coffee, but not many of their friends and family drank tea. (Y/n) used to have a taste for iced tea when she was pregnant with James, but she hadn't drank much of it since.
An old pack of teabags was still in date and (Y/n) set to work making them each a drink.
"How have you been? You remember Bobby,"
"Yes, yes, Evan's Captain. We're well, we missed little James, where is he?" Margaret nodded towards Bobby and watched him raise his mug towards her before his eyes flitted over towards (Y/n).
Bobby couldn't help the nagging feeling that clawed behind his chest. They weren't asking how (Y/n) was. God knows when the last time was that they had seen or talked to her, and here they were not bothering to ask how their pregnant daughter in law was doing in herself.
But he held his tongue. There was no sense saying anything, Bobby didn't want to start an argument and he knew it wasn't worth it.
"I'll go see if he's awake."
With their cups placed in front of them, (Y/n) smiled and slowly padded through into the living room. She didn't want to wake James, she wanted to let him sleep because he needed it, but if she didn't wake him now and Bobby left, James would get upset. He would want to see him and Evan's parents wanted to see him.
They always made the effort with James, maybe because they knew they had messed up so royally with Evan and were trying to make amends through his son.
A smile fluttered across (Y/n)'s lips when she saw James was still in the same place she had left him earlier, cuddled up on the sofa.
It took some effort for (Y/n) to lean on the arm of the sofa and lower herself down to her knees. She smoothed her hand across her stomach, settling the twins while her other hand moved out and brushed through James's hair. She brushed her fingertips across his temple and moved his messy hair back on his head which roused him.
His tired eyes blinked open like headlights and be brushed his fist against the tip of his nose, squeaking a yawn while he stretched his arms above his head.
"Someone's here to see you." Her voice was quiet and she leaned across to kiss his cheek which puffed out into a smile.
That was all James needed to wake himself up. A shiver tore through him and he sat up straight, stretching and wriggling like a worm on a hook before he scrambled down off the sofa. He didn't have to know who was here, James loved visitors he would attach to anyone who came by.
With a deep breath, (Y/n) heaved herself back up to her feet and followed James through into the kitchen.
"There he is." The happiness in Phillip's voice was surprising, but it was James's reaction that had (Y/n)'s heart jumping up into her throat.
Panic fluttered across James's face when he saw his grandparents sat at the table. He could see Phillip's arms stretched out towards him like he was waiting for James to run into his arms. And Margaret was leaning forward with her hands clasped together and a sickly sweet smile on her face. But James didn't want to go over to them.
He didn't want hugs or kisses from the two people he didn't know very well. The grandparents that were more on the phone than they were in person. The ones who held his hand too tight when they sporadically took him out. Who were more often than not arguing with his parents or visiting his aunt Maddie. The ones who upset his mum and didn't often speak to his dad.
The three year old paused in the doorway, hands wavering in front of him as he tried to work out what to do. He didn't know whether to back up and cling to his mum or go over and let them hug him.
He didn't have to decide.
The moment James looked up and realised there was another person standing in front of the sink washing a cup, he seemed to become animated again and come back to life.
"It's bubba!"
Excitement flooded James's voice and his arms stretched out as a grin as broad as his arms fluttered across his face.
"Hey, there's my little man." A quiet 'oof' left Bobby's lips when the three year old barrelled into him like a bullet. He leaned down and scooped James up, setting him on his hip so the little boy could curl his arms around his neck and cuddle up close.
He pressed a kiss to Bobby's cheek and clung tightly to his neck, giggling and shimmying when Bobby swayed him from side to side.
Although James could say Bobby, he never called him that. Since the moment he began to talk, he could never pronounce Bobby and it always came out wrong. So James ended up calling him bubba, something which Evan had called James when he was a baby. Now that was James's special name for the person he classed as his grandad. He thought bubba meant grandad and no one corrected him on that.
Just like when he saw Athena, he called her 'nanny Nash' and she loved it.
"How are you, hm?" Bobby kissed his temple and eased back against the counter, jostling James in his arms. His eyes flitted across to (Y/n) when she sat down at the table across from her in-laws who could do nothing but stare at Bobby and their grandson.
"You fix the bike, bubba?"
"I did, it's all fixed and ready for you."
The squeal James let out had bobby's smile broadening and he let James pull him down by the neck so he could snuggle their cheeks together. He murmured "Thank you," and squeezed Bobby tighter.
The glares Bobby could feel being sent his way made him hug the little boy tighter like he was suddenly afraid they were going to try and snatch the little boy from him. He kissed James's temple before he leaned forward and set him down to his feet again.
"I think I'd better get going, I'll be on shift to see your dad soon."
"You leaving?" James grabbed Bobby's hand and swayed their arms back and forth between them for a few seconds, the disappointment clear in his voice which made Bobby shiver. He didn't want to go but he had to, he couldn't impose and he did have to get ready for shift soon.
"I gotta go, but you'll see me at the weekend, okay?" He kissed the top of James's head and rubbed his hand across his back when James let go of him to hug his legs.
Part of him wondered if the toddler was going to let him go or not, but James eventually unravelled himself with a soft "Love you," which Bobby returned.
He watched James clamber up onto (Y/n)'s lap and his smile softened when the three year old wiggled onto her knees and huffed at her stomach which seemed to be in his way. His hands tapped down on the table as he leaned back into (Y/n), curving around her stomach while she kissed the top of his head and wrapped both arms around his waist.
"I'll speak to you soon."
"Thank you." (Y/n) reached up and gripped Bobby's hand when he held her shoulder as he passed.
Part of her wanted him to stay. She wanted back up, help, a friend to stick around until Evan came home. But they both knew it would be easier if he left, and he had to get ready for work, (Y/n) wouldn't delay him just because she didn't want to be on her own with her in-laws.
(Y/n) was ready for a lie down.
She was ready for Phillip and Margaret to either make their departure or for Evan to come home and save her.
She rested her head on her hand and looked across the table at her little boy. James was sat on Phillip's knee, munching on a biscuit, pushing a toy truck across the table. He didn't look impressed, he wasn't settled.
The couple had interrogated James for almost an hour, asking him questions, trying to check on him and how he had been doing. What he liked to watch and play with and of course, James had told them all about Bobby helping him to ride a bike.
"Tv?" James looked across at (Y/n) who reached for a biscuit herself. She didn't like eating in front of Margaret, not after a few years ago when her mother in law liked to tell (Y/n) what she should and shouldn't eat. And she doubted Margaret would agree or listen if (Y/n) tried to say she was eating for three, which she was.
"Go ahead baby."
He needed no more permission than that to scuttle away from his grandparents and rush into the living room.
"Evan should be home soon." (Y/n) ran her fingers through her hair and leaned her head to one side. She tried to smile, but she felt exhausted. She wished she and James were visiting because then it would be easy to make an excuse and go home. She couldn't exactly kick anyone out of her own home, it wouldn't be right and they were Evan's parents, (Y/n) didn't feel like she had the right to tell them to leave. That was Evan's job, his responsibility.
"Why did you let him call him that?" Margaret's words took (Y/n) by surprise.
Her brows furrowed and she looked over at her with confusion in her eyes. What was she talking about? Why did she have that look of discern in her eyes and something foul on her lips?
"Call who what?"
"Bubba."
"Oh, well that's- that's what he's always called Bobby, he could never pronounce Bobby properly." (Y/n) smiled fondly at the thought, even though she knew Phillip wouldn't see this so happily.
It was just a name that stuck, something that James found comfort in calling Bobby. A name that he loved, but whenever it was Bobby's birthday or Christmas or a special event, James would get him a card that said grandad on the front. He saw Bobby as Evan's dad and therefore as one of his grandparents, and that was the way they all liked it.
"But I'm his grandad. You let him run right past me to get to Bobby, and he's not even family. James barely spoke to us just now."
They couldn't blame (Y/n) for that.
It wasn't her fault that they weren't around enough for James to feel like they were his true family, his true grandparents. He couldn't help being close to Bobby when Bobby was always in his life and they weren't as close to him. Bobby had cared for him when he was a baby, looked after him, took him out most weekends and dealt with his temper tantrums and checked in when he didn't feel well.
If Phillip and Margaret didn't bother to check in or be around for most of James's life and the important things, they couldn't expect him to be close to them if they didn't do things in return.
"He is Evan's captain, not his father and James shouldn't be calling him grandad-"
"He's been in James's life since he was born, he's as good as a grandparent." (Y/n) turned away from them, twisting to the side on her chair to stop looking over at them.
"No he isn't, I'm his grandad, you shouldn't let him call Bobby that, it's wrong."
With a scoff, (Y/n) shook her head and used the table as leverage to push herself up. This wasn't fair and she didn't have to sit and listen to them chide her for something that wasn't her fault and wasn't even a problem to begin with.
"How can it be wrong? Bobby's prominent in his life, you see how much James loves him."
(Y/n) threw her hand to the side, wishing she could just project her thoughts and memories into their minds so they could see this from her point of view. They couldn't just expect things to go both ways and want James to be attached to them if they didn't put the effort in and see him often enough.
She padded over to the sink, dumping her cup before she tried to tidy the counter. She needed something to do before they sent her up the wall.
"You didn't even say anything to him. He completely ignored us and you let him, he can't get away with everything-"
"He didn't do anything wrong." There was no reason for (Y/n) to tell James off if he hadn't acted out or done anything wrong. He had been affectionate and happy and he was now entertaining himself in the living room, he had been as good as always today.
With one hand gripping the counter, (Y/n) moved her other hand down to cradle the side of her stomach. She didn't feel very well.
When was Evan coming home? Couldn't they wait for him to have this argument?
"And what was all that about a bike?"
(Y/n) couldn't refrain from rolling her eyes and she was glad they were sitting behind her so they wouldn't see.
"Bobby's teaching him to ride a bike, they had a collision at the weekend so Bobby fixed it for him." She motioned to the hallway but she was rather surprised when Phillip got up and actually went to take a look. As implied, there was a blue pedal bike in the hall that both of them had completely overlooked when they came in.
She spun on her heels when she heard Phillip tut and gasp and her eyes widened when Margaret had tears in her eyes.
Her free hand moved down to her stomach that twinged like a coil within her had been pulled and she let herself slump into the counter to keep herself upright. Adrenaline was coursing through (Y/n)'s stomach and fluttering up to her chest, making it harder to breathe and her fingers were starting to turn numb.
"We could have- I could have taught him. For goodness sake (Y/n) that man isn't family. I'm his bloody grandad."
"Wasn't it Maddie who taught Evan how to ride a bike?" She couldn't help the snappy response or the way her nose crinkled and her upper lip curled into a grimace. They couldn't be pulling this one on her. They didn't teach Evan to ride a bike or show any interest in helping him and watching him grow up. Maddie had been both sister, mother and father to Evan.
That was the reason Evan was so desperate to be there for all of the moments with James. He didn't want his son to feel as left out, cold and alone as he did growing up and it was why Evan wasn't surprised when his parents fell through on their promise to be around for their grandson.
So if Bobby wanted to step into that role and keep up the pretense of being a grandparent and actually love James, Evan was more than happy for his Captain and surrogate dad to do that for them all.
"And he stays with this Bobby on the weekend? You've never let him stay with us," Margaret moved her hand to cover her chest like there was a hollow pain she was trying to blot out and it made (Y/n) feel infuriated.
Dread crept up the back of (Y/n)'s throat and she could feel tears burning in her eyes. She looked around them to try and peek into the living room, but James was none the wiser to what was going on. He was sat on the floor with a few toys scattered round him and a Scooby Doo cartoon playing on the tv, he was happy in ignorant bliss.
"I never- that's out of order."
Both hands moved to her stomach as tears welled up in her eyes from both fury and agony. She was starting to feel like a boombox, her heartbeat pulsing under every inch of her skin making her vibrate. And the twins were starting to shift around so much it was becoming painful. Her abdomen was tense and tight and weighed heavy making (Y/n) want to lean forward more than usual.
"You've never a-asked for James to stay with you." They had never asked, but even if they did, (Y/n) wouldn't agree. James may be a social butterfly, but he didn't settle with many people, only close family.
He wouldn't cope being away from home to stay with Phillip and Margaret, he would be crying and wanting to be back home. Bobby and Athena were different, James had been staying over with them every other weekend since he was one. It was what he was used to, and he was often staying with Maddie and Chimney when she wanted time with her nephew.
(Y/n) reached her hand out when James came toddling into the kitchen, toy truck cradled to his chest and a worried look on his face. He stared between his mum and grandparents, unsure what was going on. But he didn't like the way Phillip had his hands on his hips and how Margaret looked a mix between angry and upset.
"You need to have words with him, (Y/n). You're turning him against us-"
"Stop it."
"Well you shouldn't-"
"Don't shout at mummy." James stomped his foot down on the floor and moved to stand in front of (Y/n). He lifted his chin and looked up at them with a defiant look that matched Evan one hundred percent. He didn't know why they were arguing or what they were talking about, but he didn't like the way they were talking to his mum.
He knew if his dad was here he would of already manouvred in front of (Y/n) and would have told his parents off already. Without Evan here, James felt the need to stop them shouting at his mum.
"Sweetie I- we weren't-"
Both of them paused when a quiet "Oww," tumbled past (Y/n)'s lips and she hunkered down. Her nails scratched into the kitchen countertop and her other hand pushed up into her abdomen like she was trying to lift up the weight of the twins to relieve the pain she was now feeling.
She couldn't help the way her knees bent forward and she lowered down like she was trying to crouch or do a squat behind James.
The tears welling up in her eyes started to fall freely down her face as her chin tucked into her chest that was starting to shake. Her stomach was hurting, more specifically, her lower abdomen. Sharp, striking pains hit her like a knife and she shuddered through her next breath, begging for the pain to disappear.
This wasn't right. (Y/n) was on observation by the midwife, she was having extra check ups to make sure she wasn't going to go into early labour and to control things if she did. She wasn't likely to make it to her due date with twins and now, (Y/n) had a horrible feeling that this might be labour pains.
She couldn't go into labour now. She was thirty-one weeks, they had two months left before this should be happening, or in the very least, one more month before they should be thinking about this.
Her in-laws were stressing her enough to cripple her body down in pain. If they had distressed her enough to enforce contractions, Evan was going to hit the roof when he found out.
"Honey, what's the matter?"
"I- I don't…" Reaching her hand out, (Y/n) shifted to grip the table but her knees were almost scraping the floor.
She shuffled, bending her feet oddly to get herself across to the chair and she shook off Margaret's hand when the older woman tried to reach out for her. (Y/n) didn't want her help when she was probably the reason for (Y/n)'s sudden pains.
For a few seconds, none of them said anything. Both elder parents stood hovering by the table, unsure what to say or what to do to help. Margaret looked like she was going to reach out for James but he moved quicker. He stood beside his mum, leaning into her just a little in case she didn't want his touch, but he wanted comfort and security at the same time.
(Y/n) tried to take a few deep breaths and ward away the tears, she hated being upset when James was around to see. She didn't want to scare him like that, but when another pain tore through her abdomen, she couldn't help the way she started to shake.
Her body coiled forward and she swallowed down a whimper, moving her hand back and forth across her stomach but it didn't do anything, not that she was expecting it to take away the pain anyway.
"Call Maddie." (Y/n) spat the words through gritted teeth as she stared up at the pair of them through blurring eyes.
"She's at work-"
"Then call 911!" Her voice changed to a low whine and she slammed her hand down on the table to get their attention. She felt the way James jumped against her but he stayed close and did well not to cry too. If Maddie was at work that was better for (Y/n), Maddie could give them the advice they needed and get help. She could do something and call someone because Bobby was now at work and they didn't know if Evan was on his way home or not.
(Y/n) needed help and she needed Maddie if she was going into the hospital because she didn't want Phillip and Margaret to be the ones looking after James.
She needed someone she trusted who James would feel comfortable being around and Maddie was the only person they could call right now when everyone else was at work, including Evan.
Slouching to the right, (Y/n) flopped her right arm on the table and dropped her forehead down onto her arm. She could feel herself beginning to shake when another pain wracked her stomach in a low, dull throb. The first one felt like a contraction, (Y/n) knew what that felt like even after four years. And she would guess that this was some sort of stress pains but whatever they were, she shouldn't be having them.
A quiet mewl left her lips and she wanted to smile when she felt James tenderly kiss her arm and smoothed his hand up and down her back like he wanted to do something to help her.
She wanted Evan. They both wanted Evan.
… Evan could feel himself trembling, legs close to giving way as he rounded the corner and set off into another sprint down the corridor. His hands balled into fists at his sides and his chest was heaving, threatening to strain and break free from his shirt.
The moment his eyes locked on his family, a small puddle of relief started to bloom in his stomach. He felt better for seeing them, but he still didn't know what was going on.
His lips rolled together when his sights set on James. The three year old started to whine and wriggle on Maddie's lap, previously settled leaning into her chest until he realised Evan was finally here. He kicked his legs out and slid beneath Maddie's arms, sliding down to the floor so he could set off into a sprint.
James's arms deadlocked around Evan's legs and he tilted his head back, looking up at his dad with tears in his eyes and his chest panting and heaving.
"Daddy."
Leaning down, Evan scooped James up, allowing his boy to grip his neck and snuggle close into his chest.
"I'm here, I've got you."
Evan danced his eyes around his family. Maddie pushed up from her chair and stepped closer, her hand already on his arm giving a light squeeze to try and calm him down and give whatever comfort she could. Their parents remained seated in the corridor, hands linked together, worried eyes gazing up at Evan as if he was a profit that had just appeared in front of them.
"What happened?" Evan didn't know what brought them all here.
He had only just climbed off the truck after a two hour call out when the shift lead told him to call Maddie because dispatch had gotten through to the station that he had a family emergency. And all his sister told him over the phone was that (Y/n) had had pains and they were taking her to the hospital to get checked out.
He let Maddie steer him a few feet away down the corridor and her eyes flitted to James, but the toddler wasn't listening. He was happily humming into Evan's chest and drawing patterns on his shirt. Evan didn't have chance to change. He had sped from the station down here to the hospital so he was still in his shirt that was black with smoke, damp with water backsplash and tight and crumpled from heat.
"She started getting cramps, the doctor said it was the start of labour pains."
Evan could feel his upper lip curling and he tilted his head back, trying to dull down the ache in his lower chest and the fire burning behind his ribs.
"Why? It's too early… when I left last night she was fine. Where is she?" Evan wouldn't have gone to work if he thought (Y/n) wasn't well or if he'd of known she would go downhill like this. There was nothing to suggest she was going to go into labour and it was too early for that, this would be premature for the twins and dangerous.
Evan bounced James up and down in his arms and cradled the back of his head, tilting his head down so he could kiss the top of his head.
"They've given her something to stop the contractions."
"Thank God, Maddie what happened?"
The way Maddie looked across at their parents made Evan's stomach drop. What had gone on while he had been at work? Something had to have happened, (Y/n) couldn't just go into labour out of the blue when she had been fine last night and there had been no problems before now.
"Mum and dad were round to see them… (Y/n) said they were arguing with her."
"They did this?" His tone was dark but it was the look in his eyes that set Maddie on edge even more.
She watched the way he leaned down to try and set James back on his feet, but the little boy wouldn't let go of Evan's neck. He clung to his chest and wriggled in his arms, whining to try and get Evan to keep hold of him.
"James, baby let go for a minute-"
"They shouted at mummy."
Evan paused, crouching down with James stood between his knees with his arms bound tight around his neck. His hands squeezed James's sides and he kept him close, trying to stay calm.
"What did they say, baby?" He wasn't sure if he wanted the answer or not, but Evan wasn't impressed in the slightest that James had clearly heard something he shouldn't. Had his parents really shouted at his wife? Had they argued with her with James nearby to hear them? Had they upset his wife enough to cause all of this and panic his son too?
"They were arguing about Bubba, and the bike… they were being mean." James leaned his head on Evan's shoulder and pushed into his chest until Evan held him tighter and kissed his temple.
"Okay. Okay, baby you stay with aunt Maddie for a minute, then we'll go see mummy. Bubba's coming soon to see us all too."
Evan shared a look with his sister and he chose to ignore the panic in her eyes while he carefully nudged James across to her. He waited until she had her arms wrapped around him before he got up and advanced over to his parents. Both hands curled into fists at his sides and he took a glance over his shoulder to make sure James was at a safe enough distance away not to hear anything, although that meant Evan was going to have to keep his voice down.
"Evan-"
"I was in the middle of a double shift, and I get a call to say (Y/n)'s in hospital, so I come down here to be told she's in labour after arguing with you. And you have the nerve to stick around? What the Hell did you say to her to cause this?"
He hadn't even finished his twenty-four hour shift before he got called to come here. Evan thought maybe (Y/n) had had some sort of fall or she was sick or having some kind of pains with the twins. He wasn't expecting her to be in labour- which hopefully had stopped by now. And he wasn't expecting his parents to be the cause of all this.
"She got herself worked up-"
"Labour doesn't count as worked up, mum, it counts as fucking stressed out. What did you say?"
"James wouldn't come near us today, he's rushing around with that Captain of yours, calling him his grandad and spending weekends with him. She's turning him against us Evan, we are his grandparents."
A horrid shuddering breath rocked Evan's system. His hands found his hips and his foot began to tap against the floor as he looked up at the ceiling. He could feel his fingers puncturing into his hips and his chest ached at their words.
How were they blaming (Y/n) for this?
She hadn't done anything to warrant any of this. It was their own doing and now they had stressed his wife into labour when she was supposed to be resting and taking things easy until the twins were born.
"Just leave."
"Evan, don't do this, please."
"Bobby is James's grandad, always has been, always will be. He doesn't stay with you because he barely fucking knows you and I wouldn't trust him with you either. Look what you've done today, we'll be lucky if she doesn't go into premature labour now after this." Twisting to the left, Evan motioned his hand out towards James. "Come on, we're gonna see mum."
As soon as James trotted over to him, Evan grabbed his hand and steered him straight ahead. He wasn't stopping to argue and he wasn't having James getting worried or upset any further than this. He wanted to see (Y/n) and make sure she was alright.
He could feel Maddie close behind them and he rapped his knuckles lightly on the door before he headed inside.
His lips curved into a smile before he could stop himself and something warm flooded his eyes when they set on his wife. The moment her arms stretched out for him, Evan let go of James so he could move forward.
Evan almost melted on the spot when (Y/n)'s arms looped around his neck. He wound his arms tightly around her waist, trying not to squeeze too much and cause her any more pain or discomfort. His face burrowed into the side of her neck and he inhaled her scent, smothering his lips against her skin while he felt (Y/n)'s hand run up and down his back.
"Are you okay? What did the doctor say?"
Evan let his weight slump down on the side of the bed and he didn't miss the way the bed groaned beneath him and he felt it shudder when James scrambled up on the other side of the bed.
(Y/n) gripped Evan's hand and opened her other arm out, mumbling "Hi baby," when James crawled up and plonked himself down beneath her right arm. She didn't miss the way Evan's eyes kept moving to her stomach and she gently moved his hand to rest on her stomach. She wasn't tender or made of glass, he could reach out for the twins like he always did without fear of making her feel any worse.
"Contractions have stopped, but I'm here for twenty four hour observation to make sure they don't start again. They're both doing okay."
Evan mumbled his relief before he leaned forward and pressed his lips down against her stomach. His lips curved into a grin when he felt James's fingers brush through his hair, something the little boy had always seen (Y/n) do often.
"Sorry to drag you away from work."
"Hey, if you're not well I need to be here. Bobby's coming down soon, said he'd look after a certain someone for us so I can stay with you."
He could see the panic that fluttered across (Y/n)'s face and he felt her grip tighten on his wrist when she looked towards the door before she looked back at Evan. It wasn't that she didn't want Bobby to come by, of course she did, it was sweet that he cared and that he was willing to help them when he didn't have to. But Evan's parents were outside that door and (Y/n) didn't want another fight breaking out if they saw the Buckleys.
"Evan, you parents-"
"Aren't staying. Everyone who matters is right in here, so no worrying. Everything's okay."
They were all in here and when Bobby arrived, that would be their immediate family right here in this room. His parents had been told to go and Evan doubted they would hang around after what had happened today. He wasn't going to let this happen again.
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?
Defend Myself
Requested Here!
Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader (hockey fan & self-defence teacher)
Summary: During a hockey game, you get into a fight with the drunk man sitting beside you. When Tim Bradford arrives to break up the fight, he decides he'd like to see you again.
Warnings: fight between r and drunk man, unwelcome comments and grabbing (nothing overtly sexual or descriptive), fluff at the end, Tim and Aaron are sarcastic
Word Count: 1.9k+ words
A/N: Why I go back and forth between American and British spellings is a mystery.
Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List
“Alright, ladies,” you call to the self-defence class you’re teaching. “What’s the goal here?”
“Defend ourselves and protect our minds,” they reply.
“Right. Because learning how to fight and keeping yourself physically safe isn’t all that matters. Focusing on what can go wrong in life isn’t any fun, so while we work on self-defence, use it as anger management. Have fun with this!”
Your last class on Friday afternoons is one of your favorites. The women are always excited to learn, they listen well and use good form. Most importantly, they really understand your goal in teaching them. In addition to how great the group before you is, you also get to look forward to hockey after they leave. Whether it’s a game or just to watch practice, you find yourself at the rink most Fridays, and as many other chances as you can get. Hockey and self-defence are two of your favorite things, so afternoons like this are borderline magical.
“Uppercut,” you signal.
As you demonstrate the proper way to move into an uppercut after the warmup, you watch the class.
“Can I ask a question?” a woman in the back row asks between moves.
“Of course,” you reply with a smile.
“Have you ever had to use these moves in real life? Like, to defend yourself?”
“Unfortunately, yes. But that’s why we learn it, right? If we know how we don’t have to live in fear about the when.”
“Which is why we chose the bear,” another girl murmurs.
“Can’t always choose. Preparation is key, and knowing how to react is the most important thing you can learn as a woman.”
“Fighting can be boring though,” someone groans.
“Clearly, you’ve never been to a hockey game. Let’s focus, ladies. Take a breather before we move into strength drills.”
You grab your water bottle from the floor and survey your classroom. Hockey fights are certainly more entertaining than fighting to defend yourself, but you enjoy both.
Los Angeles isn’t necessarily known for its hockey scene, but the arena is packed tonight. Your season pass with the seat on the ice is getting plenty of use this year, and as you sit back to watch warmups, you can’t help the smile that grows on your face.
As the crowd grows and the first period gets nearer, two men take the seats to your right. You nod politely when they greet you, but quickly return your attention to the players preparing to skate out. While the announcer introduces the teams and prepares the fans for a good game, you glance toward the men beside you. The one closest to you seems to already be buzzed, and the oversized cup of beer between his legs doesn’t instill confidence in you. Hopefully, he’ll stay quiet, you think. Cheering for your team is one thing but you know too well how quickly a drunk hockey fan can ruin a night. Anyone who’s been to a hockey game can probably imagine your concern.
You try to ignore him as he gets more talkative, but in the middle of the first period, he drains the remainder of his beer and turns toward you.
“Pretty little thing like you prob’y has some questions,” he says. “I can explain it t’ya.”
“I’m good,” you answer firmly.
“If t’changes,” he slurs as he turns away.
It won’t.
The bell rings and the teams leave the ice as the crowd rises in mass. You stay seated comfortably in your seat as your drunk neighbor leaves with his friend. Since you told him you didn’t need his help, he’s left you alone. As long as that continues, you’ll be able to enjoy the rest of the game, and maybe witness a hat trick from your favourite player.
“Here,” your neighbor says as he returns. “Looked thirsty.”
He shoves a cup of soda toward you, and you push it back. “I don’t want that.”
“Just try’na be nice!”
As he falls back into his seat, you lean toward the side to get some room. His arm moves to the armrest between you as he reaches his fingers toward your leg.
“Don’t touch me,” you tell him as you knock his hand back into his lap.
“Jus’ a pretty lil’ thing,” he murmurs as he leans over the armrest.
“Sir, get him under control,” you say to his friend.
“He’s not my problem,” the other man answers.
“Stop.”
He rolls his eyes as if you’re overreacting and sits back in his seat. Your fists are clenched tightly as you watch him move away from you, and you’re mad that he’s causing you to miss so much of the game and keeping you from enjoying it.
“Los Angeles, make some noise for the third period!” the announcer yells. “We’ve got a tight game and tighter teams. Make it a night to remember, LA.”
“Night to r’mem’ba sounds pre’y good.”
You take a deep breath before you raise your eyes. Somehow, your neighbor got more drunk in the short break between the second and third periods than the rest of the game combined. He reaches toward your arm, and when you pull away, he frowns and steps to stand over you where you sit.
“Leave me alone,” you demand as you stand.
After you put a bit of space between you, you notice that the people sitting behind you are watching you. You don’t care, however, as he throws an empty cup toward you. You move out of the way, and it isn’t until he lunges toward you that you truly react. Your fist makes impact with his jaw before he finishes stepping forward.
“Fight!” someone yells behind you.
You plan to do just that. If he can’t understand no or stop, maybe he’ll understand some of your favourite self-defence moves.
“Reports of assault at Honda Center: fight in progress. Attendees have made numerous reports of disturbance,” dispatch alerts.
“Responding,” Tim replies. “Code 3.”
“Aren’t there supposed to be fights at hockey games?” Aaron asks. “That’s, like, half of the draw.”
“On the ice. Fights off the ice are a regular occurrence,” Tim answers. “Usually drunk rival teams.”
“Easy to break up?”
“Sure. If you think pulling a guy who can’t feel anything off of another guy who doesn’t even remember why he’s trying to kill someone else easy, absolutely.”
“Could’ve just said no,” Aaron mumbles as Tim turns.
“Man, back up!” a security guard demands.
He grabs your attacker’s shoulder and tries to pull him backward, but it doesn’t work. As you prepare to throw another punch, you see that the drunk guy’s eye is black and swelling, his lip is busted, his nose is bleeding, yet he still isn’t quitting.
“Jus’ stop playin’!” the man demands as he grabs for your waist.
You push his wrists away and shove him against the glass dividing you from the ice. He elbows backward, but you block it with your forearm as he yells at you.
“The police are on the way!” someone yells from higher in the seats.
“Get off me!” the man roars as he pushes himself backward.
You manage to catch yourself before he shoves you against the seats. When he raises his hands toward your chest, you raise your right leg into a front kick and momentarily stun him into remaining still.
“Kick his butt, lady!” a man cheers.
“LAPD,” Tim announces as he and Aaron enter the arena. “Where’s the fight?”
“Follow me,” the guard replies.
He leads them into the section where the crowd has gathered to watch the fight. The moment Tim sees the number of people invested in the fight and the suspended timer above the rink, he expects the worst.
“Call for backup, Bradford?” Aaron asks.
“Not yet. Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” Tim answers.
“I doubt the guy can go for much longer anyway,” the guard adds. “She knows what she’s doing.”
Tim doesn’t get a chance to ask what that means before he reaches the center of the crowd. He watches you elbow the man under his chin. As Aaron takes a step toward you, Tim extends his arm to stop him. You’re clearly winning, but the guy is too drunk to realize that he can’t keep going. He’ll realize just how badly he lost once the alcohol wears off. A night in lockup would do that nicely, Tim thinks.
The man steps back and prepares to jump at you, but Tim grabs his shoulder from behind and throws him against the glass before he shoves the man to the floor. With his knee pressed into the man’s kidney, Tim secures the handcuffs on his wrists.
“Take him,” Tim tells Aaron.
Aaron nods and yells for the crowd to clear a path. He follows a small group of security guards as he walks back to the shop.
The crowd around you begins to spread out the moment your attacker is ripped away from you. You take a deep breath and nod at the officer who helped you.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you answer with a smile. “Little tired. Thanks for the assist, Officer Bradford.”
Tim watches your eyes rise back to his face after reading his name tag. He smiles at you just before the buzzer over your head rings as the game resumes.
“You wanna stay?” he asks over the sound of skates and cheers.
You shake your head and follow him to the staircase. Once you’re in the main area of Honda Center and the noise of the game is muffled, Tim turns toward you.
“That was impressive,” he applauds. “I’ve been called to more fights than I can count. Never seen one under control like you had it. You, uh, you clearly won.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to commend me for getting into a fight, officer,” you tease.
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?” he asks.
“I teach a self-defence class for women,” you explain. “Been fighting for a while but honed my skills for safety more than entertainment.”
“Then they were wrong.” At your confused look, Tim clarifies, “911 dispatcher said there was a fight. You were just defending yourself.”
“He was drunk and didn’t understand when I told him to stop.”
“Which I am allowed to commend you for.”
You smile at Tim again, and he decides that he needs to see you again. More than being impressed by the thorough beating you delivered to the man who was harassing you and trying to touch you, Tim finds you incredibly beautiful, and he knows you’re talented and care about others. He doesn’t want this to be a one-time encounter.
“Have you ever considered hosting a class for the police department?” he asks, looking for a way to ensure he can talk to you again soon. “We bring in instructors from the city occasionally to host free classes. You’d receive compensation, of course.”
“I haven’t, but it does sound nice. If more women knew how to defend themselves, it might make your job easier.”
Tim agrees as he hands you his card. “Call the station in the morning and we can work something out. If you need a teacher’s assistant or anything, I’d be happy to help, too.”
You tap his card against your thigh as you say, “I’d like that.”
“Bradford!” his partner, Thorsen – you feel like you should recognize the name but don’t – calls. “We got another call.”
“Sorry,” Tim tells you. “Hopefully I’ll see you at the station soon.”
“I think you will.” When you smile at him this time, Tim feels like you punched him, too.
Sneaky Link Roy
Description: A deeper dive into sneaky link Roy and Y/N
Warnings: Suggestive content, allusions to sex, cursing, sneaky links
Word Count: 0.8k
"Roy, what did I say about calling me?" Y/N asked while she rubbed an expensive cleanser onto her face. He just happened to facetime her the one night all of her siblings were in town for some mission. Her phone was placed on her vanity counter as she did her nighttime skincare routine. Her knotless braids sat in a bun on top of her head while she wore a robe with her name embellished on it.
"I know, I know, but I need you," Roy's eyes couldn't help but travel down the silk robe. His mouth went dry at the sight of her cleavage.
"We're not exclusive, you could call someone else," Y/N offered. As much as she hated the thought of him with someone else, it would be the safer alternative if Jason or Dick caught them together.
"I want you, though," Roy whined and Y/N had to reconsider her choices. For him to be just her sneaky link, she didn't like the power he had over her emotions. She didn't appreciate how sweet he was to her but she loved how he begged for her attention.
"Okay, you always know what to say. I'll be over in thirty," Y/N said hanging up the phone.
Y/N had an important in the city that she rarely stayed in. It made the perfect place for her and Roy to meet up. Donning a pair of sweats and a zip-up hoodie, Y/N stuck her head out of her bedroom door. The key now was to avoid Alfred. If she timed it right, she could make it through the front door without anyone knowing she was gone for at least two hours.
"It's late, where are you going?" Damian asked as his sister attempted to sneak out of the manor. Y/N almost cursed once she remembered that Damian was off patrol because of his broken arm.
"Out," Y/N suspiciously drew out the one-syllable word.
"Out or out-out," Damian questioned trying to gauge if he wanted to come with her or not.
"I'll buy you a month's worth of vegan Ben & Jerry's if you walk away and don't tell anyone," Y/N offered with a quirked eyebrow. Damian contemplated his choices and realized that ice cream is always the answer.
"Deal," He backed away slowly into the hallway and Y/N dashed the excite.
- Roy doesn't remember how he ended up shirtless and cuffed to Y/N's bedframe. All he remembered was walking into her apartment and being attacked with kisses. She had him stripped to his boxers and she wore the thinnest lingerie he had ever seen. She straddled his lap and placed a ball gag in his mouth.
"Don't start whining, yet. We've barely started," Y/N said as she kissed his cheek. She stopped when she heard a phone buzzing on the floor.
"It's Jade," Y/N said as she held up his phone. Roy's eyes widened as he realized how this was about to go. Jade managed to call Roy almost every time he was with Y/N. It was never about Lian, either and that just pissed Y/N off even more.
"Hello," Y/N spoke into the cell phone while running her hand up and down Roy's thigh.
"Who is this?" Jade asked.
"Let's not pretend you don't know who I am,"
"Where's Roy, Y/N?" Jade asked with venom on her tongue. Y/N enjoyed teasing the assassin. It was like taking the bully's favorite toy.
"He's a little busy at the moment," Y/N said as she searched her bedside drawer for more fun playthings. Roy was sweating bullets. He knew that Jade was mildly crazy but Y/N was wildly petty.
"Give him the phone," Jade demanded.
"I would, but there's a gag in his mouth. He looks so pretty tied to the bed," Y/N winked at Roy and his cheeks turned an even brighter red than his hair. He was in for the night of his life.
"I will fuck your shit up," Jade threatened into the phone's speaker. Y/N simply removed the phone from her ear and waited for Jade to finish her string of curses.
"Bitch, you're the one who calls every time we're together," Y/N noted without missing a beat.
"And you'd think that the spoiled princess would learn to take a hint," Jade spoke and Y/N chuckled to herself a little before responding.
"You know what, I'm not arguing with a woman whose baby daddy just ate my ass," Y/N said without a hint of remorse. She had a smirk on her face the entire time. The line went quiet before Jade began to scream into her phone.
"You bi-," Jade started before being rudely interrupted.
"Have a blessed night. Okay, where were we?" Y/N turned to face Roy with bright eyes.
The Flower and The Serpent : a Walt De Ville x reader FF : one
You were with your friends when the time came, unbidden, to say goodbye. You had known it was on its way, this day in particular, but it still managed to creep up on you, as did the older man dressed in old fashioned butler clothing. The first notions you had of his presence were the hairs standing up on your arms and nape of your neck, and the sudden silence of your friends, where before there had been nothing but lively chatter.
Keep reading
Aftershock
Main masterlist | The Rookie masterlist
part 1
Tim Bradford x younger!reader
Fandom: The Rookie
Summary: You’re a bold, confident civil engineering student, used to taking control on construction sites. But when an earthquake hits while you're in charge of your father’s site, you meet LAPD Sergeant Tim Bradford. You clash, you work together, and slowly, something deeper begins to spark.
A/N: I have the second part almost ready so it'll be here soon!! Also is you have some ideas for this mini series, feel free to drop it in my box! Feedback is always appreciated!! I hope you like it! Lots of love, bubs! Stay safe! 🫶🏻🫶🏻
Warnings: Earthquake/emergency scenario, mild injury, panic attack (comfort follows), age gap, not proofread
Word Count: 4k+
It starts like a whisper—barely-there tremors under your steel-toes as you walk the perimeter of the new mixed-use high-rise downtown. You've spent the last half-hour barking into your phone, coordinating crane placement and checking load-bearing support numbers. You’re dusty, focused, and completely in your element.
Until the earth moves for real.
You don’t hear it before you feel it. The tremor roars upward through your boots like a live wire. The scaffolding groans. A metallic shriek pierces the air. Then it happens.
The world shudders. A cacophony of screams. Cement rains down. You drop to your knees and roll, instincts kicking in, sheltering beneath a shipping container propped on steel beams.
Earthquake.
It only lasts seconds—long ones—but the aftermath feels like a war zone. You crawl out coughing, your lungs filling with grit and fear, but your brain is firing on pure adrenaline. You're not just some student or supervisor. You’re the boss’s daughter. And he’s out of town, which makes this your site.
Your chest heaves, but your eyes are already scanning. Where's the crew? Who’s accounted for?
“Luis!” you shout, dodging fallen equipment. “Jen! Mateo!”
Two workers emerge from a cloud of dust, one limping, another coughing blood into his glove. You guide them to the open lot beyond the scaffolding, mentally mapping the layout. Six missing. Maybe more.
And then, over the scream of sirens, two figures cut through the dust—uniformed.
The man in front moves like he was born in boots. Tall, broad shoulders, determined jaw. There’s something sharp and no-nonsense about him, like he’s the human equivalent of a battering ram. Behind him, a quick-footed brunette surveys the site with wide, alert eyes.
“LAPD!” the man shouts. “Is anyone hurt?”
“I’m fine!” you yell back over the noise. “There are still people inside!”
He reaches you in seconds. “You need to move—this whole site could still collapse.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you snap. “This is my father’s project. He’s out of town. I’m responsible for everyone here.”
“Name?”
“Y/n Y/l/n. Civil engineering student. Site lead for the day.”
“Sergeant Tim Bradford,” he grunts, scanning you. “This is Officer Lucy Chen.”
Chen gives a small nod and immediately moves to triage the injured worker. Bradford, however, keeps his full attention on you.
You don’t miss the way his eyes rake over you—not in a creepy way. He’s taking stock. Assessing damage. Dirt on your face, small gash on your arm. His brows tighten.
“You were inside?”
“Under that scaffolding.”
“You shouldn’t be standing.”
You fold your arms. “Well, I am.”
“You need to let us handle this.”
“No. I know this site better than anyone. I helped design the layout. There’s a crawlspace beneath the west scaffolding that no one else knows about. If anyone’s still in there—”
“You’re not trained for rescue ops.”
“I’m trained to know what’s safe and what’s about to fall on your head.”
His jaw ticks. “I don’t have time to babysit you.”
“Then don’t. Keep up.”
You step past him, and for a beat, he just stares.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “You’re like if a Barbie Doll had a death wish.”
You toss him a grin over your shoulder. “Grumpy and unoriginal. Cute.”
He follows, grumbling something under his breath about stubborn civilians and lawsuits.
The two of you reach the compromised scaffold, and you crouch beside the twisted beams. Bradford stops behind you, way closer than necessary.
“Let me go first,” he says, voice low, eyes scanning overhead.
“I’ll fit through easier. You’re built like a linebacker.”
You feel his breath on the back of your neck as he leans down.
“And you think I’m letting you crawl into a death trap alone?”
You glance at him, only inches away. “So you do care.”
He doesn’t move.
“Protocol,” he says stiffly. “And… you’re bleeding.”
You look down at the gash on your forearm—dirt-caked but shallow.
“Didn’t notice.”
“I did.”
He steps forward and gently takes your wrist. His touch is unexpectedly careful—rough hands, but soft grip. He pulls a cloth from his vest and dabs at the wound. You watch his face as he works. He’s so serious. So guarded.
“I’m going in first,” he says, not giving you a chance to argue.
You don’t push it this time. He’s trying. In his own way.
You both drop into the crawlspace, the air thick with dust and heat. Your shoulder brushes his arm as you squeeze through. Close. Too close.
You hear it before you see it—a cough. Faint, raspy.
“There,” you whisper. “Under that beam.”
Bradford nods. “Stay low.”
The man’s pinned, conscious but trapped under a slab of drywall and steel piping. You approach carefully, testing for weight, and give Tim a look.
“If we shift the load here, I can drag him out.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His hand grazes your back as he shifts to position. Again, he’s close. Protective. Your skin sparks where his fingers press.
He moves the slab, and you reach under, tugging the worker free with all your strength. It takes effort. You grunt, digging your heels into the ground. Bradford leans forward, adds his strength behind yours. The worker slides out.
You sit back, panting.
“You okay?” Tim asks, wiping sweat from his temple.
You nod, heart pounding—not just from the rescue. From him. From the way his hand didn’t quite leave your lower back.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Thanks.”
He meets your eyes. For a second, everything around you disappears.
And then his radio crackles. “Bradford, update?”
“We got one out,” he replies. “Sending location for medical. Continuing sweep.”
As you crawl back out, he places a steadying hand at your waist, guiding you up the incline. You feel the heat of it even through your shirt. It lingers. He doesn’t rush the touch. Neither do you.
Once you’re out, the EMTs swarm. The worker is taken. Chen updates the map with accounted-for crew.
You press your hands to your thighs, catching your breath.
“How many are left?” Tim asks.
You scan your clipboard. “Two. Maybe three. Could be hiding in the south exit shaft.”
“Is it stable?”
You pause. “Barely. But I can get us in.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re not invincible, Barbie.”
“And you’re not my boss, Grinch.”
He exhales hard. “Fine. But I go first this time. You stay on my six.”
“Yes, sir.”
He gives you a look. You wink.
You both make your way through the wreckage, ducking twisted rebar and beams. At one point, you trip on a loose plank. His arm shoots out, wraps around your waist.
You freeze.
So does he.
You’re chest to chest, his hand splayed across your back, your fingers gripping his vest.
“You okay?” he asks, voice a touch lower now.
Your throat’s dry. “Yeah. You?”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches you for a moment, then slowly lets you go.
You keep moving, but now every time your fingers graze or your arms brush, it feels intentional. Loaded.
You find the last two workers behind a jammed gate. Tim breaks the lock with a metal pipe, and you help the shaken men out. One thanks you. The other looks at you like you’re a superhero.
But the adrenaline has started to fade.
The full weight of it all—the noise, the near-deaths, the responsibility—presses down.
When you step away from the others, your legs buckle just a little. Bradford is there instantly.
“Sit,” he says, catching you by the arm.
You nod slowly, dropping onto a low wall.
He crouches beside you, reading your face. “It’s catching up to you.”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“You held it together. You did everything right.”
Your breath hitches. “I didn’t… I didn’t think. I just moved. But what if I missed someone? What if—”
“Stop.”
His voice is gentle but firm. He places his hand on your knee. You flinch—but not from fear. From how it grounds you.
“Look at me.”
You do.
“You saved people. You helped us. You didn’t hide. You ran toward the danger.”
Your lip quivers.
His hand slides to your shoulder. His thumb strokes your collarbone, just once.
“You’re allowed to feel it now.”
And that’s all it takes. The panic hits like a wave—hard and fast. Your chest clenches, eyes burning.
Tim doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you. You bury your face in his shoulder, fists curling in his vest.
“It’s over,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re safe.”
His hand slides into your hair, combing gently through it. The motion is soothing. Familiar. Like he’s done it before. Or maybe just dreamed of it.
“You don’t have to be strong right now.”
You tremble in his hold. He doesn’t pull away.
“I’ve got you,” he adds. “Okay?”
You nod against him. When you finally look up, his hand lingers on your cheek.
“Didn’t think you’d be the nurturing type." you say, voice hoarse.
He chuckles, voice rumbling in his chest. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my brand.”
You lean back just enough to see his face.
And something shifts between you.
A quiet moment in the eye of the storm.
“I still think ‘Grinch’ suits you,” you whisper.
“And I still think you’re high-maintenance.”
“Excuse me?”
“Only a Barbie Doll would coordinate a rescue effort and sass a cop in the same breath.”
You smirk. “Maybe I’m both.”
The moment stretches. You’re both still, holding onto something neither of you fully understands yet.
Then a shout breaks the spell.
“Y/n!”
You turn. “Dad!”
Your father is running across the rubble-strewn pavement, suit jacket flapping, eyes wild.
You stand, and he pulls you into a crushing hug.
“I’m fine,” you gasp. “We’re all fine.”
He cups your face. “I got the alert mid-meeting and left immediately.”
You hug him tighter. “I had to take charge.”
“And you did,” he whispers. “I’m proud of you.”
You feel a shift behind you. Turning, you find Tim standing quietly, watching the scene with a measured expression. Your dad notices him too.
“You,” he says, crossing over. “You pulled her out.”
“Sergeant Bradford,” Tim replies, shaking his hand firmly. “Just doing my job, sir.”
Bradford looks at you. And he gets it.
You’re not just another young woman on-site. You’re his daughter. His pride. His heart. And you’re damn good at what you do.
Daddy’s princess—with steel in your spine.
He watches you hug your dad again, whisper something that makes the older man smile. And Tim’s jaw tightens, just slightly.
Lucy appears beside him, sipping water.
“She’s a powerhouse,” she says.
“Yeah,” Tim replies, watching you like he can’t look away. “She is.”
“You gonna ask for her number?”
He snorts. “She’d probably write it on an OSHA citation and tell me to lighten up.”
“You could use someone who challenges you.” his rookie shrugs.
Tim glances back at you—still in that vest, still a little scraped up, but glowing with that post-adrenaline shine.
Maybe he could.
Hook, Line, and NOPE!
Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader
Summary: Tim Bradford gets hooked on loving you, but you play hard to get. After you finally admit that you feel the same, everybody says he's sleeping with the enemy.
Warnings: angst, arguments, emotional vulnerabity, fear of intimacy?, brief violence, fluff and comfort!
Word Count: 4.4k+ words
Song List: NOPE! by New Rules & Hooked by Why Don't We
For @newobessionweekly! Sorry it took me so long to write this, but I hope you enjoy it, I'm glad you're back, and I wish you the best in all of your endeavors!!
Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List
“Surely you can see how this entire project is ludicrous.”
You tap your eraser against your notebook, looking at the lawyers sitting across from you, representing the Los Angeles Police Department. The meeting was supposed to be held after a public forum. Because the court of public opinion is rarely on the department’s side, you were called into an impromptu – and early – one-on-one with the police commissioner’s legal representation.
“How is attempting to mitigate the impact on public citizens and the local economy ludicrous, Mr. Evers?” you inquire. “As someone who lives in Los Angeles, I consider this decision quite sensible. Avoiding more construction, road closures, and drawn-out costs that will ultimately impact businesses and taxpayers is hardly a laughable matter.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Wesley defends. “Do you make it a point to disagree with the LAPD whenever possible?”
You smile then, leaning forward over a printed report. “Not all of its officers,” you confide. “Now, if you have no reasonable objections to our proposal, I suggest we reconvene at the planned time to discuss this in light of public opinion, rather than my apparently overly convoluted view.”
“You are not making friends in the department,” he says as he closes his leather-bound legal pad and stands. “There will come a time when you need their support.”
“And there will come a time when they’ll see that I am in fact on their side. Thank you for your time.”
As soon as the door closes behind Wesley Evers and the rest of the commissioner’s hand-picked team, you slouch in your chair and sigh.
“He’s going to tell his girlfriend everything you said,” the paralegal taking notes beside you murmurs.
“Well, as the heads of my fan club, I’d expect no less,” you reply lightly. “Thanks for your help preparing for this.”
“Any time. Sorry the LAPD doesn’t like you.”
“I’m not here to be liked, I’m here to do my job and do it well. Speaking of which, I’ve got a lunch meeting.”
“With whom?”
You tap your fingers to your lips like you’re keeping a secret. If you’re making enemies with local law enforcement, the least you can do is devote some of your free time to making it better.
“You look beautiful,” your lunch date says as he pulls your chair out for you.
You roll your eyes but feel your cheeks heat at his flattery. The man sitting across from you is undoubtedly on your string, and you pull it, even if you know this relationship will never be anything more than it is now. He says nice things to you, and sometimes, when you’re home alone after a long week of being told all of the reasons people don’t like you, it’s nice to think that he might like you – though, if he does, it’s different.
“Are you going to tell me why you wanted to meet today or should I guess?” he asks, sitting across from you.
“Well, you’ve never been one to give up before,” you muse.
“You had a meeting with Wesley.”
“I did.”
“How’d that go?”
“Imagine sitting at a table with twelve former arrests that hate you – some of them just on principle,” you begin. “But you have to be civil because it’s a work thing. That’s about how it went.”
“Well, you did slash the law enforcement budget.”
“Not by myself. And it wasn’t my first recommendation, but it’s what we had to do to ensure everything was able to get done for the year. I understand that I seem like the bad guy here. I’m on their side- your side, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”
He hums, then reminds you, “We don’t all hate you.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the exception.”
“Does that mean you’ve reconsidered my offer?”
You glance at him over the top of your menu. “I thought you were still mad about the flowers.”
“I got you flowers, you left them outside, they died. Flowers die, I got over it.”
“I just don’t get it,” you admit, setting the menu aside.
“I can explain it again. Unless you’re stalling, like I think you are.”
“You’re brave enough to chase what you want: promotions, people, possessions. I’m not.”
“Is that why you keep stopping this before we even start?” he challenges. “Why we’ll talk for hours one day, and the next you’re a ghost? Why you invite me over just to not be home?”
You raise your hand, silently begging him to stop. When he explains your actions this way, they sound much crueler than your intentions. Being surrounded by hostility at work has led you to build tall, nearly impenetrable walls around yourself. Sitting across from the one man you can see yourself having a future with threatens those walls. He’s been chipping away at them for months, finding the weak spots and being patient with you each time you suddenly pull back when you notice he’s gotten too close.
“I just…”
“You change your mind,” he finishes for you. “You change it like the clothes you’re in, but… I’m not giving up.”
You chew the inside of your lower lip as someone passes by your table. “Why?” you ask softly.
“Because I’ve got a suspicion that you feel it too. I know what you’re doing.”
Nodding, you remind him, “It’s not just me I’m protecting.”
At the end of your lunch, you walk back onto the streets of LA and wait awkwardly on the sidewalk.
“Think about it,” he encourages.
“I will.”
“Oh, one more thing.”
“Bye, Officer Bradford,” you say, turning to walk away from him.
“Hello!” Tim calls after you, trying to get your attention again.
“See you later!”
Four Months Later
“… T, U, V,” Lucy continues. She stops and shifts in the seat to ask, “Are you lying?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Tim replies.
“There is no way your girlfriend’s name starts with X, Y, or Z. Is there?”
“Can we go back to when my personal life was off limits?”
“No. Now, tell me what your girlfriend’s name is.”
“Never said I had one.”
Lucy groans. She’s seen all the evidence that Tim has someone special in his life. He hasn’t eased up on the Tim tests or given her a break from his usual grumpy demeanor, but the little things are evident because she knows where to look.
“Bradford, Chen,” Wade radios. “Divert to the station. I’m putting you on detail at the rally this afternoon.”
“Copy that,” Tim replies.
“Is rally detail boring?” Lucy inquires.
“Depends on what exactly your post is,” Tim answers honestly. “Being a rookie, probably. It’s crowd babysitting more than anything.”
“Fantastic,” she deadpans.
“I’m about to cash in my pension,” Angela complains.
“Tell me about it,” Bishop agrees. “Does the mayor’s office care that crimes are still happening outside of his bubble?”
“He’s laughing at us. Making us guard his precious little troublemaker because he knows we don’t like her.”
“Why is that?” Nolan asks.
“She doesn’t like to help cops,” Jackson answers. “Will fund just about anything else, then gives us the leftovers. When it comes to budgeting and resources, we’re her last thought after her last thought.”
“So, she treats police needs like an afterthought?” Lucy clarifies. “And everyone on the force has a problem with her for that?”
“Not everyone,” Tim answers. “Form your own opinion, boot, don’t just listen to the jaded and the one repeating his father’s complaints.”
“It’s my opinion, too,” Jackson interjects.
“Wait,” Angela says, turning toward Tim. “Don’t tell me you buy into her I’m doing what I can, and I don’t like it either spiel.”
“I’m just saying that we have no way in knowing that she isn’t doing all she can. The police budget wasn’t good before she got the job, either. Useless to blame one person for the government’s fallacies.”
“What?” Bishop asks.
“You like her!” Angela accuses.
“Oh my gosh,” Lucy mumbles, her eyes widening. “It’s her isn’t it?!”
“She’s who?” Bishop demands.
“Focus on your assignment,” Tim barks.
“No,” Angela says. “Tim, do not tell me you have feelings for this girl.”
“And what if I did?” Tim challenges.
“Then I’d tell you it would never work.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Tim, I’m serious, don’t let this girl pull you in somehow. She’s the enemy.”
“The enemy? Lopez, she’s doing her job. People don’t like us for the same reason, does that make us the enemy?”
“That’s not what-“
“What about Evers? He the enemy?”
“Okay,” Bishop interrupts. “You’re getting defensive, stand down.”
Tim rolls his eyes and leads Lucy toward the stage. Angela and Bishop watch him go, convinced there is more to Tim’s response than simply respecting that you’re doing your job and not singling them out.
“We need to talk,” Bishop says, waiting outside the locker room.
“I don’t need an intervention,” Tim deadpans.
“But you need to hear this,” Angela replies. “We don’t like her. 90% of cops minimum don’t like the mayor’s golden girl.”
“Well, I’m in the percentage that doesn’t need your help.”
“Tim, she is younger than you, she works day in and day out to make our jobs harder. You are incredibly different people.”
“And you need to bring this back into the proper perspective,” Bishop adds. “Reality is, Bradford, that even if you do like this girl in a purely professional sense, she will betray that somehow.”
Tim clenches his jaw. “Reality is, Talia, that my life is absolutely none of your concern.”
“Not what you said last time you needed a favor.”
“The low blows make you feel better? Remind you that your family-“
“Stop,” Angela demands, stepping between Tim and Talia. “This isn’t about that. Tim, we’re just saying not to start something with this girl because it won’t end well.”
“I haven’t started anything,” Tim replies. “But if I wanted to, if I wanted to see where it would go, I would.”
Angela watches him, ignorant of their rookies listening in on the conversation.
“You did start something, didn’t you?” Nolan asks from around the corner.
“What do you want the hear?” Tim snaps, looking between the veteran and rookie officers surrounding him.
“The truth!” Lucy answers.
“Fine! Yes, I am dating her. It took me months to get her to the point where she wasn’t scared to let me in, and I’m not walking away from it – or her – because you all have chips on your shoulders.”
Angela shakes her head as she says, “You’re sleeping with the enemy here, Tim.”
“Yeah, because she has such a bad reputation. All of you, back off.”
“Or what?” Bishop challenges.
“You don’t want to fight me on this,” Tim explains lowly. “Now move.”
Bishop tilts her head to the side, then steps back. Tim exits the station with his shoulders drawn back and his hands curled into fists. You may be public enemy number one as far as officers from Mid-Wilshire are concerned, but that won’t change anything for Tim. To Tim, you’re the sweetest temptation, and the one he wouldn’t walk away from, even if he wasn’t completely and utterly hooked on you.
“Your girlfriend’s on TV,” Angela grumbles a few days after their unpropitious meeting.
Tim glances up at the television screen. You’re standing beside the mayor and the budgeting committee. Last week, the city planner's office introduced a petition to build a new and improved police facility near the station Tim is now standing in. It would provide room for additional personnel, new state-of-the-art security, and a training course specifically for tactical responses, including riot control and high-risk breaches.
As the mayor speaks and officers from across the city watch, Tim keeps his eyes on you. You look good in the dark blue blazer he helped you pick. Though he knows you’ll probably deliver a speech that will intensify the feelings of disdain local law enforcement holds for you, Tim has wildly differing thoughts about you.
“After many discussions with the board beside me and the experts in my own office,” the mayor says, “we have decided to delay the planning and construction of the new police station indefinitely.”
A collective groan of disappointment fills the bullpen around Tim. The mayor continues speaking, but Tim can’t hear him over the chatter echoing in the crowded room.
“What does this mean for us?” Lucy asks beside him.
“Nothing,” he answers.
“Just that we’ll still be stretched too thin and underprepared for tactical emergencies,” Jackson adds, his voice laced with loathing.
“Which is no different than now,” Tim reiterates. “Metro has operated with the current standard operating procedures for several years and it works. We have new shift rotations every other week. The brass will work around this, just like they always do.”
“They shouldn’t have to.”
“Tell Tim’s girlfriend that,” Angela interrupts.
Tim looks back to the screen, unsurprised to see that you’re now at the microphone, smiling even as you prepare to deliver the displeasing details of the proposal refusal.
“Good afternoon,” you greet. “On behalf of the mayor’s office, I would first like to thank the employees who worked on this project proposal and the officers who will someday benefit from it.”
“She’s so full of it,” someone yells as others boo.
“This is really who you want to be with?” Angela challenges Tim.
“You should try listening sometime, Lopez. It can be enlightening,” Tim replies. “Let’s go, boot. We’ve actually got work to do.”
“It is a question of money, yes,” you continue as Tim leaves. “But there is also a concern of bias and competency in planning and construction because of current contracts. Of course, the mayor agrees that the facility is needed, and he’s not denying that it will be provided to the LAPD, he has simply determined – with his advisors – that now is not the proper time to begin the undertaking of such a project.”
“There’s still time to dump her before this starts,” Bishop whispers.
“And there’s still a chance for you to remember who you’re talking to,” Tim replies.
“She’s going to get crucified,” Angela says. “You really want to be the officer she drags down with her?”
Tim shakes his head just before the door opens. You follow the mayor inside and sit at one of two tables on the stage. They’re arranged in a wide V-shape, with six chairs and six microphones at each. The rest of the room is filled with police and press, all heavily vetted and here for a specific reason. After the press conference yesterday, the law enforcement community voiced a public outcry, which led the police commissioner and numerous reporters to call for a town hall meeting with an audience of people who will be directly affected by the decision. And those who will paint you in the worst light possible to inform the public of the decision.
The first speaker in the line, an officer Tim recognizes but doesn’t know, directly addresses you. Tim notices your shoulders straighten as you nod.
“You’re the one that cut the police budget. Now that we’re down one more asset and assist, how does it feel to have less protection at your fingertips as a city employee?” he asks.
Several officers cheer, but Tim crosses his arms across his chest and rolls his eyes. He and Lucy arrived early and are seated in the front row. You lock eyes with Tim briefly before you answer.
“As I explained yesterday, the budget does play a role in the city’s delay of building this facility,” you explain. “But there are other concerns.”
“Like what?” the officer asks.
“The city of Los Angeles is currently under contracts with specific architects and engineers. These craftsmen are undoubtedly talented, yet there have been questions of their focus and dedication in their trades.”
“Speak English!” someone yells.
You smile at that and continue, “The engineers we would have to hire to build something of this size are solely interested in the paycheck they would receive. The mayor is unwilling to compromise the integrity of the building, so he decided to wait. If we move forward now, the final result would not be the better building and better system you need.”
“And you know what we need,” a reporter jeers.
“More space and additional resources, amongst many other things. I’m not arguing that you have clear needs, I am simply stating that this isn’t the way to do it. Not if you want it done rightly.”
You watch the officer turn away from the mic stand. He slows by the second row of chairs, and your brows pinch as you watch him.
“How did you determine there’s bias?”
Tim turns when the question is asked, shaking his head when he sees Bishop standing at the microphone. She glares at you, but one of the mayor’s corporate lawyers leans forward to answer the question. As he discusses the audit his team completed, you look past Tim. He meets your eyes and lifts his hands from his lap in question.
Without responding to Tim, you turn and speak to a member of the mayor’s security detail. The man nods, looks past Tim, then steps behind the stage before disappearing from Tim’s view.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the mayor interrupts. “Today’s meeting is to discuss the postponement of this project. There is no room for blaming members of this committee or seeking answers to personal questions. Next speaker, please.”
Bishop rolls her eyes as she passes Tim, and he silently hopes that this doesn’t make you pull away from him again. If Tim is sleeping with the enemy, he won’t let the people on his side push you away, even if it means going against everything he’s supposed to believe in. You’ve got a habit of saying nope just because you are more comfortable hiding your feelings and saving yourself from being vulnerable with the wrong person. Tim knows he is the man you can be yourself with. Maybe the only one.
“That has no bearing on the need for more space,” you say, drawing Tim’s attention again. “Simply put, you’re getting the new station when it is fiscally and morally wise. And not a moment before, regardless of how much you need it, or think you need it.”
The crowd roars, booing and voicing baseless insults against you. You stand and walk off the stage while the mediator attempts to regain control of the room. There will be another meeting at the end of the week, and Tim wonders how many of these officers will be in attendance and how many will still be angry.
It’s Friday afternoon when a similar group convenes in the mayor’s office. There’s less press, and many of the officers in the room are high-ranking. Grey brought Tim, Angela, Bishop, and their rookies, stating that the rookies need exposure to the politics of policing and that the TOs are among his best officers. You smile at Tim when he enters but look away when you see the officers with him. Sergeant Grey has never been anything but civil with you, yet the complaints of his officers may have swayed him.
“Excuse me,” you whisper to a security guard behind you. “Is the man in the blue jacket an officer?”
He glances over the table and shrugs, then says, “Everyone was screened coming in, ma’am.”
“Thanks,” you reply, nodding as you face the crowd.
As the conversation – a polite term for the personal attacks and invasive questions – begins, you remain quiet. You look forward, unresponsive to the different officers raising concerns or voicing their opinions.
“Finally found her off switch, I see,” Bishop murmurs.
“She’s much more tolerable this way,” Jackson agrees.
“I don’t think she’s even listening,” Nolan points out.
“Neither are you,” Tim replies gruffly.
He doesn’t take his eyes off you, distracted by your rigid posture and silence. Something is wrong. Whether someone in your office told you to stand down or you’re troubled by another instance, you’re not acting like yourself, and Tim hates it.
“Good afternoon,” a man says into the microphone.
Tim glances at him, wonders why he’s not in uniform, and then refocuses on you.
“The architect and engineer contracts are time-based, correct?” he inquires.
“Yes, sir,” the mayor replies.
“Then what makes you think the next crew to sign a two-year contract won’t have the same bias? The same obsession with being paid quickly rather than doing good work?”
“It’s not so much the contract as the ethics of the companies themselves. We’ve already begun the search for new firms and have found promising and talented teams we’re eager to begin working with.”
The man nods and returns to the back corner of the room, standing away from the rest of the crowd. After excusing yourself softly, you walk to the back of the room, heading toward the door. You’re on the same side of the room as Tim, but he can’t see you behind him.
While you approach the man in blue, he walks along the wall, nearing the front row. He’s getting too close to the mayor and too close to Tim, you think. You slow when he stops.
“Is your office prepared to provide additional resources to the stations in need while we wait for this building development to begin, Mr. Mayor?” Sergeant Grey asks.
The officers applaud his question, sharing their support of the idea. You don’t listen for the mayor’s reply as the man slips his hand beneath the back of his jacket and wraps his fingers around something.
“Quiet, please,” the mayor calls. “Thank you. And that’s an excellent question.”
“Officer Bradford,” the man says.
As Tim begins to turn, the man pulls his arm forward, and you don’t hesitate to surge forward. You tackle him to the floor, knocking his gun out of his hand and toward the stage. Officer Chen stands first, rushing to your side as she takes your position and handcuffs the armed man. The mayor is escorted off the stage by security, and you’re distantly aware of cameras flashing.
“Are you okay?” Tim asks, pulling you up to stand as his eyes search your face.
“I’m fine,” you reply. “Are you?”
Tim shakes his head, and you smile.
“I don’t even care if you’re gonna be the death of me,” Tim murmurs.
He leans toward you, holding your face between his hands, and kisses your forehead. You’re both ignorant of the people watching you until Lucy shoves the man against the wall, and someone clears their throat.
“I, uh,” Angela begins. “I think we owe you an apology.”
“Me or her?” Tim asks, squaring his shoulders as he steps to your side.
“Both.”
“She’s the one for you,” Bishop realizes aloud. “I couldn’t see that past my own feelings.”
“I’m sorry about the decision,” you offer. “I fought for you, but I couldn’t make it work.”
“Didn’t fight very hard then,” Jackson grumbles.
“Watch it, boot,” Tim warns.
“No, it’s okay,” you interject. “I could have done more; I won’t deny that. But I’m confident that the plans we’re working on now will be far better than what you could have gotten had I succeeded this time.”
“What do you see in Tim?” Lucy asks as two other officers escort the apprehended gunman out of the room.
You look at Tim, and your smile grows when you answer, “Someone who saw me, and didn’t give up when I thought I wasn’t worthy of being seen or loved.”
“Do you want me to call a paramedic or anything?” Nolan inquires.
“I’m fine,” you assure him. “Not every day the desk jockey gets to save her cop boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” Angela begins, “what was that about, Timothy?”
Tim shrugs, bumping his arm against yours.
“I’m pretty sure that was Garrison Peters,” you say. “He works for one of the firms whose contract is about to expire and won’t see the station payday.”
“Which he’s mad about,” Bishop agrees. “But why Tim?”
“You said Garrison Peters?” Tim repeats. “Relation to Andrea?”
“Married, I think,” you answer.
“I arrested her for a RICO warrant. Lawyer argued she was obsessed with money and the jury indicted.”
“Hence why we didn’t want to use their firm!” you exclaim. “They’re corrupt!”
The five officers around you have different reactions to that revelation. Lucy says, “Oh,” and then grimaces. Angela and Bishop press their lips together and nod slowly. Jackson purses his lips but still looks like he’d rather hear it from someone who isn’t you. And Nolan mumbles something about contractors that you can’t decipher.
“Sorry,” Angela says first.
“I am too,” Bishop adds.
“Me, three,” Lucy offers.
“Sorry, and sorry again on behalf of… everybody,” Nolan says.
Jackson doesn’t apologize, but you smile at him regardless. “Thank you,” you reply.
“Thank you,” Tim whispers.
You rub his shoulder kindly before you drop your hand.
“I was supposed to have dinner with the mayor, but he’ll probably be in lockdown, if you’d like to join me,” you suggest.
“Absolutely not,” Tim interrupts. “You can all go home and plan better apologies. We’re going to dinner.”
“Tim,” Bishop says before he can leave. “You’re really good together.”
“I know.”
Tim leads you out of the room and interlaces his fingers with yours as he leads you to your office. He suggests a few restaurants worthy of his savior, but you don’t reply. In the privacy of your office, you sit against the corner of your desk and beckon him closer. You spread your hands over his chest when his legs hit your knees.
“That was terrifying,” you admit.
Tim sobers, lifting his hands to run his fingers along your forearms. “I’m sorry. I know that what you did was for me, but it was risky and reckless... I’m sorry it scared you.”
“What I did didn’t scare me. The idea of losing you did.”
Nodding, Tim drops his chin toward his chest and looks at you. “You saved my life. I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“You saved mine first,” you whisper. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”
“What can I say? I’m hooked,” Tim replies, smiling brightly.
You scrunch your nose at his response, then murmur, “Nope.”
He scoffs, preparing to remind you that you’re together and you can’t push him away that easily. Before he can, you grip his shirt and pull him toward you, kissing him without a single thing between you. Tim Bradford is on your string, but you’re done pulling it because you’re hooked, too.
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