quinnsdesk

[quinnsdesk]

gorgeous theme and stunning work, WHAT CANT YOU DO !!!

thank you so much lovvie!!

unfortunately, i can't be as good as you!!!

[quinnsdesk]

quinn can i have a smooch 😫

yes yes yes!!!!!

[quinnsdesk]

praise

tim bradford x rookie!reader

source of my filthy thoughts: @sleepymissy

cw: mdni, age gap, hand jobs, fingering, car sex, sir kink if you squeeze your eyes, masturbation (f), no use of y/n, praise kink

wc: 5.2k

You never really planned for it to go this way. Joining the LAPD felt like the next logical step, structured, demanding, noble. You weren’t naive; you expected the long nights, the stress, the near-impossible standards. But you also expected to get through it. Fast. Efficient. Professional. Your time as a rookie was supposed to be a means to an end. Get in, learn the ropes, prove yourself, and move forward.

But it didn’t go that way. It couldn’t. Not with him.

Sergeant Tim Bradford.

It wasn’t supposed to be him. Normally, sergeants didn’t train rookies, didn’t spend their days walking the fine line between mentor and ghost. But Grey had made the call, and when Grey made a call, people listened.

You didn’t complain. You knew enough to know Smitty wasn’t the right fit, not for someone who gave a damn. Grey knew that too. He wanted someone who’d push you, who’d treat the badge like the weight it really was. So, you got Bradford.

At first, it was exactly what you expected, hard lines and colder silences. He didn’t bother learning your favorite coffee order. He didn’t make jokes to cut the tension. He called you boot, always with that tone: firm, clipped, unreadable.

You responded in kind. Perfect posture. Precise reports. No questions unless they mattered. You spent your days buried in protocol and your nights second-guessing every mistake you made.

Let's be honest, you didn't do it to be a successful officer at the LAPD, or to make it to P2 in an instant. You did it for him. To earn his validation.

"Did you see that, boot?"

Tim’s voice cut through your thoughts like a switchblade, sharp and immediate. You blinked, pulled out of whatever haze you'd drifted into, and looked over at him.

"Hm?"

He didn’t glance your way. His gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead. Stern, focused, unreadable. One hand gripped the steering wheel at twelve o'clock, the other rested casually on his thigh, fingers drumming once, then going still. Calm. Controlled. Very Tim Bradford.

"Be alert. This job isn't for slacking off," he said, voice low, no-nonsense, commanding. Like always. His eyes didn’t move from the car ahead, parked in front of the corner shop. “That car just ran a stop sign. What do we do, boot?”

Your brain scrambled to catch up, but not from nerves. Not anymore. It was the voice, that particular rasp in his tone that made everything sound like a challenge and a warning all at once. Rough around the edges, in a hot, infuriating way that made it hard to tell if your heart was racing from adrenaline or something more dangerous.

“Uh,” you cleared your throat, adjusting in your seat. “We initiate a stop and warn the driver.”

Tim gave a single nod. “Good. Do it.”

Just like that, back to business.

Once the sirens went off, the driver slowly pulled over to the curb. You hopped out of the shop alongside Tim, heart already picking up pace at the sudden escalation, but his face remained unreadable, stone-carved and stoic, like always.

“You be contact, I’ll be cover,” Tim instructed calmly, his voice low but firm, the quiet authority in it grounding you as the two of you stepped out of the shop.

You gave a sharp nod, steadying yourself with a breath as your fingers brushed your holster, the familiar cool of the grip a silent reassurance. Tim moved to the rear flank, his eyes scanning the perimeter like a hawk, while you approached the driver’s side window of the idling Buick.

"Sir, you know you ran that stop sign?" Your voice was firmer than usual. Not quite Tim-level serious, but enough to command attention. You barely recognized the version of yourself standing here, composed, assertive, the echo of Tim’s influence in every word.

The man in the car, early thirties maybe, leaned toward the window, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know, but I mean—c’mon, is it really that deep? Don’t you guys have real criminals to catch?”

You didn’t flinch. Neither did Tim, whose stance from behind radiated alert tension. You could feel it even without looking.

"Sir, step out of the vehicle," you ordered evenly.

His face shifted. The casual charm drained quickly, like a mask that no longer served its purpose. For a second, his jaw tensed, hesitation flickering in his eyes as if weighing the odds. You didn’t back down. You couldn’t.

"Now, sir." Your voice dropped slightly, lower, firmer, deliberate.

There was a long pause. Then, with a huff, he lifted both hands and opened the door, stepping out slowly, his movements exaggerated in mock compliance. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, clearly irritated. “Didn’t think we were doing all this over a stop sign.”

But this wasn’t about the stop sign. Not anymore.

Tim moved in closer, standing just behind the man, one hand resting near his own holster. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The presence alone was enough to silence the air around you.

“Hands where we can see them,” Tim instructed coolly.

The man obeyed, though there was something tight in his posture now. Not just annoyance maybe nervous energy. His eyes flicked between the two of you, calculating. Your gut clenched.

You caught it before Tim did. The twitch of his fingers toward his jacket pocket. Small, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

"Don’t," you said quickly, your voice slicing through the air.

Tim moved in a blink, one hand clamping on the man's wrist, the other reaching for the back of his neck to guide him down onto the hood. It was quick, professional, controlled.

“Why don’t we take a look at what you were so eager to reach for?” Tim muttered, glancing your way as he patted down the man’s pockets.

You stepped in and retrieved a folded piece of paper from the inner jacket pocket, no weapon, but your eyes scanned the page quickly. Addresses. Names. Cash totals.

Tim looked over your shoulder and exhaled through his nose. “Looks like we found ourselves a runner. This guy’s not just ignoring stop signs.”

The man didn’t say anything, just glared at the pavement like it betrayed him.

Tim cuffed him and looked at you as he handed off the evidence. “Nice catch, Boot,” he said, almost offhand, like the words tasted unfamiliar in his mouth. Except you heard it. You felt it. The rare praise wrapped in his usual gravel voice, a sliver of something softer hidden underneath all that grit.

And just like that, your heart sank. Did Tim just—compliment you?

Blood shot to your cheeks. You looked away quickly, the heat crawling up your neck betraying any attempt at pretending you were unaffected.

“Thanks,” you replied, a little too quickly, a little too eagerly. You sounded like a golden retriever desperate for another pat on the head. Internally, you winced.

And of course, he noticed. He just smirked, pulling open the back door of the squad car and guiding the suspect in, refusing to bring up the elephant in the room.

__________

It only got worse after that. Or better, depending on how your heart and hormones were behaving that day.

It was firearm training today. He stood behind you, arms crossed, while you attempted to correct your stance at the range.

You sighed and reset.

“You're standing like a flamingo. Plant your feet.”

You adjusted.

“Still a flamingo. A tense one. Breathe, Boot.”

“Focus. Listen to your breathing, yeah?...” His voice dropped lower, raspier, too close to your ear now. He placed his hands over yours, helping you position yourself correctly, a jolt of electricity shooting through you. “That’s it. Doing so good, Boot.” He was devious, he knew exactly what he was doing, the way his words rolled of his tongue. You bit your lip, highly frustrated as he pulled away for you to take your shot.

"Attagirl." He smirked as you got a chest shot, just to the right of the metal suspects supposed heart. You gulped before turning to him, your chest heaving as you felt every fiber in your being catch on fire.

"I'll see you tonight?" Tim's eyes didn't leave yours as you tidied yourself up in the armory. You had forgotten that he, Nyla, Nolan and you agreed to go to a pub tonight. You didn't look up at him, you were too embarrassed, how could he make you feel like this. "I uh- I don't have a ride." You chewed on the flesh of your bottom lip before finally looking up at him.

He looked... different. His eyes were darker, maybe he was tired. "I'll give you a ride." Your eyes widened at his offer. "Oh no, I couldn't" You tried to avoid eye contact with him, but he was just so damn magnetic. "Don't be silly, it's out of my way, I'll pick you up at 9." Before you could reply, before you could even argue, he walked off. Like the asshole he is.

__________

It was currently 8:21 p.m. You were basically ready, all that was left was for you to put on your shirt. Only problem is that you can't decide which one to choose.

Red Satin Cowl Neck Blouse or Black Sheer Long-Sleeve Blouse with a slutty deep V neckline.

You looked at yourself in your mirror, your hair at your favorite length and your lacy, blue bra making your cleavage look hot. If only Tim saw you like this, he'd lose his mind.

It wasn't ten minutes before you were on your back on your bed, jeans discarded on the floor, your fingers running up and down your folds making your chest heave as a huff erupted from your throat.

"Sir..." You whined, throwing your head back as your pumped two fingers in and out of your throbbing cunt. "That's it, my perfect girl." He wasn't there but it was like you could hear him, feel him, his fingers, teasing that sweet spongy spot that sent shivers down your spine. "Fuck I'm so close, sir. Just like that..." Suddenly, before you could reach that long awaited orgasm, there was a knock on the door. And then again.

There's only one person you know that was impatient.

You got up quickly, glancing at your phone before throwing on your jeans, not having time to choose a blouse just yet. Tim was 15 minutes early.

"Hey sorry I'm early but-" He didn't finish his sentence because when he looked at you, he almost lost his mind.

Tim's a cop, he's not dumb. He's also a man, a much older man, who's been with women, and he knows what women look like frustrated and turned on. The way your nipples peaked out of your bra, your pupils dilated, your chest heaving as your hair was pretty much a mess.

"Come in." You choked before stepping aside and letting him in. "Let me just get my- uh- my shirt." This was so embarrassing for you.

He stood in your living room, quiet, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders tense like he was trying to keep something buried. The air felt heavier. Almost like whatever he was thinking, it wasn't something he’d ever let himself say out loud.

You rushed back to your room. This wasn’t a date. You told yourself that twice. Three times. Still, your hands hovered over two shirts like your entire evening depended on this exact decision. One red—soft and sweet, something a girl-next-door might wear. The other, black—tighter, lower, riskier.

Your bare feet padded softly back into the living room, fabric draped over each arm. He didn’t move when you walked in. Just turned his head slightly, his eyes finding yours with the kind of attention that made your breath hitch.

"Sir, which should I wear?" you asked, your tone playfully teasing, dipping into dangerous territory. It was toeing the line, hell, it was crossing it, but with Tim, it never really felt like a line existed. There was only silence and tension and whatever was simmering beneath his controlled surface.

You held each shirt against your chest, watching his eyes as they moved but not to your face, not immediately—but lower. A flicker of something darkened his gaze, then vanished just as fast.

At the academy you'd learnt how to read suspects. Observe the twitch of a brow, the clench of a jaw, the way people gave themselves away when they thought no one was watching.

But Tim Bradford? Tim was unreadable. He might as well have been carved from stone.

Still, something in the way he swallowed gave him away.

"The black one," he said finally, voice low, almost casual. But you heard the weight behind it. Saw the way his jaw flexed as he quickly looked away.

You smirked internally. The sluttier option. The one that hugged your curves like it was painted on, that dipped just low enough to make people stare, to make Tim stare, if he ever let himself.

You let the red one fall to the couch and pulled the black one over your head right there in front of him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t turn around, didn’t even blink, but you knew he saw everything. The smooth slide of fabric against skin, the way your body filled out every inch of it. You didn’t do it for his reaction. Not entirely.

It was a challenge. A dare. Say something, Tim.

He didn’t.

But he did look.

The silence stretched between you as you straightened the hem, your hands smoothing over the soft material. It clung to your chest, the swell of your breasts prominent even in the dim light, the curve of your hips drawing a silent trail for his eyes to follow.

Still composed, still quiet, Tim’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip before he caught himself and looked away, as if watching you in that shirt might be the thing that snapped him in half.

"You look good." He almost smiled. His jaw was tense as you nodded in appreciation, deep down you were screaming internally. Your T.O juts told you that you looked good.

"Ready?" He asked as you grabbed your purse and keys. It felt as if you were a couple, getting ready to go out for a date, you let your delusions get the best of you as his hand brushed your lower back guiding you out of the door.

__________

In the car it was quiet, dangerously quiet. You both felt as if you were drowning in silence. The pub wasn't far, maybe 20 minutes, but to you it felt like eternity. You never wanted to leave.

"So, what are you thinking?" You asked, breaking the painfully awkward silence. "I'm thinking about you." You blushed; his eyes didn't leave the road as the words left his lips. "Oh?"

'Oh?' Is that really all you can say?

"I'm thinking about how I came to your apartment to find you heaving, your pupils dilated, shirtless." The words felt like a drug, you wanted to hear his sultry, raspy voice forever. "What were you doing before I got there, Boot?" You gulped, he knew already, he just wanted confirmation. You were driving through a quiet area as he pulled over in an alleyway. "T-touching myself." You squeaked, knowing how wrong and vile this is.

"Show me." Your eyes widened as he looked at you through hooded eyes. "Show me how good you can be for me." He ran his tongue over his lips as you bucked your hips to hastily pull down your jeans and panties. "Pretty girl." He groaned with a strained voice as he watched you rub your clit. "You like that? You like being such a good girl for me?"

You nodded, vigorously as he palmed his crotch, his eyes not leaving yours. "Atta girl." He smirked as you arched your back from the stimulation. "Sir..." You whined.

You couldn't bring yourself to say his name. And Tim loved that fact. The way the word rolled off your tongue drove him just as insane. "Yes, doll?" You rolled your eyes back to the nickname. A little 'hmph' leaving your lips as he slowly reached over to swat your hand away. Taking control, slowly pushing two fingers inside of you. "Aw you're doing so good for me, my perfect girl." Your eyes didn't leave his as he looked at you in awe.

He curled his fingers, brushing over that spongy spot that sent you into oblivion before slowly pulling back out and repeating the process. "This is so wrong." You mutter, looking down at the way his fingers disappeared inside of you. "Do you want me to stop, sweetheart?" You choked at the pet-name before not replying, no way in hell would you want him to stop. He took your silence as a no before shaking his head with a slight chuckle. "That's it, taking my fingers so well, baby."

Your legs began to shake, the ever-familiar coil forming in your belly. "Sir..." You whined as he huffed, the way you address him making it harder for him to keep his composure. "Good girl, gonna cum on my fingers?" He coos making you whine even louder. His eyes were no longer looking at your gorgeous facial expressions but at your shirt, the one he chose. The one that make your breasts look like a meal, he's watching the way your chest is rising and falling, the way your nipples are begging for attention.

You grip his shoulder as he doesn't slow down, pushing you over the edge, he was ruthless, and you loved every second of it as he gave you one of the most mind-boggling orgasms of your life. "Pretty girl." He'd whisper in your ear as a sound unfamiliar ripped through the thick air.

Tim's phone rang. It was John. Probably looking for them.

He didn't pull his fingers out, but he answered.

"Hello?" You couldn't believe it; he acted as if he wasn't knuckle deep inside his rookie. You weren't able to hear John speaking through the phone; you were basically high on Tim's fingers. You glanced at him to see him mouth 'Be quiet.' You hadn't realized how loud your huffing and puffing really was.

"Yeah no, we're running a bit late, sorry John." He lied. You felt a pang in your chest; these conflicting feelings were too much for you. On one hand you hated the thought of lying to one of your best friends and on the other hand Tim's fingers felt like heaven. "Yeah, okay will do, bye." He hung up before pulling his fingers out of you, you moaned at the loss on contact. "Fix yourself up Boot, they're waiting for us." You tried your best to catch your breath, scrambling to get your panties. "You did so good." He finally added while turning on the car's ignition.

__________

You were quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made John squint at you from across the table, his beer halfway to his lips. You avoided his gaze, hoping the dim lights and general buzz of alcohol would keep suspicion at bay. Your body was still thrumming, still coasting the edge of that high Tim had just pulled you from. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, like you could trap the ghost of his touch between them.

Your hair was ruffled, your lipstick faded at the corners, and the collar of your blouse slightly askew from where his hands had been, they were rough, possessive, and just careful enough to keep your secret intact. You gave a weak smile to Lucy as she passed you another drink, nodding like you were fine, like your insides weren’t still fluttering like they’d been rewired.

And then there was Tim.

He sat across from you, legs wide, whiskey glass nestled between two fingers, relaxed and smug in a way only you could recognize. He barely looked at you, at least not in a way anyone else would notice. But you felt his eyes. Quick flicks. Sharp glances. They landed on you like brushstrokes on canvas he was assessing, admiring, satisfied. Like he’d made something beautiful and now he was watching it unravel under the heat of his gaze.

You looked this wrecked because of him and he loved it. His jaw ticked just slightly as his mouth curled into something too smug to be innocent. Like he was cataloguing the way your legs crossed tighter, the way your fingers trembled when you reached for your glass, the way you still couldn’t quite meet his eyes without remembering the way he had looked at you when your back hit the wall ten minutes ago.

And you knew what he was thinking.

Good girl.

He hadn’t said it out loud, not here, not now, but the energy was the same. That confident, unbothered, dominant energy that had you unraveling in a locked supply closet two floors up. He was across the table now, acting like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just pulled a shameless, breathless mess from you.

You shifted in your seat, catching his smirk as he took another sip.

Fucker.

The laughter echoed through the group as Lucy launched into a story about one of her patrol shifts. You tried to focus, you really did, but Tim caught your eye again, this time with a slight tilt of his head and the kind of look that said it's time.

You swallowed, setting your drink down as casually as possible and standing up, brushing invisible lint from your pants like you weren’t trying to gather yourself. “Hey, I think I’m gonna head out,” you said, your voice soft, even.

“You okay?” Lucy asked, concern laced through the haze of her buzz.

“Yeah, just tired. Long shift tomorrow,” you lied smoothly, giving her a quick hug.

Tim stood too, stretching slightly, keys already in hand. “I’ll give her a lift.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, but it carried a weight only you felt.

John raised a brow, barely hiding his suspicion. “You two live in opposite directions.”

Tim shrugged. “I gave her a lift here, makes sense that I take her home. So she's safe."

You smiled tightly, heart thudding as you waved to the rest of the group. “Night, guys. See you tomorrow.”

More goodbyes followed.

As you and Tim walked away from the group, the night air cooled your flushed skin, grounding you just a little. His hand grazed the small of your back—not quite a touch, but a reminder.

The car ride started in silence, the kind that crackled with unspoken things. The kind that made your skin feel too tight and your thoughts too loud. Tim climbed in on the driver’s side, his movements fluid, practiced, his one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his muscular thigh.

You stared out the window, pretending the streetlights were more interesting than the heat still radiating off your skin. But you could feel him looking. Not full-on staring but glancing every so often, like he was still admiring the mess he’d made of you. Like he hadn’t quite come down from it either.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he said finally, his voice a low murmur, like he didn’t want to break the fragile bubble around you.

You turned your head slowly, meeting his eyes in the dim light of the dashboard. “So are you.”

He smiled, slow and deliberate, one of those grins that made your stomach clench and your thighs press tighter. “I like you better this way,” he said. “All quiet. Flushed. Still thinking about what I did to you.”

You weren't drunk, you knew where you were, what you were doing, everything you did was a conscious decision. So, as Tim drove you home, you recognized the spark of confidence as you slowly placed your hand on his throbbing crotch.

"Hm?" you replied, voice airy, laced with faux innocence. Playing dumb had never felt so delicious.

"Boot?"

God, you hated that nickname. What happened to sweetheart or doll or pretty girl? Why was it Boot again?

You didn’t answer him. Not with words. You kept your eyes forward, pretending to admire the city lights through the windshield as your fingers lightly traced the outline of his hard-on through the thick denim of his jeans. His breath hitched. Just enough for you to hear it. Just enough to know he was losing the upper hand.

"What do you think you're doing?"

His tone was low, controlled, but there was tension there, pulling tight in his voice, in the way his fingers gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His knuckles went white as you pressed your palm down firmer against him, your touch slow, maddening, deliberate.

“Yes,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting in his seat, his hips instinctively shifting toward your touch before he caught himself.

“That doesn’t sound like a ‘stop,’ sir,” you teased, your voice sultry now, laced with just enough sugar to make it feel dangerous.

“I swear to-” he gritted out, flicking his eyes toward you, he was 15 minutes away from your apartment, he couldn't wait that long. He began to unbuckle his belt, you help him before removing his cock from his boxers, he pulled into an abandoned parking lot. Watching you with heavy eyes as your ran your fingers up and down his length.

"Yes, so good f'me" He threw his head back to hit the headrest, watching as you look at his cock with awe. Long, and girthy, large veins, with an angry tip, leaking with precum. "What're you thinking, doll?" He looked at you, then back to your hand which was stroking his cock. "I wanna ride you." You mumbled before looking but up at him.

He helped you pull your jeans down, making sure to leave your panties somewhere he'd remember to take later on. "Yeah fuck, look at my pretty girl." He smirked with pride as he moved his seat back, giving you space to straddle him.

'His.' You were his pretty girl

You stroked his cock a few more times before slowly sinking down on him. "Sir!" You whined before gripping his shoulder for stability, his eyes rolled back. "Say it." He grunted, gripping your ass to move up and down on his cock. "Say my name with those pretty little lips of yours." You couldn't bring yourself to do it. This was already wrong, vile, heinous even, you were crossing so many lines you promised to yourself you wouldn't cross. "S-sarge..." You mumbled.

"Moan my name Boot. That's an order."

Your eyes rolled back as you felt his tip hit that spot that made your legs shake. "T-tim..." You finally mumbled, earning a moan from Tim.

A moan, from Tim motherfucking Braford. It was loud, and deep, with just the right amount of rasp to make you want to do it again. Hell, you'd say his name all the time if it meant hearing those noises erupt from him.

"Louder." He barked through gritted teeth, placing a tight smack on your ass, "Tim!" You yelped from the sharp sting. "Yes fuck, you're so perfect." You sped up, his words edging you on. "Cum on my cock, doll." He groaned, looking straight at you as he felt your clench around him. You knew he was close too, you could feel his cock throbbing, begging for release.

"Tim I want you to-" You whined breathlessly as he began fucking into you in frustration. "Want me to what sweetheart? Cum inside this pussy?" You nodded at his filthy words, your eyes squeezing shut as that coil you felt not too long ago formed in your belly. A large moan erupted from your chest, a white creamy ring forming around the base of his cock. He held you in place, his rough hands gripped on your hips as he released his load inside of you. "Fuck, sweetheart, that's it, doing so good." He slowly helped you sink back down onto him. His warm fluids, filling you up to the brink.

"Are y-you on anything?" He asked breathlessly, helping you off him and back onto the passenger's seat, your legs shaking from the stimulation. You nodded yes slowly, trying to catch your own breath.

__________

The drive back was quiet; the air was thick. Tim stashed your panties in his jeans pocket, leaving you bare in your own jeans. The hum of the car being your only distraction to what had just happened. Did he regret it? Is he going to stop you from being his rookie tomorrow? Is he going to fire you all in all?

When he had finally pulled into the parking lot of your apartment you had no idea what to do, what to say. "Do you uh- want me to walk you up?" He was such a gentleman, considering he had cum inside you no more than 10 minutes ago. "That would be great." You half-smiled as he turned the ignition off.

You stood at your door, apartment 10F. Tim stood next to you as you fumbled with your keys to open the door. You thought this was goodnight, but Tim followed you into your apartment once you had opened the door.

He stood behind you, his hands in his jean's pockets, once again stoic, contemplating. "Are we gonna talk, or are you just going to avoid the conversation?" Your eyes shot up as his words cut through the thick air that had followed you from the car. "I won't say anything I promise, I don't want to jeopardize your career." You looked at him with wide eyes, not daring to take a step closer to him, if you did, you were afraid you might pounce on him right there and then. "It's not about that sweetheart, it's about you."

"You're much younger than me, I don't want to jeopardize your career." He seemed genuine, almost as if he had feelings for you. "With all due respect, I'm a grown woman, sir." He almost seemed taken aback by your tone, it was new for him, it was even new for you. "I know, but the LAPD can be quite... sexist." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't want other officers to think you slept your way to the top." You gulped. "I didn't think we we're going to tell other officers. I mean- isn't this a one-time thing?"

"No." No?

"I won't be able to keep this as a one-time thing." He took a step closer to you, "Call me old fashioned but I don't do one-night stands." He brushed a strand of hair out of your face before placing a subtle kiss on your forehead. "You're an amazing, sweet, kind girl. I don't want you to think that I only want you for your body." You could melt right there. "Although it is a plus." You chuckled making him smile.

"You have 5 weeks left of your probationary period; I can wait, I will wait for you." He cupped your cheeks before taking a step back, going back into T.O Tim mode.

"Am I really worth the wait?"

"Yes, you are, Boot."

@sleepymissy @whatasadlittlelife @jessewesmitchellfan @w1ldf1owers @winchestersbgirl @vinos-things

[quinnsdesk]

you write for dean and tim ?!? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE !!!!

right here baby. right. here.

[quinnsdesk]

yuhh!!!!

Every unhinged fic writer needs an equally unhinged friend who "yes ands" their ideas and encourages them to write all their most far fetched and insane stories.

[quinnsdesk]

will someone please send me a filty request or drabble for tim bradford

writer's block can smd. I'm losing my fucking mind!!!

[quinnsdesk]

let me be your distraction.

tim bradford x fem!reader

request: by the lovely @sleepymissy

wc: 5.8k

(not proofread)

cw: mdni, face fucking, fingering, p in v, oral (f!recieving), praise, tim eventually being a softie then a hardass again, slight orgasm control, improper use of handcuffs, mentions of an abusive relationship (past)

join my taglist!

The screen of the TV cast a soft, flickering blue light over the darkened living room, painting your skin in shadows that pulsed gently across the walls. The show playing was some rerun you’d seen before, the kind of background noise that didn’t demand attention but gave you something to focus on while the hours bled together. Curled into the corner of the couch with your blanket pulled up to your collarbone and your legs tucked beneath you, you shifted slightly, adjusting the cushions under your thighs. The warmth was welcome, but the emptiness beside you felt louder than the low hum of the TV.

Tim was still on his shift.

You bit the inside of your cheek, grabbing your phone from the armrest just as it vibrated softly in your palm. The screen lit up.

Tim: Hey baby, I might be a little late tonight. Smitty’s an incompetent ass. (8:49 p.m.)

You chuckled softly through your nose, thumbs already moving across the glass.

You: Don’t stress. I’ll be up when you’re home. (8:51 p.m.)

You stared at the little blue tick marks that confirmed he’d read it. A gentle warmth bloomed in your chest at the thought of him reading your words in the middle of whatever mess he was dealing with. Maybe he smiled. Maybe he sighed. Maybe he thought about coming home sooner.

Your gaze dropped to the neckline of your oversized T-shirt, his T-shirt. The sleeves hung nearly to your elbows, the hem brushing high along your thighs. You pulled it slightly to the side, exposing a sliver more skin as an idea sparked in your mind. You thought about snapping a picture. Just a little something. The curve of your thigh, the kiss of fabric against skin, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth in a look you knew he couldn’t resist.

But you paused.

He was still at work. Still in uniform. Still surrounded by men who didn’t know how to mind their own business. The last thing he needed was his phone lighting up with a NSFW lockscreen photo while interrogating some drunk idiot.

Fine, let's be a responsible girlfriend.

With a half-smile, you dropped the phone beside you and leaned back into the blanket’s cocoon, tucking your feet beneath your thighs. You tried to focus on the show again, but your eyes kept drifting to the screen. The time now read 9:22 p.m., glowing above a photo of you and Tim at Disneyland, California sun lighting up your faces, your smiles stretched wide, his arm wrapped snugly around your shoulders as you leaned into his chest. You had Minnie ears. He had aviators and the same protective expression he wore when watching you cross the street, even if you were in a crowd of a thousand people.

That day had felt like magic.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, debating if you should send a casual Still alive? when you heard it, the quiet jingle of keys outside your door.

You straightened instantly, heart skipping. The lock turned with a soft clunk.

A beat later, Tim stepped inside.

He looked wrecked. His hair was ruffled like he’d run his fingers through it a thousand times. His badge glinted in the faint light. His uniform was wrinkled, tension in his shoulders sharp enough to be visible even under the jacket. But when he saw you curled up on the couch, blanket to your chin and eyes wide, something in him softened. His mouth tugged upward, just a little.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

You sat up, blanket falling into your lap as you gave him a gentle smile. “Hey.”

He locked the door behind him, kicked off his boots with the tired precision of a man who’d done this routine far too many nights in a row, and dropped his keys onto the entry table.

Curious, you padded in behind him.

“I had such a shit day at work, baby.” He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenching. “Smitty left his shop window open, and he ran out for a sandwich, and someone fucking stole a whole bag of it." His voice was heavy.

“Seriously?” you blinked.

He didn’t even nod. Just stepped forward, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you. Quick. Firm. A little desperate. You leaned into it, your fingers brushing his jaw. But he pulled away too soon, walking straight past you into the bedroom.

You followed, quiet and observant, like a little puppy, watching as he unbuttoned his shirt. His shoulders were tense, every movement tight.

“And to top it off,” he muttered, “guess who I ran into today? Mark.”

Your heart sank.

Mark. Your Mark. Well, ex-Mark. The one who used to yell. The one who broke things. The one who made you scared to fall in love again until Tim showed you how love could be gentle. How it could feel like safety instead of war.

“He didn’t recognize me at first,” Tim muttered, flinging his shirt onto the bed with a flick of his wrist. “But after I booked him for punching a police officer - Nolan, by the way, took it straight to the nose - he finally remembered.”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him move.

He grabbed an old hoodie from the chair and yanked it over his head, his muscles flexing beneath the cotton as he forced it down.

His eyes finally found yours.

“And now his lawyer’s accusing me of a conflict of interest. Apparently, because I’m with you, I was biased. Wants the arrest thrown out.”

You stepped closer, bare feet padding across the carpet. Your hands slid onto his shoulders from behind as he sat at the edge of the bed. The tension in his muscles made your fingers ache just touching them. You began to rub, slow, steady, thumb tracing the ridges of tight muscle.

“Tim,” you murmured. “That’s ridiculous. You didn’t go after him for me. He assaulted Nolan. That’s on him. Not you.”

He didn’t respond, but his hands rose, settling on your hips, grounding himself with the feel of you.

Then, one moved slowly up your spine, warm palm flattening between your shoulder blades before tangling gently in your hair. “You look good in my shirt,” he murmured.

You smiled, leaning down to kiss his temple. “I know. That was kind of the point.”

A chuckle finally cracked through his tension, low and tired, but genuine. It made your chest warm.

You swung one leg over him, straddling his lap, arms draped over his shoulders. Your lips brushed his jaw as you whispered, “When you’re done being pissed off at the world… I’d like to offer myself as a distraction.”

His head fell back slightly with a groan. “You know what I’d really like right now?”

You nuzzled into his neck, your voice playful. “Hm?”

“To fuck that pretty little mouth of yours.”

Your breath caught. You froze, just slightly, as heat bloomed between your thighs.

“Tim…”

You weren’t new to this. You weren’t shy. But there was something in his voice tonight, something rough, controlled, hungry.

He looked at you then, his eyes darker than before, the corners crinkling with tension and desire. “Can you do that for me?” he asked softly, thumb brushing your jaw. “Can you put that beautiful mouth to good use?”

Your heart thudded against your ribs. You nodded.

Before you could speak, he stood, guiding you gently down to your knees in front of him.

“You gonna be a good girl for me?” he murmured, voice gravelly, fingers brushing your cheek.

You nodded again, lips parting instinctively.

But he wasn’t done.

He walked behind you, footsteps quiet, the sound of a zipper and soft rummaging following. When he returned to your side, he knelt beside you, metal glinting in his hand.

Handcuffs.

You turned your head, watching as he gently clicked the cuffs around your wrists behind your back. The steel was cool against your skin, tight but not cruel. Your breathing quickened.

“Don’t be nervous,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “I’ll be gentle.”

You believed him. You always did.

And as he stood again, the sound of his belt buckle coming undone sent lightning through your spine.

He grabbed your jaw, tilting your head up, and the look on his face made your mouth go wet.

“Look at you,” he smirked. “Already drooling.”

He ran the head of his cock across your lips, slow and deliberate, letting you feel the weight of it, the heat.

“Open.”

You obeyed.

You parted your lips, slow, deliberate, the anticipation thick between you as your tongue flicked out to tease the tip of him. He was already warm against your mouth, already leaking slightly, that salty-slick taste hitting your tongue even before he eased inside.

Tim watched you, jaw tight, eyes dark and intent. He held your chin between his fingers, gently forcing you to take him, inch by inch, your lips wrapping around him with slow reverence. You heard the sharp intake of his breath, felt the twitch of pleasure beneath your tongue.

He filled your mouth steadily, your lips stretching wide to accommodate his size, and your breath came hot through your nose as your tongue moved instinctively, tracing the underside of him, memorizing every ridge, every pulse. You moaned softly, a sound that vibrated around him, and Tim’s fingers tightened slightly in your hair.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “That’s it. Just like that. You know how perfect you are for this?”

You hummed in response, the vibration making him groan, low and heavy. Your hands, bound behind you, clenched involuntarily as he began to roll his hips, slowly, steadily, controlling the pace. Not fast. Not punishing. But firm. Deep. Deliberate. Relieving.

He was using your mouth like he needed it, like the day had worn him down to nothing, and this was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

Your throat constricted slightly as he slid deeper. You gagged once, reflexively, your eyes watering as he held your head steady. But then he eased back, thumb stroking your cheek with tender pressure.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured. “Taking it like a fucking dream.”

You breathed through your nose, blinking away tears as he started again, this time even slower. You could taste him, feel him twitch against your tongue, every movement sending sparks through your body. Your knees were beginning to ache on the carpet, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was him—his control, his pleasure, the way his breath hitched every time your tongue did something just right.

He shifted, one hand bracing on your jaw, the other slipping into your hair, gripping just tight enough to guide your movement. Not painful. Just dominant. You liked that. You liked knowing he was holding back, giving you control in the way he restrained himself.

You hollowed your cheeks, sucked hard as he pulled back, then let him slide deep again. You could feel your saliva dripping from your chin, messy, uncontained, raw. And you loved it.

He looked down at you, eyes heavy with lust, his breath coming faster. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he said, voice low and reverent.

You whimpered around him, the sound desperate and aroused, as he pressed a little deeper, your lips stretched wide, your throat swallowing around the thick heat of him.

Then he groaned, deep and guttural, as he pulled back just enough to look down at you.

“I’m gonna ruin you.”

Your thighs clenched at the words.

He was unraveling above you, losing the careful control he always held, and it thrilled you. You felt powerful like this, on your knees, bound, but powerful, because you were the reason for his unraveling. You were the reason he was this desperate, this wrecked.

His hips rocked forward again, a little faster now, his grip tightening in your hair, his other hand resting gently against your throat. Not squeezing. Just feeling.

Feeling himself inside you.

You moaned again, louder, more unrestrained. The vibration dragged another curse from his lips.

“Christ,” he hissed. “That mouth is gonna be the death of me.”

You blinked up at him through tear-glossed eyes, your lips stretching farther, your tongue pressing up as you took him deeper. He groaned again, a broken sound, and you could feel the tension building in his thighs, the way his breath caught, the way his hips jerked.

“Almost there,” he muttered. “Fuck. Just- just a little more, baby…”

And then he pulled out.

You gasped, lips tingling, chest rising and falling in quick pants as he grabbed his cock, jerking it in his hand as he looked down at you.

“Stick your tongue out,” he commanded, voice tight and hoarse.

You obeyed instantly.

His hips jerked once, twice, then he came, hot and heavy, the first burst landing across your tongue, the rest painting your chin, your lips, even a stray streak across your cheek. He groaned your name as he spilled, the sound raw and ruined.

“Swallow,” he whispered.

You did.

You held his gaze the whole time, tongue still out, catching the last drops as you licked your lips slowly. The heat in his eyes flared again.

He didn’t speak right away. Just knelt down in front of you, his hand cradling your face like you were something fragile and exquisite. Then he leaned in and kissed you, deeply, hungrily, the taste of himself still lingering on your tongue as his mouth claimed yours with slow, open desperation.

His fingers fumbled with the cuffs behind you, clicking them open, your wrists tingling as the blood rushed back. He didn’t speak. He just pulled you into his lap, sitting back against the bed, and held you. His hands rubbed gentle circles over your wrists, your back, your thighs.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded into his shoulder. “More than okay.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You blow my mind, you know that?”

You giggled against his neck. “I try.”

He shifted, pressing a kiss to your temple, and then he stood, scooping you up with effortless ease. You let out a surprised squeak as he carried you the short distance to the bed and laid you down gently. Your legs dangled for a moment before he bent over, brushing a kiss against each sore knee.

“Didn’t mean to make you stay down there so long,” he murmured. “Let me make it up to you.”

You looked up at him, eyes soft. “You already did.”

He smirked, tracing a finger along your jaw. “Not yet I haven’t.”

You watched him as he stood, shirt rumpled, belt hanging open, his body still flushed from release. There was something about seeing him like this—undone, softened by pleasure and proximity—that made your chest ache with something far deeper than lust.

“I’m serious,” he said, voice low as he reached for a throw blanket draped across the edge of the bed. “I’m feeding you. I don’t care how good your mouth is, I’m not letting you faint from lack of carbs after that.”

You laughed, letting him tuck the blanket gently around your legs. “You say that like you didn’t nearly black out yourself.”

He grinned, lazy and crooked and boyish, and leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I definitely saw stars.”

And just like that, he vanished into the kitchen. You heard the fridge door open, the sound of a fork scraping against the side of a glass container. The smell of garlic and cheese drifted down the hall, warm and heavy and comforting. You smiled into the dim glow of the bedside lamp, your fingers running along your now-numb wrists, the sensation still tingling under your skin, not pain, not regret. Just the electric memory of surrender.

A minute later, Tim came back in with a heaping plate of lasagna in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He sat beside you on the bed and lifted a bite to your mouth before you could protest.

“You’re really doing this?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up and open up,” he said with a grin. “You earned this.”

So you opened.

The first bite hit your tongue and you moaned. “Okay. Fine. Worth it.”

He chuckled and fed you another forkful. Then another. The two of you fell into a rhythm—his hand steady, your chewing slow, intimate. You didn’t even realize your legs had drifted into his lap again until he began to absently stroke your calf, his thumb moving in circles over your bare skin.

“Thank you,” he said softly, not meeting your eyes.

You tilted your head. “For what?”

“For tonight. For being… you.”

There was weight in those words. More than gratitude. More than afterglow. You reached for his hand, squeezing it, your thumb brushing the back of his knuckles.

“I’m always me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he replied, lifting your hand to his lips. “But sometimes I forget how lucky I am that you’re mine.”

You kissed him then, slow and deliberate. Not frenzied, not greedy. Just full of everything that lived between you. The way your fingers slid up into his hair. The way his hand cradled your cheek like he was scared you’d disappear.

“I love you, Tim,” you whispered against his lips.

His breath caught. His fingers tightened around yours.

“I love you, too,” he said, voice thick. “So fucking much.”

The plate was long forgotten now, abandoned on the nightstand. You leaned into him, your body fitting against his like a second skin, and he guided you backward until you were lying beneath him again.

But this time was different.

There was no rush. No dominant edge. No commands.

Just hands. Mouths. Skin.

He undressed you slowly, his fingers lingering on every inch of exposed flesh. His lips followed, your neck, your collarbone, the soft swell of your breast. You gasped softly as his mouth found your nipple, his tongue circling it lazily before sucking it between his lips. One hand gripped the curve of your waist, grounding himself there like he didn’t want to let go.

You arched under him, your thighs parting instinctively as he moved lower. His kisses trailed down your stomach, stopping at your navel. Then further. When his tongue flicked over the seam of your sleep shorts, you felt heat rush through your entire body.

He looked up at you from between your legs, eyes dark and soft all at once.

“Can I taste you?” he asked.

The words were simple. Gentle. But they sent a shockwave through you. You nodded quickly, your breath caught in your throat, and he slid your shorts down your legs, slowly, reverently.

You were already wet. Already aching. He moaned at the sight of you, the sound sending heat blooming in your cheeks.

Then he leaned in.

The first swipe of his tongue was slow. Torturous. He licked a clean stripe up your slit, tongue pressing in just enough to make your hips buck. You bit your lip, stifling the whimper that bubbled up.

“Let me hear you,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your skin. “Let me know how good it feels.”

You didn’t hold back after that.

Your moans filled the room, quiet at first, then louder as he wrapped his arms around your thighs and buried his face deeper. His tongue worked you over, deliberate and focused, flicking and circling your clit with practiced ease. He alternated between slow, teasing strokes and faster, rougher laps, and every time he moaned into you, the vibration made you see stars.

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. Then in his hair. Then back in the sheets.

You felt the orgasm building, low, tight, hot, and when his lips sucked gently on your clit, you shattered.

You cried out his name as you came, legs trembling, body jerking with pleasure as he held you down and worked you through it.

Only when your hips stopped bucking did he pull back, lips wet, chin slick with you. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and kissed his way back up your body until he was hovering above you again.

Your breathing was ragged. Your limbs felt like jelly. But you smiled up at him like he was the only man in the world.

And he was.

He slid into you slowly, carefully, keeping his eyes on yours the entire time. You gasped, your back arching as he filled you, every inch stretching you perfectly. He groaned above you, his head dropping to your shoulder as he bottomed out inside you.

“God,” he breathed. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

You wrapped your arms around his back, pulling him closer, deeper. His hips began to move, a slow grind that set your nerves alight. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t rough.

It was worship.

Each thrust was measured, precise, and full of emotion. You felt everything, every breath, every whisper, every tremble.

“I love you,” he kept saying. Over and over again, like he was afraid you’d forget.

You didn’t.

You never could.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him tighter as he began to lose control again, his thrusts growing faster, deeper, more erratic.

You met every one of them with equal urgency, your nails digging into his back, your lips finding his neck, his jaw, his mouth.

The second orgasm hit you harder than the first. You cried out his name again, your body clenching around him as he followed, hips jerking, breath punching from his lungs as he came inside you.

He collapsed against you, both of you covered in sweat, your limbs tangled, your hearts beating in sync.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. You didn’t know.

Eventually, he rolled to the side, dragging you with him so your head rested against his chest. One hand stroked your spine. The other combed through your hair.

You could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

The silence in the room was soft and thick, the kind that only comes after something raw and all-consuming. The bedsheets clung to your skin, damp and tangled around your legs. Your body hummed with exhaustion and warmth, every muscle boneless. Tim hadn’t moved much, his arm still heavy around your waist, chest rising and falling beneath your cheek like the tide.

Then you felt it: his fingers, gently brushing your back.

You shivered.

Not from cold. From how gentle it was. From the way his touch held no urgency, no need to take, just to soothe, to stay.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice hoarse and sweet, lips brushing your hair. “You okay?”

You smiled against his chest. “More than okay.”

Tim tilted your chin up, his thumb skimming your cheek. His eyes scanned your face, and the furrow in his brow gave him away. Still worried. Still watching.

“You sure? You were trembling pretty hard.”

You reached up and kissed the tip of his nose. “I was trembling because it was amazing. I promise.”

He softened, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath. His fingers moved from your back to your hip, massaging small, lazy circles into your skin. You sighed, your body relaxing even further.

“I’ll clean you up,” he said, voice still low.

“Mm, you don’t have to,” you murmured. “I like this. Being messy with you.”

Tim grinned but still slipped out of bed, naked and graceful as he crossed the room. You watched him, your gaze trailing the long stretch of his spine, the strength in his shoulders, the curve of his ass. You couldn’t help it, you giggled.

“What?” he asked over his shoulder as he grabbed a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom.

“Just admiring my future husband.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him. “That’s dangerous talk, babe. Keep going, and I might go buy a ring right now.”

You grinned, biting your lip as he knelt beside you and carefully cleaned between your legs. He was slow, reverent, the towel warm and his hands even warmer. You winced a little as he dabbed around your sore thighs.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be. I love that I feel you even when you’re not inside me.”

He groaned softly and kissed your inner thigh.

Once he was done, he tossed the towel into the hamper and climbed back into bed, dragging you into his lap. You melted against him, your head tucked beneath his chin, your fingers tracing the rise and fall of his chest.

“You’re shaking,” he said, noticing the way your fingers trembled.

“Starving,” you admitted.

His eyes lit up. “Lasagna?”

You nodded. “Please. I want to be fed like a spoiled housecat.”

Tim chuckled, pulling on a pair of briefs and jogging back to the kitchen. “Stay in bed. I’ll heat it up.”

You heard the microwave hum to life. The faint clink of cutlery. The slosh of orange juice poured into a glass. He was humming to himself, low and tuneless, but happy.

When he returned, he had a tray balanced between his hands like a butler in a five-star hotel. “Your midnight feast, milady.”

You sat up against the headboard and he placed the tray in front of you: a generous slab of bubbling lasagna, a piece of garlic bread on the side, and a full glass of orange juice. He even brought a napkin.

“God, I love you,” you whispered.

He winked. “I know. But feel free to keep saying it.”

You dug in, and the first bite made you moan. Tim stared like you were the seventh wonder of the world.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you said around a mouthful of cheese.

“Can’t help it. You make food porn real.”

You rolled your eyes but secretly loved it. He took a few bites himself, then wiped your chin with the napkin after a string of cheese dripped onto your chest.

“You always do that,” you noted, tilting your head.

“What?”

“Feed me. Clean me. Take care of me after.”

His hand stilled. He looked down for a moment, something flickering in his eyes before he met your gaze again. “That’s not after, baby. That’s part of it.”

You blinked, startled by how deeply that hit you. Because it wasn’t about sex with Tim. It never had been. Even when he was handcuffing you, even when his words were filthy and rough, it was always rooted in something safer, something real.

He reached over and stroked your cheek again. “Sex with you isn’t just about the fucking. It’s about… showing you how much I want you. How much I need you. And afterwards, when your body’s all soft and sore and glowing? That’s when you need love the most.”

You couldn’t speak. You just leaned forward, forehead resting against his.

“I’m keeping you,” you whispered.

“Good,” he replied. “Because I’m never leaving.”

You fed each other the rest of the lasagna. Bite by bite. Shared sips of juice. Slow kisses between mouthfuls. When the tray was empty, he set it aside and pulled you back into bed, tucking you under his arm like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“Bed now,” he murmured. “Cuddles. Maybe round two when you’re fed and hydrated.”

You buried your face in his neck, nose brushing the curve of his jaw. “You promise?”

“I’ll keep you up all night if that’s what you want,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes, fingers stroking lightly along his chest, and smiled.

“God, I love you.”

The TV played some half-watched thriller, the kind you didn’t need to pay attention to, not really. You were curled up in Tim’s lap, the blanket draped over both of you, your legs tucked across his thighs, your cheek against his shoulder. His arm was around you, his fingers lazy on your skin, circling patterns just under the hem of your oversized shirt—his shirt.

The air between you had cooled but not gone quiet. Not really. Not with the way his hand kept drifting, bolder each time. Not with the way your breaths grew slower… thicker. There was no denying what hung in the room like static. You felt it on your skin. In your bones.

His fingertips ghosted over your inner thigh.

You stilled.

“Thought you were tired,” you murmured, voice soft.

His reply was a low chuckle, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “That was before you started shifting like that.”

“Like what?”

He moved suddenly, cupping your jaw, tilting your head back so your eyes met his. His pupils were blown. “Like a needy little brat who wants to be touched but won’t ask for it.”

You blinked. Heat shot through your stomach, pooling low. Your mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Thought so.”

Then his hand slipped beneath the blanket.

His fingers pressed between your thighs, through the thin cotton of your shorts and the heat beneath them. You gasped, grabbing at his wrist instinctively. He stilled, not pulling away.

“You gonna stop me?” he asked, voice low, threatening in the way that made your thighs press together.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

So he moved.

Two fingers, slow, dragging along the seam of your shorts. Not inside yet. Just there, brushing over the soaked fabric like he owned it, owned you. You bit your lip, hard, but he noticed. He always noticed.

“Already wet for me again?” he murmured. “After everything I gave you earlier?”

You whimpered as his hand pressed harder, rubbing tight, aching circles that made your hips jerk in his lap.

Tim grunted. “Keep grinding on my hand like that, and I’ll tear these shorts off.”

“Do it,” you whispered, barely able to breathe.

His eyes snapped to yours, that fire burning all over again. You didn’t get a warning.

You just heard the rip.

One clean motion. Your sleep shorts were ruined, seams split down the middle and tossed onto the floor. His hand returned instantly, now bare against your soaked folds.

He ran his fingers through your slick slowly—deliberately—dragging the pads of them up and down, parting you, teasing you. You were soaked.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You wanted this. Sitting here all innocent like I wasn’t gonna touch you again.”

Then he slipped a finger inside. One, deep, with no pause.

You choked on a moan.

He leaned in close, lips at your ear. “You better keep quiet. You don’t want the neighbors hearing what a mess you’re making on my lap.”

Another finger joined the first.

Your body arched against him as his hand fucked up into you, slow but deep, curling at just the right angle. His thumb circled your clit—rougher now, less teasing. This wasn’t about taking his time anymore. This was about showing you who you belonged to.

You reached for something—his shirt, his wrist, anything to hold onto. But he grabbed your wrists and pinned them with one hand to your chest.

“Don’t. Just take it.”

You were writhing now, hips rolling down against his palm, desperate, aching, overwhelmed.

His breath was hot on your neck.

“You’re not allowed to come yet,” he growled.

Your eyes flew open. “Tim-”

He thrust his fingers harder. “Not until I say.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood.

The coil in your belly burned hot, tighter and tighter. His fingers fucked into you harder, wetter now, the sounds obscene under the blanket, his thumb never relenting. He kept his other hand wrapped around your wrists, holding you still even as your thighs trembled.

You whimpered. “Tim, please-”

“No.”

His voice cracked through you.

“You’ll come when I say. Not when you want to.”

Your body convulsed. Your head fell back. You couldn’t breathe.

His fingers stilled just long enough to pull your hair, forcing your eyes on his. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “And mine means I get to ruin you.”

And then he thrust again, hard, deep, fingers curling just right, and you came undone.

Your body shattered.

No sound came out at first, just your mouth dropping open, eyes squeezed shut, back arched. And then the sound punched out of you, loud and wrecked and real, as your orgasm ripped through your entire body.

He held you through it.

His fingers slowed but didn’t stop. He worked you through every spasm, every clench. And when you finally collapsed against his chest, boneless and trembling, he pulled his hand away and licked his fingers clean.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

“You okay?” he asked, wiping your sweat-slick hair from your face.

You nodded, barely able to breathe.

He kissed your temple.

“Movie’s still playing,” he said casually, pulling the blanket back up over you.

You laughed, breathless. “I didn’t see a second of it.”

You lay in bed later, the sheets tangled around your thighs, your skin still tingling from everything he'd done to you. Tim's body was warm and solid behind you, one arm wrapped possessively around your waist, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your bare hip. The movie had long since ended, and the leftovers sat forgotten on the kitchen counter. All that mattered was this silence, this heat, the steady sound of his breathing against your shoulder.

You shifted slightly, aching in the best way, and his grip tightened just enough to remind you who you belonged to.

"Still alive?" he murmured, his lips brushing the back of your neck.

"Barely."

He chuckled, the sound low and smug. You could hear the satisfaction in it, feel it in the way his body curled tighter around you.

"You were perfect," he whispered. "So fucking perfect for me tonight."

You turned your head to glance back at him, catching his eyes in the dim light. They were softer now—still dark, still dangerous, but laced with something tender. Something real.

“I like when you’re like that,” you said quietly. “Rough. In control. But still… you.”

Tim leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth. “That’s always me, baby. Just different shades of the same obsession.”

The way he said it—like you were his entire world—made your chest twist. You knew him. Knew how hard his job was, how much he carried, how much he never let anyone see. And you also knew he didn’t say I love you easily. He didn’t have to.

This was love. In his control. In his possessiveness. In the way he broke you down and put you back together in the span of a single night.

He slid a hand down your thigh and gently tugged it over his. “Sleep like this,” he said. “Wrapped around me.”

You let your body melt into his.

There were no more words. Just the rhythm of breath, the faint sound of wind outside, the weight of his touch on your skin. You let your eyes close, knowing, trusting, that he wouldn’t let go.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

And just before sleep pulled you under, you heard him whisper against your neck, so quiet you weren’t sure if you imagined it:

“Mine.”

And you were.

Utterly, irrevocably, and blissfully his.

tags: @whatasadlittlelife @w1ldf1owers

[quinnsdesk]

absolutely devoured this Missy!!! can't wait for more 🤤

━ bed chem (18+)

( tim bradford x girl!reader )

SUMMARY: turns out, you and the hot guy across the bar have really good bed chem. MISSY'S NOTES: UH OH LOOK WHO'S BACK!!! guys i am SO excited to share this fic with you because it's my first ever collab fic AHH!! i was blessed to work on this with my bby @simplyhale so we hope you enjoy this!! miss maddie did all the fluff, and of course i did the smut hehe. INCLUDES: swearing, unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap that willy!), hookup, divorced!grumpy tim, flirting, dirty talk, praise, petnames, cowgirl (YEEHAWW), missionary WORDS: 4.7K

❝ who's the cute guy with the wide blue eyes

and the big bad mm? ❞

Tim Bradford isn't an easy man to cheer up. 

Most know by now just to not bother him, allowing Tim to take it into his own hands with how he’s always done it; getting over it by not caring about it, or pushing it to the deepest part of himself possible. 

And in almost every case, it was the latter. 

But now, there is currently a third option that is making its way to him.

Lately, Lucy and Angela had been noticing Tim’s extra grumpiness, and after much going back and forth - and the fact that Nyla had searched it up - they came to the conclusion that it was the year anniversary of his divorce getting finalised. 

So, the two rounded up anyone they could and decided that what Tim needed was a night out at the bar.

Lucy is starting to worry that this actually is a bad idea. 

Maybe he isn’t ready yet, maybe he doesn’t like all the new attention either- Tim never truly likes a lot of attention on him, but damn, he’s especially quiet tonight. 

“Do you think he hates this?” 

Bailey, Angela, and Nyla heads turn to where Lucy’s big worried eyes are looking- a small seat away is Tim nursing a mid-strength beer in front of him, people-watching, of course.

“He seems like his normal self,” Angela waves her hand as she takes a sip of her drink. 

“He’s been on the same beer for the past thirty minutes.” Lucy tries to clarify, only to huff when Nyla just shrugs her shoulders, clearly not thinking too much into it. 

Bailey places her hand onto Lucy's shoulder, “If you’re worried about him then go ask him. If he wants to leave then let him. Don’t overthink it.” She explains, a reassuring smile planted on her face before she goes over to where both John and Wesley are throwing darts.

Picking up her drink, Lucy takes a long sip out of it, trying to buy enough time to fully work herself up before poking the bear.

“Hey Tim!” She slides into the empty seat next to him, not even getting a glance. “Look, if you aren’t having a good time you can leave. I- well, me and Angela…no, I roped her into this.” She shakes her head. “What I mean is we all know what today is, and just thought that maybe you would want a night out…” She draws out her last word at the realization that he isn’t paying any type of attention. Her words quite literally are going through one ear and out the other.

Following where he is currently staring is a duo on the other side of the bar, glancing back at him to see that he’s mindlessly tapping the bartop—keeping his eyes steady on you. 

She knows it’s you because when you take down your hair, slipping the black hair tie around your wrist, he stops tapping the bar and hitches his breath—almost as if he’s putting all his concentration onto you and you alone.

“Or…is it because you want to leave the bar with the hottie in the sheer dress?”

“What?” His head practically snaps towards her at the mere mention of you, the tips of his ear starting to redden.

Lucy presses her lips together, trying and failing at hiding her smile, excited to see she was wrong and he is actually moving on. “Why don’t you go and talk to her? Maybe give her your number and see what happens?”

Tim thinks about her words, looking back over to where you’re now laughing at something your friend had told you, now secretly hoping that it’s him making you laugh just to see you smile like that again; the type that reaches the corner of your eyes. 

But…maybe he doesn’t deserve to hear your laugh, to be the reason for your wide smile. Maybe he actually isn’t supposed to move on now. He could now go at least a few months without thinking about his failed attempt at a marriage, but with that crash and burn of a relationship what’s to say that his next one wouldn’t end up the same way? 

The only question is…how long would it take before it would happen? 

He couldn’t do that to you- bring you into a cluster fuck you never even knew had happened to begin with.

“I’m gonna give her your number!” This sentence, plus the sight of Lucy hopping off the stool and strolling towards you, nearly sends Tim into cardiac arrest. 

“Don’t you da—” 

Though it’s too late, because Lucy is long gone, and she watches your friend lean in towards you before walking off in the direction of the bathrooms. 

Now’s her moment to play matchmaker. 

Smiling sweetly as she takes your friend's place, earning back from you as you tilt your head curiously towards her. “Uhm, hi! My friend over there was too nervous to actually come up and talk to you. So here I am!”

You slowly turn your gaze to a very flushed Tim, who is giving a panic death glare mix towards Lucy. But, once he realises your eyes have landed on him, he smiles like an idiot, giving a small nod. 

He quickly knits his brows together, why did he do that? 

You chuckle lightly, quickly scrunching up your nose before turning your attention back to Lucy who is, once again, failing at hiding her excitement. “And I take it that you want me to write down my number?”

She nods her head, shifting her weight onto her other leg, “Yes — if you’re okay with that. I can promise you that he isn’t a creep. He's more like a…big softie.”

You laugh at her words, staring at her for a moment. 

You can’t explain why you know to trust her, but you feel deep in your bones that she’s right. No red flag is being shown to you at this moment.

Besides, if anything bad were to happen, you’ll just block him and be done with it.

Reaching over the bar, you take one of the white paper napkins along with a discarded pen, writing your name down followed by your number. 

Once you finish the small love heart written next to the last digit, you hand it to Lucy and watch as she practically skips back towards Tim's direction. 

Dropping the pen back behind the bar, you fiddle with your neck lace, awaiting for your friend to come back. 

That’s when your phone buzzes, face down on the counter top. 

You halt, somewhat hoping it’s the guy that you’ve just given your number to. 

Only, you’re met with disappointment when you realise it’s your friend. 

BESTIE XO: hey girl! so sorry to cut our night short but i’m gonna head home BESTIE XO: just got a bad wave of cramps :(

You respond to her, telling her to let you know when she made it home.

Wait, a minute-

Why are you so disappointed it isn’t the random man you haven’t even said a single word to?

Placing your phone back onto the counter face down - the photo of your cat shining through your clear case - you begin to reach for your glass, but your attention is brought back to your phone as it buzzes again. 

And again-

-And again. 

You nearly choke at what you think is your friend- is she okay?

However, you’re proven wrong.

UNKNOWN: Hey this is Tim, was wondering if I could buy you a drink? UNKNOWN: No pressure, just some casual penetration UNKNOWN: … UNKNOWN: CONVERSATION! Fuckk I meant conversation

Pressing your lips together, you smile at yourself before replying.

YOU: Auto correct really knows how to make a penetration interesting…

Looking over at him, you watch as his expression grows from furrowed brows (had he made the wrong impression?), to his face lighting up just as your response comes through. And his smile only grows with each word he reads of your message, laughing and shaking his head lightly.

In that moment you know you have your claws in him, and when he glances up at you just in time for you to send a wink his way, well, that’s all the motivation he needs to get out of his chair. 

Watching him- Tim make his way from the opposite end of the bar all the way around to the spot next to you, you quickly down the last remaining sip in your glass as you rest your elbow on the counter. Using it to prop your face up. 

“I have to say that was a great first impression!” You shout over the music.

He laughs with a small shake of his head, “Yeah, I only use those on the special ones.”

Raising your brows, you tilt your head, “Oh, so I’m special?” 

His brows knitted before leaning in towards you, clearly not hearing what you had said. So you repeat yourself, which, in return, you receive the sound of his laughter again.

That laugh causes your stomach to flutter and your mind to race with thoughts that would make the devil blush. 

Looking around, you notice that almost two bus loads of people have funneled into the bar. Along with their chattering and music, there isn’t any way for you two to have a proper conversation- you know, the respectful ‘let’s get to know each other!’ before you climb into his bed. 

“Do you wanna go somewhere quieter?” 

Tim nearly breaks his neck from how fast he nods at you, mumbling over different ‘yes’s’ and ‘yeah’s’. 

Getting up and making sure to grab your phone before taking his hand into yours, you lead him through the crowded room. Walking outside, you two pass the smoking zone into a more secluded section where not a hint of being can be seen. 

You rest against the wall, and Tim finds his place next to you.

“Your friend is nice.” You start, moving a piece of your hair away from your gloss-coated lips, “A little bold, but nice.”

Tim huffs a soft laugh before he scratches the back of his neck, “Ah, Lucy…yeah- look, she thought taking me out to his bar would help me feel better.”

“Was she right?” You tilt your head, angling on your side into the brick wall as you scan his face.

Tim does the same, taking a step close enough that his warmth breath mingles with yours. His eyes drop down to the concrete, thinking. And for a moment, you expect him to reply with a ‘yes’, but-

“I don’t know.” Tim starts low., “It’s been a year since my divorce and it’s been…weird getting back out there, I guess.” 

You don’t say anything, and he must notice your overt silence because he quickly interferes. 

“Not that I’m still in love with her! God, no-” He winces, waving his hand around, “Nothing like that. It’s not like I hate her either, I’m happy things are over be–”

“You haven't done anything with anyone since the divorce…have you?” 

For a second he shuts his mouth, only for Tim to press his lips together before nodding in defeat. “How’d you know?” 

You shrug, “You’ve got that look- like you’re still trying to figure life out again.” As if you’ve known the type of person he is, you quickly hold your hands up, “Before you get defensive at all, just know there’s no judgement from my end. You’re safe to talk to me.”

And Tim might just believe that.

He takes a moment, trying to pick the right words so as to not scare you off, even worse: say something that would turn you off. 

“I guess I just engulf myself fully into work.” He sighs, “That way I don’t have to deal with…everything.”

“What do you do?”

There was the question he knew would follow up with.

“LAPD.” He doesn’t take his eyes off you, reading you with such an intensity. 

It’s the type of answer that makes or breaks people, but seeing as your brows raise with a sense of excitement…mischievous, Tim might just be safe. 

“You know,” You start, unable to hide the smirk on your lips as you reach out and fondle with the hem of his shirt, “I’ve found that some secrets are better kept under lock and key.” Your voice is only a murmur, but looking up at him now, you can’t help but grin even wider as his skin - his stupidly beautiful skin - flushes.

Now he really trains on you, watching even the smallest of your movements- how you shift one foot from the other, even the hint of change to your breath. Even so he darts his focus down to your mouth as you lick your lips, then right back up to your wandering eyes.

So, you take another step up to him, getting a strong smell of his cologne, which might just knock you over with how strong it is- cedarwood, rosemary, musk. 

Reaching out for his hand, you slowly drag your nails up from his knuckles to his wrist, all the way towards his bicep. 

With your voice filled with lust, and lashes batting, you simply ask: “You wanna get out of here?” 

⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ☆ ⋆ ˚ ࿔  ˚ ⋆

By the time you’re halfway into the door, Tim’s already onto you. 

Not that you’re complaining or anything, it is what you wanted after all.

With a hand grasping your waist, he’s pulling you into a kiss so soft yet so hungry- an emotion Tim’s been longing to feel since…forever. And maybe it’s the gloss still tinting your lips, or perhaps it’s the lingering champagne too, but God, you taste so sweet.

Without leaving the warmth of the kiss, Tim shuts the front door behind him, followed by the click of the door’s lock. Reluctantly, he pulls away, “A drink?” He asks into the midst of another selfish peck.

You shake your head, your breath still heavy against his as you meet his very own baby blues, “Tim,” You cock your head to the side, “Do I look like I want a drink?”

He takes a second to induce what you’ve said, his attention trailing from the heave of your chest, to your quick breaths, and your eyes- so needy, so true.

Fuck, the way you’re looking at him is everything he didn’t know he needed, and he’s obsessed.

“No,” He chokes, though a smile curves the edges of his mouth before he’s grasping one of your hands into his own, guiding you through the warmth of his home. “Ignore the mess, wasn’t expecting company of any sorts.” He murmurs, a shy blush showcasing on the high points of his cheekbones.

But ironically, it isn’t even messy. In fact, this may just be the cleanest house owned by a man could ever be. Sure, the odd dog toy finds its place on the floorboards, but with how homely you feel - especially when you see the light blue throw draped over his navy couch as you walk past it - you can’t help but smile.

“Please,” You turn to face him, and move your hand to wrap it around his bicep just as he begins to open his bedroom door. “Your home is beautiful. And plus, I’m focusing on…” You eye him up and down, just to really get your point across, "something else, y’know?”

“Oh?” And his voice is so fucking soft and endearing even as he raises his eyebrows when he glances at you before inviting you into his personal space. “You might have to spell it out for me, darling- got no clue what you’re talking about.”

Of course he fucking does, even when your palm gently pushes Tim down onto his own bed, followed by the gentle song of your laughter, “You! Tim, fuck’s sakes.” You shake your head, bending down to press a kiss to the corner of his lips, "You’re nice to look at.”

And God damn, you aren’t wrong. Because by now, Tim’s widened his legs and he’s staring up at you with heavy eyes that are so inviting- and it would be incredibly rude to deny his offer.

Tim lets out a breathless chuckle as you take the leap when you hook one leg over his lap to sit on top of him and fuck, he’s comfortable. 

“Could say the same about you- that sheer dress is doing numbers on me.” He mutters, low and gravelly before reaching his right hand up to slide a single digit beneath one of your dress’ straps. 

The movement is tender- minimal, even, but oh, does it make you hitch your breath.

You peer down your body slowly, and a small smirk creeps up to your lips when you watch him do the same to the other neglected strap. Then, with a small grind onto the bulge Tim’s been fighting to keep sane for the last hour, you steer just a little closer to his face, “Take it off me?”

Tim wouldn’t have considered it a question, more like a demand than anything. But still, he lets out a shaky breath, “Fuck- yes, of course.” 

And he doesn’t waste a second before he’s guiding you to lay on the plushness of his mattress.

Sure, his bed is soft- but damn, was Tim softer. However, any thoughts are easy to fade away when he leans over you as he begins gliding your straps down with a touch so soothing yet blazing, and with every inch of skin exposed to Tim’s sore eyes, a wet kiss welcomes it.

Tim makes sure to look after you before he begins to undress himself- with an extra hand of care from you as well when he gives you the honours of unbuttoning his pants. Though you can’t stop yourself from halting in the motion of his zipper when you peer up just in time for Tim to tug his Henley over his shirt.

“Holy shit,” You breathe out, already feeling the pool of arousal soaking your thighs at the sight of his muscles flexing beneath the bedroom’s dim lamp, warming his skin to golden from where it stands in the corner. “Fuckin’ hell, Tim- you’re one handsome man.”

Fuck.

Something about you complimenting Tim with only a string of curse words is enough to make his neck redden. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he was admired like this. 

Of course, he knows he’s an attractive man; he’s worked his ass off to earn his toned physique and it’s evident in the stares and hushes of comments he’s received since the duration of being an officer.

But that genuine flush of adoration in your face is worth more than anything, and Tim knows from then on that you deserve the absolute world.

“Got nothin’ on you,” He gravelly replies back, biceps tensing as he finishes undressing himself, “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

And now it’s your time to blush heavily. Though, when you drag your eyes down from his baby blues, what may just be more intimidating than Tim’s words is his cock straining in his boxers. 

Jesus, it seems your manifestations that he's oversized worked well- too fucking well.

With your mouth hanging low and wide eyes gawking, an ego-boosted Tim takes advantage of your silence by leaning close enough to your space that he’s hovering just over your silky-soft skin. And as he helps to wrap your legs around his lower back, the delightfulness of your perfume aromatises Tim’s senses- and he can’t help but inhale just an extra couple of seconds than normal to intoxicate himself in it.

When an act so intimate like sex comes into play, everyone has their own different niches. And if there’s something you’ve easily noticed by now with Tim Bradford, it’s that he’s a sweet talker. So when he mutters, “This okay, pretty girl?” as he begins to glide himself inside of you, you can’t but let out a shaky giggle in the midst of your breathlessness.

He pauses inside you, meeting your eyes, “What?”

“You just-” You squeeze his shoulders, partially out of reassurance and also to help soothe the stretch down below, “-you talk so sweet when you’re literally about to fuck me. It’s cute.”

“Cute?” Tim angles his head to the side, slowly pushing into you deeper until he bottoms out, his cock twitching in delight at the sound of your hiccup when his hips meet yours. “What’s wrong with that? Can’t imagine speakin’ to you any other way.”

Your heart flutters, “Didn’t say there was anything wrong with it.” And you sneak a kiss onto the corner of his lips just as you tighten your hold on his shoulders. Then, you whisper: “I like it.”

You may just be the death of Tim; your voice, your comforting eyes, your wide smile, your fucking smell, and now the warmth of your pussy as you engulf him when he finally starts to grind himself back into you. 

“God damn, baby-” A small groan escapes Tim’s throat, perfectly in sync to the faint sound of your moan when he begins to set a rhythm- nothing rough or fast, just intimate and kind. Something worth taking his time with. Something he can really appreciate.

Both of your lips meet once again in the midst of the heated moment, though it’s less polite when you’re fighting against the friction of movement when Tim continues to slide himself inside your plush walls, along with the gasps that often leave your mouths when each thrust hits that perfect spot.

“Shit- Tim,” You mewl out when he leans down to your exposed neck, providing attention to it when he trails erratic kisses to your skin, never once missing a beat to his pace. “Are you…fuck- are you free next week?”

You can feel his laughter vibrating against your skin, followed by the actual deep, shaky noise itself when he lifts his head up to stare at you, “Y’wanna do this again with me?”

Oh, how his esteem has blossomed. 

You grin cheekily, breaths and fragrances mixing together when you pull his face closer by the swift tug of your hand to the nape of his neck. “Why not? I’m sensing our-” You gasp when he fucks into you, “-camaraderie is great.”

Tim huffs amusingly, placing his forehead on yours- just in time to groan when he fucking feels your arousal coating him, and the sound of squelching from below, “Friends fuck each other, hey?”

“Well, we gotta start somewhere...” A particularly deep thrust has your breath hitching. You pull back, allowing yourself to look up at his heavy-lidded eyes before you blink. 

“Will you let a friend ride you too?”

Tim would have come right then and there if it wasn’t for the American presidents he was listing in his head.

“God damn- be my guest, darling.” He groans loudly, pulling himself out from you before he’s turning the both of you around. And you don’t waste a second before you’re crawling on top of him, finding comfort once again on his lap. 

Tucking your feet beneath his thighs, you begin to align yourself with the tip of his cock to your entrance, and Tim murmurs something about how ‘you’re gonna be the death of him’.

Then, as you engulf him inch by inch, your fingers press into his chest with brows furrowing in pure delight at the new angle.

Tim squeezes your thighs, “There you go,” He whispers, watching you in fucking awe, “just like that, sweetheart.”

You start slow, much like his pace before- intimate and kind. And as you fill yourself with his cock, his hands move from your thighs to your ass as he helps guide you up and down on him. All the while, he’s whispering praises to you while he cants his head forward to kiss each hardened nipple with his wet mouth.

“Doing so well for me,” He murmurs against your skin when he feels you clench around him, and keeps one hand sturdy on the curve of your ass when his dominant fingers brush back to the front of your body. Then, with a suck on his thumb to gather saliva, Tim lowers his wet finger on your neglected clit.

The following sounds of your pleasure is like music to his ears when his thumb moves in circular motions.

“Tim…” You draw his name out in an aching moan, and it only encourages him to flick your clit more just as you drive yourself harder onto him. “So, so good- shit.”

“You got it,” Tim then rises his hips up to meet yours, beginning a pace faster than yours that it causes your breath to catch, your hands grasping his shoulders tightly as he fucks himself up into you with such an intensity that you can’t even speak, can’t even breathe.

So instead, you lean down to kiss him, all teeth and tongue as you two moan to each hard thrust- and when Tim fastens his thumb to your clit, that’s when you feel it.

You pull back, voice shaky as you peer down at him, “Oh, I’m so close-” An admittance that Tim is so fucking delighted to hear from your pretty, ruby lips that still glisten with mixed saliva.

“I know, baby-” Tim huffs, muscles tensing with every glide of his cock that is pounded into you, “-I got you. Come with me, sweet girl.” 

And he keeps his promise, because when the touch of his fingers on your aching clit mixes so perfectly to the gentle lowness of Tim’s voice, it’s enough to make you fall off the edge- and he falls with you. 

Your name slips from his mouth just as a long moan escapes you, a hot fever washing through your head just when you feel the hot spill of his seed inside you.

“Fuck- that’s it, sweetheart.” He groans out, his cock twitching against the slow roll of your hips as you both ride out your orgasms.

Long exhales fill the warm air as you two finally finish and you can’t help yourself when you collapse onto his chest with a long sigh. 

Amongst the heap of clothes scrambled across the carpet floor, and bedsheets ruffled, the both of you lay peacefully in the midst of it all- dripping in sweat and sex and you’re still inside of him.

But none of that matters, not when Tim is so grounding; with his chest broad and cozy, and his heart thumping in rhythm to yours as you both breathe in sync, it all feels too good to not let go.

“So,” You start once your breathing steadies, finally lifting Tim’s softened cock out of you as you sit back up- but Hell, you’re not ready to leave his lap just yet. Then, you lift Tim’s left hand and take it into your own, fiddling with his long fingers delicately. “You didn’t say no to next week…”

Tim blinks down at your fingers playing with his and back up to your eyes- heavy, exhausted. He gently smiles, his heart beating in a way that feels right…feels domestic, “No, I didn’t.” 

Tim lifts his free hand up, brushing past your jawline until he meets the loose strands of your hair, and he gently tucks them behind your ear. His fingers halt by your face for a second, allowing his eyes to appreciate you before he slowly glides down to where the mess of your hair meets your shoulder, and he’s pushing the heap back to expose the curve of your neck.

He leans closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your collarbone, “I would love to see you again.” He admits quietly, stubble tickling your sensitive skin as he grazes his lips up to your jawline. He plants another kiss there, “And I don’t just mean seeing you for…this,” And finally, he moves to your chin where his lips linger on your face, only to reluctantly pull away so he can look up at you. “Let me take you on a date.”

You soften under his embrace, and a smile grows widely on you before you raise Tim’s hand your fingers had been playing with up to your mouth. There, you kiss his knuckles, and you faintly nod, “I think I’d like that a lot.”

And God, what a way to make a man feel better.

⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ☆ ⋆ ˚ ࿔  ˚ ⋆

CHEN: sooo how did the date go? CHEN: … CHEN: helloooooo CHEN: … CHEN: oh CHEN: OHH CHEN: HEY TIM BE GETTING SOME ‼️‼️ 🤪😝🤩🥳 CHEN: heh CHEN: … CHEN: good bed chem?

TAGS: @youaggravatemysoul @cevansfangirl16 @vivian-4 @britt217 @marvellover-12 @pillkits @pauieforlife @lololooolleonnaaa @hdcomputer @obi-wansgirl @simplyhale @rottenroyalebooks @redbeanmochin @kamisobsessed @andrealux21 @lololooolleonnaaa @adriellej @winchestersbgirl @elenasworlds @mimisamisasa @slovesyouuu @mrsmaugic @yourgirlcarol @imsleepygang @im-feeling-blue-today @deeninadream

[quinnsdesk]

☆ about me ☆

hey, i’m quinn ♡

19 | POC | ENFP | july leo ☀️🦁

purple is the color of my soul

90s r&b raised me (rihanna, aaliyah & jt supremacy)

tupac lives rent-free in my playlist

📺 favs: the rookie, the walking dead, YOU, the boys, supernatural, law & order: SVU

🖊 currently writing for: soldier boy, dean winchester, rick grimes, daryl dixon, tim bradford, john nolan, rafael barba, steve harrington & joe goldberg (chaotic? maybe. obsessed? definitely.)

💌 requests open!

✨ i only write x fem!reader

🚫 hard limits: no incest (except stepcest), no feet stuff, no piss/shit content, no underage, no noncon

🤝 be kind. be original. no hate. no plagiarism.

📬 always down to chat! my inbox is your safe space

[quinnsdesk]

Tim Bradford face fucking you after a frustrating day at work.

That's it. That's the post 🙂‍↕️

But seriously, where are all the Tim Bradford smuts? (I ask, knowing full well I am a writer)

Update: I wrote a fic on it here

[quinnsdesk]

vulnerable.

tim bradford x fem!reader

cw: mdni, pining, angst?, no use of y/n, SLOW BURN, choking kink, unprotected p in v, oral (f!recieveing)

wc: 5.8k

AN: I know this one is long, but I just want to give @sleepymissy a special thanks for her tips for writing smut here.

The bar was bustling with life, a murmur of voices rising over the clink of glasses and the beat of some classic rock tune in the background. Warm light bathed the wooden walls, catching on half-empty pitchers of beer and the gleam of freshly wiped tables. You sat wedged between Lucy and John, barely listening as Lucy animatedly recounted a new crime drama she had been watching with Tamara.

"Mind you, Tamara thought he was the killer, but it was his wife all along!" She laughed knowingly, "Being a cop comes in handy." She took a sip of her margherita, "Spoilers!" John teased before taking a swig of his own beer, "Oh please, it's not like you have time to watch the show now that you have a sexy firefighter on your hip." You winked at him, making Bailey blush slightly. "Oh, I know." He smiled before leaning down to place a kiss on her cheek, the distance between them emphasizing the large and adorable height difference.

"So, how has it been being Tim's go-fer?" John turned his attention towards you; Tim was just out of earshot. Out of pure coincidence Tim, Nyla and Angela were at the same bar you, Lucy, John and Bailey decided to go to. You glanced at Tim before turning back to John. "Good, but I feel like a rookie all over again." You snorted earning a chuckle from Bailey. "I'm sure he wouldn't want anyone else in that seat." Lucy reassured, you nodded.

Flashbacks consumed your mind, the thought of Tim almost seeing you naked, it was embarrassing, shameful and dare you say you kind of liked it.

It all started when your apartment had no water, it was 4am and you needed to shower before work. Of course, Tim wasn't your first call, you thought you weren't close like that.

You tried Lucy first, no answer.

Then Tarmara, still sleeping.

Then John, who was in the shower, so once again, no answer.

And then, finally, reluctantly, you called Tim. It had taken a lot of convincing yourself to even dial his number. He was your superior. Your sergeant. And your relationship was not particularly close. Professional, yes. Friendly at times, sure. But you never really crossed into personal territory. The line rang a few times before a groggy voice picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey uh- my water is out Sarge, mind if I come shower at your place?"

Silence, he's thinking.

"Sure."

He didn't sound sure.

"Ok I'll be there in 15."

Awkward doesn't even begin to describe how you felt knocking on his door. And when the apartment door opened you were met with one of the most gut-wrenching, drool inducing sights ever.

Tim Bradford, in low-slung grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt stretched over his chest like it could split at the seams. His hair was unkempt, tousled in a way that screamed just-rolled-out-of-bed, and it was a strange contrast to the buttoned-up, clean-cut man you were used to seeing at work.

"Morning." You smile, as he purses his lips -his way of smiling- and lets you in. "Towel is on the bed." He pointed to the bedroom door.

Oh… it was an adjoining bathroom. Nothing wrong with that, right?

Wrong, so fucking wrong.

The hot water felt like heaven running down your body, the bathroom smelt familiar, like him and you had the sudden urge to relieve the throbbing sensation between your thighs, but you couldn't, not here, in his personal space, where he could hear you.

As you got out, it dawned on you. That you're a fucking idiot. You got your towel from the bed but of course your dumbass left your bag on the bed. Goosebumps began to spread all over your body from the sudden change in temperature before you sighed and built up the courage to walk out of the bathroom.

He wasn't in the room, you walked over to the bed, the lily-white towel clinging to your body, and just when you thought you were safe, the door swung open. "I'm making coffee, how do you-" He stopped right in the tracks. He didn't dare look down, his eyes glued to yours, he's so respectful you thought. "Sorry I should've knocked." But instead of running out the room like any boss would if they saw their employee on the brink of bare, he continued, "I'm making coffee, how do you take yours?" you were stunned, he didn't glance down, his eyes were locked on yours and he stood there, like nothing was wrong. "Uh- I- Uh. Black, 2 sugars, please." You managed to get out before he walked out, closing the door again.

You hadn't spoken about it since. You haven't spoken beyond work period. So, when Tim chose you to be his go-fer, you were truly baffled.

After about twenty minutes of light conversation and drinks, the noise of the bar faded slightly as Nyla, Angela, and Tim made their way over from their corner. They slid into the remaining seats at your table, casually joining in like this had been the plan all along.

Angela was mid-story, her hands animated as always. “I kid you not, the guy straight-up stole her panties. From the washing line. Broad daylight.”

Bailey burst into laughter, clutching her stomach as she leaned into John, who was grinning into his beer. Her laugh was loud, unfiltered, and so contagious that even Tim let out a rare, genuine smile. It tugged at the corners of his mouth briefly, like he was allowing himself that one break from his usual stoicism.

“Man, patrol was the best,” Angela added, raising her bottle before taking a long swig.

You laughed too, not just at the story, but at the ease of it all, the familiar comfort of shared history and inside jokes.

Tim was seated on the opposite side of the table, angled just enough so that every time you looked up, your gaze met his. Or would have, if he looked back.

He wasn’t. Not anymore. Not tonight.

His attention was focused elsewhere, on his bottle, the condensation running down the glass, anything but you.

“So,” Lucy chirped suddenly, eyes glinting with mischief as she leaned forward, “tell us about your date on Saturday, girl.”

The conversation froze for a moment, and you swore the ambient noise of the bar dulled just enough to make the silence at your table more noticeable. All eyes turned to you, Nyla leaned in with a smirk, Angela raised an eyebrow, and Bailey looked positively thrilled. Even John tilted his head slightly in curiosity.

All eyes, except his.

Tim’s fingers tightened slightly around his beer, knuckles paling just the tiniest bit. He didn’t look up. Didn’t even shift in his seat. Just kept staring ahead like he didn’t hear a thing. You knew better.

You forced a smile, even though your stomach flipped with nerves. “It was… fine,” you offered vaguely, twirling your straw in your glass.

“Oh, come on,” Lucy groaned dramatically. “You can’t just drop a ‘fine’ and leave it at that. Was he hot? Did he make you laugh? Did he kiss you?”

You laughed lightly, not from amusement, but to buy yourself time. You could feel the weight of unspoken tension creeping across the table, like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

“He was sweet,” you admitted, shrugging casually. “Took me to this little Italian place downtown. We had wine, talked a lot. He’s a paramedic.”

“Ooooh,” Bailey crooned, nudging you playfully. “Saving lives and breaking hearts.”

Angela smirked. “Those guys are usually intense. In a good way.”

“Yeah,” you nodded slowly, your voice softer now. “It was nice. He walked me to my door, kissed me goodnight.”

“Yesss,” Lucy hissed, like she had just won a bet. “Okay, now we’re talking.”

You smiled again, but your eyes, ever the traitors, flicked up on their own. Just to check. Just for a second.

Tim was still not looking at you. Still holding that bottle like it grounded him. His jaw was tense now, and though he was not facing you, there was something calculated about his stillness. Too deliberate. Like he was focusing hard on not reacting.

You looked away quickly, cheeks warming.

“You seeing him again?” Nyla asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.

“Maybe,” you said, trying to sound lighthearted. “We texted earlier. He asked if I wanted to grab coffee later this week.”

You didn’t mention that you hadn’t replied yet. Or that you probably wouldn’t.

Tim shifted in his seat slightly, enough that your eyes flicked toward him again out of instinct. This time, his gaze was on his beer, but the muscle in his jaw ticked. A subtle thing, almost imperceptible, but you noticed. Of course you noticed.

Angela leaned back in her chair with a grin. “Well, I say go for it. He sounds like a catch.”

“Yeah,” you agreed softly, nodding. “He is.”

The words tasted strange coming out. Like you were admitting something you didn’t quite believe.

There was another pause before conversation picked back up. Lucy started talking about something Tamara had done at yoga class, Bailey began sharing a TikTok trend she wanted to try, and the group shifted easily into that familiar rhythm again.

But you weren’t really part of it anymore. Not fully. You were too aware of the man sitting just across from you, silent and withdrawn. You wondered if anyone else noticed how quiet he had gotten. How he hadn’t made a joke, or rolled his eyes, or teased like he usually would.

He was still holding his bottle, now nearly empty. Every so often, he would glance toward Nyla or Angela, nodding when prompted, but never once did his eyes stray to yours.

And somehow, that silence felt louder than anything else in the bar.

You caught John watching you. He raised a single eyebrow in silent question, but you gave him a tiny shake of your head, enough to tell him not to push.

Tim finally stood, murmuring something to Nyla before heading toward the bar. You watched him go, unable to stop yourself. He was all lines and tension, the usual easy confidence in his step now replaced with something tighter, like a cord pulled too far. You could feel it even as he walked away.

You slipped away from the table. No one really noticed. Not Nyla, too busy laughing with Angela. Not Lucy, who was showing Bailey a photo on her phone. John glanced up briefly, but he didn’t stop you. He probably knew exactly where you were going.

He hadn’t noticed you approach. He was too focused on the bartender in front of him, fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the bar as he ordered another beer.

“Tim?” you asked, your voice just loud enough to catch his attention over the low hum of music and conversation.

He turned slightly at the sound, glanced at you over his shoulder. His face was neutral, unreadable. But he didn’t push you away. He hummed in acknowledgment, a soft sound in his throat, and went back to watching the bartender pour his drink.

“Can we talk?” you asked again, stepping a little closer.

Another pause. The bartender handed him the fresh bottle, and Tim wrapped his fingers around it, taking a long sip before responding. “Talk about what?”

You hesitated, choosing your words. Your heart was already thudding too hard, too fast.

“The towel… situation,” you said quietly, the words tasting ridiculous in your mouth.

Tim’s jaw flexed. Subtle, but there. That tiny movement gave him away. He took another sip before placing the bottle down a little too firmly on the bar top.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, voice low and clipped.

"Bullshit."

You studied him, really looked at him. His eyes were darker than usual, the edges of his pupils just slightly blown. His stance wasn’t completely steady, though he masked it well. His words were a little slower, a little looser around the edges. Buzzed. Not drunk. But getting there.

“Then why are you avoiding me?” you asked. The second the question left your mouth, you regretted it. It sounded desperate. You hated how vulnerable it made you sound. Like a clingy ex. Like someone who had imagined something that never existed. You almost winced at yourself.

Tim turned fully now, his body angled toward you. His eyes flicked across your face for the first time all evening, unreadable but sharp. You weren’t sure if he was annoyed or amused or something else entirely.

“I made you my go-fer,” he said simply, voice firm. “I’m not avoiding you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on. You know that’s not what I mean.”

He didn’t reply, just held your gaze.

The bar around you felt suddenly too loud, the air too thick, like the world had faded except for this moment, this conversation that you’d both been avoiding since that morning.

You let out a breath and softened your tone. “You didn’t even look at me tonight. Not once.”

Tim’s lips pressed together in that familiar way of his. Not quite a scowl. Not quite a frown. Just… restraint. As if he was fighting a war behind his eyes and refusing to let you see the casualties.

“I looked at you,” he murmured.

You blinked. “When?”

He hesitated. “When you were laughing. When you weren’t looking back.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by the confession. Your heart kicked a little harder in your chest.

Tim rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away for a moment before bringing his eyes back to yours. “It’s not about the towel,” he added finally.

You raised a brow, silently asking him to go on.

He didn’t.

You took a step closer, enough to close some of the space between you. “Then what’s it about?”

He didn’t answer at first. He looked down at his beer bottle instead, then to the floor. And for a moment, you saw something raw in him—an emotion he didn’t know how to name, or maybe didn’t want to.

“It’s not professional,” he said quietly, voice low. “None of this is. I’m your superior. You work under me.”

“That didn’t seem to bother you when I was in a towel,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyes snapped back up to yours, his expression hardening, jaw clenching again.

You sighed and looked down, regretting the sharpness of your words. “Sorry. That was-”

“It did bother me,” he interrupted, his voice soft but edged. “That’s the problem.”

You froze, your eyes locking on his.

Tim ran a hand through his hair, a rare show of unease from a man who always seemed to have it together. “You think I didn’t want to look?” he said. “You think I didn’t want to do more than just stand there like some idiot while you stood in my room like that?”

You were too stunned to speak. The room seemed to blur around the edges, voices and clinking cutlery fading into a hollow silence. Your lips parted slightly, and when you finally managed to say something, it came out broken, breathless, almost a moan.

“Tim…” His name left your mouth like a prayer and a plea wrapped into one fragile syllable. He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it in frustration. “Stop. Don’t ‘Tim’ me.”

There was a beat of silence as he looked away, and then back at you, eyes steeling with resolve.

“Look,” he said, drawing a sharp, invisible line in the air between the two of you. “This-” he gestured between your bodies “-this can’t happen. Whatever you think there might be between us... there isn’t.”

His words sliced through you like ice water dumped over your head. Cold. Final.

Your stomach dropped as if gravity had turned against you. The sting was instant, a sharp burn behind your eyes as your throat tightened. Your heart pounded against your ribs. You blinked rapidly, trying to fight the tears welling up.

Tim’s face fell when he saw your expression. “Wait- I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know exactly what you meant, Sergeant Bradford,” you snapped, venom seeping into every syllable.

His title came out like a curse. Something in his face flinched at that.

Good.

You turned on your heel before he could say anything else, before he could try and soften the blow with pity or regret. Each step back to the table felt heavier than the last, like your legs were made of lead.

"I'm gonna call it a night, guys."

A pathetic excuse for a smile spread across your face. It was tight, forced, and entirely unconvincing. You tried to mask the ache tightening in your chest, swallowing it down like a bitter pill.

"Aww, already? It's only eight," Lucy slurred, her head lolling slightly as she sipped from a half-empty cocktail glass.

Her inebriation worked in your favor. She didn’t notice the strain in your voice or the way your eyes darted toward the exit like it was a lifeline.

You picked up your phone and purse, tapping the screen to check the time. The soft glow read 10:36 p.m.

You reached into your bag and pulled out a few bills, careful to leave more than enough to cover your share. You placed them gently in front of Angela, who gave you a knowing look, far too perceptive. She was the most sober one there, unsurprisingly. Having a baby at home tended to do that. “Night, babe,” Angela said softly, her eyes lingering on you just a second longer than usual.

You turned to the group, gave a general wave paired with another hollow smile, and muttered a series of goodbyes. But your steps faltered when you felt the weight of a gaze pressing against your back.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him.

Tim hadn’t moved from his spot at the bar. He stood there, stiff and unreadable, a half-empty glass in his hand. His eyes were locked on you, the same way they’d been since you walked away from him earlier.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t try to stop you.

------

Back at your apartment, the silence was suffocating. You kicked off your shoes at the door, your body moving on autopilot as you peeled off your jeans and blouse, tossing them onto a chair you hadn’t sat in for weeks. The hoodie you pulled over your head was oversized, worn, and smelled faintly like old detergent and memories. You didn’t even remember the last time you'd washed it, but somehow, that made it feel more comforting.

You padded barefoot to the fridge and opened it, the cold air brushing your skin like a half-hearted apology. Inside: two slices of congealed pizza from two days ago, clinging to a paper plate like they knew their time was up. You stared at it for a long moment.

Appetizing.

With a sigh, you closed the door, leaning your forehead against it for a second longer than necessary. The humming of the refrigerator filled the room, a low, vibrating kind of loneliness.

You reached for your phone on the counter, heart tugging with a small, stupid hope. Maybe, there’d be something. A message. A missed call. One of those three-dot typing bubbles from Tim.

Your lock screen blinked back at you.

Nothing.

Not a single notification.

No I'm sorry, no Are you home?, no Can I come over? Nothing to ease the pressure that had been sitting on your chest since he’d drawn that damn line between you.

You stared at the empty screen for a moment longer, then unlocked your phone with a sigh. You didn’t want the pizza. You didn’t want to cry either, but here you were doing both: rejecting comfort food and fighting back tears like it was your full-time job.

You pulled up the number of your favorite Chinese place and hit call. When they answered, you didn’t hesitate.

"Hi, yeah… can I place an order for delivery?" you rattled off your usual order. Then added more. A lot more. Enough for two people, even though you knew damn well you were alone.

Why are you acting like this if you weren't even dating? Tim wasn't wrong for saying what he said, why are you upset?

The words consumed your mind, as you sat back down on your couch, glancing over at your kitchen island, contemplating opening a bottle of wine you'd been saving for a special occasion.

This is a special occasion, a guy, who saw you in just a towel, who also admitted to the fact that seeing you in said towel 'did something to him', who also happens to be your superior at work just basically told you to get out of fantasy land and stop thinking there's any future to your relationship.

You decided against it; Lucy isn't here to make sure you don't do something dramatic or regrettable if you had one too many glasses of wine.

After what felt like an eternity of scrolling through Netflix, you finally gave up, the glowing TV screen casting flickering shadows across your living room walls. Nothing looked good. Nothing felt good.

You were about to settle for background noise when a knock echoed from the front door.

“Coming!” you called out, grabbing your purse off the kitchen counter, mentally calculating the total for the food.

But when you swung the door open, it wasn’t the delivery guy.

“Tim…”

His name left your lips colder than you expected, dipped in something between disbelief and fury. You didn’t even try to hide it.

There he stood, six feet of contradiction, looking like a man who hadn’t stopped tormenting himself since you walked out that bar. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. His jaw was clenched; lips parted like he was still catching his breath. And his eyes...

God, his eyes.

Bloodshot. Glossy. Guilt-ridden.

You didn’t need to smell the faint trace of beer on his breath to know he’d had a drink or two, his stance gave it away. The way he shifted from one foot to the other, like his body was holding the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

“I-” he started but stopped himself. His voice cracked before the second syllable could escape.

You crossed your arms instinctively, leaning your weight against the doorframe like armor.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “You shouldn’t have been.”

"I'm losing my fucking mind here."

His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unwavering, stormy. Something in his tone was shaking loose all the walls you’d spent the evening building brick by brick.

Still, you stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in with a pointed look rather than an invitation.

“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered, sarcastic and flat. Your arms stayed crossed, your voice carefully leveled, anything to keep the vulnerability buried beneath the surface.

He turned to face you once the door clicked shut behind him. His shoulders rose and fell with the weight of something simmering beneath his skin.

“I was in my car for twenty fucking minutes contemplating coming here,” he growled, hair even more of a mess now as he shoved his hand through it again. “Don’t fucking call me dramatic.”

The words weren’t shouted. But they landed heavy, strained, edged with frustration. Maybe more than frustration.

You arched a brow, not backing down. Not now. Not when he'd been the one to draw the line. “You know, for someone who told me to get rid of any thoughts of this-” you gestured between the two of you, your arm cutting through the air like a blade, “-not happening, you really are being a bit hypocritical.”

He scoffed. A bitter, almost mocking sound. Finding your composure amusing.

I know what I said,” he bit out, jaw tight. “Doesn’t mean I liked saying it.”

“Then why did you?” you snapped, the mask finally cracking, your voice sharp with the pain you couldn’t choke down anymore.

Tim looked at you like he didn’t know how to answer.

“You think I like this?” he asked, a bitter laugh escaping. “Feeling like this?”

He gestured to himself, messy, wrecked, full of regret. He stepped closer, not quite invading your space, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him radiating.

“Seeing you cry…” His voice dropped lower, more broken. “God, it made me want to slap myself across the face for being such a dickhead.”

You flinched slightly at the memory, the heat rising in your cheeks. The sting of embarrassment still fresh. You hadn’t wanted him to see that, how hard his words had hit.

You gulped, arms tightening around your chest, hoodie sleeves bunched in your fists.

“You don’t get to say that now,” you said, voice quieter but not softer. “Not after making me feel like a pathetic needy girlfriend.”

He stepped in again, slower this time, his eyes searching yours, more desperate than defiant.

"Tim," you began, voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions storming beneath the surface, "back when I was your rookie, I told you whatever you wanted to hear."

He shifted slightly, eyes narrowing as if bracing himself.

"But now," you continued, arms uncrossing as you let the words come naturally, freely, “I’m going to tell you the truth. Because my job no longer depends on whether or not you're having a bad day."

You sighed and glanced at the clock on your stove. 11:42 p.m.

Where the fuck is that food?

“I’m tired, Tim,” you said, softer now, but not weak. “Every fiber in me wants to fuck you right now.”

That made his brows twitch, his lips part slightly. His whole body stiffened.

“But I can’t- not because I don’t want to,” you pressed, stepping a little closer, standing your ground. “Because back at the pub, I made myself vulnerable to you. I put it all out there, and what did you do? You shut me down."

You paused. The silence between you buzzed, thick with emotion.

“I understand the complexity of the situation. I understand the job. The expectations. Hell, I understand you better than you think.” Your voice cracked, just a hair, but you didn’t backpedal. You let it hang there. “But as a human being, you embarrassed me.”

Tim’s jaw clenched so hard you could almost hear the tension grinding behind his teeth. His eyes never left yours. Not once.

“I’m not upset because I can’t fuck you.” he blurted almost scoffing.

He took a breath and let the rest spill from his chest.

“I’m upset because I can’t take you out to dinner. Because I can’t buy you flowers or annoy you with some cheesy teddy bear.”

He motioned toward your bedroom. You followed his gesture, eyes landing on the collection of stuffed bears neatly placed on your bed, little pieces of comfort, pieces of you, exposed without warning.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I want those dinners,” you admitted. “The bears. The flowers. You annoying the shit out of me just to make me smile.”

He blinked, stunned by the quiet sincerity bleeding into your voice.

“I told myself I was protecting you,” he continued. “But really… I was just scared you were the one thing I’d want that I couldn’t compartmentalize. Couldn’t control. Couldn’t walk away from if it went south.”

The room fell quiet again. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge and the thundering rhythm of your heart.

And then, finally, a knock at the door.

You both froze.

The damn food.

Tim blinked, clearly startled by the knock, then muttered, “I got it,” as he strode to the door like a man on a mission. He opened it, exchanged a few quick words with the delivery guy, and handed over the cash without even checking the total. Closing the door with one hip, he turned to you, arms full of steaming takeout bags. “Jesus,” he said, eyes wide as he scanned the containers, “Did you order enough to feed the entire precinct or just emotionally prepare for a week of avoiding me?” A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, an offering, a crack in the tension, and maybe, just maybe, a chance to start again.

You couldn't help but crack a small smile. "Baby, I'm really sorry, can I make it up to you?"

Baby? "Baby?"

He took your hand and walked you to your bedroom, sitting you down on the edge of the bed. "I like it, it suits you." he smirks as you blush. "Look at me." It was a command, but it came out as a request, as he got down on his knees in front of you. Your lips parted, your pupils dilated, your pussy soaked. "I want to eat you out, not because I want to fuck you after, but because I want to assure you that I'm in this for the long run, not some one-night stands." Your chest heaved as he looked up at you through his lashes, his teeth gripping the hem of your shorts, slowly pulling them down. Painfully slow.

"Tim." you finally moaned, and it sounded like heaven, his jeans were getting tighter and tighter by the second, he didn't know how long he was going to last like this. "I'm here to make you feel good. I'm all yours." His breath tingling against your clothed pussy. He slowly pulled your panties down, eyes blown, he felt like he was dreaming.

"Anything-" a kiss on your inner thigh, "you-" another on your hip, "want-" another on your panty line, "is-" another on the other inner thigh, "yours" a final kiss on your clit, causing you to arch your back.

Your hand jolted to his hair, a slight tug as he lapped on your swollen bud, "All for me?" You whined, looking down at him as he smirked, your juices coating his stubble. "All for you, baby."

That nickname was growing on you too.

You arched your back as his large, calloused, index and middle fingers stretched you out. "Tim... 't's too much!" You whined tugging on Tim's hair a little harder, turning him on more. "C'mon baby, it's only one, you can handle it." He sucked on your clit, you saw stars.

"Cum on my face, baby. Can you do that for me?" God you were going insane, your hips jolting to unintentionally grind on his face. "Mhm." You nodded looking down at him, his eyes were closed, he looked gorgeous, he was a starving man, and you were his last meal.

"Tim, oh God! Tim yes! Don't stop!" Your legs were shaking, your orgasm came rushing over you like a wave, a wave you wanted to drown in.

His face was soaked, and he loved it. "I could do that for the rest of my life." He smirked crawling up so that your lips met his. You chuckled, "What?" He arched his brow, "I can't wait to tell Lucy that you ate me out before you kissed me for the first time." His eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare." He smirked with an evil glare in his eyes, "And if I did?" You challenged him, straddling him.

A pause, he was thinking. "Then I guess you won't be able to walk for a week." He shrugged making you blush. "Let's test that theory, shall we?" You bit your lip unbuckling his belt, he sat up a little but not for long since you pushed him back down to lay flat on the bed. Your eyes widened slightly as you removed his throbbing cock from his boxers, long, veiny with a leaking, angry tip, he was certainly not lacking in length and girth. You smirked before stroking him, getting ready to ride him.

His eyes didn't leave yours as you sank down on him, his lips parting slightly as your face contorted in slight pain and lots of pleasure. "Oh fuck." You hissed as he gripped your hips. As you adjusted to his size, you slowly began to lift yourself up before sinking back down on him. He filled you up completely.

He couldn't handle this, his balls tightening in frustration as he gripped your hips harder and began fucking into you. "Tim!" You yelled throwing your head back as your hand made its way to his neck. You began to move it away, but he grabbed it and placed it back on his neck. "Do it, baby, don't be shy." He smirked as your grip tightened on his neck, your eyes began to roll back as Tim continued to relentlessly fuck you.

"Tim I'm gonna-" you couldn't finish your sentence, "C'mon baby, cum for me." He was close too, you could feel it, the way he throbbed inside you. "Cum inside me." You panted breathlessly as you whined, your second orgasm of the night rushing over you. "Want me to fill you up?" He smirked, the sensation of you choking him, driving him insane, a milky ring now formed at the base of his cock. You nodded vigorously, "Please, Tim." You begged as he grunted, holding you in place as he came inside you.

You panted as he slowly helped you off him. Your legs still shaking from the stimulation. It hurt, yes, but a good hurt. Tim got up and made his way to your bathroom to clean himself up before bringing you a towel, to clean you up. "Thank you." You sighed and smiled, as he placed one final kiss on your calf before getting up.

A few minutes later, he came back into the room with your takeout on a tray, balancing it carefully. “I meant what I said,” he murmured, setting the tray down and easing beside you. His voice was soft but steady, like he’d thought about those words a hundred times before saying them. “I’m in it for the long run,” he clarified, eyes fixed on you with that quiet intensity only he could pull off.

Then, just as the moment threatened to get too serious, that familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “And that paramedic, do you think you’re gonna see him again?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. Typical. You rolled your eyes, smirking right back. “Tim.”

He grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “What? I’m just asking.”

You nudged him playfully with your shoulder. “The only man I plan on seeing again is the one who brought me chow faan and declared his undying loyalty in the same breath.”

His smirk softened into something warmer, something real. “Good,” he said quietly, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Because I wasn’t kidding. I’m not going anywhere.”

You smiled, leaning into his touch, the tension that had lingered between you both finally dissolving. Maybe things hadn’t started perfectly. Maybe they never would. But in that moment, with takeout in your lap, the TV playing quietly in the background, and his hand resting lightly over yours, it felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.

And for once, that was enough.

[quinnsdesk]

nothing hurts more than waking up in the morning to realize you forgot to charge your vape

[quinnsdesk]

bye I love you so much!! thank you!!!

hey hey, I'm a new writer and I came upon your post about AI

I was wondering what made you realize something was written by ai, honestly I've used ai to write basic plot lines to give me ideas, but the actual smut was all me! (lowkey proud of myself)

also, if possible, could you give a girl some tips on writing smut? love ya and your writing 👅👅

omg i love this question and thank you so much ily! congrats on writing smut all by yourself i'll have to read your fic once i post this xoxo

like i said, i totally understand if AI is used just to get some prompt ideas or a broad outline of the steps to your story, so good job!

this post does include 18+/nsfw topics, so MDNI

'what made you realise something was written by ai?'

i can tell if something is done using AI due to a few things, but a lot of the time your gut will tell you! not saying to just rely on your gut grumbling for a second as it's important to have your facts before you make any claims, BUT your gut never lies! also omg i so want to write an essay on this so i'll try to write as little as possible. here's some elements to look out for:

1. pacing 2. dialogue 3. wording

disclaimer to anyone who reads this: do not pick just one thing out of the many reasons and claim a work to be AI. with clear AI writing, it's either ALL elements or none. (example: once you start noticing that the pacing feels off, have a look at the dialogue and the wording too). ALSO, a lot of these examples are from AI, so they're factual forms of AI writing- i have not made them up!

I'LL BE USING TIM BRADFORD AS A TO AND THE READER AS HIS ROOKIE FOR EXAMPLES!!! just thought it was a good trope to use because it's so hard to get it right. trust me, 2 hands shows that BAHAHA xoxo

1. pacing

- the flow of the story feels more like a structure rather than the author manoeuvring us through the scenes.

best way to put it is AI doesn't let the audience marinate in the moment before we're already jumping to another scene.

it may feel like: she went home. he followed. then they had an argument. then they kissed.

there's no time for us to settle in how the reader may be getting home and how she's feeling in the moment, or if he does follow her home and rock up to her house- it's abrupt or sudden. what's the argument like? is it loud and mean or is there lots of crying? and what brings them to finally make up and kiss? does she keep circling back to the argument while they're kissing?

it's hard to enjoy a story when one moment they're arguing, and the next they're kissing without reasoning or time to let a scene settle into us.

- the pacing is too quick

and this can happen A LOT with smut, like there's a lack of context or background of the two before we're just being slapped with smut.

for example: there's no build up of tension before smut begins. not saying this can't happen, but usually it's when there NEEDS to be tension in order for the smut to work, otherwise it's hard to understand why they're actually having sex.

look, smut is great- but if you're writing a one-shot about tim being the reader's TO, there's needs to be a reason why they're fucking in the back of the shop.

- the build-up can be too slow

now, take this kindly guys. while it's generally that the pacing is too quick and structured, sometimes what people can do is have a REAL big build up before the sex scene.

what i mean by that is, to make the story longer, they may prompt AI to lengthen the tension before the smut, because who doesn't love tension? however, it can come out looking something like this:

"are you sure you wanna do this?" her TO asks, blah blah blah lots of talking here. "yes, i'm sure." blah blah blah lots of description about what is happening. "are you sure? there's no turning back now." blah blah blah air is getting steamy, they're horny af "yes." ... "but are you SUREE SURE SURE?" "yes." "this is gonna change everything though." "yes, let's have sex."

you see what i mean? lots of unneccessary build-up just to keep the story lengthened.

2. dialogue

this one is the biggest giveaway.

- it sounds like it came from 'wattpad'

now, don't get me wrong. i loved wattpad when i was a teen, i even still have my account there (@/missygotlost if you wanna check it out but i'm inactive there hehe), but wattpad's dialogue can sound a bit cringe or cliche.

not saying that's a bad thing as we did need the cringe from wattpad to become better writers bahaha.

however, AI lacks a polished tone that's in tune to what's happening. and AI needs to realise humans don't talk like this:

"you drive me crazy rookie" "maybe i like the way you lose control" (PLEASE no one is saying that.) "didn't i tell you not to fall for your TO? guess we're both breaking the rules." (AHHHH) "every time you disobey a direct order, it makes me wanna teach you a lesson." (nuh uh)

- there's no character to one's voice

it's so important that the dialogue a character is saying actually reflects who that character is! AI makes it so that every character sounds the same and doesn't have their own niches or unique personalities.

in my fics, i like using lucy as a character who's a good friend of the reader! often backing her up in a way that sounds feminine and reassuring. also canon-lucy often calls her friends 'girl', so i like to include that whenever lucy is talking.

example in i think you wanna...: Clearly knowing about the nightmare of a roommate you have, Lucy's head snaps up with a gasp, "Oh my god, no. Girl, she's still doing that?"

- there's a lack of morals/interiority to a character

as humans, we LOVE to let our audience know what our characters are thinking using internal dialogue, micro-reactions and importantly, recognising their morals and values.

AI does not.

i'm still using tim as the reader's TO as an example hehe. but in dialogue, AI forgets to realise that when someone is making a decision - especially one that may ruin their career - a human tends to second-guess or question themselves.

"i want you." "then take me."

and what? there's no questioning it? there's no fear, no anxiety, moral conflict? the rookie - who has so much on the line - is so willing to just let her TO fuck her in the shop?

again, it doesn't feel humane because a human would NOT let her TO fuck her without her questioning the slightest bit on the consequences.

3. wording

- grammar

funny enough, the em dash (—) is something i try not to include as the main reasoning for something to be AI because, simply, everyone can use the em dash- it's part of literature! i just use the en dash (-) because i'm lazy HAHAHA. but yes, the em dash is an obvious one.

along with quotation marks! i don't know if anyone else has noticed it but when something is copy and pasted from AI, quotation marks look like this: “ ” instead of this: " ". these are just small things i've noticed.

- an author's style of writing

AI lacks the personality behind an author's writing. things like specific words an author likes to use, or how they write a character- there's no style quirks.

i'll use myself for an example!

for my style of writing, i'm very descriptive and love to use '...' a lot for realistic pausing. i have my favourite words and phrases, i drag out my scenes and am a bit informal with my writing. i LOVE supplying context (trust, it's what makes the story SO MUCH BETTER), using rhetorical questions and internal dialogue because it gives the reader (you!) a bit of character without generalising anything. after all, we're human and we ALL have internal dialogue and question ourselves because it's a collective experience!

plus, an author's writing has a VOICE. even the errors, mistakes or repetition feels intentional because it probably is!

- description

description is great! it helps to tell the reader what's going on in a scene to articulate visual imagery. and while AI, of course, uses description, it likes to use a lot of words without saying much. for example:

the moonlight danced across her skin, casting a soft glow as the wind whispered through the trees.

like what the fuck is that telling us? what is she actually doing? what does she look like? help??

also, AI may use generic phrasing to tell how someone is feeling.

"sadness washed over her" "she felt the pain like a dagger to her chest"

not saying this is bad if a human does it! but it is generic and over-used, AI doesn't think for itself because it uses what's already available to it.

all in all, these three categories; pacing, dialogue and wording come down to the most important element of storytelling- humanity.

AI cannot create stories like a human can because it isn't human!

now onto the fun part hehe

'tips on writing smut?'

I LOVE THIS QUESTIONNNNN and my god, do i have tips and tricks for you!

- write it like you mean it!

smut isn't JUST two people having sex- it's the exploration two (or more) characters take to deepen their intimacy between each other. sex is a wonderful thing, and it should be something that the audience can read at times that they need/want to!

my biggest advice: sex is special, so write it as it is!

writing a sex scene is extremely different compared to any other scene you write about. writing smut is not easy because it shouldn't be written easily!

sex is not simple, nor on-point. it's complex, and NEEDS to be detailed. this is because the emotions your audience gets out of smut is not like if they were to read about a cuddling scene. hell no, your audience should be finishing your fic hot and bothered and HORNYYY!

arousal is a very personal and intimate thing, so write it like you mean it because why else are you writing smut in your story? stories are all about eliciting emotions, so if you're gonna write smut, you need to make sure you write it to the best of your abilities knowing that you're doing it to get a reaction out of your audience!

- description

be very descriptive with your story! don't expect your readers to finish your fic all aroused and horny when all you've mentioned is that he puts his 'cock inside of her pussy'. yuck. we want to know HOW they're fucking, and what evidence do you have to prove that? if it's rough i wanna see it in how the dom is holding the sub and the dialogue that follows after it. if it's soft i wanna reader gentle kisses and praise while they're having gentle intercourse.

best way i remind myself of using description is to go back to my 5 senses: sight, hear, taste, smell and touch.

sight: where are they having sex? what does the bedroom look like? is her makeup all messy? does he look worn-out? describe their bodies: does he have abs? does she have big titties?

hear: what noises are made between them? is there background noise like music or tv? is one of the characters loud in bed? is the girl close to her orgasm due to her change in breath?

taste: can he still taste her arousal on his tongue? did they drink beforehand or eat something specific that the other person can taste?

smell: lingering perfume or aftershave? is there a candle lit in the background? are they fucking in a hospital so it smells like disinfectant? does it smell of rain?

touch: are his arms warm as she clings onto his biceps while he's fucking her? is her body soft like silk? are his hands rough and calloused? is the bed plush? is the grass itchy beneath their bodies?

description = visual imagery = how you'll get your audience horny.

- tension

i'm sure we can all agree that the tension is what makes the smut good- hell, tension may just be better than smut!

smut needs tension before AND throughout- you cannot go free-balling into sex when there's no reason as to WHY. i totally understand if it's a little drabble or you explicitly put 'PORN NO PLOT'. but if you're creating a one-shot, then tension is a must to get your audience excited! tension can be as simple as the power play between characters and they're stuck in an elevator (wink wink), or they're enemies but they share a bed (nudge nudge).

i know it sucks because you just want to dive straight into the fun part, but believe me when i say tension will make your stories sooooo much better. hell, sometimes my non-smut, tension scenes are actually LONGER than the smut itself.

- dialogue

dialogue is so important too when it comes to writing smut because it's literally how people talk to one another in such an intimate moment. and unfortunately, it's easy to cringe at too.

this is soooo tmi but the best way i write dialogue is to imagine whether i would like to be talked to like that in bed BAHAHA.

but please, how else am i supposed to find out? it's all about experimenting!

which is why i'm sure a lot of you would probably realise i have a praise kink because it's all i fucking write about. but seriously why wouldn't i write about a sex scene if it doesn't excite me too?

i can't give you an EXACT list of dialogue as sex is so broad and there's lots of way people want to be talked to during sex, but honestly just have a think to yourself. even if you see some ideas on dialogue- girl say it aloud and think 'hmm, is that actually sexy or did i just cringe?'

at the end of the day, you can't please EVERYONE- so just write what dialogue sounds good to you!

- be realistic!

i don't mean in a fictional way, but more like take sex and a gender's genitals seriously.

i know everyone is different, but i also know that not a lot of men can get their dicks hard again immediately- some need fifteen minutes, some need an hour, some just can't do it again for the day.

same with women, we NEED stretching otherwise it's gonna hurt like shit. i know some stories will say that 'he thrusted his cock straight into her pussy and they started fucking straight away' but come on, it's unrealistic. if he's gonna put his dick in the woman, the least he can do is ease his way into it or give the poor woman some time to take it in.

also be realistic with the context of the sex scene. if TO tim and his rookie are fucking in the shop, they CANNOTTTT be loud. it's rogue enough that they're fucking on the job, let alone it being loud. of course they need to be quiet, and it needs to be done quickly.

and please, if you're gonna write anything rogue or naughty, remember that these characters are human and they most certainly should be questioning their choices and morals!!! i know for certain if i was a rookie and i was about to let my TO fuck me on the job, I DEFINITELY WOULD BE QUESTIONING WHAT THE FUCK I AM DOING!

i hope this helped you or anyone else who took the time to read this! if anyone else has any questions, i'm more than happy to give you a hand. I LOVE EXPLAINING WRITING i'm such a writing nerd hehehe.

mwah mwah! xoxo

[quinnsdesk]

Broken Rules

tim bradford x rookie!reader

mdni 18+

mentions of piv, age gap, violence, power imbalance, and emotional tension, no use of y/n, slight daddy kink, fingering

wc: 1.8k

join my taglist

There were three rules you had given yourself once you had become a rookie at the LAPD

1. Never lie to your TO

2. Never let your emotions compromise the job.

3. Never, ever fall for Tim Bradford.

Too bad you’d already broken all three by the time summer hit. You weren’t even sure when it started—maybe it was the way he always noticed when you were quiet, or how he never let anyone belittle you on scene. Tim had a reputation for being tough. Stone cold. Emotionless. But to you? He was the only person in this damn department who saw you.

Your crush had started in week three. By week eight, it wasn’t a crush. It was a full-blown, sleepless obsession. You’d lie in bed replaying the way he’d said your name. The way his hand brushed your lower back when guiding you out of a hostile call. The way his eyes lingered too long when you changed out of your vest.

You were a rookie. He was your TO. This wasn’t just forbidden—it was a career-ender.

Your hands were still shaking as you walked back to the shop. Tonight had been bad. A domestic gone sideways. A little girl caught in the middle, gunfire, screaming. You’d handled it like a pro on scene—until the second you got back in the shop and the adrenaline dumped. Now you couldn’t stop your knees from trembling. Tim glanced at you sideways, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console like he always did. Steady. Unbothered. Too damn calm.

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded. Lying. Rule number one.

His jaw twitched. “You don’t get points for pretending you’re fine.” You bit the inside of your cheek. Hard. “I handled it.”

“You did. And now you’re going to go home and pretend it didn’t rattle you until it eats you alive. That’s not how you make it.” You hated when he was right. You also hated how good his voice sounded when he was pissed—like worn gravel and warm bourbon. Silence stretched between you. Heavy. “I’m just tired,” you muttered finally. He didn’t reply. But when you reached the station, he didn’t get out of the shop right away. He waited. Watching you. Reading you.

“Get changed,” he said. “You’re not going home yet.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because you need to talk about it. And if you don’t want to talk to me in there,”—he nodded toward the station—“then you can talk to me somewhere else.”

You swallowed hard. There was no innocent version of that offer. And you both knew it.

Twenty minutes later, you were standing in his apartment. Your hoodie clung to you, sticky with L.A. humidity and nerves. You’d only been here once—briefly, when dropping off files. But now, under dim lighting and silence, it felt like the air itself had teeth.

Tim poured two fingers of bourbon and handed you a glass.

You barely sipped it. He leaned on the counter, arms folded. “You gonna talk?” You stared into the amber liquid. “I keep seeing her face.”

“I know.”

“And the blood. On the mom’s shirt. She just—she didn’t even cry. Like it was normal.”

Tim stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough.

“You did everything right,” he said. “You got the girl out. You stayed calm. You gave a solid report.”

“I still feel like shit.”

“You’re supposed to.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Great. Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

Tim’s eyes softened. Just a fraction. “You’ll get used to the job. You won’t get used to being numb. And that’s a good thing.” You didn’t mean to say what came next.

“I feel safe when I’m with you.”

It slipped out like a confession. Your eyes met his—and you saw the change. His shoulders tensed. Something electric flickered between you. You felt it. You knew he did too. “You shouldn’t say that,” he said lowly.

“I know.”

He took your glass, set it down. “You’re my rookie.”

“I won’t be forever.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

But he didn’t move away. Didn’t break eye contact. You reached for the hem of your hoodie. Slow. Giving him a chance to stop you.

He didn’t.

You pulled it over your head, leaving just your tank top underneath. It stuck to your skin from the heat and adrenaline, the outline of your bra visible beneath.

His eyes flicked down. Just once. Then he cursed and backed away like you’d slapped him.

“This can’t happen,” he muttered.

“Why?” you pushed. “Because you’re older? Because you’re my TO?”

He didn’t answer. You stepped closer. Close enough to smell his aftershave, that clean cedar scent you’d grown to crave.

“I want this,” you said. “I want you.” His hands curled into fists. Still not touching you.

“Say something,” you whispered. “If I touch you,” he said hoarsely, “I won’t stop.”

“Then don’t stop.”

The second he kissed you; it was over. There was no turning back. Not when he pressed you against the counter and devoured your mouth like he’d been holding back for months. His hands were everywhere, gripping your waist, tangling in your hair, sliding under your tank top.

“You have no idea,” he growled against your throat, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Show me.”

He lifted you onto the counter, pulling your tank top over your head. Your bra followed, tossed somewhere behind him. His mouth descended, hot and possessive, lips trailing down your neck, tongue flicking against your breast until you gasped. “Tim…”

He paused.

“You can still walk away.”

You looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t want to.”

That was all it took.

He picked you up like you weighed nothing and carried you to the bedroom, laying you down on cool sheets. He undressed you slowly, reverently, like you were something precious he didn’t quite believe was his. His cock straining at the thought of the near future.

You were soaked; he could see the damp stain on your blue panties once he had pulled your jeans off. "Tim.." you whined once again as he pressed his large thumb over your clothed, swollen clit. It was music to his ears, your breathy whines and moans alongside the squelching of your pussy as his digits ran up and down your folds.

His pupils were dilated, he looked high, God, he felt high. This is all so wrong, but it feels so right.

The peak points of your nipples in his peripheral view as your chest moved up and down, heaving from the insane and phenomenal stimulation.

And when he finally buried himself inside you, it wasn’t fast or frantic—it was intense. Slow, even. He was big sure, but God you were so tight, sucking the life out of him, it was almost as if he was going to cum as soon as he entered you. Every thrust was measured. Deep. His hands held your hips like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. His lips never strayed far from your skin. "My perfect girl." he muttered every now and then, the worry of the age gap, the nature of your relationship all fading to dust.

You were dizzy with it—every nerve lit up, every emotion crashing down like waves. You clawed at his back enough to surely leave marks, legs wrapped around his waist, whispering his name like a secret prayer. "Yes, Tim, daddy!" he hit your g-spot with every thrust. Tim paused and so did you.

Holy shit, did you just call your T.O daddy?

His eyes were dark with lust, your face now pigmented red, before you could say anything, before you could apologize his lips made their way to your neck. "Say it again."

Silence. "Say what?" Are you hearing this correctly?

"Call me daddy again." His thrusts weren't going to continue until you did what you were told, his cock was currently throbbing inside you and in essence driving you insane.

"Daddy" you mumbled, shamefully.

"Louder." he demanded, as you did so, his thrusts began again.

Sure, you were much younger than him, but you weren't a virgin either, yet nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared you for Tim Bradford. The way his hands grabbed the flesh of your hips, the way he'd praise you for just being there, for allowing him to fuck you the way he did. Part of you felt it, the way he held back, he wanted to be rougher, and you weren't ready for it, he knew that.

He came undone when you did—your moan against his mouth sending him over the edge, shuddering as he collapsed on top of you.

Afterward, the silence was thick.

Your fingers trailed idle circles on his chest. He lay beside you, one hand behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He turned to look at you. “No.”

Your stomach dropped.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he said.

You sat up, pulling the sheet to your chest. “So what, it was just a mistake?”

“No,” he said quickly. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t say anything.

“I don’t just want you,” he said. “I care about you. And that makes this complicated.”

You met his eyes. “I care too.”

He sighed. “You still have six months left as a rookie. If anyone finds out—”

“They won’t.”

“You’re worth the risk,” he said. “But I don’t want this to ruin you.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. Gentle. Certain.

“Then don’t let it.”

[quinnsdesk]

wait is that... is that my smut ❤️🥺?

The Rookie Recommendations

= Smut

Masterlist

Tim Bradford

Late Night Calls*

Nothing At All*

Baby Boy*

Jealous? Never*

Undercover(s)*

The Art Of Observation**

Two Hands*

Doomed*

Lead Me On*

The Last Drink*

I Miss You* (Chenford)

Duty Calls*

Your Someone Better*

Come Into My Bedroom (pt 2**)

Wrap Me Up (Between Your Legs And Arms)*

An (Un)requited Longing*

Mine*

I Think You Wanna**

[quinnsdesk]

Joe Goldberg: murderer-stalker turned smut writer.

[quinnsdesk]

something to prove

Rick Grimes x Fem!reader MDNI (18+) mentions of cheating, sexual tension, age gap, cliffhanger pt 2 coming soon! wc: 2.3k join my taglist

You panted and heaved, every breath tearing through your lungs like fire, your chest rising and falling in quick succession. Sweat beaded on your brow, dripping into your eyes, but you didn’t wipe it away. You couldn’t take your eyes off the walker’s body—lifeless, mangled, your knife still dripping as your grip tightened around the hilt. The world around you slowed, the buzz of adrenaline making everything else feel like static. The heavy silence that followed the kill was almost louder than the walker’s snarls had been.

Rick stood a few feet away, eyes locked on you, lips slightly parted in awe. There was something in his expression—something that almost made you forget where you were. Something that stirred the fire already smoldering in your chest.

Then came the sound of hurried footsteps—Alexandrians rushing toward you, concern etched on their faces. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The air was thick with tension, with the aftershocks of violence, and every pair of eyes had landed on you.

“You uh… alright?” Spencer’s voice broke through the haze. You turned slightly, catching his anxious gaze as he slowed to a stop beside you.

“Mhm,” you mumbled, still staring at the walker's crumpled form like it might reanimate.

Spencer reached out, pressing a soft, affectionate kiss to your cheek. His hand found your arm, thumb brushing gently over your skin. “Baby…” he said, voice low with worry. He leaned in, trying to meet your eyes. “You don’t seem okay.”

You finally looked at him, just briefly, and offered a tight smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t. Not really. Not when your pulse was still racing—not from the kill, but from him. Rick.

You could feel his eyes on you still. Watching. Assessing. Admiring?

You brushed Spencer’s hand off gently. Not now. Not when every nerve in your body was screaming from the electricity of Rick’s gaze. You loved Spencer—or you thought you did—but it was complicated now. Ever since Rick and his people arrived in Alexandria, things had changed. You had changed.

Rick was older. Wiser. Hardened by the world in a way that made him magnetic. Dangerous. He wasn’t like Spencer, who still clung to the comforts of what life used to be. Rick knew what it took to survive now. And God, something about that pulled you in like gravity. No matter how much you tried to ignore it, bury it, deny it—there it was. Festering. Twisting. Growing.

It made you push harder. Train longer. Fight better. You wanted to prove yourself—to him. Be seen by him. Be chosen by him. Even if it meant lying to yourself. Even if it meant betraying the man at your side.

You glanced back at Rick. His expression hadn’t changed. His eyes hadn’t left you.

And yours hadn’t stopped returning to him either. Later that day, the heat of Rick's gaze still lingered on your skin like a brand. No matter how much you tried to shake it, it clung to you—haunted you—in every breath, every glance in the mirror. You tried to distract yourself, but it was pointless. The way he looked at you back there… it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t passing. It was intentional.

The water in the shower poured over your body in soothing waves, washing away the blood and grime from earlier, but not the memory. Never the memory. The steam curled around you, warm and comforting, like a ghost of the life you used to know—one filled with safety, and boundaries, and choices that didn’t come with moral compromise.

You ran your fingers through your wet hair, your breathing slow and steady. For a moment, you let yourself forget the world outside. Forget the walkers. Forget Alexandria. Forget Spencer. Just breathe.

You stepped out of the shower, wrapping the towel snugly around your curves, still drying your hair with a smaller one. You moved toward your room, each step soft, hesitant. But before you could cross the threshold—

You felt it again.

That weight. That pull.

Eyes on you.

Watching.

You turned your head slowly.

Rick.

He stood in the hallway just outside your door, one shoulder leaned against the frame like he hadn’t meant to intrude… but hadn’t stopped himself either. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between control and something much darker, deeper. His eyes didn’t drop to the towel. They didn’t need to. The way he looked at you—it was like he could see everything without even trying.

“Rick,” you breathed, the word slipping from your lips like an exhale. Was it relief? Worry? Desire? You weren’t even sure anymore.

He hummed, low and soft, as if acknowledging your voice was enough. As if that was all he needed to stay rooted where he stood.

You clutched the towel a little tighter around your chest, more out of instinct than modesty. Your voice came quieter now, almost uncertain. “Where’s Spencer?”

There it was—the name. A lifeline. A reminder. A pathetic attempt at control when you could already feel yourself unraveling in Rick’s presence.

He didn’t look away. His jaw tensed slightly before he spoke.

“Went on a run. Couple hours ago. Should be back soon.”

Your stomach twisted. Should be back soon.

So this wasn’t accidental. He came here knowing you were alone.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “If he walks in here right now, it’s not going to look—”

“I know,” Rick interrupted, voice rough but steady.

Silence stretched between you like a taut wire. Charged. Heavy. A thousand words unspoken, all wrapped up in the space between his stare and your hammering pulse.

You took a step back, your bare feet brushing against the edge of the rug.

He didn’t move.

You didn’t ask him to.

Because part of you—maybe the worst part of you—didn’t want him to.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you said, more to the floor than to him. “But it’s dangerous.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, not in anger, but in intensity. “No. What you’re doing is dangerous,” he said quietly. “You fight like someone with something to prove. You look at me like I’m already yours.”

Your breath caught.

“And I don’t know if I hate it… or want it.”

That broke something in you. Cracked the armor you’d built to protect yourself, protect Spencer, protect whatever shred of normalcy you had left.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you said firmly, but your voice had a tremble—one you hoped he didn’t notice.

He did.

Rick tilted his head slightly, and that smile—the one that didn’t quite reach his eyes—curled on his lips, dark and knowing. “You don’t?” he repeated, voice low and rough, like gravel and smoke. He licked his lips slowly, his eyes dragging over you like he was reading a page he already knew by heart.

Then, with no urgency—no hesitation—he stepped inside your room. His boots moved quietly against the floor, hands still tucked into the front pockets of his jeans like he was just some guy wandering into someone’s living room and not into enemy territory.

Except this wasn’t just someone’s room.

It was your room.

And you were standing in a towel.

Rick made himself comfortable—like he belonged there—sitting on the edge of your bed, legs slightly apart, elbows resting on his knees. He looked at you, really looked at you, with that storm brewing behind his eyes. Calm on the surface, but something feral just underneath.

Your breath hitched. Your head screamed for you to speak, to send him away before things spiraled. But your body… your body betrayed you.

Because it didn’t want him to leave.

“I should…” you began, but even you didn’t know how to finish that sentence. I should what? I should stop this? Should tell him to get out? Should cover myself up before I lose every last ounce of control?

Rick’s gaze flicked downward for a second, not to ogle, but to remind you of the power you had—wrapped in a thin towel, hair wet, skin flushed, still dripping from the heat of the shower.

“You know,” he said after a moment, voice like thunder before a storm, “for someone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about… you sure look like you’re listening.”

His words hit you like a match to gasoline. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, both to protect yourself and to keep your hands from trembling.

“You think you know everything, huh?” you shot back, trying to cling to whatever sliver of control you had left.

Rick leaned back slightly on his palms, eyes never leaving you. “No,” he said. “But I know what I see.”

“And what is it you think you see?” you challenged.

“I see a young, headstrong individual…” Rick’s voice was low, deliberate—each word carved from stone and shadow. “…who’d get on her knees for me in an instant, no matter how many people would hate her for it.”

Your breath caught violently in your throat, pupils dilating like a reflex, your heart slamming against your ribs. The vulgarity of it wasn’t what shocked you—it was how deeply, how shamefully right he was. His words slithered into your brain like a wicked spell, conjuring the image with a force you couldn’t suppress. Familiar. Intimate. Wrong.

But God, it was vivid.

He watched your face, smug satisfaction in the way his lips curved into a smile—not kind, not warm, but cruel in its precision. Rick Grimes wasn’t guessing. He knew.

“The thing I can’t figure out, though…” he murmured, pushing himself off the bed in one slow, fluid movement. You instinctively took a step back, but it was useless. He followed. “…is why you haven’t acted on it.”

His voice was steel now, the teasing edge replaced by something darker—something that made the air in the room feel thick, suffocating.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body. Towering over you, his shadow swallowed the light, his eyes boring into yours like he could see everything—your fear, your guilt, your want.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You were frozen in place, torn between survival instinct and the traitorous ache that bloomed low in your stomach.

Rick raised one hand slowly, deliberately, and reached for your face—not to touch, but to command. His fingers brushed a single strand of wet hair away from your cheek, his thumb ghosting across your skin with maddening tenderness.

The moment felt suspended in time. His touch was feather-light, but it crashed through you like a wrecking ball.

“Is it guilt?” he asked softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Is that what’s holding you back?”

You swallowed, your lips parting slightly, but still nothing came.

“Spencer?” he continued, with the faintest curl of disgust in his tone. “Or is it that you think I wouldn’t want you after?”

You flinched—because the question hit too close. Too deep.

He leaned in just slightly, voice a low whisper now, heavy and thick like molasses. “Let me clear that up for you.”

You braced for his lips, for the contact you were sure was coming, but it never arrived. Instead, he stopped just shy of touching you, letting the space between you two hum with unsaid words and impossible tension.

“I would,” he said, his breath warm against your cheek. “Again. And again.”

You inhaled sharply, a ragged breath that sounded too loud in the quiet of your room.

“So… since you want to prove yourself to me, sweetheart,” Rick said, voice a low growl laced with challenge, command, and heat, “Get on your knees.”

The room went still.

Your breath hitched, chest rising in shallow, quickened gasps. Your mouth parted slightly, stunned into silence. You searched his face, eyes wide and searching—desperately looking for a flicker of humor, some trace that this was a game, a joke, a line crossed for the sake of intimidation.

But no.

His eyes were steady.

His tone was serious.

And it was real.

Too real.

The air between you cracked like a live wire.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering, and for a moment, time held its breath. Then, slowly—so slowly—you began to lower yourself. First to a crouch, then easing onto your knees before him. The carpet burned softly against your skin, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t care. Your thoughts were drowning under the weight of the moment.

But just as your knees hit the floor, Rick held up a hand.

“Nuh uh,” he murmured, shaking his head once, eyes dark and sharp. His gaze dropped—pointed, precise—toward the towel still wrapped around your body. “Take it off.”

A wicked grin curled on his lips, the kind that made your stomach flip and your spine shiver. He was enjoying this—enjoying you. The control. The unraveling.

You tilted your head, letting a smirk rise on your own lips now, matching his energy with a spark of bold defiance. Your fingers found the knot at your chest, and you pulled slowly, deliberately, as if savoring every second of the moment.

The towel unraveled inch by inch, falling away like surrender itself, slipping from your fingers and pooling silently at your knees.

Your smirk deepened, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “This what you wanted, Rick?”

The moment the words left your lips, his eyes dropped. His breath hitched. His pupils dilated so fast it was dizzying, black consuming blue. His jaw tightened, his mouth parting ever so slightly, tongue darting to wet his lower lip as if his body was reacting before his brain could.

You saw it—the restraint slipping. The hunger rising. The storm he usually kept so well contained now crashing just beneath the surface.

He didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

His eyes were glued to you like a starving man at a feast.