𝓼𝓾𝓿𝓿𝓲𝓮

001. 𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼,

• 𝒷𝓁𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒 — thomas shelby x fem!wife!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, oneshot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — the wife of the birmingham's most feared gangster, rewards him for his hard work, and he gladly accepts it with open arms.

• 𝓉𝒶𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 — thomas shelby x fem!assassin!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, series

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — an infamous female assassin has been paid an enormous amount of money by an italian to assassinate a fearful gangster, however, what once she thought would be simple, turned out to become a hectic mess once she realises she's fell head over heels for her target.

002. 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓮.

• 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 — tim bradford x footballer/soccerplayer!fem!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 —

redone it • 𝓌𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑔𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 — tim bradford x fem!agent!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — fbi agent reader

• 𝒷𝓇𝒶𝒹𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒹’𝓈 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉 P3 — tim bradford x fem!wife!uc!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, series

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — a year ago today, tim bradford, a stoic, hard faced cop, has a wife that went missing on a dangerous undercover mission. The officer reunites with her wife that went MIA. The officer reunites with her wife that went MIA, but the third time they meet, he vows that he is not letting you go.

• 𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓀𝓈 — tim bradford x fem!detective!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, series

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — ghosting the LAPD and beyond due to an incident that effected you deeply, they track you down and get called back, however, now from an agent that dealt with UC work and severe issues, to a regular police officer.

• 𝒿𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉 — seargent!reader's former t.o!tim bradford x higher up solo detective!tim's former rookie!fem!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, one shot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — reader flirts her way through her case, however the seargent does not take this lightly.

003. 𝓵𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓼 (𝓮𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝔀𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓷’𝓼 𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓯𝓸𝓸𝓽𝓫𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓮𝓪𝓶) —

TEEN.

• 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝑒 — lionesses x teen!fem!reader, awfc x teen!fem!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic, series

↳ 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝒶𝓁 — part ? of the series 'miss ACE'

→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic,

→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — during your first international debut, you score for your country, shocking the public with your ability, dispite your young age.

↳ 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝑒 — insta post ver.

↳ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒷𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓇 — headcannons

→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic, club+country,

→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — teen!reader hates ice baths, which is one of the most crucial parts of being a professional footballer, so in response of her kicking off, her team players force her in.

• 𝓈𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝓅 — lionesses x teen!reader,

→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic, text imagine

→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — during the night, you decide to sneak out of camp, promising yourself that you’d be back before sunrise but end up staying out later than planned. your phone starts blowing up with concerned athletes.

PLAYERS.

003–1. 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓱 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷

• 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓉 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒶𝒹𝒶𝓇 2 — leah williamson x model/influencer!reader

→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, headcannons,

→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — and leah are in a relationship, however due personal issues and the public, you and leah are forced to keep it secret.

004. 𝓪𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝔀𝓯𝓬

TEEN.

• 𝒶𝓇𝓈𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓁’𝓈 𝓅𝓊𝓅 — arsenalwfc x teen!fem!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 —

• 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝑒 — lionesses x teen!fem!reader, awfc x teen!fem!reader,

↳ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒷𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓇 — headcannons

→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic, club+country,

→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — teen!reader hates ice baths, which is one of the most crucial parts of being a professional footballer, so in response of her kicking off, her team players force her in.

PLAYERS.

004–1. 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓱 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷

005. 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓵

• 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓅𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈 — steve rogers x fem!shieldagent!avenger!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — seventy years later, the ww2 soldier opens his eyes, just to be met with beauty that sticks to his side throughout the battle of new york.

006. 𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮

• 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 — eddie diaz x celeb!fem!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, oneshot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — responding to a call, a billboard catches the attention of a certain mexican paramedic who begins to feel a sense of need towards it.

• 𝒸𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 — evan buckley x fem!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — you and your firefighter boyfriend are looking after his niece as her parents are out of town, but the young girl won’t get to sleep if she doesn’t get what she demands for.

007. 𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓴𝓼

• 𝑜𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓀𝑜𝑜𝓀 — outer banks x fem!outsider!kook!reader, jj maybank x fem!outsider!kook!reader

↳ 𝓂𝒾𝒹𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒹𝑒𝒷𝓊𝓉 — jj maybank x fem!outsider!kook!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — angst,fluff 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — during the annual midsummers, a new girl is spotted, a new outsider kook girl, it becomes the talk of the night, attracting both sides of the cut.

008. 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓲𝓽𝓽

• 𝓈𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒶 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒 — the pitt x fem!doctor!reader, jack abbot x fem!doctor!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — dr. abbot loves to tease his fave senior resident!

• 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓎 — the pitt x fem!doctor!reader, michael robinavitch x fem!doctor!reader (platonic), dana evans x fem!doctor!reader (platonic), dana evans x michael robinavitch (platonic),

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — angst, fluff 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — dr. robby always looks after his residences, whilst dana mother’s the whole of the er, but what happens when they find out their unofficial work child gets abused at home?

Later, back at the station, the team gathered around the security footage. All of the men had ski masks on, obscuring their faces, except for one. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, revealing a forearm that immediately caught your attention. While Grey, Bradford, and Lopez debated theories on how to identify the group, you found yourself staring at that arm. The tattoo etched there was unmistakably familiar.

You moved to the computer, pausing the footage and scrolling frame by frame until you had the clearest view. There it was, the tattoo, unobstructed, the design obvious.

Sergeant Grey noticed what you were doing mid-rant. “What are you doing?” he barked, eyes narrowing.

“Could someone zoom in on just the arm and enhance the image? I want a clearer look at that tattoo,” you said.

Grey’s face lit up with curiosity, and he shouted for someone to do exactly that. “Now, what exactly is the importance of this tattoo?”

You feel silly having this many eyes on you, especially since most were your superiors, but you had to explain your hunch, whether they believed you or not. During my time in the army, I saw a specific tattoo a lot. It belongs to a group that calls itself The Blooded Order. They weren’t official, just a club that spread around the ranks. From what I heard, they believed soldiers were above civilians and that rules and regulations shouldn’t apply to them. No one treated them as a real threat; they were just a bunch of guys puffing themselves up, trying to sound tougher than they were. But they used this symbol to recognize each other. A dagger inside a circle, with a single drop of blood at the tip. And I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what’s on that man’s arm.”

Grey crossed his arms, unconvinced. “And how can you be so sure? Your explanation sounds a lot like a theory. I don’t like theories.”

You don't know how to respond to that; you can only stare back and hope he trusts you.

///

Hours later, after running the enhanced image through the military database, the analysts confirmed it: several former members of The Blooded Order had relocated to Los Angeles. Many, disillusioned with following orders, had not reenlisted and instead reconnected on the outside. One name immediately stood out: Staff Sergeant Mark Kellan.

Records showed that just months ago, Kellan purchased an old warehouse in Vernon through a shell company. Since then, multiple sightings of Blooded Order members have been reported entering and leaving the property.

Now, a group of officers, including you, Bradford, Lopez, and Bradley, surround a table while Sergeant Grey spreads the aerial photos across the table, the warehouse circled in red. “Alright. We’ve got a warehouse in Vernon, owned by one of their own. That means they feel safe there. That’s our advantage.”

From there, a plan formed: stakeout first, gather intelligence, then a raid once there was proof that this was the group responsible for the bank robbery. Every detail counted. Every move had to be precise.

///

You were clearly stressing about having to stay later, and Tim could not for the life of him understand. He knows that when you’re on the clock, you don’t let anything distract you; in fact, he recalls a moment when you ridiculed him for allowing his personal life to distract him. And especially now, when you practically handed the lead to them. So why were you so upset about staying a couple of extra hours? Sick of watching you pace back and forth while doing something on your phone, Tim finally starts towards you.

“I know for a fact that you knew this was a part of the job, Boot, so why the hell aren't you jumping at the opportunity to help with this case?” Okay, maybe he should have been nicer about that, but Tim was getting sick of your dismissal of the job.

You look up from your phone, though you don’t seem to be pleased to be doing so, and give him the dumbest excuse he’s heard in a while. “My dog isn’t used to me being out this late.”

“Right, and why haven’t I heard about this dog before?” Seriously, if this is so important, Tim would have expected to at least have heard a name. Sure, you don’t talk about your personal life much, but most of his rookies loved to ramble about their pets above anything else.

“I didn’t think it was relevant to the job. But yes, I have a dog. She gets anxious if I get home even ten minutes later than usual.” You look increasingly annoyed the longer you spend talking to Tim. He’s seen your eyes glance back towards your phone twice already. “I’m trying to get in contact with my neighbor to check on her, but she’s refusing to answer.”

Tim finds your choice of contact interesting, especially because it’s taking way too long, and you both have a case to get back to. He decided to tell you exactly that, “Why, your neighbor, don’t you have a friend you can call?”

The look you give Tim confuses him more, but he wouldn’t have been prepared for what you were about to say, “I don’t exactly have friends, Glove. Phoebe takes up my entire social life. Which is another reason why I need to get in contact with my neighbor.”

As you try to get back to your phone, Tim can’t help but want to ask more. He might have if it weren’t for one of the detectives calling for him.

///

Later, the two of you were on lookout, parked in a nondescript vehicle across the street from the warehouse. Both of your eyes were fixed on the building, tense yet alert. Tim remembers your previous conversation and, surprisingly, decides to break the silence.

“You said your dog is your whole social life.”

That was it. Apparently, it was your job to fill in the blanks and answer him.

“She’s my whole world.” You hope that would be enough to satisfy Tim’s curiosity. You’re not in the mood to peel yourself open more than necessary.

Apparently, that wasn’t enough. “So no friends, but what about your family? Any siblings?”

You turn your head toward him, frowning. You don’t know why he’s suddenly digging into your life, and you can tell he doesn’t really know either.

“No siblings,” you say simply.

“And your parents?” he asks, even though he already knows the broad strokes.

You sigh through your nose. “Not people I rely on. Let’s leave it at that.”

He absorbs that, nodding once. There’s no push. No pity. Just quiet understanding. And that somehow makes the air feel heavier.

A beat passes before he asks, “So… Phoebe? That was the best name you could come up with?”

You huff out a laugh despite everything. “I love the show ‘Friends.’ And I found her in a cardboard box during a binge-watch, so yeah. Phoebe.”

Tim lets out a small scoff that almost—almost—sounds like amusement.

“That tracks,” he mutters.

You glance at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, gripping the wheel a little lighter than before, “I can see it. You being a Phoebe person.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and return your attention to the warehouse.

///

Time crawled.

The warehouse stayed dark, still, quiet, and you found yourself checking the time every few minutes. You hated staying out this late, hated the vague anxiety blooming in your chest over Phoebe, over nothing, over everything.

Tim notices. Of course he does.

He shifts in the driver’s seat, glancing over at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“You know,” he says finally, voice low, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

You keep your eyes on the warehouse. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not.” He pauses. Then—  “Why didn’t you tell me you served?”

Your hand freezes halfway to the binoculars.

You swallow. “It never came up.”

“Came up today,” he counters.

You scowl lightly. “Because you needed the context to trust me on the tattoo.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Tim shifts to face you fully. He whispers your name, trying to get you to understand, “I don’t take the military lightly. You know that.”

You do. Everyone does. Tim Bradford, Army vet, by-the-book, iron backbone of Mid-Wilshire.

He drags a hand over his jaw. “You served four years in intel. Graduated top of your class at the academy. And you said nothing.”

Your throat tightens, but you keep your tone even. “Why does it matter?”

Something flashes across his expression—offense? disbelief? hurt? You can’t quite read it.

“It matters,” he says slowly, “because that’s a part of who you are. A big part. And I’m your TO. I should know what the hell you’ve been through.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

He huffs, frustrated. “Because it shapes the way you work. The way you think. Today, you recognized a paramilitary tattoo before anyone else. You knew exactly what it meant. You knew how those guys operate. That’s not nothing.”

You grip your hands together to keep them still. You stare at him, knowing he deserves something—anything—but unsure how to say it.

So you settle for, “I didn’t tell you because people make assumptions.”

He raises a brow. “Like what?”

“That I’m rigid. Or cocky. Or traumatized. Or stuck in old habits. Or that I think I’m better than civilians.” Your voice grows quieter. “Or that I have something to prove.”

Tim opens his mouth, then stops. Because he knows he has made assumptions.

You look back toward the warehouse. “I didn’t want to be judged before I even started this job.”

For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. Then, “…I wouldn’t have judged you.”

You give him a look.

He sighs. “Okay, I might have judged you. A little. At first. But not now.” He nods, firm. “Not after seeing how you work.”

You don’t respond.

He watches you for a long moment.

Your chest goes tight. You open your mouth, then close it. The words stick to the roof of your tongue.

That’s when you see it. 

The side door of the warehouse creaks open, a man stepping into the fading light. Broad shoulders, close-cropped military fade. Most importantly, half hidden beneath a rolled sleeve, you saw the dagger.

Your blood runs cold.

“Tim.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it slices through the silence.

He follows your line of sight, eyes narrowing. “Is that—?”

“Kellan,” you breathe. “Staff Sergeant Mark Kellan.”

“Are you sure?” Despite his questioning, Tim reaches for the radio.

“No doubt.”

Kellan scans the alley with practiced, predatory precision—checking angles, counting exits, and tracking shadows. He knows you’re watching him, and he’s not nervous. He’s not running.

No, he’s conducting security.

“He’s confident. Too confident.” You glance towards Tim, hoping he saw what you did.

With a quick nod, Timm brings the radio up to his mouth. “7-Adam-19, we have visual on Mark Kellan. confirmed Blooded Order leadership. Requesting immediate units for containment.”

Lopez comes on instantly. “Copy. We’re two blocks out. Hold position.”

But Kellan isn’t alone. Two more men file out behind him, carrying duffel bags—heavy, sagging with the weight of something solid. You don’t need X-ray vision to know exactly what’s inside. Weapons. Gear. Possibly explosives.

Tim tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “They’re gearing up for something.”

Your pulse spikes. “We can’t wait. If they leave—”

“We’re not letting them leave.” Tim’s already reaching for the gearshift.

Before he can move, the radio crackles again.

“7-Adam-15, visual confirmation from the rear alley. Multiple subjects are armed. SWAT is en route.”

You and Tim exchange a look, a silent agreement forged through instinct rather than rank.

This is happening now.

Tim breathes out once, steadying himself. “Boot, call it.”

You blink, momentarily stunned. “Me?”

“You recognized the symbol. You identified Kellan. You got us here.” His eyes are sharp and clear. “You call it.”

Your throat tightens, but you nod and raise the radio.

“All units, suspects are exiting the warehouse with gear bags. Possible weapons. Move in now. Repeat: move in.”

Every officer within range responds at once, sirens in the distance, flashes of movement around the perimeter. The tightening circle of law enforcement is closing in.

Kellan hears it. His head snapped toward the street.

“Go!” Tim shouts, already out of the car.

You’re with him, boots slamming against cracked pavement, rounding the side of the warehouse just as Kellan shoves his men forward.

“Police! Stop!”

Instead of stopping, Kellan draws.

Tim fires the first warning shot. Lopez’s voice roars from behind, “DROP IT!” Max flanks wide left. You move right. Instinctually, tactically, the soldier in you taking over.

Kellan’s men scatter, splitting into a formation you remembered.

“Bradford, go left!” You call without thinking. “Lopez, with me—cut right! Max, take the rear!”

Nobody questions your orders. Tim doesn’t even hesitate.

You break for the loading dock just as one suspect swings a rifle upward. You slam into him before he fully sights you, sending both of you crashing into a stack of crates.

He swings wildly, combat-trained, but telegraphed. You duck, pivot, and pin his arm, wrenching the weapon free.

Tim tackles another. Lopez cuffs a third. Max covers the front entrance.

But Kellan— Kellan is escaping through a side door.

“Tim!” You shout, already sprinting.

He sees him. He sees you gaining on him. And you both take off after Kellan, pounding down the dim hallway toward the back exit.

Kellan throws open the final door, escaping.

Only to freeze as six SWAT rifles snap up in unison.

He’s caught.

Tim skids to a stop behind him, weapon raised. You stop beside Tim, chest heaving, adrenaline burning through your veins.

Kellan finally drops his gun.

His eyes land on you last. He smiles. A slow, cold, knowing smile.

“Well,” he says, voice calm as a heartbeat. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

Tim looks at you sharply, but you don’t break eye contact with Kellan.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me neither.”

SWAT moves in, cuffing him, dragging him away.

Tim turns to you with a look you’ve never seen before. Half shock, half worry, half something else entirely.

“Boot…” His voice is low. “…what the hell was that?”

Later, back at the station, the team gathered around the security footage. All of the men had ski masks on, obscuring their faces, except for one. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, revealing a forearm that immediately caught your attention. While Grey, Bradford, and Lopez debated theories on how to identify the group, you found yourself staring at that arm. The tattoo etched there was unmistakably familiar.

You moved to the computer, pausing the footage and scrolling frame by frame until you had the clearest view. There it was, the tattoo, unobstructed, the design obvious.

Sergeant Grey noticed what you were doing mid-rant. “What are you doing?” he barked, eyes narrowing.

“Could someone zoom in on just the arm and enhance the image? I want a clearer look at that tattoo,” you said.

Grey’s face lit up with curiosity, and he shouted for someone to do exactly that. “Now, what exactly is the importance of this tattoo?”

You feel silly having this many eyes on you, especially since most were your superiors, but you had to explain your hunch, whether they believed you or not. During my time in the army, I saw a specific tattoo a lot. It belongs to a group that calls itself The Blooded Order. They weren’t official, just a club that spread around the ranks. From what I heard, they believed soldiers were above civilians and that rules and regulations shouldn’t apply to them. No one treated them as a real threat; they were just a bunch of guys puffing themselves up, trying to sound tougher than they were. But they used this symbol to recognize each other. A dagger inside a circle, with a single drop of blood at the tip. And I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what’s on that man’s arm.”

Grey crossed his arms, unconvinced. “And how can you be so sure? Your explanation sounds a lot like a theory. I don’t like theories.”

You don't know how to respond to that; you can only stare back and hope he trusts you.

///

Hours later, after running the enhanced image through the military database, the analysts confirmed it: several former members of The Blooded Order had relocated to Los Angeles. Many, disillusioned with following orders, had not reenlisted and instead reconnected on the outside. One name immediately stood out: Staff Sergeant Mark Kellan.

Records showed that just months ago, Kellan purchased an old warehouse in Vernon through a shell company. Since then, multiple sightings of Blooded Order members have been reported entering and leaving the property.

Now, a group of officers, including you, Bradford, Lopez, and Bradley, surround a table while Sergeant Grey spreads the aerial photos across the table, the warehouse circled in red. “Alright. We’ve got a warehouse in Vernon, owned by one of their own. That means they feel safe there. That’s our advantage.”

From there, a plan formed: stakeout first, gather intelligence, then a raid once there was proof that this was the group responsible for the bank robbery. Every detail counted. Every move had to be precise.

///

You were clearly stressing about having to stay later, and Tim could not for the life of him understand. He knows that when you’re on the clock, you don’t let anything distract you; in fact, he recalls a moment when you ridiculed him for allowing his personal life to distract him. And especially now, when you practically handed the lead to them. So why were you so upset about staying a couple of extra hours? Sick of watching you pace back and forth while doing something on your phone, Tim finally starts towards you.

“I know for a fact that you knew this was a part of the job, Boot, so why the hell aren't you jumping at the opportunity to help with this case?” Okay, maybe he should have been nicer about that, but Tim was getting sick of your dismissal of the job.

You look up from your phone, though you don’t seem to be pleased to be doing so, and give him the dumbest excuse he’s heard in a while. “My dog isn’t used to me being out this late.”

“Right, and why haven’t I heard about this dog before?” Seriously, if this is so important, Tim would have expected to at least have heard a name. Sure, you don’t talk about your personal life much, but most of his rookies loved to ramble about their pets above anything else.

“I didn’t think it was relevant to the job. But yes, I have a dog. She gets anxious if I get home even ten minutes later than usual.” You look increasingly annoyed the longer you spend talking to Tim. He’s seen your eyes glance back towards your phone twice already. “I’m trying to get in contact with my neighbor to check on her, but she’s refusing to answer.”

Tim finds your choice of contact interesting, especially because it’s taking way too long, and you both have a case to get back to. He decided to tell you exactly that, “Why, your neighbor, don’t you have a friend you can call?”

The look you give Tim confuses him more, but he wouldn’t have been prepared for what you were about to say, “I don’t exactly have friends, Glove. Phoebe takes up my entire social life. Which is another reason why I need to get in contact with my neighbor.”

As you try to get back to your phone, Tim can’t help but want to ask more. He might have if it weren’t for one of the detectives calling for him.

///

Later, the two of you were on lookout, parked in a nondescript vehicle across the street from the warehouse. Both of your eyes were fixed on the building, tense yet alert. Tim remembers your previous conversation and, surprisingly, decides to break the silence.

“You said your dog is your whole social life.”

That was it. Apparently, it was your job to fill in the blanks and answer him.

“She’s my whole world.” You hope that would be enough to satisfy Tim’s curiosity. You’re not in the mood to peel yourself open more than necessary.

Apparently, that wasn’t enough. “So no friends, but what about your family? Any siblings?”

You turn your head toward him, frowning. You don’t know why he’s suddenly digging into your life, and you can tell he doesn’t really know either.

“No siblings,” you say simply.

“And your parents?” he asks, even though he already knows the broad strokes.

You sigh through your nose. “Not people I rely on. Let’s leave it at that.”

He absorbs that, nodding once. There’s no push. No pity. Just quiet understanding. And that somehow makes the air feel heavier.

A beat passes before he asks, “So… Phoebe? That was the best name you could come up with?”

You huff out a laugh despite everything. “I love the show ‘Friends.’ And I found her in a cardboard box during a binge-watch, so yeah. Phoebe.”

Tim lets out a small scoff that almost—almost—sounds like amusement.

“That tracks,” he mutters.

You glance at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, gripping the wheel a little lighter than before, “I can see it. You being a Phoebe person.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and return your attention to the warehouse.

///

Time crawled.

The warehouse stayed dark, still, quiet, and you found yourself checking the time every few minutes. You hated staying out this late, hated the vague anxiety blooming in your chest over Phoebe, over nothing, over everything.

Tim notices. Of course he does.

He shifts in the driver’s seat, glancing over at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“You know,” he says finally, voice low, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

You keep your eyes on the warehouse. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not.” He pauses. Then—  “Why didn’t you tell me you served?”

Your hand freezes halfway to the binoculars.

You swallow. “It never came up.”

“Came up today,” he counters.

You scowl lightly. “Because you needed the context to trust me on the tattoo.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Tim shifts to face you fully. He whispers your name, trying to get you to understand, “I don’t take the military lightly. You know that.”

You do. Everyone does. Tim Bradford, Army vet, by-the-book, iron backbone of Mid-Wilshire.

He drags a hand over his jaw. “You served four years in intel. Graduated top of your class at the academy. And you said nothing.”

Your throat tightens, but you keep your tone even. “Why does it matter?”

Something flashes across his expression—offense? disbelief? hurt? You can’t quite read it.

“It matters,” he says slowly, “because that’s a part of who you are. A big part. And I’m your TO. I should know what the hell you’ve been through.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

He huffs, frustrated. “Because it shapes the way you work. The way you think. Today, you recognized a paramilitary tattoo before anyone else. You knew exactly what it meant. You knew how those guys operate. That’s not nothing.”

You grip your hands together to keep them still. You stare at him, knowing he deserves something—anything—but unsure how to say it.

So you settle for, “I didn’t tell you because people make assumptions.”

He raises a brow. “Like what?”

“That I’m rigid. Or cocky. Or traumatized. Or stuck in old habits. Or that I think I’m better than civilians.” Your voice grows quieter. “Or that I have something to prove.”

Tim opens his mouth, then stops. Because he knows he has made assumptions.

You look back toward the warehouse. “I didn’t want to be judged before I even started this job.”

For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. Then, “…I wouldn’t have judged you.”

You give him a look.

He sighs. “Okay, I might have judged you. A little. At first. But not now.” He nods, firm. “Not after seeing how you work.”

You don’t respond.

He watches you for a long moment.

Your chest goes tight. You open your mouth, then close it. The words stick to the roof of your tongue.

That’s when you see it. 

The side door of the warehouse creaks open, a man stepping into the fading light. Broad shoulders, close-cropped military fade. Most importantly, half hidden beneath a rolled sleeve, you saw the dagger.

Your blood runs cold.

“Tim.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it slices through the silence.

He follows your line of sight, eyes narrowing. “Is that—?”

“Kellan,” you breathe. “Staff Sergeant Mark Kellan.”

“Are you sure?” Despite his questioning, Tim reaches for the radio.

“No doubt.”

Kellan scans the alley with practiced, predatory precision—checking angles, counting exits, and tracking shadows. He knows you’re watching him, and he’s not nervous. He’s not running.

No, he’s conducting security.

“He’s confident. Too confident.” You glance towards Tim, hoping he saw what you did.

With a quick nod, Timm brings the radio up to his mouth. “7-Adam-19, we have visual on Mark Kellan. confirmed Blooded Order leadership. Requesting immediate units for containment.”

Lopez comes on instantly. “Copy. We’re two blocks out. Hold position.”

But Kellan isn’t alone. Two more men file out behind him, carrying duffel bags—heavy, sagging with the weight of something solid. You don’t need X-ray vision to know exactly what’s inside. Weapons. Gear. Possibly explosives.

Tim tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “They’re gearing up for something.”

Your pulse spikes. “We can’t wait. If they leave—”

“We’re not letting them leave.” Tim’s already reaching for the gearshift.

Before he can move, the radio crackles again.

“7-Adam-15, visual confirmation from the rear alley. Multiple subjects are armed. SWAT is en route.”

You and Tim exchange a look, a silent agreement forged through instinct rather than rank.

This is happening now.

Tim breathes out once, steadying himself. “Boot, call it.”

You blink, momentarily stunned. “Me?”

“You recognized the symbol. You identified Kellan. You got us here.” His eyes are sharp and clear. “You call it.”

Your throat tightens, but you nod and raise the radio.

“All units, suspects are exiting the warehouse with gear bags. Possible weapons. Move in now. Repeat: move in.”

Every officer within range responds at once, sirens in the distance, flashes of movement around the perimeter. The tightening circle of law enforcement is closing in.

Kellan hears it. His head snapped toward the street.

“Go!” Tim shouts, already out of the car.

You’re with him, boots slamming against cracked pavement, rounding the side of the warehouse just as Kellan shoves his men forward.

“Police! Stop!”

Instead of stopping, Kellan draws.

Tim fires the first warning shot. Lopez’s voice roars from behind, “DROP IT!” Max flanks wide left. You move right. Instinctually, tactically, the soldier in you taking over.

Kellan’s men scatter, splitting into a formation you remembered.

“Bradford, go left!” You call without thinking. “Lopez, with me—cut right! Max, take the rear!”

Nobody questions your orders. Tim doesn’t even hesitate.

You break for the loading dock just as one suspect swings a rifle upward. You slam into him before he fully sights you, sending both of you crashing into a stack of crates.

He swings wildly, combat-trained, but telegraphed. You duck, pivot, and pin his arm, wrenching the weapon free.

Tim tackles another. Lopez cuffs a third. Max covers the front entrance.

But Kellan— Kellan is escaping through a side door.

“Tim!” You shout, already sprinting.

He sees him. He sees you gaining on him. And you both take off after Kellan, pounding down the dim hallway toward the back exit.

Kellan throws open the final door, escaping.

Only to freeze as six SWAT rifles snap up in unison.

He’s caught.

Tim skids to a stop behind him, weapon raised. You stop beside Tim, chest heaving, adrenaline burning through your veins.

Kellan finally drops his gun.

His eyes land on you last. He smiles. A slow, cold, knowing smile.

“Well,” he says, voice calm as a heartbeat. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

Tim looks at you sharply, but you don’t break eye contact with Kellan.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me neither.”

SWAT moves in, cuffing him, dragging him away.

Tim turns to you with a look you’ve never seen before. Half shock, half worry, half something else entirely.

“Boot…” His voice is low. “…what the hell was that?”

“How do I look?”

Glancing up from your desk, you narrow your eyes and shrug. “Same as always. Should I be noticing something?”

“You should be telling me I look great in this new suit.”

Deadpan, you offer, “You look great in that new suit.”

Garza rolls his eyes and buttons his blazer, then finishes his journey to your desk. “We’ve got new intel. You with us?”

“Not if it’s another trip to a commune,” you answer, leaning back in your chair. “What’s the intel?”

“Bomb threats throughout Los Angeles, mostly centered in Mid-Wilshire,” he explains. “I know you have history-”

“I’m in,” you interrupt. “What’s the plan?”

“Walk with me,” Garza encourages. As you exit the bullpen in a nondescript field office, he says, “LAPD is stretched thin with the threats, so we’re assisting with unsub identification and apprehension.”

“How?” you question.

“However we have to.”

You nod once, lifting your badge to show the security guard at the entrance to the superiors’ offices. They’re secluded in the building, but Garza calls you over often, so the guard doesn’t even seem to notice how you pat your pockets. The stress of a high-risk, high-profile case is already setting in.

“Bottom cabinet,” Garza murmurs, pointing without turning.

There’s a clear plastic shoebox in the cabinet filled with various types and flavors of gum. You find a pack you haven’t had in a while and slip it into your pocket with a soft expression of gratitude.

“We’re here for you,” Garza reminds you. “Say the word at any time, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” you agree. “Tell me more about the LAPD’s op?”

Garza watches you for a moment, then turns his laptop to show you a map covered in blue dots. “Mid-Wilshire is running point,” he begins.

Driving surface streets in Los Angeles is like asking to see innumerable gas stations and massive ads at every corner. Garza spares glances at you from the passenger seat as you gaze at the passing blurs. The gum in your mouth has long since lost its flavor, yet you continue chewing as if your life depends on it.

“I’m fine,” you insist.

“Until your jaw locks up,” he mumbles. “Look-”

“I’m looking at a city that might be the target of the next major terrorist attack,” you snap. Immediately, you close your eyes and sigh around your gum. “Sorry.”

“I get it, kid. Don’t try to do it alone.”

Huffing a laugh, you argue, “Easier said than done.”

Garza nods, then asks, “Is it better to let yourself down or know that people still care?”

“It’s better to not be stressed so I don’t have to worry about it.”

“Easier said than done, right?”

The sleek black SUV is very clearly a government vehicle, yet Garza’s newest recruit parks in front of the Mid-Wilshire police station with no concerns about who is nearby. Garza turns in the passenger seat to look at him, opening his mouth before deciding it’s not worth it.

“Home sweet home?” Garza asks as you enter the heart of the station.

Officer Smitty walks by, offering you a high-five. You lift your hand without hesitation, smiling when he yells something.

“Something like that,” you tell Garza.

“We have an idea,” Watch Commander Wade Grey says as he steps out of his office.

“Nice to see you too,” you reply with a smile.

“What’s the idea?” Garza asks.

He looks at you, and your shoulders drop, your mind tracing the route to the closest convenience store.

The last time you were in this café, you were a LAPD detective working a homicide case. Back then, you had no temptation, you weren’t chewing gum so hard that your neck was beginning to ache. But times change. So do people.

Outside the café you suspect the bomber frequents, Wade and Garza sit in an inconspicuous Honda Odyssey converted to a surveillance vehicle.

“She’s stressed,” Garza muses.

“It’s a risky position,” Wade agrees. “If the bomber clocks her as a fed, this goes south fast.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. If I leave her in too long, she could start again. More than her health or agency guidelines, she’d risk her mindset. Grey, I can’t lose her.”

“Wait,” Grey interrupts, lifting a hand. “She’s having urges again? Hasn’t it been-”

“Years,” Garza confirms. “Since her rookie year, I think.”

Wade nods, watching you trace a shape on a napkin. “You know her well.”

“I do. I consider myself lucky she trusts me. That’s why I’d like to call in the big guns.”

“Absolutely not,” Tim answers, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I’m not going to be a guard dog for a fed who thinks he’s better than me.”

“She,” Garza corrects. “Our undercover is a woman.”

“Answer’s still no.”

Wade steps to the side to block the door of his office. “Bradford, it’s your rookie.”

Tim’s arms drop, his jaw set as he looks at Garza. No one has to say your name; you’re the only boot that left a mark on Tim’s life. Not because you were the first, but because you were different. Everyone after you blurred together. But you? You’re special.

“She can take care of herself,” Tim argues after a moment.

Garza hums, then shares, “She almost bought a pack of cigarettes last night.”

This time, Tim doesn’t hesitate to ask, “Where is she?”

“I’ve got a name!” you announce, broadcasting your laptop screen to the large television in the private conference room. “I went through all of the receipts and store records that were flagged for possible terrorism and this name, Maximiliano Perez, came up four times. In the last month, he purchased acetone, charcoal, aluminum powder, chlorine trifluoride, and copper. He’s building a bomb; maybe more than one.”

“What do we have on him?” Garza asks.

“I’ve got an address, place of employment, and contact details,” another agent alerts.

“Where does he work?” you inquire, unwrapping another piece of gum.

“Uh, a gas station. Night shift, I think.”

You nod, looking at the list of items he bought. “I have an idea.”

Garza sighs, then admits, “It scares me when you say that.”

The gas station is busier than you thought it would be at eleven o’clock at night. Standing in line with two drinks, a handful of snacks, and a pack of gum, you glance at Perez. He seems disillusioned with his job, maybe his whole life, but that doesn’t automatically mean he’s your guy.

“Anything else?” he asks when you set your items on the counter.

Your eyes move past him to the large display of cigarettes. The brand you used to buy by the carton is in the center.

“No,” you force yourself to say. “Thank you.”

Perez lifts the gum and asks, “Trying to quit?”

“I think I always will be.”

He nods like he understands. When he hands you the receipt, you notice scrapes across his hand and a burn on his thumb. That could be from building a bomb, you think as you exit.

“Who is this guy again?” Lucy asks, leaning against the window.

“Name’s Maximiliano Perez,” Tim answers. “FBI thinks he’s the bomber.”

“But there hasn’t actually been a bombing.”

“Not yet. There have been threats, and he has everything he needs to build one. That’s good enough to be a bomber, Chen.”

“Sure,” she agrees softly. “The feds are here. Why are we watching him?”

“Because the feds are gearing up to move in.”

Tim’s phone buzzes, and Lucy scoffs when he reaches for it. He reads the message, then opens the passenger door.

“What are you doing?” Lucy demands.

Unbuttoning his uniform, Tim begins shedding anything that identifies him as a police officer.

“This is really weird, Officer Bradford,” Lucy hisses, looking in the side mirror. “We’re at work!”

“Perez isn’t here,” Tim says, dropping his belt onto the passenger seat. “Take all of this to the station and give it to Lopez.”

“I’m not supposed to drive without my TO!” Lucy argues.

Tim leans into the car, his hair tousled and his white shirt untucked. “Back to the station. Find Lopez. TO’s orders, straight from the watch commander and the FBI.”

Lucy swallows but can’t reply before Tim closes the door and walks down the sidewalk.

Five years ago, you were leaned over a desk, marking a map of Los Angeles based on what you found in a crime scene. Someone walked behind you and tapped your arm twice.

“Good luck,” you offered without moving. “Be careful.”

Tim stepped to your side, smiling at you in the proximity. Neither of you had said what you were really feeling, neither brave enough — or dumb enough — to admit that you craved being close. You took what you could get and hoped that some day it would be enough.

And then you were invited to join the FBI, and it seemed like everything you built was left in the past.

Yet, in the present, Tim steps into a café and his eyes immediately find you, as if no time has passed, as if you’re here just for him. There’s a pack of gum open beside you, a doodle-covered napkin tucked beneath your drink.

“Hey,” Tim greets kindly, dragging a chair to your side. “Sorry I’m late.”

You smile — a smile that Tim knows is not a cover, not part of your faux relationship. “You’re right on time,” you answer. “I was early.” You scan him then, his tousled hair, the untucked white t-shirt stretched across his chest and biceps, his teactical pants flipped at the cuffs to look like a fashion choice rather than a necessity. He looks good. Although, he always does.

“Incoming,” Garza says in your earpiece.

You look up at the door when it opens. Perez walks in, a hat pulled low over his eyes and a backpack secure around his shoulders. There’s no way to know what’s in his bag or what he’s doing here.

“Street is evacuated,” Garza alerts. “All cars passing are ours. Watch your crossfire if you engage.”

“How are we doing this?” Tim asks, brushing his fingers over your shoulder.

“Carefully,” you murmur, leaning into his touch. “I think he’s confused and desperate, not psychopathic.”

“That can be just as bad.”

You tip your head, conceding the point. “I have an idea.”

Tim grabs your hand before you can stand. “That usually prefaces something that stresses me out.”

“Join the club.”

You stand, electing not to argue when Tim joins you. Walking to the counter together, you smile at Perez, then look away.

“Hey, have we met?” you ask, stepping toward him. “Oh, the gas station, right?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “How’s the quitting going?”

“Some days it’s really easy, and then the next there isn’t enough gum,” you answer.

“It gets easier,” he offers. “Never goes away, but you start remembering how good it feels to beat the urge.”

“I hope so. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He nods, then drops his head on his folded arms. His backpack is on the floor; one strap is hooked around his ankle.

Tim wraps his arm around your shoulder and drops his head to say, “I’ll get him, you get that backpack away from him. Toss it outside if you have to.”

“We can’t see his hands,” you point out. “Is the risk worth it?”

“Yes,” Tim decides.

You place your order, then step to the end of the counter to wait. Halfway behind Perez, you shift on your feet, waiting for him to show his hands. He doesn’t move for a full minute, so Tim nods.

He grabs Perez’s shoulder and pulls him backward, pinning his arms behind the chair as you surge forward to pull the backpack out of his reach. Perez screams, but when Tim twists to shove him to the ground, he goes quiet.

“I was going to help people like me,” he whispers against the tile.

You wave your arm, urging everyone out of the building and down the street to the waiting officers.

“By blowing up their city?” Tim challenges. “That’s not helping.”

“You don’t understand!”

“No, we don’t,” you agree. “But I know that you want to do the right thing. So, tell us where the bombs are.”

Perez drops his head before he begins to sob. Tim yanks him to his feet and mumbles, “I hate it when they cry.”

“Because feelings are for weak people,” you quote from your rookie days.

“Because feeling bad for yourself instead of taking accountability is for cowards,” Tim corrects.

“Do you want to talk?” Tim asks when you finish your affidavit for the LAPD.

You nod, following him to his truck. He drives in silence, the space around you comfortable until he reaches your favorite restaurant. Tim brought you here when you graduated to short sleeves, again when you made detective, and you’d planned to say goodbye here before you got scared of your own feelings and ran.

“How many?” the hostess asks.

“Two,” Tim answers. “Could we get the booth by the patio?”

“Sure.”

You slide into the vinyl booth across from him, sighing as you reach for a sugar packet. For the first time since you caught this case, there’s no temptation to smoke, just too many words and a lot of feelings.

“So, the FBI,” Tim begins.

“Is that what we have to talk about?” you inquire. “Because the last time we saw each other… I’m sorry for leaving like that. I thought that if I tried to say goodbye, I wouldn’t leave.”

“We were going to meet here. I had already made up my mind not to show, even before you left early,” Tim admits. “I would’ve asked you to stay, and you didn’t deserve being forced to choose.”

“I would’ve chosen you. You know that.”

“That’s why I didn’t ask.”

You chuckle, sliding the sugar packet toward him. “Garza sent you in because of the unapproved gas station run, right?”

“Maybe.”

“He’s never been a good liar. He’s protective.”

“He cares,” Tim amends. “That part I can understand.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“You gave me a piece of gum my first month. You wrote a note on the wrapper. I still have it. It’s in my phone case so I can look at it when I’m on a really stressful case.”

“How often does it happen?”

Shrugging, you explain, “There have been a few cases that made me, I don’t know, itch for it. It’s an urge for one cigarette, but that’s how it starts, you know? This case, the fear that I’d miss something and people would die, is the worst it’s been. Then you walked in and everything was fine.”

“You sound like you miss me,” Tim teases, flicking the sugar packet back to you.

“Of course I miss you,” you whisper, smiling at him. “I miss everything about you.”

Tim sobers, nodding. “I’m here now. You can call me too. I’ll always help you however I can.”

“However?” you repeat. “With cases?”

“What can I get you?” the waiter interrupts. “Our special today is-”

Walking down the street, you look at Tim’s profile. He’s always been attractive, but something about his messed-up hair and the soft smile on his face make him irresistible.

“Not just cases,” he says, his hand brushing yours.

You catch his fingers, smiling when he adjusts his grip to hold you better.

“I’ll help however I can with whatever you want,” he explains. “Same as before.”

“I started tapping you because it was easier than just saying I care about you and need you to come back alive,” you blurt out.

“I know,” he whispers, slowing under a streetlight. “Are you okay? Really?”

You step forward, pressing your chest to Tim. “Can we talk about us instead of just me? I happen to like you more.”

“There’s an us?”

“As soon as my transfer to the L.A. field office is approved.”

Tim smiles, releasing your hand to grip your shoulders. “You’re coming back?”

“There’s a lot worth loving here,” you murmur.

Tim’s smile widens, and your laugh dies in a hum when he presses his lips to yours. Holding Tim, you send Garza to voicemail.

“Thank you,” you whisper when you separate.

“Interesting reply,” Tim mumbles.

“You offered to help; I’m just offering my gratitude.”

“Well, you-”

Anytime Tim starts with well, he’s going to make fun of you, so you kiss him again before he can.

001. 𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼,

• 𝒷𝓁𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒 — thomas shelby x fem!wife!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, oneshot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — the wife of the birmingham's most feared gangster, rewards him for his hard work, and he gladly accepts it with open arms.

• 𝓉𝒶𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 — thomas shelby x fem!assassin!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, series

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — an infamous female assassin has been paid an enormous amount of money by an italian to assassinate a fearful gangster, however, what once she thought would be simple, turned out to become a hectic mess once she realises she's fell head over heels for her target.

002. 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓮.

• 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 — tim bradford x footballer/soccerplayer!fem!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 —

redone it • 𝓌𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑔𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 — tim bradford x fem!agent!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — fbi agent reader

• 𝒷𝓇𝒶𝒹𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒹’𝓈 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉 — tim bradford x fem!wife!uc!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, series

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — a year ago today, tim bradford, a stoic, hard faced cop, has a wife that went missing on a dangerous undercover mission. The officer reunites with her wife that went MIA.

• 𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓀𝓈 — tim bradford x fem!detective!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, series

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — ghosting the LAPD and beyond due to an incident that effected you deeply, they track you down and get called back, however, now from an agent that dealt with UC work and severe issues, to a regular police officer.

• 𝒿𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉 — seargent!reader's former t.o!tim bradford x higher up solo detective!tim's former rookie!fem!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, one shot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — reader flirts her way through her case, however the seargent does not take this lightly.

003. 𝓵𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓼 (𝓮𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝔀𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓷’𝓼 𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓯𝓸𝓸𝓽𝓫𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓮𝓪𝓶) —

TEEN.

• 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝑒 — lionesses x teen!fem!reader, awfc x teen!fem!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic, series

↳ 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝒶𝓁 — part ? of the series 'miss ACE'

→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic,

→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — during your first international debut, you score for your country, shocking the public with your ability, dispite your young age.

↳ 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝑒 — insta post ver.

↳ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒷𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓇 — headcannons

→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic, club+country,

→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — teen!reader hates ice baths, which is one of the most crucial parts of being a professional footballer, so in response of her kicking off, her team players force her in.

• 𝓈𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝓅 — lionesses x teen!reader,

→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic, text imagine

→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — during the night, you decide to sneak out of camp, promising yourself that you’d be back before sunrise but end up staying out later than planned. your phone starts blowing up with concerned athletes.

PLAYERS.

003–1. 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓱 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷

• 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓉 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒶𝒹𝒶𝓇 2 — leah williamson x model/influencer!reader

→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, headcannons,

→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — and leah are in a relationship, however due personal issues and the public, you and leah are forced to keep it secret.

004. 𝓪𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝔀𝓯𝓬

TEEN.

• 𝒶𝓇𝓈𝑒𝓃𝒶𝓁’𝓈 𝓅𝓊𝓅 — arsenalwfc x teen!fem!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 —

• 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝑒 — lionesses x teen!fem!reader, awfc x teen!fem!reader,

↳ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒷𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓇 — headcannons

→ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, platonic, club+country,

→ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — teen!reader hates ice baths, which is one of the most crucial parts of being a professional footballer, so in response of her kicking off, her team players force her in.

PLAYERS.

004–1. 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓱 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷

005. 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓵

• 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓅𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈 — steve rogers x fem!shieldagent!avenger!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff, oneshot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — seventy years later, the ww2 soldier opens his eyes, just to be met with beauty that sticks to his side throughout the battle of new york.

006. 𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮

• 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 — eddie diaz x celeb!fem!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — smut, oneshot

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — responding to a call, a billboard catches the attention of a certain mexican paramedic who begins to feel a sense of need towards it.

• 𝒸𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 — evan buckley x fem!reader,

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — fluff

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — you and your firefighter boyfriend are looking after his niece as her parents are out of town, but the young girl won’t get to sleep if she doesn’t get what she demands for.

007. 𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓴𝓼

• 𝑜𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓀𝑜𝑜𝓀 — outer banks x fem!outsider!kook!reader, jj maybank x fem!outsider!kook!reader

↳ 𝓂𝒾𝒹𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒹𝑒𝒷𝓊𝓉 — jj maybank x fem!outsider!kook!reader

𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 — angst,fluff

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 — during the annual midsummers, a new girl is spotted, a new outsider kook girl, it becomes the talk of the night, attracting both sides of the cut.

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.”