THE GANG EXPANDS Pt.2

The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

Warnings: None

You glanced at the clock again, sighing like it had personally offended you. Your fingers tugged at the edge of your sleeve, mostly for dramatic flair at this point. The hands hadn’t moved much since the last time you looked—which was approximately forty-seven seconds ago, but who’s counting?

Not that you were nervous. No, no. Nervous is for people who don’t have an emergency backup plan involving a pigeon wearing a tiny tie and a PowerPoint presentation about apples.

You were just… mildly concerned.

Okay, maybe “low-key spiraling” was a more accurate term.

He said he’d come. Offered, even. You hadn’t begged, bribed, or emotionally blackmailed him (which you were fully capable of, for the record). He’d volunteered. That was important. Crucial, even.

It had all started with your now-iconic meltdown earlier in the week—Career Day Eve, if you will—when the zookeeper cancelled via email and emoji. An elephant emoji, to be exact and you, of course, had reacted in a calm, measured way.

By ranting to your handsome neighbour while pacing your living room in mismatched socks and clutching a mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago.

“I told them they were gonna see someone who works with LIONS, Carmy. Actual, roar-in-your-face, majestic-ass lions.” You groaned, flopping onto the couch like your spirit had physically left your body. “Ugh, I knew it. You can never trust someone with an exotic job and a man bun. That’s, like, a statistically proven red flag.”

From his seat at the far end of the couch, Carmy raised an eyebrow, expression maddeningly calm as he absently played with one of your throw pillows—the one you embroidered with little sunflowers during your short-lived cottage-core phase. He didn’t say anything. He just let you spiral.

You shot up, posture suddenly straight, eyes wild with new inspiration. “It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’ll just… bring in Gus. Yeah. Kids love Gus. Boom. Problem solved.”

Carmy blinked. “You’re not seriously—”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” you interrupted one hand over your heart. “I’ll dress him up. Tiny tie, maybe a little badge. ‘Hello, my name is Gus. I’m a bird with a superiority complex and a cracker addiction.’ They’ll eat it up.”

That was when he said it, without looking up, like he was offering to pass the salt instead of volunteering for chaos. “I could come.”

You paused mid-rant, mouth half-open. “Come where? The pity party? Too late, I already RSVP’d with tears and dramatic flopping.”

“Career Day,” he said, glancing over at you finally. “I could do it. Talk to the kids. If you want.”

You blinked. Then blinked again, slower this time, like your brain needed an extra second to process the words.

“Carmy. Be serious. You run a whole kitchen. You work, like, twenty hours a day and sleep in four-minute intervals. I’m not about to let you donate one of your free mornings to a classroom of sugar-high fourth graders who will, at some point, absolutely ask if you ever had a rat under your hat."

He shrugged, unfazed. “I don’t mind.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut in before you could unleash another dramatic protest.

“If it helps you,” he said, his tone easy but sincere, “I can handle being asked about Ratatouille.”

You gawked at him. “You're serious?”

He nodded, resting his arm along the back of the couch like this was a totally normal Tuesday. “Sure.”

“Carmy,” you said slowly, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and exasperated fondness. “You do understand this is unpaid, right? Like, full-on volunteer mode. Zero dollars. No tips. Just you, a room of small humans, and probably a glitter explosion.”

He looked at you, completely unbothered. “Still don’t mind.”

You knew Carmy well enough by now to understand there were layers—deep, complicated, messy layers—hiding beneath that simple, “I could come.” Because yeah, sure, Carmy loved to cook, but he didn’t glamorize it. Not even a little. The passion was real, but so was the damage. Even though he hadn’t laid it all out for you—hadn’t sat you down and unpacked every scar—you could see it. You felt it.

You’d seen it.

In the way, his shoulders tensed at the mention of certain names, in the haunted, faraway look he got when he talked about past kitchens, the way his eyes darkened when work crept too far into the personal, the way silence filled in for stories he couldn’t bring himself to tell. The job had nearly eaten him alive more than once. You could tell. It had taken from him—family, sleep, health, peace. Years of his life he was still fighting to claw back, one broken, beautiful piece at a time.

So the idea of standing in front of a room full of wide-eyed, hopeful fourth graders and telling them, “Follow your passion!” like that passion hadn’t nearly swallowed him whole?

Yeah. That wasn’t a small ask.

And yet—he’d offered. Unprompted. Just a soft, casual, “I could come.”

For you.

And god, wasn’t that the part that ruined you a little?

Still, you'd waited a full twenty-four hours before giving him the green light. For his sake. For yours. For that part of you—the newer, softer, protective part—that had started to believe in shielding him from things, even when he didn’t ask to be shielded.

Because Carmy Berzatto may have survived a thousand kitchens, but that didn’t mean he needed to walk into this one unless he truly, truly wanted to.

And the crazy thing was? He did.

Now here you were, pacing between tiny desks like a caffeinated motivational speaker who didn’t have a Plan B involving a pigeon. You were totally calm. Totally fine. Totally not spiralling internally while your brain whispered charming thoughts like, 'he’s not coming', and 'Congrats, you’re about to host a cooking segment with no chef, no plan, and possibly a breakdown'.

“Miss!” one of your students called out, yanking you out of your mental spiral like a life preserver made of glitter glue. “When’s the chef getting here?”

You spun on your heel, smile locked in place like the unbothered queen you absolutely were not.

“Soon!” you beamed, while glancing at the cameras. “He’s probably just fighting with a soufflé or locked in a passionate debate with a garlic clove. You know—chef stuff.”

They laughed. You did too, though yours was the manic sort that said everything’s on fire, but at least we’re warm.

You had told them a real chef was coming. A famous one, even. But you’d kept that part tucked away. Just in case. You didn’t want them disappointed if he didn’t show.

You didn’t want to be disappointed if he didn’t show.

Because while you were currently dazzling these kids with your best “unbothered teacher queen” routine, inside? Yeah, your soul had filed an early resignation.

You glanced at the clock again.

Cool cool cool.

It was fine. Everything was fine. You were totally not about to fake a PowerPoint on “Why apples are the real MVP of fruits” while sobbing internally.

You gave your class a cheerful clap of your hands, channeling the kind of positivity that could sell overpriced candles on Etsy. “Alright! While we wait, why don’t we write down what questions we might want to ask our guest, hmm? Think big. Think bold. Think ‘What’s your favorite sauce?’ but, like, deeper.”

"Writting?" A collective groan rose from the class, dramatic and loud, as if you’d just asked them to handwrite the Constitution.

You raised your eyebrows, completely unfazed. “Yes, writing. The horror. Grab your pencils, Hemingways.”

And just as a few reluctant pens started to scratch against paper, the door swung open—abrupt, theatrical.

You were just about to exhale a tiny breath of relief when the classroom door swung open—and not in the chef arrives like a movie moment with the wind blowing his coat kind of way.

Nope.

It was Ava.

Your best friend. Your favorite menace. And the one person on Earth with zero chill.

Ava stepped in like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did, at least spiritually with phone in hand, eyes scanning the room like she was about to announce lottery numbers.

You blinked at her. “Principal Coleman?”

She ignored you completely and addressed your students with dramatic flair. “Excuse me, tiny scholars. I have a very important update.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Ava.”

She turned to you, positively glowing with mischief. “Your hansome chef is here.”

You blinked. “My—what?”

“Girl,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “The one you told me about. With the tattoed arms and the trauma. He’s here. And I gotta say, you undersold it.”

The class erupted into giggles. You blinked harder.

You blinked, stunned, brain buffering like a broken Wi-Fi signal. “Ava, this is a classroom. A learning environment.”

“I learned something,” she said with a wink. “I learned you have a taste for emotionally complex kitchen men with cheekbones so sharp they could dice an onion.”

“Can you just send him in, please?” you asked, voice sweet but strained, like you were one Ava comment away from evaporating into glitter.

Ava raised her brows like okay, ma’am, then dramatically pivoted on one heel, mumbling something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Don’t say I never brought you anything good.”

The door closed behind her with a dramatic little click, and you turned back to your students, who were all openly staring at you like you were the lead in a very juicy reality show.

“Miss,” one of them stage-whispered, eyes wide with scandal, “are you dating the chef?”

You blinked. “Excuse me—what? No. Absolutely not. We are just… two humans who happen to know each other and occasionally share oxygen in the same room.”

And with a dramatic little head shake and the world's weakest scoff, you muttered, “Kids and their imaginations.”

A second student raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “But Miss… your face is doing the same thing it did when that one dad brought you cupcakes for Valentine’s Day.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Blinked. Then pointed at the worksheet pile like it held the answers to life itself.

“Okay—first of all, pencils up, Cupid Patrol. Second, that wasn’t a dad, it was the very kind district representative who happened to believe in seasonal baked goods and workplace appreciation.”

The kids oooh’d like you’d just admitted to a full-blown scandal.

“And for the record,” you muttered, loud enough for the mic to catch, "Nothing happened. It was one cupcake. Vanilla. Calm down.”

The camera lingered.

You blinked. “Cut somewhere else.”

You were still glaring at the camera crew when the door creaked open again—this time quieter, less dramatic, almost hesitant.

You turned, mid-eye-roll, fully expecting Ava to have come back for one final round of public humiliation.

But it wasn’t Ava.

It was him.

Carmy stepped into the room, somehow looking both like a Michelin-starred chef and a man who was deeply unsure if he’d accidentally walked into a daycare. His white tee was freshly pressed, chef’s coat folded neatly over his arm, hair was slightly messy like he’d fought with it in the car, lost, and decided to just let fate take the wheel, carrying a large bag.

He stood there for a second, blinking at the sea of tiny faces—and you.

“Uh… hi,” Carmy said, voice low and hesitant.

Your brain, which had been barely clinging to function, promptly short-circuited.

“Hi,” you echoed, way too breathy for someone in charge of young minds, smiling like a fourth grader yourself.

“Miss! Is that him?” one student asked, already halfway out of their chair like they were witnessing a celebrity walk-in.

You blinked back into Teacher Modetm with the grace of someone internally screaming. “Yes. Yes, that’s him. Everyone—uh—remain seated.”

You gestured toward Carmy. “This is Chef Carmy, our very special guest for Career Day!”

The kids leaned forward like a chorus of curious meerkats, eyes wide, pencils ready.

“Can we all say, ‘Hi, Chef Carmy’?” you asked.

“Hiiii, Chef Carmyyyyy!” the room chorused in chaos, overlapping voices.

Carmy raised a hand in a small wave, his lips pulling into a sheepish smile. “Hey. Uh… thanks for having me.”

Then—of course—he glanced over at the camera crew like he just now realized they existed, eyes slightly wide before blinking quickly back to you. He stepped closer, leaning in just a bit, voice soft—just for you.

“Sorry I’m late,” he murmured. “Traffic was… hell.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “You’re fine. You made it. That’s what matters.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, still looking at you like you’d somehow made this less terrifying just by standing there.

And then, because this day was determined to destroy you emotionally, one of your students blurted out, “Miss, your face is doing the thing again!”

You didn’t even flinch as you turned to the children. “Okay! We are officially in session. Chef Carmy is here, so I hope you have your questions ready—and no, none of them can be about Ratatouille, or I will confiscate your recess.”

A hand shot up immediately. “Is it true chefs yell a lot?”

Carmy blinked, caught between answering and short-circuiting.

You sighed dramatically, shooting him a look. “And here we go.”

To his credit, Carmy recovered quickly. “Uh… yeah,” he said honestly, scratching the back of his neck. “Sometimes. But mostly just when things are on fire or… slicing off a thumb.”

A collective gasp filled the room.

“Wait, did you really cut your thumb off?” one kid asked, absolutely horrified and delighted.

Carmy hesitated. “No, but… close enough.”

“Cool,” the kid breathed.

You gave Carmy a look like sir, but he just gave you a little shrug back that said I’m trying here.

Still, you beamed. Progress. He was finding his rhythm.

And then, the spaghetti.

You’d cleared a small table for him earlier, just in case he brought something. But you had not expected him to go full cooking show.

With sleeves rolled, Carmy walked the kids through how to make fresh spaghetti from scratch.

“Alright, so—flour,” he said, pouring it out onto the surface. “Then you make a little well, like this.”

“Ooooh,” the kids chorused, some of them leaning forward like they were witnessing magic.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, trying very hard to look composed and not like you were watching a rom-com scene play out in real time. Because Carmy? Flour dust on his hands, explaining things so gently, so patiently, even when the questions made zero sense? It was unfairly attractive.

“So the eggs go in the middle, and you start mixing with a fork—”

“What if you used a spoon?”

“Would it still work if it was peanut butter instead of eggs?”

“Could you make the dough into, like… animal shapes?”

“Do you have beef with Gordon Ramsay?”

Carmy was trying his best. “Okay, uh—no spoons, no peanut butter, yes to animal shapes, and… no comment on Gordon Ramsay.”

He cracked eggs into flour, mixed dough by hand, and passed around little pinches so the kids could feel it for themselves. He used terms like “emulsify” and “al dente,” then immediately explained them in fourth-grade-speak. He asked for volunteers to help him roll the dough out with a tiny pin you’d borrowed from the kithcen. He let one kid sprinkle flour on the surface with a flair that could only be described as “chef-in-training chaos.” Another student tried to twirl the noodles like he was doing a magic trick.

He was awkward, yes—but also patient, funny in that deadpan way that made the kids hang onto every word.

Somewhere around the rolling-out portion of the lesson, the door creaked open again—and in walked the kitchen staff from the cafeteria. Hairnets. Aprons. Pens and little spiral notebooks in hand.

“We heard there was a Michelin star in the building,” Shanae announced from the doorway, arms crossed over her cafeteria apron, clearly enjoying the scene unfolding. “We just wanted to, you know… take a peek.”

“If you need to boil it, Chef Carmy, you can use my pot,” Devin offered, already scribbling something in a little notepad like he was about to text his group chat immediately.

"Thank you, Chef," Carmy nodded at him with a polite smile, a little bashful now, and returned to cutting his dough.

As if that wasn’t enough, Mr. Johnson sauntered in not five minutes later, leaned against the back wall like he was in a speakeasy, and said, “You know, back in ‘92 I made lasagna so good the mayor cried. Just sayin’.”

He then turned and disappeared down the hall like a wizard of chaos, muttering something about gluten conspiracies.

You didn’t even blink. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”

Then, Melissa strolls in, coffee in hand and eyebrows already at maximum scepticism.

She paused in the doorway, scanning the flour-dusted counter, the students gathered around like Carmy was performing miracles, and Carmy himself—elbows deep in pasta dough.

She sipped her coffee as she stared at the pasta. “Wait, so… what’s your last name?”

Carmy glanced up, blinking like he’d been pulled out of a trance. He looked at Melissa, then at you, like he was checking to see if this was a trick question. “Uh… Berzatto.”

Melissa squinted. A beat passed.

“Huh,” she said, in a tone that somehow contained five different layers of meaning: vague suspicion, mild approval, distant familiarity, one raised red flag, and a complete personality assessment. “Makes sense.”

And just like that, she turned and walked off, heels clicking, coffee still steaming, not another word spoken.

Carmy blinked after her, then looked at you, deadpan. “Was that a threat?”

You shrugged. “Honestly? It’s better not to ask.”

“Right,” Carmy mumbled, brushing a bit of flour from his fingers before continuing like he hadn’t just been hit with a drive-by personality analysis from a woman with mob energy and perfect eyeliner.

He rolled back into the lesson with ease, walking the kids through shaping the dough into spaghetti strands.

“You want it thin, but not too thin,” he was saying, hands moving with a kind of gentle confidence that made even flour seem like it was cooperating out of respect. “If you can see through it, you’ve gone too far. Unless you’re making ravioli. But that’s… a whole different story.”

Meanwhile, you?

You couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Every time he explained something—how the gluten develops, why olive oil matters, the difference between done and perfect—you leaned in without realizing. Just a little. Drawn in, like the words were for you and only you.

And the worst part?

Sometimes he looked at you while he talked. Just little glances. Barely-there flickers. But each one lit you up like someone had turned on all the fairy lights inside your chest.

Your heart fluttered. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your brain? Fully composing a sonnet titled To the Man Making Spaghetti in My Classroom.

You were so, so doomed and just when your face was halfway to full heart-eyes emoji status, you remembered—

The cameras.

You blinked, snapped your head toward them, and straightened up like you hadn’t just been silently daydreaming about holding Carmy’s tattooed hand while wandering through a farmer’s market in the fall or about his hands elsewhere...

One cameraman raised an eyebrow.

You cleared your throat. Smiled. Gave a stiff little nod like everything is normal and fine and I am a professional adult woman.

The rest passed too quickly for your liking.

One second, he was explaining how flour and eggs became pasta, and the next he was handing off the fresh noodles to Devin who looked so starstruck you half-expected him to ask for an autograph, but instead, he just took the dough reverently, muttering, “I got you, Chef,”

While Devin handled the boiling, Carmy fielded more questions, bouncing between wide-eyed children and genuinely curious adults.

One kid asked if he ever cried over burnt toast.

“Only once,” Carmy replied. “It was a really good piece of bread.”

Another asked if he’d ever cooked for a king.

“Not officially,” he said, glancing at you with a quick smirk that made your heart do a cartwheel. “But I’ve cooked for people who matter.”

The kitchen staff and at least one substitute from down the hall— all threw out questions about risotto techniques, braising, and how he gets his red sauce just right.

He pulled out a small pan he’d brought, explaining how to build a sauce from scratch—olive oil, garlic, a little tomato, basil. Simple, but the room smelled like heaven. The adults were wide-eyed. The kids were openly drooling. You might’ve been, too.

He offered tiny sample spoons as he stirred, like it was the most natural thing in the world to casually do a cooking demo in a public school classroom. And when Devin returned with the perfectly cooked pasta—because of course it was perfect—Carmy tossed it with the sauce and started plating like it was no big deal.

Little paper bowls. Plastic forks. A sprinkle of cheese. And just like that, he was handing out servings of handmade pasta to a group of nine-year-olds and the adults like they were at some five-star tasting event.

You got a plate, too and the second you took a bite, you nearly sat down.

It was so good—like warm, rich, made-with-love kind of good. Like maybe he put his entire soul into the sauce and also possibly his feelings for you kind of good. You blinked up at him, genuinely speechless for the first time all day.

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

You nodded, slow. “I hate you a little bit.”

He chuckled. “I’ll take that.”

And yeah, you were so, so gone.

The kids were still buzzing as they lined up to leave, chattering about pasta like it was the greatest invention since slime. A few waved wildly at Carmy on their way out, and others whispered to each other like they’d just met a celebrity—which, honestly, they kind of had to and Carmy gave them a small, slightly awkward wave back.

“Miss,” one whispered as they passed you, eyes wide with hope, “can Chef Carmy come back next week?”

You smiled, warm and fond. “We’ll see.”

When the last of them filed out and the door finally clicked shut, the room fell into a warm, quiet hum—sunlight filtering through the windows, flour still dusted on the counter, the lingering scent of garlic and tomato hanging in the air like some kind of cozy spell.

You turned, and there he was.

Carmy stood at the table he’d used, wiping it down with a damp towel, sleeves still rolled to his forearms, curls a little wild after an hour of navigating the adorable storm that was your classroom. He looked… calm. Settled.

“Hey,” you said, a little sing-songy as you stopped beside him. “Chef of the Year. You did it.”

He glanced up, met your eyes with a crooked smile. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” you said, lowering your voice just a bit. “Like, really—you didn’t just show up, you… you were brilliant, Carmy.”

He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half something more complicated. “I was wingin’ it the whole time.”

“Well,” you said with a smile, “you wing things very charmingly.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than strictly necessary. “You made it easier.”

The words landed between you like something delicate and important. You swallowed, heart doing that tight, fluttery thing again—the one that always showed up whenever he looked at you like that.

You tried to recover, tossing the moment a wink and a grin just to keep yourself grounded. “So does that mean you’re open to a regular Thursday guest chef gig?”

He smirked, low and lopsided. Shook his head like he couldn’t believe you—but not in a bad way. “I don’t know if I’m built for the fourth grade attention span.”

“They were obsessed with you,” you said matter-of-factly, crossing your arms and stepping just a little closer.

“They were obsessed with the pasta.”

You tilted your head, eyes twinkling. “It wouldn’t be hard for it to be both.”

That made him pause. Just long enough for the tension to hum again, low and warm.

That made him pause. Just long enough for the tension to hum again, low and warm.

He looked at you like he was trying to read between your words. Like he wasn’t quite sure if you meant it the way it sounded—but hoping you did.

A beat passed. You held his gaze, smile softening just slightly. Just enough.

And then he looked down—at your shoes, the floor, literally anything else that wasn’t your face—and cleared his throat. “I should… probably get going.”

“Right. Yeah.” You brushed past him to grab a tray, your shoulder just barely bumping his as you passed. “See you around, Carmy Next Door.”

If he froze for half a second—well, that was between him and the classroom air that had suddenly grown suspiciously warmer.

You kept your back to him, pretending to busy yourself with stacking paper plates while absolutely listening for every move behind you.

A minute later, he was at the door, bag slung over one shoulder, hand on the knob.

“Yeah, see you around,” he said, almost too casually.

You turned toward him, giving him a smile that was part “Thank you, again.”

He nodded but didn’t move. Just stood there and after a pause he cleared his throat, glanced down, then back up at you—like he was in the middle of a conversation with himself and currently losing.

“Hey—” he started, then stopped, his jaw clenching just slightly. “Would it be weird if I…”

You raised your brows, trying not to let the hope leak into your smile. “If you what?”

He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his curls. “If I asked you to dinner.”

You tilted your head, giving him your best faux-casual sass. “Like a date?”

“Yeah. Like a date.” He gave the tiniest nod, just enough

You didn’t even hesitate. “Took you long enough.”

His mouth curved into the softest smile you’d seen from him all day—like it caught him off guard like it made something inside him loosen.

“So that’s a yes?” he asked, voice quiet.

“It’s a yes,” you said, and damn, you didn’t even try to hide your smile this time.

He opened the door, then turned back one last time. “I’ll text you.”

“You better,” you said. “You owe me pasta without a classroom audience.”

He laughed under his breath, then stepped out, the door clicking softly behind him.

You stood there for a moment, alone in the quiet hum of the classroom, heart fluttering like you were seventeen and just got asked to prom. Which, honestly… wasn’t that far off.

You let out a breath, tried to pull yourself together, and failed—because your face still hurt from smiling and your brain was very much replaying every single second in high-definition slow motion.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted it, the cameras.

Still rolling.

“Told you it was a matter of time,” you said, voice smug and giddy. Then you added, dead serious: “Also—if you zoomed in on me blushing again, we’re fighting.”

Cut to black.

A/N: Helloooooo. How is everyone!?? Okay first I want to apolagize that it took me so long to publish this part, lots going on rn, second, I thank you all for the support, for those likes, commentsss and shares ❤️ Like its crazyyyy.

Be safe out there 🫶 Tell me if you would like to get tagged.

Tags:

@hiitsmebbygrl16 @urthem00n @svzwriting29 @tyferbebe @akornsworld @khxna @ruthyalva96 @beingalive1 @darkestbeforethedawn16 @turtle-cant-communicate spideybv28 veryberryjelly @daisy-the-quake leilanixx softpia cosmix-stxrs the-disaster-in-waiting memoriesat30 emerald-jade1 sabrina-carpenter-stan-account ateliefloresdaprimavera theflowerswillbloom blairfox04 nicksolemnlyswears stardream14 notme22sblog mattm1964 maddeningmentalmess isla-finke-blog literature-nerd-blossom starberryhorse hipsternerd9 landpiranha-blog miarabanana everywherenothere just-soft-things1 blue-4-raven rockyeatrock this--is--music lettucel0ver chayceschultz silas-aeiou alexxavicry

Hello I have an idea for Tim x rookie reader.

They get a call that seems pretty normal and when they arrive Kid gets shot.

They end up in hospital ICU where Tim is sat next to kid saying how everything is his fault ect.

When Kid wakes up and hears Tim saying how it’s his fault she reminds him that is isn’t.

Thank you ☺️ x

Rookie down.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

Summary: No amount of training could’ve prepared you for the moment you got caught up in an active shootout—and for Tim, no amount of stoicism could rid of the guilt.

a/n: I find it adorable how we’re just referring to reader as kid now. 😭💕

The call had come in like any other—routine, nothing out of the ordinary. A disturbance at a small corner store. Dispatch barely sounded concerned.

Tim had driven, you in the passenger seat, legs bouncing absently as you sipped at the coffee you barely had time to grab that morning. The other units were still a few minutes out, but this was just supposed to be a check-in. A quick look, a clear scene, and back to patrol.

You should’ve known better.

The second you both stepped out of the shop, everything exploded. Shots. A full-blown active shootout between two rival groups, and you and Tim had walked straight into the crossfire.

Instinct kicked in. Take cover. Return fire. Call it in.

You barely made it behind the patrol car before searing pain bloomed in your side, so sudden and white-hot that it stole your breath. You staggered, barely registering that you were going down until your knees hit the pavement hard.

Some part of you dimly registered Tim’s voice—loud, commanding—but the sound of gunfire muffled everything else.

You pressed a hand against the wound, and your fingers came back slick with blood.

Not good.

Your breath shuddered. You had been trained for this, prepared for it, but the sheer force of reality hitting you was different than a controlled scenario.

The pain wasn’t controlled. The fear wasn’t controlled. And despite every instinct screaming at you to hold it together, your vision blurred with unshed tears as your breath came in short, ragged gasps.

“Hey! Kid—stay with me.”

Tim was there, dropping down beside you, one hand pressing firm against the wound to slow the bleeding. His other hand gripped the radio, calling for an immediate medic response, voice sharp, commanding—desperate.

You blinked up at him, your body trembling violently from the shock. You tried to regulate your breathing, to not let him see the fear that had crept into your bones, but it was damn near impossible.

“I—” Your voice caught, breath hitching. Your lips parted, trying again, but all that came out was a shaky exhale.

“Hey. Look at me, kid.”

You did, barely able to keep focus on his face, but you tried. He was pressing harder now, trying to stop the bleeding, and it hurt. God, it hurt.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Tim said, voice steady. “You hear me? You’re gonna be fine.”

You nodded, a quick, jerky movement, but you weren’t sure if you believed it.

“I need you to stay awake, alright?” His grip tightened just slightly, the rare, vulnerable edge in his voice cutting through the panic clawing at your chest. “Just keep breathing, okay? Just like that. Slow it down.”

You clenched your jaw, trying to do as he said, but the pain was starting to get unbearable. Your head swam.

“I—” You sucked in a shaky breath. “Sir, I don’t—I’m scared.” You muttered between breaths.

Tim shook his head, shifting to cradle the back of your head, steadying you as you started to sway. “Nope. No, none of that shit. You’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna get you to a hospital, and you’re gonna be okay.”

He was holding it together, but just barely. You could see it in his eyes, in the way his jaw clenched, the tension in his grip as if he were forcing your body to stay with him.

He wasn’t letting himself break, not yet, but you could feel the desperation beneath his words. Tim was talking like he needed to hear the words more than you did. He was trying to convince himself, just as much as he was trying to convince you.

You wanted to say something, anything to make it easier, but you didn’t get the chance.

“Kid? Damn it, keep awake!”

Everything blurred into sirens and movement and then—

“Don’t do this shit to me! Please.”

Nothing.

The ICU was quiet. Too quiet.

Tim sat beside your bed, hands clasped together, elbows resting on his knees. He hadn’t moved much since they’d let him in, since they’d assured him you were stable, that you’d made it through surgery.

It didn’t matter.

This was his fault.

He should’ve clocked the situation faster.

Should’ve called in backup first. Should’ve done something different, something better, because now you were here, unconscious and hooked up to machines, your face too pale against the stark white hospital sheets.

It felt wrong to be in a room this quiet with you in it, like he couldn’t adjust to the absence of hearing you chew unnecessarily loud on a bag of chips that you made him pay for—or when you’d ramble on to him about something he could care less about.

He exhaled, running a hand over his face, fingers digging into his temples. “Damn it, kid.”

He wasn’t even sure if he was talking to himself or to you. It didn’t matter. Either way, the weight of it pressed down on him like a vice.

The soft beeping of the monitor filled the absence of the voice he knew.

Then, slowly, the sound of movement. A shift in the bed. A quiet, pained inhale.

Tim’s head snapped up instantly. “Kid?”

Your eyes were barely open, hazy with sleep and medication, but you were awake.

Tim sat forward, relief hitting him all at once. “Hey. You with me?”

You blinked sluggishly, gaze struggling to focus, but eventually landed on him. “…Sir?”

His throat tightened. “Yeah. I’m here.”

You took another slow breath, still visibly groggy, but the confusion was settling. Then, after a pause, your brows furrowed slightly. “…Why do you look like that?”

Tim scoffed, a quiet, breathless sound, but his expression was still tight. “Like what?”

“Like—” You swallowed, shifting slightly, wincing at the movement. “Like you ate the chocolate bar I hid in the shop.” You mumbled, managing to let out a weak and quiet laugh.

But when Tim didn’t laugh, or even roll his eyes at your half-assed joke and just stared with that same guilty look on his face, your gaze softened.

“Like me getting shot was your fault.”

Tim said nothing.

You exhaled, voice softer now, but still firm. “It’s not.”

Tim’s jaw clenched, gaze flickering away. The stubbornness in his eyes lacing itself with his guilt, “I should’ve—I should’ve secured the perimeter before we stepped out,”

“Sir,” you huffed in disagreement.

“No, kid. If I had done that, you wouldn’t have been fucking dying in my arms.” He muttered through clenched teeth.

You pushed on, despite the exhaustion settling deep in your bones. “This was never on you.” You mumbled, “Yea, I got shot. But I would’ve ended up actually dead if I didn’t have a T.O who took down half of them, and then called for backup and R.A.”

His shoulders tensed. Then, after a long moment, he let out a breath.

“…Get some rest, kid.”

You watched him for another second, then, finally, nodded, letting your eyes drift closed.

The tension in Tim’s chest didn’t ease. Not fully. But as he sat back, watching your breathing even out, some small part of him finally let go of the guilt just enough to breathe.

Save You Again

Requested Here!

>> Part 2: Reminiscent of Us

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!veteran!doctor!wife!reader (you're like Barbie)

Summary: Years after meeting on a battlefield, you have to save your husband Tim again. This time, you're married and in the hospital where you work.

Warnings: canon typical warnings, injuries and medical treatment, Nolan slander, fluff

Word Count: 1.5k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

“Tim!” Nolan calls. When Tim turns, already glaring, he slows and amends, “Sorry, uh, Sergeant Bradford. As your union rep-”

“Cut to the chase, Nolan,” Tim implores.

“Yeah, of course. LAPD is hosting an event for military veterans on the force, and I’ve been tasked with electing a few of those vets to speak about their experience and the legacy they want to leave.”

“No,” Tim interjects.

“But you fit the bill exactly and surely you have a lot of wisdom you can pass on. I mean, you were a TO.”

“I’m not giving a speech, Nolan. I’ll go if forced to, but that’s it.”

“Not even for your fellow vets?” Nolan tries.

“Nice try, Nolan, but he’s going to say no,” Wade says from his office doorway. “Tell him why, Bradford.”

Tim turns toward Wade, then sighs. “Most vets that join the force try to keep the two separate. The ones I know, at least. The military was a job – a hard one – and this is too. But they’re different. Celebrate the vets, thank them, but don’t undermine the work they did or what they’re doing now by comparing the duties.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Nolan murmurs.

“Shocking.”

“Well, I’m going to go talk to some other reps and try to make this right. You have my word.”

“Seem to have a lot of words.”

“If you know any vets who would be willing to speak, let me know.”

“I will,” Tim assures him, thinking of one veteran in particular.

“Tim, we got a hit on our San Vincente killer from this morning,” Angela alerts. “You with us?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Tim agrees, following behind Angela.

“I’ll keep you updated!” Nolan calls after him.

“On behalf of Bradford,” Wade deadpans. “Thanks. Now get back to work, plan parties on your rep time, not my time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s hemorrhaging!” someone alerts.

“How is he still hemorrhaging?” another asks. “There’s a tourniquet.”

You slip your fingers under the tourniquet and feel the stabbing patient’s pulse fading. Pulling the band tighter, you use your weight to stop blood circulation. After it’s secure and the bleeding has slowed, you look at the residents around you.

“Somebody clip that tourniquet, so it stays in place,” you demand.

“That’s not hospital policy,” a recent hire argues.

“This man is bleeding out, tell me about policy after I’ve saved his life,” you snap. “Gauze!”

Within seconds, someone places an entire pack of gauze in your hand. It’s been cut open already, so you murmur your gratitude and put the end of the gauze over your dominant hand. The doctors and nurses around you slow as you pack the wound. Holding the gauze against the wound, you watch your watch. It’s been a while since you used your tactical medic training, but if this procedure works, it will have saved yet another life.

“Get a trauma surgeon here stat,” you instruct. “I suspect he has a nicked brachial artery. He needs a blood transfusion now; estimated 35% of blood volume has been lost.”

“Surgeon’s five minutes out,” a nearby doctor replies.

“Prep an OR,” you say as you begin wrapping the temporary fix.

As the man is wheeled away to go into surgery, you remove your bloody gloves and sigh as you wash your hands. Being a medic in the military was stressful, and despite working a civilian job that entails many of the same job elements, you love being an ER doctor in Los Angeles. You’ve been state-side for years, and you wouldn’t change a thing about your life post-deployment.

“Dr. Bradford!” a nurse yells as she runs down the hallway. “Three cops were just attacked, ambulance is en route.”

You don’t hesitate to run after her, nearing the ER entrance with your heart pounding in your ears.

“Who’s the president?”

Tim blinks against the harsh light above him as his surroundings come back into focus.

“Sir, can you hear me? What’s your name?”

There are people – two, from the number of hands he feels – working around him.

“I’m not concussed,” Tim groans, then immediately regrets speaking.

“You were blown up, Sergeant,” the second EMT points out. “We’re just doing our jobs.”

Tim remembers it then. The arrest should have been easy, but the San Vincente killer had wanted it to seem that way. His plan was to go out in a blaze of glory and take as many people out with him as he could, and it would have worked if Tim hadn’t seen the crude device tucked beneath the dining room table. He, Angela, and Nyla had barely managed to get out before the house blew apart behind them.

“Lopez and Harper?” Tim asks.

“Better off than you,” the first man answers. “They’ll meet you at the hospital.”

Tim falls silent for several breaths, grateful that they’re okay. “Which hospital?” he asks.

He hears the answer, thinks of the last doctor he saw in the Middle East, and loses consciousness again.

“Detective Lopez!” you call as she enters the emergency room. “Are you alright?”

She raises her fingers to her cheek, following your line of sight, and says, “Yes, I’m fine. Is-”

Before she finishes her question, two EMTs wheel Tim Bradford in on a gurney. You rush to his side and listen to their findings and opinions.

“…no sign of concussion or penetrating ballistic injuries,” they conclude.

“Got him,” you assure them as your team takes the gurney. “Thank you.”

“Take care of him!” Angela says as you push through the double doors into the treatment area.

“We’ll identify the degree of blast injuries for treatment and stabilization,” you announce.

“What comes after quinary injuries?” Tim groans.

“Nothing,” you answer, running your gloved hands carefully over his arms and legs. “No such thing as senary blast injuries.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were blown at least ten feet, Sergeant,” you argue. “There is – minimum – some contusions that we need to find.”

Tim begins to argue, but you shush him as you press your stethoscope to his chest.

“Ingest anything?” you inquire softly.

“Not that I know of,” he answers. “My wrist hurts, but otherwise, I’m just sore.”

You radio for radiology to prepare an x-ray before you lift his arm carefully. His wrist is bruising and swelling, so you assume it’s likely broken, but there are no exposed bones or blood, so it’s not a compound fracture.

“Should I prep tetanus prophylaxis?” a nurse inquires.

“No, he’s up-to-date for the last three years,” you answer without looking away from Tim’s wrist. “I’m going to stabilize this for now, Sergeant.”

“Nurse Lisa!” you call. “Can you bring the detectives in here? Thanks.”

“What are you doing?” Tim asks.

“They’re worried about you,” you explain. “They watched you get slung by an explosion; you know what that can do to people.”

Tim reaches his uninjured hand across his body to lay on your arm. He whispers, “I’m okay.”

“Your wrist is broken,” you argue. “And you still could have a minor head injury, which is why you’re getting a CT.”

“Oh my gosh!” Lucy exclaims as she enters the room.

“What are you doing here?” Tim asks.

“We heard the radio call and were nearby,” Aaron explains. “Are you okay?”

“I’d rather hear your opinion on that, doc,” Nyla requests.

“He got lucky,” you answer, setting his wrist down on a pillow before placing an ice pack over it. Tim hisses in pain, and you frown. “Aside from a probably broken wrist and a potential concussion, which would be minor based on his lack of symptoms, he should be fine after a few days of rest.”

“And his horrible facial disfigurement?” Angela asks.

Tim’s brows raise at her teasing, and he shakes his head. His hand moves to the side of the pillow, and you quietly ask that he place it back in its elevated position.

“Yeah, sorry,” Tim murmurs before looking back at his fellow officers. “What?” he asks when he sees the shocked look on their faces.

“I’ve never heard you apologize,” Aaron points out.

“Yeah, you’re acting different,” Nolan says.

“Oh!” Lucy exclaims before bouncing.

“Head trauma,” Tim reminds her.

“You’re the wife he refuses to show pictures of, aren’t you?” she asks.

“The wife is real?” Aaron inquires. “I thought it was some kind of scare tactic he used to make sure you had his six. You know like I have to get home to someone.”

“He does have to get home,” you interrupt. “And, yes, I’m Sergeant Bradford’s wife.”

“Radiology’s ready,” someone alerts from the doorway.

“He’s all yours,” you say, helping to turn the gurney as you request a CT with the x-ray. “Behave,” you tell Tim.

“You don’t all have to wait around,” Tim says.

“We’re taking your wife to dinner,” Nyla responds. “You can get an Uber when you’re released.”

You wink at him, a silent promise to be here when he returns. He knows he’ll be out of work for a few days, and if this is anything like the last time you saved Tim Bradford, you’ll be by his side until he’s healed and for a very long time.

“I’ll get you back to work as soon as I can, Mr. Bradford,” you promise. “If you listen to me, it could be even faster.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “I love you.”

Lucy gasps, but all Tim hears is your honest reply, “I love you more.”

Hot or Cold

Requested Here!

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!reader

Summary: You work in a coffee shop, and when you are trapped in the fridge during a robbery, you can only hope that your boyfriend Deacon will find you.

Warnings: armed robbery, violence against reader, angst to fluff & hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 2.7k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

“How’s the handsome boyfriend?” your coworker asks as you wipe down the front counter. “Still dreamy and treating you right?”

You chuckle at the thought of Deacon not being dreamy or treating you right, an impossibility. “Yes, he is.”

The bell over the door of the coffee shop rings, and you abandon the conversation about Deacon to do your job.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask… does Deacon have any single cop friends?”

Reading the name on the latte you just prepared, you shake your head. If you were in her place, and she had a boyfriend like Deacon, you’d want to know where to find one.

“Thanks,” the man says as he takes the cup.

“Have a nice day!” You turn toward your coworker to answer, “Honestly, I don’t know. Street’s still in his ‘will-they-won’t-they’ thing with Chris, Tan is, well he’s Tan… the new guy might be single.”

“I don’t know who any of those people are.”

“You shouldn’t. I can check for you though; if I’m right, you’d be cute together.”

“Is he as easy on the eyes as Deacon?”

“Nope,” you answer with a smile.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Man, I would kill for an espresso after that,” Rocker groans.

Luca waves his hands in a ‘stop talking’ motion before Deacon hears any reference to coffee. Luca loves you, but Deacon has difficulty stopping once you’re mentioned.

“Too bad you don’t have time,” Deacon answers instead. “We got another call. Up, buddy.”

Rocker rolls his eyes before standing.

“What now?”

“Another bank robbery. You should’ve gotten a coffee when you had the chance; it’s going to be a long day,” Hondo answers.

Deacon nods at the idea of coffee, a picture of you making him feel a little more awake.

✯✯✯✯✯

“What is going on today?” someone asks, sitting back after a mad rush.

“Are you referring to the caffeine addiction of Los Angeles or the continuous sirens? Because I have no answer for either,” you answer, leaning on the counter.

“All these sirens and no single cops or firefighters to accept my number,” another voice sighs, joining your small huddle.

“Why don’t you guys head out early? I can close up, I know it’s been a long day,” you offer.

“Are you serious?”

“Sure. You can just cover for me when I don’t want the early shift next weekend.”

They weigh their options before you get a group hug and overlapping expressions of gratitude.

“Yeah, yeah, get out of here,” you mutter, shoving them toward the small locker room-like area at the back.

“You’re the best!”

“I know.”

As the door closes, their voices fading into the alley, you take a deep breath. You feel like you’ve been on the move all day, with people in and out without a break. Your phone shows no messages or calls from Deacon, but you hope to see him tonight.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, pushing off the counter as you prepare to close.

You lay your phone on the counter and turn on some quiet music, focusing on getting finished and home to Deacon’s house as soon as possible. The counters are cleaned, and the dirty dishes are loaded into the industrial-sized dishwasher, so you're nearly done. As you begin sweeping the floor, someone opens the door.

“Sorry, we’re closing,” you say, moving toward the door to lock it. “The Starbucks down the street is open all night.”

“They have better security,” the man replies, keeping his foot pressed against the door so you can’t close it.

You drop the broom and step back, reaching for your cell phone on the counter to call for help. The man barges in, locking the door behind him as he points a gun at you.

“Don’t move,” he demands.

Deacon is in your favorites list, so it would only take two taps on the screen to call him. You raise your hands before stepping toward the counter. You don’t get to your phone before the man hits the back of your head, knocking you into a nearby table. Holding your ribs, you try to stand but kick a chair on accident and fall to the floor.

“Are you going to keep being a problem or can you sit there and be quiet?” the man asks with his gun at his side.

“I’ll be quiet,” you answer lowly.

He cocks his head, looking around. Stepping back, he slides your phone behind the counter so you can’t reach it easily.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you,” he says, pushing you back on the floor.

“No,” you mumble, trying to fight him off of you.

“And you said you wouldn’t be trouble,” he almost growls, bringing the butt of his gun and the hard side of his hand down on your temple.

The impact disorients you; all you can do is grab his hand as he hauls you toward the walk-in fridge. When he pushes you inside and winks before closing the door, the severity of the situation finally reaches you. 

“Don’t do this! Take whatever you want but let me out,” you scream, banging on the large metal door.

Your head pounds with each movement, and when you graze your hairline with your fingers, you hiss when you reach the broken skin. Stepping further into the fridge, you shiver under the vent and sink to the floor, fighting dizziness and nausea as your head aches. With no way to call for help, you should try to stay warm, but the pain in your head and fear that no one will find you until morning influence you to close your eyes.

Outside the fridge, the thief sings along to the song playing from your phone as he empties the cash register into his small bag. Nodding at his earnings, he steps toward the door before taking the last muffin out of the display case.

✯✯✯✯✯

Deacon glances down at his watch. You have a habit of offering to close after long days, but even if you stayed, you should be getting home about now. Deacon smiles at the thought of you doing what you usually do: passing your driveway to pull into his own. You’ve been neighbors almost as long as you’ve been dating, though his house seems to be a landing place for both of you.

“20-David to command,” Hondo radios from inside the bank. “We’re Code 4.”

Deacon sighs, lowering his weapon and standing from his hidden position. He pulls his phone from his pocket, surprised to see no notifications from you. Maybe you had a day like he did.

Rushing home to hold you after a long day, Deacon slows beside your driveway, nodding when he sees it empty. But, when he sees your car isn’t in his driveway either, his brows furrow as he wavers between surprise and concern.

Shifting his car into park, he presses your contact, waiting until he gets your voicemail. He texts you to call him ASAP, and after a minute with no acknowledgment, he calls you again. Taking a deep breath in his attempt to stay calm, he dials the number for the coffee shop and prays to hear your voice. The line beeps before your recorded voice greets him.

“Answer,” Deacon begs as the dial tone begins again. “Hey, Luca, I need your help with something. You got a minute?”

“Yeah, of course, anything for you, man,” Luca replies.

Deacon says your name before running a hand across his mouth. “She’s not home and she’s not answering her cell phone or the coffee shop line.”

“Anywhere else she’d be?” Luca asks, shuffling on the other side of the line.

“Not this late. I’m going to drive over to the coffee shop,” Deacon adds.

“We’ll meet you there. Street and I are only a couple blocks away. We’ll find her, Deac.”

Deacon thanks him as he backs out of his driveway. The coffee shop is a ten-minute drive that feels like an eternity.

✯✯✯✯✯

Street and Luca are coming out of the alley when Deacon rushes onto the sidewalk.

“Hey,” Street greets. “The lights were off when we got here. Back door is locked, and her car is still here.”

“Did you try the door?” Deacon asks. 

“Not this one; we just got here,” Luca replies.

“Thank you for coming so late.”

“Of course. We’re here for you and her, Deacon.”

Deacon nods, taking a deep breath as he pushes the door open. He glances at Luca, who tilts his head in concern. Luca and Street enter behind Deacon, their hands at their sides and ready to pull their weapons if needed. There’s quiet music playing from somewhere in the building, and Street nods to Luca as he breaks off to find the source.

“Deacon,” Street calls quietly. He stands from behind the counter and holds up your phone.

Deacon swallows harshly, looking toward the back.

“Let’s clear the building and we’ll go from there,” Deacon instructs quietly.

Street and Luca nod, moving slowly and silently until they’re sure the building is empty. Deacon turns on a light in the back, frowning when he sees your bag in its regular storage spot.

“The cash register is empty,” Luca calls, his voice raised after concluding there is no immediate threat.

✯✯✯✯✯

You hear a voice outside and blink rapidly, forcing yourself to focus. With your arms wrapped tightly around you, your shivers are growing in strength as you grow weak and disoriented.

“Where- go- night?” someone asks, their voice breaking as you strain to listen through the thick metal of the fridge.

The voice sounds familiar, and you summon what little strength you have left to bang on the door. It’s quiet, and as your hand slides down the cold metal, your blinks slow.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Wait,” Deacon demands, raising a hand to quiet Luca and Street. “Did you hear that? Something made a knocking noise.”

He walks toward the fridge, the only place they didn’t check during their initial sweep. Luca nods, standing behind Deacon as Street unlocks and opens the door. Deacon sees you slumped on the floor and rushes in. 

“Dea- David?” you mumble, your eyes lidded as you look up at him.

“Hey, yeah, I’m here. I got you, sweetheart,” he soothes, laying his hands on your shoulders.

“I’ll call it in,” Street says before reporting the robbery and requesting an ambulance.

“We need to get you out of here,” Deacon says quietly, pulling you against his chest.

He stands slowly, cradling your shivering form to his chest. Once Luca closes the fridge, Deacon sits on the floor, taking his jacket off and wrapping it around your shoulders. He moves you gently to make sure all of your clothes are dry. Sliding his fingers onto your pulse point, he calculates your heart rate with a frown.

“Hypothermia?” Luca asks quietly, passing Deacon a nearby jacket.

Deacon nods, laying it over your hips as he lets you lean against him.

“Ambulance is here, Deac,” Street alerts. “Is she okay?”

“She has to be,” Deacon and Luca answer together.

✯✯✯✯✯

Deacon and Luca follow the ambulance in Deacon’s car while Street returns home, telling the team what happened. They sit together in the waiting room, sharing their concern and sympathies without speaking.

A nurse exits and says your name, smiling as Deacon and Luca rush to her side.

“The doctor wants to talk to you. Relatives?” she asks.

“He is,” Luca answers. “I’m just a friend.”

“Then I’m going to ask you to wait here.”

“No problem. We’re here for you, Deac.”

Deacon nods, whispering, “Thank you,” as he follows the nurse into the hospital.

“You found her in plenty of time, sir,” the doctor says with a kind smile. “She’s suffering from hypothermia and some surface-level injuries. Despite that nasty bump on her head, we don’t see any indications of a concussion.”

“Thanks, doc. How bad is the hypothermia?” Deacon asks.

“We caught it very early. She’s warming up; temperature was right around 94, so it isn't too severe.”

“Can I see her?”

“Of course. Let me know if you have any other questions, and I’ll be back by soon.”

Deacon steps into your room quietly, looking at you with a sad smile. Dressed in the thin hospital gown with heated blankets and heat packs on your chest and neck.

“’S not as warm as you,” you mumble with your eyes closed.

Deacon smiles, pulling a chair up beside your bed. “Working better though,” he says quietly.

You turn your head toward him and smile as you open your eyes. “Thanks for finding me. It wouldn’t be as much fun to get in trouble without you around to save me.”

“Well no more trouble for a while, okay? Because that was terrifying.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Robbery is working on catching the guy.”

“He stole my muffin.”

Deacon chuckles before offering, “I’ll make you a whole batch to make up.”

“You should’ve been a baker, not a cop.”

“I’m not sure I’m the house-husband type.”

“Trophy husband for sure,” you correct with a nod. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

✯✯✯✯✯

When you get discharged, Deacon takes you back to his house, and you notice that someone has moved your car back to your driveway. After getting you comfortable on the couch, Deacon begins rushing back and forth, doing everything the doctor recommended and then some.

“Deac,” you call when he rushes by again.

He stops and backpedals into the living room. “Do you need something?”

“Yes. I need you to sit with me. You’ve done more than enough, and I just need your company right now.”

Deacon smiles and whispers an apology as he sits beside you, holding you close. You cuddle into his side, focusing on your favorite movie. When you kick the blankets off, barely moving as you struggle, Deacon stops himself from acting again.

“Need help?” he asks, running a hand down your spine.

You nod slowly against his chest, and he reaches across you to remove the blanket.

“Want to you want for dinner?”

“Not hungry.”

Deacon looks at his watch, furrowing his brows when he notices it’s been nearly twelve hours since you ate at the hospital, and who knows how long before that.

“You really need to eat something,” he urges kindly.

Your weight increases on him as you shake your head and close your eyes. When your forehead hits Deacon’s arm, he’s surprised to feel how warm you are. He retrieves a thermometer from the small care kit he assembled in his concern-filled frenzy.

“You have a fever,” Deacon tells you. “It’s pretty high, so I’m going to call the doctor.”

“Stay here,” you mumble, grasping at Deacon’s shirt.

He wraps his arm around you, tugging you closer as he raises his phone to his ear.

“Hello, this is Deacon Kay… Yes, ma’am… She has a fever of 103.2, she’s not wanting to eat, and she’s very weak... I will. Thank you.”

“What’d they say?” you ask as he sets his phone down.

“They think it’s probably just the stress of what you went through, or maybe an upper respiratory infection from the cold. I’m supposed to keep you hydrated, medicated, and happy, and call if anything changes.”

You nod, nuzzling closer to him as he chuckles. It doesn’t take much coaxing from him to convince you to take some medicine, drink lots of water, and take a few bites of your favorite food, especially when he promises to hold your hand through it all.

✯✯✯✯✯

When you wake up the following morning, wrapped in Deacon’s arms, the fever is lower but not gone. 

“More water,” Deacon demands.

“You’re bossy.”

“Trophy boyfriends are allowed to be.”

“Trophy husband,” you correct.

“Are you proposing?” he teases.

You take a minute to consider before asking, “Would you say yes?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Then you just wait until I feel better, Kay.”

He smiles, pulling a lightweight blanket over you as your fever finally breaks.

“You’re still worried,” you accuse, sitting up to look at him.

“Of course, I am. I came home and you weren’t here, and then weren’t answering your phone. It’s only because of Luca and Street that I was able to find you without panicking.”

“Then we should have them over for dinner to thank them. Although, I know you would’ve found me without them.”

“I’ll always find you,” he promises.

“Even when I can’t decide whether to be hot or cold?”

“I love you either way,” Deacon replies, matching your tone as he kisses your forehead.

Under fire

Pairing: Criminal minds x reader

Summary: During a case a pregnant victim escapes during the search you find the young girl but not before one of the unsubs finds you first.

TW: mentions of murder, childbirth, blood, gunshots, getting shot, blood

******************************************************** “James we are placing you under arrest for 10 accounts of murder and kidnapping, anything you say…” you heard as Rossi read your newest unsub his rights. You stood next to Derek watching as the rest of the team talked to the sheriffs department, or helped with the killer.

“Hey you okay?” Derek asked wrapping you in a strong arm.

“I’ll be fine, it’s just cases like this…”

“I know baby.” You wrapped your arms around him in a sideways hug, being together was one of the best decisions you two had ever made, between work and just life you were a pretty good team, you made a great couple, but in cases like this it was being each other protector and safe place that made it that much more worth it.

“I just wish we knew what happened to the girl friend, she was young and beautiful.”

“well now that we know who did it maybe we can get some answers, give everyone some closure.” He reassured you.

“Hey you two, ready to go?” JJ asked walking over to you.

“ready as I’ll ever be.” You said with a sigh.

“Rossi and Emily are going to ride with the unsub, Luke, Reid, and Tara will meet us at the station.” She said as you all climbed into the black suv.

as you made your way down the road you watched as trees flew past your window, Derek was driving and JJ navigating in the passenger seat, you were propped up in the back letting your mind wander about this case. Out of no where you saw a young woman stumble into the road, Derek quickly slamming the vehicle to a halt. You sat up in the middle the three of you watching the young woman, she was sporting a baby bump at least 7 months along, dressed in tore up jeans boots and a t-shirts, a tattered flannel pulled over her arms the clothing worn and dirty as if she had been running through the woods.

You were concerned and having a nursing background, jumped out of the car, “Hey Y/N wait, no…” you heard Derek call after you and you held out a hand telling him to wait.

“Hey, what’re you doing out here?”

“I-I escaped fr-from the house and started running… please help me.” she spoke shakily, one hand clutching under her large bump.

“Okay, let’s start with names… I’m Agent Y/N Morgan, I’m with the FBI, what’s your name?”

“FBI…” she whispered, “m-my name’s Cassandra, my friends used to call me Cassie.”

“Cassie, pretty name… can you tell me how far along you are?” You motioned to her large abdomen.

“I’m not sure… he took me and I didn’t know, I just, oh ughhh…” she bent over in pain, and you turned seeing Derek and JJ both standing next to the suv.

“Woah, hey, can you tell me what you’re feeling?” You asked inching towards her as she grimaced bent over her bump in pain.

“It’s- it’s like some cramping pain, like my muscles are tearing, they started happening earlier but I kept running cause I had to get away.”

“Okay, okay, have they been getting closer?”

“ye-yea and more painful, I think something is wrong with my baby.” She started to cry, still bent over.

“Cassie, can you look at me?” she glanced up at you, “can I help you, I think you might be going into labor.”

she hesitantly looked at you before nodding, you slowly walked towards her, until you heard shots ring out, you felt one hit you tearing through your side just above your right hip, you stumbled shielding Cassie with your body, you started moving her as another bullet grazed your leg. You rushed her to the car as Derek and JJ returned fire to give you cover.

Opening the back seat and helping her in, Derek looked at you questioning, “here’s my closure.” You said and immediately he knew, this was the supposed girlfriend, the young woman the killer kidnapped and held captive and she was about to have her baby in your backseat.

You helped her as Derek started down the road hustling to get you to the closest hospital, both the other agents scanning to see where the fire was coming from, JJ called Emily and Tara to alert them of what was happening.

“nahhh…” she groaned out, you could see the tears rolling down her cheeks at the pain.

“okay sweetheart, I wanna help you but you have to let me… Cassie, I need to get you out of these pants, I need to see how dilated you are.” She looked at you hesitantly, not ready to fully expose herself to a stranger, which after her expierence you didn’t blame her.

“do you know anything about delivering babies?” She asked.

“I do, I worked as a nurse before I signed on with the bureau, you’re in good hands, I promise… okay?”

She looked at you hesitantly, “okay… okay.” She nodded and turned towards you putting her back on the door, you helped her out of her pants and put your jacket over her legs, hissing as you peeled it off your shoulders.

“JJ can I have some gloves out of that compartment?” she handed you a pair of exam gloves.

“okay sweetheart, I’m going to just take a look?” She nodded as you lifted the blanket.”

“okay I can see your baby’s head…looks like this baby doesn’t want to wait.”

“I feel… I feel like I need to push.” Cassie whined out, gritting her teeth, her hair was caked to her face with sweat, chest heaving.

“That’s okay, do what your body tells you… give me a big push.” She gritted her teeth and bared down, reaching out she found your hand on her knee and squeezed it.

“Okay, good girl, now one more time for me…” she screamed and with one last push you held a screaming newborn in your arms, the moment was short lived as you placed the baby on her chest.

she was too focused on her baby to notice your hands covered in blood, “Y/N?” JJ trailed you with her eyes as you turned to look at her.

“That’s a lot of blood…” her eyes drifted to the seat and your clothes, your jeans and shirt now stained red the gloves you wore and you arms had crimson streaks.

“I feel fine though.” Cassie answered.

“because it’s not yours…” you said sinking back in the seat with a hiss, skilled fingers finally tracing the bullet hole. Your eyes fluttered as the adrenaline started to wear off.

“Y/N, are you okay?” You heard the young girl ask trying to calm her baby.

“Uhm, I’ll be okay, just a couple scratches.” You lied, you knew you were bleeding and every second you sat here was one second closer to death.

“Y/N?” Derek asked concerned for you.

“Oh my God, Y/N!” JJ turned to face you, she climbed over the seat grabbing a cloth or towel, you weren’t sure, and pressed it your abdomen, trying her best to stop or slow the bleeding, she supported you as you started to sway feeling intense exhaustion come over you.

“Talk to me baby.” Derek demanded, watching you from the review mirror as your eyes fluttered closed, color draining from your features.

“the bullet, it uh… I took it, I got hit.” You winced as JJ pressed a little harder, your blood slowly seeping through the cloth onto her hands. You saw a frantic Derek in the mirror and felt the car lurch forward.

“Okay um, okay…” he said starting to panic.

“Derek breathe, it’s okay.” You said, head falling back against the seat.

“no, God dammit Y/N it’s not okay, you got shot.” He sped and finally came into the city seeing the lights of the hospital, weaving through traffic until the car halted to a stop in a nearby ambulance bay.

“I’m coming love, I’m coming.” Derek said jumping out of the car and coming around to you.

“no, no, Y/N, stay awake with me.” He flung the door open and pulled his shirt over his head and used it to apply pressure, taking over where JJ was you heard as he panicked and JJ checked on the new mom.

“I’m right here…” you whispered.

“stay with me just a little bit longer, come on baby.” He said tears burning in his eyes, medical staff rushed out to the car, a large male nurse pulling your husband away as they loaded you onto a stretcher, another team taking care of Cassie and her new baby. You reached for them but felt weak as you hand fell limp, eyes fluttering closed, covered in blood as they rushed you in hearing the frantic yelling of Derek as he called your name telling you to stay awake.

Memories flashed quickly through your mind as you came in and out of consciousness, the classic line of hospital lights and medical staff leaning in and out of view. Memories of first meeting Derek, Penelope being protective of the both of you telling you that if one hurt the other she would kill you because she loved you both. Being there with him when Prentiss “died”, building a family with the team, seeing JJ become a mom and being the boys “favorite aunt”, watching Derek propose and marrying the man of your dreams. Times out to dinner with the team, picking on Reid, nights out with the girls. Everything good in your life quickly became your worst fear as you were terrified of leaving it all behind, every fiber of your being fighting to stay alive, fighting so that some nurse wouldn’t have to tell your family they need to plan a funeral.

A few hours later the team was all seated in a waiting room, Derek sat there staring into space stone-faced, unmoving as his brain was both blank and going a million miles a second his shirt and pants still stained in your blood. JJ was now wearing one of your hoodies that she found stashed in the car, her bloody shirt long since disposed of as spoke with some staff about Cassandra and what took place as the rest of the team sat waiting, Garcia drove in and was seated next to Derek quietly fidgeting.

“Ehem,” a nurse entered the room clearing her throat, “Derek Morgan?”

He shot up out of his seat too quickly and almost startled everyone. “How is she… is she?”

“She’s okay, still recovering from the surgery and blood loss but she’s awake and asking for you.”

“Oh thank God, thank God.” He said as she gave him your room number and he took off down the hall as she stayed to update everyone else.

You heard the glass door slide open and then closed turning to see the chiseled silhouette of your husband. “Baby girl I thought I lost you.” He said as he sat next to you and picked up your hand, tears flowing down his cheeks as he flashed you a signature smile.

“can’t get rid of me that easy, we’re in this for life Mr. Morgan.” You joked and he kissed you.

“Cute…”

“you know what would be cute?… our babies, we should make some babies.”

“is that you or the drugs talking?” He chuckled.

“both.” You said flashing him a cheeky grin.

“well then as soon as you’re ready we can make some cute babies.”

“gorgeous, smart babies.” You said sleepily as the drowsiness was overtaking you.

“if they look anything like their momma then they’ll be beautiful.” He said over you as you slept, he knew that even though you were drowsy and drugged up, you meant every word you said, you wanted nothing more than to expand your little family and there’s no better time to do it than now.

Strong Enough

0.8k+ fluffy words of Karadec getting fed up and proving you wrong. (it's not a prank blurb but it is a from a trend so I'm tagging it the same!)

The Major Crimes unit is silent. It’s disturbing and unsettling, and you shift uncomfortably in your seat while waiting for someone to make a noise.

“Is Soto back?” Oz whispers.

Daphne shakes her head no, then taps her mouse to check if the computers are back up. “We’re still dark,” she replies softly. “So… what’s the worst date you’ve been on recently?”

You don’t have to see Karadec to know he’s rolling his eyes. Still, you smile at the distraction and move closer to Oz and Daphne’s back-to-back desks.

“I haven’t been on one in a while,” Oz says. “But a few months back, she asked me to get her an Uber to her backup date.”

“Oh, no,” Daphne exclaims with a laugh.

“That’s awful,” you agree. “She didn’t have to tell you where she was going.”

“No, she really felt like she needed to,” he explains. “What about you, Daph?”

“Went on a second date with a guy and he asked what kind of wine I wanted and then ordered something completely different.”

“Don’t tell me he pulled the I’m paying and I’m sure you’ll like it,” you ask, pinching your brows sympathetically.

“Better. He told me that my palette wasn’t refined and offered to help with that.”

“Gross,” you and Oz respond simultaneously.

“I went on a date last week, and he offered me his jacket,” you offer.

“That’s sweet,” Oz argues.

“It didn’t fit, so he asked if I was working to lose any weight so I could wear his clothes if things got serious.”

Daphne’s jaw drops as her brows rise, and Oz shakes his head.

“Granted, I don’t think I’ve ever dated a guy whose clothes I could wear. Let alone one who could lift me or anything. I’m not sure they exist in my circle.”

Karadec scoffs, and you turn in your seat to look at him.

“What?” you inquire.

“Nothing, just working,” he answers, opening a file.

“Sure. What’s the worst date you’ve been on?”

“Nothing as bad as this moment.”

“Someone’s grumpy,” you stage-whisper over your shoulder to Daphne.

“You work with cops, there’s fifteen gyms within a mile radius,” Karadec explains, “so you must be choosing the wrong men.”

“Okay, one, the cops I actually work with day-to-day are mostly desk jockeys. No offense, Oz.”

“None taken,” he interjects.

“And two, Karadec, I’m not going to go hang out beside a gym to get some testosterone-fueled meathead just because he can pick me up. I’m saying realistically, naturally, in everyday life, I don’t know anyone who could just romantically manhandle me for the sake of it.”

“Romantically manhandle?” Morgan repeats, incredulous, as she enters the bullpen. “What am I interrupting?”

“Detective over here thinks there are no men in Los Angeles who could lift her onto their shoulder,” Karadec explains flatly.

“Ooh, like the video?” Morgan inquires, pulling a chair to your side. “Ava has shown me a few, they’re cute. Not so much when the scrawny-armed boys don’t succeed, but still.”

“We’re not going to get any work done today, are we?” Karadec inquires.

“Not with Soto busy and the system down,” Daphne reminds him. “So, try to let loose for a few minutes, would you?”

“You really don’t know anyone who could do it?” Morgan asks.

“Nope,” you answer. “Not for lack of trying, contrary to what Karadec will tell you.”

“Tell her about the jacket guy,” Oz encourages.

Karadec stands and gestures for you to do the same.

“Fine, we’ll change the subject,” you sigh.

“Stand up,” he demands.

Morgan moves her seat back as you stand, and Karadec steps closer to you. He wraps an arm around your waist, bends slightly, and then your feet are off the floor. You clutch his wrist at your side as he effortlessly lifts you onto his shoulder. From the elevated position, you look down at him with wide eyes.

Carefully, Karadec lowers you back to the floor and removes his hand from your side. He raises his hands to his sides and asks, “Happy now?”

Before you can answer him, Lieutenant Soto returns.

“Are workplace crushes frowned upon?” you ask her.

“Shut up,” Karadec grumbles as he returns to his desk and retrieves hand sanitizer from his drawer.

“What did I miss?” Soto asks, looking between you and Karadec.

“Oh, we can’t explain what just happened,” Oz muses.

“Luckily, I filmed it,” Daphne announces, raising her phone.

“You did not,” Karadec snaps, spinning to face her.

“She did!” Morgan answers, smiling brightly, as she watches the screen over Daphne’s shoulder. “And right… there is the moment she falls in love.”

Karadec shakes his head, and you murmur, “I was kidding. I know it doesn’t mean anything.”

He tips his head to the left, then nods and reboots his computer. “Of course not,” he replies, though it’s the least convincing you’ve ever heard him sound.

Christmas Magic

hot cocoa bar celebration🧤❄️🎄

requested here! & inspired by Finding Santa (2017)

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!(event planner)!reader

Summary: Your Christmas charity dinner is threatened when Santa quits at the last minute. Tim Bradford is the only person you know who is free days before Christmas, but it will take some magic to make him agree to put on the suit.

Warnings/Word Count: fluff, brief angst, quick mention of harassment, mistletoe and magic. 3.5k+ words.

I rented the center, tables with chairs are being delivered at noon, and catering arrives at 4. Got that. Santa, gifts, check, check.

You turn away from your computer to make a note about contacting the pediatrics hospital administrator. With your phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder, you’d nearly forgotten that you were supposed to be listening to James, the older gentleman playing Santa at the fundraising event you’ve been planning since September.

“I’m so sorry to cancel on you last minute,” James says.

Barely managing to catch your phone as you jerk in shock, you repeat his words in your mind. “Cancel? James, I’m sorry, did I hear that correctly?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ve been fighting this rotator cuff for years and it finally won out on me. I know it’s last minute, but I can’t safely perform the Santa duties.”

“Okay, okay,” you mumble, pressing your forehead into your hand. “I understand, and I hope you feel better. I’m just not sure where I’m supposed to find another Santa days before the event, this close to Christmas.”

“If I hear of anybody who’s available, I’ll send ‘em your way.”

“Thanks.”

You end the call and stare at your computer screen. There is absolutely no way you can find someone – someone decent, at least – to play Santa Clause in three days. The event is on December 23rd, Christmas Eve-Eve, and it was hard enough to book James so close to Christmas Day.

“Oh, I’m gonna need a Christmas miracle,” you whisper as you reach for your mug.

A bell jingles outside, and you close your eyes. If only an angel capable of playing Santa were getting its wings.

“Are you okay?” your assistant, Holly, asks from the doorway.

“Not even a little bit,” you answer with a stressed smile. “We need a new Santa.”

“In less than a week?” she exclaims, setting a stack of papers on your desk. “How are you going to do that?”

“I have no idea. I could do open auditions, but then we’re just going to get all of the crazy people desperate for a Christmas gig in here, and I can’t sort through applications or anything with everything else going on,” you ramble before taking a breath. “Any chance you have a cousin, brother, dad, or a neighbor without a criminal record who could help me out?”

“My folks are traveling for the holidays and all of my neighbors are girls. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. We just… we have to think of something. Preferably by the end of today.”

“If anyone can pull together some Christmas magic it’s you,” Holly assures. “I’ll go make some calls and let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

“Thanks, Hols.”

As she leaves, you open your phone and scroll through your contacts. Each name makes you a little more discouraged. Most of them are busy with families, out of town, completely unqualified, or you haven’t spoken to them in so long that you can’t justify asking for something like this, even if it is for the kids.

“It’s all I want for Christmas,” you whisper as you near the end of your list.

One name jumps out at you, but you hesitate to contact him. He might have to work or be coming off of a hectic holiday shift on the 23rd. But you’re running out of options, so you text Tim Bradford to ask if he’s free. The phone rings a moment later, and you answer immediately.

“No, don’t- Chen!” Tim scolds.

“Uh, hello?” you greet.

“Hi!” a woman replies. “My name is Lucy Chen, I’m Tim’s rookie. You asked if he was free on the 23rd and I’m calling to say that he absolutely is.”

“Good, good,” you reply, chewing your bottom lip. “I actually have a really big – huge – favor to ask him, so maybe I’ll call him back later.”

“What is it?” Tim asks.

“Uhm,” you hum, trying to find the right words. “I need someone to play Santa at the charity event for the Children’s Hospital Los Angeles and UCLA’s pediatric department.”

“I… can’t,” Tim says after a moment.

“He means he won’t,” Lucy adds.

Your shoulders drop as you murmur, “Okay. Bye.”

After you hang up, you realize that Tim Bradford is your only chance. If he really won't do it, you either have to put a woman in the Santa suit and hope for the best or disappoint every child and parent in attendance by announcing at the last minute that Santa can’t make it. You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, but at least the diner down the street has good hot chocolate that will help you get your mind off it for a few minutes. You wave at Holly on your way out, then try to think of exciting, merry, and bright things rather than the coming disappointment as you walk to your favorite diner. As you enter, you notice three men sitting in the booth closest to the door, but they’re the kind of men you know you wouldn’t invite to be in the same room with wealthy women or children, let alone both at the same time.

“Robbery in progress at Vicksen’s Diner,” dispatch alerts. “Callers report three armed men, and one is blocking the main entrance.”

“7-Adam-19 responding, code 3,” Tim radios before hitting the lights and sirens.

“Vixen’s Diner?” Lucy repeats. “They must really like Christmas.”

“V-i-c-k-s-e-n,” Tim corrects. “It’s the last name, the family has owned the place for decades. The call you intercepted earlier?”

“What about her?”

“She’s probably there. It’s her favorite place and they have Christmas specials right now.”

“How do you know that?”

“Focus, Chen,” Tim snaps as he turns the sirens off. “We’re approaching the rear exit without a sound, understood? Our priority is to get these people safe, then and only then do we go after the robbers.”

“Yes, sir,” Lucy agrees.

“I don’t have any more cash,” the owner explains again. “It’s the twenty-first century, genius, most of our business is card or tap-to-pay.”

“And it’s Christmas,” you add from your booth. “Just go.”

“Not until I get something!” the man screams.

“How about a one-way trip to jail?” someone adds. “We already called the police.”

“Then pay up or they’ll have a body,” one of the other robbers says, turning their gun toward the customer.

Someone clicks their tongue, and you look over to see Tim Bradford and who you assume to be Lucy Chen standing behind the counter.

“LAPD,” Tim says. “Weapons down, hands up, or your Christmas is going to be even worse.”

The man closest to the counter tightens his grip on his gun, then curses and drops it as he raises his hands.

“I recommend you follow his lead,” Lucy tells the man beside you.

“Open the door,” Tim dares the final man. “My partner out there would love to lay you out.”

All three men surrender, and you watch Tim as he cuffs and zip-ties them while his rookie calls for backup.

“You said you had a partner out there!” the men complain.

“I lied,” Tim says as he stands. “You should know what it’s like.”

Three more patrol cars park outside, and officers take the would-be thieves out of the diner as Lucy checks on the owner and the other patrons. When Tim walks to your table, you lean back and look at him.

“I really need your help,” you explain. “It’s one night and you’d get paid.”

“It’s not about the money,” Tim replies. “Are you okay?”

“Then what is it about?” you press. “We both know you’re great with your nephews even if you hate to admit it. It’s only a few hours of asking kids what they want for Christmas, a few pictures, and then- then I’ll buy you dinner, whatever you want.”

“Why are you asking so close to the event?”

“Because I already had a Santa, but he tore his rotator cuff and backed out on me at the last minute. You know I wouldn’t ask something like this unless I really needed it.”

Tim nods, though he’s wondering why he is the one you’ve chosen to show your persistence and desperation to. Surely, you know other men capable of wearing an uncomfortable polyester suit and saying ho, ho, ho.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Tim points out. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. One of them pushed me out of the way, but-“

Tim moves closer to you and bends to look into your eyes. His gaze moves over your face before catching on the slightly red area against the side of your neck.

“You sure?” he whispers.

You nod and smile before you push past him to exit the booth. “I have to get back to work and find a Santa or break hundreds of hearts. Be safe, Tim.”

Tim watches you walk toward the door, and Lucy’s eyes widen as she gestures wildly toward you.

“I’ll do it,” Tim calls. He tells himself it’s because you’re so persistent and seem stressed, but deep down, he knows there is more to it than that.

“You don’t have to,” you say as you face him. “Don’t do something that’s going to make you miserable just because I need help.”

“I’ll do it,” he repeats. “Text me the details?”

“How ‘bout I just pick you up on the 23rd? Around noon?” you reply.

“Sure.”

“Thank you, Tim,” you say with your hand on the door. “You’ll never know how much this means to everyone… to me.”

Tim nods as you leave to return to work, and Lucy claps silently.

“Get in the shop, boot,” he demands.

“You look nice,” you compliment when Tim opens his door the morning of the event. “The red suits you.”

Tim swallows as he looks at you and says, “You don’t have to butter me up, I already said yes.”

“I’m just calling it how I see it,” you assure him.

“I thought this thing didn’t start until 4,” Tim muses as he locks his door and follows you to the car.

“It doesn’t, but we have to get the Santa suit fitted. If you want to leave after and come back at 3, you can take my car.”

Tim shrugs and buckles his seat belt. When you turn the radio to a Christmas station, Tim immediately switches it to a football show. Your jaw drops as you turn toward him.

“You don’t like Christmas music?” you ask incredulously.

“I just don’t think it’s okay to give someone 23 birds,” he explains.

“My car,” you argue when he reaches for the control.

“My Santa debut,” he replies.

You give up and back out of his driveway with an exaggerated scoff.

“Why do you want me to be Santa anyway? I get that you had to ask people you know but I’m clearly not jolly enough.”

“Why is that?” you inquire. “I can understand not loving the music or the commercialism. The rest of it, though, that’s what I don’t get.”

“Just… don’t love the holidays. Reminds me of the things I don’t have anymore, I guess.”

Glancing at Tim, you wonder what it feels like to be someone’s for the holidays. Yes, it’s hard to be jolly when you miss someone, but for a moment, you wonder what it would be like to listen to carolers and decorate the tree while being in love.

“What’s this event like?” Tim asks, pulling you from your thoughts. “Been working on it long?”

“Since September,” you answer. “It’s geared toward the kids, but we have to do something to get the parents in too, so there’s raffles, a silent auction, dinner, and an area where they can sit with each other while someone else watches their kids.”

“So, it’s for donors?”

“At first,” you explain. “The donors are welcome to come anytime between 4 and 7. Then, we make everything absolutely perfect and bring in the kids from the hospitals at 8. They get more time with Santa, more gifts and games and treats. I know we have to raise a lot of money, but it’s not worth it if the kids don’t get to have fun with it too.”

“You’re really good at this,” Tim compliments, looking at you. “I didn’t know how much you put into all of this.”

“Now you regret saying no at first, huh?” you tease.

“That depends on how good the cookies are.”

“Then why are you so nervous?” you ask as you pull into the event center’s parking lot.

“I’m not-“

“It’s hidden well, but it’s there, Tim. You know you’re good with kids, so don’t let the size of this get to you.”

“I’ll try.”

“And if you get overwhelmed, Santa can always take a cookie break. I’ll be around if you need anything.”

You wish Tim luck as you drop him off with the wardrobe designer you hired, then begin transforming the space into a winter wonderland.

“Are you okay?” Holly asks as you finish constructing the games for the children from the hospital.

“I came to ask the same,” Santa says from behind you.

You turn quickly and smile at the sight of Tim in the suit. His beard has been set aside while he takes a break, but something about seeing him this way feels right.

“I’m fine,” you assure them. “Rich people are hard to please, I’m used to it.”

“Nobody should get used to people screaming in their face because the caviar is room temperature,” Holly argues.

“Is that what it was about?” Tim asks with a humorless laugh.

“He got over it. I actually saw him eating the caviar later,” you say. “Besides, this is the part of the night I’m here for.”

“You’re an excellent Santa,” Holly tells Tim. “The kids went on and on about you.”

“Told you,” you sing song.

“Do I give gifts to every kid?” Tim asks you.

“Yes, give them as many as you want because we have more. The red candy cane paper is more girly gifts, blue snowflake paper is for boys, and the gingerbread paper is gender neutral,” you list. “The elves also have a list of what we have, so if a kid asks for something specific, someone can check for you.”

“You should’ve been a cop,” Tim muses. “I wish my boot could keep things this streamlined.”

“You need to get back to the Northpole,” Holly says, glancing at her watch. “Not that this isn’t adorable.”

“Tim,” you call as he walks away. “Thank you.”

“It’s the only thing you’re getting for Christmas!” he replies.

Holly smiles as she moves to your side, and you glare at her.

“A gorgeous man wrapped in a Santa suit,” she muses. “You got every girl’s dream gift.”

“He isn’t mine,” you remind her.

“Christmas seems like the perfect time to change that.”

“Excuse me?” a young girl asks.

“Hello,” you greet, smiling as you squat beside her. “What’s your name?”

“Sally,” she answers. “Will you go with me to see Santa?”

“Of course!” You offer your hand and lead Sally through the crowds of happy children and grateful parents to get in line to see Santa. “What are you asking for this year?”

“I want a Hug-Wave,” she says softly, wrapping both her hands around yours.

“What’s that?”

“It’s twin stuffed animals, and when you hug one, it sends a hug to the other. I want to give my brother one so I can send him hugs when I have to stay in the hospital. He’s coming to see me on Christmas, but I miss him.”

Your eyes tear up, and you smile at Sally as you move forward in line. “I’m sure Santa will bring you one,” you assure her. “Look, we’re next!”

“You’ll stay with me?”

“Of course, Sally.”

As you walk onto the red carpet platform, Tim looks at you before looking at Sally. You mouth her name, and Tim calls, “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas, Sally!”

“You know my name?” she asks softly, stopping beside his knees.

“Santa knows all of the good boys’ and girls’ names, and you, Sally, are on my nice list!”

“Do you want to sit on his lap?” you ask Sally.

She nods but keeps her hand firmly in yours. You move to Tim’s side as he pulls her onto his leg and blink to get the tears out of your eyes as Sally tells Santa about the hugging stuffed animal she wants to stay close to her brother.

“I think you and your brother would love that, Sally,” Tim says. “I’ll tell my elves about your wish, and we’ll work on that.”

“Thank you, Santa,” Sally says before pulling her hand from yours and hugging Tim.

You wipe your face before taking Sally’s hand and leading her to pin the nose on Rudolph, where she plays with kids like she didn’t just tug your heartstrings. Turning to check on everything, you notice that the Santa chair is empty, and the elves are entertaining the children in line. Less than a minute later, Tim returns and continues to visit children and parents alike.

“Psst!” someone calls.

You furrow your brows as you turn, and when you see Lucy, your eyes widen in shock.

“Santa asked me to bring you this,” she whispers as she slips a large gift bag through the door. “Care to be an elf for me?”

“Thank you,” you tell her. “I’ll take it to him now.”

“It looks amazing in here!”

“You’re welcome to stay, Lucy.”

You walk toward the North Pole area and tap an elf’s shoulder to take the gift to Tim. He excuses himself after the last child and walks to your side with the bag in his hand.

“Where’s Sally?” he whispers in your ear.

You look up at him and feel your tears building again as you say, “Tim–”

“I’m Santa tonight.”

You locate Sally sitting at a table with her parents and brother and eating a cupcake. Following behind Tim, you press your hand over your mouth as he kneels beside her and offers the bag. Her parents look at one another in shock as she removes the bears from the bag, then mouth their gratitude to Tim. Sally passes her brother a bear, and they begin hugging them to hug one another, and you decide this is the Christmas miracle you hoped to see.

Tim exits the small dressing room in the back hallway and doesn’t see you before you wrap your arms around his neck to hug him.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his neck. “For being Santa and for giving Sally the gift.”

Tim tightens his arms around your waist before you pull back. “It’s the least I could do,” he deflects with a shrug.

“No, it isn’t,” you insist. “I talked to Sally’s parents. They can barely afford gas to go back and forth to work and the hospital right now because one of them has to stay with her full-time because of her treatment. That’s why her brother can’t visit much.”

“Is she…”

“The doctors are hopeful that her current treatment is working,” you assure him. “They’re expecting to send her home sometime in the spring if she continues improving. Tim, you made their entire year.”

“You deserve some of that credit.”

“You pulled off a Christmas miracle, it’s all yours.”

“Does that mean you’ll tell me why you chose to ask me to be Santa?” Tim asks with a smile. His hands are still on your waist, but you’re dreading the moment when he steps back.

“Because I knew you could do it,” you answer. “You’re the only person I know that is kind and generous, selfless without letting people know it, and even if you get mad at me for saying it, you are kind and a big softie. You’re special, Tim Bradford, and a gentleman, and the closest thing I’ve seen to magical in a very long time. That’s why I asked and kept asking.”

“Well, you’re the closest thing I’ve seen to Mrs. Claus… ever,” he replies lightly.

“Without the time to bake and ‘Mrs.’ you mean.”

Tim shakes his head and asks, “Who helped you decorate?”

“Holly, mostly. Why?”

Lifting his chin, Tim gestures to the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling.

“It’s tradition,” you begin.

“You don’t have to convince me,” Tim interrupts.

He moves a hand from your waist to your cheek and kisses you. It feels like fireworks, warm hot chocolate, and every good and magical thing you can think of all at once. You move your hands to Tim’s jaw and move together, then pull back to thank him again.

“Thank you for calling Lucy and getting Sally’s gift here so quickly.”

Tim’s brow pinches as he says, “I didn’t call Lucy. I thought you got the gift here for her?”

You shake your head, then ask, “Well if you didn’t order it, and I didn’t order it, which Santa asked Lucy to bring it?”

Tim hesitates before he says, “It couldn’t…”

“There you are!” Holly calls as she enters the hallway. “I could not find this entrance, geez. Oh, hey, mistletoe!”

“You didn’t put this up?” you ask her.

“Me? No, I don’t even know where to buy mistletoe. That made me sound so single.”

You look at Tim, who smiles and whispers, “Christmas magic,” as he leans in again.

sanji and zoro teaching each other how to fuck you (pt 1)

18+ ACCOUNT/CONTENT SO MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

warnings: exhibitionism, p in v, afab reader!, they/them pronouns degradation from zoro but LOTS of praise from sanji lol, breeding kink if you squint, men whimpering yeahhhhhhh, feminine pet names

zoro grumbles as he slowly pumps his fingers in and out of you, eyes focused on the way your lips part in soft gasps with every stroke. "slower. not too much, now." "shut up." zoro hisses at sanji, glaring over at the cook sitting in a lounge chair only a step away from the bed where zoro is currently fingering you. "they like it when you take your time. don't you, beautiful?" sanji says, the first part coming out like poison when he addresses zoro before smiling over at you like you're the most stunning thing he's seen in years. you weren't used to the swordsman being like this, fingering you and prepping you for as long as humanly possible; sanji was the one to do that and he was good at it too. but unlike him, zoro's fingers were thick, calloused from years of work and you were secretly enjoying it more than you ever thought you would.

you can only whine in response to sanji's praise, jolting when zoro hits a certain spot in you. "alright, that's enough. lay them on their back." much to your surprise, zoro doesn't try to resist sanji's command. before you know it, he's pushing into you at a slow but delicious pace that has your legs shaking around his waist. "just a little faster. thaaat's it." sanji says with a soft groan of his own, biting his lip as he watches the way soft moans leave you and your back arches off the bed. you turn to look over at sanji as best as you can, a shudder running down your spine at the obvious hard-on the cook has. "p-please, sanji, closee.." sanji coos at that, leaning over to cup your chin in one of his hands as more soft gasps escape you. "cum for me, cherie." he whispers against your lips, immediately pressing his lips to yours when you reach out a hand to tug on his hair.

he moans almost in unison with you when you finally feel the coil in you coming undone, whining and moaning against sanji's lips as quiet grunts leave zoro on top of you. he presses his hips flush against yours (just like sanji had instructed) when he cums only seconds after you, your legs snugly wrapped around his waist and shuddering at the pleasant full feeling. there's a moment of soft pants and moans between the two of you as zoro buries his face in the crook of your neck. "tell her how beautiful she is, that you love the way she feels-" "i'm not doing that."

FIRST POST ON THE SIDE ACCOUNT LETS GO

undercover(s) (18+)

summary: oh no, there's just one bed!

pairing: tim bradford x f!reader

word count: 5,4k

warnings: friends to lovers trope, dirty talk, vulgar language, pet names, unprotected sex, creampie, riding that thick dick, praise, mentions of injury (reader), let me know if i missed anything<3

You were perched in front of the mirror, admiring the woman gazing back at you through long lashes.

“It's giving brat.”

False lashes, acrylic nails, threaded brows.

“You know, I'm actually kind of diggin’ it.”

Little black dress with an open back, Jacquemus handbag, golden hoops, perfumed skin, high-heeled boots.

“Damn, I look good.”

Through the mirror, you could see Tim still at it with the device, a little black box with an antenna that could detect signals from even the smallest, most high-tech recorders. It made a static noise as he hovered the stick over just about every surface and object.

“Alright. It's safe,” he finally concluded once he was content with his work.

“Could have told you as much. My contacts are good,” you sassed with a smug look, leaning your hand on your hip.

Tim shot you an incredulous look as he packed away the gear. “Yeah, you can drop the bratty attitude now, smartass.”

You chuckled as he removed the gun from his belt and put it on the dresser. “I don't know—it's kinda growing on me.”

Though you had never been undercover with Tim before, you were confident you knew him well enough to feel when something was off with him. You had known each other for a long time, and right now he was being off.

And you knew exactly why.

“Come on, it's not that bad,” you sighed, finally moving away from the mirror and stepping out of the shoes.

There was only one bed.

He arched a brow at you and rolled his eyes. “The hell it is. We're supposed to play brother and sister and we're sharing a bed?”

You snorted at his tone—speaking as if it would jeopardize the whole operation. 

“Look, even if anybody thinks anything of it, I refuse to believe it'll become a problem. We'll just roll with it,” you reasoned nonchalantly.

“What?” he mouthed in disbelief. “Roll with it? I—” he cut himself off, brows knitted tightly as he ran with hands over his face.

You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction and folded your arms as you leaned against the wall. “I'm sure we won't be the first incestuous couple residing in Buttfuck Arizona.”

You were clearly making him uncomfortable and you were having way too much fun with it.

Tim seemed to be looking anywhere but at you. You wondered if it was the one bed or the way you looked in the dress. You hoped it was the dress.

His jaw clenched as he inhaled sharply through his nose, his mouth set in a tight-lipped twitch. He shook his head when he finally glared at you, quickly turning to unload the gear from your suitcase. "Okay—just… Get your head on straight, yeah? Meeting's set in twenty.”

***

You winced as Tim tightened the string working through the flesh of your upper arm, the hand that wasn't holding the needle holding your shoulder in a firm grip. The pain was nothing you hadn't experienced before, but his touch made you hyper-aware of every sensation in your body. Including the heat rushing to your cheeks and ears.

“Stay still,” Tim ordered, his steely blue eyes focused on his patchwork as he closed the wound and bandaged it for you. “Let me know if there's any discomfort.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you sighed, your tone lower and shakier than you expected it to be.

The deal had gone sideways, but not completely off the tracks. Tim seemed worried that your cover was blown but your instincts told you not all had gone awry—you had been caught in a knife fight with your target's enemies. While the target fled the scene and bullets ricocheted, you and Tim secured the gangsters before heading off, too, leaving the rivals disabled for when backup swooped in. You had convinced Tim the operation was not compromised—that if anything, you had substantiated your cover.

Tim went out to pick up some food and you jumped in the shower, careful not to ruin the work Tim had just finished on your arm. By the time you finished up, Tim returned with a plastic bag and you ate on the bed. You could practically feel the tension in him radiating from his body and though you tried to tune it out, there came a point where you could no longer stand it.

“Look, if you're that worried about it, we can call it off,” you proposed. “I trust your gut so if you feel like something's off, we just pull the plug. Check-in's in an hour.”

Tim looked up with a furrow, appearing confused by your suggestion. It had crossed your mind that the ordeal with the rival gang earlier on was not the only thing pressing him—the whole situation probably made him uncomfortable.

While you were used to undercover work, he had really only dipped his toes into the world. You had known each other for years; you've had drinks far into the morning, deep conversations, and seen each other adapt to life's challenges. You knew he felt comfortable around you, and you felt comfortable with him, but it made sense to you that this whole scene was somewhat unfamiliar to him.

Your jobs forced circumstances where you worked together, but you had never been entangled in a situation where either one of you got seriously hurt. It was one thing knowing someone you cared for could find themselves in a dangerous situation at any given moment; a whole other when you're present and see how things go south in a matter of seconds.

Tim shook his head, swallowing down a bite of his burger. “You've done this kind of work a lot longer than me, it's your call.”

It bothered you a tad, him showing you unconditional trust in a life-or-death situation. If he really thought there was the slightest chance you had been made, you would rather have his honesty.

You chewed your lip instead of the fry in your hand, watching him quietly, trying to read him. In all the years you had known Tim, he had always been stoic, his warmer traits only showing once his guard had been breached. While he wasn't exactly an open book, he was always blunt on his opinions—just not now.

It had to be more than just about the operation. 

“We'll do the check-in to let them know we're good. We can revisit in the morning.”

Tim bobbed his head but didn't look at you.

You arched an eyebrow at him, deciding to switch topics. “So… you wanna flip a coin on the bed?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “No, you take it. I can make myself comfortable on the floor.”

Your brows knitted together and you gave him a quizzical look. “What? You sure—I mean I certainly prefer sleeping cozy, but it doesn't feel fair to just—”

“Doesn't matter. You take the bed. I'll be fine.” he insisted and finished his meal, wiping his mouth with a napkin before standing. “I'm gonna take a shower.”

Tim scrunched the trash together and threw it in the bin before locking himself in the bathroom.

You sighed and drank from your watered-down soda.

Tim planted his hands on the counter in front of the bathroom mirror, letting his head fall to level with his shoulders as he exhaled deeply. He cursed himself for agreeing to this operation.

It was one thing to know you got hurt, and another to see you suffer injury on his watch.

This is what you do, he reminded himself. You are used to this.

Tim was angry with himself for letting this get to him, although he was more disappointed that your - well, your character's - blatant flirting with the criminals bothered him in such a way—his blood boiling whenever someone looked at you with primal urges.

He had no right.

Even worse he was disgusted with himself for entertaining the thought—how your acrylic nails would feel scratching the skin on his back, how your soft and supple flesh would mold in his palms, how your glossy lips would whimper soft mewls, and how your lashes would flutter shut in bliss.

Tim inhaled sharply, clearing his throat, and turned on the shower. The splashes that hit the tiles added a backdrop to his obscene thoughts while he rid himself of his clothes, goosebumps forming on his skin.

He stepped into the downpour, leaving the shower head attached to the clasp in the wall. Tim subconsciously held his breath as he let the water burn his skin, feeling the need to inflict pain on himself to clear his mind. Regardless, the scorching sensation passed and soon enough he gave in and pumped his aching cock in his hand.

When he had showered - and shot his load down the drain - he put on a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a white shirt before walking back into the room.

You had already gotten under the covers, your eyes focused on the open page of your book. You had put aside two blankets and a pillow for Tim to make use of. The TV was on low volume, viewing a baseball game, and the remote was left at the end of the bed.

Tim’s jaw clenched and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him, seeing how you had laid out this display for him to feel comfortable when he had just jerked off thinking of you in a way friends were not supposed to.

He made a spot for himself on the floor, leaving his watch and handgun beside the pillow.

“You made contact?”

“Yup,” you replied softly, turning the page.

Tim hummed in response and settled on the hard floor cushioned by one of the blankets. When you felt his attention focus on the television, your absentminded gaze left the book and you watched him instead.

Even in a relaxed position, he maintained his characteristic rigid demeanor. Your gaze was caught by the broadness of his frame and the way his shoulders appeared constrained by the white fabric that hugged them.

Tim didn't seem too invested in the sports channel and soon he turned it off, lying down. You followed suit and put your book away, turning off the bedside lamp with a small grunt.

“You can read on if you want,” he said lowly.

You chuckled as you got comfortable in the bed, head leaning over the edge just enough to watch him from above. “Is that your way of telling me you're scared of the dark?”

A huff left his still body, and a grin pulled at your lips and although it was too dark to see, you could hear the smile in his voice. “Go to sleep.”

You laughed. “Yes, sir.”

You weren't sure for how long you had laid there before you began feeling restless. Instead of merely zoning out, your mind seemed to focus on every little detail. Outside the wind was ominously howling, a windchime clinking soft pitchy notes, and Tim seemed fixated on every little sound, whether it was a car door shutting or you turning in bed.

The silence inside was tangible, and you could practically hear Tim's mind running at a hundred miles per second.

Another heavy sigh escaped him as he turned on the floor with a grunt. Initially, he hadn't thought it would be that bad - Tim reminded himself he had slept in worse conditions while in the army - but now that he was here, the carpet smelled like tobacco and the ’80s pattern seemed to crawl.

He rolled on his back again, draping one arm over his eyes.

You shifted under the covers, the springs creaking beneath you. “How are you doing down there, bro?”

“Don't call me that,” he scoffed quickly, clearly far from sleep and you grinned.

You debated it in your mind before deciding to just throw it out there. It didn't have to be weird. You could literally just not make it weird. “You know, there's enough room for the both of us up here.”

Yeah, that wasn't too weird.

Right?

“What?”

Okay, you had made it weird.

The suggestion made Tim tense up, and his mind did not hesitate to picture the scenario. He knew you well enough to know the offer was innocent, but he couldn't help but imagine things far from innocent.

You chewed down on your bottom lip and tried to joke your way out of the position you had just put yourself in. “Easy, Sargeant—not offering to get handsy, just a side of the bed.”

There was another pause and the air was too thick for comfort. You were quickly coming to regret your offer, wishing the mattress would just swallow you whole before Tim could say another word. It had been a long time since you had been this embarrassed.

A moment later you could hear him move, but you didn't dare look.

“Move, then,” he suddenly muttered, and a shiver chilled your spine—he was already on his feet, so close.

You swallowed and made space for him in the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. You felt a heat rise to your cheeks when you realized he had brought the blanket from the floor, your subconscious having irrationally convinced you that you would be sleeping under the same.

Tim's movements were almost mechanical as he lied down, and you found yourself shifting further to the edge of the bed, afraid to accidentally touch him.

God, you wanted to touch him.

If nothing else, then just to see his reaction—find out whether he wanted you as much as you did him.

You stared up at the ceiling, trying to slow your breathing as your whole body tingled. You could hear Tim's breaths as well, measured and controlled like everything else he did and it bothered you for some reason. If only he would just slip up, be a little easier to read.

Tentatively, you tilted your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. His hands were folded across his stomach and his eyes were shut, taut muscles barely moving an inch as if it might actually kill him to shift.

Tim couldn't possibly be comfortable like that.

He looked like a damn robot waiting to be recharged.

While this rigid man lay unmoving beside you, your heart was hammering away in your ribcage and your thighs rubbing together like the act might stand a chance of relieving you in some way.

You returned your gaze to the ceiling, breathed out, and rolled onto your side so that your back was facing him.

The thought of what you might feel if you pushed yourself against him made you inhale sharply.

Stop it, you cursed yourself mentally.

You didn't know how long you were laying there, just staring at the wall, but at some point your eyelids finally grew heavy, sleep slowly but surely, pulling you in.

Tim wasn't as lucky.

His mind wouldn't let him get a second of rest with you lying this close to him. He tried to focus his mind elsewhere but he was all too aware of the proximity.

His mind continuously betrayed him, replaying every moment during the day that had made him feel like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—the way you had practically teased him while doting on yourself in the mirror, the way that damned dress hugged your body in ways that made him feel like a fucking schoolboy with uncontrollable hard-ons, the way you had flirted with the criminal at that meeting and the way it made him feel possessive in a way he had no right to.

Then you had offered to share the bed with him, making it sound so casual like you knew it wasn’t the worst thought you could have had—reigniting the idea of “getting handsy” in his already spinning head.

You had to know what you were doing to him.

He felt like a coiled wire about to snap; like the subtle heat radiating off of your body threatened to burn him alive.

Then you shifted.

A tiny, barely noticeable movement so small he might as well have imagined it.

But then it repeated, this time accompanied by a small sigh.

In your sleep you inch closer to Tim, instinctively seeking a warmth the covers fail to provide you.

At first, it's just your foot grazing his calf, but then you rolled over, closer to him, and your knee bent so that it rested on his thigh as you nestled deeper into the mattress.

Tim tensed and held his breath, his entire body going rigid beneath the sheets.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you continued shifting, moaning as if displeased, and rolled closer, molding your body against his side as if it belonged there.

He knew he should pull away—you're asleep, completely unaware of what you're doing. But it really did feel like your body belongs this close to him. Tim can't make himself move.

But then your hips moved, ever so slightly, and it didn't feel so innocent anymore.

Tim couldn’t think straight, his head spinning, conflicted. He was as still as a statue, stiff and unmoving. You sighed, soft and breathy, content and utterly unguarded against his body, his scent filling your lungs with safety.

Worse is when you murmured his name in your sleep. Though barely a whisper in the quiet room, it slipped through the cracks and under his skin, searing Tim from the inside out.

Before he could stop himself his hand moved down, ghosting over your hip to see if you would stir, if this was real. It was the faintest touch and while you didn't flinch, Tim was spiraling at the feeling of the curve of your body hiding beneath the cover.

His hand tentatively weighed down on your hip, ever so carefully feeling you in his palm. He froze when you shifted again, but you only pressed further into his touch and his breathing stuttered in response.

Another content moan escaped your lips, and Tim's jaw locked while his fingers clenched in reflex, tightening his grip on your hip.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat and your spine went taut as Tim's grasp pulled you from your semi-asleep state.

Your lashes fluttered against your skin and for a moment you were afraid to open them fully, fearing the man whose scent had captivated your dream might not be real.

But Tim was very real and very close, the warmth of his hand seeping through the cover and into your skin, branding you.

It took you a moment to separate imagination from reality, but when it sunk in, you melted completely.

For a moment neither of you spoke, the darkness of the room swallowing everything bar the feel of one another. The creaking bed might as well have been a cloud, peacefully floating about in the dark of the night.

Tim felt captured as your gaze studied his features, your hazy eyes full of something he didn't dare assume, but could only hope.

“Tim—” you breathed quietly, lips quivering with the unspoken, and Tim's heart ached at your voice; a raspiness, a hesitance.

He knew he should pull away, apologize, do something, but he couldn't move or say a thing. Not with the way you looked at him with desire in your eyes and your bottom lip caught under your teeth.

You didn’t pull away, you couldn’t and you didn’t want to, and judging by his hand still holding onto you, he didn’t want you to either.

You weren't entirely sure what was happening, lust and warning bells waging war in your mind, but your primal needs took over and your hips did an experimental grind.

A curse slipped from his lips, low and guttural, and he exhaled your name, a confirmation that he wanted you as much as you did him. Tim's digits dug into your hip, his stormy eyes latched onto yours as he swiftly moved on top of you, bracing himself with a strong arm beside your head—

And fucking hell it was spinning.

His lips were so close, his warm breath ghosting your skin, raising goosebumps. Your chest heaved heavily with each breath but instead of the air entering your lungs it was only him.

Another second passed and it was one wasted not on Tim, so as the next ticked in you closed the space between you completely, pressing your lips against his in a feverish kiss.

Tim's sturdy body molded against yours, his rough palm sliding up to cradle your cheek as he kissed back with an eagerness resembling your own.

All that had pent up in the course of the day, or perhaps for longer, was released then, your bodies syncing to become one in the dark of the night.

Sighing against his warm lips, you allowed your hands to find purchase on his shoulders, feeling around for any inch of revealed skin. Your fingertips slid under the sleeve of his t-shirt, tracing the hard lines of his flexed muscles, and your other hand snaked up to the back of his neck.

You could feel yourself getting more heated by each second, hungrily licking into Tim's mouth as you allowed yourself to be completely engulfed in everything him. 

In turn, Tim worked on removing the blankets separating you so that your bodies were flushed. 

When you felt his frame pin you and his erection press against your sex, you gasped into his mouth, every stolen glance, every flirty comment leading up to this moment, suddenly sparking every nerve ending in your body alive. Feeling his undeniable lust for you made your world tilt on its axis, making this feel overwhelmingly real. And yet, it was somehow not real enough to convince you it was not merely another fever dream. You needed him inside you, to claim you and to fill you up, to leave marks on your skin that would linger in the morning.

You bucked your hips against him, pathetically trying to relieve yourself with some sweet friction.

A low groan vibrated against your wet lips and he held your waist down with a rough grip, squeezing the exposed flesh.

You whined, looking up at him with doe-eyes. “Tim, I wanna feel you.”

“You will,” he promised, ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear making you shudder and writhe.

His stubble tickled the sensitive flesh of your throat and his mouth suctioned the skin, tongue pressing and teeth scraping, quickly contorting the pout on your face into a breathless moan.

Tim's hand brushed past the waistband of your shorts and panties with practised ease, and when two long digits dragged through your wet folds, another breathy moan escaped you.

“Fuck,” Tim cursed as he felt how wet you were for him, watching your reaction with dark eyes as he dipped the fingers into your needy hole. “Tell me—did you have a little dream about me?”

Your jaw went slack, lips parted in a silent gasp, as he slipped two fingers into you, knuckle deep. No sound escaped your throat, but you couldn't exactly stop the wet squelch coming from your wet cunt.

His palm guided your face back to his, stormy blue orbs searching for an audible answer. You hadn't even realized you'd been holding your breath. “S'that why you've soaked yourself? Were you havin’ a little dirty dream ‘bout me?” Tim's fingers sunk back into your sobbing pussy.

“Yes,” you finally exhaled shakily, eyes rolling back as he slid his torturous fingers out and back in, curling them against your gummy walls. “F-fuck—yes!”

“Was it the first time?” he quizzed, clearly pleased with himself and—well, you were very pleased with him, too. He planted a chaste kiss just below your ear. “Hm? Have you dreamed of me before?”

“Ye-yeah,” you hummed, your mind barely grasping the words he spoke, everything a hot haze. “Sometimes… when I touch myself.”

“Good,” Tim murmured, scissoring his fingers into you while leaving feather-light open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

You shuddered, biting down on your wet bottom lip, focusing on the contrast between his delicate touch tracing down your collarbone and his fingers stretching you deliciously. He lifted your shirt, exposing your breasts and you moaned as he sucked on the soft flesh above your perked nipple.

Clamping down on his long fingers, you felt yourself getting closer to the edge. Breathing shallow, eyes rolling to the back of your head, Tim picked up on the clues.

“Let go for me, sweetheart,” he encouraged. “I got you.”

Tim continued fingering you through your orgasm, pumping slowly but purposely as you creamed around his digits. Thighs shaking involuntarily, hands struggling to hold on to anything, you cried out a shaky moan. Riding against Tim's hand, you clawed at his neck as you came down from your high, quivering lips teasing his.

“Attagirl,” praised Tim and softly patted your jaw, prompting you to open and he shoved his fingers down on your tongue. Barely out of your daze, pussy still throbbing, you moaned around his digits, sucking them deeper into your mouth when he pressed his erection against your thigh. “Shit.”

Tim pulled his fingers back out and hungrily licked into your mouth, tasting the honeyed essence on your tongue.

Your hips bucked against his hard cock, greedy for more. Looping your arms around his form, you turned him over and straddled him, the creaking of the mattress emphasizing your needy movements.

Tim inhaled sharply, large hands squeezing your waist, pressing you down against his clothes hard-on.

Steely blue eyes that looked to be brewing a storm watched you intensely, loving how fucked through you looked after just one orgasm. Hair disheveled, lips plump, neck and cheeks flushed.

Grinding down on Tim you sighed, leaning down to kiss him passionately, acrylics poking into his chest where you found purchase. You were still out of breath, but you didn't care—oxygen was no longer what kept you alive, he was.

Moaning your name, Tim felt a wave of heat rush over him, veiling him completely in your scent and desire. He could hardly believe this was happening. One thing was you dreaming, moaning his name and letting him care for you; a whole different kind of reality was you grinding down on him, rubbing your sweet little cunt over his rock-hard, twitching cock.

Tim's jaw clenched when you reached down to free his neglected erection, an inhale getting stuck in his throat as the feeling of your soft fingers wrapping around the base of his shaft.

He was heavy in your hand, certainly bigger than what you would consider average. Thick and veiny girth with an angry head leaking precum. Swiping your thumb across the weeping slit, you brought it between your lips, moaning at the salty taste.

Tim hissed and sighed your name, hips bucking upward, eager for you to sink down on him. He was getting impatient and you could feel it in the way he held you, so you drew his throbbing cock against the soaked fabric of your panties.

His grip tightened in warning before he spoke in a low tone. “Don't be a brat now, sweetheart.”

You choked on the chuckle you emitted when you pushed your panties to the side and lined him up. Pushing the angry head between your slick folds, forcing an intrusion— “F-fuck, Tim,” you cried out, sinking down on him.

The stretch was intense, a sharp pain that shot into your abdomen, but you tried to ground yourself in the moment, focusing on where you were—on an undercover mission with a colleague, a friend, a man you had suppressed your attraction to for all too long.

You inhaled deeply, your hands falling to where his were placed on your hips, guiding them up to your breasts as he allowed you to accommodate him. Doing an experimental squeeze around him, he cursed and you began moving.

“You're so big,” you shuddered, leaning forward so that your bodies were flush, grounding you, cupping your hand against his clean-shaven jaw. “Feel so full of you, Tim.”

Sinking back down on him, you began to feel the pleasure overpowering the pain, the stinging stretch becoming absolutely delicious as you felt how your walls hugged him, clinging onto him. A wanton moan rasped from your throat as you sunk back down on him, reveling in how your cunt molded to fit around his thick girth.

Picking up a comfortable rhythm that had him rubbing against all the right spots, you met his gaze, salacious eyes staring back at you through layers of desire.

“You're so beautiful like this,” he admitted coarsely, breaths heavy and jaw slack. “Ridin’ me like you were made for me—fuck… Sweetest girl, you feel so good around my cock.”

His praise settled in your chest, pulling at your heart's strings. Clashing your lips against his, you picked up your speed and Tim's hands squeezed at the soft flesh of your asscheeks, resting there, helping you keep the rhythm steady.

Your tits bouncing against his chest, ass slamming down on his thighs, and your tight, juicy pussy sucking him in—Tim prayed to God this was not the last time you would ride him.

The sexiest moan you had ever heard reverberated from Tim's chest, the sight of the strings of your slick attaching to his pelvis as you bounced bringing something resembling primal instincts out of him. A ring of your milky cum circled his engorged shaft like a pearl bracelet, hugging his base and making a complete mess on him.

“Shit, baby—I won't last long f’you keep going like that,” Tim rasped, but made no sign to stop you. A breathy, self-satisfied grin escaped you but it contorted into a moan when Tim's thumb began drawing tight circles on your bundle of nerves. He pulled you down by your hair, fingertips rough yet soothing against your scalp. “S'that what you want? Hm? Wanna milk me for all I'm worth, yeah—go ahead, sweetheart. I'll fill you up,” he coaxed.

The pressure Tim applied to your throbbing clit made you whimper pathetically, though it was barely audible over the obscene moans and slapping sounds of wet, sweaty skin-on-skin contact.

The muscles in your thighs were burning from the strain but you didn't dare stop riding him, needing him to fulfill his promise of filling you up with his seed.

Tim showered you with praise, spurring you on as he noticed how your moans crescendoed. His thumb rigorously rolled against your clit, hips bucking up and fucking into you as he chased his own orgasm. “That's it, baby—come around my cock.”

And the brink was no further away than that.

You came, pussy clamping down on his rock-hard cock, pulsing walls practically massaging Tim's thick shaft.

You desperately tried not to get sloppy, wanting him to fill you, but you were a moaning, writhing mess, and your movements stuttered.

Tim wasn't one to break a promise though, and he fucked you through your orgasm, cock relentlessly fucking into your crying pussy. Incoherent pleas for him to fill you with his cum tumbled from your lips, and he didn't leave you begging for long.

With a final thrust, hot spurts of his seed painted your velvety walls, Tim's swollen cock pulsing against your insides.

Breath heavy, panting, you slowly slid off him, limply falling on his side, barely grounded as the high wore off. Tim's large hands supported you, one cradling your cheek, thumb caressing the warm skin, while the other dragged between your legs as he whispered reverent praises.

“You did good, sweetheart.”

Your heart fluttered and you whimpered when he scooped his leaking cum from your pussy and made an effort to push it back in. Lacking the strength to do more, you merely nuzzled your head deeper into his embrace, and he pulled you closer. “Does that mean we can do this again?” you asked, somewhat sheepish.

Tim's chest rumbled with a chuckle and he placed a kiss on the crown of your head. “Of course, but you have to let me take you out on a date once we get back.”

The butterflies in your stomach began flapping their wings harder. “Deal,” you agreed with a tired smile and kissed his collarbone.

Coffee Routine.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

A/N: Thank you so much for the support! I honestly didn’t expect so many of you guys to love this series. Definitely gave me more motivation to write! 🥹

Summary: Your everyday routine consisted of many things—one of them being bringing Tim coffee right before roll call without fail. However, one morning, Tim notices something awfully wrong. You didn’t bring him coffee today.

The first time it happened, Tim barely even looked at you.

You strolled into roll call, dropped a coffee onto his desk without ceremony, and took your seat like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t just handed him a large black coffee from his usual spot, perfectly made.

Tim blinked at it. Then at you.

You didn’t even glance up, already flipping through your notes.

Alright. Maybe it was a coincidence.

But then it happened again. And again. And again.

Every morning, like clockwork. Before his first cup of the day, before he even had a chance to be irritated at something stupid, you were there, sliding the cup over without so much as a greeting.

Like it was routine. Like you just knew.

And Tim—being Tim—did what he always did when confronted with something odd. He ignored it.

For weeks.

But then, one morning, he got to work a little later than usual, and when he walked into the briefing room—no coffee in hand—he felt it immediately.

Something was missing.

He glanced around. You were at your desk, looking half dead, chin resting on your palm as you aimlessly scrolled through a report.

And on the table that he sits at every morning?

Nothing.

No cup waiting for him. No routine exchange. Just an empty desk and a sluggish-looking rookie who was barely upright in her chair.

Tim frowned. “Where’s my coffee, kid?”

You blinked up at him, eyes unfocused, like it took you a second to register the question. “Huh?”

“My coffee,” he repeated, slower this time. “The one you hand me every morning like some kind of overgrown intern.”

“Oh.” You yawned, rubbing a hand over your face, expression hazy. “Didn’t get one.”

Tim squinted, like it was a riddle that he (for once) didn’t have the brains to decipher. “You didn’t get one?”

You shrugged, barely lifting your shoulders. “Forgot.”

Forgot.

That was new.

You had managed to grab coffee every single shift for the past three weeks, unprompted, like some weird unspoken pact. You weren’t exactly a creature of habit—more impulsive, more instinct-driven—but somehow, this had become routine. Reliable. And now, suddenly, you just… forgot?

Tim crossed his arms, taking in the mess of you. Your uniform was a little more wrinkled than usual, your posture slumped. Dark circles weighed under your eyes, and you had that glassy, half-there look of someone running on fumes.

It clicked.

“You overslept.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto your folded arms. “Why do you say that like it’s a crime?”

Tim huffed, unimpressed. “Because for you, it kind of is. What happened? Alarm not go off?”

“Woke up an hour late,” you mumbled, voice muffled against your sleeve. “Didn’t have time to stop.”

Tim stared at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked right back out of the briefing room.

You barely even noticed. Probably too half-asleep to care.

Five minutes later, when he returned, he dropped a cup onto your desk—your usual order, still warm.

Your head lifted slowly. You stared at it. Then up at him.

Tim just arched a brow. “What?”

You squinted. “Did you… just get me coffee?”

He scoffed. “Yeah. It’s called returning the favour.” He muttered, before clearing his throat to restore his imagine, “—and I can’t have a rookie who’s sloppy just because they didn’t have their morning coffee. Don’t overthink it.”

You blinked again, as if trying to make sure this was real. Then, with an exaggerated sniffle, you clutched the cup to your chest. “I take back every bad thing I’ve ever said about you.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Drink your damn coffee, kid.”

And just like that, the routine was set back into place.