fluentmoviequoter

[fluentmoviequoter]

Your Cape

Part 2 of My Cape

Pairing: Superman x fem!reader

Summary: Weeks after meeting Superman, you finally have a reason to call the number he left in his cape. When you find out that he's been thinking about you as much as you think of him, it's clear that the cape on your back is no longer his.

Warnings/Word Count: fluff, mention/depiction of scars, soft!Superman who overthinks, r's hair can be tuck behind her ear, slowburn?, Gary, 2.5k+ words

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“Isn’t she beautiful?”

Looking up from your phone, you squint at the newest addition to your new apartment.

“It’s a TV,” you say.

“It’s a brand-new TV,” Inny argues. “And it was free.”

“Not exactly free if someone provides it as incentive to not sue him.”

Inny waves her arm at you, then plops onto the couch beside you and turns the new device on. Your former landlord had apparently known that the building wouldn’t withstand a tremor, so the settlement money you’d given you a down payment on a safer, newer apartment, and you’d had some left over. When you found out that you’d also been paying nearly $100 a month in unnecessary and unethical fees, you threatened to take him back to court. The television was simply a gift – a way to cover up his good deed of giving back the money he’d stolen.

Though your new apartment is lovely, you’ve been thinking about Superman more than decorating your room or unpacking your boxes. The dryer – now in your unit, which is perhaps your favorite upgrade – chimes when the load in it finishes, and you excuse yourself from Inny’s side to retrieve your laundry.

“Did it work?” Inny calls. "Sun Re-Brighter is the best thing to come out of Coast City since the human specimen that is Arsenal."

Spreading Superman’s cape open, you smile to yourself. The cape had been nearly impossible to wash before Inny recommended you try the product intended for use on vibrant clothes that have been faded by the sun. “It did,” you reply, clutching the cape to your chest. “Thanks, Inny!”

“I aim to please. Ooh, Superman is on the news! Quick, come tell me if he’s as handsome in person."

You chuckle, walk to your room, place the folded cape in your bottom dresser drawer, then jump over the back of the couch to join Inny. The on-screen picture is crisp and clear, but it doesn’t do Superman justice.

Lying in bed with the cape wrapped around you, you stare up at the ceiling. Unconsciously, you recite the number on the tag of the other red cape in your room. Leaning up slightly, you realize that the cape isn’t hidden well. It’s longer than the robe you draped over it, so both items are visible on the back of your door.

With a sigh, you collapse back onto your pillow. Superman told you to call him if you needed anything. Despite how much you want to call him, you don’t need anything. He’s been dealing with enough threats recently that you don’t want to distract him by calling him just to say… what would you say? Thanks for saving me? I can’t stop thinking about you? I found a way to clean the cape, and I’ve been carrying it around in my apartment because, for some reason, it makes me feel safe, warm, and wanted?

Closing your eyes, you tug the cape closer to your chin and try to sleep. Visions of Superman invade your mind, and a smile grows as you fall asleep.

“Perhaps her phone died,” Gary offers, turning his head to the right as Superman paces across the Fortress of Solitude.

“For a month?” Clark argues, turning on the ball of his foot to walk the other way. “I just… I thought there was something between us, I thought she’d call.”

“Interesting,” Gary hums. “If I were invested in your emotional health, I would offer more than empty sympathies. As it stands, all I can say is sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Clark mumbles. “What could it be? Did I imagine the connection? Is she scared or still hurt? Did she even make it home that day? I can hear her heartbeat, I know she’s alive, but-”

“You are spiraling, Superman.”

Clark sighs, slowing as he returns to his starting place. Maybe he should stop by your favorite coffee place in the morning. It’s only twelve blocks out of his way.

“Twenty-four round trip,” Gary corrects.

“I’ve got to start thinking inside my head,” Clark grumbles as he flies out of the fortress and across the seemingly never-ending icy landscape beyond it.

Superman lands beside you, a smile on his face as he points to a constellation in the distance. Then, a door opens, and- wait, a door?

Blinking groggily, you push up onto your elbow and look toward your door. The silhouette of a person is blurry, but you know it’s Inny. Burrowing back into your blankets, you grumble against your pillow.

“You liar!” Inny exclaims before she jumps on your bed.

You narrowly escape having your legs crushed first thing in the morning, drawing your knees towards your chest before she lands beside you.

“What?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at her.

Inny pulls a pillow from your side and slaps it against your hip. “Superman gave you his cape!” she squeals. “And you’re sleeping with it like a lovesick Army wife who doesn’t know if or when her lover will return.”

“Inny,” you groan, rolling over again. “I’m sleeping here.”

“No, no, no, tell me everything.”

“Superman put it around my shoulders because there were a bunch of cameras,” you say, offering half of the story. “I tried to give it back, he said I could keep it. It’s comfortable, so I started using it like a blanket. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” she agrees, lying beside you. “You’ll invite me to the wedding, right?”

“You’re neurotic.”

“But I’ll look bomb in a bridesmaid’s dress. Which reminds me why I’m here – can I borrow the skirt you wore to dinner with my parents?”

“Knock yourself out, Inny. And then get out, please.”

“You’re the best. See you and your cute little comfort cape later.”

She closes the door, and you’re relieved she didn’t notice the other cape. If you weren’t so attached to the cape and its owner, you might care about Inny’s teasing. As you try to sleep, your thoughts drift to Superman’s rooftop smile and his phone number.

On the opposite side of Metropolis, an unearthly creature endangers a park. The Justice Gang arrives and engages it in battle, looking completely unaffected by your previous meeting. Inny passes you the TV remote and wishes you goodnight, then goes to her room and closes the door. As the fight continues, you turn off the TV and sigh. Superman’s cape is beneath your head, a makeshift pillow that can’t lull you to sleep as you begin to worry.

Knowing that you won’t be able to sleep for a while, you stand, pull the cape around you, and open the window in the living room. Standing on the fire escape, you take a deep breath and look around the city, taking in all the lights as you notice the sirens echoing in the distance.

Looking up toward the stars and attempting to find your favorite constellation, you’re distracted by a light blinking two storeys above you. Your brows pinch, but your curiosity gets the better of you. After checking that the window behind you is unlocked so you can get back in, you begin ascending the steps toward the light. It’s probably a plane or some miles-high satellite, you tell yourself.

When you reach the roof, you squat to better see the source of light. Immediately, you know what you need to do. As you dial the number you memorized weeks ago, you wonder for the first time if it’s really his number or if it was some kind of joke. Either way, you press the call icon and raise your phone to your ear.

“Structure?” Clark asks, looking down at the lights of Paris as he flies through the stratosphere.

“It’s solid,” Mr. Terrific answers through a developmental telepathy communicator. “We can’t find a weak spot on this thing.”

Clark knows where the danger is, can hear your steady heartbeat miles from the fight. It’s the only reason he stays calm enough not to blast through the sound barrier and engage this creature within a second.

“Superman?” another voice says in Clark’s ear.

“Give me a second, Terrific,” Clark requests.

“Oh, yeah, sure, take a call,” Mr. Terrific agrees sarcastically. “Not like we’re fighting an invincible monster while you’re having a baguette.”

“It’d be churros con chocolate now,” Clark quips. “Gary, what’s up?”

“There’s a call for you, sir,” Gary explains. “A woman – your woman, I believe – said she found LuthorCorp tech. I quote, ‘Similar to the remote from before.’”

“She called?” Clark clarifies.

“Yes.”

“Is she still on the line?”

“No. She seemed a bit put off by my robotic voice but told me everything when I promised to pass the message along.”

“Thanks, Gary.”

Superman causes a smoke circle to appear in the sky over Spain, speeding through the air to reach you. All the time he’s spent in the Fortress of Solitude recently, and he’s in another country when you finally call. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. You do.

Squinting, you try to make out any buttons or discernible features on the device tucked into the narrow space between the bricks and the fire escape. A breeze blows the cape backward, and you stand instinctively.

“Superman,” you breathe out, smiling at the sight of him. You extend your arm toward the fire escape, prepared to tell him what you found and how you found it.

Before you speak, however, Superman steps forward and takes your wrist in his hand. His touch is gentle, respectful. Turning your arm slowly, he looks at the scar running across your elbow. The wound hadn’t required stitches, wasn’t deep enough to do severe damage, but the jaggedness of the cut had caused it to scar.

“Are you alright?” Superman asks softly.

You nod, then realize he’s looking at your arm and not your face, so you whisper, “Yeah.”

With your wrist in one hand, Superman lifts his other arm. His fingers trail against your forearm, the pads of his fingers tracing around the scar as he looks at you with an expression you don’t recognize. Then, he lowers his hands slowly, drawing his blue eyes up to your face.

“I found a device kind of like the remote I saw in the fight before,” you say, pointing toward the stairs. “I didn’t touch it, but I saw the LuthorCorp logo on the side.”

Superman walks past you, his cape billowing out when he lowers to retrieve the black box. He flips it in his hands, then frowns.

“I can help if you want,” you offer. “I don’t know if I could tell you how to use it or anything, but…”

You trail off, worried  your rambling will distract him or make you look too eager. As if you haven’t dreamed about him during the weeks since you first met.

“I appreciate that,” Superman replies genuinely. “But I need you to stay here.”

“I-“

“I need you to stay safe,” he amends. “For a hero like yourself, it may be tough sitting this one out, I know, but I’d prefer knowing you’re okay.”

Your lips part as you nod. You’ve never considered yourself to be a hero, but something about the way Superman says it makes you believe it. And if he needs to know you’re okay, you’ll stay here and let him focus.

Superman nods, thanks you again, and then, unknown to you, listens to your heartbeat as he flies away. It slows after he’s out of sight, and Clark’s smile when he punches the creature isn’t because he likes fighting, but because he knows he has an effect on you, too.

Pulling the edge of the cape between your hands, you relish the feeling of the woven fabric on your fingers. You haven’t checked your phone to see if Superman joined the Justice Gang or if the fight is still going, but you wait regardless.

“I’m glad you’re still here.”

You stand, releasing the cape as you stand and flex your fingers. “I am,” you reply quietly.

“I…” Superman stops, his head tipping toward his shoulder. You smile at him, and the tops of his ears turn pink as he steps toward you. Without as much space between you, Superman continues, “I’m sorry for not answering your call.”

Shrugging, you say, “I didn’t expect you to drop everything for me. You said to call if I needed anything, and I tried to respect that. Although, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to call before.”

Superman’s brows furrow as you speak, his eyes locked on yours as he listens to every word you say. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he responds.

It’s your turn to look confused as you inquire, “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you had to need something when you called. You- you could have called whenever you wanted to.”  You don’t get a chance to speak before he murmurs, “I wanted you to.”

“Oh,” you blurt out. “I’m sorry.”

Superman smiles again, looking at his cape wrapped around your body. He takes another step toward you and pinches the edge of the fabric between his fingers, his body heat sending a shiver down your spine. Blinking like he’s just realized what he’s done, he releases the fabric and clears his throat.

“Could I call again then?” you ask, looking up at him now that he’s closer.

“Yeah,” he answers, his voice a little higher than before. “Whenever you want.”

“Thanks for coming,” you say, hoping he’ll stay longer.

“Thanks for calling. Next time, I’ll answer, not the- uh- the machine. And maybe then, if it’s a day that Metropolis decides to be quiet, we could try a new rooftop.” You laugh, the sound a bit too loud for the hour. No one could blame you, though, not when Superman just made your rooftop meetings sound like some sort of date, a tradition held between the two of you alone.

“Goodnight,” Superman says, nodding as he steps back.

“Wait!” you call, matching his step. He pauses, still smiling as he heeds your command. “You… Uh, do you want your cape back?”

You reach for the cape where it’s draped over your shoulder, but Superman wraps his fingers around your wrist to stop you.

“Keep it,” he whispers, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. “What, you couldn’t clean the first one? Feel guilty and want to return this one?” he jokes.

This is the first one, you think. Yet you deflect, “Something like that. Let’s just say it’s not your cape anymore.”

Superman releases your wrist, drags the back of his pointer finger along your cheekbone to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, then nods. “Consider it yours,” he offers. “Anything you need – or want, cape or other – call me.”

“I will,” you promise.

He disappears into the sky, a red and blue blur more beautiful than any shooting star. When you return to your apartment, Inny is back on the couch, smiling as she points at the television.

“Superman thanks heroic Metropolis citizen for helping him,” Inny reads. “Five dollars says that heroic citizen is now wearing his cape and has a dopey smile on her face from talking to him on the roof.”

“You don’t have five dollars,” you argue, turning your back to her as you lock the window. “And if you did, it would be mine.”

You walk toward your room, and Inny pushes up onto her knees, hanging over the back of the couch to call after you. “You’re denying you just saw him?”

“No,” you answer, winking as you push your door open. “But I’m wearing my cape.”

[fluentmoviequoter]

Emergency Contact

Clark Kent/Superman x fem!reader

Clark Kent has an emergency contact. Superman is an emergency contact. They're both a little dramatic.

2.2k+ words, fluff, banter, canon typical danger/violence/injuries, hurt/comfort, no spoilers, doesn't reference the ptv song but I highly recommend it!

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Clark Kent isn’t normal. Despite having admitted that Superman is an alien, when the cape is off and the glasses are on, Clark is just another guy. Yet, the nuances of human nature still confuse him at times.

Like thirty seconds ago, when a ceiling tile fell, broke against his head, and his coworkers just stared at him in silent, wide-eyed horror. It hadn’t hurt; it had barely managed to startle him out of his hunched position at his desk. It certainly hadn’t done any damage. But the fact stood: it should have.

So, with that in mind, Clark slows his heartbeat, drops his chin against his chest, and slides from his chair. He hears the rustling of fabric and heavy footsteps as the people around him rush to lend some kind of aid, bites his tongue to avoid smiling when Jimmy yells at the 911 dispatcher, and remains completely relaxed, lax in Lois’s hands as she checks his vitals.

“No ambulance,” Clark mumbles after counting to fifteen in his mind. He squeezes his eyes closed behind his glasses but doesn’t move otherwise. “I’m okay.”

“You just broke a ceiling tile with your head,” Lois argues. “Head trauma does not constitute being fine.”

Clark grunts as he pushes himself up, shaking his arms in short, tremor-like movements to keep up appearances.

“We’re getting you looked at, Kent,” Perry agrees.

“No, I insist,” Clark says. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. White. I can get back to work after I clean up my desk.”

“Absolutely not,” Lois interjects.

“You’re refusing to go to the hospital?” Perry checks.

Clark nods as he stands, keeping his hands against his knees. Lois hovers beside him as Jimmy continues speaking to the dispatcher. Cat and Steve have joined the group as well, lingering beside Lois’s desk.

“Then I can’t force you,” Perry decides. “But take half an hour or so, get your bearings, have some water. We’ll clean this up for you.”

“I appreciate that,” Clark replies. He nods, straightens his glasses, and wipes the dust from his jacket, then moves toward the break room.

“Perry!” Lois snaps, spinning on her heel. “Are you crazy? He has head trauma; he can’t go back to work!”

“I know,” Perry answers. “But I can’t force him to go to the hospital either. I’m not getting sued, Lane. What I am going to do is call his emergency contact and let them decide what he’s going to do.”

“Oh, yeah, get mama Kent in on this,” Steve interjects, using a pretentious fake accent.

“Is Clark alright?” Cat wonders, elbowing below Steve’s ribs.

“He seems okay,” Lois assures her while Perry walks to his office. “I’ll go check on him again in a minute. We should clean his desk.”

Steve begins to argue, but when Cat and Lois pause to glare at him, he offers to find a broom.

The ice in your drink has long melted, but you raise the straw to your mouth mindlessly as you flip a page in the report you were asked to proofread. Working from home today seemed like fun when you were first told, but it’s gotten boring quickly. You’d much rather be on your couch or listening to music as you type, not concentrating entirely on spelling and grammar in a document created for an audience that does not include you.

As you underline an unclear phrase with your red pencil, your phone rings, breaking through your concentration like a lighthouse leading you in from the stormy sea.

“Hello,” you greet, wiping the condensation from your cup off your hand on your pants.

“Hi,” the man on the other end says before he asks to speak to you. “My name is Perry White, from the Daily Planet. I’m calling about Clark.”

With a soft gasp, you tighten your fingers around your phone. “Is he okay?” you inquire.

“We believe so. He had a slight accident; he was hit in the head and is refusing medical attention. Because you’re his emergency contact, I’m required to inform you and give you the opportunity to choose his - or my - course of action here.”

Turning in your seat, you have to remind yourself who you’re talking about. Of course, Clark is okay. Unless he was struck with a block of Kryptonite, he’s got no reason to go to the hospital, where he’d have to explain his lack of bruising or headache to medical professionals.

“Is he conscious?” you ask.

“Yes,” Mr. White replies. “He’s drinking water and is coherent.”

“I’ll be down there in ten minutes,” you decide. “Thanks for the call.”

“Of course. I’ll have a visitor’s badge waiting at the front desk for you.”

You end the call, mark your place in the report, and gather your things. Clark can be dramatic at times, but you understand why he’s trying to mitigate the damage or reaction to this specific incident. If you can play a part to help him, there’s no reason you shouldn’t. You’ll have to thank him for the opportunity to take a break from staring at words that lost meaning an hour and a half ago, you think as you unlock your car. Then, you wonder, Since when am I Clark’s emergency contact? The ring on your finger should answer that.

The secretary at the Daily Planet seems nice, but you didn’t say much beside thanking her for your visitor’s badge. In the elevator, you tap your fingers on your leg and wonder what you’re going to walk into. Stepping out on the floor you were directed to, you look around quickly. There are people at their desks, walking quickly towards printers, and a small crowd lingering around a singular computer monitor. Then, you see two women and a clearly displeased man cleaning a broken ceiling tile off a desk. A desk bearing Clark Kent’s nameplate.

“Uh, excuse me,” you call as you approach them. “I’m looking for Clark Kent; could you tell me where he is?”

The woman in the purple sweater freezes when she sees you, her eyes widening slightly, while the other woman stutters, looking for words.

“Why are you looking for Clark?” the man with them asks, chuckling.

“He’s my fiancé,” you reply. “I got a call he was hurt.”

“Fiance?!” another man exclaims, leaning back in his chair until it begins to tip. He rights himself quickly before asking, “You’re engaged to Clark?”

“Yes,” you reply, wrapping your fingers around the strap of your bag. “Is he alright?”

A third man approaches, an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth as he says your name. When you nod, he waves for you to follow him, then leads you to the break room.

“Thanks,” he mumbles before he leaves you alone.

Stepping inside, you quickly realize that Clark is alone in the small room. When the door closes behind you, you smile and tip your head toward your shoulder.

“Clark get a boo-boo?” you ask playfully, pushing your bottom lip out.

“I could sue,” he points out, smiling lazily as he looks up at you.

“Yeah, but without proof that anything bad happened to you, might be tough to win. Think you could get to a red sun planet, concuss yourself, and come back for an X-ray?”

“You’re not being very understanding,” Clark muses. “I was traumatized.”

“Oh, right,” you agree, walking closer to him. Standing between his knees, you push Clark’s hair off his forehead. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he whispers. “But I didn’t think it’d be wise to show that.”

“You know what else wouldn’t be wise? Staying and going back to work. Most people would take the day, even if it didn’t hurt them.”

“That’s taking advantage of my boss, though.”

You sigh, bending at your waist to look into Clark’s eyes. “People tend to look out for themselves, first, Supes,” you remind him. “Just this once, do what anyone else would do. That’s my advice right now.”

Clark nods, holding your left hand in his, toying with your engagement ring as he glances toward the door.

“Help me up?” Clark requests, blinking slowly, a smirk on his face because he knows you will.

With your arm around his waist, you lead Clark to the elevator. He keeps his eyes half-lidded, waving pathetically as the doors close. You continue the act until you’re a block away, then close your eyes against Clark's chest as he flies you home.

Though he’s glad he’s not actually injured, Clark thinks it’s good to know he’s got an emergency contact he can count on. You, however, are too entertained by Clark's acting abilities and too busy coming up with a way to tease him about how dramatic he is to go back to work. Clark pulls you onto the couch and considers the whole ordeal a win-win.

Your mid-afternoon run to the grocery store had a singular purpose: pick up ingredients for dinner. Now, looking around the nearly empty warehouse you’ve been trapped in, you’re thinking it would have been easier to order a pizza.

Metal clangs in the distance before heavy footsteps near you. Straightening your back, you pull against the restraints holding you against an oversized motorcycle parked in the center of the building.

“Let’s try this again,” the alien who abducted you off the street begins. He has some sort of blaster hanging from his right hand, and your posture grows more rigid at the sight of it. “Where is Superman?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you answer.

Behind your back, you press the button on the side of your watch. Then, when your abductor moves his fingers toward the trigger, you pinch your eyes closed and wait.

Halfway around the world from Metropolis, Superman is flying miles above a city. It had been evacuated for a tsunami strengthening off the coast, but he’d assured the governor he’d scan for any other life forms before the storm hits.

While he listens for heartbeats or any other sign of life, however, Clark’s watch buzzes. The city beneath him silences as he listens for something else. Back home, your heart races in fear. You’re in trouble, and you’re calling Superman for help. With a sonic boom, Superman leaves his post in the sky and follows your heart – and, by extension, his own – home.

A strong gust of wind presses you against the bike as blaster fires. Superman stands between you and the alien, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set, and anger burning in his eyes.

“Lobo,” he greets lowly.

A name as stupid as he looks, you think.

“Superman,” Lobo replies. “Just the man I was looking for.”

“What’s the bounty this time?” your fiancé asks. “Better yet, who’s paying for my head?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know, Blue.”

“You’re right, I don’t have the time or the patience for this conversation, Lobo.” Clark drops his arms and takes a single intimidating step toward Lobo. “So, I’m going to give you one chance. Leave Earth.”

“Ooh, scary,” Lobo taunts, lifting his hands. “Better idea for you. We see if you’re faster than a bomb. That bike your girl is tied to? I’ve done some modifications. If you can’t set her free in less than one second, you might not have anything on Earth worth saving. How’s that for a payoff deal, pal?”

“Fine,” Clark replies. “Play it your way.”

You don’t even register your time in Clark’s arms before he’s blocking debris with his body, his broad back keeping you safe as the explosion rings off the metal walls around you. Lobo yells when he stands from behind a barrel, and Superman flies straight toward him. He clutches Lobo’s lapel, then disappears from Metropolis. Standing in the corner of the warehouse, you press your hand to your heart and attempt to calm your breathing.

“Ma’am?” Superman asks when he returns. “Are you alright?”

You raise your hand to ask for a second, but nod. Clark tucks his hands behind his back, beneath his cape, and watches you.

“What’d you do to him?” you ask after a moment.

“Gave him a few good reasons to go home,” Clark answers simply.

“Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Superman steps forward, his chest inches from you as he smiles. “I’m here to serve.”

“Really?” you whisper softly, raising one hand to trace the S on his chest. “And how do you plan to do that tonight?”

“Depends,” he replies, leaning closer to you. “Anything particular you had in mind?”

“Maybe. But first, a question.”

“Sure,” Clark agrees with a laugh.

“Are you that intense with everyone when you're in the suit? Because I’ve never seen you like that.”

Clark’s jaw tightens quickly, his arms flexing as he presses his fingers into his hands. “He would have killed you,” Clark explains quietly. “Lobo has no decency left. I need him – and anyone else who may see a bounty on me and figure out who you are – to know there are clear limits. You stay safe. That’s the number one goal.”

“And you’ll be here to make sure that’s the case?”

Clark’s breath fans against your lips as he promises, “Every time.”

His words are followed by his hands meeting your waist and a cool metal wall against your back. Clark shows you that his emotions may be because of you, but he’ll only ever feel one thing for you: love, with its many subsets of devotion, admiration, affection... and the greater things that make Clark blush, and make Superman bold.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Hello! Could you please write something (headcanons or a fanfic, depends on what you're up for) about Aragorn and a reader who's covered in scars and always getting injured but doesn't seem to care? Could be burn scars, surgery scars, battle scars, bruises, etc. I personally always shrug off physical injuries and accidentally give the people around me minor heart attacks because I'll be bleeding and just have no idea. I think it would be a really funny dynamic with Aragorn panicking over his s/o who just keeps laughing off injuries. Thank you for your time, I hope you're doing well!

Hi! Thank you for the amazing request (you have my sword for blessing me with an Aragorn req)! I hope you enjoy what I wrote and it's along the lines of what you wanted!🫶🏼

Here it is: Scars that Mar

[fluentmoviequoter]

Scars that Mar

Aragorn x fem!ranger!reader

You are prone to injuries, and your fellow ranger Strider, is prone to panic. Despite your differences, he cares for you, tends to your wounds, and reminds you that your scars neither define you nor dictate your beauty.

fluff, hurt/comfort, wingman!Legolas makes an appearance, Sindarin translations, Aragorn/Strider used interchangeably. 2.1k+ words, requested

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“Go not to the elves for counsel,” Strider muses beside you. “For they will say both no and yes.”

“Perhaps you should have considered that advice before we set course for Rivendell,” you reply, bumping your shoulder against his arm.

“And yet, a ranger never neglects his calling.”

“Ah, but I am not a ranger in need of finding his calling,” you point out.

Strider pauses in front of you, tipping his right ear higher than his left. You pull your dagger from beneath your cloak: a deep green, gently patterned article designed to blend in with the foliage of Middle Earth. With your other hand readied to fight or reach for an arrow from your quiver, you press your back to Aragorn’s and watch the trees.

“Step forward!” Strider demands suddenly. “We mean you no harm.”

“Unless, of course, you fancy a dance with not one skilled Ranger, but two,” you taunt.

Strider sighs behind you, silently wishing you would not let every thought free.

“A Ranger?” a deep voice asks, booming behind the leaves and echoing around you. “Surely you don’t mean you are a Ranger of the North?”

“No matter who or what we are,” Strider interrupts, tapping the hilt of his sword against your upper arm in warning. “We are merely passing through. Will you allow us to continue our journey?”

“What is your destination?” the voice inquires.

“Rivendell. We have been called to meet Elrond.”

The trees shake when the being sighs, but he grants you the access Strider requested. Clicking your tongue in something a bit too much like disappointment, you sheath your dagger and fall into step behind Strider. You’re different from one another, yet similar in many ways.

You’re both Rangers, of course, but you’ve also developed a soft spot for one another. The training of the Dúnedain warns against developing weaknesses for people or places you must fight with or for, yet your constant proximity to the rightful king of Gondor has made him important. Similarly, he is softer for you than you have ever seen him be for another. The differences, however, are stark, evident even in your fighting styles. Strider is a little more empathetic, simultaneous with his reckoning force, and you are more reckless. While Strider may wear his heart for friendship, for his duty to the Dúnedain, and for his comrades, on his sleeve, you bear the evidence of past wars, moments of weakness, and adventures across your skin.

If the people of Middle Earth knew who you were, they might see a king and queen, a pairing worthy of praise and steeped in power. As you move through the shadows of the forest, the thought makes you smile.

“You’re bleeding,” Strider says as you reach a clearing.

Glancing down at your left arm, you shrug and wipe the blood from your wrist. “Must have scraped against the brambles. Better here than in Mordor.”

“You- stop,” Strider requests, wrapping his fingers around your bicep to stop you. His lips are in a straight line, his expression a warning against arguing. Yet, his eyes bounce rapidly from your injured wrist to your face and back. He’s worried about you. As usual.

“It’s merely a scratch,” you argue. “It will heal, Aragorn.”

Slowly, he releases your arm. As he turns away from you, he sighs and looks up at the sky. “The sun will set soon,” he tells you. “We should make camp for the night. And I assume I needn’t remind you that your knowledge of my true identity-“

“Is sacred,” you finish, opting to use a stronger word than he planned to. “I would do nothing to place you in danger, Strider. I am a Ranger first, a friend second, and a traitor never.”

“I know,” Strider promises. “I apologize for any indication that I have doubted that.”

“Apology accepted,” you reply. “Now, where would you like to camp? We have less than a day to Rivendell, no?”

“Right. Stay here and I’ll-“

“Absolutely not,” you snap, moving beside Strider. “We move together, or we go nowhere.”

Strider nods, then leads you toward an alcove of rocks set back from the clearing. After you make camp, you sit beside Strider and insist upon taking the first watch. He takes your hand, kisses a scar running along your knuckles, thanks you, and falls into a restless sleep.

Two months after your night in the forest with Strider, you are traveling through a different wood in different company with a far greater goal than reaching a destination. You lay your hand on Strider’s back, offering a small condolence after the loss of Boromir.

“Miss Ranger,” Merry calls from behind you.

“Go,” Strider encourages, sending you a small smile. “I fear they will not rest until you answer yet another question.”

“I’m here,” you whisper. “You’re not alone, Aragorn.”

He nods, and you leave his side, backtracking several metres to be closer to Merry and Pippin. Before you reach them, you notice their rigid stances. As you prepare to call out to Strider, a blade extends from behind a bush, the narrow tip angled toward your throat. Smiling, you look up, showing your pulse to the enemy behind the hilt.

“Is your intent to frighten me?” you question.

A hand moves below the blade, clutching your cloak and pulling you into the darkness. Merry and Pippin scramble backward, shouting in fear and surprise as the branches before them shake with your movement.

Legolas steps between the treeline and the hobbits, his bow at the ready while Aragorn tightens his grip on his sword. In seconds, the movement stops.

“Don’t shoot me, ‘Las,” you call before you step out.

While Legolas sighs heavily and returns his arrow to the quiver, Aragorn steps forward and takes your face in his hands. The side of your face and down your neck is red, the beginnings of a deep bruise appearing beneath your cheekbone.

“What was that?” Merry inquires softly.

You step away from Aragorn and pull the branches back, showing the creature that attempted to best you and paid with its life.

“It’s not a huorn,” you muse. “Neither is it man. I’ve not encountered such a being in Middle-Earth before.”

“What did it do to you?” Strider demands.

You shrug and point to a hook on the creature’s belt. “It was carrying something not long ago,” you say. “Perhaps similar to the one true ring, something capable of- of corrupting and changing those near it.”

“Far cry from Farmer Maggot’s rage, isn’t it, Merry?” Pippin interrupts.

You pull your cloak off, frowning as you pull apart a new rip. Though the hobbits have seen the scars lining your skin during the journey so far, they fail to hide their continued surprise. Legolas at least has the decency to look away as you replace your cloak.

“So,” you begin, smiling. “Are we continuing or making camp?”

Aragorn rubs his hand over his face, a deep tiredness in his eyes. “Be mindful of the bruise,” he warns.

You furrow your brow and raise your hand to your face. Your jaw aches when you touch it, and you nod to yourself before asking Merry and Pippin what they saw.

“I was told that Rangers were self-aware, taught to avoid fights whenever possible, and had the complex ability to avoid injuries even when losing,” Legolas murmurs to Strider.

“Most of us do,” Strider grumbles, attempting to calm his racing heart.

You swing your sword, slicing through the orc’s thick skin. As you turn, another orc swings its arm in a downward diagonal strike, twisting its bodyweight into the strike. You feel the tug of your cloak but nothing else, redirecting your focus and your strength to the new fighter. The hobbits were supposed to stay with Legolas, but Merry and Pippin followed you into the forest. After Pippin attracted the orcs, they took cover in a nearby cave, and you can only hope they are still safe as you fight to get back to them.

When you reach the campsite, you kneel before Strider and lower Merry and Pippin to the ground. They’re breathing heavily as they recount the story of the fight, but Strider doesn’t hear a word they say. Carefully, he pushes them aside and steps to your left.

“You really should have seen it,” you agree with Merry, looking up at Strider with an innocent smile. “They came out of nowhere, and the big one-“

“Stop talking,” Strider requests, his voice tight as he lowers one knee to the dirt.

You do as he asks, more out of surprise than true obedience. When Aragorn shifts to look at your back, you continue your story.

“So, he raised a limb and began twisting,” you say. “Like this.”

As you demonstrate the orc’s movements, Strider places one hand at the top of your spine and presses firmly.

“And, like I told him, we’re carrying nothing, not going to Mordor,” you add.

“Indeed,” Aragorn agrees. “Stop talking,” he repeats.

You roll your eyes and continue your story, unsure what he’s doing behind you. Raising your hands, you prepare to show Strider and the other hobbits how you defended yourself against the last two orcs.

“Stop,” Aragorn demands, his voice different than before. It’s the same tone he used when he first met the hobbits, when he warned Frodo that he was not frightened enough. The tone that causes your enemies to quiver in fear and militias to lay down their arms.

“Why?” you inquire softly, lowering your arms.

“You’ve been injured, nil híril,” he explains, lightening his pressure between your shoulders. “Cut by the orcs, I’d imagine. Your blood has stained yet another cloak.”

“Oh.”

Aragorn shakes his head at your detached reply. Every move you made sent a bolt of panic through him that you’d worsen the injury. When you finally heed his warning and remain still, he releases a breath and whispers an apology.

“You have no need to apologize, nin ranger,” you answer over your shoulder. “Perhaps… perhaps you could assist me?”

“Legolas,” Aragorn begins.

“I’ll remain with the hobbits,” Legolas assures you. “Perhaps I could entertain them with stories of Rivendell.”

While the hobbits are distracted, Aragorn leads you away from the others. In the darkness, somewhere between Rivendell and Mordor, he pulls your ruined cloak from your shoulders. As he cleans the skin around your newest wound, you watch the stars above you. In the comfortable silence, you don’t attempt to explain yourself or make meaningless small talk. You simply sit in Aragorn’s presence, relishing the feeling of his fingertips against your skin.

Lost in the moment, the normalcy amid a war that could end Middle-Earth, you don’t realize that Aragorn has finished bandaging your wound until he kisses your neck and drapes his own cloak over your shoulders. He circles you, then kneels before you, his eyes meeting yours as he lowers to your level.

“Mel cín,” he sighs, “please be more careful.”

“I try,” you defend, looking down at your hands, covered in marks from years past.

You know that your scars are numerous – marred skin from being burned, makeshift stitches, and poorly set bones; deeper scars from battles; and constant bruises. Perhaps you’ve become immune to it, no longer realizing or caring when you’re injured. Even now, you’re not affected by the knowledge or pain of the orc cutting you. Rather, you feel guilty of having worried Aragorn. The man who called you my lady and my love while kissing the skin above your newest injury. The man who has been by your side for longer than you can remember and will keep his promise to remain here forevermore.

“I’ll try to be careful,” you add.

Aragorn smiles as he takes your hands. “Cín scars ceri- ú- mar cín beautui, hain are thand -o ha,” he reminds you.

“I know. My scars do not mar my beauty, they are part of it. I have only you to thank for that Sindarin assurance.”

Aragorn helps you to your feet, keeping his arm around your waist as you return to the campsite.

“It seems as though you fought ten orcs,” he muses, “not two.”

“The big one could count as nine,” you agree. Reaching one arm up, you prepare to demonstrate his size but pause when you feel the bandage shift.

“I appreciate the attempt,” Aragorn sighs. “Though I doubt we will ever make it through a week on the Shire Calendar without you finding your way into some kind of trouble.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t make it so rewarding to recover, aran nîn.”

[fluentmoviequoter]

How’s summer treating you? 😃 for your summer celebration could i please get 🌸 dance forever- Don't Call Me Up by Mabel with Tim Bradford x shy!reader? For the record, this song mentions clubbing and just a drink even though I’ve never drank alcohol or clubbing before 😂

Hey! Summer is going well, although I'm getting excited for fall! I hope you enjoy this; I changed it a little but still used the setting and a few lines from the song! Here's the final blurb of my summer celebration!🤍

Tim Bradford x fem!reader, 0.4k+ words of protective fluff, takes place in a club but no alcohol mentions

don't call her up

You know when you post the pictures that your ex will see them. That fact neither deters nor encourages you. It’s not your job to make him feel good, to pretend like you’re upset over losing him. Not when you’re stronger without him, feeling good with him out of your life, leaving your relationship behind to talk about better things. Tonight is about you, why you’re in a crowded club, and the man you’re here with.

“Your phone is ringing,” he murmurs in your ear, his hands on your waist as you sway to the music.

“Well, I’m on a high,” you reply, looking over your shoulder to see his face illuminated by the colored lights above you. “He’s alone, going out of his mind.”

“He’s desperate,” Tim agrees, smiling as he kisses below your ear. “Can’t say I blame him, not when you’re here looking like this, babe.”

“And everyone looking my way, right?” you ask, batting your eyelashes.

“Can’t blame them either.”

Turning in Tim’s arms, you press your chest against him, moving your hips to the beat of the music filling the club. Tim’s gaze softens when he can truly see you. Even dressed up for a night out, with your makeup done, he sees you. Not the cold heart your ex blamed for the end of your relationship or the scars he left, but you.

“You alright?” Tim asks.

You nod, whisper a promise, then run your finger over Tim’s jawline before you trace his lips.

“He’s calling again,” Tim grumbles.

Slipping your hand into Tim’s pocket, you pull your phone out and silence it. After the call goes to voicemail, the screen lights again with your ex’s number displayed across the top. Tim takes the phone from your hand and raises it to his ear.

“Yeah?” he asks in place of greeting. “Yeah, I do know whose phone it is… Listen, do us all a favor and don’t call her up again, alright? She’s busy… Well, she doesn’t need you…”

You smile as Tim rolls his eyes, but then his free hand presses to your hip and his eyes darken.

“You’re looking at her photos?” Tim demands. “Getting hot, losing control? Want her more now that she let go?... No. Don’t call her up. She’s with me, and trust me when I say she doesn’t want to talk. Not to you.”

Tim ends the call and slides your phone back into his pocket. Your ex doesn’t call back, and you sigh in relief. You can’t even remember his name after Tim cages you in against the bar, his team talking in his ear when the target arrives.

“Did you mean it?” you ask. “Am I here with you? Or am I just cover?”

Tim doesn’t say a word, but his lips tell you something.

[fluentmoviequoter]

I'm meeting someone on this list in a few weeks🤭

6, 7, 8 for the question game!🫶🏻

Oh these are good ones!!

6. 5 Male celebrity crushes

Eric Winter, Adam Baldwin, Neil Ellice, Hugh Jackman, Ryan Reynolds

7. 5 (favorite) Female celebrity crushes

Blake Lively, Alyssa Diaz, Mekia Cox, Mandy Moore, Rosalyn Sanchez

8. What is your dream job?

Author! (or physical therapist)

question game

[fluentmoviequoter]

Omg hi I love all of the Tim Bradford fics you’ve written, I’ve basically read them all like twice over. I am not so sure if you’re taking requests at the moment if you aren’t, I’m so sorry please ignore this. Though if you aren’t taking them I just wanna know if it’s possible to do a Tim Bradford x reader, who was navy and possibly part of ncis la and it’s basically like a cross over between them (if you’ve ever watched the show, if not so chill I have a back up plan) or just navy reader who got into a horrible accident and basically all the nerves in her right leg is dead but she’d rather be shot dead than take her recovery seriously.

Thank you for your time and genuinely take your time don’t rush yourself, I hope you have a good day and take care of yourself <3

Hello! Thank you so much for the kind words and for being so understanding about the wait - which I’m still sorry for! I went with your Navy!r idea because I haven’t watched NCIS LA (but I kind of want to, so if you’re open to me trying that idea as well in the future, I’d love to!!). Hopefully you enjoy this and I hope you have an amazing weekend!🤍🤍

Here it is: fight for me, whatever you need

[fluentmoviequoter]

fight for me, whatever you need

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!Navy!reader

Summary: After you're severely injured, Tim stays by your side. When he realizes that you're giving up, he demands to know why. Then, he gives you a new reason to fight, offering whatever you need to keep going.

Warnings/Word Count: angst to fluff, hurt/comfort, r suffers severe nerve damage, survivor's guilt, depiction of terroristic attack, a few medical terms, 2.5+ words, requested

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

“You look miserable.”

Glancing up from the weapons you’ve been inspecting, you roll your eyes at the Lieutenant standing in the open doorway.

“Let me guess,” he continues. “Boy troubles?”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” you reply, smiling.

“Funny. Anyway, Admiral sent me down to alert you of a vessel on radar.”

Setting a magazine aside, you stand. Your mind races while you follow the lieutenant toward the top deck.

“Inbound?” you question when you enter the bridge.

“Stationary, ma’am,” two men answer simultaneously.

“Eyes on them?”

“Flight officers are heading out,” the admiral on board tells you.

“We need to know where they’re coming from and what they’ve got,” you instruct. Your phone rings in your pocket, but you don’t even bother to look at it. The call goes to voicemail, then alarms begin blaring, your flight officer radios an emergency alert, and you barely have time to look at the radar before the ship shakes and three planes appear over the horizon.

“Captain-“ someone yells, the rest of their exclamation silenced by an explosion.

You don’t hesitate to run toward the sounds of screaming. By the time you hear the second boom, you realize you can’t help by yourself. You certainly can’t help when the corridor you’re racing down caves in, and the screeching of metal is the last thing you hear before everything goes dark.

“Timothy,” Angela calls from her desk, her phone tucked between her ear and shoulder.

Tim sighs but doesn’t reply. Lucy stops talking, looking pointedly at Angela.

“She can wait,” Tim grumbles. “What’s the problem with the arrest?”

“He waived his Miranda, but the attorney-“

“Sergeant Bradford!” Angela yells as she stands.

“What?” Tim calls, turning on his heel.

Angela waves him closer, then looks down at her shoes and begins speaking to whoever is on the phone.

“Tell Grey,” Tim advises Lucy before he steps away. “It’s not on you, Chen.”

“Which hospital?” Angela asks.

Tim stops beside her desk, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he glares at her.

“Is she… okay. Yeah, I’ll do that. Thank you,” Angela concludes.

“What’s so important I couldn’t wait but you could take a call?” Tim inquires.

Angela looks up, her eyes soft. “Do you know anyone in the Navy?” she asks.

“Yeah, why?”

“Uh, this morning, there was an attack on a Naval ship. A-“

“Which ship?” Tim demands, his arms falling. “Where is she?”

Angela raises her hand, softly requesting he stay calm. “UCLA. I’ll drive you over there. She’s still in surgery, though, Tim. They- they couldn’t tell me much.”

“Now, Angela,” Tim urges, moving toward the bullpen.

Wade exits his office, sees the look on Tim’s face, and lifts his arms in question.

“I’ll call you,” Angela murmurs as she passes Grey, jogging to catch up with Tim. “It’ll be okay, Tim.”

“No, it won’t,” he argues. “I can’t lose her, Angela.”

She manages to hide her surprise only because she’s worried about Tim as her friend. Whoever this Navy officer is, Tim cares about her, which makes her special.

Tim marches straight to the emergency room desk at UCLA and says your name. Angela hangs back, watching anxiously as the nurse attempts to calm Tim down. A moment later, Tim returns to Angela’s side and presses his hands against his hips.

“And?” Angela whispers.

“She’s still in surgery. She’s been here for six hours already, but they won’t tell me much else,” Tim explains, looking around the waiting room.

“You’re not alone,” Angela reminds him, tapping his arm.

She takes a seat in the far corner of the waiting room, then texts Wade to explain why she and Tim left so quickly. Within a few minutes, Tim has taken to pacing, ignoring his phone as it buzzes with his friends' messages. He walks up and down the length of the waiting room, drawing odd looks from the others sitting around him and even leading one man to tuck his young daughter behind him out of fear that Tim is on the job and something bad will happen soon.

“Tim,” Angela says when he gets close again.

He pauses, failing to meet her eyes as his breaths shorten. A door opens behind him, and before the nurse finishes saying his name, he has crossed the room and is silently following her to your room. In the waiting room, Angela tips her head back against the wall and sighs. Though she’s just learned about you today, she knows that Tim can’t lose you, and she’d like the opportunity to get to know you.

“Sergeant Bradford,” your doctor greets when Tim enters your room.

Tim doesn’t answer, his eyes on you as he stops just inside the doorway. Your right leg is wrapped in thick bandages, an oxygen mask is placed over your mouth, and machines beeping at your side display numbers that blur the moment Tim looks at them.

“Is she okay?” Tim whispers.

“She will be,” the doctor answers gently. “To say it simply, the surgeons were able to save her leg, but all the nerves below her knee – and possible higher – are dead. But, there’s good news. Recovery is possible; it’s a long journey with innumerable requirements and an indescribable level of commitment. With time and dedication, however, she can make a full recovery.”

“Thanks, doc,” Tim says. He collapses backward into a chair, then pulls it up beside your bed. He takes your hand, failing to notice when the doctor leaves.

“I need you,” Tim whispers to you. “I’m right beside you.”

An explosion. The people starboard. You jerk forward, pushing yourself upright as you rip a piece of debris from your face. The ship is under attack, and you can’t lie here to get your bearings.

“Whoa, hey,” someone says softly.

You recognize the voice immediately, but blink as you try to decipher why you’re hearing Tim. Then, your surroundings begin to come into focus. You’re not on the ship, you’re in a hospital room. And Tim is sitting beside you, visibly tired and concerned as he clutches your hand.

“Where-“ you begin before interrupting yourself with a cough. Tim passes you a small cup of water, which you drink greedily, desperate to soothe the ache in your throat. “Where is everyone else?”

“I haven’t heard an official report,” Tim says slowly. “But it wasn’t good.”

Nodding, you fall back against your pillow and squeeze his hand. When the first tear breaks past your waterline, you don’t bother trying to hide it or stop the sobs that follow. Tim doesn’t press you or offer meaningless sympathies. He just sits beside you, holds your hand, and shows you that you’re not alone.

By the time you realize you can’t feel your right leg, one thought cuts through: maybe it would have been easier to die on the ship.

The schedule Tim printed and hung on his fridge seems like it’s mocking you. Back-to-back appointments, time carved out for at-home therapy, planned meals, and a strict sleep schedule are all color-coded through the end of the month. The doctor told you recovery was possible, but it would require physical therapy, massage therapy, retraining your mind-muscle connection, and the right attitude. Not to mention the post-surgery bleeding, delayed healing around your stitches, stiffness, and numbness. If your nerves do begin to reconnect and regenerate, then you’ll have random tingling and sensations. It all feels like too much.

Tim sets a glass of water and ibuprofen on the table before you, then returns to the kitchen to make you dinner. After four days in the hospital, you should be hungry for a home-cooked meal, be thanking Tim for waiting on you hand and foot. Instead, you stare at your propped-up leg and feel guilty. Seven fellow Navy Sailors lost their lives in the explosion that nearly cost you your leg. What makes you different? What makes you more worthy of living than they were? You could focus on your recovery, try to get a head start and beat all the odds, but, in this moment, you think you’d rather die than put in work to get back to normal life, when so many people lost theirs: not just the soldiers, but their families and friends, all going through unimaginable anguish right now.

“Anything else?” Tim asks as he puts a plate on the tray balanced over your lap.

You shake your head before Tim turns on your favorite comfort movie. Fighting the urge to cry into your food, you eat and stare at the screen—your mind still at sea.

“How was it?” Tim asks, holding the door open for you as you navigate over the threshold on your crutches.

“It was fine,” you answer.

The receptionist calls for Tim as you exit. He waits until you lean against the side of his truck and send him a thumbs-up to return to the office. Outside, you look up at the sky and sigh.

When Tim exits a few minutes later, the muscles in his jaw are working, tensing and releasing as he thinks. You don’t ask. He helps you into the truck wordlessly, and for the first time, you don’t feel put off by his silence.

“You’ve got massage therapy in thirty minutes,” Tim reminds you after he joins you in the truck. “Let’s do something first. What do you want?”

You shrug, toying with a loose strip of bandage above your knee.

“Ice cream? Comic book store? Coffee?” Tim suggests.

“I don’t know,” you murmur.

Tim nods, then shifts into reverse. He goes through a drive-thru and passes you a large cup of your favorite drink.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

Tim nods, already brainstorming how to motivate you. The physical therapist informed him that you weren’t taking the work seriously, and there was no chance of regaining sensation and normal movement in your leg without putting in the work. Tim knows you aren’t the type to give up, so maybe he can give you the bit of strength you lost, let you lean on him until you learn to walk again. Literally and figuratively.

Over the next week, in which Tim doesn’t go to work, he stays at your side and does everything he can think of to brighten your day and motivate you. Each effort is met with a shrug or a single-word answer that he knows is you attempting to change the subject. You’re not the same woman you were when you left to board the ship, and Tim would never fault you for being different, being affected by such a traumatic experience, but he refuses to sit back and watch you give up.

When Tim enters his guest bedroom to check in on your exercises, you’re lying on the bed texting. He sets the water down on the nightstand and waits for you to notice him.

“Sorry,” you say, tossing your phone aside.

“Did you do any of the exercises?” Tim inquires.

“Um…”

Tim pushes his fingers through his hair, frustrated and desperate and a little heartbroken for you and because of you. Unable to stop himself, he asks, “Why are you giving up?”

“What?” you reply, pushing up onto your elbows. “I’m-“

“You’re not trying!” Tim exclaims. “You go to the therapy and don’t work toward improving, you get advice about what to do at home and ignore it, and you make up pathetic excuses when someone bothers to point out that you’re not getting better. Why are you so willing to just sit back and live like this?!”

You could lie. Again. But, deep down, you know that Tim would know. After everything he’s done, he doesn’t deserve that. You don’t know if you’ve even thanked him, told him you love him. “Maybe,” you begin carefully. “Maybe it isn’t worth it. I’ll never be me again. Not even just the scar or the fact that I might not get full mobility, but I lived while so many others didn’t and- and I can’t get on another ship, so what am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to fight,” Tim insists, kneeling before you as he takes your hands in his. “It doesn’t matter if you do the same things you did before. What matters is taking the chance you have, giving it your all, proving yourself – to yourself and no one else – and taking the life you want.”

“What if the only life I want is you?” you question.

Tim smiles then, leaning closer to you. When his side brushes the bandage on your leg, a tingling sensation sparks in your calf, then disappears as quickly.

“What do you want that life to look like? That’s what we’re fighting for,” Tim reminds you.

You nod, leaning your forehead against him. “I’ll try – give everything I have left – for a week,” you agree. “If there aren’t any improvements, though… If nothing changes, I’m done, Tim.”

Tim nods, squeezing your hands in his. “I’ll be by your side the whole time.”

You kiss him, pulling your hands free to wrap your arms around his shoulders. When he pulls back, he asks what exercise you want to start with. Your smile is the first promising sign he receives.

“Don’t touch me,” you groan when Tim offers his hand. “I feel disgusting. There’s so much sweat.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Tim replies, brushing his hand over your forehead to smooth your hair back.

“Tim?” you ask.

He hums, his eyes steady on yours.

“Can I… Can you help me try to walk out?”

Tim’s smile widens as he squats before you. “Of course,” he answers. “How do you want to do this?”

“I was thinking the traditional way: right foot, then left, then right again.”

“Very funny.”

“I try. My nerves died, not my sense of humor.”

Tim stands and lifts his hands, ready to support you the moment you ask for help. Using the arms on the chair, you push yourself up. Flexing the toes on your right foot, you think about the muscles there.

“Don’t overthink it,” Tim reminds you.

Nodding, you step forward with your left foot first, then lift your right foot. When your feet are together again, you nod to yourself.

“You’re doing great,” Tim murmurs, pushing the door open. “Excuse us,” he tells a woman entering the building.

“Look at you,” the woman applauds, holding the door for you both. “You’re an inspiration, honey.”

Tears well in your eyes, but you blink them away as you take another step. “Thank you.”

You make it to Tim’s truck, breathing heavily after an hour of physical therapy and your first time doing something close to walking since the accident. He holds your hand as you climb inside, then kisses you again. Maybe he should have used that motivator sooner.

When you leave the doctor’s office at the end of your one-week agreement to try, Tim can’t stop smiling at you.

“I’m sorry,” you offer. “You were right.”

“Of course I was,” he brags, holding your waist as you lean heavily on your crutches.

You roll your eyes at him, then tip your chin up. “I think I might need more motivation, though.”

Tim leans toward you, but before his lips meet yours, he whispers, “Whatever you need.”

[fluentmoviequoter]

Hiiiii!!

I just read through all of your High Potential fics <3<3 SO GOOD!!

What're the chances that you're able to write another Oz x fem!detective! fic? (they're 13/10, top notch stuff)

Maybe one where they have to go undercover as a married couple? (pre-confession)?

APPRECIATE YOUR WORK AT LOT <3<3<3

Hello! Thank you so much, I really appreciate the kind words!!!🫶🏼 I hope you enjoy this!

Here it is: Better Together

[fluentmoviequoter]

Better Together

Pairing: Lev "Oz" Ozdil x fem!detective!reader

Summary: To solve a series of interconnected murder cases, you go undercover with Detective Oz as a married couple. After the case is closed, it's hard to return to your previous, separated lives. When Oz comes over to check on you, you learn why you're so much better together.

Warnings/Word Count: mentions of alcohol and liquor stores (this isn't very case-focused), fluff, brief angst, PDA, idiots in love, confessions, 2.2k+ words, requested

High Potential Masterlist | Masterlist Directory | Request Rules/Info

“It’s ridiculous,” you murmur, your head in your hands as you stare at a crime scene photo.

“I agree,” Oz chimes in. “It’s a staged scene.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you this,” Karadec deadpans from his desk, “but people go to liquor stores. I’m not seeing anything that tells me this is staged. There’s blood spatter, footprints, it fits.”

“You mean it fits the other staged scenes,” you mumble without looking up.

“Give me one good reason this is staged,” Karadec inquires. He sounds frustrated, but you’ve been working in Major Crimes long enough to know he’s not aggravated with you.

“Her shoes are worth more than the store,” you offer. Slowly, you raise your head from your hands and add, “A woman dressed like that, who drives a car like that, probably isn’t going to buy a six-pack of Busch Light in an incredibly shady strip-mall liquor store. I can’t think of a single reason she’d be in this location.”

“And the other scenes?” Karadec asks.

“The opposite for most of them,” Oz answers for you. “The guy found off Pico had less than forty dollars in his checking account, nothing in his savings, but he had a 200-dollar bottle of tequila. It’s not adding up.”

Your computer shows a new email, and you keep your head in one hand as you open it. “Vic was ID’d as Vanessa-“ You stop reading aloud as you right yourself and move closer to the screen, convinced you’re misreading something.

“Last name?” Karadec presses, focused on his own computer.

“You alright?” Oz checks, pulling himself around the edge of your joined desks.

“Look,” you murmur, pointing to the victim’s DMV information.

“Whoa,” Oz sighs. “Karadec, we’ve got a new connection.”

“Being?”

Oz nods, so you explain, “We’re not working two cases.”

Karadec turns toward you and raises his hands in question. You stand and move toward the case boards behind his desk.

“Victim one in the liquor store case is married to victim… three in the carjacking case,” you say, pointing to images as you step between the boards. “All of these victims are married, and both parties have been murdered. With the exception of today’s vic, Alexis Carlisle, whose husband is currently in an interrogation room with Daphne.”

“For once, we can say he’s safer there,” Oz jokes.

“So now we have to work two completely different cases with different MOs, timelines, locations, as the same case,” Karadec sighs, pushing back in his chair.

“Sounds like you could use some help,” Morgan calls as she enters the bullpen, her badge hanging around her neck like a medal. “What’s new?”

“These cases are connected,” Oz offers.

Then, he gives you the credit for finding it. Glancing over your shoulder, you nod to thank him. If only it were so easy to communicate about non-work-related topics. Like the feelings that flood your heart and mind when you see him, the sense of desperation for him that grows stronger daily.

“Well, Louboutin red bottoms aren’t the shoe of choice for ABC Liquor customers,” Morgan muses, her hands on her hips as she looks at the board.

“Yeah, a real detective beat you to that call,” Karadec grumbles.

“Do you want my opinion or not, Karadec?” Morgan sighs.

“I suppose.”

“Send someone in undercover. Same idea: married couple, either upper class or skirting the poverty line, get them separated at some point… see what you see.”

“Very specific idea, Morgan,” Oz offers sarcastically.

“Mr. Carlisle didn’t kill his wife,” Daphne calls from the doorway. “But there’s a bounty on his head.”

“Well, that changes my advice,” Morgan says. Turning toward you and Oz, she smiles. “Send someone in undercover, wait for a bounty.”

“It- it’s not a terrible idea,” Karadec admits, albeit begrudgingly. “We’d be wise to send in detectives instead of a traditional UC.”

“What are you saying?” you ask.

Karadec stands, waves Lieutenant Soto out of her office, and answers, “Care to become Mrs. Ozdil?”

Your breath catches like you’ve actually been proposed to. The slow nod you send Karadec makes him shake his head, as if he knows something you don’t.

Spinning the plain silver band on your finger, you try to focus on what Karadec and Soto are saying. Yet, the matching glint of silver on Oz’s finger draws your attention every sentence or two. “You don’t have to do much,” Soto explains, “stay close, act like you’re really married, follow the schedule. The folks in intelligence think we should see something worthwhile within a week.”

“Here’s keys, cards, addresses, everything you should need,” Karadec adds, sliding Oz a folder.

“You ready?” Oz inquires.

“Yeah,” you answer softly, taking his offered hand. “Let’s go get a bounty put on our heads.”

Oz’s arm is warm around your shoulders as he walks you to your car. Though you stayed up half the night talking and then slept in different areas of the apartment, you’re still startled by how easy this feels. How real it seems.

Oz wraps you in a comforting hug, then opens the driver’s door of the shiny red BMW sedan. He waits on the porch in his suit, waving until you’re out of sight. You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to focus on the case rather than the man you’re working with. You’ve had feelings for Oz for as long as you can remember, but if you haven’t said anything yet, there’s probably no point. Unless, of course, you can find one.

Behind you, Oz returns to your temporary shared home, looking around the living room. Some of your belongings are spread across the kitchen counter, mixed in with Oz’s. You stood side-by-side at the double vanity this morning, talking about the case – and each other – as you got ready. He’d been distracted by your movements, soft and precise, as you’d put on your makeup. Although if you’d asked, he’d have told you he thought you were beautiful without it. Oz has yet to see you look anything short of gorgeous.

Before Oz can finish getting ready for “work,” which entails going to an office and sitting in a cubicle for a few hours, doing practically nothing, his phone rings with an incoming call from you. Even though you’re using cover names, something stirs in Oz when he sees the same last name behind your names.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets, smiling into the phone. “You alright?”

“I am,” you assure him. “Just wanted to let you know I made it to work safe and ask if you wanted me to pick up dinner tonight.”

“That would be great,” Oz replies. “I’ve got a meeting that ends at five. What were you thinking?”

“Your choice, baby.”

Oz grips the edge of the counter, his heart racing in his chest. Why don’t you call me that at the station? he wonders.

“You still there?” you ask.

“Yeah, sorry. Maybe our favorite?”

You laugh, a bright sound that sounds brighter as Oz looks at the ring on his finger.

“I’ll be home with our favorite.” You don’t hesitate to add, “I love you.”

“I love you,” Oz says. Not as his UC personality, just as Oz.

Three days into your UC sting, you’re sitting in a park with Oz. Your legs are tossed across his lap, your hands are in his, and you lean closer to him as you talk quietly. Seated beneath a tall tree, you’re separate from everyone, but you can sense someone’s eyes on you.

“Oz,” you murmur under your breath.

“I know,” he replies.

Nodding, you pull one hand from Oz’s hold and raise it to the nape of his neck. Oz shivers beneath your touch, and you guide his face toward yours.

“How far do you think we have to go?” you whisper.

“Could we go too far?” he counters.

Smiling, you shake your head. “No,” you promise. “I trust you.”

Oz nods, then looks at your lips. He nods again but doesn’t do anything. When you lean forward and bump your nose against his, Oz crashes his lips to yours. A gentle breeze surrounds you, but Oz’s hands are like hot pokers as he wanders your waist and up your back, tugging you into his lap as you move together.

Lost in the moment, you don’t feel your phone buzz. Then, Oz’s begins to ring.

“It’s the office,” he murmurs as you move back. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

You lay your head on Oz’s shoulder before he answers. He stiffens beneath you, and you sit up to look at him. He avoids your eyes, and you know that there’s a bounty, but it’s not on Oz.

The guys in cyber get most of the credit for arresting the man responsible for orchestrating the deaths of eight couples, which is fine. Your time spent undercover is a bit of a sore subject anyway. Or so you tell yourself. As you stand at the back of the press conference, watching the police chief and Lieutenant Soto answer questions, you keep your eyes forward, avoiding Oz. The case is closed, and you have to stop. Have to stop being close, stop talking to each other like you’re in love, stop engaging in PDA. It’s hard. And it hurts.

You rush out of the station the moment the conference ends, then text Soto that you aren’t feeling well and need a day off. She’s more than happy to oblige that request, even as your stomach churns with guilt of lying. Realistically, you are sick, just not in the traditional sense.

On your sick day, you sit in your bed staring up at the ceiling for an hour before you drag yourself out of bed and get ready. You thought you’d be glad to get home, but you miss the apartment you shared with Oz, the slice of dream life you found in its walls.

As you stand in your kitchen, looking aimlessly for something to eat, someone knocks on the front door and calls your name.

“Oz,” you greet as you pull the door open. “What are you doing here?”

“Soto said you were sick,” he explains as he steps inside. “I wanted to check on you.”

You push the door closed and sigh. Returning to the kitchen, with your back to Oz, you admit, “I’m not sick, just… I’m not feeling my best.”

“I get it. Would you maybe want some company?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you smile at the soft look on Oz’s face. You hadn’t considered that the return to reality might have been hard on him, too. Though you don’t allow yourself to wonder if it’s for the same reason.

You spend the day together, talking about everything and nothing, scrolling through movies and TV shows only to talk about your opinions rather than watching them, and order a pizza as night draws near. It’s almost perfect.

Outside, the sun has set, and the last rays of ambient light are fading. As an action movie Oz insisted was a must-see plays on your television, you drop your head onto Oz’s shoulders, your legs already pressed together. He invites you closer, letting you find your place against his side.

“I thought going back to normal would be easier,” he muses softly, his fingers trailing lightly along your spine. “It’s… it’s harder now, I think.”

You nod, looking down at your ring finger. “Why was it easier to pretend to be together?” you wonder.

Oz shifts slightly, weighing his options and searching for the right words. He could ruin everything in a single breath, or he could find the key that gets him back into the life you got a brief sliver of. Like your own fountain of youth, you could be searching forever for another taste of happiness together, or you could admit that you want it and make it together.

“I wanted it,” Oz whispers. “I wasn’t pretending when we were undercover. I… I guess I was pretending every other time we were together.”

You sit up, turning toward Oz with your feet tucked beneath your hips. “Pretending how?”

“Pretending I didn’t feel something,” he offers. “Pretending I was perfectly content being friends. Pretending I didn’t want you.”

“I wanted it to be real,” you admit. “I wasn’t pretending either.”

Oz smiles and takes your hand again. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks.

“Why didn’t you?” you counter, lowering toward him.

“I’m sure Karadec would say it’s because we’re both idiots.”

You hum, then laugh. “We’re idiots who know what we want.”

“Then,” Oz begins, brushing his fingers over your cheek. “Maybe we should go get it.”

You don’t hesitate to move one leg over Oz’s, sinking into his lap as you kiss him. It’s easy, you realize as a sense of belonging washes over you. Oz slips his hand beneath your shirt, spreading his fingers against your back as he encourages you closer. You trust him, pressing your chest to his as you cradle his jaw and move together.

“Oz,” you say against his lips. He doesn’t relent until you murmur, “Baby.”

“Hmm?” he asks, shifting his attention down to your neck.

You gasp, take a shaky breath, then remember your question. “What if they won’t let us work together now?”

Oz drags his teeth across the spot he’d been so focused on, smiling when you shiver against his hands. “Then we don’t tell them,” he suggests. “Or we make them see that we’re better together than we ever were apart.”

He returns to kissing you immediately, but understands your hum of, “That works.”

[fluentmoviequoter]

Hiii so I had recently got into High potential and your fics for Oz are like the only ones I can find and love btw. I was wondering if you could write something about like civilian reader showing up to the bullpen one day to surprise Oz and the only one who knows about her is the lieutenant bc Oz had to update his emergency contact or like next of kin thing??

Hey! Thank you so much, I'm glad you like them!🤍 When I read this before writing, I thought it said wife... which it clearly doesn't. I wrote it as a secret wife kinda thing, but if you want something different, let me know! Hopefully you can still enjoy it!

Read it here: Missing Out

[fluentmoviequoter]

Missing Out

Pairing: Lev "Oz" Ozdil x fem!wife!reader

Summary: You surprise your husband at work, and his friends wonder if you are the only thing Oz has kept from them.

Warnings/Word Count: fluff, banter, 1.1k+ words, requested

High Potential Masterlist | Masterlist Directory | Request Rules/Info

The minutes seem to stretch into hours as you sit on your bed and watch the clock. When it finally changes again, you sigh. The worst part of finishing everything you need to do early in the day is that you have to sit around and wait for your husband to get home. He worked late last night, then left before you woke this morning, so you haven’t seen him in what feels like weeks. As the clock inches closer to noon, you consider making lunch. Then you have a much better idea.

“Here,” someone says as you step into the police station.

Your eyes widen as a visitor’s badge is thrust toward you, but you smile when you see the officer providing it.

“How’d you know I was coming?” you inquire, glancing down to adhere the sticker to your shirt.

“Saw your car drive by fifteen minutes ago, figured you were bringing lunch to Lieutenant Soto again.”

“Okay,” you drawl. “Totally not weird that you know what car I drive or were watching out the window.”

“Observation is my job,” the young officer explains, straightening his long sleeves. He looks around the room, then leans toward you to admit, “I’m so bored.”

Smiling, you point to the stack of blank paper beside him. “Doodle. We both know you love to do it.”

“Who’s weird now?” he challenges.

You chuckle and wave over your shoulder as you walk to the elevator. You’ve brought Lieutenant Soto lunch a few times over the past two or three months, but that’s not why you’re here today. Instead, you’ve ventured here in the middle of the day to visit the man who sends you doughnut recipes with heart emojis because he knows you’ll invite him to bake with you. The man who can’t keep a secret or say no to you but would never ask the same in return because he loves you exactly as you are and respects you.

The elevator dings when it reaches your destination. Nearing the Major Crimes bullpen, you remember that your husband may not even be here. Your surprise won’t do much good if he’s on the other side of the city.

Before you can overthink the possibility, someone calls your name. You smile at your husband before he wraps you in a hug, sighing against your neck.

“I brought food,” you murmur when he tightens his grip on you.

“Uh, Oz?” one of the detectives behind you asks.

Oz steps back and takes the bag of food from you, opting to set it on his desk and take your hand. He begins to introduce you, but it is interrupted by his lieutenant exiting her office.

Selena sees you and smiles, coming forward as she says your name. “So nice to see you again,” she adds, hugging you quickly.

“You, too,” you reply softly.

The female detective standing to your left gasps suddenly, her furrowed brows raising as her eyes widen. “Lev Ozdil! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Tell you what?” the man sitting at another desk inquires.

She points, jabbing her finger toward your hand where it rests in Oz’s.

“Use your words, Forrester,” the man sighs.

Another woman comes in, her heels clacking before she stops suddenly. “When did you get married, Oz?”

“Married?” the man exclaims, pushing up out of his chair.

“I knew,” Selena brags, leaning against a desk.

“We got that.”

“May I?” Oz interrupts. When no one replies, he shakes his head, still smiling. “Detectives Adam Karadec and Daphne Forrester, this is my wife. Morgan, this is my wife.” He turns slightly to offer your name and repeat the other names for your benefit.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you offer after shaking their hands.

“Why keep this from us?” Daphne wonders.

"Ehhh, wrong question!" Morgan teases, grinning. "Do you have pictures from the wedding?"

"Ooh," you sigh and glance at Oz. "We eloped in SLO, so no pictures. It was a little hectic."

“You eloped?” Karadec asks Oz. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“One more question,” Daphne says. “Lieutenant Soto, how do you know?”

“I had to update Oz’s information,” she explains simply. “Emergency contact, next of kin, all that. Although I’m glad I made the decision to call and confirm her details myself.”

“You did administrative work?” Karadec deadpans. “On purpose?”

“I had a few minutes,” Selena defends. “And I might have been a little curious about why Detective Ozdil was updating something that important.”

“Yeah, we talked for a while,” you add. “You’re lucky to have such a nice lieutenant.”

“Remember that,” Selena whispers.

“Well, if you’ll excuse us,” Oz interrupts. “Maybe I can finish this interrogation later.”

“Boo!” Morgan replies. “You won’t tell us anything.”

“Then maybe you should take the hint,” Oz suggests, smiling at her. “Surely you can understand why I kept this job separated from the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Is that me?” you joke, patting Oz’s shoulder when he sighs.

“It makes sense to me,” Oz tells his team. “There’s…” He gestures to the bullpen as he says, “All of this. And then there’s her and what we have. Those are two very different lives, and I’m not willing to risk her life for decisions I make behind this badge.”

“We understand,” Karadec assures Oz. “But we’re more than extensions of that badge, Oz. We’re your friends. Or something like it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Daphne counters. “We’re family, Oz.”

You soften at that. Oz talks about these people like they’re just that: family. He may not be ready to tell them the details of your ceremony or marriage – or show them the pictures that absolutely exist because you did not elope – but he’s not the type to keep secrets from people he cares about. Not when it matters.

“Maybe,” you begin carefully. “You all could come over for dinner soon, ask questions and watch Oz grimace every time I divulge a piece of personal information.”

“I’m sold,” Morgan jokes.

Oz’s shoulders tighten, his fingers pushing between yours as he looks at you. You smile, and his argument dies on his tongue. He really can’t say no to you.

“Okay, okay,” Daphne murmurs. “Deal, we’ll do dinner. But since we didn’t know to get you a wedding present – or an invite, which we’ll talk about later – we’ll buy dinner.”

“Daph,” Oz calls. “Calm down.”

She points at him and opens her mouth, then concedes, “Yeah, okay.”

“It was nice to meet you all,” you offer as Oz retrieves the food from his desk. “Sorry if I, uh, caused any issues for you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Karadec replies. “And no harm done. We will be bothering your husband about this for a while, though.”

“I have no doubt. Just take it easy on him, okay? I went along with it, too. Didn’t know I was missing out on getting to know such amazing people.”

“You hear that, Oz?” Daphne calls. “She thinks I’m amazing!”

“Well,” Oz replies, taking your hand and leading you out of the bullpen to find a quiet place. “She hasn’t gotten to know you yet.”

[fluentmoviequoter]

on hiatus - August

TLDR; I’m going to be taking a break from tumblr during August. Requests are closed now so I can finish waiting asks. There's a link below if you want to find out more about my book releasing later this year. Mutuals interested in keeping in touch, please DM me!

Hello! I’m going to be taking a break from tumblr for a few weeks to focus on writing/editing my book (which is releasing later this year🥹) and to work on my mental and physical health. As much as I love writing here and talking to all of you, I know that I need to take a step back for a bit. I plan to write and post most if not all of the remaining requests in my inbox before my break begins!

If you are interested in learning more about the books I’m working on or being a beta and/or ARC reader: here’s a Google form with that information and the sign-up!

This is a temporary hiatus and I’m already brainstorming Halloween celebration ideas and future fics! I hope you all have an amazing month, and I’ll see you in September! Or after the convention I’m going to, depends on whether or not I can stay quiet for once.

[fluentmoviequoter]

How are you? 😻 hopefully I’m not late for the summer celebration

please can I get 🌸 dance forever-In Your Arms by Nervo with Tim Bradford x shy!reader

I'm alright, thank you! You're not too late and I hope you enjoy this! There's not a lot of dialogue, so r might not seem very shy, sorry about that!

Tim Bradford x fem!reader angst, vaguely hints future reconciliation. 0.5k+ words

in your arms

Los Angeles lights up outside your window as the sun goes down. At your back window, you lose yourself in memories and feelings that have become too familiar.

You saw Tim Bradford today. There was a time when you’d talked about going places together, doing things, and growing side-by-side. Now, you only think about going somewhere that you can be over Tim. You’ve been places since he left, tried new things, been on a date, but it’s so hard to get over him. When the sun goes down, you become enveloped in the desire to be in his arms. But he gave up on you.

Running into Tim two days in a row should be some kind of bad omen. You used to be so close that you’d walk into his arms without hesitation or questioning, and now you try to hide from him in a coffee shop.

“Hey,” Tim greets when he sees you. “How are you?”

“Hi,” you reply, forcing a smile as you notice he has two cups. “I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m good too,” Tim replies.

The worst part of lying, you realize, is that Tim believes it. He thinks you’re fine without him, thinks that seeing him like this doesn’t feel like he’s kicking you while you’re still down.

“Sorry,” his partner, Lucy, murmurs as she walks to his side. She takes a cup from him with a smile that you recognize. “Oh, hey!” she adds, wrapping her arm around your shoulders. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy,” you say. Busy missing Tim, busy wondering what I could have done differently, busy trying to remember what it was like to be in his arms, even though I could be anywhere else by now.

“We’re going to a dinner party tomorrow,” Lucy begins. “You should come! Everyone will be there.”

You glance at Tim, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. When he left that night, you should have known he’d find someone else to hold. Someone who’d cherish his arms around them like you should have.

“I wish I could,” you murmur, trailing off as Lucy nods.

“Next time, then!” she decides, hugging you again before she steps back.

“Yeah,” you agree. “I’ll see you around.”

Lucy moves toward the door of the coffee shop, her shoulder brushing against Tim’s when she passes him. He doesn’t move, his eyes locked on your neck as he tries to find something to say.

“Is this what we are now?” you wonder.

“I tried,” Tim reminds you.

“But you can’t see that I’m not over you. I wanna be in your arms, Tim. I know I lost that opportunity, and if I could redo it, I would. Just- be patient with Lucy. You’re not always as open as you think you are.”

You try to step past Tim, but he shifts sideways to block your path. “Lucy and I aren’t together,” he states. “Why didn’t you say all that before?”

Shrugging, you wonder if you’ll ever know the answer to that. “I don’t know,” you admit. “If you ever find the switch to turn all this off and go back to what we had, you know where to find me.”

Your arm brushes against Tim’s as you pass him, and the desperation doesn’t linger as long this time.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Hello again! I'm the same anon who asked if you'd write for Criminal Minds and Psych and also requested the Lassie fic. If possible could I please also request a fic with Spencer from Criminal Minds for 🌼 and the time 9:00pm? Thank you! <3

Hi! Thank you for this req! It's the first thing I've written for Spencer, so he's probably not captured super well, but I enjoyed writing him!🫶🏼

Spencer Reid x fem!reader, fluff, comfort, brief case-related angst, 0.6k+ words

math at night

Your phone rings at 8:59 p.m., a candid photo of Spencer drawing your attention from the mindless sci-fi movie playing on the TV. Without hesitation, you answer his call. He’s been in Barstow, California, for three days, and you miss him. Yet, his 9 p.m. calls have been consistent.

“You’re early,” you say rather than hello, or I miss you so much it’s starting to hurt.

“Dinner got delayed,” Spencer explains. “How’s the weather there?”

“Uh.” You trail off, leaning forward to look out the window. “Cloudy, I think. Why?”

The clock changes to 9 p.m., and the call ends. Looking at your lockscreen, another photo of Spencer, this one a gift from Derek during a case somewhere in the Midwest, you wonder what happened. Before you can text your boyfriend, someone knocks on the door.

“It’s me!” Spencer calls as you hesitate to near the door.

In your rush to unlock the door, your hand slips from the knob. Then, you open it and smile.

Spencer’s hair is messy, like he’s run his fingers through it more than once, and his eyes look tired behind his glasses. He’s still carrying his messenger bag, like he came straight from the office.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, stepping back to invite him in.

“I… I needed to see you,” Spencer admits softly.

You offer your right hand, and when Spencer takes it, you pull him into your arms. His hands roam your back and down your sides, grounding himself.

“You’re home,” you whisper against his shoulder. “I got you.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer sighs.

“No, don’t apologize. You’re always welcome here. I want you here.”

“We solved the case, but it was almost a moment too late,” Spencer explains.

You don’t reply, letting him say whatever he needs to as you hold him. Spencer isn’t always the easiest guy to understand or comfort, but right now, you’re getting as much out of his touch as he seems to get from yours.

“Have you eaten?” you inquire.

Spencer shakes his head, murmuring something about turbulence on the flight back.

“I can order something or cook,” you offer. “What do you want?”

Spencer steps back, his hair falling in his eyes as he looks at you.

“I’ll cook,” you decide for him. “Go shower, I just washed the towels and got that shampoo you like. I’ll have something ready when you’re done.”

Your boyfriend nods as he walks toward your bathroom. Despite it being dark outside and past your usual dinner time, you enter the kitchen and begin gathering the ingredients for Spencer’s favorite. Though you’ve only been dating a few months, your relationship with Spencer deepens each day. In this moment, it feels like you’ve been together forever.

Spencer tries to make you think he’s fine often, but it gets harder every time. Part of him wonders if it’s worth it, living and loving through time zones when he could just be beside you, but then you remind him that you love every part of him, and everything adds up.

“I got you something,” Spencer says, holding whatever it is behind his back when he returns. His hair is dripping on his t-shirt, but he’s smiling now, so you don’t worry about him getting your floor wet.

“What is that?” you ask, leaning toward his hands to look at the wooden circle in Spencer’s hands.

“A safe cracker puzzle,” he answers. “You like watching those action movies, so I thought you’d enjoy feeling like you’re in one!”

“Spencer,” you sigh, taking it from his hands. “This is the nicest gift I’ve ever gotten.”

“Didn’t someone get you diamonds once?”

“Yeah, but they didn’t think about what I like when they got that. Thank you.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, laughing when water runs down your arm. “Dinner’s ready,” you remember. “Maybe we could start one of those action movies and I can prove myself by doing math at night, like a normal person would.”

“I do.”

You smile and brush your knuckles along Spencer’s jaw. “Exactly.”

[fluentmoviequoter]

Hiii, i saw that you were accepting requests for criminal minds, and I was wondering if you could write about Aaron Hotchner x Bau reader, though she's on maternity leave - they're married, and having a baby - so while she's gone there's a temporary female agent, and she like, talks down to reader when she comws to visit Aaron at work, and he gets mad and fires the agent

Hello! Thank you for the request, I had fun writing this! Hopefully you enjoy this and Hotch isn't too OOC🤍

Read it here: A Special World

[fluentmoviequoter]

A Special World

Aaron Hotchner x fem!BAU!wife!reader

Summary: While you're on maternity leave, an agent with something to prove temporarily fills your place in the BAU team. Derek, Morgan, and JJ don't like her, but for a different reason than why your husband fires her.

Warnings/Word Count: pregnant!r, r is talked down to, protective!Hotch, one suggestive part, fluffy! 2.5k+ words, requested

A/N: This is my first time writing Hotch, so apologies if he's OOC!

“I could have worked for another week,” you insist.

Aaron clicks his tongue with a mix of exasperation and tenderness as he places a glass of water and your favorite snack on your nightstand. He straightens, then leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. As he moves, his hand brushes along your stomach, each touch a clear expression of love and care.

“You’re on maternity leave,” he reminds you. “For my sanity as much as your health.”

Sighing, you purse your lips to request a kiss. Aaron obliges, though he shakes his head. Not leaving for work with Aaron after years at the BAU feels strange. Still, you’re excited for this next chapter.

“I need to go,” Aaron murmurs against your lips. “Your replacement is coming in early.”

“She has a name, Hotch,” you remind him when he stands. “Emerson Dempsey, remember?”

“I’ll remember it when I have to. Call me if you need anything.”

“Ah, Derek beat you to that offer,” you joke, pulling the comforter up to your chin. “He’s in my speed dial now.”

Aaron glares at you for a moment, then breaks. He kisses you once more, lays his hand flat on your bump, then leaves. You have four weeks left until your due date, but your doctor convinced you to start taking it easy now. Looking around your empty bedroom, you realize that you don’t remember how to do that.

“Morgan, JJ, Reid,” Hotch calls. “This is Special Agent Emerson Dempsey. She’ll be assisting us for a few months.”

“It’s an honor,” Emerson gushes, reaching forward to shake JJ’s hand. “I’ve heard so many amazing things about the BAU and SSA Hotchner.”

“SSA Hotchner?” Derek repeats, his brows raising as he smiles at Hotch, who only clenches his jaw tighter and shakes his head.

“Oh, right,” Emerson giggles, lifting her hand to cover her mouth. “He told me I could call him Hotch.”

“Singular syllable names are easier to remember and faster to exclaim in the heat of the moment,” Spencer explains. “Many of history’s most well-remembered leaders have names or sobriquets that consist of three of fewer syllables.”

“Hotchner: lady-killer is one too many,” Derek jokes.

“Boys,” JJ interrupts. She shakes her head, then looks at Hotch. “Where would you like us to begin today?”

“We’ve got a new case,” Hotch explains, showing a file folder. “Close to home for once. Six men have gone missing in Woodbridge in the last two weeks.”

“Could be a Cinderella killer,” Emerson interrupts.

“That’s-“ Hotch trails off, then gestures for Spencer to speak.

“We can’t make that kind of assumption based on such limited evidence. If there is a connection between victims, an overlapping woman in their shared histories or a common location, then we could pursue that line of investigation. As it stands, however, it could just as likely be Bigfoot. Or perhaps the Woodbooger has migrated north.”

“Woodbooger?” Emerson repeats under her breath.

“That said,” Hotch says, refocusing the group, “we need to take a look at the evidence Woodbridge PD sent, then we can go up there.”

He leads the others toward the conference room, his blinks growing longer as Emerson matches her steps to his, talking rapidly about how excited she is to be on a real case with the real BAU.

“I miss Mrs. Hotchner,” JJ complains.

“She’ll be gone for at least ten weeks,” Spencer reminds her. “Following childbirth, the female body-“

“That’s enough,” JJ and Derek exclaim together.

“It is funny, though,” Derek muses.

“Childbirth?” JJ wonders incredulously.

“What? No. The fact that Dempsey has a crush on Hotch.”

Spencer and JJ stop then, looking through the open door at Hotch and the team’s newest – and most temporary – member. She lays her hand on Hotch’s bicep, batting her lashes at him when he steps back.

“I thought his wife leaving would make him miserable,” Spencer mumbles. “Seems I was wrong.”

“If Pretty Boy can see the crush…” Derek trails off and whistles under his breath. He leads the others into the conference room, then unlocks his phone under the table. The first message he sends to you is answered with a laughing emoji, the second with assurance that you’re okay. He gets yelled at by Hotch before he can tell you that your replacement isn’t so different from you. In one way, at least.

“Can you show me exactly where the shoe was found?” Agent Dempsey inquires.

The officer assisting her points toward a cone fifteen yards away, then begins walking.

“Your wife says hello,” Derek says as he approaches Hotch’s side.

“Stop texting her,” Hotch grumbles. “We’ve got a job to do.”

“And Dempsey is doing it,” JJ points out from Hotch’s other side. “She’s good.”

“Good enough,” Hotch argues.

“She’s asking questions, but not the right ones,” Spencer agrees, seeming to spawn at Derek’s side – though Derek will never admit to flinching. “Without inquiring as to the men’s habits, their reasons for being at the sites from which they were abducted, we’re not going to make any progress in identifying the unsub.”

“Agent Hotchner asks the right questions,” Derek pouts.

“My wife is preparing to give birth,” Hotch reminds him firmly. “I understand that you miss her. I don’t understand much that goes on in your head, but this I do get. Try to work with Dempsey, give her some direction, and let’s get back to Quantico.”

“Hey!” Emerson calls, jogging to reach the team. “So, I talked to the officer that found the fifth’s victims shoe and his wallet. Apparently the guy was known to jog in this area every morning, but the shoes aren’t running shoes, and it was approximately four hours after his usual run time.”

“Interesting,” Spencer muses.

“Is it possible that the scene is staged?” JJ suggests. “He was taken from somewhere else, but his belongings were abandoned somewhere he was seen regularly?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” Emerson squeals, taking JJ’s hand quickly before turning toward Hotch. “Do you want me to start mapping their average daily routes so we can find clues about where they may have encountered the, uh, the unsub?”

“That will take too much time and manpower,” Derek argues. “And if this guy got through the abduction with both shoes and his wallet, it’s unlikely we’ll find evidence anywhere else.”

“Sure,” Emerson replies, her shoulders dropping.

“Reid, go with Emerson back to the station and find out where these men frequented,” Hotch decides. “JJ, Morgan, you’re with me.”

“Thank you, Hotch!” Emerson calls after him.

“Yes!” Derek agrees, clutching his hands before his chest. “Thank you, Hotch! Thank you for being born and blessing our eyes with that strong jawline and heartbreaker stare!”

“Does- did she even ask who she was covering for?” JJ inquires. “She does know this is temporary, right?”

“I’m not sure,” Hotch grumbles as he opens his car door. “But she may need a reminder that out ream is established, and she’s not here to make a place for herself.”

“I’ll give it to her!” Derek offers excitedly.

“No, I’m in communications, it should be me!” JJ argues from the backseat.

“What next?” Hotch deadpans. “Going to fight over who gets to order in the McDonald’s drive-thru?”

“I know that was supposed to be a blow about us acting like kids,” Derek murmurs, “but I could go for some fries.”

Hotch ignores him and pulls the gear shift down into drive.

You’d get me French fries, right? Derek texts you.

“Leave my wife alone,” Hotch says, his eyes still on the road.

You’re going to get in trouble, you reply at the same time.

“Okay, that’s just creepy,” Derek whispers.

A week and a half into your maternity leave, Derek texts you (again) to tell you that the disgruntled gym manager who was abducting clients planning to cancel their membership has been arrested. Then, he mentions that Aaron isn’t in a great mood and they’re on their way back to the office.

Immediately, you leave your comfortable position on the couch, pause your movie, and begin getting ready. If you can do something small to brighten Hotch’s day, then you’ll do it. Today, that includes picking up lunch from his favorite restaurant and visiting him at the office. If Derek, Spencer, and JJ will give you privacy, that is. The BAU is your family, but their interruptions aren’t always well-timed, as your pre-marital history with Hotch demonstrated. Dating in the department was probably stupid, but something about the danger of getting caught kept the romance alive for about two weeks before Penelope walked into Hotch’s office without knocking. You were perched on the edge of Hotch's desk with your head dropped to kiss the base of his neck. Since then, you’ve had to set incredibly specific boundaries, but you still love the overbearing friends you’ve made.

An hour after Derek’s first text, you’re told they’re back at the office and pick up lunch for everyone. You enter the elevator with food and drinks, feeling a sense of coming home. You don’t miss the stress or pace, but you can’t deny missing the team.

“Who are you?” a female agent demands when you step into the BAU bullpen.

You step back in surprise, your brows furrowing at her forwardness. She stands from the usually empty desk at the far edge of the office and crosses her arms across her chest, her intricately manicured nails tapping her sides as she lifts a well-shaped brow.

“This is a restricted area,” she snaps. “You need a special visitor’s badge to get in here.”

“I have a badge,” you reply.

“Okay, listen, sweetheart,” she restarts, dropping her hands to her hips. “This isn’t just the FBI, we’re not just cops. This is the BAU, the behavioral analysis unit.”

Your lips part, but you can’t get a word in. Behind the woman, whose badge you can’t read, Derek stands from his desk. His eyes meet yours, but rather than replying to your clear question of who is this and why is she in my way? Derek just smiles and rushes in the opposite direction.

“Can I interrupt you?” you request. “Agent…”

“Special Agent Dempsey,” she answers. “And I’ve already explained why you shouldn’t even be here. This is no place for a civilian, especially one like you.”

Derek nearly runs into Hotch when he pulls his office door open.

“What are you doing?” Hotch asks, looking at Derek’s raised fist.

“I was coming to get you,” Derek explains.

“My wife is here,” Hotch already knows. Somehow.

“Yeah,” Derek says, smiling brightly. “Lead the way boss.”

Derek and Hotch enter the bullpen, both able to hear Emerson ranting about something. When they pass Spencer’s desk, you come into view. Derek slaps Spencer’s shoulder too hard, wide-eyed as he watches Hotch’s jaw tick.

“… This is no place for a civilian, especially one like you,” Emerson snaps.

Your patient smile falls before you ask, “What does that mean?”

“I’m not going to answer any question from a civilian who isn’t even supposed to be here!”

“I’m trying to tell you-“

“What are you not understanding?” Emerson interrupts you. “This is the BAU, the best of the best, not an open house for a stupid, pregnant-“

“Dempsey!” Hotch yells, stepping forward into your sight.

Her shoulders drop immediately, a flirty smile appearing on her face as she straightens her hair. “Hotch,” she replies sweetly. “I was just trying to tell this-“

“Get out,” Hotch demands.

“But-“

“You just talked down to a senior agent,” Hotch seethes, ignorant of Spencer, Derek, and JJ watching behind him. “I’ve fired agents for far less. But you made the mistake of talking down to my wife.”

Emerson’s eyes widen, her fingers spread against her pants, and she swallows harshly. She glances toward you, then fixes her big, suddenly teary eyes on Hotch. “Sir, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want an apology,” Hotch snaps. “I want you out of my sight.”

Emerson nods rapidly as she pulls her bag out of a desk drawer. She presses the down button on the elevator, chewing her bottom lip as she waits for the doors to open.

“One more thing,” Hotch calls. He waits until she turns to say, “You were right about one thing: we’re the best of the best.” The elevator doors open, and he concludes, “You never would have fit in.”

She looks down at her shoes, rushes onto the elevator, closes the door, and disappears. As soon as the elevator indicator changes floors, Derek jumps from Spencer’s desk and thrusts his hands in the air, Spencer smiles and waves excitedly at you, and JJ sits back, sighing in relief.

“I feel like I interrupted something,” you muse, looking at Hotch.

He doesn’t reply as he takes the items from your hand to place them on Emerson’s now-empty desk.

“That was your replacement,” Derek offers.

“She was terrible,” JJ adds. “We missed you.”

“Oh.” You take Hotch’s hand when he turns back toward you. “Sorry.”

Hotch shrugs, then tips his chin so his nose presses into your hair above your ear. “What are you doing here?” he whispers.

“I brought lunch,” you reply, fighting shivers when his hand moves beneath your bump.

“Thank you. I missed you, too.”

“There’s food for everyone,” you tell Derek, aware of his eyes on you.

Within seconds, Derek and JJ have wrapped you in a hug. At the center of the office, you feel even more at home than you anticipated feeling.

“How’s my niece treating you?” JJ asks as she steps back.

“Nephew,” Hotch murmurs.

“The betting pool thinks differently,” Spencer says. “Current odds are about 7-2 in favor of baby girl Hotchner.”

“Simplified?” you inquire.

“Of course.”

Hotch leads you to your desk, encourages you to sit, then pulls up a chair to sit with you and the others.

“Should you have fired my sub?” you ask Hotch.

“Absolutely,” he answers while Derek, Spencer, and JJ say, “Yes.”

“She ran out of here with her tail between her legs, Hotch,” you point out. “You need help.”

“We need competent help that doesn’t talk down to anyone. Especially not you.”

You nod, twisting the straw in your cup. “I was going to say she was pretty… then she opened her mouth.”

“Pretty?” Derek repeats. “You see yourself in the elevator reflection?”

“Easy,” Hotch warns.

“Need help with anything?” you offer. “I can do whatever you want from here.”

Hotch hooks his foot around the base of your chair and pulls you forward, your knee slotting between his legs.

“Maternity leave,” he reminds you lowly.

“He do that to you when people make fun of you, Spencer?” Derek stage whispers.

“Not historically, no,” Spencer replies.

“Shut up,” Hotch says. “I’m in a firing mood right now.”

“I didn’t say anything!” JJ interjects.

You direct Hotch’s hand from your knee to your stomach, smiling when his eyes soften as your baby kicks. Then, three more hands join his. Your baby is coming into a special world.