lumierepcy

[lumierepcy]

BABY SISTER

Tim Bradford × Angela Lopez's baby sister(y/n)

Synopsis:-FBI Agent Y/n Lopez walks back into Mid-Wilshire with a badge on her hip, a fake ring on her finger, and a mission that demands more than just nerves of steel — it demands proximity to danger, manipulation, and playing the part of someone else’s fiancée.

Unfortunately, he’s still here.

Sergeant Tim Bradford isn’t prepared for how much she’s changed — or how much it still messes with him. Y/n was always off-limits: his best friend’s baby sister, too young, too reckless. Now she’s confident, lethal, and dragging ghosts behind her heels.

She’s undercover. He’s jealous.

And no one’s saying what they really mean.

As the lines between real and pretend blur, and a dangerous cartel closes in, Tim finds himself haunted by one impossible truth: if y/n that little puppy whom he knew were really someone else’s?

He wouldn’t just care.

He’d burn it all down.

Disclaimer:- contains smut do not report me.

The Mid-Wilshire bullpen buzzed like always — radios crackling, keyboards clacking, Nolan still locked in a one-sided feud with the printer. Predictable. Routine.

Until she walked in.

Tim felt it before he saw it — the shift in the air, the way time seemed to hitch behind his ribs.

He didn’t need to look up.

But he did.

Y/N Lopez.

She moved through the glass doors like she was born to command a room — fitted black blazer, sleek ponytail, heels that clicked like loaded guns across tile. Her badge caught the light. FBI.

But it wasn’t the badge that caught him off guard.

It was her eyes.

Sharp. Steady. Calculated.

She looked like she belonged. Like the weight of federal clearance and danger barely brushed her shoulders. Like she knew exactly how much power she had.

His stomach clenched. His jaw followed.

“Stop it,” Angela muttered beside him, eyes on her tablet.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

She glanced at him. “The ‘Y/N’s back and now you’re forgetting how lungs work’ thing.”

Tim scoffed — weakly.

Because yeah. Y/N was back.

And she was different.

No more bubblegum hair, no reckless laughter echoing down hallways, no pretending to be tougher than she felt. She didn’t need to pretend anymore. Now she was a weapon. Polished. Quiet. Lethal.

And for the first time in years, Tim wasn’t sure if he was the one with the upper hand.

---

She came straight to him, unbothered. Intentional.

“Sergeant,” she said, cool as winter. “Still allergic to smiling?”

He crossed his arms. “Still allergic to protocol?”

“Not at all.” A smirk teased her mouth. “I just like being the one giving orders.”

Angela mumbled something like “DNA twins from hell” and walked off before the bite started.

Tim couldn’t stop watching her.

He told himself it was out of habit.

It wasn’t.

It was the way she looked at him — like she knew he still remembered everything. That night two years ago, the stupid string lights at the baby shower, the way she’d made fun of his tie and vanished before he could say goodbye. That maybe — just maybe — she’d spent months wondering about him too.

Now she was here.

And she was engaged.

---

He heard it during the briefing, dropped into conversation like a line of code.

“As part of the cover,” Y/N said, clicking calmly through Martinez’s file, “I’ve been inserted as the fiancée of one of his trusted investors. Martinez values loyalty. We’re using that.”

Tim’s entire chest tightened.

Fiancée?

He blinked. Tracked the hotel layout on the screen. Tried not to notice the way she said fiancée like it was just another tool in her belt.

Lucy leaned in. “Did she say engaged?”

He said nothing.

Didn’t breathe.

---

When the others left to gear up, he didn’t follow.

She didn’t either.

“You’re engaged?” he asked — sharp, unfiltered.

Y/N didn’t look up. “Fake ring. Fake man. Real op.”

“So… it’s not serious.”

She finally lifted her eyes to meet his — unreadable.

Chillingly calm.

“Why? You planning to file an objection?”

Tim’s lips parted, but the words didn’t come.

“Angela said you moved back for him.”

Y/N let out a short, quiet breath — not a laugh, but close. “Angela connects dots that don’t exist.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re saying he’s not real.”

“I’m saying,” she replied, voice dipping low, “you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

He swallowed hard. That ache again — dull and buried deep.

“You didn’t even mention it.”

She moved closer. Close enough for her presence to hit him in the lungs.

“You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t think I had the right.”

Her head tilted. “So you did want to.”

He went still.

She didn’t wait for him to speak.

Instead, her voice went soft. Dangerous.

“I’m not here to play safe, Tim. I’m here to shut down a cartel. But if this thing between us is still humming like a loaded gun… maybe don’t stand so close when I’m talking about another man.”

His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

She stepped back.

“See you at op brief.”

---

That night, from the surveillance van, Tim watched her through a monitor. Laughing. Touching the fake fiancé’s arm. Whispering something into his shoulder like it meant something.

She played the part too well.

And Tim hated how much it hurt — hated that it did at all.

---

After the takedown, the bullpen was buzzing again. Win secured. Half of Martinez’s operation was down. It should’ve felt like a victory.

But Tim lingered — leaning on the corner of a desk, staring into nothing.

Y/N found him there. Vest half undone. Stray curls clinging to her temple. Eyes darker than they’d been hours ago.

“You okay, Bradford?” she asked, quieter this time.

He didn’t look up. “You could’ve been shot.”

“So could you.”

“You were close.”

“I’m trained.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

She moved nearer. Just enough to shift the air again.

“You can say it,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

“Say it, Tim.”

“Say what?”

“That you hated seeing me with him. That it’s eating you alive.”

His throat dried up.

And then she added, softly — like it wasn’t a question:

“It’s not real.”

He looked at her then. Fully.

“If it were?” His voice cracked.

She blinked once. Breath caught.

“I’d break his goddamn jaw.”

Silence.

Heavy, electric, sharp.

Neither of them moved.

And for a split second, Tim almost — almost — closed the space between them.

But she beat him to it.

Stepping forward. Not kissing. Not touching.

Just leaning in close enough to breathe:

“Goodnight, Sergeant.”

Then walked away.

And Tim — still standing in fluorescent silence — felt it sink in.

She’d known.

All along.

Y/N moaned, her head falling back as pleasure shot through her. “Tim…”

He didn’t waste any time. His mouth found one of her breasts, his tongue flicking over the lace before he pulled it aside, taking her nipple into his mouth. She cried out, her fingers tightening in his hair as he sucked and teased, his other hand kneading her other breast.

“You taste so good,” he growled against her skin, his teeth grazing her nipple before he moved to the other one, giving it the same attention.

Her hips rocked against him, seeking friction, and he obliged, grinding against her as he continued to lavish her breasts with attention. She could feel the wetness pooling between her legs, her body aching for more.

“Please,” she begged, her voice trembling. “I need you.”

Tim pulled back slightly, his eyes locking with hers. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” she whispered. “I want you.”

That was all he needed to hear. His hands moved to her pants, quickly undoing the button and zipper before sliding them down her legs. She kicked them off, leaving her in nothing but her bra and panties. His eyes raked over her body, taking in every curve, every inch of skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his hands moving to her thighs as he spread them wider. “You’re perfect.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing against the inside of her thigh as he made his way up to her core. She gasped when his tongue flicked over her clit through the fabric of her panties, her hips bucking against his mouth.

“Tim!” she cried out, her hands gripping the edge of the counter.

He pulled her panties aside, his tongue diving into her folds without hesitation. She moaned loudly, her back arching as he licked and sucked, his fingers sliding inside her as he worked her clit with his tongue.

“You taste even better here,” he murmured against her, his voice sending shivers down her spine.

Her legs trembled as he brought her closer and closer to the edge, his fingers curling inside her as his tongue circled her clit. She could feel the pressure building, her body tightening as pleasure consumed her.

“I’m gonna…” she started, but she didn’t need to finish. Her orgasm hit her hard, waves of pleasure crashing over her as she cried out his name.

Tim didn’t stop until she was spent, her body limp against the counter. He stood up, his eyes dark with desire as he looked down at her.

“You’re mine,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

She nodded weakly, still catching her breath. “Yours.”

He kissed her again, his hands moving to undo his belt and pants. When he finally entered her, they both groaned, the feeling of being connected overwhelming.

“So tight,” he muttered against her lips, his hips moving slowly at first.

She wrapped her legs around him tighter, urging him on. “More.”

He obliged, thrusting harder and faster, their bodies moving together in perfect sync. She could feel him everywhere, his hands gripping her hips, his lips on hers, his cock filling her completely.

“I need you to come for me again,” he whispered against her ear.

She nodded, already feeling the familiar pressure building again. “Yes…”

He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit as he continued to thrust into her. It didn’t take long before she was coming again, her body shaking with pleasure as she cried out his name.

“That’s it,” he growled, his own release following soon after.

They stayed like that for a moment, their bodies still connected as they caught their breath. Finally, Tim pulled out, helping Y/N off the counter and into his arms.

“Mine,” he repeated softly, kissing the top of her head.

She smiled against his chest, feeling more content than she had in years. “Your

[lumierepcy]

I'm crying I'm afraid I'll get banned if i post the smuts I've been writing about Tim Bradford 😭😭

[lumierepcy]

Falling deeper for tim bradford 😭

imagining training officer!tim bradford giving you extra care and help after you come back to the station from a serious gun wound (not 18+ but there are sexual innuendos + swearing) . . .

you can't stop it, the trauma lingers in your fingertips as your nerves overpower your ability to keep a steady hand when you raise your gun to the shooting range's target. with memories that taunt, you're getting easily frustrated because you can't get a clean shot and god damn, you used to be so good at shooting.

training officer!tim bradford finds you at the indoor shooting range, and despite his brain automatically gearing to the negatives, wondering why you're here at the station two hours before the beginning of your shift...well, he's here too.

and plus, he notices far too quickly in the harshness of your stance and the groans you let out that right now isn't a good time to criticise you. after all, you're not on the clock.

training officer!tim bradford takes your oblivion to his entrance as an advantage as he keeps quiet behind you. with stern eyes flickering to the study of your posture, his gaze lands on the hold you embrace to the gun.

that's when he sees your shakiness.

you've always been sturdy with a gun, taking control over whatever amounts of recoil it may give you when used, and your bullseyes never fail to impress him. but, that was before he'd last seen you- helpless and weak on the hospital bed after you'd...been shot.

training officer!tim bradford doesn't give his brain enough time to think before his feet get to moving.

dropping his bag beside your stall and grabbing his own pair of safety glasses, he murmurs a "let me help", and he gives you absolutely no time to realise that holy fuck, your TO was there the whole time.

you don't even glance behind you, knowing damn well it's him as you shake your head, "it's fine, i just need to practic-"

"don't argue with me, boot." he simply states, and that's when you physically feel his presence when his black t-shirt brushes your back, instantly, receiving a flush of heat to the skin shuddering beneath it.

then, you watch when his two arms reach out, and before you can question what he's doing, training officer!tim bradford clasps his large hands over yours; one steadying your dominant hand higher on the pistol's grip, and the other supporting your hand beneath the trigger guard.

"you're too stiff," his voice is low and raspy, the early morning still affecting his tone when he murmurs quietly, and his lips are just inches away warming your ear. "relax your shoulders f'me otherwise it's gonna throw everything off."

"it's not my shoulders," you reply, purposely trying to avoid the sudden thump to your heartbeat when his breath doesn't let down by your side, "i can't stop shaking."

"i know," but it's in a way that isn't condescending or mocking, for once. and if you focused on training officer!tim bradford rather than the embarrassing shake of your hands and the way he's pressed up against you, you would've noticed his dominant thumb brushing back and forth across your own- his subconscious grounding your own in the smallest way possible. "that's why i'm here."

with a swift motion, training officer!tim bradford draws his leg in between your own, guiding your feet to stretch so they're: "shoulder width, and bend your knees some more. lean into the gun, not away, yeah?"

you oblige, shuffling until you're at the required stance.

"that's it," and you try so fucking hard to not think about how your TO whispering that in your ear is doing numbers to you. instead, you let a shudder crawl up your spine, "breathe, boot. listen to my voice, don't let your anxieties get to you."

he hums in approval once he hears your large inhale through your nostrils, and the quivering exhale that comes out. and training officer!tim bradford knows you're no longer shaky from whatever memories are latching onto you. instead, infiltrating your thoughts are him, and his large, blazing hands that cover your clammy ones, and his broad chest that's flushed against your back, and his breath that still tickles your ear.

and you swear you can feel just the lightest graze of his lips on your helix when he continues, "don't look at the target, focus on your front sight, just the tip. allow everything else to blur."

you let out another deep exhale, jesus christ he's gotta be fucking with you.

"trigger finger straight until you're ready to shoot, okay?"

you blink hard.

"i can do this." but you're talking more towards the quick bypassing of memories that interrupt your vision. the alleyway. the hospital. the adrenaline wearing off and paranoia coming in.

training officer!tim bradford doesn't mind. in fact, in this moment you need the reassurance more than anything.

"i know you can," and it's probably the nicest thing he's ever said to you, "i've seen you shoot before with your eyes half-shut on a moving target- you got this."

so, as you play against the whirlwind of your mind and collect training officer!tim bradford's energy instead, you find that the seconds that have passed are slow- more effective, more reasonable and easy to work with.

and in those split seconds, your gaze takes it's approach-

steady...steady...

you pull the trigger.

the shot, ever so surprisingly, hits the target. not quite in the centre- but regardless, it hits.

"oh," you gasp out, and training officer!tim bradford knows you too well that he doesn't need to see your face, recognising the smile in your voice so easily- as if it's fucking second nature to him. "look, i did it."

tim's whisper can be felt right in your core as he grins against your ear.

"attagirl."

[lumierepcy]

Boot

Part 1

Tim Bradford × reader (smut)

Synopsis:-He was her commanding officer. She was the rookie who couldn't hide the way her heart raced whenever he was near.

Fresh out of the academy, Y/N thought surviving Mid-Wilshire would be her biggest challenge — until Sergeant Tim Bradford started watching her a little too closely. Behind locked doors and strict rules, a forbidden tension ignites. What starts with sharp orders and tight-lipped authority soon spirals into stolen moments and dangerous desires. But when power and passion collide, will they burn each other out… or burn the whole station down?

“Boot” is a slow-burn age-gap romance packed with angst, heat, and the electrifying thrill of secrets oneshot.

Disclaimer

This story is a work of fiction and intended for mature audiences (18+) only. It features explicit content, power dynamics, and workplace relationships that are fictional and dramatized for entertainment. The behaviors and scenarios portrayed do not reflect real-life professional conduct and should not be interpreted as romanticizing unethical relationships in positions of authority.

Reader discretion is strongly advised.

The Mid-Wilshire Police Station buzzed with its usual chaotic energy, but Sergeant Tim Bradford’s attention was elsewhere. His sharp eyes tracked the rookie—you—as you moved through the bullpen, your uniform crisp, your posture stiff with nervous determination. He’d noticed you from day one, though he’d never admit it. The way your hips swayed just slightly as you walked, the way your chest rose and fell with every breath, the way your lips parted when you were deep in thought—it all gnawed at him.

You were young, fresh out of the academy, and so green it almost hurt. But there was something about you that made his jaw tighten and his pulse quicken. Maybe it was the way you looked at him with those wide, innocent eyes, like he was some kind of untouchable god. Or maybe it was the way your uniform clung to your curves, hinting at the softness beneath. Whatever it was, it was driving him mad.

You were scared sometimes that your feelings towards him will be revealed, so so so scared .

“Y/N,” he barked, his voice cutting through the noise of the station. You froze mid-step, turning to face him with a mix of fear and admiration. “My office. Now.”

You followed him without question, your heart pounding in your chest. His office was small but immaculate, just like him. He closed the door behind you, the click of the lock making your stomach twist.

“Sit,” he ordered, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. You obeyed, perching on the edge of the seat like a bird ready to take flight. He leaned against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You’ve been here a month, and I’ve been watching you. You’re… competent. But you’re holding back. Why?”

Your cheeks flushed under his scrutiny. “I… I don’t know what you mean, Sergeant.”

He tilted his head, his gaze piercing. “Don’t play dumb with me. I see the way you hesitate, the way you second-guess yourself. You’re better than that. You just need someone to push you.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “I’ll try harder, Sergeant.”

“Trying isn’t enough,” he said, his voice low and firm. “You need to commit. To this job. To yourself.” He paused, his eyes dropping to your lips for the briefest of moments before meeting your gaze again. “And maybe to me.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, the room felt too small, too hot. “Sergeant, I—”

“Tim,” he interrupted, his voice softer now. “Call me Tim.”

“Tim,” you whispered, testing the name on your tongue. It felt forbidden, intimate.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “You’ve got potential, Boot . But potential means nothing if you don’t act on it.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. “Do you understand?”

You nodded, your heart racing. “Yes, Sir.”

His thumb traced your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine. “Good girl.”

The words sent a jolt of heat straight to your core, and before you could think, before you could stop yourself, you leaned into his touch. His eyes darkened, and then his lips were on yours, rough and demanding. You gasped into the kiss, your hands flying to his chest to steady yourself. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, claiming you in a way that left no room for doubt.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your lips swollen and tingling. “Tim,” you murmured, your voice trembling.

“Shh,” he whispered, his hands moving to your shoulders, pushing your uniform jacket off. “Let me show you what it means to commit.”

You didn’t resist as he stripped you down, his hands roaming over your body with a possessiveness that made your knees weak. When he cupped your breasts through your bra, you moaned softly, arching into his touch. “So perfect,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened beneath the fabric.

He unhooked your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes drank in the sight of your bare chest, the way your breasts heaved with every breath. “Fuck,” he growled, his hands kneading your flesh, his thumbs circling your nipples until you were whimpering with need.

“T-tim, please,” you begged, your hands clutching at his shirt.

He smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you. “Please what, Boot? Use your words.”

“I… I need you,” you stammered, your cheeks burning.

“That’s my girl,” he said, his voice thick with approval. He pulled off his shirt, revealing a torso sculpted from years of hard work and discipline. You couldn’t help but reach out, your fingers tracing the lines of his abs, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch.

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head as he kissed you again, this time with a hunger that left you dizzy. His free hand slid down your body, slipping between your legs to find you already wet and aching for him. “So eager,” he murmured against your lips, his fingers teasing your entrance.

“Tim,” you moaned, your hips bucking against his hand.

“Not yet,” he said, pulling away just enough to look into your eyes. “I want to hear you beg for it.”

“P-please,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Please, I need you inside me.”

He smiled, a dark, possessive smile that made your stomach flip. “Good girl.”

He released your wrists, letting them fall to your sides as he unbuckled his belt and pushed down his pants. Your eyes widened at the sight of him, thick and hard and ready for you. He stepped closer, his hands gripping your hips as he positioned himself at your entrance.

“Look at me,” he commanded, and you obeyed, your eyes locking with his as he pushed inside you in one slow, deliberate thrust. You cried out, the sensation overwhelming as he filled you completely.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands tightening on your hips. “You feel incredible.”

He began to move, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through you. Your hands found his shoulders, clinging to him as he drove into you again and again. His lips found yours once more, the kiss messy and desperate as you both lost yourselves in the rhythm of your bodies.

“Tim,” you gasped, your nails digging into his skin. “I’m close.”

“Come for me,” he growled, his pace quickening. “Let go.”

The command was all it took. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, your body trembling as pleasure consumed you. He followed soon after, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself inside you with a low groan.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both of you breathing heavily as you came down from the high. Then he pulled out, his hands gentle as he helped you sit up.

“You did good, Boot,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “But this stays between us. Understand?”

You nodded, still too dazed to speak. He pressed a kiss to your forehead before standing and pulling on his clothes. As you watched him, a part of you knew this was just the beginning—of something dangerous, something forbidden.

And you couldn’t wait to see where it would lead.

[lumierepcy]

CAN YOU DO READERXTIM BUT AS A THE READER IS A DANCER??

Pirouettes and Power Trail

Tim Bradford × Dancer Reader

(requested)

Synopsis:- She’s all satin ribbons, soft smirks, and stage lights — a world-class ballerina who dances like a dream and flirts like it’s second nature.

He’s Officer Tim Bradford — all hard edges, tightly wound rules, and a stare that’s suddenly only ever on her.

She’s back in L.A. to dance the White Swan.

He’s just trying to get through his shift without wanting what he shouldn’t.

But when she steps into his precinct like a poem in motion — all bare shoulders and biting charm — Tim finds himself unraveling slowly.

Too slowly.

Because now she’s everywhere — in his station, in his head… and under his skin.

He tells himself she’s off-limits.

She tells him nothing… except with every look, every whisper, every graze of fingers that lingers just a second too long.

And when she finally dares him to let go?

He just might.

Part 1

Mid-Wilshire Station, 3:17 PM

The air in the bullpen was thick with the usual: the hum of chatter, phones ringing, the sharp slam of a file drawer. It was loud, restless, unbearably hot — the kind of afternoon where tempers frayed and paperwork multiplied.

Tim Bradford sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed. Pen tapping the side of a file. His head ached from hours of patrol and minimal coffee. He was seconds away from barking at Nolan to stop clicking his damn pen when—

“I need you all to behave,” Lucy Chen declared, marching in like a woman with purpose. “Just for five minutes. No yelling, no sarcasm, no weird comments.”

Angela raised a brow. “Sounds like you’re introducing someone important.”

“I am.” Lucy’s grin grew. “My best friend. From college. She just got into town—”

Nyla sipped her iced coffee. “Wait. Is this the ballerina?”

“The one and only,” Lucy nodded proudly. “She’s dancing the White Swan at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion this week.”

That earned a round of mild interest.

Tim didn’t even look up. “The Swan Lake one? Isn’t that the tragic bird story?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. Just—shut up and be cool.”

And then, the door opened.

The station didn’t fall silent — but it shifted. Just slightly.

You walked in like the softest interruption the world had ever seen.

A dusty pink cardigan hung loosely over your shoulders, pale cream leotard beneath, high-waisted warmup pants fitted just right. Your ballet shoes were tied to your tote, swaying as you walked. Your bun was clean, sharp, and elegant, not a hair out of place.

It was effortless. Like you didn’t belong here. And yet somehow… you did.

“Lucy!” you lit up, voice like a smile in spring.

Lucy jogged over, enveloping you in a hug. “You look exactly the same. Like time decided to freeze just for you.”

The squad noticed. All of them.

Angela leaned toward Nolan. “She’s soft.”

“Like… dream-sequence soft,” Nolan whispered, eyes wide.

Nyla hummed under her breath. “And she’s walking like she owns the air.”

You looked around then — slowly, like you had no rush to belong here — and your eyes met his.

Tim Bradford. Towering. Still. Watching you like you were something delicate behind glass, something he couldn’t quite figure out if he wanted to touch or just… observe.

Your gaze held.

Unflinching. Curious. Just shy of mischievous.

Then you smiled — slow and light, like you were already in on the joke.

“Oh,” you said, taking a step closer. “You must be Bradford.”

He straightened, unsure why, nodding once. “That’s me.”

You offered your hand, slim fingers perfectly poised. “I’ve heard a lot.”

Tim took it. Your skin was soft. Cold from air conditioning, but warm at the fingertips. There was something about the way your palm fit his — too perfect to ignore, too brief to hold on to.

“All lies, I hope,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, just a little. “She said you were handsome… and uptight. I came to see which part was true.”

Behind you, Lucy made a strangled noise. “I hate both of you.”

But you weren’t paying attention anymore.

Neither was Tim.

The corners of his mouth twitched. “And?”

You blinked slowly, lips curling into something silkier. “Still deciding.”

He couldn’t tell if you were flirting. Or if this was just how you were — graceful and unreadable.

Then you turned, digging into your tote bag. “Anyway. I brought bribes.”

You handed Lucy a cream-colored envelope, then pulled out four more.

“Tickets,” you said simply. “Comp seats. All of you are invited. I figured if Lucy works with you, you can’t be that awful.”

Angela took hers with a grin. “Front row? Damn. You don’t mess around.”

Nyla looked over the envelope, reading your handwriting. “She even wrote our names in calligraphy. Okay, I love her.”

Tim accepted his without a word, eyes flicking to the name printed on the back — Officer Bradford — in gold-ink script.

You met his gaze again.

“I left you an aisle seat,” you said, softly this time. “In case you need to make a quick escape.”

He held your gaze. “I don’t run from things.”

You smiled. “Good.”

You checked your phone, your movements fluid. Every gesture calculated, like your bones remembered rhythm even off stage.

“My cue,” you said quietly. “If I’m late again, my choreographer will sob into his espresso.”

You reached for Lucy, giving her a quick side-hug. “Come early. Wear something dramatic. Oh—and bring flowers if you love me.”

You turned back to the others. “See you all Friday night. And if any of you come in uniform, I’ll pirouette into traffic.”

That earned a laugh. Even from Tim.

But as you reached the door, you looked over your shoulder — just once.

And your eyes found his again.

A little longer this time. A little slower.

Then you disappeared through the glass doors like the moment had never happened.

Silence.

And then—Angela, deadpan: “We’re all going to that damn ballet, right?”

Nyla: “I’d go just to watch her stand still.”

Nolan: “I think I forgot how to breathe.”

Lucy groaned. “She’s not even trying, guys.”

Tim didn’t say a word.

He was still staring at the envelope in his hand.

But in his chest?

Something shifted.

Like the flutter of wings in the dark.

The theater was colder than Tim expected.

He sat in his aisle seat, arms crossed loosely over a fitted navy button-down, jaw tight as he scanned the darkened auditorium. It was full — women in satin gloves, men in suits, soft murmurs and clinking wine glasses in the lobby just minutes ago.

He wasn’t sure why he came.

Maybe it was curiosity.

Maybe it was that look you gave him — calm, knowing, like you were letting him into a secret.

Whatever the reason, he was here.

And then the lights dimmed. And you appeared.

First just a shadow, a silhouette.

And then — the White Swan.

Tim didn’t breathe.

You moved like something unreal. Like your bones were laced with music and light. You were fragile and strong all at once, arms like wings, every glance down to your fingertips soaked in emotion.

The moment you stepped center stage, something in the air pulled taut.

He watched, barely blinking.

Your face was so different now. Not flirty, not teasing — but haunted, as if you were dancing with heartbreak stitched to your ribs. The softness was still there, but it was deeper now. Raw. Unfolding.

Your lips didn’t smile, but your eyes… they searched. Longing.

When the first act ended, the audience clapped politely.

Tim didn’t move. His hands remained still, fingertips brushing the folded program on his knee.

Angela leaned across him from her seat. “Still uptight?”

He didn’t answer.

Because all he could think about was how someone so light could carry that much weight in their body.

---

Backstage — 10:03 PM

You peeled off the feathered bodice with slow, practiced fingers, sweat clinging to your back. The room was still humming with post-show tension — techs, dressers, the distant rumble of applause from curtain call.

You weren’t expecting him to be there. More like you expected Lucy and the other officers here but they are nowhere in sight.

Not really.

Not until you turned and saw him in the doorway.

Leaning against the wall like he belonged nowhere and yet somehow.

“Did the others leave officer?” You asked gently slight disappointment fluttered on your eyes .

“Yeah–they were pulled in last minute. Asked me to give you these and tell you how awesome your performance was–” he handed out a bouquet of lilies and baby breath.

“Thank you.” you said softly taking the bouquet taking in it's fragrance.

Moving to your dresser almost immediately, inviting him inside your changing room.

You peeled off the feathered bodice with slow, practiced fingers, sweat clinging to your back. The air in the dressing room was thick — not with heat, but with that soft, quiet tension that always came after the final bow.

And then you felt it.

That awareness. That shift.

You turned — and there he was.

Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, eyes darker than before. Tim Bradford didn’t look like a cop in that moment. He looked like a man trying not to want something he already did.

He said nothing. Neither did you. Not right away.

You reached for your silk robe, slipping it on without turning away from him.

“You stayed,” you said, voice soft, barely a whisper.

“I told you I might,” he replied, his gaze unwavering.

Your lips curled into something knowing. “I didn’t expect you backstage.”

“I didn’t expect you to look like that on stage.”

That made your breath hitch. You stepped closer, robe tied loosely at the waist, the shape of you still visible beneath the fabric. He was taller than you remembered. Broader. More undone in his quiet than most men were shouting.

“What did I look like?” you asked, eyes searching his.

He hesitated.

“Like you were breaking,” he murmured. “But… beautifully.”

You smiled, something slow and dangerous curling behind your teeth.

“You know,” you said, taking another step toward him, “most men would just say ‘you looked good.’”

“I’m not most men,” he said lowly.

“No,” you agreed, resting a hand lightly against his chest, “you’re not.”

He stilled.

Your fingers skimmed the buttons of his shirt. Testing. Teasing. You tilted your head and looked up at him.

“Tell me to stop.”

Tim’s jaw clenched. His eyes flicked from your mouth to your collarbone, then back.

He didn’t say it.

So you reached for his shirt and began to undo the top button. Then another. The fabric gave way to warm skin — and the tension between you tightened like string around a bow.

“You really came in uniform,” you whispered, eyes tracing the badge he’d set on the vanity behind him. “All stoic. All rules.”

“I have a lot of rules,” he said roughly, his hands still at his sides.

You moved to the next button. “You don’t seem to be using them right now.”

And that’s when his hands finally moved — grabbing your wrist, gently, but firm. Holding you there.

His voice was tight. “Are you doing this because you want to…”

Your lashes lowered. “Do I look like someone who moves without meaning to?”

That made something flicker in him — hunger, maybe. Need. Or maybe just the brutal realization that no matter how badly he wanted to stop this, he wouldn’t.

So when you leaned in — slowly, deliberately — and kissed him, he didn’t resist.

He shattered.

Tim’s mouth crushed into yours, hands finding your waist, your back, your hips — pulling you in like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning all his life.

You moaned against him, fingers sliding beneath his shirt, palms on skin, feeling the muscles in his back tighten beneath your touch.

He walked you backward — one step, then another — until your back met the dressing room wall. Mirrors to your side, the vanity behind. Your robe slipped open as his mouth dragged along your jaw, your throat, kissing down to your shoulder like he was memorizing skin.

“You’re so soft,” he growled.

“And you’re shaking,” you whispered, feeling his pulse race under your hands.

“I’m not used to…”

“To being touched like this?”

“To feeling like this.”

You smiled against his lips. “Then let me ruin you gently.”

And he let you.

Your back hit the dressing room wall, robe slipping from one shoulder, silk puddling at your elbows. The lights around the vanity flickered warm gold, catching the sheen of sweat still on your collarbone — and the flushed glow that hadn’t left your skin since the curtain dropped.

Tim’s body pressed into yours like restraint had finally cracked.

He kissed like he was trying not to, like he didn’t deserve it. But you didn’t let him hold back. One soft moan against his mouth — a whispered “Tim…” — and he was gone.

You tugged at the tucked fabric of his shirt, fingers quick but unhurried, until you could feel the solid heat of his chest against yours. He hissed when your bare skin met his — the contrast of warm silk and softer flesh making his breath catch.

“You always this quiet, Officer Bradford?” you murmured against his throat, lips ghosting over the stubble there.

He chuckled, low and strained. “You’re not leaving much room to speak.”

You smiled, hand sliding between your bodies to undo his belt. “Good.”

When it dropped with a heavy clink, he cursed under his breath.

And when you dragged his trousers down just enough and brushed your palm over the hardness beneath his briefs, his forehead fell to your shoulder. He gripped your hips like they grounded him, fingers digging into the edge of your thigh.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered again, lips at his ear.

He didn’t.

You moved to the dressing table beside you, the bulbs humming faintly as you leaned back against it, legs slightly apart. He followed blindly, watching you slide the robe off your shoulders completely — the soft fabric falling to the floor.

You sat there, bare, flushed, a slow grin tugging at your lips like this wasn’t your first time commanding a man without raising your voice.

But Tim looked at you like it was — like no one had ever looked like this, sounded like this, felt like this.

“I should…” he started, hands hovering over your thighs. “We don’t have—protection—”

You reached for him, thumb brushing along the line of his jaw.

“I’m covered,” you whispered. “And I want to feel you.”

Tim inhaled sharply — that low, guttural sound of a man who’s trying so hard not to fall apart.

But you didn’t give him the chance to resist.

You guided him in — slowly — wrapping your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind him.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

The stretch was slow. Deep. The kind that made your breath hitch and your fingers clutch at his arms. He buried his face against your neck as you both adjusted, his hands bracing on the vanity, muscles tense with restraint.

Then you rocked into him.

Once.

Twice.

And all his composure unraveled.

He moved with purpose, but not rushed. His thrusts were firm, slow, like he needed to feel every inch of you — like this wasn’t about release but worship. Your body, your breath, the way your nails dug into his back when he hit just right.

“You’re—”

“Perfect,” he groaned. “You feel—Jesus, you feel like—”

“Say it,” you whispered, panting. “Say how good I feel.”

“You’ll ruin me,” he said against your lips.

“I hope so.”

Your thighs trembled as you tightened around him, your head falling back, the vanity mirror catching the curve of your body — wrapped around him, clinging like satin.

And when you finally came, it was soft — breathy and broken, with your face buried in his neck, hand gripping the back of his shirt like a lifeline.

Tim followed seconds later, teeth gritted, arms trembling as he pressed into you with one last, shaking thrust.

Silence.

Only your heartbeat. His breath. The dressing room, dim and too warm, holding what was left of the two of you.

Then…

“You really don’t play fair,” he rasped.

You smiled lazily, dragging your fingers up his chest.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Let me ruin you gently.”

And he let you.

«The next day evening »

The rooftop sparkled.

Gold string lights tangled between planters. Low jazz hummed from a corner speaker. You stood near the edge, wrapped in silver satin and soft perfume, a coupe glass in hand. Your legs crossed at the ankle, posture relaxed — like you hadn’t just shattered a man last night with a whisper and your hips.

Tim stood across the space, glass of whiskey in hand, watching you.

Not obviously. But constantly.

You hadn’t spoken since the dressing room. Just a soft brush of your fingers over his chest when you left that night. No promises. No awkward small talk.

But you’d sent him a text earlier that read only:

> Wear something black. And don’t frown so much, Bradford.

You’ll scare the rich ballet donors.

So he came. In a black suit. Clean-shaven. His badge nowhere in sight.

And now he watched you laugh with a choreographer who was too close. Hands that lingered a second too long on your waist. Compliments whispered into the shell of your ear that made Tim’s jaw tighten and his fingers flex around his glass.

Nyla, standing beside him, sipped her martini and said casually:

“You know you look like you’re seconds away from tackling someone.”

“I’m not.”

“You sure?”

He didn’t answer.

Across the space, your eyes flicked to him. Just briefly.

Then you smiled at the man beside you, laughed softly — too softly — and placed a hand gently over his chest.

Tim’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh yeah,” Nyla muttered, “he’s dead.”

A few moments later, you excused yourself from the group and made your way over to the adjoint balcony— like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t just driven him halfway insane on purpose.

He was already there standing, waiting for a moment to be near you.

You stopped in front of him, head tilted, eyes lit like champagne.

“Hi, officer.”

Tim looked down at you. His jaw was tight. “Having fun?”

“Always.”

“You looked cozy with that guy.”

“Oh, sweetie…” You stepped closer, fingers grazing his lapel. “If I wanted him, he’d be in a cab and half-dressed by now.”

Tim didn’t smile.

His hand caught your wrist gently, thumb brushing over your pulse point — grounding himself, or maybe warning you.

“You trying to make me jealous?”

You blinked up at him, voice featherlight. “Would it work?”

He didn’t answer.

But the look he gave you?

It burned. Low, hot, all possession and restraint held by a thread.

“I liked you better last night,” you murmured, stepping closer until your chest brushed his.

“Why’s that?” His voice was rough.

“Because you didn’t talk so much then.”

You let your fingers ghost down his chest, toward his belt, and then—

You pulled back.

“Anyway,” you whispered, brushing imaginary lint off his jacket. “Thanks for coming. I’ll send you another ticket next week. Giselle’s a little softer.”

Tim’s hand curled around your waist — not tightly, but there. A boundary. A line.

“You’re not gonna keep doing this,” he said, voice husky.

You looked up at him, lips parted in a lazy smirk. “Doing what?”

“Driving me crazy. Walking away. Acting like last night didn’t matter.”

You leaned in. Real close. So close he could feel your lip gloss brush his skin.

“I’m not acting,” you breathed. “I’m dancing. And you’re watching.”

And then — you kissed his cheek. Soft, slow. A ghost of a promise.

Then you walked away.

And Tim?

He watched.

Because he was already in too deep.

Make sure to Follow comment and reshare , so that you'll be there to read Part 2 <3

Love and Kisses

[lumierepcy]

I keep re-reading this YIKES!!!!! WISH IT WAS A NOVEL

Caught off guard

tim bradford x inexperienced!fem!reader

synopsis: you never expected to find tim in such a vulnerable moment. walking into his office, you freeze as your eyes land on him, intensely focused, caught in the middle of pleasuring himself. the unexpected intimacy between you stirs a confusing mix of embarrassment, curiosity, and something deeper. as tim quickly recovers, the tension between you shifts, opening the door to a new kind of connection neither of you saw coming and maybe him teaching you a new thing or two.

requested by: my lovely @sleepymissy author's note: yet another amazing req from my lovely Missy. this is a longer one and also not proofread, sorry but the ideas were just flowing! (join the taglist)

content warnings: mdni, age gap, mentions of sex work, mentions of violence, masturbation (m), hand jobs, fingering, virginity loss, p in v.

word count: 7.4k

You felt amazing. It was amazing. You were finally P2. For the longest time, it felt like your time as a rookie would never end, but finally, you'd made it. Thank goodness Grey had paired you with one of the kindest and most good-hearted men you knew. John Nolan.

John was everything you could’ve asked for in a training officer. He was patient, gentle when needed, tough when necessary, and always willing to listen. He guided you through your toughest calls and celebrated your wins like they were his own. His group of friends welcomed you easily, all warm smiles and helpful advice.

Well, all except one.

Tim Bradford.

He was stoic. Intense. Controlled. Tim was quiet in that unnerving way that made you wonder what he was thinking. His eyes, a piercing ocean blue, always seemed to be working something out that he never let anyone in on. He wasn't even part of patrol anymore. He was working metro, and yet he was always around.

At first, you didn’t understand why. He was in metro, a tight knit group who wouldn't really hang out with those outside their clique, especially not with Nolan and his easygoing friends. But Lucy had explained it one day, a little awkwardly. They used to be something. More than just partners. Because a superior dating a subordinate could put both their careers at risk, Tim had transferred to metro to make things easier. So, there was history.

And for a while, it had worked. Things between them seemed good. Solid even. But eventually, it fell apart. Lucy moved on. She went back to Chris, saying she needed something more grounded. Something stable.

"Look at you! P2." Lucy grinned as you walked into the station. She stood beside Tim, who, as always, remained composed.

"Congrats, Boot. Didn’t think you’d make it this far." His tone was dry, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. The word Boot was meant to be a jab, something to get under your skin, yet coming from him, it rolled off you like water off a duck's back.

"Thanks, sir." You smiled sweetly, catching the faint flush that crept up his neck.

Tim would be lying if he said he didn’t notice you. You were younger. Confident. Attractive. And the way you called him sir, even now that you didn’t have to, did things to him he didn’t want to admit. Maybe it was the tone you used, teasing and respectful all at once. Maybe it was the way your eyes lingered on him a second too long. Whatever it was, he couldn’t help the way his body reacted to you. Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

___________

“So, any celebration plans now that you're a P2?” Aaron asks, his hands steady on the wheel as he cruises down the road, eyes flicking between the traffic and you.

You shrug, watching the city pass by through the passenger window. “Hm, not really. I mean… is it really that big of a deal?”

Aaron scoffs. “Uh, yeah! Most rookies wash out before they even get to this point. But you didn’t. That means something.”

You hum in reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. “If you need, I know the best caviar place."

You turn to him with a smirk, but before you can fire back, a rapid pop-pop-pop shatters the rhythm of the moment. Gunshots. Close.

Aaron’s posture snaps straight, and your hand instinctively drops to your holster.

“Did you hear that?” you ask, eyes scanning the buildings, already flipping your body around in the seat.

“Yeah. That was automatic.” He flicks on the lights and sirens, making a sharp turn onto the next street.

You both move fast. No hesitation. Radios crackle as you key up. “7-Adam-19, we’ve got shots fired near 5th and Valencia. Requesting backup and an airship. Possible active shooter.”

The tires screech as you roll up to a narrow alley choked with shadow. A black SUV is parked half-on, half-off the curb, the driver’s side door still swinging open. Shell casings glitter on the pavement like cursed confetti.

“Shit,” Aaron mutters, parking at an angle for cover. “You see anyone?”

You shake your head, already stepping out, weapon drawn, scanning.

“Clear right,” you whisper, and he answers, “Clear left.”

The two of you move together, backs tight, eyes sharp. Halfway down, a steel door slams shut at the far end of the alley, and a shadow flits behind a dumpster.

Aaron lifts his radio again. “We have movement. Possible suspect fleeing eastbound. Need Metro support. Now.”

Crackling static fills the radio before Tim’s voice cuts through. “Metro en route. ETA three minutes. Hold position if you can.”

Your grip tightens on your gun at the sound of his voice. Not because you're nervous—no, because lately things between you and Tim have felt... off. Since you made P2, he’s been distant. Guarded. You don’t know what shifted, but it lingers in every interaction like smoke in the air.

You and Aaron hold the position, watching the far end of the alley until Metro arrives. Tim’s team pours in with practiced precision, clearing the buildings, chasing the trail. But the shooter’s already fled.

When the adrenaline fades, you're left staring down at the glittering casings and the bloodstain near the SUV’s tire. A reminder of how close chaos always is.

Tim finds you shortly after. He says nothing at first, just walks over, scanning you for injuries, for damage. His eyes are sharp, unreadable.

“You good?” he finally asks.

You nod. “Yeah. We held perimeter until Metro showed. Suspect’s gone.”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary. “You did good.”

It should feel like praise. It should feel like validation. But instead, it lands heavy, like there’s something he’s not saying.

"Thanks." Aaron chirps in to cut the thick air, it was meant to come out as a joke, but he only earned a smirk from you, Tim remained his usual grumpy self. Tim nods in goodbye before joining his metro buddies. "Damn, I didn't think Tim could be grumpier than he already is." Aaron turns around with you, greeting Nyla and Angela as they walk onto the scene. "Hm, I noticed that too, I mean he's always been a bit of an ass but lately he's been a huge dick." You whispered not wanting anyone to hear your conversation.

Suddenly you went quiet, it was pathetic honestly. The image of Tim flooded your mind, his cock in hand, his heavy blue eyes on you, and only you. "Hey? You good?" Aaron opens the passenger door for you to enter, being the usual gentleman he is. "Hm? Yeah, just thinking about celebration plans." You lied.

The drive back to the station was quiet. The kind of quiet that settled not from lack of things to say, but from the weight of everything that had just happened. The adrenaline was still ebbing in your bloodstream, leaving behind the telltale ache in your limbs and the faint thud in your temples. You stared out the window, watching the city blur past in amber streaks of streetlight, but your mind wasn’t on the buildings or the traffic.

It was on him.

You tried not to think about it, about him, but the moment kept replaying behind your eyes like some slow-motion loop you couldn’t shake. Tim, storming into the alley with Metro, taking command like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bulletproof vest snug against his chest, sculpting his torso like a second skin. You knew the man was fit, had seen him train, seen him in uniform day in and day out, but something about him in that moment hit different.

Maybe it was the way he moved, fluid and sure, eyes scanning, body tensed for danger. Or maybe it was the way his biceps strained beneath the sleeves of his black tactical shirt, the fabric clinging and flexing with each movement like it could barely contain the power underneath. It looked like the seams were moments away from surrendering, and you hated how easily your eyes had locked there.

And his jaw, God, his jaw. Clenched in that firm, focused way, like he was holding back an entire storm of emotion, pushing it all down so he could stay sharp. Professional. In control. The muscle ticked as he gave orders, his voice calm but edged in steel, and the way he held his weapon? You’d trained for that. Practiced that. But when he did it, it wasn’t just muscle memory. It was precision, dominance, command.

You remembered the veins on his forearms, too, what a ridiculous detail to get stuck on, but they stood out, thick and pronounced as he moved with purpose. They pulsed beneath the skin, mapping a trail that had your stomach tightening in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with desire. It was... distracting. Maddening.

You blinked, shaking your head slightly as if you could dislodge the image. You shouldn't be thinking about him like that, especially not after an active shooter scene. But the image lingered. Branded into your thoughts like heat against cold metal.

Next to you, Aaron drove in silence. Maybe he was lost in his own thoughts too, maybe he was giving you space. Either way, you were grateful. The last thing you needed right now was to talk. Especially not about what had just happened, or who had just happened to show up like a real-life action hero.

You rubbed your fingers against your thigh, trying to ground yourself, but it didn’t help much.

Because despite the calm in the car, your thoughts were anything but. And no matter how hard you tried to focus on what came next, paperwork, statements, the debrief, all you could think about was Tim Bradford. Clenched jaw. Veined forearms. Gun in hand.

___________

“Hey, I heard about the shooting. You okay?” Lucy’s voice cut through the low buzz of the station, her concern evident as she approached you and Aaron. Her brows were pulled together, eyes scanning your face for any sign of strain.

“Yeah,” Aaron replied quickly, before you could even open your mouth. “Perp got away just as Tim and his team made it to the scene.”

Lucy winced. “Shit,” she mumbled, her gaze drifting toward Grey’s office. Tim was already inside, standing tall, arms crossed tightly across his chest as he gave his debrief. His expression was unreadable, locked down and professional, but you could see the muscle twitch in his jaw as he spoke. Always in control. Always wound just a little too tight.

You were about to excuse yourself to change out of your tac gear when Grey’s voice rang out across the bullpen.

“Can I see you in my office?”

You froze for a beat, then nodded quickly, wiping your palms on your pants before crossing the floor and stepping into the office.

Tim barely looked at you as you entered, though you could feel the heat of his stare lingering just beneath the surface. He stood beside Grey, who didn’t waste time.

“We think the shooter was tipped off,” Grey began, his tone clipped and direct. “The plates on the vehicle match one of Elijah Stone’s known associates.”

You swallowed hard. That name wasn’t just any name, it carried weight. Violence. Power.

“We need someone on the inside,” Grey continued. “Someone new. Unconnected.”

Tim finally looked at you. Really looked.

“Ever worked UC, Boot?”

Your stomach tightened. Grey’s brows twitched slightly at the nickname, but he didn’t comment. Tim didn’t apologize either.

“Uh… n-no, sir.” Your voice hitched embarrassingly under their dual scrutiny. Both men stared at you like they were weighing something, like this moment mattered more than you realized.

“Chen will brief you. Get ready. Wheels up in 30,” Grey said, voice firm. Then he added, without looking up, “Unless you think you’re not ready.”

You didn’t miss the way Tim’s gaze bore into you—sharp, questioning, challenging. Like he wanted to see if you’d flinch.

“No,” you said, straighter now. Stronger. “I’m ready, sir.”

You didn’t know then what that really meant.

It hit you like a slap once you saw the outfit.

The wardrobe Lucy laid out for you was, well, it was a lot. You were being posed as a hooker.

The low-cut black tank top was tight across your chest, just barely appropriate enough to conceal the small wire and mic strapped beneath it. Over it, a cheap faux-fur jacket that reeked of desperation and stale perfume. The mini skirt was metallic gold, short enough to reveal everything with one wrong move. Paired with thigh-high black stockings that clung to your legs like a second skin, and silver platform heels that looked like they belonged on a stripper pole.

Lucy had gone full out with your hair and makeup, your ponytail was teased to high heaven, your lips glossed a sticky cherry red, and your eyes smoked out with so much liner you barely recognized your own face. The gold hoops in your ears caught the overhead lights like a beacon.

You looked… older. Edgier. Dangerous.

And, okay, hot. You couldn’t deny that. You looked like a problem.

When you stepped out of the locker room, the reaction was immediate.

Aaron let out a slow, impressed breath, shaking his head. “Damn. If the undercover gig doesn’t pan out, you could start charging entry to walk into a room like that.”

Lucy grinned with pride, arms folded like a fashion designer watching her muse strut the runway. “I told you,” she said to Angela, “this girl has range.”

Angela gave you a once-over, clearly impressed. “Lucy, you need to dress me up for date night with Wesley,” she joked, before fist-bumping Nyla.

You, on the other hand, tugged at your skirt in a useless attempt to cover more skin. “This feels like it’s… too much,” you muttered, cheeks burning.

Your hands instinctively went to your thighs, trying to smooth the fabric, but all you succeeded in doing was drawing more attention to your legs—especially the toned lines of your quads and calves, made even more pronounced by the heels.

Tim was standing off to the side, silent. You looked up at him, and that was when it hit.

He wasn’t just quiet. He was avoiding looking at you.

His jaw was tight again. His eyes flicked to you once, briefly, before darting away like your body might physically burn him if he stared too long.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s focus,” he said, but his voice was slightly hoarse, betraying him. You swore his ears had turned red. You stood a little straighter after that. Maybe the outfit was too much. But from the way Tim couldn’t meet your gaze or maybe it was just enough.

"Looking good," Grey said with a small, almost reluctant smile as he walked into the bullpen, his eyes flicking over the outfit you were reluctantly wearing.

"Thank you, sir." You gave a nod, awkwardly tugging at your tank top in a half-hearted attempt to cover a bit more cleavage. It didn’t help. The outfit was designed to draw attention, and unfortunately, it was doing exactly that. You felt the subtle stares, the quiet shift in energy from every nearby officer.

The group made their way into roll call. As the chatter died down and everyone took their seats, you remained standing near Grey at the front.

He cleared his throat. "Tonight, one of our own will be going undercover as Candy Simmons. She’s a low-level prostitute working the corner our suspect, our shooter, Luke Graham, is known to frequent."

The room tensed. The atmosphere changed in an instant, eyes sharpened, jaws set. Protective instincts quietly stirred.

“If you see her on the street, you treat her like any other working girl. Cuff her. Book her. Say it’s for solicitation. Stay in character. No exceptions,” Grey instructed firmly.

Nods went around the room, some hesitant, others grim. Lucy shot you a quick look, half support, half concern, while Lopez folded her arms with an unreadable expression, clearly not thrilled.

Tim stood up near the back and stepped forward, voice cutting clean through the quiet. “Let’s be clear. Catching Graham is the mission. But no suspect is worth losing one of our own. Her safety comes first."

His eyes flicked toward you for half a second, something unreadable behind them, controlled, but heavy.

“If she calls for backup, you respond. Immediately. And if anything starts going sideways, we pull her out. No discussion.” He barks.

You swallowed, nodding once. You weren’t a stranger to danger, but this was different. This wasn’t a vest and a badge, it was heels, makeup, and vulnerability. You were walking into this as bait.

“Understood?” Grey asked, scanning the room.

A chorus of affirmatives followed.

As roll call ended and officers filtered out, Tim caught up with you just outside the door, lowering his voice.

“You sure about this?” His tone was calm, but his eyes searched yours, clearly looking for any hint of hesitation.

You forced a confident smirk. “Candy Simmons doesn’t scare easy.”

He didn’t smile back, but you can tell he's holding one on the inside. He just gave a curt nod and walked off, shoulders tight, fists lightly clenched at his sides.

___________

"New girl! This is my corner."

The voice rang out sharp and territorial. You turned to see her, she had a short blond bob, fishnet stockings hugging long legs, and a skin-tight, hot pink dress that shimmered under the dull yellow streetlight. She looked like trouble. The kind that earned her turf.

"Plenty space for all of us," you replied, your voice dipped in a deliberately cheap Boston accent. You gave a casual smile, pulling a cigarette from the pack in your bra and handing it to her. "Candy."

She gave you a once-over, eyeing the cigarette, then you, then the cigarette again. She took it. Truce.

"Candy, huh? Bit cliché, don’t you think?" she said as she lit up.

You gave a shrug. "It sticks."

"Peach," she introduced, smoke curling from her lips. "That’s Felicity—" she nodded to a girl with dark curls and hollow eyes, "—and Nina’s the one in the silver heels."

Felicity stepped closer, arms crossed. "Where you from, Candy? You look familiar."

You blinked, maintaining your cool. “I get that a lot,” you replied with a small laugh. “Boston. Just moved down. My old man said I’d make better bag here.”

"Uh-huh," Felicity muttered, still squinting, not entirely convinced, but not ready to push either.

A car rolled up with black, tinted windows, and the window slid down with an electric hum. The man inside leaned over. “Hey, baby, wanna have a good night?”

Peach strutted forward in practiced rhythm, leaning against the car door with ease. “You’re lucky,” she cooed. “Tonight, you got options.” She winked back at you before climbing in, the door shutting with a low thump.

This was all too surreal. You shifted on your heels, cold breeze dancing up your barely-there skirt. You kept your body loose, expression indifferent. Candy Simmons might be fake, but the environment wasn’t.

You were about to reposition yourself further down the sidewalk when you felt it, a presence.

A man. Tall, wiry, with greasy hair pulled back into a thin ponytail. His clothes hung loose on his frame, and he reeked of alcohol and something more chemical. He staggered forward, eyes locked on you like you were a meal.

"Don’t think I’ve seen you around here," he slurred, stepping too close. “Fresh meat, huh?”

You forced a laugh, taking a step back, trying to remain in character. “Just workin’, baby.”

But he didn’t back off. Instead, his fingers reached out, brushing your arm, then gripping it.

“I asked you a question, bitch,” he snapped, voice low and menacing. “This corner ain’t charity. You pay to be here.”

You froze for just a second. Not from fear—you had backup close—but the sudden shift in his demeanor. He wasn’t just posturing. He meant to hurt you.

"Yo!"

The voice sliced through the night.

You turned your head to see Tim, he wore a filthy flannel, with dark jeans and his crisp white t-shirt underneath, something he obviously threw together no more than 5 minutes ago. He was storming towards the two of you.

"The hell you think you’re doin’ with my girl?" Tim barked, squaring up to the man. His voice was rough, laced with threat, and dripping with territorial menace. He was completely in character. Your so-called pimp.

The man raised his hands, backing up a step. “Hey, man, chill, didn’t know she was spoken for—”

“She’s mine,” Tim growled, shoving his way between you and the creep, now nose to nose with him. “You touch her again, I’ll bury you in a goddamn alley.”

The man stumbled back, hands shaking, and then bolted down the sidewalk like a rat scurrying into a sewer.

Tim turned, his expression still hard. He grabbed your arm—not too tight, but enough for the role—and hissed just loud enough for the mics to catch it: “You good?”

You nodded once, quick.

His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary before letting go. He looked you over and muttered under his breath, "You need to sell the act, but don’t forget what’s real. I’m right here." Was Tim being genuine and caring?

Then, louder, his voice changing back to his in-character bark, he snapped, “Get your ass back on the sidewalk. You’re not here to flirt, you’re here to work.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, flipping your hair. “Whatever, baby.”

As you returned to your post, the adrenaline still buzzed under your skin. The mission was still on, but so was something else. Something hot and tense that simmered beneath the roleplay.

And you had a feeling the night wasn’t done testing you.

You watched as Tim walked away, a heavy feeling lodged deep in your chest. He didn’t look back. Not even once. You told yourself to shake it off, to focus, to stay in character. You didn’t have time to fall apart, not when the target was walking right toward you.

Graham stumbled out from the alleyway, reeking of cheap whiskey and bad decisions. His brunette hair was unkempt, eyes bloodshot, and a toothpick dangled lazily from the corner of his mouth. He scanned the sidewalk, eyes eventually landing on you like you were just another item to collect. You were playing bait, and he was taking it.

"You new?" he asked, voice slurred, eyes trailing your figure as he took a slow, cocky step closer.

"I am," you purred, smiling sweetly. "But I’m also unforgettable." You placed a flirty hand on his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his jacket.

He chuckled lowly, leaning in with a disgusting grin. "Mmm, I like that."

"Yeah?" You tilted your head.

Quick as a whip, your hand closed around his wrist while your other slammed into his chest. He staggered, caught off guard, and you used the momentum to body slam him into the hood of his car. He grunted loudly, face mashed against the dirty metal.

"LAPD," you growled, yanking his arm behind his back. "You're under arrest, Graham."

But he wasn’t going down easy.

His elbow rammed back, catching you in the ribs, making you stumble. You regained your footing just in time to dodge a wild punch. "You bitch!" he snarled.

He swung again, this time grabbing at your shirt. The fabric tore at the collar as you twisted away, but you didn’t let go. You landed a solid knee to his thigh and grabbed his hair, yanking him forward and off balance.

You slammed him into the pavement with a grunt, cuffing one wrist as he thrashed beneath you. "Stay the hell down!" you snapped, breath hot with adrenaline.

He kicked out, but Nyla arrived just then, gun drawn. "Graham, don't be stupid."

Seeing backup, Graham finally stilled. You locked the second cuff into place with a loud click, panting hard, shirt torn and sticking to your skin.

“Good work,” Nyla said, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him up. “You good?”

"Peachy," you muttered, brushing hair from your face, trying not to notice the cool air hitting your now-exposed bra as your torn shirt shifted.

You turned—just in time to see Tim approaching, eyes scanning over the scene.

But then his gaze landed on you.

He froze for a second, eyes darkening as he took in the ripped fabric across your chest, the pale strap of your bra peeking through. His jaw tightened, and without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and moved toward you.

"Here," he said quietly, draping it over your shoulders in one swift, protective motion before anyone else could get a good look. His fingers lingered just a second too long at the collar, eyes meeting yours, filled with concern. "You okay?"

You swallowed, nodding as you tugged the jacket tighter around yourself. It was warm, and it smelled like him.

"Yeah. Just... need a minute."

"Take it," he said, his voice gentler now. "I’ve got the scene."

And just like that, he stood between you and the rest of the world—shielding you without saying a word.

___________

As you walked back into the station, you felt every eye lock onto you like lasers. The usual buzz of the bullpen evaporated into a weighted silence. No one spoke. No one moved. The only sound echoing off the polished floors was the sharp clink of your heels.

Tim's jacket clung tightly to your chest, shielding the torn remnants of your shirt underneath. It was far too big on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, but it felt like armor, thick, warm, and safe. You kept your gaze forward, refusing to let them see the rawness in your expression.

"Back to work!" Grey barked, snapping the room out of its daze. Conversations resumed in hushed tones, but their eyes still followed you.

He stepped toward you then, placing a broad, reassuring hand on your shoulder. His touch was firm, grounding.

"How you feeling?" he asked, his voice lower now, more personal.

You gave him a tired smile, reaching up and gently touching the bandage taped just above your brow, courtesy of Graham’s flailing elbow. The area throbbed dully, a reminder of the chaos that had unfolded only an hour earlier.

"Like I need a drink... or ten," you muttered dryly, earning the faintest tug of a smile from Grey.

He nodded, the concern in his eyes briefly eclipsing the usual stoic facade. "Get changed then go home. Rest—you need it," he said in that fatherly tone of his, the kind that brokered no argument but carried care underneath.

"Yes, sir," you replied softly, your voice laced with exhaustion.

You turned and walked toward the locker rooms. Your muscles were already beginning to stiffen, the ache settling in like an unwelcome guest. The bruises hadn’t fully bloomed yet, but you could feel them forming beneath your skin like slow fire. You’d be sore tomorrow, no doubt about it.

After changing back into your jeans and a soft, worn-in t-shirt, you stuffed the ruined blouse into your gym bag and zipped it shut. You paused for a moment, running your fingers down the heavy fabric of Tim’s metro jacket. It still smelled like him, faint hints of cologne, clean sweat, and the worn leather of the car seat he practically lived in. You slipped it over your arm.

Then, you headed toward his office.

As you walked down the hallway, your boots clicking softly against the tile floor, you heard faint mumbles coming from ahead. At first, they were indistinct, just low, almost rhythmic sounds, the kind your brain tries to dismiss as nothing more than background noise. But then, in the spaces between footsteps, you caught something more specific. Your name.

You stopped dead in your tracks, brows furrowed. 'Did I hear that right?' The station was quiet, unusually so. It was after hours, and most people had gone home. You’d stayed behind to finish paperwork, but now curiosity itched beneath your skin. It was probably nothing, you reasoned. Maybe you were tired, hearing things after an already stressful night.

Still, something pulled you forward, an invisible thread tugging at your gut.

As you approached Tim’s office, the muffled murmurs grew clearer, layered with something else now. Moans. Quiet, ragged moans. Your breath hitched as you stood frozen just outside his door. No way. Your heart began to pound in your chest. A dozen rational explanations raced through your mind, maybe he’d clicked on a bad ad while researching a case, or maybe some video started playing unexpectedly. Maybe he was listening to something with headphones, not realizing how loud it was.

But when you leaned in, just slightly, just enough to press your ear gently against the doorframe, you heard it again.

"Fuck… yes, baby..."

The voice was deep, raw, strained with pleasure. You recognized it instantly. Tim.

Your hand, without thought, drifted to the doorknob. Not turning it. Just resting there. Your mouth had gone dry, and you blinked hard, trying to process what the hell was happening.

It was probably a video; you told yourself again. It has to be a video. Or maybe a phone call. Maybe he’s not even alone in there.

And then you heard it. Your name. Not once. Twice. Moaned like a prayer, broken and desperate.

Every theory you had disintegrated in that moment.

You flinched back as if burned. The thought of knocking had completely slipped your mind, replaced with the dull roar of blood in your ears. Your heart was hammering against your ribcage, a brutal rhythm of disbelief and something else. Something darker. Hotter.

Your name. He said your name.

You should leave. You should walk away, forget you ever heard anything, pretend none of this happened. That would be the smart thing to do. The respectful thing.

But your feet stayed planted.

Slowly, cautiously, your hand turned the knob. You didn’t even realize you were opening the door until it gave way with a soft click and swung inward just a few inches.

Enough to see.

Tim sat behind his desk, slouched back in his chair, his head tilted against the headrest. One hand gripped the armrest in a white-knuckled hold. The other disappeared beneath the edge of his desk, rhythmically moving.

You couldn’t see everything. Just enough.

His eyes were shut, brows furrowed in concentration, jaw clenched tight as if he were holding back groans that threatened to spill over. His chest rose and fell in staggered breaths.

"God..."

Then he said it again. Clear. Intense. Like he meant it.

You sucked in a breath and instinctively stepped back, heart thundering.

The soft scuff of your shoe must’ve been louder than you thought.

Tim’s eyes flew open.

For a second, maybe even less, you both just stared. He looked startled, flushed, pupils blown wide with shock. And then his face twisted in panic and embarrassment as he registered what was happening. His hand shot away, grabbing at his desk, a clumsy attempt at covering what couldn’t be unseen.

“Shit!” he barked, scrambling upright. “I- what the hell—why are you-?”

“I- I didn’t mean to-” you stammered, your eyes darting toward the floor, heat blooming across your cheeks. “I heard, something, I thought you needed help-” You watched as he quickly stuffed himself back into his jeans.

“You heard something?” he snapped, standing up fully now, still clearly rattled, trying desperately to regain composure. “Jesus Christ.”

“I didn’t l-look. I swear, oh my God I'm so sorry!" You threw your palms over your eyes as he sat back down and sighed, his hands running over his clenched jaw. "Tim... say something please..." Your throat was tight, your plea coming out softer than planned. "Get over here." He ordered. Your mouth went dry. "W-what?" You stumbled towards him, his two hands on each of his muscular thighs, you could see his hard cock straining beneath his jeans.

It was almost as if he could tell from your facial expressions that you weren't used to this, not just with him but with anyone.

“Are you a virgin?” he asked again, not out of mockery or dominance, but curiosity, laced with something softer. Something deeper. He was reading your face like a case file, dissecting your reactions, watching the way you flinched, not with shame, but with exposure.

You hesitated, then gave the smallest of nods.

You were sitting on the edge of his desk, fingers curling slightly against the polished surface, heart thundering in your chest. The air between you was thick, as if time itself had paused, stretching each second out like molasses.

And yet, his eyes didn’t waver.

A flicker passed through his expression. Something primal, restrained. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t move toward you. If anything, he stayed grounded, seated, steady.

“Such a sweet, innocent girl,” he murmured, voice roughened with want, but low, measured. “No one’s ever taken their time with you, have they?”

You could barely speak. The world felt like it had shrunk to just the space between you, the weight of his gaze, and the heat building low in your stomach. You weren’t used to being looked at like this. Not with hunger, but reverence. Like you were something valuable. Worth unraveling.

His eyes dropped, trailing down your legs and back up with a purpose that made your skin flush.

You swallowed thickly. “W-what were you thinking about?”

Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated how unsure it sounded. But you needed to know. You needed to understand what it was about you that had pulled this version of Tim to the surface, unguarded, raw, wanting.

He didn’t flinch.

“You,” he said. “And those perfect legs. The way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. The way you always act like you’ve got something to prove, like you’re afraid no one’s ever going to see how brilliant you are unless you burn yourself out trying.”

You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or something else, but your hands trembled. Not from fear, there wasn’t an ounce of fear in your body right now. Just anticipation. An ache you didn’t know you’d been carrying.

His thumb traced the seam of his jeans absently as he leaned back in his chair, still watching you like you were the center of gravity in the room. And for him? You probably were.

“I shouldn’t be saying any of this,” he admitted. “You're were a rookie not too long ago."

He stood slowly, running a hand through his hair, trying to release the tension that had coiled tightly in his shoulders.

“And yet…” he looked at you, voice barely audible. “I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.”

There was silence again. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was thick with unsaid things. The kind of silence that hums in your chest, waiting for someone to make the next move.

Your gaze dropped to the floor. You were overwhelmed, your body, your thoughts, your heart all screaming different things.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted quietly. “With any of this.”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s why I’m going to teach you every step of the way. And make you feel so good, if that's what you want?" He brushes a strand of hair to exposed more your neck and collarbone. "Yes... please." You whined as he sat back down on his chair. He patted on his lap for you to sit down before unbuckling his belt and releasing his cock.

You gulped nervously as he stroked himself a few times, taking a deep breath and inhaling your scent. You slowly take his cock in your hand and stroke him. "Hmm.. doing s'good baby." He hums before closing his eyes, releasing a deep breath. "You can go a bit faster if you want." His one hand gripping the armrest while the other is rubbing your back. You sped up earning a groan from Tim. "L-like this?" You peep, watching as his smirks. "Fuckin' perfect." He throws his head back.

You unintentionally let out a whine as Tim pulled your hand away, fixing himself up before making you sit on his desk. "Relax baby, I don't wanna cum just yet. Gotta savor the moment." He helped you pull your jeans down before spreading your legs.

"Tim!" You gasped as he slowly pushed one of his large digits into your soaked cunt. "That's it sweetheart." He cooed watching your big, beautiful eyes grow from pain and pleasure. You arched your back as he rubbed is thumb on your clit, you almost saw stars. Tim placed a hasty kiss on your lips as he grinned, watching your chest rise a fall from the stimulation.

You felt a coil form in your lower belly, but you hadn't recognized it, "Gonna cum baby?" He looks up at you as a little bead of sweat rolls down your temple. You nod, realizing you were approaching your orgasm.

"Hey!" You yelped as he removed his fingers, unbuckling his belt for the third time before pushing your legs back apart. "I need to be in you." He groans, gripping his desk before aligning his cock with your folds. Your eyes grew at his size, surely there was no way he was going to fit without a fight.

"We'll take it slow, okay?" He looked deep into your eyes, "We'll stop at any time." You nodded again, wrapping your legs around his lower torso. He slowly pushed himself into you, a loud whine leaving your lips as Tim stretched you out. "Shhh baby, you're bein' so loud." He placed his large palm over your mouth before continuing with his painfully slow thrust.

"God, baby yes." He groaned into the nape of your neck as he finally reached your hilt, your hymen now torn. "Thank you so much, sweetheart." He slowly pulled back out before thrusting back in, making sure to maintain a slow pace to help you adjust to his size. "Tim.." You moaned as you felt him filling you up. "Yes, c'mon, just like that." His hands were planted on his desk on the either side of you, as you held onto his shoulders and your legs maintained their grip around his torso.

"Cum baby." He panted, his head in the crook of your neck. You moved one hand to grip the back of his head, as your involuntarily clenched around him. "Tim!" You whined cumming all over him and arching your back as you felt his heavy cock pulse inside of you. "Pull ou-" You panted as Tim's thrusts got sloppier and lazier. "What?" His voice was high pitched, you swore you almost heard a voice crack. "Pull out, Sir!" You moaned a little too loud, you felt him pull out - almost too late and cum all over your lower belly and thighs.

"Shit." His body went limp on top of yours, your muscles were on fire. Hell, your whole body was on fire. "Here." He used his spare shirt to wipe you up, the gesture being more sensual than Tim had intended it to be. "Tim... you don't have to." You were still sitting on the edge of his desk; he was now kneeling in front of you. "I want to." He gently padded the swollen and painful area, feeling back every time you winced before handing you your jeans.

“Can I walk you out?” Tim asked quietly as you slung your gym bag over your shoulder, the soft hum of the nearly empty precinct wrapping around you like a late-night secret.

You glanced up, catching the flicker of something unspoken in his eyes, and smiled warmly. “Of course.” You locked your phone in your bag and slipped your arm through the strap. Together, you stepped out of the bullpen, the lights dimmed to just a few overhead bulbs casting long shadows down the hall.

The station was nearly deserted now, only the night shift remaining, their murmurs and shuffles barely audible. The usual clatter and buzz of daytime activity had faded, replaced by a calm hush that seemed to hold its breath.

Tim walked beside you, his steps steady and easy, but there was a tension to him you hadn’t noticed before, something in his jaw tightening, in the way he kept his gaze low. Finally, as you reached the row of cars outside, he sighed, the sound heavy and a little vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low.

“For?” You looked up at him, unlocking your car doors and balancing your bag on the roof.

Tim swallowed, hesitating before he looked you in the eye. “I didn’t—well, I didn’t want your first time to be in… there.” He gestured vaguely back toward the station.

You smirked, leaning forward to place a deliberately innocent kiss on his cheek. The warmth of your lips made him shift under your touch, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“Are you kidding? I don’t regret it at all.” Your smile deepened, the playful glint in your eyes promising a little mischief.

He chuckled softly, the sound rough but genuine, and leaned casually against your car. “If you let me buy you dinner tomorrow night… maybe we can spend most of the night in my bed. I still have a few more things to teach you after all.”

You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms across your chest as you studied him with amused disbelief. “Who are you? And what have you done with the real Tim?”

His grin widened, and he playfully punched your shoulder. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

The air between you crackled with unspoken desire and the thrill of possibilities yet to come.

You turned back to him, a mischievous smile curling your lips. “So… what you were doing in your office earlier, is that a regular occurrence?”

Tim’s face flushed a deep shade of red, his eyes darting away for a moment. “N-no, God no. Not at the office.” His voice was hurried, almost defensive.

You cocked your brow, the corner of your mouth twitching into a knowing smile. So it was a regular occurrence… just not at work.

He cleared his throat, looking slightly embarrassed but also a bit cocky now. “But seeing you tonight, dressed like that, the way you owned that op, the way you called me ‘baby’…” He took a step closer, lowering his voice to a sultry whisper. “I couldn’t wait to get home. It was only a blessing that you walked in and made my fantasy a reality.”

The confession made your heart skip. Tim, usually so controlled and composed, was nakedly honest in a way that made you want to reach out and pull him closer.

You moved toward him, fingertips brushing along his jaw. “Good,” you breathed. “I’m just getting started.” He grinned.

His eyes darkened, hands sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “Yeah?” you teased, voice thick with promise. “What else you got planned?”

He smirked, “Dinner first. Then… well, you’ll just have to wait and see.”

Tim chuckled, kissing the tip of your nose. “I don’t mind waiting. As long as you’re by my side.” You smiled.

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the distant sound of traffic on the street. For the first time in a long while, everything felt right.

You leaned your forehead against his, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your skin. “Thanks for walking me out.”

“Anytime,” he murmured. “Hell, I’ll walk you anywhere.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your smile softening into something more sincere. “Then don’t be a stranger tomorrow night.”

“I won’t,” Tim promised, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “I’ll text you the time.”

As you slid into your car, he gave you one last look, equal parts tenderness and hunger, and you knew this was only the beginning. Not just of something new, but something worth fighting for, worth savoring.

Driving away, your mind replayed the night, the feel of his hands, the way he’d looked at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered. And with a smile, you knew one thing for sure:

You were exactly where you were meant to be.

tags: @jessewesmitchellfan @w1ldf1owers @mrsmaugic @jaded222 @cosavuoi-me @winchestersbgirl @bradleybeachbabe @whatasadlittlelife @thesupersecretboyband22 @vinos-things

[lumierepcy]

Playing Dangerous

Tim Bradford × Inexperienced Oc

Synopsis:-

“I’m a good girl, officer… but you make it so hard to behave.”

Mei Chen was supposed to be just another rookie. Keep her head down, follow orders, survive training. But then she met him — Sergeant Tim Bradford. Stoic. Sharp-jawed. Danger in a uniform.

He’s older. Off-limits. Her direct superior.

But tension coils between them like a live wire — electric, unspoken, and far too tempting.

Every glance feels like a dare. Every correction, a test.

And when the line finally snaps… it won’t be protocol they’re breaking. It’ll be each other.

She's the rookie with a crush. He's the sergeant with rules. But desire doesn’t follow orders.

She bites her lip. He looks away. The air between them burns.

She’s off-limits. He knows better.

But neither of them is ready to stop playing dangerous.

Chapter 1.

Mid-Wilshire Station, Los Angeles — 5:58 AM

Mei Chen stood just outside the bullpen, hands clenched tightly around her patrol cap. The station buzzed with the energy of a new shift — voices sharp, boots loud against concrete, radios chattering. It was chaos. Controlled, uniformed chaos.

She’d rather be facing a tactical scenario than this.

“You’re fine,” Lucy said beside her, adjusting her own vest. “You look nervous, but like… in a cute way. Don't screw it up.”

Mei shot her sister a glare. “Remind me again why I let you talk me into this transfer?”

“Because you're good. And this is where good rookies go to become great.”

Before Mei could retort, the bullpen quieted a notch. Lieutenant Wade Grey stepped out of his office, his presence commanding as always. A few officers straightened. Lucy nudged her sister forward.

Grey's sharp gaze swept across the room before landing squarely on Mei.

“Listen up,” he called, clipboard in hand. “We have a new addition to Mid-Wilshire’s patrol team. Officer Mei Chen. Transferred in early from Central Division, top of her class at the academy — high marks in field strategy and firearms, and yes,” he glanced meaningfully toward Jackson West, “you’ll have competition now.”

The room responded with a few light chuckles.

Grey continued, “Some of you might recognize the last name. She is, in fact, Officer Lucy Chen’s younger sister.”

“Oh, great,” Jackson grinned, stepping forward. “Double trouble.”

Mei gave him a small, awkward smile. “I’ll try not to steal your thunder.”

“I’m Jackson West,” he said, shaking her hand. “Try all you want, but I’ve got charm and style.”

“You’ve got one of those, sure,” said a voice from behind him.

John Nolan emerged, smile warm as ever. “John. I’m—well, I used to be the new one. Now I guess I’m just the old guy who knows where the good coffee is.”

“Pleasure,” Mei said, easing slightly. They were teasing, yes — but it felt genuine. Human.

Grey nodded. “You’ll be assigned a training officer for evaluation — details after roll call. For now, Chen, fall in.”

As Mei turned to join the line, the bullpen door opened with a familiar heaviness.

Sergeant Tim Bradford stepped in — crisp uniform, unreadable expression, eyes focused dead ahead. He nodded at Grey, barely glancing at the rookies.

But for one second, his gaze flicked to Mei.

Just a flicker.

Her breath caught. Not because he looked at her like the others did — warm, curious, mildly amused — but because he looked at her like a problem to solve. Or worse, ignore.

No smile. No welcome.

Just a quiet judgment she couldn’t name.

“Who’s the statue?” she whispered to Lucy.

Lucy didn’t even look at him. “Sergeant Bradford. Your best friend if you love pain.”

“I don’t.”

“You will.”

Mei blinked after him as he passed.

And she had no idea why her stomach twisted in the worst — and maybe, tiniest bit best — way possible.