#cop y/n x

[biggiesnails]

*quickly scribbles this down to appease the hoes*

Do you see my vision

[jeonstudios]

dextrocardia | 18

Dextrocardia. Originally a medical term, but also a way to describe someone who's got their heart in the right place.

"She's been moved to another operation to help out. This pairing is necessary because you'll be undercover as spouses. I know you two can be professional about this."

"What?!" It's Jeongguk's upset voice that sounds, and for once, you share his displeased opinion.

Spouses.

pairing: cop!jk x f detective!reader

genre: undercover cops, fake marriage, e2l au, angst, fluff, (smut?)

word count: 4.2k

warnings: blood and violence, knife (and glass) wounds.

rating: NC-17 – Adults Only

masterlist

part 18/? 

<previous | next>

© dextrocardia is copyright jeonstudios. this fic can not be modified, re-posted, or translated without my permission.

You run, feet pounding the floor as you flee into the living room. Determined, Hoseong follows, though not as quickly as before. A loud booming sound echoes through the apartment just as it looks like he's about to charge again—how, you don’t know. The water wasn’t quite boiling anymore, so it wasn’t hot enough to melt his skin off, but it might have left burns. You hope it has. His face did turn red almost immediately, but whether it’s from the water or rage, you’re not sure.

You don't know what the sound was either, not until you see a tall, dark figure storm into the living room with quick, furious steps. The living room is dimmer than the kitchen, and the figure is a little blurry, but you try to focus your eyes on it as it appears behind Hoseong.

“Oh, you fucking idiot,” the man spits, his voice even sharper than Hoseong’s. 

You close your eyes and let out a shaky sigh as your body relaxes almost involuntarily.

You’re not sure if Hoseong even registers what’s happening before Jeongguk yanks him back by the collar of his jacket, knocking the knife from his hand and immediately delivering a series of hard punches to his face.

Leaving the rest of the fight to Jeongguk, you stumble toward the wall and slide down with your back against it, partially protected by the L-shaped sectional sofa. You watch the fight—or rather, you watch Jeongguk beat the living shit out of Hoseong, your breaths ragged. At first, Hoseong makes a real effort to fight back, landing maybe one or two hits, but even in his prime, you doubt he’d stand a chance one on one against Jeongguk, much less now, worn out and possibly (hopefully) injured. 

Even though you assume you’re out of immediate danger, you still can’t calm down. Pain is starting to set in everywhere, and you can’t seem to take a deep breath, either from panic or the pain itself. Maybe it’s the adrenaline wearing off, or perhaps you’re going into shock? Your trembling hands press against your side, and you don’t dare look down to see the extent of your injuries. The glimpses you caught of your hands earlier were more than enough. Any more might push you into a full-blown panic.

With Hoseong now on his back, his upper half obscured from your view by the couch, the loud sound of fists meeting flesh echoes through the room.

You watch.

Punch after punch.

Losing track of time, you can't tell whether it’s been thirty seconds or three minutes when Jeongguk straightens up. There are dark circles of varying sizes scattered unevenly across your white living room wall. He pauses, glancing your way quickly with his chest heaving as he pulls something shiny from his pocket.

You hear the unmistakable sound of handcuffs clicking shut when Jeongguk bends back down. Hoseong, still mostly hidden from your view, only mumbles something when Jeongguk drags him closer to the wall, fastening the handcuffs to a radiator.

Then, Jeongguk hurries toward you, touching his jaw and unknowingly smearing blood across his skin. His wide, worried eyes meet yours as he kneels in front of you, trying to look you over and deem your condition.

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice low but tense.

“I haven’t—haven’t looked, but it feels like I’m dying," you whisper, voice shaky.

You force your trembling hands to lift the hoodie for him, seeing his eyes go even wider.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, panic filling his voice as he reaches for you. “Put pressure on it.”

He pulls you closer by your wrist, effortlessly scooping you up into his arms. You slump against his chest, trying to stay awake. Unsure of how deep the wound to your side is, you at least know you’ve lost a lot of blood; your black clothes are damp with it, and there's a worrying puddle on the floor.

Jeongguk carries you through the apartment, past the door he evidently kicked in, and rushes down the stairs to his waiting car that stands abandoned, practically in the middle of the street. His bad parking job has gathered attention from a couple of pedestrians and a middle aged woman, loudly complaining about how her car's blocked in. It feels like you’re seconds away from passing out, maybe even dying, but you manage to stand (with his support) for the second it takes him to open the passenger door, his strong arms quickly helping you inside.

Without a word to the curious—now silent—bystanders, Jeongguk darts around to the driver’s side, jumping into the seat and starting the car in one fluid motion. A second later, he's speeding out of there, and besides the fact that he’s driving like a Formula 1 driver, you don’t pay much attention, already knowing you’re headed to the hospital. Jeongguk calls ahead, rushed but clear words warning them that you’re coming in with a 'deep stab wound and significant blood loss.'

“Keep putting pressure,” Jeongguk instructs after hanging up and tossing his phone somewhere to the side, his voice desperate, and his strong hand right hand pressing over yours. 

But you can’t, feeling your own hand lose the last of its strength. Your eyes are already closing.

You feel absolutely terrible the next time you open them. There’s no sharp pain, but your whole body feels sore, beaten, and heavy. A tired groan slips from your dry throat as you try to orient yourself. It’s bright, way too bright, but the rhythmic beeping to your left is what helps you place where you are.

You’re not alone. Your slight movement has alerted your visitor that you’re awake, and he immediately looks your way.

Jimin.

His eyes are soft as he meets your tired gaze, sitting slightly hunched over in a chair by your bedside, his hair a little messy. Although it’s good to see him, he’s not the one you want.

“Jeongguk?” you ask, your voice a weak whisper as your memories return to wash over you.

Just then, the door to your room opens as a nurse steps in. Before it swings shut behind her, you spot two figures in the hallway, their hushed, emotional voices drifting faintly into the room.

“...Right in front of her,” a familiar voice complains quietly, laced with anger and frustration.

“He wasn’t sure you wanted to see him,” Jimin explains, looking cautious. 

“I want him,” you plead, still groggy, hurting, and starting to get teary-eyed.

Jimin nods and stands up. “I’ll get him. Want me to dim the light?”

You nod gratefully as Jimin flicks off a switch near the door, dimming one of the ceiling lights. The nurse, smiling gently, copies some numbers from the monitor onto her clipboard. 

She introduces herself, but you’re on the brink of breaking down, your eyes watering more with each second, and so you can’t find it in you to care. She seems to understand and leaves quietly just as the door opens again, and Jeongguk steps inside. Your heart feels incredibly heavy as your eyes land on him. Heavy with both need and relief, weirdly enough. He approaches you carefully, his wide eyes hesitant, and he looks exhausted, still wearing the same black hoodie and dark gray jeans as before. 

Like a child on the verge of an inconsolable breakdown, you hold your arms out for him, your hands thickly bandaged. Maybe you’re still high on pain meds, or maybe it’s just how you are now, but you don’t care. After all, you nearly died again, and all you wanted was him. You survived, and here he is. What else matters?

Jeongguk is careful in the way he bends down, letting you place your weak, injured hands around his neck. There’s nothing holding your tears back anymore, and you hug him as tightly as you can, so thankful and relieved. 

In turn, he wraps his arms around you, holding you close but carefully, as if afraid he might hurt you.

You still haven’t said anything, and you don’t for a while; the only sounds in the room being your quiet sobs and the steady beeping of the machine. After a few minutes, you manage to calm down a little, but you don’t let go of him; instead you try to pull him into the bed with you. He gets the hint, mumbling “It’s bloody,” as he straightens up to shrug off his hoodie, dropping it carelessly on the floor. Left in just a black t-shirt, he bends down again and, this time, lets you pull him into the small hospital bed. 

Still breathing shakily, you rest your head against his collarbone, breathing him in. It soothes you. He’s very warm, very safe, and he smells like the best thing in the world to you. His arms hold you tightly, and the slow and gentle motion of his hands rubbing across your back lulls you back to sleep.

The next time you come to, it’s to hushed voices. 

“Oh? I’m sorry, sir, you cannot be in here. Visitation hours are between ten and six.”

Fluttering your tired eyes open, you see that the blurry room is dark, and so you simply close them again.

“She needs police protection,” Jeongguk answers tiredly and absentmindedly from beside, almost underneath you, and you feel his slow, warm breath in your hair at the top of your head.

“Police usually stay outside the patient’s room,” the nurse counters. Her voice is unfamiliar and although you’re not sure what time it is, you assume she must be part of the morning shift. “And I’ve certainly never seen them in bed with the patient.”

“Look, lady, respectfully, I don’t care.”

She doesn’t seem to buy it, and you’re a little surprised at Jeongguk’s choice of words. But then again, he’s probably exhausted and worried too, and he didn’t sound mean—just… tired and maybe a little annoyed. When the nurse doesn’t respond right away, Jeongguk sighs.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not leaving. If you want to call security, go ahead. As long as she wants me here, I’ll find a legal reason to stay.”

There’s a brief pause as the nurse considers before finally relenting. “Fine.”

She leaves. If you weren’t still mostly asleep and pretty out of it, you might’ve laughed. You still think it warms something in you, though.

“You awake?” Jeongguk asks quietly, softly brushing your hair away from your face with his fingers.

You shift, trying to pull him closer as you hold onto his shirt, breathing him in. 

“Yeah,” you mumble tiredly, eyes still adjusting to the light. As they do, they land on his hand as it comes into view.

The damage to your hands was mostly to the palms, one worse than the other, so the thick bandages leave your fingers free to reach for Jeongguk’s hand. His knuckles are red, swollen, and there are a few cuts on his skin. He lets you hold his hand to your face and gently run your fingers over his knuckles. Worry grows in you—don’t they look swollen? Could they maybe even be broken?

“You know I’d never… hurt you, right?” he asks quietly, and it takes you a second to realize what he means. It certainly wasn’t what you were thinking about.

You nod. “I know.”

“Good. So, how are you feeling?”

“I… don’t know. I feel… heavy. I take it I had surgery on my hands and… my stomach?”

“Yeah. Let’s call the doctor back here to explain everything. Also, Jihyo called your mom. She’s on a plane back.”

“Oh, no,” you groan.

“Yeah, sorry. But you were pretty bad.”

“It’s okay,” you say, knowing they did what they thought was best. It just means that you’ll have to actually tell her everything when she arrives. Which reminds you.

“What about... Hoseong?”

“In custody. He’s being treated at another hospital.”

“Okay. Good.”

Half an hour later, a female doctor stands at the foot of the hospital bed—while Jeongguk sits in the chair for once—going over everything. She has a kind face, looks to be in her forties, and she’s dressed in blue scrubs with one of those long white coats draped over them.

“So, while the wound to your abdomen was relatively deep and there were pretty significant lacerations to some of your intestines, we managed to stop the bleeding and repair everything. You’ll need to take it easy for a while, but if everything goes according to plan, there shouldn’t be any long-lasting damage.”

Well, it’s safe to say you’re relieved you didn’t look at your stomach; it seems like Hoseong essentially sliced it right open. 

“As for your hands, there will be some scarring as well unfortunately, and we can’t tell just yet if there’s been any nerve damage. Fortunately, the injuries were to your palms and not the fingers or back of your hands, where there are more ligaments and delicate structures. So we'll remain hopeful that the your recovery is smooth and that there's been no damage to your nerves.”

Nodding, you follow along as she explains. It sounds reasonable enough, and you’re just happy that you’ll hopefully still have two functioning hands.

The doctor continues, gesturing to the foot of the bed. “We also treated the cuts on your feet. They weren’t as severe as your hands, but we did put in a few stitches, so I’d suggest staying off your feet for a while. Both for your own comfort but also to not risk reopening the wounds.“

You must’ve really been out of it because you didn’t even really notice until now that, yeah, there’s something wrapped around your feet that’s not socks. 

“So there’s a chance I could make a full recovery, except for some scars?”

“Yes,” she smiles. “You were very lucky.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“No problem. We’d like to keep you for a few more days to make sure everything’s healing properly and to assess your hands as the swelling goes down.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Good. Just let us know if you have any more questions. The hand surgeon will be by later to talk more in depth about your hands as well.”

A few hours later, there’s another knock on the door. Expecting it to be a nurse or the hand surgeon, Jeongguk calls ‘Come in’ from beside you in the hospital bed, where he lies with your head on his chest. He went home for a bit to shower and change, Jimin staying by your side in the meantime, and when he came back, all you wanted to do was rest. And you wanted him close.

But it’s not a nurse. The person entering takes one look at you and bursts out in tears.

“Mom?” you say, and the bed shifts as Jeongguk rushes to stand, straightening his clothes—a black t-shirt and some gray sweatpants—as if he needs to look presentable for your mother. 

You’re sure she would’ve asked about the man in your hospital bed if she wasn’t so distraught, but she barely glances between you and him before she approaches the bed with teary eyes.

“I got the call, and I–I was so scared,” she sniffles, her gaze trailing over your body and bandaged hands like she wants to hold you but isn’t sure how to.

“I know,” you say, trying to comfort her. “But I’m going to be okay, I promise.”

“So… what… what happened?”

You bite your lip, looking to Jeongguk.

“I’ll head to the cafeteria for a while,” he says, and you nod, grateful.

It’s time to tell your mother everything.

The next hour is a hard and very emotional one. The pain on your mother's face as you recount everything, starting with what Hoseong first did to you and what the consequences were, cuts through your heart as well.

Of course, you spare her the details of the rape and most of the following abuse, not wanting to hurt her more than necessary or put yourself through the shame you know you shouldn’t feel but can’t help experiencing.

You decide to leave Jeongguk’s involvement out of it, certainly not telling her that you spent months wholeheartedly believing he would kill you if only given the chance. For reasons you don’t want to untangle at the moment, you realize that you don’t want your mother to doubt him.

Jeongguk returns at the hour mark, a brown bag in one hand and a takeaway tray with three coffees in the other. Although you didn’t tell your mother about the time you spent deathly afraid of him, you did tell her that you’re essentially only alive right now because of this one very kind policeman. Maybe you also admitted, a little shyly, when she asked that you really like him. And you do; it’s just a summary of your feelings if they were simple.

His hair looks windswept, and you’re briefly taken aback by how handsome he truly is. You’re well aware of the fact—and you’d definitely never forget—but sometimes it just hits you. His dark eyes scan the room, widening in surprise when your mother approaches him so quickly he barely has time to set the coffees down on the small table by the bed before she grasps his hand. 

“Thank you,” she says, trying hard not to cry as she clasps his one hand between her smaller ones. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you—that you saved my daughter. I wish there was anything I could do to repay you.”

“Mom,” you warn, embarrassed and wishing she wouldn’t ambush him like that.

However, Jeongguk’s surprised expression softens, and he pulls her into a very gentle one-armed hug, the brown bag still occupying his other hand.

“No need,” is all he says, and you meet his soft gaze over your mother’s head.

Your mother doesn’t stay long. By the time another thirty minutes have passed, she’s struggling to keep her eyes open. When you ask her about it, she admits to not sleeping at all, too worried ever since Jihyo called her with the news. She even forgot to retrieve her luggage at the airport in her haste to grab a cab to the hospital. Unfortunately, knowing that Hoseong is in custody but his friends are not still has her worried. It takes some time, but after convincing her that you’re safe now—not only do you have Jeongguk, but Jimin and Jin are always close by—she reluctantly agrees to go home and rest.

“So… how was it?” Jeongguk asks quietly a few seconds after the door shuts behind her.

You lean back in bed, letting your shoulders relax. You’re sure he knows how hard that conversation was; can tell from your puffy eyes and tired posture.

“Emotional,” you admit. “I never told her anything.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Nothing at all?”

You shake your head. “No. At first, I just didn’t want to worry her, and as things escalated… I was scared that involving her would make her more of a target. She couldn’t have done anything to help either way.”

He seems to be thinking about something, his gaze stuck on the hospital bed, maybe even on your hand where it lies by your side. 

“What does she know now?”

“Basically everything, except the… gory details. Or are you asking what she knows about you?”

“Both, I guess. I mean, I take it you didn’t tell her what an ass I’ve been?” 

If you had, she would’ve tried to tell him off, her shaky voice cursing him to hell. Evidently, she didn't do that.

“I didn’t, no. I left some details out; figured there was no use.”

Jeongguk leans back in the chair, clearly still bothered by something.

You raise your eyebrows in curiosity. “Why, did you want me to tell her?”

“No, but I also don’t want you to lie to her about me.”

You don't really know what to say to that, so you just look at him, understanding his mixed feelings. Unable to stop it, you yawn. These meds are making you so incredibly sleepy, and you feel like you’ll fall asleep within the next ten minutes whether you like it or not. Noticing how you lie back down, snuggling up with the blanket pulled to your chin, Jeongguk pulls out his phone. You keep your tired eyes on him while he focuses on the small screen, scrolling lazily. 

So effortlessly handsome. You can’t even tell if you prefer him with his hair styled—which he doesn’t do very often—and wearing something clean and ironed, or like this: in a hoodie and sweatpants, his black hair a little wild and messy. He looks so warm and so cozy, leaning back in the chair and manspreading casually.

Manspreading is not something you typically like, but when he does it, it just looks… attractive. Probably because you know he’s not one to subject some poor woman to it on the morning commute. He doesn’t invade someone else’s personal space, doesn’t take up room that isn’t his.

“I spoke to Jihyo while I was getting the coffee earlier,” he says, eyes still casually glued to the phone. “She’s really busy, but she wanted me to tell you that she wishes she could be here.”

“It’s fine. She’s already been here,” you mumble into the blanket. He looks so warm.

“Yeah, but you were still unconscious.”

The blanket smells like a washed hospital blanket, not like you know he does. He smells like comfort.

“Mhm,” you agree tiredly, fighting to keep your eyes open. A second later, Jeongguk looks up to see you still watching him—tiredly but with a hint of longing. 

He smiles. “Are you waiting for me to join you?”

You nod, certain that it comes off a little shyly. You weren’t very discreet, were you? The bed is pretty small, but you definitely prefer sleeping cuddled up to him rather than alone. It’s the scent of him, the feeling of his warm body against yours that makes you feel… You’re not sure if you can put it into words or if you just don’t want to, choosing to ignore aspects that will inevitably force you to make a decision. Not now.

Still smiling, he locks the phone and rises from the chair, making sure to flick the lights off before he comes to stand at your side. Scooting back to give him room, you watch as he lies down in front of you and slips his arm underneath your head. Then he’s pulling you close. So close that your face is practically in his chest. It becomes clear what he’s doing when a faint glow and quiet taps appear, originating from somewhere behind and above your head. Of course, he doesn’t have the same sleep requirements as you do at the moment, and if you were to guess, he’s probably working on something.

You’ve been left in a bit of a conundrum, though. What do you do with the arm that’s ended up in a bit of an awkward position at your side? The most natural thing would be to rest it against his waist, but it also feels… awkward to do that? Just because you, high on painkillers and almost murdered, like to cuddle with him doesn't mean everything's fine and dandy.

“You don’t have to do all of this,” you say quietly. Even in your slightly drowsy state of denial, you know that you’re confusing. You haven’t brought up the reason for your previous ‘split,’ and you haven’t really solved anything. After you almost died, you’re just relieved to be alive and that he’s okay too, and you hope he realizes that.

The near-silent tapping stops.

“I don’t mind,” he assures calmly, and his voice is quieter too. You like that he’s never seemed like much of an overthinker—at least not when it comes to what he wants. You lift your arm to put it around him, letting it hang off his waist.

He’s so warm, smells so good, and his slow and steady breaths lull you to sleep. As you drift off, you tell yourself not to think so much.

For the next few days, you remain on a fairly high dose of painkillers that keep you drowsy. You’re almost never alone; most of the time, Jeongguk is with you, but when he reluctantly leaves—either for the station or to go home and shower and change—Jin and Jimin take turns watching over you. Occasionally, they pop in to see if you’d like company, quickly taking the hint if you don’t and staying outside. 

Your mother sits with you a few times as well, but you can’t relax when she looks at you like she does; as if she’s heartbroken, which you realize she might very well be. You’ve had years to process most of what’s happened to you, and you guess you’d feel the same if the roles were reversed, but you can’t take it, so you send her home with the promise that you’ll be fine. You’re just resting, anyway. After a bit of convincing, she leaves, but not before making a knowing comment about how cute the kind policeman is. You dismiss her with an embarrassed smile and a wave of your bandaged hand.

As the hours turn to days in that hospital room, think is unfortunately all you do. You think about what you’ve experienced and what you’ve seen. The feelings you feel are complicated, woven together in an intricate pattern with threads of varying thickness. Pull on one and it tugs at another; pull too hard on a strong thread and thinner might snap. The closer Jeongguk is, the more tangled the mess seems to be.

<previous | next>

author's note: here's this!! posted in celebration of jeonstudios reaching a follower milestone and more importantly: the boys returning!!! i hope you liked it, please tell me if you did!! <3<3

[timbradfordslover]

Warnings: none just lots of fluff

Summary: Tim's wife sets up a few pranks for April fools.

April fools day

Tomorrow is April Fools'. A day that Y/N Bradford goes all out for. Last year she deflated one of the tires in Tim's shop and had Jerry put some crickets in the war bags before his boot got them. This year, however, she wants to expand it to their house. While Tim is asleep in their bed, she gets her little pranks ready. First she takes his cuffs off his duty belt and replaces them with fuzzy leopard ones. After that she puts all the clocks in the house forward two hours and changes the time zone on his phone to match.

The next morning Y/N sits up suddenly and wakes up Tim. “Tim, wake up! We’re going to be late!’ She says loudly.

“Huh, what baby?” He says, sitting up, still groggy from sleep.

“Look at the time; we should have been up 2 hours ago,” she says as she watches him check his phone. He throws his shirt off and rushes to get dressed. Y/N goes to the bathroom to pretend to start getting ready.

She comes out and goes into the kitchen to see Tim making coffee. “Is it normally this dark when we get up? And why aren’t you dressed?” he asks, confused.

She smirks and pulls out her phone and shows the lock screen. He sees that the time was two hours behind and the date above it.

“Really, Y/N? You nearly gave me a heart attack with that.” He says slightly annoyed.

“I’m sorry,” she says, giggling as she wraps her arm around his waist and leads him back towards the bedroom.

After she visits with Lucy in the locker room at the station, Y/N goes to the roll call room to wait with Angela and Harper.

“So what pranks you got this year?” Angela asks with a knowing smile. She and Harper know about her little jokes she likes to pull on Tim. She’s been doing it since they were rookies.

“You’re about to see,” she laughs mischievously. A minute later Tim comes in looking embarrassed. He marches up to where the three detectives are sitting.

“Hi, Tim,” his wife says, looking up at him.

“Give me my cuffs, he says annoyed.

“I don’t have them. Maybe Smitty took them,” she says with no emotion. “

"Really, babe; don’t make me file an incident report.” He whines.

“Here," she says, pulling them out of her pants pocket. "Don't lose the other ones," she says with a smirk.

Tim’s face turns red as he goes to his seat next to Nolan.

A few hours later, while Tim is out on patrol with Aaron, Y/N goes and gets a ticket book from Jerry and goes to her desk to write one. She writes it for “unlawful use of good looks.” Once she is done, she goes out to Tim’s truck and puts it in between the windshield wipers.

“You ready?” Tim asks, coming out of the locker room to meet Y/N in the bullpen.

“Yep. You want to get food or make something?" she asks him as he wraps an arm around her shoulders.

"We can get something," he answers.

They walk out of the station and head to Tim’s truck. Tim goes around it to open the passenger side door.

“What is this?” he asks as he picks up a small paper from the windshield.

“I don’t know. What does it say?” Y/N asks him.

“Really, baby?’, he says with disbelief as he reads the ticket she wrote.

“What does “unlawful use of good looks even mean?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.

"It means you're very good-looking", she says while laughing.

"I can't with you," he chuckles as he gets into the driver's seat.

[lolobeey]

CRASH AND BURN MASTERLIST

Pairing: Detective!Bucky x Partner!Reader

Series Summary: You just made detective. Your first case? A cold one — missing woman, dead cop, and a cover-up that smells worse than precinct coffee. Your new partner is James Buchanan Barnes: metal arm, resting murder face, zero interest in teamwork. You talk too much, he broods too hard, and together you’re one bad day from a workplace incident report. But the case isn’t as cold as it looks. And if you don’t start trusting each other soon, you won’t live long enough to solve it.

Warnings: 18+ only. Buddy Cop Romance. Angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Eventual Smut. Grumpy x Sunshine

Status: Ongoing

CHAPTER ONE (Partnered)

CHAPTER TWO (Off the Books)

[nestingdoves]

♡ dexter morgan x sibling reader

♡ incest. implied biological but adopted works.

♡ gender unspecified reader. jealousy, possessiveness (reader towards dexter). anger issues (reader). reader has repressed murder tendencies. manslaughter/murder cover-up (dexter and reader). depictions of gore. sibling kissing. reader is a lil freaky about dexter being bloodied.

♡ don't like? block/scroll and move on, easy peasy

imagine you and your brother dexter getting adopted by the morgan family. you, who always clutched tightly to dexter. you're practically inseparable, though that's mostly on account of your clinginess.

but you're otherwise the perfect child - withdrawn, dutiful, getting along better with your foster mother than your other two new family members. always cleaning up, tidying up beds, getting lunches ready - always stuffing another granola bar in dexter's lunch because that specific flavour is the one he likes.

things with debra are horrible. you're always antagonizing each other, subtly underdoing each other's work, tattling to your mom and dad about every other thing.

only dexter can get you to behave, his brow setting and lips pressed together. "that's not how we're supposed to act."

the conflict with debra is really the only issue you have with your adopted family- that and how venemously protective you are of dexter. going somewhere? you need to sit beside him. he stole debra's food? you'll either own up to it and proclaim that he'd do no such thing. (you watched him eat it.)

but you don't display the same tendencies as your brother; so when harry takes you out, sitting you in a boat and asking if you ever felt urges... you say no. because you haven't. not in the same way that dexter does. but all the same, he knows something is off.

and when dexter comes home with bloodied shoes, you clean it off, scrubbing your fingertips raw. when someone is bothering you, picking on someone, you tell dexter first. ride home, call dexter. want to go to the theatre, call dexter. nightmare, crawling into dexter's bed.

harry is, understandably concerned at how close you are with dexter but doesn't act on it. yet.

but there's a yawning reach inside you, something that demands to snap, a temper short and fists fast. but dexter always takes you back, reminding you how to act. to behave. though he never reprimands you whenever you deck someone for calling your brother "weird".

when he goes to the dance, you sit at home, knuckles tight, breath hot as you think of some girl putting hands on your dexter. but when he comes home, tells you how boring it is, you exhale, breath shuddering in your chest. because he's still yours.

still yours even when he comes home with lipstick stains on his neck, yours when he comes into your room the second you make a distressed noise. he's yours when he catches you staring at your hand once when you cut your palm, watching the blood rain down your wrist (and it haunts like a memory). yours when his calloused hands, strange cuts on his own palms as he wraps your hand up.

he's yours, yours, yours.

and you'll hurt anyone who gets in your way.

but even then he's yours when he's teaching you to drive and he's talking about some girl harry wants him to see. about debra who grabbed his sweater without asking.

you see red, red, red, and hear a woman screaming as your foot hits the metal. only interrupted by dexter's calm "there's a person in the road" moments before you crunch right into them.

neither of you move, sitting their casually in the car, as if you didn't just run someone over. the windows are down, the evening air washing over your skin. you can hear moaning and crying outside your window. can see dexter's eyes watch you through the rearview mirror. he doesn't say anything.

but neither do you.

he doesn't say anything when you reserve the car and rev right back over them, feeling the car jolt beneath you both. you continue to smear guts and entrails over the pavement until the sounds stop.

"stay here." he says, a heavy sigh leaving his mouth, jaw setting as he unclips his belt. you watch him through the rearview window as he opens the trunk, pulling out bags and some cleaning junk that he left inside.

when you climb out, he passes you a pair of gloves. something inside you squirms, hot and sticky, as you look at the gore pressed into the tires. seeing dexter work, muscles flexing under his shirt, mouth drawn into a thin line, pulling intestines from the undercarriage.

an itch started inside you, gnawing at your gut and bones, a presence that demands the harvest. as always, you listen to every word dexter says, every command as he helps you clean up the mess.

washing the asphalt is harder but gallons of water pours the mess down the gutters. cleaning out the front grill is harder but - dexter does it all. telling you quietly as he always does how to take care of things like this.

that yawning hunger doesn't relent. doesn't relent when you two hose down the car and wash off your hands.

"you need to calm down," he says quietly, finally as he sits in the driver's seat. your pulse is beating fast in your chest. he's noticed. he always notices.

reaching over, you brush your fingers over his cheek, smearing the blood over his cheekbone. his eyes dart to you then back towards the road.

when he continues speaking, beginning to talk about rules and guidelines, a code that you don't care to understand for, you unclip your seatbelt and reach over, pulling him towards you and kissing him like a part of you is trying to eat him.

"we're not supposed to do this." dexter says, brow furrowed. he always says things like that to you; like he's memorizing a guidebook. maybe you don't give a fuck.

"we're not supposed to run over a guy, not call the cops and cover it up either," you say. "I think we're past the point of what's allowed."

"oh," he says, as if he hadn't thought of that. and this time, he doesn't stop you when you kiss him again, when you lick the blood spatters off his face, when you all but shove your tongue down his throat and crawl into his lap.

dexter doesn't tell harry about you. but he doesn't go out with girls (or boys) anymore, even though harry sighs and tries to coax him. tries to coax you too.

and if you're a little less angry, a little less ferocious, and that's something.

(later, when the family goes hunting minus doris, harry catches you just watching a fox struggle in a bear trap, doing nothing to put it out of its misery or looking away. and as his heart sinks, he realizes that maybe he should have paid attention to you too.

but when he brings you up to dexter, your poor, sweet brother just shakes his head and says, "no, they're not like me". because as much as you protect him, he protects you, too.)

when harry finally passes, dexter is the one who takes your hand and leads you away. debra laments about how siblings shouldn't share apartments but it doesn't matter. none of it matters when you know, feel it in your bones, that dexter won't leave you.

[be-xkyy]

I couldn't help but write this, I feel inspired after watching a police movie.

Tw: yandere, violence, abuse of power, dirty talk, unprotected sex, age gap, infidelity, alcohol, dubcon.

Masterlist

Yandere Corrupt Police Officer who has been a cop for almost ten years without getting a damn promotion, in addition to having to deal with his crazy wife who only knows how to complain and rant when he's at home. She is a real bitch.

So it's normal for him to be upset and frustrated. He has to be in the patrol car all day and all night, patrolling the streets looking for assholes who can't follow the damn rules. They deserve a good hit or two or many before threatening them and taking them to the station.

But what I hate the most, damn it, are weekend nights, having to deal with drunk and high teenagers in their fancy cars, spoiled brats who think they're better just because their parents are wealthy. Fuck them. He drives on the empty roads, except for the occasional car passing by, on a quiet night. Until he sees a sports car speeding down the avenue, clearly exceeding the damn speed limit. Bastard.

He steps on the accelerator and turns on the siren, following the car that doesn't slow down for a few blocks. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turn white, and he feels his blood boil. Whoever it is, they're screwed. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the car slows down, pulling over to the side of the road and turning off the engine.

He does the same, parking right behind the car and turning off the siren, and only the red and blue lights flicker in the night. He gets out of the car, annoyed, adjusting his belt before slamming the door. He walks towards the car, approaching the tinted window that slowly rolls down, revealing the typical rich kid, blonde, blue-eyed, and obviously high. But he doesn't pay attention to it; his eyes are fixed on his companion, a sexy little thing that makes his crotch feel tight—maybe his girlfriend? He isn't sure, but what he is sure of is that he wants you for himself.

“Officer, we may have exceeded the speed limit a little bit, but if you want, you can give me a ticket—” The boy speaks with slurred words, clearly under the influence of substances, but he doesn't let him finish, interrupting him with an authoritative voice.

“Get the fuck out of the car now, both of you. And get close to the hood, quickly.”

He looks annoyed as you two hesitate, his annoyance doesn't calm down when the boy finally opens the door and gets out staggering. You follow his example, standing in front of the car, blinded by the high beams. He approaches and grabs the boy tightly, delivering an unexpected punch to the stomach that takes the wind out of him. You let out a scream as the boy doubles over in pain. When you try to approach your boyfriend, he places his hand on the holster of his gun, looking at you, and you freeze.

“Weren't you taught that you must stop automatically when a law enforcement officer orders you to? Because you're trying to act smart, huh?”

He says this while putting the boy face down, folding his hands behind his back, grabbing the handcuffs from his belt, and fastening them on his wrists. Then he stands up, looking at you standing there like a scared servant. Sexy girl. A mischievous smile slips onto her lips, and she gestures with her head towards the hood of the car in front of you.

“Bend over the hood, quick.” He watches as your clouded eyes widen in disbelief at his words almost as if you can’t believe what’s happening. You shake your head as you say in an alcohol slurred voice “No. You can’t-”

“I can. And you can bend over the good way or I can bend you over the bad way, but I advise you to be good for your boyfriend’s sake.”

You bite your lip hard looking at your boyfriend on the ground in handcuffs, small tears pricking your eyes as you lean over the cold hood your cheek and palms flat against the metal, he reaches over his hands quickly grabbing a handful of your covered ass, squeezing the globes tightly before pulling up your skirt revealing your ass and lace panties.

“Looks like you were going to have fun huh? Did I ruin your moment? Don't worry I'll make it up to you at least baby”

He says in a teasing coo as he raises his hand and brings it down on your ass. Smack, smack, smack. You gasp at the spanking that leaves your skin red and stinging painfully. You close your eyes when you hear the sound of his zipper opening, he brings his fingers up to your mouth hitting your lips.

“Spit.”

You reluctantly comply letting your saliva drip onto his fingers and he uses it to lube up his fat member pumping a few times before pulling your panties to the side revealing your puckered hole and glistening pussy he guides his cock into your folds sliding in as far as he can until he bottoms out, you bite your lip to keep from whimpering at the feeling of being so full.

He growls at the feeling of your walls throbbing around his cock as you try to accommodate him. Your nails dig into his head as he begins to thrust into you hard, the head of his cock hitting your g-spot over and over again making you dizzy, he places his hands on your hips using them to move you back each time he thrusts into you sending currents of undue pleasure through your body.

“Fuck– you're tight, huh! You don't get fucked enough huh baby? Poor pussy”

He says in an amused voice, when you don't respond he grabs you by the hair lifting you up and bringing your back to his chest, you feel his hot breath against the shell of your ear sending shivers down your arched spine.

“You know I wanted you from the second I saw you, I don't usually do this with women but I wanted you, I wanted you, very romantic huh, darling?”

He laughs against your ear as if it were very funny and you hold back so as not to insult him, you don't answer him and he rolls his eyes, without stopping thrusting into you he lowers the hand that is on your hip towards your pussy pinching your clit hard between his fingers and you can't contain your moans any longer, his movements become erratic at the same time that the knot in your belly tightens you try not to cum but it is difficult with all his attentions you reach the breaking point when he passes his wet tongue over your ear.

You can't help but cum, letting out a moan of pleasure as your vaginal walls contract around his cock. You can feel it throbbing inside you with a few final thrusts. He stops, letting out a guttural growl, filling you with his warm seed. You collapse onto the hood. He pulls out of you as his cock softens, sliding into his pants. He examines your open hole and watches as his cum slides out, so he uses two fingers to push his cum inside before adjusting your panties as he says in a threatening tone.

“I trust this will stay between the three of us, won't you? I'd hate to have to arrest you or worse.”

[prettydaisygirl]

Congratulations on 1000 followers, you deserve it, you're totally amazing <3333

I wanted to request a James Cop au, where he and the reader are barely in the dating phase and when he pulls her over in the middle of the road for speeding, she goes totally dumb seeing him in his uniform.

♡ "aww, you're blushing"

hiiii honey! thank you so much for the request and for celebrating with me! I changed it a bit so that James pulled reader over just cause he missed her, I feel that is something James would do. Hope you enjoy <3

james potter, cop au, and "aww, you're blushing" ✿ 499 words

cw: cop!James, reader gets pulled over, James being a massive flirt

1k follower celebration

°˖✧✿✧˖°

“Shit,” You curse under your breath as soon as the red and blue lights turn on behind you. Were you speeding? Did you run a red light? You can’t remember, can’t think of anything.

Your heart pounds as you pull over, praying that you won’t get in trouble as soon as you roll down the window. Each sound of the officer’s steps toward you makes your heart sink, and the clearing of the throat makes you squeeze your eyes shut, hands gripping the wheel.

“I’m really sorry, Officer, I’m not sure what I did but I-” Your voice cuts short when you look out the window and meet the soft, sweet brown eyes of your new boyfriend. You blink at him a few times, slowly, like you’re unsure of what you’re really seeing. Him, in his uniform. Your heart leaps into your throat. “James?”

He smiles and gives you a wink, leaning up against the window of your car on his forearms. “Hey, angel.”

You move to reach for your license with a slightly shaky hand, but James blows you off with a wave of his own. 

“You weren’t doing anything wrong. I recognized your license plate and… I wanted to see you.”

You can’t help the way your cheeks flush, the way your belly bubbles pleasantly as you look at him. His uniform sleeves grip his biceps in a way that you might consider sinful. It certainly makes you feel like sinning.

“You scared me,” You tell him, leaning closer with a soft smile. You can’t help but check him out, the uniform making you a little hot and bothered. 

He notices the way your eyes move over his figure and his smile grows. He purposely flexes and then laughs when your face turns even warmer. 

“Aww, you’re blushing.” 

You look down to hide your cheeks from him but he swoops in, placing a kiss to one before you can stop him. His lips are soft against your skin, and you find yourself falling even harder for him. 

“I’m mad at you for scaring me but… I’m glad you pulled me over.”

He laughs brightly at that, and taps his fingers against the edge of the window. “Me too, I missed you.” 

Your sweet exchange is interrupted by a voice cutting in on James’ radio. He murmurs a quick response, something you aren’t able to catch, but you know with the way he stands that he needs to go.

“I’ll see you later, angel. Okay?” He leans back into the car to press a soft kiss to your lips, then leans back out again. “Uniform on.”

You can’t help but laugh, but not before sending him a look. “Be safe, alright?”

“You know me,” He says with a wink and a backwards swagger as he slowly heads back toward his car. “Safety is my middle name.”

“Your middle name is Fleamont!” You call back. 

You can hear his boisterous laughs until your window is fully rolled up again. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[oneforthemunny]

the badge |cop!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: how eddie became a cop, and how he met you. aka the lore lol.

contains: cop themes. drug dealing. cops. the justice system is fucked up. hopper is a good cop. small town shit lol. nothing heavy but does deal with the justice system/cops. language. angst at the beginning, but really just fluff and lore.

January 1989

Eddie’s knee bounced, chains on his jeans rattling against the metal of the bench, rusted with the rest of the holding cell. He wondered how often his dad had been in his same position, sat in this same spot, probably not as peacefully- definitely not sober. 

“Munson,” Officer Callahan groaned. Eddie knew him a little too well, countless warnings as a teengager for disturbing the peace, playing his ‘satanic panic’ music too loud. 

Eddie scoffed lightly, tongue rolling over the side of his mouth when Callahan turned his key. “No way. Wayne bailed me?” 

“Not exactly.” Callahan hummed around a slow exhale, the bars groaning when he opened the cell. 

“What?” Eddie frowned, boots dragging across the cracked cement. “Who? Gare- I know Gareth didn’t. Who was it? Was it- Did Jeff?” 

“No.” Callahan’s bored gaze met Eddie’s. “I didn’t say you were free to go. No one posted your bail.” 

Eddie’s spine tingled with an icy panic of fear. He tried not to show it, not to let his eyes widen and face pale, but still, his steps stuttered. 

He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposed, that he was getting booked- that he was going to jail. He was an adult, afterall, selling weed to high schoolers and burnouts at The Hideout. How was he supposed to know it was a sting? That the guy he’d known from Geometry in tenth grade was really working for the DEA? They just let anyone be cops then, Eddie barked at Hopper before he was shoved under into the back of the cop car and taken here. 

“S-So what? I don’t- Man, I don’t get a fuckin’ trial?” Eddie spat, following Callahan down the long hallway, the lights ominously flickering with each step. Callahan ignored him, keeping his same, slow stride, keys jingling in his hand. 

“This is- This is illegal. Alright? I have the right to a fuckin’ trial. I know I have the right to a fuckin’ trial, o-or a judge, or whatever.” Eddie’s voice boomed, echoing off the walls. “Innocent until proven guilty, right? Is that not a thing anymore?” 

Callahan shoved his key in the windowless room, pushing it open. Eddie scoffed, stepping back with disgust. “You fuckin’ pigs, pigs, all the same. Think you’re above the law, huh? Well, I’m not goin’ in there without a fucking lawyer-” 

“-Eddie,” Wayne’s gruff bark came from inside the room. Eddie stilled, squinting into the dark room, a single lightbulb over a desk like something out of a cliched cop show. His uncle sat in one chair, Hopper in the other, a single manilla folder in front of them. 

“Take a seat, boy.” Wayne nodded, arms crossed over his short sleeve coveralls, the lines on his face harder than usual, more prominent. 

Eddie hesitated, looking back down the hall before stepping in, taking slow, calculated steps towards the empty chair next to Wayne. 

“Thanks, Phil. We got it from here.” Hopper nodded to the man at the door, the hinges squeaking before the door fell shut with a heavy thud. Eddie was furious at himself for flinching. 

There was a painful moment of silence, so quiet, Eddie’s thudding heartbeat rang in his ears. 

“So, Eddie, you’re looking at one to five right now.” Hopper’s fingers drummed against the manilla folder, lips pressed in a tight, intimidating line. Eddie steeled himself, meeting his eyes, but he didn’t dare look at Wayne. 

“First offense with a relatively clean record, the judge might only have you do a few months here with probation- might.” Hopper glared when Eddie perked. “That’s the best case scenario, and unfortunately for you, the judge has been around long enough to already see a Munson come through, a few times.” 

Eddie’s brows furrowed, head tilting in challenging question, arms folded in defensiveness. “He’s talkin’ ‘bout Al, boy.” Wayne grunted, glaring at his nephew with a hard stare that had Eddie uneasy. “He’s gonna throw the book at ya because of your Daddy. ‘S worried you’re gonna be like ‘im.” 

“What? They- He can’t do that-” 

“-He can.” Hopper shrugged. “You still broke the law, Eddie. The judge can give you the max, the minimum, whatever he wants- it’s in his hands when you break the law.” 

Eddie’s foot tapped, sulking back in his chair, arms wrapping around his torso tightly, scared his heart might burst right through his ribcage with the way it was beating, thumping rapidly with fear. He was convinced through the thick silence that they could hear it.

“But,” Hopper said around a slow breath, his eyes cutting to Wayne’s before they met Eddie’s. “You’re lucky he also knows another Munson, and happens to play cards with him on Saturday nights.” 

Eddie looked over at Wayne, his uncle’s face unmoving, glaring back at him with the same unimpressed, stoic expression. 

“And we’ve cut a little deal with Judge Dixon.” Hopper slid the manilla folder over towards Eddie. “There’s been a… lacking of officer’s lately in our department. Hawkins is growing, more people are coming in with all the new stuff, and we’re swamped and short handed. We need officers for the lower level things. Traffic conductors, petty crime reports- the small stuff.” 

Eddie didn’t move- he couldn’t. Frozen in fear, in shock, maybe, at Hopper’s words, more so, what he was insinuating with them. 

Hopper flipped open the manilla folder, a small, stapled form that read: Hawkins Law Enforcement Academy, in bold, threatening letters across the top. The form was already filled out, stamped with approval for acceptance by Judge Dixon and Hopper. Eddie felt light headed. 

“So, we came up with a compromise,” Hopper continued slowly. “Judge Dixon agreed that if you go to the academy, become an officer, he’ll wipe this completely. You’ll have a job- with benefits- and you’ll handle the lower level stuff. Help us help you kinda thing.” 

Eddie didn’t speak, he couldn’t, too shocked to even form a thought let alone a word. 

“Or,” Hopper sighed heavily, pulling another paper out from behind the form- Eddie’s booking papers and court appearance request. “You can go to jail.” 

“Send me to jail.” Eddie spat, gawking at the paper. 

“Boy,” Wayne grunted. 

“I’m serious. I-I’ll be alright, just send me to jail, because there’s not a chance in heaven or fuckin’ hell I am being a cop.” Eddie scoffed. 

Wayne only glared, looking at Hopper. “Give us a minute, will ya?” 

Hopper nodded slowly, standing from the table. “Take your time. Just knock on the door when you have a decision.” 

The door shut with a heavy snap again, the room falling still for a moment. 

“I-I’m not being a cop, Wayne, I don’t care. I’m not- There’s no way-”  

“-You’re goin’ to that Academy, son.” Wayne narrowed his gaze at Eddie, hardening with his tone. 

“The fuck I am.” Eddie laughed humorlessly, scoffing.

”I-I mean, a cop? A cop? I’m not- I hate cops! Cops hate me! They’re fuckin’ power hungry bastards who use it to fuck with people because they’re the law.” Eddie threw his hands up in exasperation. “That’s not me, alright? That will never fuckin’ be me, and I’m not-” 

“-There. You just said it.” Wayne rolled his eyes. “‘S never gonna be you, that’s exactly right, boy. You ain’t gotta act like all ‘em dirty assholes. ‘S not in the job description t’act like that, so don’t.” 

Eddie’s lips pursed, hands buzzing with rage, maybe fear, he wasn’t sure. “I’m not doin’ it. I don’t care. I’d rather go to jail, be a criminal-”

“-Be like your Daddy?” Wayne scoffed. “Because he wasn’t a pow’r hungry asshole, was he? He was a real winner, real nice guy. Don’t you remember?” 

Eddie’s heart fell, his face falling with it. Wayne rarely brought up Al, rarely brought up the situation that led Eddie to stay with Wayne permanently. 

“I ain’t lettin’ you be like him, boy.” Wayne shook his head. “I won’t have a second one of ‘im runnin’ around-” 

“-I’m not like him.” Eddie grit through a tight jaw, his throat burning with tears he was desperate to keep down. 

“You know, this is how it started for him?” Wayne narrowed his eyes at Eddie. “Started small, just sellin’- we all gotta make a livin’, Wayne, don’t tell me how to make mine.” 

Wayne scoffed, shaking his head. “You should be thankin’ me for gettin’ you this, and not just tossin’ you out on your ass. Thankful that nice cop out there,” Wayne jammed a finger at the door. “Knows you’re not a bad kid, that you just make some stupid choices.” 

Eddie didn’t move, fist balled by his side, his gaze unmoving from his uncle’s. “That guy, he wants to help people. ‘S why he helped me, ‘cause he doesn’t want you endin’ up like your Daddy either.” 

“You should wanna end up like ‘im instead, not like Al.” Wayne’s glare narrowed at him. “‘Least he tries to help people, not just hurt ‘em… Hell, he’s tried to help you more than that sorry sack of shit ever did.” 

Eddie’s jaw tightened, so tight he was sure his teeth might snap, crack and break out under the pressure. Wayne stood with a small groan. “‘S your choice, boy. I ain’t gonna make it for ya. You’re grown ‘nough.” 

Wayne rapped on the door, slipping out, leaving Eddie alone, in the same deafening silence that seemed to follow him. The two forms in front of him, both missing his signature. Whichever he signed, whichever choice he made, sealed his fate- his future. 

Nearly an hour and a half later, a small knock came from the other side, leaving both Hopper and Wayne jumping. The two men shared a look, before Hopper pulled the door open. 

Eddie’s face was stoic, unreadably cold and expressionless when he passed the manilla envelope to Hopper, avoiding Wayne’s gaze entirely. Hopper opened the folder, eyes widening before they cut back to Eddie’s. Wayne’s chest tightened, fear filling and sinking in the pit of his stomach. 

“You sure? No changing it once I send it in.” Hopper lifted a brow. 

“Yeah,” Eddie nodded, arms folding over his chest. 

Wayne’s shoulders fell, slumped with disappointment, a calloused hand running down his face. He was sure he’d gotten through to Eddie. Sure, the kid was stubborn, but he thought maybe, just maybe he’d got him pointed in the right direction. 

Hopper sighed slowly, tucking the manilla folder back under his arm, walking over to Eddie. His hand stuck out, and Wayne steeled himself, ready to watch the cuffs come on, hear his rights being read- he’d seen it a million times with his brother, he just thought his nephew would have a better fate. 

Instead, Eddie took Hopper’s hand, giving it a firm shake. “Congratulations, Eddie.” Hopper said. Wayne’s head snapped up. “We look forward to you joining our crew.” 

“I have one condition,” Eddie paused. “I’m not cutting my hair. I won’t fuckin’ do it. If it’s just the low level shit, then I’m not doing it.” 

Hopper looked over at Wayne, back at Eddie with a shrug. “Fine by me. You just have to keep it back.” 

“Fine.” Eddie nodded, letting do of his grasp. He turned to his uncle, Wayne’s face bright with a grin he rarely saw, beaming with pride though he tried to downplay it. 

“Proud of ya, boy. You’ll do good.” Wayne clapped Eddie on the shoulder, pulling him in for a brief hug. 

The uneasy feeling hadn’t left Eddie’s chest, he wasn’t sure it ever would, but he did know that Wayne was right- he wouldn’t be like those other cops. Disgusting and power hungry, abusing others for their own ego. He’d be someone who helped, who made Hawkins better- because it sure as hell needed it. 

June 1989

Eddie hardly recognized himself. Sitting in a cruiser, not his van; his curls pulled back in a ponytail; not a stitch of leather on his body, instead he wore a khaki uniform, and the only patches on it were regulation ones that said his name and Hawkins Police. Six months later, and he was still queasy when he saw himself- a cop. 

He would admit, it was less dramatic as he thought it would be. After he finished academy, Hopper stuck him on the truly low level duties. Crosswalk duty in the mornings for the elementary school, which was humiliating. Or writing tickets on cars that let their meters expire. Or his personal hell, speed control in the construction zones. Hot days filled with sitting, watching with his speed gun to make sure no one was barreling through. 

This week, Eddie was already dreading his shifts, the days longer and hotter. At least school was out, so he was freed from crosswalk duties. 

“Munson,” Hopper didn’t look up from his desk. “Need you to go speed patrol out on North Avenue. We’ve got a lot of complaints about speeding. You can do that today until it starts to slow down. I’ll radio you if we need anything else.”

Eddie decided there were worse things to do at seven in the morning. While he’d rather be sleeping, he did find it a little humorous hearing the panic screech of tires breaking when they’d round the corner and see his patrol car. 

He’d stopped a group of teenagers, new drivers, letting them off with a warning to drive slow and safe, before he’d gone back to his car. It was growing boring, Eddie’s fingers tapping with boredom, until a car zipped around the curve in the road, not slowing or even hesitating when it passed Eddie. 

Sighing heavily, Eddie pulled out of his spot, flicking on his lights, tailing the car until they pulled over on the shoulder. Out of town plates, Eddie noticed, walking slowly up to the car. 

The woman in the driver’s seat cranked down the window, hands gripping the wheel nervously when Eddie approached. She looked his age, but he didn’t recognize her- he’d definitely remember seeing her before.

“License and registration, please.” Eddie tried not to sound bored or annoyed, there had been a few complaints about that already and Hopper was getting pissed. 

“Here you go.” Your hands shook when you passed them to Eddie through the open window. He examined the license, taking in your full name and your out of town address. 

“You know why I stopped you?” Eddie leaned in lightly, scanning the floorboards and seats of the small car- no guns, no weapons, nothing criminally suspicious, though Eddie was curious as to why there was an excess of laundry baskets piled in your back seat, spilling over with clothes and towels and clutter. 

“I-I was going too fast,” You squeaked, lipstick painted lip tucking between your teeth, nails tapping against the cracked leather of your wheel. Your hands still trembled when Eddie passed your license and registration back to you.

“I know I was speeding, a-and I swear, I-I don’t usually speed- I’m a really safe driver, I promise. I just- I just moved here, an-and it’s my first day of work, and I couldn’t find my alarm in my stuff so I tried to set a timer on my over and it doesn’t work, of course.” You threw your hands up in exaggeration, Eddie flinching, drawing back for his holster. 

“I’m sorry!” You screeched, lifting your hands up, eyes wide with panic. 

“No, I-I wasn’t- I’m so sorry.” Your lip was beginning to wobble, eyes glassing with tears that filled your water lines. “I just- I’m late for my first day and… and I really need the job, and I’m just already having a really bad start to my day.” 

Eddie’s heart leapt when you sniffed, wet and dramatic, a tear leaking out of the corner of your eye. Fuck, he hadn’t meant to make you cry. 

“No, it’s-it’s okay.” Eddie lifted a hand softly. “I mean, wait- speeding isn’t okay. You shouldn’t do that, but it’s not- They have me sit out here, y’know? Try to catch the teenagers on their way to school and stuff. It’s just- You’ll get used to it.” 

Your brows furrowed gently, sniffing again, but no tears fell this time. Eddie’s chest loosened. “It’s a small town, so ya know how it is- or maybe you don’t, but- sorry, I don’t. You’re late an-and I…” Eddie’s tongue felt thick and awkward in his mouth, flopping around words that jumbled. 

“Where’re you working at?” Eddie cleared his throat, trying to still the pubescent shake in his voice. 

“Delia’s- the jewelry store?” Your eyes cut to your watch, knuckles tightening around the wheel. “I’m the manager- well, just the store manager, for the one that opened in the mall, but my general manager will be there and I’m still on my probationary period, and-” 

“-No, I-I get that.” Eddie muttered around a breath. “Um, let me- hold on,” He paused, leaning back to look at you fully. You flustered when he stood at his full height, and sliver of a tattoo peeking out from the khaki of his cuffed sleeve. 

“Do you promise not to speed again?” 

“What?” 

“I mean, if I don’t give you a ticket, do you swear not to speed again?” Eddie kept his face stern, voice tight, though his lips twitched when you blinked at him, wide eyed, a little confused- Fuck, you were cute. 

“Y-Yes. Yes, of course, I-I won’t speed again.” You babbled around your shock. 

“Well, maybe one more time, alright?” Eddie’s crooked grin had your heart skipping with excitement. “But it’ll be legal-ish. I’ll give you an escort.” 

“What?” Your eyes flashed towards him. “Seriously? You-You don’t have to-” 

“-C’mon, there’s not shit to do here, sweetheart.” Eddie scoffed lightly. “Welcome to Hawkins.” 

Your cheeks burned with a tingling thrill. “It’ll take me five minutes, I promise.” Eddie craned his neck, looking down at your watch. “Get you there right before eight. If we go now.”

“O-Okay,” You nodded, shifting your gear into drive. “Thank you!” 

Eddie waved back, jogging to his cruiser, sliding into the driver’s seat. Hopper would kill him, maybe worse, for doing this. Put him back on meter maid and crosswalk duty for weeks, if he found out. But looking back at you, your small smile that brought a familiar rush of heat that Eddie hadn’t felt in so long, he decided it was worth the risk. 

Flying through the stop lights towards Starcourt, Eddie began to wonder if you’d lied to him about your speeding record. Judging by how fast you kept up with him, taking each turn barely pressing your brake, he was beginning to think otherwise. 

Seven-fifty-six on the dot, you and Eddie were parked near the south entrance.  

“Thank you so, so much again.” You scrambled out of your car, balancing a bag in one hand, barefoot in your pantyhose, slipping your pumps on. “I- I really needed that, thank you.” Your gaze lifted to his, shoulders falling for the first time since he saw you.

Eddie’s heart swelled at your sincerity, the lump in his throat growing more and more by the second. “Hey, it’s no problem.” He gave a soft smile. “I’m a civil servant. Here to serve.” 

You giggled, pulling at your skirt, smoothing your hand over the fabric. “Well, I appreciate it again. And I promise I won’t speed anymore.” 

“Good.” Eddie nodded, leaning against the hood of his car. You hesitated for a moment, looking down at your wrist watch before starting towards the doors. 

Eddie’s heart leapt, jumping to run before you. “Here, let me-” He pulled on the handle, boot propping the door open for you. 

“Thank you.” You muttered around a smile, chin ducking shyly when you passed him. 

“Hey, um,” Eddie called out, a white knuckled grip on the steel doors. Your heeled steps stopped, turning towards him. 

“Look I know you’re in a rush, but uh,” Eddie fumbled, patting his belt until he felt his notebook, pulling it out with shaky hands. He cursed when the pencil slide through the wired loops, dropping to the ground. “Shit, um, if-if you ever need someone to show you around or-or want someone to show you the not bad places around here, or whatever, y’know? I, um, I could-” 

Eddie’s hands shook, each number and letter and scratchy, jittery mess on the faded lined paper. “I’d be more than happy t-to show you around… if you want.” Eddie’s hands were sweaty when he handed you the paper. “Or if you ever want to get a drink or something.” 

Your lips curled in a bright smile, looking down at his wobbly handwriting. “Thank you… Eddie?” Your head tilted slightly, squinting at the name you tried to decipher. 

“Yeah, sorry, my handwriting’s…” Eddie took a breath, shaking his head gently. He was sure you could see his red cheeks now. “That’s me. If you ever need anything.” 

“Thank you.” You smiled, tucking the paper carefully into your purse pocket. “Thank you for everything, seriously.” You turned with a wave, giving one last glance over your shoulder before scampering away. 

“Good luck!” Eddie’s voice cracked when he shouted after you, wincing. Maybe you hadn’t heard that- maybe it only sounded like it echoed off the empty walls of the mall. Why the hell weren’t they playing music? 

Eddie was sure he’d blown it. Sulking in the cruiser, forehead pressed to his steering wheel. You weren’t going to call. He was sure of it. Convinced himself of it. You’d throw his number away with a snicker, just like all the other girls did. 

After his shift, limbs heavy, filled with exhaustion from the day, Eddie was ready to smoke a bowl he’d confiscated from some high schoolers, and call it a night. His messaging machine flashing greeted him, finger jamming into the play button, plopping on his bed with a heavy groan. 

“You have one new message,” The robotic voice droned. Eddie rolled his eyes, tugging at his boots with a grunt. 

“Um, hello, hi,” Eddie nearly choked, head snapping towards the machine. 

“I think I got the number right- I’m sorry, I hope this is the right number, I couldn’t really read them, but, uh, if this is Eddie. I-I just wanted to say thank you again, and see if you could call me back? Whenever you get a chance, I know you’re probably busy, but, um… I’d like to take you up on getting that drink. Or showing me the not so bad places around here.” Your nervous giggle floated through the line, and Eddie thought he might kiss the machine. 

“But uh, if this isn’t Eddie… I guess don’t call me back an-and I’m sorry. Anyways, thank you again, and… yeah. Call me, please. Bye.” 

Eddie nearly broke the receiver punching the call back button, boot half off, cradling the phone to his ear with shaking hands. 

“Hello?” Your voice came through on the second ring. 

“Hey, uh, hi,” Eddie stammered, swallowing around his excitement, maybe nerves. “It’s Eddie. I just- I just got off and saw your message.” 

“Oh, good,” You giggled. “I was worried it wasn’t the right one. I thought I left some crazy rambling on some strangers' voicemail. I’ll get a looney reputation before people even meet me.” 

Eddie snorted lightly in laughter. “No, uh, it’s- it was the right one.” 

“Good,” You hummed, a pause filling the line. “Um, well, I wanted to say thank you again, an-and also see if you were serious about getting a drink? I want to buy you one for everything this morning, but I don’t know where to go.” You admitted with a small, shy laugh.

“I figured I’d ask you and see if you wanted to go out tonight? If you’re free.” 

“Yeah, yeah, that would be amazing.” Eddie winced, fist balling in embarrassment, pressing it to his forehead. “I mean, I’m free.” 

“Great. How about, um, eight? Would that work for you?” 

“Yeah, eight is great.” Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose at his own embarrassment. “How about Shirley’s? It’s- It’s close to the mall, actually. Right across from the flower shop. In that strip. Do you know where that is?” 

“By the main entrance?” 

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Sure. I can meet you there.” 

“Perfect.” Eddie’s lips curled, heart hammering in his chest. “I’ll see you then,” 

“See you then. Bye.” You hoped you hung up before he heard you squeal, slamming the phone on the hook, jittery with excitement. 

Where your going out clothes were? You weren’t sure. Looking around the piles and piles of boxes, you flung through totes like a mad woman, ripping through the tape and cardboard until you found the neatly folded dresses you were looking for. 

“So,” Eddie’s fingers drummed on the glass of his beer, knee bouncing under the table, his chains on his jeans jingling. “How are you liking Hawkins?”

“It’s good so far.” You hummed, bringing your own beer to your lips. “Still trying to figure everything out. I just moved here. I haven’t even been here a week.” You gave a small, soft giggle that had Eddie’s head swimming. 

Your eyes rolled down his frame, taking in his attire. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but you didn’t expect it to be that. Ripped jeans with chains, a torn leather vest decorated in various band patches, a Megadeath tee, and rings on each of his fingers- the only part of his outfit that gave a ‘cop’ effect, was the belt made of chains and handcuffs. 

“There’s not a lot to do here, honestly. Won’t take you long to figure it all out.” Eddie snorted lightly. “I mean, there’s more now than there was before. With the mall and the other things comin’, but still… Not a lot, I guess.”

You nodded for a moment, a shy, nervous giggle passing your lips that you hoped he didn’t notice. “Where’s your favorite place?” You asked, desperate to fill the silent tension that was looming around the two of you. “Like where do you like to go to have fun? This place?” 

“Yeah, its-I mean, Shirley’s is fun.” Eddie nodded, looking around. The barstools and high top tables with tiny candles on each table to create the ambiance. The bar tenders shaking cocktails in their white dress shirts and ties- too posh for anything in Hawkins, in Eddie’s opinion, the drink prices certainly were. 

 “I’m more of a fan of The Hideout. It’s more my crowd.” 

“Where’s that?” 

“Uh, it’s more on the outskirts, towards the quarry. On the other side of here, actually.” Eddie pointed, rings catching in the low candle light. “It’s a bar too, but more of a dive one..” 

“Oh, we should’ve gone there then.” You smiled at him gently. “If it’s more your taste.” 

“No, it’s- sorry, no, I like Shirley’s. This is… This is probably better for- It’s less rowdy here, y’know?” Eddie’s palms were beginning to sweat, rubbing them on his jeans under the table, hoping you didn’t notice, hoping you didn’t hear his chains jingle. “Plus they have live music, so it’s kinda loud, not as good for talking.” 

You watched him, the way his eyes darted back from your gaze to the green velvet walls, his leg bouncing under the table. “I see,” You nodded slowly, lips twitching in a grin. “Next time, then?” 

Eddie’s heart skipped, mind blanking for a moment. “Ye-Yeah, absolutely.” Eddie hoped you couldn’t see his blush, creeping hot up his neck. 

A silence fell between the two of you, both of you trying to look nonchalant to the other, minds racing to fill the silence gap. “So,” Eddie swallowed around the bundle of nerves in his throat. “Do you, uh, do you like jewelry?” 

He didn’t expect you to laugh; nose scrunching and lips curling in a laugh, it was infectious, had Eddie nervously giggling with you. “Sorry, I- Yes and no.” You grinned at Eddie from across the table. “I mean, I don’t dislike it, but I don’t have a burning passion for it. I just needed a job.” 

“I get that.” Eddie muttered, shyly ducking his head, eyes trained on the ring of condensation left behind by his beer. “I’ve got a small collection, but, uh, not a lot anymore. I can’t really wear ‘em when I’m working.” Eddie twisted the skull ring around his middle finger. You leaned over the table lightly to get a better look. 

“You need to get it cleaned.” You hummed, fingers reaching out to twist the skull pattern towards you. Eddie’s heart nearly soared out of his throat when your fingertips met his skin. He was sure you could see him blushing now. 

“The silver’s starting to tarnish around the eyes, see?” You tapped your nail next to the eye, filled with a greenish tint. “It’s oxidizing. It’ll start getting everywhere. Turn your fingers and clothes.” 

Eddie grunted, forcing a sound of thought to come from his strangled throat, unmoving- scared that if he moved you might let go. “Bring it by tomorrow if you’re free. I work eight to five again. We have a big silver cleaning machine with all the solution and stuff. I’ll clean them for you.” 

“Yeah? That’ll fix them?” Eddie looked up at you, both of you suddenly aware at your closeness. Leaned in together across the table, your pointer and thumb wrapped around his middle finger ring. 

“Yeah,” You squeaked out a reply, chin ducking shyly, but you didn’t pull back. “I’ll do it for you. It won’t take me long, promise. But they’ll look brand new.” 

Eddie actually liked the tarnish look, thought it made them look more metal and sick, though he didn’t tell you that. He wouldn’t dare. He’d get them cleaned, shiny and new, if that meant he got to see you again. 

“Cool, yeah, that would be great. Thank you.” Eddie nodded, too eagerly to be cool, nose scrunching gently in a wince of embarassment. “Hopefully I don’t lose ‘em before then.” 

“Why would you lose them?” Your eyebrows pulled together, a giggle of confusion fell around your words. Eddie chest felt warm, heat spreading to his cheeks in an adrenaline rush of excitement. 

“I don’t- I’m not trying to.” Eddie grinned back- your smile was infectious, he decided, gleaming when he looked at you. “I just don’t have anywhere to put them, I guess. I’m on tomorrow, so I can’t wear them, and I’m really bad at forgetting where they’re at if I don’t have them on me-” 

“-I’m the same way.” You laughed, voice raising in enthusiasm, your own ring clad hand pressing into your chest. “I lost one of my favorite rings because I put it in my jean pocket, but I forgot to get it out, and I washed them and it’s gone.” 

“That’s the worst.” Eddie sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I’ve lost a few that way too. I had a bad habit of putting them in my pockets when I started working, because you can’t wear rings- ‘specially not like those. My boss would bitch at me, so I’d put them in my pocket and forget about them every time.” 

You squinted at him lightly, lips rolling, head tilting to the side- studying him, sizing him up. Whatever it was, it made Eddie’s hands sweaty, nerves rattling in his chest. 

“So, how long have you been a cop for?” You hummed. 

“Not long, actually.” Eddie laughed nervously, leg bouncing under the table. “Only a coupla months. That’s why they’ve got me on speed trap duty.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie shrugged. “It’s better than crosswalk duty, believe me. Or being a meter maid. There’s not a lot that goes on around here besides speeding and drugs, so I’m not missing out on much.” 

You nodded, a silence falling between the two of you again. 

“Besides,” Eddie added quickly. “I’m glad I got put on speeding today.” 

“Yeah? Why?” You tilted your head gently, lips twisting in a smile you tried to fight back, like you knew what he was going to say- maybe you did. 

“Well, I wouldn’t be sitting across from you if I hadn’t.” Eddie grinned, a dazzling smile that left you swooning, cheeks tingling with heat. It was cheesy, so, so corny, yet it made you swoon. 

“I guess you’re right.” You shrugged lightly, lashes batting towards him sweetly. “I’m pretty glad you did too. Even if you did pull me over.” 

“Hey, c’mon, I didn’t give ya a ticket.” Eddie grinned, throwing his hands out dramatically. “No ticket and a police escort? Can’t be that bad of a first impression.” 

“You’re right.” You giggled. “I wouldn’t be here if it was.” You winked at him playfully, a dark yet teasing glint in your eyes that left Eddie’s tummy flipping with an excited rush of heat. It was a look, a tone, a feeling that he hoped he’d get to explore more of- get to know better. 

Last call came before either of you were ready to go. Eddie paid for your drinks, waving off your insistence. “Next time is on me,” You pointed your finger playfully at him, slipping past him as he held the door. He didn’t fight you on that, heart bursting with excitement at the promise of next time. 

Standing by your car, you watched him fidget, rambling about seeing you tomorrow and things to do, hesitating to move in- should he go for a hug? A kiss? Just shut your door and wave goodbye? 

You didn’t give him a chance to dwell- pulling him in for a sweet, sloppy smooch against the driver’s side of your car. Eddie swore he was in love, even more so when you pulled apart, the same dark little grin that had him rushing with thrilling heat. 

“See you tomorrow, Officer.” You winked at him playfully, climbing into your car. 

“Drive safe.” Eddie waved, his voice cracking. He hoped you didn’t hear it, watching you drive away with a lovesick gaze.  

[fictionalmenxyn]

🝊𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐫🝊

Pairing: cop!rafe x reader

Warnings: language and suggestive

🝊🝊🝊

You were on your way home, yes, you may have been going a few numbers over the limit. It was a 55 and you were going 60, not too bad. But you saw the famous red and blue lights flash along with the ‘woop woop’ of the sirens.

You mentally smacked yourself, also rolling your eyes at the slight fact the cop was being over dramatic. You indicated and pulled over.

You roll down your window, reaching over into the glove box grabbing your license and registration. You put them in your lap as you waited for the officer to walk over.

You see the figure, through the side mirror walking over. You double check over the things in your lap. The officer spoke “hey sweetheart”

You head whipped to the side to look out the window. Seeing Rafe “Rafe?! The fuck are you doing pulling me over??” He grinned. His thumbs tucked into his tactical vest “someone was goin’ over the limit, baby.” You roll your eyes “you do the exact same and you’re a cop” he chuckled “I know, I just saw your plate and wanted to see you, while I’m on shift.” You nodded “touché… so officer? Any big things happen today??”

He leans down so he can talk to you better “hmm not much, few speeding, one dui… you know, the usual…” you nod. “And do officers take a kiss as an apology for going over five above the limit?” He smirked “hmm for now, yeah, officer Cameron would take that as a temporary apology…” you rolled your eyes. You lean out of the window and give him a peck. “Not good enough, sweet girl.” “What?!” “You heard…” “babe…” Rafe grinned “not babe, its officer, right now”

You rolled your eyes for what felt like the hundredth time. “Alright, officer…” you give him and another kiss. This time a proper and longer one. He pulled away “thank you” he stood straight again. He glanced to the road then to you. His thumbs still tucked into the armpit of the tactical vest. “You’re lucky you’re cute, I’m lettin’ ya off this time, no ticket for you pretty girl…” you look up at him. “Bullshit, you just don’t wanna do the paperwork.” You grin as he chuckles and shake his head “I like your logic, babe…” you smile “thank you…”

“That doesn’t mean you’re getting away with it when I get home…” “gonna need to teach you a lesson on how you shouldn’t sass the officer…I saw the eye rolls, can’t hide it from me, sweetheart” you blush slightly. “You can’t hide that blushin’ either…”

A voice over the radio speaks, Rafe looks back to you. Quickly leaning down and pressing two quick kisses to your soft lips. “Gotta go, see you later, I love you” you smiled “I love you too, go get those bad guys.” You smirk as he playfully rolled his eyes.

As he walks away, he calls out “don’t forget I’m not done with you, baby!” You chuckle as you start your car up again.

You watch as he drives off, sirens and lights beaming. He speeds off, going to god knows what incident. You smile, you loved seeing him all geared up and in uniform. It did things to you, especially when he wore it while getting you ready for some fun. Or when he lets you wear his training clothes. Like his ‘OBX PD’ training tee. Or the sweatpants, he liked you lost in the shorts though.

You couldn’t wait for him to get home to you. If it wasn’t illegal to actually speed. You’d do it more just for him to pull you over. The half-assed stern look he’d give you for going over just a little bit. Or when the one time you did a quick break at an empty junction. You only did a quick stop at the ‘stop’ sign because no one was there. So you didn’t think you needed to stop and wait a few seconds. He taught you a good lesson on that one…

You were already in bed, wearing only his PD tee when he got home. Dropping his bags to the floor and taking off his heavy tactical vest. Kicking his boots off as he crawled into bed and on top of you.

He kissed you like he hasn’t seen you in weeks. Your tongues clashing. He moves down your jaw and marks up your neck. Then he moves up your neck and to your ear. He whispers “I still haven’t taught you a lesson about speeding have I?” You gasp as his knee goes between your legs. He smirked “words” “no, officer…” he smirked “you look so good in my tee baby..” he smashes his lips against yours.

And the night was only just beginning…

🝊🝊🝊

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

manmade monsters Sun/Moon au. bc i have no self control lol

i also mentally call it the 'why are there giant robot monsters in my shed' au lol

idk what else to say so uh. enjoy

[cakeofbake]

Come and get me au

HELP IM IN LOVE WITH my own au

⬇️ Deets below :) ⬇️

Welcome to my Come and Get Me AU!! I needed a lil criminalxcop action in my life so i created this beautiful piece of content :D

Concept:

so basically, y/n gets caught up in a murder they didn’t commit and has been running from the police, although they were already being hunted down for a huge money scandal they were also involved in, so they were just having a doozey of a time. Two other (former) criminals, Sun and Moon, were dragged out of jail by the police department and were told if they can catch and arrest y/n they would get their freedom, so now they were on a wild goose chase to find Y/N.

Character Details:

Sun is your typical happy-go-lucky Sun in any typical universe, but he could definitely kill you in one shot, like bam, you dead. He’s extremely handy with a gun and has great aim and has fast reflexes, too. He wants so desperately to get out of jail, he took up the offer to find Y/N right away, he’s about ready to do anything to get freedom.

Moon isn’t quiet nor is he loud, he’s usually just very focused. He’s way more intimidating than Sun is, way more mysterious as well, but lighthearted giggles aren’t uncommon with him, either. Moon hates prison as much as the next guy, but it took some convincing to take up the job first-thing. But, of course, how would he get through without his brother to suffer with him in jail?

Y/N is a swift, cunning son of a gun. They’re handy with a gun, always quiet when needed be, and extremely good at escaping bad situations, except for the one murder they were framed for. But however focused on not getting arrested they were, they always loved a nice cold drink and a few laughs. They knew so many people around the big city, good and bad, it was hard to not be noticed by someone, so they kept in the shadows most days.

Eclipse… :)

Questions? Comments? Concerns? fanart CONSULT MY ASKBOX!! :DDDD

[jeonstudios]

dextrocardia | 17

Dextrocardia. Originally a medical term, but also a way to describe someone who's got their heart in the right place.

"She's been moved to another operation to help out. This pairing is necessary because you'll be undercover as spouses. I know you two can be professional about this."

"What?!" It's Jeongguk's upset voice that sounds, and for once, you share his displeased opinion.

Spouses.

pairing: cop!jk x f detective!reader

genre: undercover cops, fake marriage, e2l au, angst, fluff, (smut?)

word count: 3.4k

warnings: uhm... blood, injuries to hands and feet...

rating: NC-17 – Adults Only

masterlist

part 17/? 

<previous | next>

© dextrocardia is copyright jeonstudios. this fic can not be modified, re-posted, or translated without my permission.

Determined, Jeongguk drives west, soon swapping his car for another black one at the rental. While he waits for the staff to grab the right key, he enters an address into his phone’s GPS, scanning through the satellite images in preparation. 

Ideally, he would’ve scoped the place out beforehand. In person. But he doesn’t have that option, so he tells himself that it’ll be fine. He just has to be careful. 

A few moments later, he gets into the driver’s seat, driving the new car back east, passing both the station and not too far from your apartment building. There’s a part of him that wants to stop by, to beg you to come back with him, but he ignores it, knowing full well that you wouldn’t appreciate it.

Luckily, the sun has already set by the time he arrives at the address an hour later, providing him the cover of darkness. The street in front of the two-story suburban house is quiet, and he slows the car to a stop at a safe distance. He’s relieved to see a few other cars parked along the street, making it easier for him to blend in.

Despite not being trained in surveillance quite like you, Jeongguk tries to think two, even three steps ahead. He manually switches off the interior lights before killing the engine, ensuring no harsh lights give him away if someone happens to be watching. If that someone also happens to know him, he’s fucked. 

Surrounded by darkness, he quickly scans the area before slipping out of the driver’s seat and into the back. Hidden from view, he picks up the binoculars he borrowed from the station, leaning against the seat in front of him as he peers through them.

Although it’s dark, the streetlights and the glow from inside the house are enough, and he starts by inspecting the cars parked outside. They’re ordinary cars with plates he doesn’t recognize. Unlocking his phone—the brightness set as low as possible—he writes the plates down to look them up later.

Then, he turns his attention toward the house. It’s a white-painted home with a decent-sized porch that almost reminds him of the house he shared with you during the mission, only smaller. He keeps his gaze on it, noticing movement through the mostly curtain-covered windows on the bottom floor, but it's impossible to make out any details. Just shadows dancing against the beige fabric.

A sudden sound interrupts the silence, and through the side-view mirror, Jeongguk spots a vehicle approaching from behind. He ducks, staying completely still. The dark car passes, and a few seconds later, Jeongguk peeks out from behind the driver’s seat again. The driver is parking outside the house, and so Jeongguk holds his breath.

The door on the driver’s side opens, but the man inside is distracted by something in the passenger seat, and as he begins to step out, his face remains hidden from Jeongguk’s view. He’s wearing dark clothes; a thicker winter jacket of some kind, and his hair is black. Nothing incriminating or identifying.

Come one, come on.

With both feet on the ground, the man turns his head to quickly scan the street, and Jeongguk sinks back down in his seat, his eyes wide. 

JJ.

Jeongguk watches his coworker slam the door shut, only to round the car to seemingly grab something from the backseat floor out of view. A second later, JJ emerges with a small black bag in his hand—just like the one Sana briefly described to Jeongguk after he’d stumbled across her and Jihyo buried in papers and questioned them.

JJ heads for the front door of his “stepsister's” house, taking the two steps up in a single stride. Jeongguk watches him knock and then how he stands there, waiting for someone to open. Again, Jeongguk holds his breath, praying that tonight will lead to a breakthrough. 

It’s almost as if they know that Jeongguk is waiting, on the edge of his seat, because whoever is behind that door is taking their goddamn time. Additionally, his phone chooses the worst time to ring, the vibrations unnoticeable for his target but distracting for him. Then, the door opens, and Jeongguk’s dextrocardic heart skips a beat, and maybe it also fills his veins with anger.

Ryung.

You have a hard time putting your feelings into words, somehow satisfied by your recent breakthrough but also jittery and nervous about what it might mean. You could be one step closer to finally putting some very bad men behind bars, or at least try to, but you’ve also realized that, yeah, there’s a risk that you’re in more danger than you thought.

On one hand, you’re probably farther away from JJ (at least), but on the other hand, you’re alone. Although you didn’t stay with Jeongguk that long, it’s still taken you some time to get used to not living with him anymore. Your apartment is smaller than his house, but it’s a pretty home; recently renovated but with a homey feel to it. At least you try to convince yourself that.

“Okay, my phone’s about to die, but you have a safe flight. Bye,” you tell your mother, waiting for her goodbye before hanging up and slipping your phone into the front pocket of your black hoodie. 

Your mother. You’ve tried to keep her as unknowing and uninvolved as possible, and although she knows that the city’s police force has been dealing with some corruption, she doesn’t know that you’re in the middle of it. It’s been relatively easy to keep her in the dark, or at least in the shadows; she’s not the most updated person, preferring to stay off social media and only read physical newspapers now and again.

For the longest time, before everything unfolded and while you dealt with the harassment at work and the tampering of your car, you thought your end was inevitable, and you didn’t want to worry her. Now... well… you guess you still don’t want her to worry. It would be useless as there’s never been anything she could do to help you. If anything, she’d be in danger too.

Living alone again, you've set a new bedtime routine in place. It includes a hot drink—usually tea but sometimes cocoa—along with lazily scrolling the internet on your laptop with the lights dimmed while the TV hums in the background. It helps take your mind off things and the human voices make these dark nights feel less lonely.

Tonight, however, the nine o’clock news reported a mass shooting involving multiple gunmen not too far from your station, and you watched in horror as the news anchor described the chaos. Squad cars from neighboring districts had been called in to help your understaffed station handle the panicked crowds and roaming gunmen. As a criminal investigator, there’s nothing you can do to help; you’re not trained to handle a task like that. You think about your colleagues, mainly all the officers called in, hoping none of them get hurt tonight.

To calm your nerves, you put the kettle on and rummage through the cupboard in search of your tea. Maybe chamomile will calm you until there’s an update.

But you don’t have time to pick out a tea bag before there’s a sharp knock on your door. You freeze. It’s late—almost ten p.m.—and you haven’t really made friends with your elderly neighbors.

Swallowing hard, you turn around and very slowly make your way from the kitchen to the door. Your heart pounds against your ribs, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Maybe it's Jeongguk?

Holding your breath, you rise onto your toes to press your eye to the peephole. A chill runs down your spine, and your blood freezes.

It’s not Jeongguk. It’s Hoseong, and he’s dressed in black, staring right at you, smiling.

You stumble backward, body locking up in fear.

He looks the same as you remember him—tall and muscular with dark eyes. But his hair is longer now, nearly reaching his jaw. He used to seem so charming to you, but even if he mostly looks the same, all you see now is how unsettling he is.

“I know you’re in there,” he sings, hos voice teasing. “And a little bird told me you’ve been having trouble with your door. The latch, was it?”

He knows about your door? You step back slowly, heart pounding. What do you do? You always lock your door—like now—but lately, the latch has become misaligned. It’s a small issue. Barely noticeable. Just enough to make locking and unlocking tricky sometimes.

But there’s a gap. A weak spot.

Then, you hear it. It’s a faint, eerie sound, like someone sliding a thin object, maybe a credit card, into the door. As if to wiggle the latch loose.

What do you do?

Your first instinct is to scream for help, but when you think about it… Your neighbors are elderly, and Hoseong is definitely armed and on the warpath. The best thing they could do is call the understaffed, already busy cops. They can’t help you.

Instead, you rush to the kitchen, yanking open a drawer and wrapping your trembling fingers tight around your sharpest knife. A second later, you hear the unmistakable sound of the door sliding open, followed by quick, angry footsteps.

Hoseong is smiling when he steps into view, a knife glinting in his hand. The smile is twisted, never reaching his eyes, and instinctively, you start to back up against the counter. He looks angry, frustrated, maybe even worn beyond the smile. You guess life on the run brings an element of stress.

“Finally, I’ve got you alone,” he seethes, striding toward you. “You’ve ruined my life, you know that? Fucking whore.”

You hold your knife out, preparing to defend yourself as best you can. But the truth is that Hoseong isn’t just a good bit bigger and a lot stronger than you—he’s also faster and more athletic. And most importantly, he’s trained to defend himself and disarm others in a way you just aren’t.

So when you thrust the knife toward him as he closes in, he dodges with ease and uses his free hand to grab your wrist hard. In one fluid motion, he clamps his knife between his teeth to get his other hand free, harshly yanking your knife from you. It clutters against the floor somewhere out of view. Next, he’s taking his knife back, shifting his grip on it, and preparing to strike.

With one hand still trapped in his grasp, you don’t get the angle or opportunity to disarm him like he did you. Instead, your left hand only manages to grab the blade. You’re not sure if you feel how it hurts or if you just know that it does, but something warm starts to drip down your hand as you try to keep the knife away from you, gritting your teeth.

Somehow, you manage to land a kick to his crotch, and despite the less-than-perfect angle, the pressure of the knife lessens as Hoseong stumbles back. Seizing the opportunity, you push him away with all your might, sprinting toward the only place with a lock. 

The bathroom. 

Almost instantly, Hoseong regains his balance, and he’s so close that you briefly feel the graze of his fingers in your hair as he sets off after you. Panicked, you grab anything within reach, hurling it back between you to slow him down. A tall, vintage vase crashes to the floor, a frustrated ‘fuck’ drawn from Hoseong, and it’s what buys you just enough time to reach the bathroom and lock the door behind you. A split second after you’ve twisted the lock, he’s yanking on the handle. Hard.

Alone in the bathroom, gasping for air, you fall to your knees. Blood is quickly collecting on your gray tile floor, and you have to look away from your shaky, torn-up hand. Your other hand reaches into the pocket of your hoodie, fumbling with the phone as you pull it out. It’s nothing more than pure luck that it didn’t fall out during the commotion. 

Suddenly, a booming crash shakes the door, and you both see and feel the impact as Hoseong tries to kick the door in. Quickly, you scramble to sit in front of it, pressing your back against it and planting your feet firmly on the floor.

You glance at your phone, already knowing there’s no use. The police won’t have anyone to send, and even if they did, Hoseong’s going to get you before they’ve even dispatched someone. Eyes blurry with tears, you press on a contact, lifting your phone to your ear and listening to the signals. 

“Hello?”

Hearing his familiar voice, the deep but slightly surprised greeting, is what does it, and you break further. He sounds like he didn’t expect you to call, probably because you’ve made it clear that you don’t want him around.

“Jeongguk?” you sniffle quietly, shakily, knowing that there’s nothing he can do either. All officers were called in, so he’s at least thirty minutes away. 

He must hear the overwhelming emotions in your voice because his next words are clearer, sharper, as if he adjusted the phone to hear better. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s here–” you whisper, your voice trembling—especially when Hoseong kicks against the door again, the shockwaves hitting you.

“–What?” Jeongguk questions, and you hear rustling in the background.

“Yeah, Hoseong’s here, and he’s got me,” you cry, nearly dropping the phone as the door is hit again. You do your best to grip the device tightly. “I’m not gonna make–”

Silence. Not even the rustling you heard on his end. You lower the phone to look at the screen through tears, only to find it black and dead.

This time, you’re not gonna make it.

Closing your eyes, you try to get a deep breath in. Maybe two. You know it’s inevitable, but are you just going to wait for it? Desperately, you open your eyes again, looking around the blood-stained bathroom for something—anything—to use as a weapon or shield when Hoseong inevitably breaks the door down. 

But there’s nothing, and hit after hit rattles the door against your back. You’re not sure why he didn’t bring a gun. Of course, he’ll succeed tonight anyway, but a gun would’ve spared him some effort and you some unnecessary terror. Sure, someone might hear a gunshot, but he’s not being very quiet now either. You have a feeling he saw his undisturbed opportunity with the mass shooting happening and the police stretched thin. If someone in the building has called, it will still be a while before anyone arrives. He'll be done and on his way by then.

Despite the lack of weapons and protection, your eyes focus on something you can use to at least buy you some time. You stand up on shaky legs, quickly heading over to the bathtub, and with all your might, try to drag and push it in front of the door. Adrenaline still pumps through your veins, but you’re starting to feel the pain of your hand, blood smearing across the white porcelain. 

The tub is incredibly heavy, but even in your state, you manage to wedge one end against the door. You’re fairly certain that it’ll keep Hoseong from breaking the door in, but the tub only reaches your thigh, and Hoseong might break through the door above it. After all, it’s of the flimsier kind, and you’re surprised it’s held on for so long already.

Or, he might realize–just like you have–that the door doesn’t swing inward. It swings out.

“You can’t hide in there forever,” Hoseong pauses his assault on the door, his voice the angriest you’ve ever heard. “You won’t be able to weasel your way out this time.”

“Why can’t you just let it go?” you finally yell, your voice strained.

“Let go? Let go?” He spits the words with fury, his rage palpable. “You’ve ruined my life, you understand that, right?! Either I live the rest of my life on the run, or I risk rotting away in jail just because you couldn’t let it go.”

You want so badly to yell obscenities at him, insult him for being too stupid to realize that he ruined his own life. He decided to assault you, turn everyone against you, and make attempts on your life. He took the risk, and he only has himself to blame now that karma is chasing him. But you don’t voice those thoughts, fearing that it would only fuel his anger and that’s the last thing you need.

“But how does this help? Coming here to hurt me now? If anything you’ll only risk a longer time in jail?”

“I don’t care,” he argues, his voice still dripping with hatred. “Life on the run will be better knowing that you’re six feet under and that your heroic boyfriend couldn’t save you.”

And then, there’s silence again. It doesn’t last long, but there’s something eerie about those four or five seconds before you hear a sharp metallic sound. 

Eyes widening, you realize that yeah, he’s also figured out that the door swings outward—he doesn’t need to kick the door in if he can unscrew the latch instead. That's what the metallic scraping is; his knife working the lock.

Your heart pounds as you frantically scan the room again. Maybe if you could wedge a broomstick or something under the handle and across the door frame? But there’s no broomstick. There’s nothing. So you’re left holding your breath and waiting for him to succeed. It feels like ages, but it’s probably only a minute or so before the lock falls to the floor with a metallic clang.

You back away from the bathtub and the door, knowing that it most likely won’t make any difference. And you’re right—the door swings open half a second later, a raging Hoseong setting his eyes on you and charging.

You try to dodge him, but he grabs you by your wrist and pulls you out of the bathroom. You stumble as he drags you out, your hip banged violently and painfully against the tub. 

“You fucking whore. You’re gonna pay for what you’ve done,” he promises, making sure to drag you across the vase shards on the way back to the kitchen.

In vain, you try to avoid them, wincing when they cut your feet. Your pain makes Hoseong—who’s of course wearing shoes—laugh, but he stops when you surprise him by throwing yourself to the floor.

The shard you grab cuts your skin, but you try to ignore the pain as you drive the sharp point into his back, piercing through his thin black jacket. Hoseong curses and his posture falters, but you doubt it did any real damage even if it hurt, and you’re right. You barely have time to blink before he whirls around, swinging his knife at you. Unfortunately, you don’t dodge the blow completely, and you feel how it swipes your side.

Still holding your wrist in a tight grip, it’s Hoseong’s turn to stumble when you yank on it in an unexpected direction; the kitchen sink. You manage to get a few steps closer, and that’s all you need. As he swings again, you reach for the kettle, hurling the scalding water over him. Some of the scattered drops hit your face and hands, stinging as they land on your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the pained yell Hoseong lets out as he drops your hand and staggers back.

Exhausted and in pain, you'd hoped it would be the end of it, but it's not. Seemingly running on nothing but fumes, adrenaline, and anger, Hoseong straightens up, and then he’s focusing on you yet again, gritted teeth and angrier than ever.

<previous | next>

[timbradfordslover]


Warnings : intruder at elementary school

Summary: You have to respond to a dangerous situation at your kid’s school and some rookies have something not so pleasant to say.

Word Count: 1600ish

Unfortunate visitor from the past

Now you are engaged, and Tim is now a Metro Liaison Sergeant. Both of you keep your personal lives very private, so only Sergeant Grey and Angela know about Jasper.

You and Tim walk into the precinct to the smell of stale coffee and printer ink. The station is filled with the soft shuffling of papers and soft morning chatter amongst the other officers before roll call. You both head to the locker rooms where Tim changes into his uniform, and you get ready with Harper, Lopez, Chen, and Jaurez. You all chat about cases you've been working on and discuss plans for girls night.

"Y/L/N, come see me in my office for a second," Sargeant Grey calls across the bullpen from his office door.

You walk over and step into his glass office. "What can I do for you, sir? you ask politely.

"Officer Wrigley called out sick, and I need someone to train Officer Daniels today. I know you haven't been a T.O. for years, but you're all I got." He explains from behind his desk.

"Don't worry about it; I got it, sir." You say with reassurance.

"Thank you. You're dismissed." He says, and you walk out to change into your patrol uniform.

30 minutes later you're walking into the roll call room. You walk down the aisle and sit next to Nolan.

"Hey Y/N, are you riding patrol today?" He asks, noticing that you're in uniform today.

"Yeah, Grey's got me filing in for Wrigley today." You replied as Sergeant Grey walks up to the podium at the front of the room.

Sergeant Grey then leads roll call, and Tim discusses a suspect that Metro is tracking. His facial expression slightly changes once he notices you’re in uniform, but he remains professional during the briefing.

“Why are you in uniform?” Tim asks in an unamused tone as he walks up to you after Grey dismissed everyone.

“Grey needs me to train Daniels today because Wrigley called out,” you explain to him.

“You haven’t been a T.O. for at least ten years,” he protests. He doesn’t like the idea of you riding patrol, much less with a “toddler with a gun.”

“It’s just for today, Tim; I’ll be ok,“ you say with a reassuring smile while looking up at him.

“Alright, if there are any problems, call me,” he says.

Later that day, while you’re riding with Officer Daniels, you get a call from Tim.

“Hey Tim,” you say once you answer your phone from the holder in the shop.

“Y/N, you need to come back to the station; it’s about Jasper.” He says in a soft but serious tone.

“Why is he ok? Is something wrong?” you ask while your face heats up and your heart starts beating fast.

“We’ll talk when you get here; I love you,” he says calmly.

“I love you too. We’ll be there in 5 minutes,” you reply before ending the call.

"May I ask who Jasper is?" Officer Daniels asks next to you.

“My son,” you reply in a stern voice.

"Is he— " he starts, but you cut him off.

"No more questions, boot," you bark, sounding a little too much like Tim.

You pull into the garage area of the station and park.

“Get the gear squared away, then come find me when you’re done.” You say as you round the front of the shop and stand next to the passenger side to make sure Officer Daniels understands.

“Yes ma’am,” he responds as he starts grabbing the war bags from the back of the shop.

You turn away from the shop and walk through the glass doors and enter the station. With heavy limbs and an anxious feeling, you look around for Tim.You walk into the bullpen and see him in Grey’s office. You take a breath and walk over to the glass door and step in. Tim is sitting in front of Grey in his Metro uniform with his sleeves pushed up.

“What happened? Is he ok?“ you ask in a shaky, uneven tone.

“Sit, Y/N,” Tim says calmly while gesturing to the chair next to him.

Despite wanting to remain standing, you slide into the seat next to Tim.

“We got a call about someone trying to break into Jasper’s school. They’re on lockdown until we can identify the suspect.” Grey says slowly with concern written across his face.

Tim reaches over and holds your hand to provide reassurance.

“Do we know if he’s ok?” You ask, concerned.

“As far as we know, he’s perfectly fine. I sent Metro there on standby.” Tim says in a soft tone.

“Do we have visual on the suspect?” You ask about switching from being a worried mother to a cop.

“Yes, Metro got a shot of him.” Grey says, passing over a tablet.

Your eyes widen as you focus on the man in front of you. You know this man, if you can even call him a man. You never thought you’d see or hear from him again.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Y/N,” Grey says, breaking the silence.

“I know who this is. It’s Jasper’s biological father,“ you exclaim.

“Has he ever tried contacting you before in the past?” Grey asks.

You shake your head. “Nopenever. He said he didn’t want anything to do with him once I told him I was pregnant.” You reply.

Just then Tim’s phone rings.

“Suspect has broken into the building; do you want us to go in after him?” Wells, one of Tim’s buddies from Metro, says on the other side.

Tim looks up to Grey for confirmation, and Grey nods.

“Yes be advised that he is the father of one of the students, “ Tim says to Wells.

You abruptly stand up and head to the door.

Tim immediately gets up after you. "Where are you going?" He asks worriedly.

"To go help," you say.

"No, you're too close to this. I don't want you to do something irrational you'll regret." Sargeant Grey says.

"Then what am I supposed to do? I won't be able to focus on anything else." You exclaim worriedly while messing with your engagement ring.

"Then I will have you sit in a shop out of sight during the operation. Bradford, you can give orders from there." Sergeant Grey compromises reluctantly. He wants to protect his children as much as possible.

Meanwhile...

A couple of the rookies sit in the bullpen doing paperwork with their T. Os are sitting at a nearby table.

"I found out Detective Y/L/N has a son today." Officer Daniels shares with the group.

"She does?" Another rookie named Brooks asks.

"Is it with Bradford?" Another asks.

"Can't be. He was married before Y/L/N." A nearby P2 says.

"Wait, he was?" Brooks exclaims.

"Yeah, to a UC. Got hooked on drugs, though going undercover." The P2 explains.

Just as the P2 finishes their sentence, Tim clears his throat. "Are you idiots done?" He barks at them.

The group looks back at him in shock. They are too stunned to respond to Tim. You stand next to him, just as shocked as they are that someone would talk about a fellow officer like that.

"You all should know better than to talk about another officer's personal business like that, let alone a senior officer." He yells at them.

He looks directly at the P2 standing next to where Officer Brooks is sitting. "You've been a cop longer than them; you should have corrected them. Now if I hear talk like this again, you'll be getting a blue page," Tim says finally.

"Come on, baby, let's go see about Jasper, Tim says to you while putting his arm around your shoulders and leading you to the door to the garage area.

10 minutes later, you and Tim pull up to Jasper's school right as you hear Metro call in a code four. A few ambulances pull up a few minutes later to make sure there aren't any injuries.

Tim steps out of the car and gestures for you to get out after him. He walks over to where Wells is, with you walking closely next to him. His fingers lightly brush against yours as you walk.

“Hi Sir, we didn’t have any casualties, and your son is perfectly safe. Only a few staff members were slightly injured. The suspect is in that shop over there if you would like to question him." Wells explains to both of you.

"Thank you," Tim says before turning to you.

"What do you want to do?" He asks.

"I don't want to talk to his father, but I would like to see Jasper," you say to Tim.

"I'll go talk to the principal and see if you guys can take him now,“ Wells suggests.

"Thank you,” you say.

10 minutes later, Wells brings Jasper out with his things.

"Mom! Dad!" Jasper calls while running straight to you and Tim.

"Hi baby, did you get scared?" You ask while you squat down to hug him.

He lets go of you and moves over to hug Tim.

"I was at first, but I knew you guys would be here to help." He leans against Tim's leg while Tim pats his head.

"Are you ready to go home, buddy?" Tim says while bending down to his level.

"Yeah, I miss Kojo," Jasper says, and Tim and you both giggle.

You watch as Tim holds Jasper's hand as they walk over the shop. You're very proud of Tim for sticking with you and being such a good dad to Jasper when his wasn't around.

[potatomountain]

"Case: It's You" Masterlist

Pairing: Detective Reader x ot8 detective ateez

Genre: enemies to lovers, romance, eventual smut, dark themes, angst.

Synopsis: As a headstrong detective- forced to transfer to another Precinct after pushing your team, and superiors too far- your new unit is less than pleased by your presence. In fact, they are down right hostile, resulting in more time butting heads than doing your job: taking down the organized crime 'gangs' of your city. Once you finally get your foot in the door, into their circle, you realize you bit off more than you can chew- or maybe it was the perfect place for you.

Completed word count(excluding spinoff chap): 97,875

Chapters:

One | Two | Three | Four | Five |

Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten |

Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen |

♡15.5- Spinoff bonus |♡ {wc: 1,824}

Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty |

Twenty-one | Twenty-two | Twenty-three | Twenty-four | Twenty-five |

Twenty-six | Twenty-seven | Twenty-eight | Twenty-nine | Thirty

Book Two "Case: It's Us"

Big shoutout to my beta readers that are currently the soul motivation for this fic and remind me to edit: @flurrys-creativity @candypop1611 and @daemour

[lipglossanon]

October 30th

Kink: Rape play

Pairing: Corrupt Cop!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader (feat. Jack Krauser & Luis Serra)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, rape play, cnc, dirty talk, degradation, humiliation, slight predator/prey, bullying, voyeurism, controlling Leon, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread

A few of Leon’s work friends are having a bonfire out in Arklay; their own little shindig away from the usual drunken rowdiness of bars and overcrowded clubs. You’re invited along of course. 

“Can’t leave my pretty girl all alone, can I?” His dark tone sends shivers down spine. 

Shaking your head no, you went along with him and now, you’re seated on a log next to the warm flame of their fire. Leon’s sitting next to you, arm over your shoulders to keep you tucked into his side while he talks with his buddies. 

You thought there would be more to this hangout but aside from you and Leon, there’s only two other guys. Leon introduced the dark haired one as Luis and the other with a gnarly scar twisting across his face as Krauser. It’s an odd first name you think, but maybe he’s German. 

They talk a lot about their jobs, things that go over your head with references and inside jokes of people and places you’ve never seen. Instead of feeling left out though, it’s actually nice that you can just sit next to Leon and enjoy the atmosphere—no need to make small talk with anyone. That’s not to say they don’t rope you into the conversation from time to time; but, you mostly sit on the sideline, eyes bouncing from person to person as they talk with each other.

It’s late when they start to act like they’re wrapping things up; Luis puts away the cooler and drinks with Krauser helping. Leon helps you stand, warm hands brushing over your ass and making you glance to him nervously. 

“Think it’s time for a little fun,” he murmurs against your ear. 

“Fun?” You repeat, brows pinching with the question. 

“Fun,” he states, blue eyes glittering in the low light. “We’re going to play my favorite game, the same as we played last year. Make sure to sell it, sweetheart.”

Pulse hammering in your throat, you nod jerkily, panties quickly becoming sticky with slick. Leon chasing you down to fuck you in the woods is always a fun time and it never gets old. Your tongue wets your bottom lip and his eyes track the movement, pupils dilating subtly. 

“Yes, daddy,” you whisper, sucking your wet bottom lip into your mouth. 

Turning, you walk towards his car parked under the trees some distance away. You swerve past the bumper and walk deeper into the forest. Once you feel you’re far enough, you pick up the pace. You think you hear Leon’s dark laugh somewhere in the distance, but you don’t stop to ponder it. 

You try and run, but your head’s out of sorts from the idea being sprung on you, so it’s not your best on display. The thrill of hearing Leon chase after you makes your heart race. It’s not long at all before his thick arms wrap around your chest and stomach, yanking you back against him. 

“Think you can get away? You little slut,” he rasps against your ear, tongue running across the shell. “Just for that, I’m gonna fuck this hot pussy right here, right now.”

“You can’t!” You wail. “Please, don’t, please.”

His palm covers your mouth, “There’ll be plenty of time for begging later, pretty girl.”

You twist and squirm against him, but all it does is grind his stiff cock against your ass. Arousal pools low in your belly and you whimper behind his hand. Chuckling low in his throat, Leon makes quick work of your panties, ripping them from your body and tossing them down onto the forest floor. 

A low whistle from the side makes you jerk your head, eyes widening to see Leon’s friends watching you two. 

Leon whispers in your ear, “Aren’t you going to ask them for help?”

“P-please,” tears bead your waterline, embarrassment a hot stone in your chest. “Please help me. H-he’s raping me.”

“Look at that,” Krauser grins, palming his bulge. “What a slut.”

Luis laughs. “Aren’t we the lucky ones, eh, amigo?”

They must be in on it, too. The thought only makes your pussy wetter. While they distract you, Leon undoes his jeans and pulls his dick out. Notching the head at your clenching heat, he thrusts his dripping cock deep inside your pussy with a groan.

“Nooo, help me, please,” you cry out, pussy clamping down on Leon’s cock as he splits you open. “Stop, you’re hurting me!”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he laughs meanly in your ear. “Fuck, feels like this soft pussy’s aching for a good fuck.” 

You turn pleading eyes up to the two men in front of you, watching as they each take their cocks out, jerking off to the scene of you and Leon. More slick leaks down your thighs, clit throbbing as you watch them get off. Leon shifts his hands down to grip your waist. He pinches your side and you hiccup a moan. 

Lips trembling, you call out, “H-help me.”

“Fuuuck,” Krauser grunts, stroking his thick cock in a meaty fist. “Beg me harder and I might help, sweet thing.”

“Please, please,” you choke out a whine, clit throbbing while Leon pounds into your sopping wet cunt. “Ohh, he’s raping my little pussy and you’re just watching.”

All three men moan and Leon slaps your ass. 

“Yeah, baby, tell’em how it feels to have your sweet little pussy raped,” he goads, fingers digging into the fat of your hips. “Gripping me so tight, like you don’t even want me pulling out. Hungry for my cock, aren’t you?”

“Nooo,” you whimper, tits bouncing with every thrust. “You’re being mean and gross.” 

Louis spits into his palm and jerks himself off a little rougher, “Can’t believe you’d just let him fuck your tight pussy like that, cariño. You’re basically asking for it.”

A shudder runs through your body, pussy gushing around Leon’s pistoning cock. 

“Getting rawed like that must feel pretty good,” Krauser cuts in, “she’s not even putting up that much of a fight.”

They both laugh and it makes your stomach burn, heat pooling low in your core.

“She’s so fucking tight,” Leon bites out. “Gonna make me cum in your breedable little pussy, aren’t you? Fucking slut.”

He hisses the last part, fingers digging so tight into your skin it hurts. You’re so turned on, knowing the two men in front of you—practically strangers—are beating off to your struggle, to the faux rape taking place mere feet in front of them. Leon’s pounding your sopping wet pussy so hard, the tip kisses your cervix sending a dull wave of pain that twists into pleasure. 

“Stop, stop, please, I don’t want this,” you babble, lashes fluttering while your toes curl in their shoes. “I don’t wanna cum on your cock.”

“Stuff that greedy pussy, Leon,” Luis cuts in with a groan, hand a blur as he fists his cock again and again. “Make her cream all over your cock.”

“Yeah, make that bitch cum,” Krauser tacks on with a low pant.

Leon laughs and it makes you whine, “Don’t worry, this little hole’s going to cum whether she wants it or not. Then, I’m going to fill her up like the cumdump she is. Right, sweetheart?”

“Nooo,” you protest weakly, pussy walls fluttering and clenching on his cock. Your hands reach back and claw at his arms. “Stop it, you’re going to ruin my pussy.”

“Fuck,” he bites out. “Always know just what to say, don’t you? Yeah, take it, you fucking whore. It’s not rape if you’re this wet, baby.”

He sinks his teeth into the side of your neck and it topples you over the edge, climax hitting you like a ton of bricks. White sparks light up behind your eyes while your body jerks and twitches against his hold. You scream, pussy milking and fluttering around his cock as he fucks you through your orgasm. 

Body relaxing, you slump back against him, legs noodles and making Leon hold you in place. He doesn’t stop rutting his fat cock into your cunt, groaning and sighing against the back of your neck while he fucks you until he spills hot and thick inside you. You briefly think about the men watching it take place, but you’re too tired to care now. 

Their voices wash over you like white noise as they walk closer. Leon eases out of your messy pussy with a low grunt, fingers patting against your cum covered slit. 

“Oye, thanks for the fun night.”

Leon hums, “Don’t expect it too often.”

“Of course not, comrade.”

All three laugh and then Leon’s hoisting you up into his arm. 

“Can we see?”

A cool breeze drifts across your wet pussy when Leon flips your skirt up. A low whistle comes from somewhere to your left. 

“Mi corazón, what a delicious sight.”

“Wouldn’t want to let us have a little taste now would ya, Kennedy?”

“Both of you can go fuck yourselves.”

Leon’s voice shifts into that cold tone that makes you stiffen against him. He drops a quick kiss to your hairline and begins to walk off, back to his car you assume. 

“Let’s get back home so I can make out with that hot pussy, pretty girl,” he murmurs down at you and you whine in reply. 

[lolobeey]

Crash and Burn (1) - Partnered

Because juggling one WIP clearly wasn’t chaotic enough: please enjoy a grumpy/sunshine buddy cop duo with murder, trauma, and sexual tension in equal measure.

Pairing: Detective!Bucky x Partner!Reader

Series Summary: You just made detective. Your first case? A cold one — missing woman, dead cop, and a cover-up that smells worse than precinct coffee. Your new partner is James Buchanan Barnes: metal arm, resting murder face, zero interest in teamwork. You talk too much, he broods too hard, and together you’re one bad day from a workplace incident report. But the case isn’t as cold as it looks. And if you don’t start trusting each other soon, you won’t live long enough to solve it.

Warnings: slow burn, buddy cop romance, angst, eventual smut, a bit of grumpy x sunshine, mentions of death / off-screen character death, strong language - stronger jawlines

Word Count: 4.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST

You’re halfway through a suspiciously warm donut and pretending not to panic over the new department-issued laptop that hates you on a cellular level.

The thing keeps making a sound like it’s struggling to breathe and refusing to recognize your password like it's personally offended you made detective. Which, fine — maybe you're a little offended too. Not about the title, but the timing. First day in Homicide, first time sitting at a desk with drawers and your name on a placard, and this is how it starts: with passive-aggressive technology and a lopsided jelly filling trying to escape down your wrist.

You wipe your fingers on a napkin and try not to look too obviously lost.

You’ve been on the force long enough to earn this seat. Your stats are clean. You’ve got the de-escalation record of a hostage negotiator and the kind of instinct that once made a guy in Vice call you a "crime whisperer" — right before you tased him for getting in your face during a domestic dispute call.

Still, none of that keeps your stomach from flipping like it’s auditioning for the Olympics.

You shift in the chair that’s technically yours now. Not borrowed, not loaned. Not somebody else's.

It’s weird.

Across the bullpen, people glance your way — some congratulatory, others speculative. You know how it goes. Every promotion comes with eyes. Some waiting to see you fail, others waiting to see if they can ride your coattails. You give a two-finger wave to no one in particular and return to whispering threats at your laptop like that’s ever helped anyone.

It’s not just the promotion that’s making your pulse flutter. It’s the weight of change. The rhythm shift. You spent your whole career building trust, beat by beat, post by post. Patrol. Vice. Now Homicide. You worked your way up like a damn mountain goat — not pretty, not smooth, but determined.

Your desk still smells like the last person who sat here. Carter, probably. Cigarettes and menthol lip balm. There’s a hairline crack in the corner of the monitor and a sticky note half-peeled from the edge of the drawer that just says "FUCK OFF HOSKINS." No idea who or what that is. Might be a warning. Might be an inside joke you’re not yet inside of.

The hum of the bullpen is familiar and not. Phones ringing, someone muttering about reports, the mechanical sound of the printer you already hate.

That’s when Captain Sam Wilson opens his office door and says your name in That Tone™.

The “I’m-about-to-ruin-your-day-but-with-love” tone.

You freeze with your fingers still mid-type (or mid-prayer, honestly, trying to remember if you turned on the VPN). Then you push away from your desk and follow him in.

You hurriedly brush powdered sugar off your shirt and wipe your hands down the thighs of your slacks. Sam doesn’t care about your donut crimes, but you care. First impressions in Homicide matter. Even with someone who’s technically been your boss for a while.

His office smells like cheap coffee and responsibility. The blinds are half open, slats angled to slice sunlight into soft bars across the floor. His desk is clean — unnervingly so. A few commendations hang on the wall, none of them flashy. Just… earned. Quiet power.

He gestures to the seat across from him. You sit, pulse picking up.

“Congrats,” he says. “Promotion’s official. You’ve earned it.”

You open your mouth to say thanks, maybe throw in a joke to cut the tension, but he lifts a finger.

“You’re getting a head start on your caseload.”

A beat.

“Unofficially,” he adds, carefully sliding a thin folder across the desk.

You blink. “Already?”

“Think of it as a welcome gift.”

You hesitate. Then pick up the folder.

“Cold case,” he says. “Not in rotation. Disappeared into storage years ago. Someone recently sent this to my desk.”

“Anonymous tip?”

“Anonymous photo.”

You open the folder and pause.

Avery Thompson.

Missing eight years. Legal aid clinic. Lived alone. No body. No leads. A dead case if you ever saw one. But paper-clipped to the front is something new.

A recent photo. Blurry. A crowd shot at a street fair — but in the middle of it, almost missed in the movement, is her face. A little older. A little more tired. But it very well could be her.

Your eyebrows lift. “You ever promote someone just to drop them in the deep end?”

“Only the ones I like.”

You smile despite yourself. And you’re still processing that when there’s a crisp knock at the door.

Sam glances over your shoulder. “And don’t worry, you’re not working it alone.”

The door squeaks open behind you.

You feel it before you see it. The shift in air pressure. The sudden heaviness, like the oxygen was reconsidering its contract.

James Buchanan Barnes.

New badge clipped to his belt, shirt tucked like it had never dared wrinkle. Hair tied back. Jaw set. One glove on — the left hand. Metal underneath, if the rumors were true.

He’s taller than you expected. Broader too. His face is sharp in that movie star, old-photo kind of way — all angles and quiet. And when his eyes land on you — briefly, coolly — it’s like you’re furniture. Like he’s assessing exit points and blind spots, and you don’t even register.

Your brain, ever the traitor, short-circuits for one hot second.

Of course, he's hot.

Cool.

Captain Wilson gestures between you. “Detective Barnes is returning from extended medical leave. He’s got history with the file.”

“History,” Barnes says, voice low, unreadable. “My old partner caught the original report.”

You already know the name before Sam says it.

“Steve Rogers,” he confirms. “He and Barnes worked the early leads until the file was closed.”

Your stomach tightens.

Steve Rogers. A legend. A loss. That name still lives in this building like a ghost — spoken soft and careful, like people are scared it’ll echo too loud.

Sam looks between you both. “I want this quiet. Off the books for now. No press, no noise. You two are the only ones working it. If anything smells off—”

“We bring it to you,” you say.

“Exactly.” He stands. “Don’t let him scare you off.”

You snort. “I don’t scare easy.”

“That’s why I picked you.”

You rise, folder in hand. Barnes is already halfway out the door — no handshake, no greeting. Just gone.

You stare after him, then mutter under your breath, “Well. If I’m gonna get ignored, might as well be by a man who looks like he could casually bench press the department’s vending machine. Fully stocked.”

Sam chuckles behind you but says nothing.

The bullpen doesn’t go silent when you walk out after Barnes, but it shifts. The noise thins. Conversations soften. You feel eyes moving toward you — then quickly away, like no one wants to admit they’re curious.

Not about you. About him.

Detective Barnes walks like someone who was made, not born — precise, heavy, locked-in. He doesn’t move like a cop. He moves like a weapon that learned how to walk upright. Three steps ahead of you, hands at his sides, jaw set like a trap.

He doesn’t need an introduction. He’s been here before. Every cop on this floor knows his name. Half of them probably have theories about why he left. The other half probably have nightmares about why he’s back.

You’re the new one. Technically promoted as of 9 am, given a badge with your name on it, and a chair that still feels like it belongs to someone else. You're aware of every eye that slides toward you and then pretends it didn't.

Your footsteps sound too loud behind him. Your file feels too thin. Your shoulder holster itches like it doesn’t quite fit. You’ve worn it for years — but never in Homicide.

You find your desk and slide into the seat like it doesn’t matter that it squeaks or that the monitor is cracked at the corner. You belong here now. Probably. Maybe.

Barnes doesn’t sit. He just stands at the desk across from yours like he’s guarding a perimeter. Shoulders squared, weight evenly balanced, spine too straight to be comfortable. Rigid silence and haunted war-veteran posture.

You glance up at him, trying for casual. “You good?”

No response.

He doesn’t even blink. You’re not even sure he heard you.

You glance at the file in your hands, then back up at him. Still nothing.

Okay then.

Before the awkward can go nuclear, a voice cuts through the static.

“Barnes, welcome back. You still brooding or did you pick up a new hobby in physical therapy?”

You turn.

Darcy Lewis is leaning over a file cabinet like she owns it. Granola bar in one hand, lanyard looped three times around her wrist, and an expression like she’s already read every file in the building and memorized the parts that matter.

She’s technically forensics and records, but everyone knows Darcy’s real specialty is data with attitude. If there’s something weird, something buried, or something half-whispered, she’ll find it and probably make a spreadsheet about it.

Barnes gives her a barely-there nod. It might be hello. Might be a death threat.

Darcy, unfazed, grins wider. “Still a man of many words, I see.”

Then her gaze flicks to you. Her eyes brighten, a little mischievous spark lighting up her entire face.

“You must be the newbie. You’re different than I pictured.”

You blink. “You pictured me?”

“Sure. Everyone’s been talking.” She tears off another bite of granola bar and waves it vaguely in the air.

“You’re the rookie from the Hot Dog Cart Incident. Crash, right?”

You groan. “I was hoping that name would die in Patrol.”

“Wouldn’t bet on that,” Darcy says, delighted. “Not after you wrecked a patrol car, two scooters, a newspaper stand, and a man’s entire lunch business.”

Barnes turns his head toward you. Slowly. Methodically.

You glance at him, then back to Darcy. “And still made the arrest.”

“I heard you were covered in mustard.”

“And glory,” you shoot back.

Darcy snorts. “Yeah, well. Nice to meet you, Crash.” She winks.

“Catch ya later, Barnes.”

And just like that, she vanishes, slipping into a nearby records room like a caffeine-fueled witch.

You’re left sitting beside a man who hasn’t said a full sentence to you since you met, but is now definitely aware you were once taken out by a hot dog cart.

You glance at Barnes again.

He’s now sitting in his chair, but barely. Upright. Back straight. Hands on his knees like he’s waiting for the next drill sergeant’s command. Not twitchy. Not anxious. Just… contained.

Like whatever lives in his chest has been locked up and labeled Do Not Open.

The silence stretches.

You open the file Sam gave you, mostly just to look like you’re doing something. Names, addresses, incident reports. Paperwork you should be diving into with your full attention.

But your eyes keep flicking up.

You wonder if he remembers your name. Or if he even cares. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t think you’ve earned your place at this desk. Maybe he’s still seeing Steve Rogers every time he looks at that file.

You hate that your brain keeps circling back to how good he looks — in that cold, ex-military, do-not-engage kind of way. Broad shoulders. Square jaw. That stubble like he shaved yesterday and immediately resented it. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That it’s not the point.

Still, there’s something about the way he sits. Like he hasn’t rested in years.

It’s not like you haven’t worked with guys like this before. Usually they crack a joke eventually. Try to test you, push your buttons, see if you’re tough enough to sit at the table. You know that game. You’ve played it and won.

Barnes doesn’t push anything.

He just doesn’t see you. Not really.

And for some reason, that makes it worse.

You tap your pen against the edge of the file and try not to take it personally. Maybe he’s not an asshole. Maybe he’s just rusty. Or tired. Or broken in ways that don’t heal.

You’re just about to speak again when a voice cuts in like nails on a chalkboard:

“Well, look what the wind dragged out of the evidence locker.”

You don’t need to look up.

That voice is permanently etched into your brain like a poorly done tattoo.

John Walker.

Of course.

You resist the urge to groan. Barely.

“Didn’t know they were letting Patrol mascots into Homicide,” he says, strolling up with that signature smugness and way-too-clean uniform.

“Didn’t know they were letting insecure men wear that much hair gel on duty,” you shoot back.

He grins like you complimented him.

“Crash. Still got the mouth. Good to know some things survive promotion.”

You fold your arms. “Still got the superiority complex?”

“Please. I earned it.” He flashes a badge with gold trim. “Seniority.”

Of course.

You knew he’d bring it up. He’d been your Field Training Officer when you first joined the force, before being quickly promoted out of the department. He likes to boast how he’s the one who trained a star officer, but in reality, he sat in the passenger seat and made you get him coffee for a month.

He turns to Barnes with mock surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you back, Barnes. What, you run out of dark corners to lurk in?”

Barnes doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at him, stone-cold.

Walker’s grin grows when he notices the file in your hand and Barnes sitting across from you.

“Wait a second—don’t tell me.” He points between the two of you. “You’re partners now?”

You say nothing. You don’t have to.

He laughs. “Man, they really just threw you in the deep end, huh? Hope you brought floaties.”

You open your mouth — something sharp, something just this side of fireable — but Barnes beats you to it.

“Let’s go.”

His voice is low and even, but there’s an edge to it. Not anger. Not threat. Just final.

You glance at him. He’s already standing. Already moving.

You look back at Walker and smile, all teeth.

“See you at the top.”

And then you follow Barnes out of the bullpen — shoulders square, file tucked under your arm, stomach burning with something that feels suspiciously like adrenaline.

Let the cold case begin.

---

Barnes doesn’t tell you where you’re going.

You try — casually at first.

“So… are we headed to a specific lead, or is this just a scenic tour?”

Silence.

No grunt, no side-eye. Just the steady click of the turn signal and the hum of the engine.

You glance at him, trying to read the profile — stone-cut jaw, stubble like he shaved yesterday with regret, expression locked somewhere between deadpan and “don’t ask.” His hand is tight on the wheel. The right one. The other’s gloved and motionless, resting near the gearshift like it’s not entirely his.

You try again.

“Blink twice if we’re about to break into a place I’m supposed to pretend I didn’t know about.”

Still nothing. Not even a muscle twitch.

He drives like he’s on a clock only he can hear — precise, no wasted movement, every lane change premeditated. Windows cracked just enough to let in the October air, cold and dry.

You settle back in your seat, staring out at the city as it scrolls by.

The silence stretches so long you start to spiral a little. Maybe he actually doesn’t talk. Maybe this is a test. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who communicates only in nods and quiet guilt.

Maybe Sam is punishing you for something.

Finally, just to fill the space, you mutter, “For the record, I’m fun on stakeouts.”

Nothing.

“I bring snacks. I ask insightful questions. I don’t hog the radio.”

Still nothing.

You glance sideways again. He’s not tense exactly. But contained. Coiled. Like someone wound too tight for too long.

You sigh, give up, and slump deeper into the seat.

“Cool. Hot and broody. Love that for me.”

That gets you something.

A subtle shift of his mouth. Not a smile. Not really. But close enough to make you feel stupidly victorious.

You decide that’s a win and open the case file.

There’s not much. A few witness statements from her old neighbors, all dated within the first week of her disappearance. Two of them contradict each other. One says she was seen getting into a car around 9:40 pm. The other insists she came home alone, groceries in hand, around the same time.

There’s a flyer for her missing persons alert. A note in the margin: 

No official suspect. No forensic hits.

And that’s it.

You blink. This is it? No deeper file? No full casebook, no internal review?

Barnes pulls into a narrow side street in Sunset Park, slowing in front of an old hardware store with half the letters burned out on the sign.

He cuts the engine.

The silence hangs for a second longer. Then he finally looks at you.

“Don’t say anything weird.”

You blink. “Define weird.”

But he’s already out of the car.

The hardware store smells like grease and dust and memories that don’t want to be stirred. Barnes walks in like he’s been here before. You follow, still unsure where you’re going until he stops at the back counter.

The man behind it doesn’t flinch — doesn’t smile either. He’s built like a blunt object and has the posture of someone who doesn’t want to talk.

“Ernie Delgado?” Barnes says.

The man sighs. “Figured I’d see you again someday.”

“Last time you talked to Steve Rogers. You told him something off the record.”

“Yeah. And then he died.”

Ernie doesn’t say it like an accusation. More like a warning.

“Avery Thompson. Your old tenant,” Barnes presses. “She was asking the wrong questions. You said that back then.”

Ernie shakes his head. “Poor girl. Caught the scent of something and thought she could do it smart — document everything, build a file, push it through legal channels. But she didn’t realize who she was circling.”

“Did you?” you prompt, earning a casual glare from Barnes.

Ernie hesitates. “She… she met with someone. Not often. Once, maybe twice. He never gave a name. Government type. Not local. Steve asked me about her meeting spots. I told him the guy drove a dark town car and never got out when he picked her up. Like he didn’t want to be seen with her.”

“What else?” Barnes presses.

“He wasn’t the only one watching her. I saw a second car tailing them once. Plates were swapped. Military decals. I told Steve and he got this look… like he already knew. Or was afraid he was right.”

“And then?” you ask.

Ernie shrugs. “He left. Said he had one more conversation to have before he dropped it.”

You and Barnes both freeze.

Barnes speaks, voice flat. “He said that to me too.”

“I didn’t hear from him again,” Ernie says. “Didn’t know what happened until it was too late. Didn’t want to know, if I’m being honest.”

You study Ernie’s face — the guilt, the years weighing on him. You know that look. You’ve seen it in your own mirror.

“It never stops mattering,” you say softly.

He looks at you.

“What?”

“The thing you didn’t say. The thing you could’ve done. Doesn’t matter if it would’ve helped or not. You still carry it. Every day. Every time you look at your reflection or the hole someone left behind.”

Ernie goes quiet.

Barnes does too.

You’re not even sure why you said it like that. Maybe because it’s true. Maybe because you know what it’s like to feel like you’re five minutes late to the moment that mattered.

Ernie finally nods toward a shelf. “There’s a box under that cabinet. Steve left it with me. Said not to open it unless someone came looking for him. I kept it. Couldn’t bring myself to toss it.”

You retrieve the box. It’s small. Heavy. Unlabeled.

“Thanks,” Barnes says, already turning away.

You nod. “For what it’s worth… you did more than most.”

“Yeah,” Ernie mutters. “And it still wasn’t enough.”

---

The box sits between you and Barnes on the center console like it might explode. Small. Heavy. Unlabeled. A presence all its own.

He hasn’t touched it since Ernie handed it over. Just let it sit there like a bomb someone else might defuse. He’s staring out the windshield, knuckles pale on the steering wheel, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

You sip your terrible gas station coffee. Bitter. Burned. Just enough to keep your mouth busy while you try to figure out what to say next.

Five seconds of silence pass. Then ten. Then twenty.

You cave.

“So… are we gonna open it, or are we pretending we’re on a stakeout with an incredibly tense paperweight?”

Nothing.

“Seriously,” you prod. “Is this a brooding exercise, or are you waiting for it to hatch?”

Still no response. Not even a twitch. The silence from him is so practiced it almost feels cruel.

You sigh and reach for the latch. His voice slices through the air, low and sharp.

"Don’t touch it."

You raise an eyebrow. "Pretty sure Ernie gave it to both of us."

His glare cuts over, cool and lethal. But you hold it. Don’t flinch.

Finally, he moves. Opens the latch himself, slow and deliberate, like it costs him. The lid creaks. The contents inside are aged but carefully packed: a black spiral notebook, an old precinct group photo, a flash drive in a cracked case, a manila folder labeled A.T., and a faded sticky note, curled at the edges.

Barnes stares at it.

You lean in. “What does it say?”

He doesn’t answer. Just picks it up and hands it to you like it burns.

The note reads: Check shift logs. Nov 2. Cross-ref 721-B. Red ink = wrong name.

You frown. “What’s 721-B?”

“Old witness form template,” he mutters. “Filed in cold cases before the department went digital.”

You flip the note over. Nothing else.

“So Steve thought one of the original witness names was fake.”

“He knew it,” Barnes mutters.

“And this was his backup plan? A breadcrumb trail?”

He nods, jaw tight. “He thought someone would care.”

You glance at him. “You mean you.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have to.

You reach into the box and pull out the notebook. The cover is soft from use, corners bent, the spiral a little rusted. You flip through it — Steve’s handwriting, neat and compulsive. Names, arrows, dates, short phrases, and patterns that loop back in on themselves like he was trying to catch something too slippery to hold.

“He was building something,” you murmur. “Trying to reconstruct her last few weeks. Clients, locations, conversations. He’s got a dozen entries for ‘H.M.’ and ‘S-26.’”

Barnes leans in slightly, reading over your shoulder.

“H.M. is probably Harold Marks,” he says. “Avery’s last known client. Worked private security. Got stabbed three days before she vanished. Refused to press charges.”

You glance at him. “How do you remember that?”

“I don’t,” he says. “Steve did.”

There’s a bitterness in his voice that cuts deeper than you expect. Guilt woven through every word.

You shut the notebook. Let the weight of it rest in your lap.

“You know,” you say lightly, “this whole thing would go a lot faster if you stopped treating me like a stranger who wandered into your grief party.”

His head snaps toward you. “This isn’t a party.”

“No kidding.” You meet his eyes. “But you’re not the only person who’s ever lost someone. And I’m not here to steal your tragedy. I’m here because Sam asked me to be. Because something about this case doesn’t add up. And maybe — just maybe — Steve trusted you enough to think you’d know what to do with this. But he didn’t lock it in a vault. He left it with a guy who sells bolts by the pound. That doesn’t scream ‘classified.’ That screams ‘findable.’ Eventually.”

He stares at the windshield again. Long inhale. Like the air tastes different now.

Then, “You’re loud.”

“And you’re emotionally constipated. Guess we’re even.”

His mouth twitches — barely — but it’s there. The first crack in the wall.

You pause.

“Sam put us together for a reason, you know. I talk. You glower. Classic partner setup.”

He glances at you sideways. Not quite a glare. Almost amusement. Almost.

“This isn’t some good cop/bad cop shit.”

You shrug. “That’s fine. I prefer chaotic good and emotionally repressed.”

He gives you a confused look.

You beam. “We’re gonna work great together.”

He sighs a long sigh.

"Sure, Rookie."

Your nose wrinkles at the name, but you let it slide. For now.

At least it's better than Crash.

You tap the sticky note. “November second. That’s two days before Avery’s missing persons report was filed.”

He pulls the manila folder out of the box. Opens it. Inside: photocopies of old witness statements, interview transcripts, surveillance stills, and a printed street map with five addresses circled.

“That’s her apartment,” he says, pointing. “The other four? No clue.”

He flips to another page. You see Steve’s handwriting again.

Only one witness testified. Two people reported the incident. Second report vanished. Name mismatch. File logged at 4:17 a.m. by ‘S. Barnes.’ I wasn’t on shift.

Your stomach twists.

“Someone forged your name?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah.”

He leans back in his seat, staring at the ceiling like maybe the answer’s written in the liner.

Taking a deep breath, you finally ask the question that's been plaguing you since Sam's office this morning.

“What really went down that night you guys got hit?”

His voice is quieter now. Raw. “It wasn’t just a hit. It was scripted.”

You frown. “Scripted how?”

“The call came through dispatch like any other. Said there was a lead on one of our cases. Attached to a real case number — one that had already been closed.”

You feel the chill start to settle in your spine.

“We didn’t know it was fake,” he says. “Whoever set it up had clearance. Routed it through our precinct. Scrubbed the logs afterward. Picked a location with no cameras. No comms. No way to call for backup.”

“And backup didn’t know you were out there.”

He nods. “By the time they showed up, it was just me. Steve was already gone. And the place was clean — like someone came through right after to erase whatever trace they could.”

You exhale slowly. Your hands feel too tight around your coffee cup.

“And right before that,” you say, “Steve told you he had one more conversation to have.”

“He wouldn’t say with who. Just said it wasn’t solid. Didn’t want to jinx it.”

You nod. “And then…”

You don’t say the rest. You don’t have to.

He lost more than his arm that night.

The quiet stretches long again. Then you speak, voice soft but firm.

“You think this lead — the fake witness — that’s what got him killed?”

“I think someone didn’t want him following it,” he says. “And they made sure he couldn’t.”

You glance at the box again. At the map. At the tangled list of clues.

Then back to him.

“How deep does this go?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you both already know — it’s not just about what happened to Avery Thompson.

It’s who’s still making sure no one ever finds out.