The Nubian Princess

Location: SWAT HQ – Commander’s Office, Late Afternoon Stillness and Emotional Sabotage

Hondo sat at his desk, flipping through evaluation reports.

Standard language. Tactical metrics. Leadership scores.

Until he reached one with handwriting he knew too well — neat, slightly slanted, with the occasional dramatic underline.

Street’s evaluation.

He began reading, expecting professionalism.

And got it — at first.

> “He’s one of the most dedicated officers I know.

> He’s a man who cares, and makes sure that he will do everything he can to ensure that you are succeeding.

> He leads in every way with full precision and attentiveness…”

Hondo smiled, pride blooming in his chest.

Then came the last line:

> “…he’s also a great lover.”

Hondo, chuckling, shaking his head, voice low and fond:

“Oh, Sweet Pup… what am I gonna do with you?”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes soft, thumb brushing the edge of the page like it was a love letter disguised as paperwork.

He didn’t redact it.

Didn’t scold.

Just folded the page gently and tucked it back into the file — like it belonged there.

Because it did.

Because in this squad, love was part of the legacy.

Chapter 3276: The Review, The Reveal, and the Daddy Commander

Location: SWAT HQ – Archive Room → Locker Room → Emotional Ambush

Deacon was sorting old evaluations, sipping tactical tea, when he found it.

A review from years ago.

Back when Street was still a patrol officer.

Back when Buck was still leading.

Back when crushes were chaotic and emotional restraint was optional.

He read the lines.

Professional.

Respectful.

And then—

> “Sergeant Kay is everything I aspire to be. Strong, calm, protective… also, very hot. Like, Daddy hot. I mean that respectfully. Mostly.”

Deacon, snickering, folded the paper and tucked it into his vest like a gossip grenade.

Later, in the locker room, he approached Street with a grin.

Deacon, holding out the note:

“Look what I found.”

Street, gasping, grabbing it:

“You weren’t supposed to find that!”

Deacon, laughing:

“Too late. Don’t worry about it. I figured you were young. Before you joined Hondo’s team. Back when Buck was still in charge.”

Street, groaning, burying his face in his hands:

“Ugh, I was in my weird Daddy kink phase. Crushing on older men. Needing a daddy.”

Deacon, smiling:

“Don’t worry. We’ve all had our brash moments.”

Street, sighing:

“I think I needed therapy at the time.”

Deacon, winking:

“Or maybe fate just used Buck to help you find your actual Daddy.”

Street, blushing but grinning:

“That I won’t deny.”

Hondo, walking in mid-conversation, towel over his shoulder:

“What did I miss?”

Deacon, smirking, handing him the note:

“Your husband’s former love letter to me. From his patrol days.”

Street, covering his face:

“I’m gonna die.”

Hondo, reading, chuckling:

“Even in your review, you had a Sweet Pup vibe.”

Street, muffled:

“I was in my Daddy kink phase.”

Hondo, raising a brow:

“Phase? You still have it.”

Street, groaning, hiding behind Hondo’s vest:

“Stop talking.”

Hondo, kissing his temple, voice warm:

“I’m not worried. That was the past. I have the honor of being your Daddy Commander now.”

Street, smiling, cuddling into him:

“You’re the best Daddy in the world.”

Hondo, shuffling his beard against Street’s cheek:

“And you’re my favorite emotional chaos.”

Deacon, deadpan, grabbing his tea:

“Please don’t use the word ‘Daddy’ in a sentence like that.”

---

Because in SWAT canon, even evaluations had choreography.

Even crushes had legacy.

And when Deacon found, and Street blushed, it wasn’t just embarrassment.

It was ensemble.

It was canon.

Chapter 3282: The Request, The Card, and the Worth-a-Shot Exit

Location: SWAT HQ – Briefing Room, Midday Squad Chaos and Emotional Wealth

Street strutted in, hoodie half-zipped, belly chain glinting, voice sweet and direct:

“Daddy Commander, I need 500 dollars.”

Hondo, without hesitation, pulled out a crisp stack of cash like it was a love language.

Then added his debit card, sliding it across the table with a wink:

“Here’s a card in case. Enjoy it, baby.”

Street, giggling, leaned in and kissed Hondo’s cheek:

“Thank you.”

Across the room, Luca blinked.

Raised a brow.

Put out his hand like he was summoning emotional funding:

“Daddy, I need 300 dollars.”

Hondo looked up slowly.

Gave him the don’t play with me look.

Then went back to his paperwork without a word.

Luca, shrugging, walking out:

“Worth a shot.”

Street, still holding the card, leaned against Hondo’s shoulder, whispering:

“See? I’m the spoiled one.”

Hondo, smiling, voice low:

“You earned it, Sweet Pup.”

---

Because in SWAT canon, even money had choreography.

Even debit cards had legacy.

And when Street asked, and Luca tried, it wasn’t just squad comedy.

It was ensemble.

It was canon.

Chapter 3286: The Holler, The Chain, and the Number

Location: SWAT HQ – Hallway, Midday Mischief and Marital Roleplay

Hondo stood beside Deacon, arms folded, posture casual but eyes locked on the figure walking past.

Street, hoodie half-zipped, tactical pants low enough to reveal a glint of his waist chain, moved with the kind of swagger that turned corridors into catwalks.

Hondo, pretending not to know him, leaned toward Deacon:

“Who’s that?”

Deacon, deadpan, barely turning:

“Your husband.”

Hondo, smirking:

“Damn, I’m married to that? Damn, I’m trying to holler at him.”

Deacon, already regretting his proximity, shook his head.

Hondo, calling out:

“Hey Mama!”

Street, turning around with a grin:

“Yes?”

Hondo, beckoning with two fingers, voice velvet and low:

“I’m trying to holler at you. What’s your name?”

Street, walking back with a flirt-coded bounce:

“Jim. If you like that, you should hear my number.”

Hondo, placing a hand on his chest like he’d been emotionally struck:

“Lord have mercy.”

Street, giggling, leaned in close:

“You hollering or proposing?”

Deacon, already walking away, muttering:

“I’m too old for this.”

Hondo, eyes still locked on Street:

“Too married for this, but I’m hollering anyway.”

---

Because in SWAT canon, even hallway flirtation had choreography.

Even fake introductions had legacy.

And when Hondo hollered, and Street flirted, it wasn’t just chaos.

It was ensemble.

It was canon.

Chapter 3285: The Pickup, The Velvet Voice, and the Tactical 90s Flirt

Location: SWAT HQ – Briefing Room, Midday Chaos and Emotional Roleplay

Street approached Hondo, hoodie half-zipped, belly chain glinting, smile chaotic and full of mischief.

He leaned in, eyes sparkling:

“How would you have picked me up if we met in high school?”

Hondo, wiping his beard, cracked a smug grin.

“Stand over there.”

Street, already giggling, obeyed — stepping a few feet away, posture loose, ready for chaos.

Hondo, voice dropping into velvet:

“Eh yo ma.”

Street, fully immersed, giggled:

“Yes?”

Hondo, stepping forward, voice low and smooth:

“Come here, let me talk to your fine ass.”

Street, walking over, trying not to burst into laughter:

“What’s your name?”

Street, barely holding it together:

“Jim.”

Hondo, taking his hand, eyes locked:

“Daniel Harrelson. I would take you out.”

Street, hand over his mouth, giggling uncontrollably, cheeks flushed:

“You’re ridiculous.”

Chris, watching from the doorway, blinking:

“What am I watching?”

Luca, sipping his coffee like it was a documentary:

“A tactical 90s flirt. Subject is emotionally compromised. Commander is deploying velvet-coded pickup lines.”

Street, still giggling, leaned into Hondo’s chest:

“You would’ve ruined me in high school.”

Hondo, kissing his temple:

“I would’ve made you mine before the bell rang.”

---

Because in SWAT canon, even pickup lines had choreography.

Even velvet voices had legacy.

And when Street asked, and Hondo delivered, it wasn’t just roleplay.

It was ensemble.

It was canon.

Location: SWAT HQ – Lounge Area, Midday Affection and Tactical Teasing

Hicks sat perched with his coffee like a wildlife observer, watching the rare and sacred ritual unfold:

Hondo, reclined on the couch, arms wrapped around Street, who was curled into him like a plushy with a heartbeat.

Street’s hoodie was half-zipped, belly chain glinting like a rare item drop, eyes closed in bliss as he soaked in the attention like it was sunlight and tactical healing.

Cortez entered, eyebrow raised, catching the scene mid-cuddle.

“What are you looking at?”

Hicks, gesturing toward the duo with the reverence of a Pokémon professor:

“Those two. Honestly, watching Hondo care for Street is like watching someone raise a Pokémon. He’s gotta feed him and give him attention or he loses his superpowers.”

Cortez, smirking, arms folded:

“Street should have a Pokémon name. Chaos Pup.”

Hondo, overhearing as he peeked Street’s cheek with his beard, walked over still holding Street like a plushy that refused to be boxed:

“What are you guys talking about?”

Hicks, deadpan:

“You and your belly-blinging Pokémon.”

Cortez, nodding:

“The one who needs food and attention to evolve. You’re basically his trainer.”

Street, giggling, leaned into Hondo’s chest with dramatic flair:

“I’m Barbie. I only deserve the best care.”

Hondo, kissing his forehead with tactical precision:

“And you’re very right about that.”

Hicks and Cortez rolled their eyes in synchronized squad exasperation as the couple flirted back and forth, radiating emotional chaos like a rare aura.

Street, now fully committed to the bit, made dramatic Pokémon noises:

“Pup-chaos! Belly-chain sparkle! Cuddle attack!”

Hondo, chuckling, whispered:

“Super effective.”

Cortez, muttering to Hicks:

“He’s like a legendary mon. Needs gourmet snacks, forehead kisses, and emotional validation to stay in battle form.”

Hicks, sipping his coffee:

“And if you forget to feed him, he turns into Gremlin Type.”

Street, hearing that, popped his head up:

“Excuse you, I’m dual-type: Chaos/Fairy.”

Hondo, laughing:

“And you’re my rare catch.”

---

Because in SWAT canon, even Pokémon had choreography.

Even Barbie had legacy.

And when Street sparkled, and Hondo cuddled, it wasn’t just affection.

It was ensemble.

It was canon.

Location: Hondo & Street’s House – Living Room to Bedroom, Evening Glow and Emotional Combat

It began with a growl — low, teasing, unmistakably Hondo.

He entered like a storm cloaked in warmth, boots kicked off, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes locked on Street, who was gliding through the house in his silky robe, bare beneath, glowing like a deity of domestic command.

Before Street could issue another chore, Hondo lunged — lips trailing kisses across his neck, jaw, collarbone, relentless and playful.

“This is what you get for the slap,” he growled, voice thick with vengeance and affection.

Street, giggling, melted into the embrace, arms wrapping around Hondo’s shoulders.

He was lifted effortlessly and placed on the table like an offering — or perhaps the god himself, receiving worship through touch.

The kisses didn’t stop.

They multiplied.

They became rhythm.

They became ritual.

“Your scars are healing,” Street whispered, fingers tracing the fading bruises across Hondo’s chest.

“It’s thanks to you,” Hondo replied, voice low, reverent.

Then Street pounced — a full-body tackle that sent them tumbling to the floor in a heap of limbs, laughter, and silk.

“Oof, you’re strong,” Hondo chuckled, pinned beneath the radiant chaos of his Sweet Pup.

“I’m a very happy goddess right now,” Street giggled, straddling him. “Thank you for completing your duties. Now I give you my loving.”

Hondo pulled him into a deep kiss — breath-stealing, grounding, full of gratitude.

Street giggled through it, joy bubbling from his chest like divine springwater.

But then — a tug too strong.

The belly chain snapped.

“Oh shoot, I didn’t mean that,” Hondo said, instantly apologetic, eyes wide.

Street, already distracted by the affection, waved it off with a grin:

“It’s okay. I can get a new one. Take me upstairs.”

Hondo obeyed.

Because when Street gave orders wrapped in softness, they became sacred.

---

Later, the bedroom glowed with aftermath.

Street lay curled against Hondo, robe discarded, skin warm, breath steady.

Hondo’s hand wandered, trailing down until it landed on Street’s backside — firm, possessive, playful.

Street yelped.

“Got you,” Hondo said, smirking like a victorious lion.

“Bet!” Street shouted, flipping over and launching into a wrestling match with the energy of a divine trickster.

“You didn’t wrestle me enough, Sweet Pup?” Hondo teased, managing to pin Street down with practiced ease.

But Street, ever tactical, wrapped his legs around Hondo’s shoulders and flipped the dynamic — pinning him with precision, flair, and a sparkle in his eye.

Hondo, now beneath him, gazed up with admiration and surrender.

Not because he couldn’t escape.

But because he didn’t want to.

“You’re dangerous,” he whispered, voice low and reverent.

Street giggled, triumphant:

“I’m tactical. And glowing.”

The light caught the curve of his smile, the shimmer of sweat, the remnants of the broken belly chain still clinging to his hip like a relic of battle.

Hondo smiled, letting the moment stretch.

Because in their canon, even wrestling had choreography.

Even surrender had legacy.

And when Street pinned, and Hondo flirted, it wasn’t just play.

It was ensemble.

It was canon.

Location: Hondo & Street’s House – Kitchen and Entryway, Late Afternoon Domestic Chaos and Divine Authority

Street moved through the house like a celestial breeze — silky robe trailing behind him, bare beneath, belly chain glinting like a sacred relic of flirtation and power.

He was mid-cleaning, barefoot, focused, radiant.

A domestic deity in motion, commanding the space with soft authority and lemon-scented vengeance.

The robe clung to him in places that made the sunlight pause.

His hair was slightly tousled, his cheeks flushed from exertion, and his eyes sharp with purpose.

He wasn’t just tidying — he was restoring order to the temple.

Hondo stepped through the door, boots still dusty from patrol, and froze.

His gaze locked on Street, who was bent slightly, adjusting a vase, robe slipping just enough to reveal temptation.

It was the kind of sight that made warriors forget their weapons.

“Throw out the garbage,” Street commanded, not even turning. “It’s by the counter.”

Hondo, smirking, voice low and reverent:

“And my reward, my goddess?”

Street, turning slowly, eyes gleaming with playful power:

“You defy me?”

Hondo, stepping closer, hands twitching with the urge to touch:

“No. But I still owe you for that slap the other day.”

Street, lips curling into a smirk, robe shifting to reveal a sliver of thigh:

“You’ll get my warm embrace once you complete masculine duties, Daddy.”

Hondo, laughing, voice thick with affection:

“I thought I make the rules.”

Street, walking past him with a sway that could start wars:

“You forget — I lead with softness. Now go. Throw the garbage.”

Hondo, obedient and amused, grabbed the two massive bags and hauled them out like a soldier completing a sacred task.

The bags were heavy, but the promise of reward made them featherlight.

As he reached the door, he called back:

“I’ll be back for revenge. Enjoy that slimy robe while you can — it’s coming off.”

Street, revealing a sliver of torso, belly chains catching the light like divine armor, winked:

“When you complete the twelve labors of Hercules, you may embrace me.”

Hondo, growling like a lion denied entry to Olympus, shut the door behind him.

Street, giggling, returned to his cleaning — robe swaying, chains sparkling, heart full.

He dusted the windowsill like a queen polishing her throne.

He rearranged the throw pillows like offerings to the gods.

And every movement was a reminder: love, in this house, was choreographed with affection, command, and glitter.

---

Because in SWAT canon, even garbage had choreography.

Even robes had legacy.

And when Street commanded, and Hondo obeyed, it wasn’t just domestic.

It was ensemble.

It was canon.

Location: Hondo & Street’s House – Bathroom, Post-Takedown Steam and Divine Tenderness

The steam curled around Hondo like smoke from a battlefield.

His body bore the marks of the takedown — scrapes along his ribs, a bruise blooming near his shoulder, a cut on his cheek that looked like it had been earned in a moment of righteous fury.

He stepped into the shower, water cascading down like rain after war.

The kind of water that didn’t just clean — it baptized.

Street, ever the healer, ever the ritualist, entered with cotton balls and quiet authority.

He didn’t speak at first.

He just dabbed.

Soft.

Precise.

Like each touch was a spell to undo the violence.

“You didn’t have to be reckless like that,” Street giggled, voice light but laced with concern.

Hondo, eyes half-lidded, voice deep:

“That’s how I am. When I’m attacked, I fight like a lion.”

Street, dabbing the scrape on his cheek, whispered:

“You’re a ruthless god.”

Hondo, stepping closer, water dripping from his jawline:

“Gods are ruthless when they fight to get home to their lover. I had to command the storm. Speak destruction.”

Street, giggling, cotton ball hovering near his collarbone:

“You know I would’ve helped you. Aphrodite also commands storms and rage.”

Hondo, brushing a wet curl from Street’s forehead:

“You’re the goddess of love. I know the kind of wrath you’d inflict. That’s why I’m always the first to draw the bolt.”

The bathroom light caught Street’s skin just right — a soft glow, a shimmer of warmth and care.

His feminine side emerged like a tide, gentle and radiant.

He moved with grace, with purpose, with the kind of softness that made warriors kneel.

“You’re glowing,” Hondo flirted, voice low and reverent.

Street, smirking:

“You’re feeling bedroom affections. It’s a side effect after you’ve been in a fight.”

Hondo, eyes trailing down:

“Isn’t that because you’re naked in the shower with me?”

Street, dabbing another cut, voice playful:

“I have to heal you. Because you’re reckless.”

Hondo, watching him like a man watching a miracle unfold:

“You’re the only one I’d let do this.”

Street, wrapping a bandage slowly, giving himself more time to gaze:

“We’ll have to do something affectionate later.”

Hondo, growling softly, the sound vibrating through the steam:

“I’m counting on it.”

Street, giggling, leaned in and kissed his cheek — the one he’d just healed.

Because in their canon, even wounds were invitations.

Even cotton balls carried legacy.

And even gods needed goddesses to bring them home.

---

Because in SWAT canon, even showers had choreography.

Even healing had myth.

And when Street dabbed, and Hondo growled, it wasn’t just recovery.

It was ensemble.

It was canon.