#Boot level switch | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

versupital · 9 months ago

Text

wanna see what your insides look like.ᐟ

JJKHALLOWEEN! chosoxreader

to sum it up. you got tickets to a live Scream experience, where you’ll be chased by the infamous Ghostface through a dark wood. but the idea of being alone with the character arouses you more than it scares you. lucky for you, though, Ghostface is totally on board.

CONTENT (MDNI): friends to lovers, smut, switch!choso, afab!reader, prop knife, fake blood, masochism kindaaa, overstim, 86’d the sorcery (modern au), breeding, exhibitionism

word count. 7k

soundtrack 💿: RUNRUNRUN - dutch melrose

divider @saradika

“Please come, Cho. I need you to come.”

An exasperated breath comes from the other end of the phone. You’re sure your best friend is shaking his head, trying to come up with a way to let you down gently, because he’s incapable of being mean.

“I wanna,” he says honestly. “I know that Scream is our thing… but I’ve gotta take this shift for the extra money. I promise to make it up to you, kay? How about a movie night when I get off?”

You huff. You know this is reasonable collateral, but your heart still aches because you’ll be missing out on the Scream experience with your best friend in the entire world; the only person who truly understands the place the movie series holds in your heart.

“A movie night with face masks,” you correct him.

He grins from the other line. “Deal. Have fun tonight. Tell Satoru to not be a little bitch.”

You grin back. “Level: impossible. But will do. Love you, Cho.”

He pauses for a minute before replying. “I love you too. Later.”

The phone hangs up and you are unable to shake the pressure in your chest. You really shouldn’t be this sad; you’ll be with the rest of your friends. But they aren’t Cho.

You sigh and begin to get dressed; a blood-red low cut tank top, black plaited skirt, ‘nets, and thick running boots. Red lipstick tied everything together, as well as your hair in two ponytails with ribbons.

Hours pass and soon, night falls. Your friends arrive to collect you, and you all make it to the sight of the attraction in no time, both fear and excitement bubbling within you.

You ride down a long, long driveway, nothing but trees surrounding the acre of attractions, stalls and decorations. At the end, there is a large arch with an inflatable ghostface, connected to a giant curtain that serves as an entrance to the woods where the experience takes place.

According to reviews, there are multiple ghostface actors, increasing difficulty for everyone else - but it increases the thrill for you. If you make it to the exit without getting caught, you get your money back and a Ghostface collectible. So as far as you’re concerned, you have no choice but to make it though.

“Quick, shoot it back!"

You gasp as your friend is shoving a tiny liquor bottle into your palm, before reaching into her purse to pass one out to every member of your group. You’re in line now, almost halfway to the start.

Your friend’s insignificant other, Toji, grins wickedly as he takes back three or four of them. You're still nervously holding onto just the one, feeling your mouth water as you imagine the nasty liquor sliding down your throat.

"Ah, look at 'er," Toji clowns, gripping your friend by the waist. "If she's afraid to take a simple shot, she ain't gonna last in there."

"Piss off, Fushiguro," Geto - another member of your group - grits. "Not all of us are hopeless alcoholics like you are."

"And 'm not afraid," you butt in, glaring at Toji. "A bitch can't hesitate?"

“Just drink it, girl,” Toji replies, his tone bored.

You roll your eyes at him before you turn away from the group and quickly take the shot, knowing you're going to need it inside. Because, no thanks to Choso, you’re going to be all alone. Geto is paired with your other friend, Satoru, and your girlfriend has Toji. Geto had offered to ditch Satoru for you, but you like the idea of being by yourself.

So, in short, you'll need a lot of liquid courage to make it through, even though Ghostface is your favorite Halloween character - and you can hardly contain your excitement.

"Alright!" Toji and your friend clap after you turn back around with a grimace.

The line moves forward. Your group is going to start being escorted inside, pair by pair, and you’ll be the last of everyone to enter. You snatch another shot from your friend and take it back, the sinking feeling in your stomach setting in, knowing how close you are to a dream come true.

But what outweighs your fear is your fantasy. Ghostface is hardly scary as he turns you on, like a pervert in heat. You had never built up the courage to ask your exes to wear the mask in bed or anything, but the fact that it had even crossed your mind makes you feel like some kind of freak.

"Step right up, step right up!" A voice booms from the man leading people in through the curtain, pulling you away from your thoughts.

He holds up an imaginary microphone to Toji and your friend.

"What's your favorite scary movie?" he asks with a grin.

Their answers conveniently match, which is cute, but not the answer the man was looking for; his face drops.

Then, the man pulls back the curtain to allow them to step through. Now you are alone with Geto and Satoru.

"You better have your arms ready," Satoru says with a nudge to Geto. "The minute anything pops out at me, I’m jumping on you.”

Geto huffs, "Absolutely not. We're not paying fifty bucks a pop for you to cower the whole time." He pauses to glance at you. "Besides, Y/N is literally going in by herself."

"Yeah, 'cause she'd rather die of fright than partner with you," Satoru teases, and Geto simply rolls his eyes.

You are zoning out of their conversation slowly, your heart thumping rapidly in your ears as time draws nearer for you to go inside.

The same routine happens with Satoru and Geto several minutes later; the bouncer asks them for their favorite scary movie before shoving them inside.

You shift your weight nervously, all alone now, your fingers fiddling with the trim of your skirt.

A few minutes pass by, shrieks coming from the other side, making you giggle at just how squeaky Satoru had gotten. Then, after another eternity, the bouncer turns to you.

"What's your favorite scary movie?" he questions, red eye contacts sliding down your body.

"Uh, I don't know," you reply with an innocent shrug.

"Oh come on, you have to have a favorite,” he grins, his face lighting up because someone finally catches his reference. “What comes to mind?"

"Um, Halloween, you know the one with the guy in the white mask who walks around and stalks babysitters," you continue, unable to help smiling back at him.

He nods approvingly and pulls back the curtain, flashing lights on the other side greeting you. You swallow nervously as fog rolls over the floor, a red light at the end of a long walkway.

You carefully walk down, your buzz weighing down on you, but unfortunately not enough to get rid of your fear entirely. You look at the edge of every wall, waiting for something to jump out at you, but it never does.

Nothing happens except for cool air blowing in your face as you walk, hugging your arms, gooseflesh rising on the back of your neck. You begin to feel that this isn’t so bad, but right as you think you've made it out safely, you hear a footstep.

You turn in a flash, but there's nothing there. You know you heard it though.

You shake it off and turn back around, only to see him - standing all but a grave's length away from you.

You jump and shriek a bit as he just stands there, menacingly, in all his Ghostface glory.

You gulp thickly, alcohol lingering in your saliva. You try to come up with a fast plan; you couldn’t go down this easily.

You take a step to the side. He mirrors your actions.

You bring your hands up in defense now, feeling your stomach sink at the thought of what he could possibly do next. He cocks his masked head at an angle, slowly holding up his knife...

As he does this, you bolt right past him. He stands there for a second, possibly stunned, before you hear the crunching of him sprinting after you.

He's hot on your heels. You've exited the safe cushion of the hallway and are now in the middle of darkness, only trees and tall labyrinth-like bushes surrounding you. It’s scary, but it’s exactly what you came for. You’re living an absolute dream.

You dare to glance over your shoulder as your chest becomes tight, your oxygen feeling as though it's being choked out of you.

He's not there.

Your body shakes in fear. It's so exhilarating. You smile sadistically to yourself, deciding to give yourself a break from running.

You run around a tall bush and squat down. You glance from side to side and listen for his footsteps. They're nearby, but there’s lots of bushes around. No way will he be able to pick the exact one you’re squatting behind.

You smirk and stay where you are, on your hands and knees. His footsteps get closer, and you hold your breath.

You can see him now through the branches in the bush, his shoulders bucked as he is equally on guard as you are. He stops to look around, listening for you.

You lose your balance and take a step back, crack!

His head whips in your direction, the permanent scream etched into the mask giving your cunt its own pulse.

You let out a deep breath and back up, still crouching, as he starts to come around the bush.

You make a run for it.

Trees seem to taunt you as you zigzag through the darkness, your boots crunching twigs and dead leaves.

You realize too late that you are lost.

You can’t keep running. Your breath is slowly disappearing.

You think you may have a moment of sanctuary, so you find a bush, a tall bush that has no visibility - but that also fortunately means you cannot see if he’s near.

You squat low to the ground and pant as quietly as you can. You’re enjoying yourself, but unfortunately without a partner, you have no way to discuss strategy. You don’t know what to do next.

But that’s when you hear it.

Crunch!

Someone is nearby, but you can’t see how nearby.

You figure you may have time to run again; the issue is that you still can hardly breathe.

But, another part of you writhes in the idea of being caught. You know realistically, though, that they aren’t allowed to touch you, but God do you wish for the opposite.

You swallow down the burn in your throat from running. You need to move.

You turn your back for a split second to look for a new hiding spot - your eyes land on a gap in foliage nearby. You turn back to stand straight, but to your horror a new Ghostface is there, standing tall over you; bare, toned abs covered in blood glistening under the moonlight. You feel your breath hitch and you yelp again.

"Surprise, Sidney," he beams, his voice a little raspy and - dare you say, familiar.

You swallow again before ripping an exaggerate shriek, scrambling to stand up, backing away as you do so, before thump! your spine hits the bark of a tree you swore wasn’t there a second ago. You’re trapped between bushes and trees.

Your chest heaves as you try to back up farther against the tree, but to no avail, and the half-naked Ghostface creeps closer. His hand with the fake knife is raising slowly, which you know is for dramatic effect. But on account that you know he can’t really stab you, you wonder what his plan is once he reaches you.

You whine, shaking your head with a quivering lip, wondering if you can fight, or run. But instead you become distracted as you take another look at him.

God, his stomach is carved into perfect shapes of abdominal muscle. You're so enticed by such art that you don't even notice him putting a hand right behind your head.

Your lips part in surprise once you register the closeness, and your back arches against the tree, as if that would move you farther away from him.

He takes his knife and presses the tip to your chin - using force to point your face towards him, and you make eye contact with the two soulless pits he has for eyes.

"What do you suppose I ought to do with you now, hmm?" he questions lowly, tilting his head to the side.

You swallow thickly, hands scrambling behind you against the bark of the tree. The next group should be arriving soon - right? You wonder how long you will be alone with him. You don't think you'll make it if he keeps you pinned to the tree like this.

"Let me go," you suggest, voice hoarse from fright, and lust.

"Well sheesh, Y/N, that's lame," the voice suddenly raises a few octaves and is much more playful than before. "I mean - goddamnit."

"You-” you cut yourself on in astonishment. “How do you…?”

"I fucking ruined it," he growls. "I'm so stupid."

Suddenly, he's breaking away from you, his knife falling from your face. You watch in actual horror as he uses his free hand to lift up his mask - revealing the angelic face of your best friend. Choso.

"Cho, what the fuck?" you gasp, your fright immediately dissolving into... embarrassment, but masking it in the form of annoyance. "You dick, what are you doing here?"

"I told you that I had to work," he says meekly, "I thought it would be fun to play Ghostface, but I mostly thought you’d enjoy it.”

You feel a little bad after that, he’s entirely too sweet. But you can't help but wonder what he’s implying.

"I... do enjoy seeing you as Ghostface," you admit, but you're embarrassed because you know he saw you ogling the fuck out of his abs. "But... you went through all this trouble for me?"

"Mhmm," Choso nods proudly, his hair falling boyishly over his forehead. "What, you don't like it?"

"No, I-I..." you taper off, unsure of what you want to say next. "It’s just, why are you shirtless? You did that for me too?”

As his face heats, his cheeks turn apple red. “Maybe.”

Oh, he’s terrible. This new knowledge does not help the tingling at the meeting of your thighs.

His embarrassed face changes to a grin after seeing the expression on your face, and he takes a step closer to you again. "So, you forgive me for bailing on you then, yeah?”

“Mm, not quite,” you frown. “You think you can just flash your sexy pecs and toned stomach at me and I’ll forget that you left me here all alone?”

You see each word hit Choso, but you try to look past it, as you’re only speaking to him like this to rile him up. Because now, your nerves are on fire, lust filling up your body. He’s so close, why is he standing so close? You can smell him; a heavenly mix of wood, musk, and corn syrup.

He smelled like your Choso, who’s body fit perfectly against yours when you cuddled, who’s silky hair slid through your fingers when you played with it, who’s laugh is extremely contagious. You try not to make it obvious that you’re inhaling deeply, breathing him in for what felt like the first time.

Damned the alcohol, you think to yourself. Making you look at your friend with such feelings you’ve been swallowing for months. But you just can’t help it…

“You think my pecs are sexy?” Choso asks, but he’s not grinning. He looks genuinely shocked.

You don’t reply and instead smile at his innocence. “And not to mention, did you not even see how scared I was?”

“I did, but,” Choso admits, “I… I’m probably some kind of sick freak, because-“

“Because you liked it?” you finish for him, and his moon-colored face somehow grows whiter.

He nods carefully.

“I feel the same way,” you reply, taking a shaking hand and planting it right over his heart. You feel the pec flex as he responds to your touch. “Why haven’t you dressed up f’me before?”

Choso’s Adam’s Apple bobs harshly in his throat. “I…I thought you’d be weirded out.”

“No,” you said softly, “it’s amazing, Choso. That you enjoy my interests enough to go out of your way like this.”

“Well, of course,” he scoffs, shaking his hair from his eyes. “I would do anything to make you happy.”

“Like what?” you coo, tilting your head to the side, sliding your hand across his chest to grip his thick arm.

“Y/N,” Choso breathes, his eyes fluttering shut. “You h-have to stop touching me like that.”

“Not till you answer my question,” you say.

“Whatever you want,” he whispers, leaning towards you more, as if he wants to put his head on your shoulder. “I am a man of little words. I don’t know what it is that women like.”

“Well, I promise I’m not that complicated,” you reply, sliding your hand up the side of his neck to rest on his jaw. He nuzzles his cheek into your touch.

“No, but you might not want what it is that I really want to do to you,” Choso spits out suddenly, his words coming fast and nervously.

“To me?” you ask, astonished.

He grunts and shifts his weight uncomfortably. “For you. I-I meant for you.”

“No, you didn’t,” you tug your bottom lip with your top teeth - his words traveling straight to your cunt. You couldn’t take much more of this. “How do you know I don’t want it unless you try?”

“Because,” Choso grits suddenly, jerking his head away from your face. “All the guys say you’d never go for someone like me. They say I wouldn’t know what to do with you.” He pauses to sigh. “They may be right but, nonetheless, I wanna see you scream and run like you did a second ago. It just got me so…”

He grunts uncomfortably, and you try to pretend you don’t notice the freakishly long bulge in his costume pants.

“You know everything about me,” you frown, dropping your hand. “You shouldn’t have listened to them.”

“Well, we are just friends,” he replies nervously. “Didn’t want to do anything you don’t want.”

You scoff, “What could you possibly wanna do? You know my limits.”

Choso bites his lip. “But I want to… to push the limits really hard. Especially since,” he pauses and glances around. “We are alone.”

“Push them, then,” you say, and you swear Choso’s eyes are going to pop free from their sockets. “Let’s say I run and hide again. If you can find me…” you pause to smile. “All limits are off.”

You blink up at him innocently, wanting to run your hand over his bulge just as a tease - but you refrain. You had plenty of tricks ready for him.

Choso’s eyes flash and he looks down at the ground for a second. When his head lifts again, desire has overcome his pupils, and he’s smirking.

“Better run then, Sidney. I will not be merciful.”

You take a deep breath before peeling yourself off of the tree and beginning a sprint. Your stomach is knotted with excitement. You have no idea what’s going to happen, but you can’t believe Choso’s down for… whatever it is.

You must have been dreaming. This would change things between you and Choso forever, but maybe that was for the better. Maybe the two of you needed to do this to break the friendzone, even if it was in the form of some kind of sick game of chase in the middle of a forest.

You run and run. You run until you can’t even see the actual attraction anymore; where there had previously been signs to let you know you were still in the bounds of the game, there’s none now.

You may very well be lost but you’re also away from possibly being seen by anyone. Totally not intentional.

You smirk as you find a new spot, and plant yourself there. You should have a few minutes before Choso catches up.

You take your phone out of your pocket. Barely any signal, but enough to see that the group chat is on fire.

Toji

There’s absolutely no reason I should hear Gojo screaming like a bitch from out here 😂

Satoru

ok, im hiding rn, and there’s people everywhere.

besides suguru left me ☹️

Geto

Yes because you were compromising my hiding place with your fuck ass breathing. 👍🏼

Y/F/N

Well, Suguru just made it, so now where are you?

And Y/N?

Satoru

there’s literally nothing but trees ????

but i think i see the lights at the exit

Toji

mentioned you in the chat: You got ma girl here worrying bout you , are u alive???

Satoru

Y/N wya so you can help me out of here 😭🙏🏼

You

im trying to stay off my phone, take notes

Satoru

nah hell nah. i need my phone out in case i need to call 911.

Toji

The cops can’t do shit for u 😭

Y/F/N

mentioned you in the chat: Are you lost?

Choso

Guys did you leave her alone?! Wtf

Nanami

Yeah, you guys are sick.

Satoru

im not hearing shit from the two mfs who decided not to come.

Geto

I offered to go with her -.-

You

i can see the exit guys. im fine you lie.

Satoru

i can see the exit too. i don’t see u. sure ur in the right place?

Geto

I can see your hair, Satoru.

Satoru

FUCK HE FOUND ME

Geto

As could anyone with eyes -.-

Y/F/N

Satoru just came out screaming so loud he woke up a baby. Now they’re crying together 😭

Choso

Guys focus. What did you do to Y/N

You

im fine cho <3

Satoru

AWWWW

Toji

Brotha eughhhh

Y/F/N

Okay, we’re going to play some of the games. Call us when you make it to the exit or if we haven’t heard from you, we’re coming in bitch!

Nanami

Good. At least you all have a plan.

Your phone continues to buzz, but you don’t reply. You sigh, silently thanking Choso for playing along with you in the chat.

“Seems like your friends are looking for you,” a voice suddenly breathes, muffled from the mask.

Your breath hitches as you lock your phone and it falls to the forest floor.

“You found me so fast,” you say with a gulp, turning to face him.

“Didn’t wanna waste precious time,” he says with a chuckle. “Now, what’s that you said? All limits are off? I can do whatever I want?”

You smirk as you turn to face him. “Does widdle Cho even know what he wants?” you mock.

You can’t see his face under the mask, but his body responds to you: his shoulders tense and his head leans forward.

“You,” he says quietly. “On my cock.”

You bite your lip, “Oh? How?”

He grunts and steps forward, before taking your throat between his fingers. His squeeze is soft, not enough to take your breath but enough to force your head still.

“Need your pretty lips on it,” he replies. “Wanna smear your lipstick. Always love when you get dolled up, but too bad y’gonna look a mess when I’m finished.”

You whine a bit in response and hold his wrist, looking directly at the eyes of the mask. “Where’s this side been hiding?”

“Told you already,” he grunts, “didn’t wanna scare you off with the twisted things I think about doing to you.”

You groan at the way his words are flooding straight to your panties. You thank your past self for wearing a skirt, it’s going to be so ridiculously easy to slide out of it.

“You think some head is twisted?” you grin. “Maybe they were right when they said you couldn’t handle me.”

This earns you a deep growl as he uses his grip on your throat to force you to slide down, until your knees hit the hard earth. You hiss in pain but ultimately don’t care, as he releases your throat and uses his knife to tip your face up towards him.

At this angle, he’s delicious. Solid stomach stares at you from just inches away and the mask on his shoulders makes your thighs quench with desire.

“I mean face fucking you until you’re gasping for air,” he grits, “‘Choso, no’ you’d say, but I can’t understand you with a mouth full of dick, hmm?”

You blink up at him, too stunned to reply. Your lips part in expectancy, and your hands shoot out to lay flat against the top of Choso’s thighs.

He’s doing such a fantastic job of catering to your disgusting fantasy that you can’t help but slither your hands up to the top of his waistband before he can say another word. You want to please him so bad, wanna be good for your Choso.

He stands and watches, still as air. His chest rises and falls as he breathes, the mask still staring down at you, but it makes things hotter knowing that on the other side of the mask is Choso’s stare.

Your fingers tuck into the waistband of the black pants.

Choso lets out a small noise. “I-I’m supposed to be the one in control, not fair.”

You grin but do not halt your movements. Your fingers begin tugging, tugging, tugging down the pants - along with his boxers.

You watch as his length slowly gets revealed until it inevitably pops out - slapping against his stomach before hanging erect in alignment with your face.

You take in a deep breath, and Choso appears to be holding his own. You examine his cock, just to make him nervous. He’s got a very thin amount of hair that leads from the trail on his stomach, the length itself being veiny and darker than him; skinny at the base, but fat and terrifying at the pink tip.

“I knew it’d would be this pretty,” you hum, “pretty cock on a pretty boy.”

Choso’s hips shift as he knocks himself forward so that the tip grazes your chin, leaving a faint residue of his sticky precum. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

“Th-Thank you,” he whimpers, “need your throat.”

He leans down to take one of your pigtails into each hand. He is not gentle now, his grip being harsh enough to make you yelp; when you do, he stuffs his dick right between your red lips.

Your eyes flutter closed immediately at the feeling of a full mouth. You carefully wrap your lips around him as he slowly shoves his hips forward until he’s barely halfway in, and his tip kisses the back of your throat.

You stick your tongue out so that it can glide against the sensitive underside of his cock. He notices and his head tilts back.

“S-So warm,” he moans out, sitting stagnant for a minute, before looking down at you.

You hum a bit, knowing the vibrations feel good against his tip, and he thanks you by sliding his cock back out of your mouth and ramming it back in.

You gag and your mouth gets watery, drool leaking out of the corners and covering every inch of him that you are able to take. His thrusts start getting faster, smearing your lipstick all along the length of him, his grip on your hair never loosening.

His little moans are so delicious; soft whines as he uses your face for his pleasure.

“Doin’ s-so much better than I imagined,” he mutters out, and though you love looking up and seeing the mask, you desperately want to see his innocent face twisted up as he experiences this ungodly amount of pleasure.

“Mmh-” you moan around him.

You’re still in awe that this is happening. You’d had plenty of opportunities to do things like this with him, but you’d never been sure he would go for it. You guess you can’t blame him for feeling the same way, because how were either one of you going to ask for a face fuck?

All that doesn’t matter anymore because everything in this moment is perfect, including him. Your Choso.

You take your hand and wrap it around the base at the part that doesn’t fit in your mouth. You take him out of your mouth to plop a pool of spit there and slide your hand up and down for a minute, giving your jaw a break.

“Take off the mask for a second,” you say to him, now that you can speak.

He obeys immediately. The mask is gone, hanging from the hand that doesn’t have a fist full of your hair.

Your lips part at seeing his perfect face, fucked out, twisted in astonishment.

“Back in,” he demands softly, tugging your pigtail.

You blink as you obey and slide your mouth back over his length. You keep your face angled upwards to look at him, and he’s staring down at you like you’re both the most amazing thing he’s ever seen and the best thing he’s ever felt.

You lather up your saliva as you continue trying to go down as far as you can, taking his cock down your throat, which unlocks a new noise from Choso that gets your cunt pounding harder.

You twist your hand over the base and hollow your mouth out to squeeze your cheeks around his sensitive skin. By now your face is covered in drool, spit bubbles all around his tip, saliva dripping onto the earth below you.

Choso loses it and leans forward, releasing your hair and dropping his mask, placing his hands on the trunk of the tree. Now his hips are thrusting, hard - the bottom of his stomach kissing the tip of your nose as he fucks your face.

“Hah - oh,” he whines as he uses your mouth. “Th-Think ‘mgonna cum already.” He sounds sad, and you smile on his dick.

You don’t say anything back but you grumble deep in your throat again, knowing it’s going to drive him insane.

But he quickly pulls his cock back out of your mouth with a deep breath as if his head had been underwater.

“No,” he shakes his head. “Not till I get to make you feel good, too.”

“I did feel good,” you say hoarsely, wiping saliva and lipstick from your face. “Liked pleasing you.”

Choso groans and shakes his head, his chest heaving rapidly. “Stand up for me,” he says gently.

You miss rough Choso already.

You obey though, standing back tall, almost eye level to him in your thick boots.

He doesn’t waste any time; in a flash he’s latched himself onto you, hands pressing into your thighs and he slides them up slowly towards your hips. He tilts his head to the side as you find your back hitting the tree - again, this time, circumstances much different.

“Can’t believe my pretty best friend wants me to fuck her,” he speaks, voice sultry with lust. “Sounds too good to be true.” He leans forward again and lets his nose brush yours, and you shiver with a deep sigh.

“I want you so much,” you say pathetically, bringing your arms over his shoulders and digging your fingertips into the hair behind his head.

His brows furrow in pleasure and you keep speaking.

“In different ways,” you say, “not just to fuck me. But right now… that’s all I want. Please, I need it. Need you.”

“Such a good girl when you beg,” Choso’s voice is soft, but firm, “you never have to beg with me, but I love hearing it. Keep going.”

“Please.”

“Yes?”

“Please, Choso.”

“Choso what?”

“Mmh - god, I hate you.”

“Love you most.”

You go to fire back, but he shuts you up with a harsh crash of his mouth against yours. His warm, wet lips mold right into yours, sliding effortlessly together. Your hands shoot out to his shoulders and he keeps his hands on your hips, gripping them like you’re going to disappear if he doesn’t maintain his hold on you.

Your name leaves his lips in soft little pants as he tilts his head to the side, forcing your lips apart with his tongue before he slides the wet muscle inside so deep that you can feel it on the back of your throat.

You suck on his tongue and he grunts thanks into your mouth. Your hands are running wildly over each other, as if you could crawl inside one another’s skin, two souls joining as one.

He breaks away and gasps, and you grab him by his hair and force his head to an angle. He allows you to then leave sloppy, red kisses all over his neck. His eyes flutter closed as you pleasure him, knowing your innocent baby must feel so good.

You pull back and blink at the mess on his neck.

“Cho, it left stains, I…”

“Don’t care,” he hisses, “brand me all you want. Want everyone to know, that in some way, you own me.”

His big hands whip you around suddenly, like you’re nothing but a ragdoll; now your cheek is planted against the tree and your hands are digging into the bark for stability.

Choso rips up your skirt, and presses his bare, wet cock right to your backside.

“Always fuck my pillow while I moan for you, y’know,” he grunts, reaching his arm around the front of your waist, tugging the thin material that are your panties to the side. “Then you come over and lay your pretty head all in my cum, leaving your scent, and I do it again. Can’t get enough, just love you so much.”

You gasp as he talks, the quake of desire making your legs tremble as Choso’s fingers start circling your clit. Your best friend - so sweet and cute - knew exactly where to find it. You cry out.

You want to pretend you’re disgusted at him making you sleep on his cum, but you really don’t care. You find the thought exhilarating, wondering how many times he’d done that, while smiling innocently next to you.

“Y-You’re so - mmh,” a moan cuts you off as he applies more pressure to your clit. “You fuck yourself to me? My good boy.”

Choso whines before he begins panting against the back of your neck, pathetically rubbing himself against your fishnets, leaving slimy trails of his precum and your saliva all over your ass. He’s keeping the same rhythm with his hips as his fingers on your bundle of nerves, and just when you think nothing can feel any better, he starts to push his dick between your thighs.

You feel his cock slide over your clothed pussy over and over, meeting his fingers at your clit as he swirls them expertly.

Your eyes roll back as you try desperately to reach your high, but you need him to stop teasing you. And fast.

“Choso, please,” you cry, pushing your hips back against him, the sound of your skin meeting his pelvis cracking like the twigs under your feet.

“What is it, my love?” he coos hotly in your ear. “What do you want? Anything, you got it.”

“Ngh - you, goddamnit,” you growl now, frustration overcoming your softness for your best friend. “Who taught you to tease like this?”

Choso chuckles in your ear, “My dear, you did.”

You gasp as he pulls his hands and his cock away from you suddenly. “H-How did I-”

“Mmh, did you think I wasn’t listening to you whenever you’d come over and tell me about your hookups?” he questions softly, taking a step back and you realize he’s going to collect his mask. “It hurt, believe me, but I’ve been taking notes. Wanted to ensure I could make you happier than those other losers.”

You realize this means Choso’s been thinking of fucking you for way longer than you can comprehend. You can hardly blame him; though it came later, you’d had the same awful thoughts of him, but you were able to control it. You’d talked yourself out of it, that is, until tonight - with the liquor in your system.

“You make me happier without fucking me, y’know,” you grin, as his presence returns behind you.

“Oh,” his voice drops, “s-so you don’t wanna do this anymore?”

You gasp and shake your head. Now isn’t the time to be second guessing things, you were deep in heat and Choso would be traumatized if you had to stand here any longer, your cunt dripping uncontrollably down your thighs.

“I want to, mmh,” you hiss, “‘m just saying, you make me happy in general. But… I wouldn’t know if you can fuck me as good as the others, would I?”

Choso growls at this. His fingertips find the edge of your panties and he pulls them over once again - your body jerks at the reunion of his hands on your skin.

“Not as good,” he corrects, “better.”

His dick finds your folds again, thigh fucking you for several moments to lubricate himself in your warm juices. You end up standing on your toes at the shiver that ensues from this, your back arching against him.

He takes a deep breath, and finally, pressure hits your hole as his pretty tip pushes through the threshold.

The first thing either of you says is a dramatic “fuck,” as Choso pauses with just the tip in.

“Why y’stopping?” you panic.

“Hah - the guys said if it’s really tight, you’re not ready f’me,” Choso says sadly.

He almost goes to move his hips back out when you shove yours against him, sliding yourself down several inches of cock.

“Just gotta give me a sec to adjust, Cho,” you say, growing angrier at a second mention of the cockblockers. “Y’so big.”

“Not big, you’re just tight like this,” he groans. “M-Might not last long.”

“‘s okay,” you say, biting your lip, knowing you’ve been brewing a devilish plan in your head the entire time - so if he cums fast, that has nothing to do with you. “Fill me up, please.”

Choso wastes no time bowing to your request. He takes his arms and wraps them around your body, planting his hands on your stomach, where he hikes up your shirt and your breasts fly out of their restraint - your bra.

“Mmh, mmh,” Choso’s mumbling behind you as he thrusts his entire length up into your cervix, dragging himself back out as slowly as he wants, before shoving his cock back in hastily.

His fingers are gently twisting your nipples now, this combined with the cold breeze from the woods has goosebumps rising all over you.

You whine a pathetic “Choso. My Choso,” as his pace quickens; his sheer amount of girth perfectly passing over the sensitive ridges in your canal. At the angle, his dick is curving up into your g-spot, making your cunt wetter; inflaming the urge to squirt all over him.

Choso is grunting like it’s his first time feeling a real pussy. He digs his fingers into the soft skin of your breasts for leverage and continues drilling his hip bones into your ass.

You decide to look back at him. The mask is on his face, which makes your eyebrows furrow in pleasure. One of his hands leaves your breast and finds your pigtail - yanking your head so that you’re forced to keep looking at him. You thank him by meeting the wrecking force of his hips with your own.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, his head falling back. “Fuck this cock, s’all yours. Doing so good-“ he cuts himself off with a whine. “Been in love with you for years, but now I know you got this good ass-” a grunt cuts him off, “ngh - fuck, and we’re just friends? I’m supposed to share this with other people?”

You laugh at him before your smugness is cut off with a moan. “N-Not anymore,” you answer, “I’m yours now, Choso.”

“All mine?” he echoes, driving an extra deep thrust into you for emphasis.

“Yours,” you repeat, “how do you feel about that?”

Choso growls and leans his torso forward, the delicate curve in your back sliding perfectly against his stomach and chest. “Like this.”

Fwip! Fwip! Fwip!

His pace grows quicker, harder. You can’t believe you’re still standing with the amount of pleasure he’s inflicting on your poor insides. Each time his tip hits the opening to your uterus, you sulk out a pathetic cry, but he’s not showing mercy. Your sweet best friend could care less how bad it hurts - and you love it.

“Need you to be meaner,” you groan, “more often. Fuck. Needed this so bad.”

“Yeah? Y’like that?” Choso buzzes, pulling your head towards him even harder. “Like me tearing up your guts?”

“S’much,” you are barely able to moan, let alone speak as white spots appear in your vision. “Wanna c-cum.”

“Mmh - not yet,” Choso purrs, hand falling from your hair, then leaning his head over your shoulder so that you can see a glimpse of the creepy Ghostface mask out of the corner of your eye. “Already gonna cum? Thought you were stronger than this.”

“Ngh - usually,” you whine pathetically, “but you - you feel so good.”

“I know,” Choso grins, slamming himself into you several times in a row before slowing his strokes to an agonizing pace.

You’re still convinced this is a dream you have yet to wake from. To think, he was afraid to even make the first move. Now you’re bent over, middle of the darkness, crying out his name as he fucks your brain against your skull. You can’t think, can’t feel anything besides your needy hole being filled and then some.

“O-Oh,” Choso grunts, “‘kay, maybe you can cum, ‘cause I don’t think ‘mma make it.”

“Oh, really?” you taunt, giggling, now using force from the tree to throw your whole body back against his.

“Y-Y/N, no,” he complains, his hands flying to your hips as if they’re reigns he needs to hang onto.

You ignore him, using all the strength in your legs to fuck back onto him, your pace fast - till you feel the twitch in his cock and his moans become louder than yours.

“No!” Choso shouts fakely, before trying to pull himself out of you, but you follow him with your hips and he lets his spurts of cum splash uncontrolled all over your walls.

You grin greedily because you’re not finished with him. You reach next to you and rip off his mask, wanting to see your plan unfold in his facial features.

Your hips don’t stop, even as Choso’s cock twitches and shakes inside of you, and his hands are leaving bloody nail-shaped crescents on your hips by now from the amount of pressure he’s putting on them.

“Hah - hah - ngh, mmm, n-noooo,” he whines, his head falling limp on your shoulder as you continue to swirl your hips on his cum-covered dick, using him to get your orgasm.

“Such a good boy, Cho,” you purr in his ear, “letting me use your cock however I want? Dressing up to get my attention? Fucking me exactly how I asked? S-So good.”

“Th-then why are you punishing me,” he stutters, his teeth sinking into your bare shoulder as overstimulation floods him.

“‘M not, Cho baby,” you say softly, “I need to cum too. Not fair only you get to finish, is it?”

“I-I was gonna help you,” he says, his voice muffled from his face buried in your shoulder.

He drives his point home by reaching up to your clit, using his fingers to rotate little devilish circles over the spot. You feel your stomach light itself on fire.

“Agh - can’t take it,” Choso groans. “‘m gonna cum again.”

You can barely hear him, because you’re so cockdrunk that your senses are gone. All that exists in your mind’s eye is Choso’s hand and his cock, both pleasuring you in different ways.

“‘M cumming!” you chant together, full body compulsions overcoming you both as you clench around him - milking every last drop of his second orgasm out as your own ripples through your veins.

You hear squelching as Choso gasps, and you’re vaguely aware of your pussy gushing, but you can’t find it in you to care as you’re still trying to stop grunting and shaking.

“Oh god,” you manage to rasp, your limp body falling towards the tree as Choso lets go of you.

He collapses against the tree next to you and slowly lifts up his pants as his chest heaves; the world silent around you, save for both of your breathing.

Moments pass and nothing is said, just a silent agreement in the air that the two of you need to gently float off back to the ground.

But then, Choso’s curious voice pierces the bubble.

“I-Is it bad that I…” Choso gestures to you. “Finished in you like that? N-never done that before, but it felt so nice.”

“No,” you answer, your voice ringing in your ears. “Nothing bad will happen, I take a pill to prevent that. Don’t worry. You can do that as much as you want and whenever you want.”

Choso nods, “Can’t even think about doing it again right now.”

He’s so fucked. You are too, feeling like you can’t get your brain to speak to your bones. You can’t move. All you can do is blink away your high and catch your breath, stars still dancing along your vision.

But after a while, you’re able to pry yourself off of the tree, and the two of you clean each other up as best as you can - Choso wipes his bloody hand print off of your throat, but when you try to get your lipstick off of his neck, he fights you.

“No,” he says sharply, “leave it.”

You feel your face heat. “Choso, everyone’s gonna know.”

“That we made out and you kissed my neck,” he grins, leaning forward to plant a kiss on your nose.

And just like that, your best friend, the person you love more than anything else has you wrapped around his finger and ready to obey his commands. His softness has returned for good.

The two of you find yourselves walking hand in hand through the woods, ecstasy surrounding you in your own little bubble.

You pull out your phone and alert your friends that you’re approaching; and when you two reach the gate, the whole group is standing there - Satoru munching on orange and black popcorn, Toji holding a stuffed panda with blood stains, Geto examining his nails, and Y/F/N slurping a giant purple drink.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Toji bursts out, almost immediately after seeing you two approach.

“I know you’re fucking lying,” Y/F/N adds, almost dropping her drink.

“You motherfuckers were in there FUCKING?” Satoru shouts, popcorn flying from his fingers in disbelief.

Choso turns beet red. “N-No, what?”

“Yep,” you nod, contradicting him. “Nasty, rough, raw sex.”

“RAW IS CRAZY!”

“Oh my GOD-”

“Hot.”

Everyone turns to look at Geto in disbelief.

“What? You mean to tell me you guys didn’t consider fucking in the woods?” he questions Toji.

“Well, I asked,” Toji says, scratching the back of his neck. “She said we’d get caught.”

Your friend kicks him in the leg.

“They didn’t,” Satoru points out. “You freaks. Choso, we didn’t even know you were here.”

“Right,” Choso nods. “That was the point.”

Satoru bursts into laughter which prompts the rest of the group to giggle.

“Also, we were wrong,” Toji admits suddenly. “We always tell him he can’t do shit with Y/N… but he managed to tame the beast. Well done, soldier.”

Choso rolls his eyes. “I-It’s not… I didn’t… she-”

“Well, anyways, I’m feeling rather… sobered now,” you cut him off, adjusting your shirt, unaware everyone can see the red marks Choso left on your sides, as well as the giant hole in your fishnets. “Say we grab some drinks?”

“Sounds nice,” Choso confirms.

“Oh I’m sure it does,” Toji snickers. “Gonna get her drunk again for round two?”

“Toji!”

“Ewww!”

“Nobody wanted to hear that!”

You giggle quietly next to Choso before you look up at him, only to see he’s already smiling down at you, disheveled hair and all.

“I love you, Sidney,” he coos.

“I love you more, Cho.”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #choso kamo #jjk choso #ghostface #scream #ghostface smut #ghostface scream #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso x reader #choso smut #choso x you #choso x y/n #choso my beloved

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fluentmoviequoter · 1 year ago

Text

Falling Slowly

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!rookie!reader

Summary: You are Tim's newest rookie, and his favorite. He treats you differently, able to see that your past affects you, and the little things build up until you can't deny your feelings.

Warnings: so much fluff, brief angst, domestic violence (Tim and reader respond to a call & allusions to past dv against reader), one scene is inspired by "The Switch" (1x4)

Word Count: 4.0k+ words

A/N: This doesn't really fit in any specific season, so I put characters in the roles I wanted them to have and just made up some names to fill in the gaps. Hopefully everything makes sense. Please let me know what you think!

Picture from Pinterest

“What are you doing here?” Angela asks, surprised to see Tim.

Furrowing his brows, Tim answers, “I’m here for the TO meeting.”

Angela tilts her head back and groans, passing Nyla a 10-dollar bill.

“She thought you’d give up your position for Metro,” Nyla explains.

“I’d like to, someday, but not today,” Tim replies.

“20 bucks this is his last one,” Angela says to Nyla. “He still has the open invite to Metro and his patience can’t take many more boots.”

Nyla reaches to shake Angela’s hand as Tim rolls his eyes and walks away.

“Let me see his rookie first, then we’ll talk,” Nyla decides. “I’ve got a feeling a lot is going to change around here.”

“Like what?” Angela asks. “Nyla! Like what?”

✯✯✯✯✯

Walking into the Mid-Wilshire station on your first day as a rookie is both nerve-wracking and exciting. You’ve heard stories about boots making it through the academy to fail once they reach this level, but you’re determined. When you were a kid, you were in bad situations more often than any child should be, but kind police officers changed your life, and you’d like to do the same.

Waving to one of your police academy friends, you sit in the bullpen, waiting impatiently to learn which officer behind you will be your training officer. Getting the perfect training officer is up to fate, based on what you’ve heard, and your TO can make or break your career.

“Good morning, boots! I am Watch Commander Wade Grey. You have made it through the police academy, but don’t expect a pat on the back, your work is just beginning. This is the time to prove yourself, to show your TO, me, and this city why you deserve to be a police officer.” He pauses, moving around the podium to add, “If you should be a police officer.”

As you listen intently, striving to remember every word Sergeant Grey says, two detectives stand at the back of the room and evaluate the rookies.

“He’s only got one shot,” Angela mutters.

“If he gets the pretty one in the front, I’m not taking the bet,” Nyla says.

Angela looks up a row, her brows raising when she sees you. “If he ends up with her, we’re starting a station-wide pool and getting rich,” she adds.

“Now, it’s time to be assigned to your judge, jury, and executioner,” Wade says with a smile. “Or, as we call them, TOs. Our former rookie turned TO, Nolan: you’ve got Edward Henderson.

Officer Nolan nods at Henderson, and you remember his story: a late-life rookie who got a golden ticket. Part of you wants to work with him and learn why he decided on law enforcement, but you only nod at Henderson before turning back around.

“Lance Vincent, you are with our newest TO, Eliza Reagan.”

Wade says your name with a smile that seems a bit more genuine than before. “Officer Bradford, last but not least,” he says as he assigns you your new TO.

You look over your shoulder, a small smile on your face as he nods at you. He is undeniably attractive, and you hope it doesn’t cause any problems.

“Oh, he’s a goner,” Nyla whispers under her breath when you smile at Tim.

“Should we tell him?” Angela replies.

“I think we’ll have to.”

✯✯✯✯✯

Something about you bothers Tim. Not in the usual, grumpy-with-a-new-boot way, but he has a sense that you’re different.

“Nice to meet you,” you say, walking to Tim at the back of the bullpen.

He stands, offering a calloused hand to shake.

“I’m not going to pretend this is going to be easy or fun,” he tells you. “Being a rookie is the hardest part of your career, but if you’re a good cop under the uniform, you’ll be fine.”

Nodding, you promise to do your best and express your willingness to learn everything you can from him.

“Good,” he says. “Meet me outside the war room. We’re not wasting any time, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” you answer.

Tim watches you walk away, and when you stop to let someone carrying a large box cross in front of you, Tim realizes that you’re hurting, or were hurting not long ago. The underlying need to help people is something he recognizes.

“She’s pretty,” Angela muses, walking to Tim’s side.

“Though you know that,” Nyla adds, smiling on his other side.

“She’s a boot. No different than the other rookies,” Tim argues, though his gaze is still on your back as you sign for your bags and weapons.

“Sure, she is. Why don’t you go put her through a Tim test?” Angela suggests.

Tim rolls his eyes as he leaves, wondering what hurt you bad enough to make you want to be a cop. He became a cop despite his hurt, but you’re young and bright – and too good for him – so there must be something in you that makes you worthy of this. More worthy (and more beautiful) than any rookie before you.

✯✯✯✯✯

Several officers wish you luck, with one or two warning you about so-called “Tim Tests” while you wait for Tim behind the shop.

“Don’t tell me you have a checklist,” Tim begins, drawing your attention away from the shop tires.

“No, sir,” you answer. “Just being vigilant, I suppose. I’d hate to start my first day with a flat tire.”

Tim nods, asking where the war bags are. You tell him how you checked the contents and loaded them into the trunk, and he appreciates your brief explanation.

“Good work. The easy part is over,” Tim says. He seems to weigh his options before deciding, “You drive. Show me what you’ve got.”

He follows you to the driver’s side door, opening it as he reminds you of standard shop procedures. As Tim closes the door, you wonder if he’s a gentleman or if he followed you because he doesn’t trust you to drive correctly. Either way, you know what you’re doing, and you won’t let the man in the passenger seat distract you… too much.

Driving toward Wilshire Boulevard for patrol, Tim looks out the window.

“Blue Camaro has an expired plate,” you alert.

“Call it in.”

You do so, hitting the sirens as you engage the traffic stop. Tim raises a hand to stop you from getting out.

“Remember your training. Don’t let the situation get away from you.”

His words linger in your mind, and you complete the stop with no problem, issuing a ticket and returning to the shop.

“I’m driving,” Tim alerts you, spreading his hand across the small of your back as he directs you to the sidewalk.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask when he starts the car.

“No,” he answers bluntly.

You lick your lips nervously, turning your attention to your surroundings. Suddenly, Tim pulls over and hits the brakes.

“I’ve been shot, boot. Where are we?” Tim demands.

Furrowing your brows in surprise at his actions, you answer, “Intersection of 12th and Meadowbrook, west of Redondo. There are several hospitals in a five-mile radius, but only one has a trauma center.”

Tim pulls out wordlessly, continuing his patrol route. Tim doesn't say much else throughout the few hours between his first test and lunch. He lets you point things out, answers your questions about the area and procedures, and glances at you out of the corner of his eye. When he pulls up to a small circle of food trucks where several police officers are waiting, he turns toward you.

“You’re doing well. I’m not neglecting to give you good feedback for any reason other than once you start riding alone, you won’t get it. My role here is to prepare you for your solo career, not hold your hand until you get there.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you for answering my questions,” you reply as you open the door.

Tim’s hand finds your upper back as he leads you to his favorite of the food trucks, a light touch that disappears nearly as quickly as it happened. You thank him quietly for the suggestion before sitting with your fellow rookies.

“Hi, Tim,” Angela says.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his annoyance breaking through his growing fondness for you.

“Just came to get some food. Your boot seems to be in a good mood.”

“Strange, I thought Tim’s thing was ‘break their spirits in the first hour,’” Nyla adds as she joins Angela.

“You two not have work to do or something?” Tim inquires.

“Something like that. How’s she doing?” Angela tips her chin toward you as she asks.

“She’s got good instincts, knows protocols.”

“But?”

Tim shrugs, turning away before Angela can dig deeper.

“I give it a week,” Nyla announces.

“Before what?”

“He can’t take it anymore.”

✯✯✯✯✯

“Domestic disturbance in your area,” dispatch alerts.

Tim grabs the radio, accepting the call as he hits the sirens and turns into a residential area. You chew the inside of your bottom lip; domestic calls are your least favorite, especially when kids are involved. Unwilling to show discomfort, you put on your best brave cop face and follow Tim to the door.

A young girl with a bloody nose and teary eyes opens it, and you glance at Tim before kneeling and asking her to come outside. She listens without question, her lower lip wobbling as you smile.

“He’s hurting my mom,” she whimpers.

Tim nods at you before tilting his head toward the shop. You direct the girl to stand at the edge of the porch and wait for you as you follow Tim inside.

“LAPD, put your hands up!” Tim yells as he steps into a bedroom.

Your eyes widen when you see the large man towering over the girl’s mother. He smiles as he reaches for something.

“Don’t move unless you want to give me a reason,” Tim says lowly. “Step away.”

The man looks toward the nightstand before taking a deep breath and giving up.

“I got it,” Tim tells you before radioing a code 4.

You wait until Tim has the handcuffs secured to walk outside. The girl runs into your arms, and you pop the shop's trunk, setting her down as you retrieve a small first aid kit. She lets you clean her bloody nose, gripping your wrist when it stings.

“Where’s my mom?” she asks.

“She’s talking to my partner right now, she’ll be out in a few minutes,” you explain.

“Is he nice?”

“The nicest,” you answer.

“Mom!” she yells, letting you set her on the ground before she runs to her mom’s side.

“Get in the shop,” Tim commands as he walks past, his hand brushing your arm as he closes the trunk.

You obey, climbing into the passenger seat and waiting as he talks to the EMTs. When he joins you, he drives to a quiet, empty street before switching off his body cam and gesturing for you to do the same.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer than you’ve heard.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t say what I want to hear. Domestic calls are tough but that wasn’t your first one, was it?”

You shake your head, looking out the windshield instead of at Tim.

“We all have reasons for becoming a cop, and some calls are harder than others. As long as your past doesn’t get in the way and put you in danger, it’s okay to be human,” he continues. “TOs are notoriously hard on you, but we’re also here for you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Tim shrugs, one corner of his lips upturned. “No more sappy stuff, we have work to do.”

“Oh, if you think that was sappy, I’ve got a lot to show you before I graduate to short sleeves.”

The comment catches Tim off guard and makes him feel something he didn’t expect.

✯✯✯✯✯

By the end of the first week, you feel like you know Tim well. His hand spread across your back or shoulder when you’re in front of him, his little reminders that you’re not alone, that you can show emotion when the time allows, and every other little thing he does makes you wonder why there are so many horror stories around his teaching style.

Likewise, Tim thinks he has you down. You ask him questions, ask for his opinions, listen and apply what he says, and send him small smiles when he compliments your work.

But, it only takes a shift to realize that people are multi-faceted, and cops and rookies are no different.

“Good morning,” you greet, passing Tim a small box.

“What is this? A bribe?” he asks.

You smile as you reply, “Nope. Just something I found, and I thought you’d like.”

Tim opens the box, his eyes widening at the 2000 Super Bowl tickets, the Rams’ first win. “I can’t accept these.”

“They were under a bookshelf in my apartment, it’s not like I spent a million dollars on them, Officer Bradford.”

Tucking them into his pocket, Tim opens your door. “Thank you.”

You smile, and Tim thinks your joy is the better gift.

✯✯✯✯✯

During your first call of that day, you show Tim that you don’t just value his opinions.

“Shots fired!” you radio as you duck behind the car.

“Are you hit?” Tim asks.

Shaking your head, you move closer, trusting him to direct you and keep you safe. The men in the house you were called to have automatic weapons, and though you’re a good shot, you’re not a match for their guns alone.

“Backup is on the way, but I need you to do something for me. You trust me?” Tim adds.

“I do.”

“Reach around the back and open the trunk; just far enough to reach the latch. I’ll cover you.”

He stands above you, firing into the shattered window of the house as you slip your arm and back around the end of the shop and open the trunk.

“Good, perfect,” Tim praises as he ducks beside you. His knuckles graze yours as he leans past you. “Can you reach the shotguns?”

Glancing in the window above you, you locate them quickly. “I can.”

“Do it. I got you.”

Once the shotguns are in your hands, you pass one to Tim as you ready your own. Timing your shots, you take out two shooters just as your backup arrives.

“You’re bleeding,” Tim says, his adrenaline dropping as a tactical team takes over.

You look at your arm, just noticing your ripped sleeve and bloody skin. Tim lays his hands on your arm as he turns it toward him.

“I think it was just glass from the windshield,” you say quietly, pointing to the car behind you, riddled with bullet holes and broken glass.

“Either way, we need to get it checked out.”

“Officer Bradford?” you interject. “Thank you. For making sure I trust you.”

“Thanks for trusting me,” he mutters, so soft you can barely hear it.

He taps the Super Bowl tickets in his pocket as he rises to get a paramedic to check on you, and you smile, wondering how bad it would be if you fell in love with your TO.

✯✯✯✯✯

“You’re quieter than usual,” Tim points out. “I need to know that whatever is bothering you won’t impair your ability to work with me.”

“It won’t,” you promise. “Sorry.”

Tim considers pressing, but he trusts you. “I’m here. If you decide you want to talk about it.”

He exits the shop and opens your door before you can reach for the handle.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Did you see that?” Nyla gushes, elbowing Angela.

“Ow. See what?”

Nyla points to Tim, closing your door and laying a hand on your shoulder as he ducks his head to talk to you.

“That’s not a reprimand,” Angela deduces.

When you smile, a tiny upturning of your lips, Nyla laughs.

“Oh, that boy… The door, the touches, listening to her? He’s gone.”

“Not just him,” Angela adds. “She asks him questions, smiles at him, trusts him more than anyone… and the Super Bowl tickets? They’re adorable.”

“Should we do something?”

“Not yet. I think they’re close to realizing.”

✯✯✯✯✯

After your longest, and worst, day yet, you find yourself in a hospital waiting room beside Tim. He hasn't said anything since a speeding driver ran into your side of the shop, though you've apologized countless times (even though there's nothing you could have done).

Tim’s jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried it will snap. You’re sitting close to him, a bandage around your wrist and an ice pack pressed to your cheek.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“Stop- stop apologizing, it’s not your fault,” Tim sighs.

His arm is on the armrest between you, and you move your hand toward his. When he doesn’t back away, you turn your arm to allow your knuckles to brush against his.

“It’s not your fault,” you tell him kindly. “He ran a red light.”

“And you could’ve been killed,” Tim replies, standing abruptly and walking away.

You slump in your seat, dejected and curious about what you could say to make him stop blaming himself for someone running into you.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Tim and his rookie sitting in a tree,” Nyla sings under her breath.

“I don’t have time for this right now,” Tim replies.

“Right, because you’re too busy being mad that she got hurt. Cops get hurt Tim,” Angela reminds him.

“Not with me,” he begins, pausing to take a deep breath. “Despite what you think, I’m upset that she got hurt, not because I’m in love with her.”

“Whatever you got to hear, buddy,” Nyla replies. “But tell me this. If it was Nolan when he was a boot, would you have felt this bad? Even if I believed you didn’t have feelings for her, which I don’t, you’re different with her and you know it.”

Tim sighs, looking out the door at you. He knows it’s true; despite his constant denial, he does treat you differently because you are different, and you’re like a magnet, incapable of being ignored or forgotten. Finally confessing it to himself, Tim knows that his feelings for you will get one or both of you in trouble unless something changes.

✯✯✯✯✯

“It is time for The Switch,” Wade says as he walks into the bullpen. “The day you ride with a new TO.”

You glance at Tim, who gives you an encouraging nod. He tells you that you’re a great rookie, but he also tells you that you’re pretty sometimes, which doesn’t seem pertinent (or always true, in your eyes). Wade says your name, and you look up.

“You’re with Nolan,” he tells you.

Smiling at Nolan, you cross your fingers under the desk that it’s a good day.

“Henderson,” you call as he stands up, “what’s Nolan like?”

“He’s great. Really understanding and knowledgeable. A little talkative, but fairly easy going. Just stick to protocol and listen to his directions; you’ll be fine.”

“What about Bradford?” Vincent asks you. “Everyone says he’s the toughest. Anything I should be aware of?”

“I don’t think so. He’s quiet sometimes, but he’s great.”

You collect your war bag with the expectation of a good day. You will miss Tim, but learning how another TO teaches and his views can be invaluable. As you slide into the driver’s seat beside Nolan, you realize something: you like Tim as more than your TO. He means more to you than just being your teacher, your mentor, and a trustworthy officer. The thought hits you so suddenly you're not sure where it came from.

With each passing moment, you find yourself remembering something Tim said or wanting to tell him something, but he isn’t there. Nolan is kind and laughs at your muttered comments, but it is nothing like riding with Tim. As you think about all the little things Tim does, everything begins to make sense.

Someone yells your name when you step out of the shop to get lunch. Turning, you’re surprised to see Vincent storming up to you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands.

“Tell you what?”

“That Bradford has ‘Tim Tests’ and nothing pleases him!”

You glance over his shoulder, finding Tim and Nolan talking. Tim glances over at you, and the tension in his shoulders seems to ease until Nolan says something else.

“His Tim Tests aren’t that bad; he’s just teaching you awareness and safety.”

“He wants to end my career,” Vincent exclaims before muttering something about you not understanding as he walks away.

✯✯✯✯✯

“How’s Vincent doing?” Nolan asks.

“That kid has no situational awareness,” Tim answers. “I stopped at a street sign, and he couldn’t figure out where we were.”

“He’s probably scared of you,” Nyla interjects. “And, no, Bradford, I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“My rookie can tell me where I am, no matter what,” Tim adds.

“Your rookie is very good, I’ll give you that,” Nolan replies. “But Vincent has potential. Besides, your boot has people problems.”

Tim glances over at you, locking eyes with you while Vincent talks to you dramatically.

“So do I, but I’m still a good cop.”

Nyla watches as both you and Tim sigh before abandoning the conversations you’re in. She shakes her head, calculating her winnings if the betting pool goes her way.

✯✯✯✯✯

Walking out of the locker room at the end of the day, you’re surprised to be called into Sergeant Grey’s office. You sit across from him, fiddling with the hem of your shirt to spend your nervous energy.

“You are being assigned to a new TO. Officer Bradford has decided to hand you off to someone better equipped to teach you,” Grey informs. “But you’re not in trouble.”

You still your hands in your lap. “Okay. Effective when?”

“Monday morning. So, rest up.”

As you stand, Grey says your name, smiling as he repeats, “You’re not in trouble. This was Bradford’s decision, nothing to do with you. Well, nothing to do with you as a rookie.”

You purse your lips at his phrasing, and he chuckles before sending you out. Walking through the parking lot, you see Tim’s truck is still there and decide to ask him what happened. Standing by the tailgate, you chew your bottom lip as you wait, nervous that you did something, though Wade assured you differently.

Tim walks up unnoticed, saying your name to get your attention.

“What did I do wrong?” you ask, jumping straight to your questions. “I can fix it; there has to be a way to fix it.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Tim promises. “I just can’t be your TO anymore.”

“Why not?”

Tim shifts his backpack on his shoulder. “It’s not appropriate.”

Your heart drops. Tim knows you have feelings for him, and it makes him uncomfortable; that’s the only explanation. Nodding slowly, you accept your fate.

“And I can’t do this,” Tim adds.

His hands slide onto your jaw, his palms against your cheeks as his fingers settle behind your ears, pulling you into a quick kiss. You only begin to respond when he pulls back.

“You’re the best boot I’ve ever had,” he whispers, brushing his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks.

“I’m not your boot anymore,” you remind him.

“That’s your fault. Those little gifts, and soft smiles, and how well you listen… You make it impossible not to fall for you.”

You laugh, leaning against his hands as you reply, “You do too. How do you think I felt when you called me pretty or touched my back? Then you kept comforting me and inviting me to talk. It was too easy.”

“Go to dinner with me?” he asks.

You nod, smiling against his hands before he moves to touch your back again, opening the passenger door as he helps you in. Tim slips his hand into yours, kissing your knuckles as he keeps you close.

✯✯✯✯✯

When the rest of the rookies leave the station, noticing that your car is still there, they ask each other if anyone has seen you.

“Bradford’s truck is gone,” Nyla notices as she walks out.

“Looks like we won,” Angela cheers.

“Where’s Bradford?” Vincent asks.

“On a date,” Nyla answers. “With his former boot.”

The rookies’ jaws drop, wondering how you managed to pull Mid-Wilshire’s resident grump.

“Don’t expect the same to happen to you,” Angela says as she passes the rookies. “We all worked for this one.”

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford fluff #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford #the rookie #requests #fem!reader

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rajkaran-12345 · 2 months ago

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Reliable Hopper Level Switch – Precision Monitoring for Bulk Solids & Liquids

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#Hopper level switch #Boot level switch #Capacitance level transmitter #Conductivity level switch #chute jam level switch #diaphragm type level switch #Radar level transmitter

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sweetsaladpainterranch · 2 months ago

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In Your Time of Need

(Alastor x female wife)

NO MINORS PLEASE!

***

You were pissed. You were inexplicably irritated beyond belief. And the worst part? The cause of your distress wasn't even worth getting angry about, which you knew full well, yet here you were acting like a 15 year old school girl again. Ugh! This was so stupid! And YOU were stupid for allowing yourself to be this upset about something so dumb- and on and on your internal chastisement circled.

You hadn't even realized that you had walked yourself right into the hotel kitchen, ignoring a concerned looking Charlie and Vaggie, to absent mindedly pour a warm mug of coffee and shuffle off. Muttering curses and occasionally waving your hand in the waves of anger wafting off of you.

Stumbling upon you stewing within the depths of the library, Angel Dust made the Unfortunate mistake of introducing logic to your situation. You nearly bit off one of the gloved hands that dared to enter your line of sight as you snapped your sharp teeth in rebuttal. The tall spider demon wasted no time in running for his afterlife right out the door. Usually, you were quick to offer an apology for the VERY rare event of baring your teeth or even a frown towards a friend. But not today...NOT TODAY!

Still steeped within your funk, you were suddenly swallowed by a thick, swirling miasma of black shadows. As soon as you were dropped onto your shared bed sitting with your legs over the side, feeling pin pricks of static climbing up your arms, you struck your husband with a questioning glare. He stood directly in front of you with a smirk, polished boots tapping on the hardwood floor, and eyes half-lidded in understanding. Before you knew it, he had kneeled in between your legs and had raised up your tank top enough to reveal the ample breasts hiding underneath.

Your protests were cut short by the breathy gasp that broke through your lips as Alastor roughly sealed his mouth around one nipple while kneading your other mound between his long fingers. You could feel his ever-present smile as he switched breasts. Never letting up on the pressure of the static also physically stimulating your sensitive skin. Without a word, strong hands gripped your hips and pulled them forward while you breathlessly sunk back onto your elbows and watched him unbutton your jeans.

He even made sure to maintain eye contact as he rained a trail of tender kisses down your stomach. It was so distracting that you hadn't even noticed how he also slid off your pants and left you in just a pair of black underwear. Now face level with your, now moist core, your husband began to litter your inner thighs with bites and licks as he positioned your legs over his shoulders.

The room filled with your moans when he finally brought that talented tongue to your barely clothed vagina. He continued to measure your lewd reactions with a satisfied stare as he played with your clit through your soaked panties. Your hips began to rhythmically buck up into the stimulus he provided. When you couldn't take it anymore, you let out a loud "FUCK!" as the wave of your orgasm crashed into you and you rocked onto Alastor's thick tongue.

By the time you caught your breath, you realized that you were now free of clothing and being repositioned onto your stomach. The deer demon had pressed your chest and head into the soft, but now sweaty mattress, while placing your ass up on your knees for him to admire. You waited in anticipation, trying to see anything other than his strong legs still clothed in slacks, when a sudden slap rang out. You wasted no time in returning to your original view point as you already knew he only wanted you to see what he allowed you to during sex.

Your husband did indeed enjoy possessing the control in this area, which was a turn on in itself, but his hum of approval only served to further torture your aching core. You needed him. Badly.

You heard a zipper and felt his heavy cock slap itself down on the same spot his hand had just disciplined. Your entire body jumped but Alastor's large hands once again firmly held your hips up straight where he wanted them. You felt his large member begin to slot itself into your folds and rub itself through to collect your wetness. A whimper bubbled from your mouth as he once again teased your clitoris with his ballooned tip.

All you heard was a dark chuckle before he rammed himself forward to fully fill your awaiting hole. You don't even know that you cried out as your mate began to fully pump into you at an unforgiving pace. Drool pooled down your lips with every loud moan and you could only grip the sheets of the shaking bed as he roughly fucked you.

You felt a gloved hand grab your shoulder and hot breath on your neck as he bent over your back to reach even deeper. Low, husky pants filled your ears as he took what he wanted from you with abandon. White noise rose with his every strong thrust and you could see the shadow of his growing antlers crawling over your clenched hands. You knew that he could feel your walls beginning to flutter because he immediately bit down deep into your shoulder. A silent command to cum in a primal language that you obeyed at once. With a final grunt from his chest, he joined you in a powerful climax as your walls milked his cock for all it was worth.

After taking a moment to calm himself, your husband kissed the bloody bit on your shoulder before dislodged himself from you. Immediately falling over limp, you merely looked up at him with a fucked out glaze in your eyes and a happily tired smile. Alastor lovingly smiled down at your now sleeping form as he tucked himself back into his slacks and straightened out his suit. Snapping his fingers, you changed position on the bed so that you were now laying correctly under a clean set of sheets. He verified that you were fast asleep free of any filth or lingering sweat before bending down a placing a kiss on his wife's now peaceful face.

***

Ok, this was my first attempt at smut based on my morning with my lovely partner. You ever just get really pissed off for no good reason and really need a good fuckin?

Well hope you enjoyed 😉

-SSPR

#hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor smut

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moonlitdesertdreams · 3 months ago

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Shake the Frost

A/N: I have no comment other than thank you to the Thunderbolts trailer for putting me back into a Bucky Barnes phase.

Relationship: Bucky Barnes | Winter Soldier x Reader

Tags: bucky barnes x reader, bucky barnes x y/n, The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, Winter Soldier!Bucky, hurt/comfort, fluff

WARNINGS: mentions of flashbacks, PTSD, brainwashing

Summary: Inspired by the song 'Shake the Frost' by Tyler Childers. After a year on the run with Bucky, you think he might finally be opening up to you. All it took was a little honesty. And a healthy dose of yelling.

Word Count: 1.5k+

You’d spent an entire year on the lam, hiding a brainwashed assassin who could barely remember his name.

And after a year, the Winter Soldier- Bucky- still turned a cold shoulder to you when the memories became too much to bear. One minute he would sit with you on the couch in your little cabin to watch a movie, and the next he’d be trudging through the Montana snowfall, wandering the remote mountain ridge in an apathetic search for clarity.

It had been the tune of your relationship since the beginning, though the past couple of months had seen some improvement. Bucky was more human, seeking you out for comfort after nightmares and flashbacks or even requesting different food items when you deemed it necessary to run into town for groceries. You weren't sure if it was him actively looking for help or just trying to tamp down on the mounting frustration caused by his constant cold-shoulder.

Tonight, he had surprised you by grabbing the TV remote while you flipped aimlessly through a limited supply of channels. The cabin, tucked deep into the Montana Rockies, belonged to your maternal grandparents and had the barest of cable packages.

“Wait, wait.” His sudden movement had scared you half to death, metal fingers gently encircling yours on the remote. “Can you go back?”

You balanced a half-eaten plate of rehydrated mashed potatoes on your knee and nodded. “Uh, yeah. Can I have my hand back?”

Your comfort level with him had been fairly steady, as you weren’t in fear of him killing you in your sleep anymore. With that said, any sudden contact still made you wary. You knew what he was capable of when provoked, and didn’t wish to bring it on yourself, even if it was an accident

“Sorry.” He released you at once, the prosthetic whirring as your wrist was freed.

Bucky’s keen gaze turned back to the old TV as you clicked back a couple of channels, stopping on an old rerun of M*A*S*H. His head tilted at the uniforms, eyes hardening as he discerned the setting. You swallowed a forkful of potatoes, not sure if this was the best thing for a recovering super-soldier assassin prone to PTSD to be watching. The rest of the food was nudged around your plate nervously before you pressed the button to go to the next channel, twangy country music flooding the room instead.

“Bucky, I don’t know if M*A*S*H is the best-”

He stood abruptly from the couch, walking towards the front door. Nothing of note had happened before you switched the show off, but this was how he worked. Some unknown, unseen trigger would send him spiraling into silence, and you’d be left with no explanation. A year had little effect on his habits.

This time, you weren’t having it. “Hey!”

Ditching your plate on the couch, you chased him to the entryway where his boots were already on. Bucky wouldn’t meet your eyes, focused solely on getting out the door. You grabbed his hand just as he had minutes ago, soft flesh meeting titanium on the doorknob. He shook you off and pulled the door open, tossing a Russian command over his shoulder in your direction.

“Bucky, wait!” You jammed your feet into the closest shoes and grabbed your coat, hustling out into the blizzard without a thought.

Soft light emanated from a lantern on the porch, highlighting the figure standing only a couple feet from the bottom step. Powdery snow climbed halfway up his shins, evidently acting as a barrier between him and his usual route. You walked up behind him slowly, stopping on the last stair.

You were normally patient with his traumatic past and memory issues, but it was mounting into frustration as time passed by. “Bucky.”

He didn’t answer.

“Bucky, what’s wrong?”

The Winter Soldier remained motionless. You grit your teeth, anger rising.

“Soldat.” You intoned in the same manner you’d heard his handlers speak. “Otvechat [Answer].”

Painfully slow, he turned back towards you. You gulped, steeling yourself for a blow or outburst of anger. Instead, his face was blank. Blue eyes bore into nothing, haunted and cold. You ducked your head to meet his vacant stare, hoping the commands hadn’t forced him into some sort of fugue state.

“Talk to me.” You said, almost pleading. “For once, tell me what’s going on.”

A stream of Russian followed, growing more desperate the longer he talked. The extent of your Russian was the few simple commands barked out by HYDRA guards and nothing more, and you were lost after the first two words. His switch between languages wasn’t uncommon, but came frequently with stress.

You held up your hands, shushing him. Bit back your frustration in order to get an answer. “Bucky, I don’t speak- I need English, please.”

He stopped, chest rising and falling erratically. Blue eyes focused on your face, cheeks already tinged red from the cold.

“The p-program made me remember something, but I don’t know what it was. It was there and then it was gone.” Another hitched breath interrupted his words. “It was gone so fast. Like a dream.”

Dreams had been a constant for him, to the point you’d went out of your way to buy him a journal and pen to write them down as soon as he woke up.

“Well, maybe you’ll have to keep your journal-”

“I don’t want to rely on a book!” He cried out, “You tell me to write down dreams, but how am I supposed to remember things that happen so fast? I can’t pull out a journal and write it down!”

Though it was angry and loud, you stood your ground. Any sort of real emotion was preferable to the stoic Winter Soldier who’d shown up beaten and bruised in your hotel room so long ago.

“Maybe I’d have an answer if you ever talked to me! These things happen and you always disappear!” You steadied your voice, trying not to fly completely off the handle. “I don’t know how you’re supposed to pin down a memory if you’re too busy trying to run away everytime it comes up. I want to help you, Bucky.”

“I just…” A shiver wracked his body. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Frustration fizzled away into sympathy. “You’ve never…”

“And I would never know until it’s too late.” He growled, sounding more like the Soldier than Bucky. “They controlled me with words. What if I remember them too clearly and I hurt you? You’re the only person who’s ever helped me.”

“You won’t.” You reached out with a tentative hand, setting it on his right shoulder. “You’re in control. You can keep working on your memories, but you can’t do it alone. So let me help you. Please.”

Face angled towards the ground, he nodded. “I’m sorry for taking off again.”

You shook your head. “Don’t be sorry. Just come inside, where it’s warm. We can talk there.”

Once inside, you fought to shuck off your boots, one lace knotted in a manner that prevented escape. You bent down to fix it, cussing until the damn thing came loose. Upon standing, you came face-to-chest with a nervous-looking Bucky. Mellow guitar notes floated to your ears from the abandoned television.

“Oh. Hi.” You said awkwardly, craning your neck to make eye contact. “Everything okay?”

Bright blue eyes, full of pent-up emotion, shined with what you thought might be tears. He chewed on his lip, a nervous tick you had spotted only when he thought you weren’t looking. It was a vulnerability that the Winter Soldier half of him couldn’t allow.

“Yeah. Thank you.” His mouth opened and closed a few times. “I think… I think I’d like to talk more. If you’ll listen. I don’t want to hide things from you.”

The admission was frank, full of honesty. It was the sort of thing you’d been expecting when he’d woke you up in the middle of the night, only to be met with silence and the unspoken request for company.

“We can talk, Bucky, whenever you want.” You grabbed his flesh hand, squeezing calloused fingers. “I’ll always listen.”

There was a beat of stillness before you were yanked forward into his chest by the same hand. It took a minute to process the movement, but your arms encircled his torso. Warm air rushed past your ear, his exhale heavy on your scalp. It was the most physical he’d ever been, outside of the random protective stances he’d taken in situations perceived as dangerous. Your own body melted into the embrace, unable to resist the primal desire for touch and closeness that it had lacked for months. Even pinned against him by a metal arm, the embrace was comforting. You ran your nails up and down the length of his spine, trying to stave off the tremors that plagued him. Wintertime did Bucky no favors, especially with a cybernetic appendage that conducted the cold straight into his bones.

Eventually, you felt his mouth move against your hair. He spoke so low it could barely be called a whisper.

“Thank you.”

From the living room, music continued softly.

‘So if it'd make you stay-

I wouldn't act so angry all the time-

I wouldn't keep it all inside-

And I'd let you know how much I loved you every day-

So darlin' will you stay right here and shake this frost off of my bones?’

Thank you for reading, much love ❤

Masterlist

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pankesitopank · 7 days ago

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If you’re up to it, how about ATEEZ headcanons where they get all hot and bothered by their tall gf (maybe 5’9ish) wearing heels? I can picture it where she LOVES heels but maybe backs off a bit for the sake of her shorter bf (Hongjoong) LOL. (Like imagine his fashionista side fighting with his short man pride LMAO.) You could do just one member, but if you’re up to it I think all members would be cool.

Ateez react to their tall gf in heels

hehe here it is loovveee, look, i interpreted one thing, if you were expecting something more like crack, lil funny idk you can tell me don't worry

(￣▽￣*)ゞ i hope you like it and i insist, let me know if this wasn’t what you expect and i can write another one more fluff n cute :]

HONGJOONG

You catch him staring again.

It’s not subtle—his jaw’s tight, eyes stuck on your legs as you cross the room in thigh-high boots, the click of your heels echoing a little too loud for this hotel suite. The look on his face is a warzone: one half appreciation, one half pure ego death.

“Seriously?” he finally mutters, arms crossed, his tone casual but eyes blazing. “We said dinner, not runway.”

You arch a brow. “Are you mad I look good, or mad I’m taller than you tonight?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks away, running a hand through his hair like that’ll calm him down.

He loves when you wear heels. Of course he does—he’s obsessed with aesthetics, fashion-forward as hell, and never shy about showing you off. But he’s also the shortest in the group, and even if he pretends not to care, something about you towering over him hits a nerve.

Especially because you look this good doing it.

“Maybe I should change?” you offer playfully, knowing damn well he doesn’t want that.

“No,” he snaps too fast. Then softer, throat thick: “No. Keep them on.”

The words come out low. Rough. Like they surprise even him.

You smirk, stepping closer, heels making you eye-level and then some. You tilt his chin up with one finger, and his pupils dilate like you flipped a switch.

“Joong,” you whisper, voice close to teasing, “you like this.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just grabs your hips and pulls you down, lips brushing your ear. “I hate how much I like it.”

And then he kisses you. Hard.

If this is a power struggle, you're both losing—and loving it.

SEONGHWA

It starts with his silence.

The kind of silence that simmers, where his gaze drags over your legs, up your thighs, all the way to your smirking mouth—and lingers there like he’s choosing sin over salvation.

You wore the black stilettos he likes. With the slit dress. You’re not sure what made you feel bold today, but whatever it was, it’s working.

Seonghwa’s quiet, yes—but his hands aren’t.

He brushes past you in the hallway of the dorm, casually trailing a finger down your bare arm. “Going somewhere?”

“Just out with friends.” You smile, tilting your head. “You like the look?”

He nods slowly, like he’s processing something deeper than fashion.

“You know what it does to me when you wear those heels.”

You step forward, hips swaying just a bit. “Does what?”

He doesn’t say it. Just steps right into your space and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He’s still taller than you—barely—but it’s the closest you’ve ever come to meeting him eye to eye.

“I like it,” he says finally, voice velvety and dangerous. “But you know what I’d like even more?”

Your breath catches. “Tell me.”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek, then your jaw. “You… on top.”

Your knees threaten to buckle, but those heels keep you steady. Just barely.

YUNHO

“Ohhh my god, babe.”

Yunho’s voice goes breathless the second he opens the door and sees you. You barely get a greeting before he’s already circling you like a man hypnotized.

You spin once, striking a mock pose. “Too much?”

“Too perfect,” he groans, already biting his knuckle. “You’re trying to ruin my life.”

You giggle, but it’s Yunho who’s struggling. At 6’1”, height’s never been a concern—until tonight, when you show up in 4-inch heels and look like you stepped out of a dream.

He’s always been the type to worship you out loud, touchy, affectionate, sweet. But there’s a shift tonight—he’s flustered. A little wrecked.

“You’re so tall,” he says in awe, as if he just noticed. “I’m supposed to be the intimidating one here.”

You grin. “You still are. Just… now I get to kiss you without tiptoes.”

He makes a choked sound, grabbing your waist. “I can’t go out with you like this.”

You blink. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll spend the whole night either getting hard or threatening everyone who looks at you. Or both.”

You laugh, flushed, but he’s dead serious.

“Actually,” he murmurs, tugging you close, “maybe we don’t need to leave yet…”

YEOSANG

Yeosang notices right away.

Doesn’t say a word. Just stares, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s analyzing a painting.

“Something wrong?” you ask.

He shrugs. “No. You look… tall.”

You laugh, brushing past him. “It’s the heels.”

“I know.”

You glance back and catch it—his gaze fixed squarely on your legs, his tongue subtly pressing into his cheek.

He’s quiet, but you know him too well. That calculating calm hides everything he won’t say. The way his jaw tightens. The way he fidgets.

“You like it,” you tease.

He finally breaks the stare, raising an eyebrow. “You want honesty?”

You nod.

“Then yeah,” he says. “I like it too much.”

He moves in, slow, his hand slipping around your waist. He’s still taller, but the closeness makes your height match feel intimate—his lips level with yours, his breath warm as he murmurs,

“Those heels might be expensive, but the way you’re looking at me right now? That’s priceless.”

You gulp.

He smirks, satisfied. “Don’t take them off. Not even later.”

SAN

San doesn’t notice you walk in—he feels it.

You step into the room, heels clicking across the dorm floor, and his head jerks up like he just sensed a change in the atmosphere. You could swear he sniffed the air like a predator.

And then he freezes.

“You’re wearing those?” His voice drops an octave.

You glance down at the shiny red stilettos. “Yeah. Thought they matched the dress.”

San doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring. You can practically see the thoughts spiraling in his head—none of them holy.

“You okay?” you tease.

“I will be,” he says tightly, “once I get those off you.”

Your heart jumps. “San.”

He stands. And he smirks.

“Why would you do that?” he murmurs, stalking closer. “You know how tall you look right now? I should be mad. I should feel emasculated.”

You blink. “Do you?”

He leans in, eyes flicking down your body. “Not even a little.”

San’s possessive in a slow-burn way. He won’t make a scene in public. But once you’re alone, he can’t stop touching you—your waist, your hips, the curve of your legs.

“Come here,” he growls, backing you into the couch. “You think you’re taller than me now?”

You glance down, grinning. “Technically…”

“No,” he cuts in, grabbing your chin. “Because you’ll be under me in five minutes.”

MINGI

Mingi’s brain malfunctions the second he sees you.

You step out of the bedroom, and he literally drops his phone.

“Oh—holy shit,” he breathes. “Wait, wait, hold on.”

He blinks like he’s trying to reboot. “You—are those new?”

You do a slow spin. “Like them?”

“I—like them? I wanna write poetry about them.”

You laugh, but Mingi’s already moving toward you, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch. You're almost nose-to-nose in the heels, and for once, the usual height gap between you feels nonexistent.

He gulps.

“I thought I was the tall one in this relationship,” he whines.

“You still are.”

“Barely,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “It’s doing things to me.”

Mingi is needy by default, but tonight, it spikes. He won’t stop complimenting you—telling you how powerful you look, how long your legs are, how much he wants to ruin you for making him feel so damn small.

“Do you know what it feels like,” he grumbles, mouth pressed against your neck, “to look up at you and still wanna drop to my knees?”

You shiver. “You could.”

He grins. “Oh, I will.”

WOOYOUNG

You knew it would drive him insane.

That’s why you wore the heels in the first place.

Wooyoung’s eyes go wide the moment you walk in, and his jaw drops so hard it’s comical.

“Excuse me?” he gasps. “Since when are you six-foot-two?”

You smirk. “Since five minutes ago.”

He practically sprints over, placing his palm on the top of your head, then his own. “You’re—no. No. This is illegal. You can’t be taller than me. That’s my thing.”

You burst out laughing. “It’s just for tonight.”

“No, it’s not. This is psychological warfare.”

You lean in close, tilting his chin up. “You scared, baby?”

He flushes. You got him.

“You think being taller makes you the boss?”

“Might.”

He scoffs. Then grab you and lifts you like it’s nothing.

“You think I care about height when I can carry you across this damn city?” he growls, holding you just above the ground.

You squeal, heels dangling in the air. “Okay, okay, you win!”

He grins wickedly. “Nah. We win. Because you look hot and I get to bend you over later.”

JONGHO

You step into the room, and Jongho just blinks.

His mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again.

“You…” he gestures vaguely at your legs. “You’re tall.”

You chuckle. “I’m always tall.”

“Yeah, but now you’re my height.”

He steps forward, looking you up and down like you’re a test he’s trying to solve. “What are those, five inches?”

“Four and a half,” you answer.

“Unacceptable,” he says, but it’s so deadpan it makes you laugh harder.

Jongho is quiet confidence, but right now? He’s fighting for composure. The usual height gap gone, he’s facing you eye-to-eye and it’s got him just a bit flustered.

“You’re not allowed to be this powerful,” he mutters.

“I like how it makes me feel.”

He tilts his head. “How does it make you feel?”

“…Like I could pin you.”

That definitely gets his attention.

He steps closer until there’s no space left between you. “Try it,” he whispers.

Your breath hitches.

“I dare you.”

Challenge accepted.

But as soon as you press your hand to his chest, he grabs your wrist and spins you, caging you to the wall like he’d been waiting for it.

“Did you forget?” he breathes in your ear. “I lift grown men for fun.”

Okay, so maybe he pins you tonight.

And you’re not complaining.

117 notes · View notes

kquil · 1 year ago

Text

DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER THREE

03 : SHOPPING (2/2)

CHPT. SUM. : so many stores are left on the list, the boys finally eat delicious food outside, detours are a natural endeavour and you meet a collection of interesting shopkeepers. what a day~

LENGTH : 10k

TAGS : fluff ; fun day out ; sirius and regulus being precious ; they're just kids ; reader is mother of the year ; reverse comfort ; OC ; visions ; original walburga makes an appearance ; she doesn't stay long though ; money isn't a problem ;) ; domestic fluff ; sibling fluff between sirius and regulus ; marauders fix-it-fic

← PREV. | 02 : SHOPPING (1/2) | SERIES M.LIST

“Two what?” Sirius asks, your attention snapping towards him and breaking contact with the grey-haired man standing before you.

“Do you need a new wand too, Mother?” Regulus speaks up from your other side, swiftly following after his older brother. It was clear from the differences in their elocution that they differed greatly. One was much louder, with a sharp tongue and an audacious attitude to boot; the other was of a more gentle demeanour, equipped with a clever mind and observant eyes.

Mr Ollivander leans back with an amused smile waiting to see how you’d react and whose question you’d answer first.

“The two of us need wands today, Sirius,” you hum, hoping your nerves don’t show through in your voice as you switch between the two. It was adorable how similar their curious looks appeared when staring up at you.

“Why is that?” your eldest asks curiously, the question reflecting similarly in your youngest’s eyes.

“My wand appears to be having some problems lately and, well,” you raise your gaze to meet eyes with the wand artisan behind the counter, “I was hoping Mr Ollivander could help the two of us today,” the light streaming in from the windows above reflects off Ollivander’s grey hair to create a glowing outline encircling him. His peculiar portrait reminds you of how idiosyncratic he is, like a living ghost who’s able to touch superior levels of magic and wonder. It's mysteriously intriguing but just as harrowing too. He was able to deduce so much after so short of an interaction, after all. You stare at him silently, a gentle prompt to help you and your eldest son with your homogenous need for a new wand.

“I like to focus on one client at a time,” the look he gives you offers up the decision of who should go first to be made by your small family.

Before you can say anything, Sirius speaks up with a light dusting of pink on his cheeks, “Ladies first, Mother,” he announces politely and your heart melts at his consideration. You coo and awe at his gesture while dropping down to his height where you press a loving kiss to his forehead.

“Thank you, my darling. You’re such a gentleman,” Sirius beams at your praise as Regulus meets his eyes to the right of you and grins widely. The two easily share in the small joys they’ve been able to experience around you. They don’t want to seem rude so the two of them secretly cheer at the headache you suffered to be able to change this drastically, “However," you comb your fingers through his hair lovingly, "you’re the star of the show today. Why don’t you go first, my dear?”

Sirius doesn’t refute, too distracted and pink-cheeked by your affection to do anything but nod. He then turns to Ollivander, who smiles down at him kindly. The oddness surrounding the wand artisan, however, cannot be missed and Sirius is cautious to proceed forward.

“Your name, young man?”

“Sirius Black,”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sirius. Please step behind the counter and we can get started on finding you the perfect wand, shall we?” Sirius glances one more time over his shoulder and observes the encouraging nod you give him; his heart calming from the reassuring pat you give atop his head. Another moment passes before he is led behind the counter by Ollivander. The elderly wizard proceeds to give him a short once-over before disappearing between two ceiling-tall shelves, stacked full of stored wands.

“Do you want to watch your brother find his wand, Regulus?” you ask, kneeling to level with your youngest.

“Yes please, Mother,” he nods with a shy smile, “but I don’t know if I’m allowed past the counter,”

“Don’t worry,” with a smile, you carry him up in your arms, “I can seat you on the counter instead,” for the brief moment you rise, he stays in your embrace. However, when you go to place him on the counter, you find that Regulus doesn’t want to be let go.

In a whisper, you ask if he’s alright, “Can you just hold me like this?...please?” His answering whisper melts your heart and you can't find it in yourself to say no. Even if your arms begin to ache, you aren’t going to set him down until he wants to be set down – you’re determined!

“You mean you don’t know which wand is for me?” Sirius’ words ring with curiosity more than judgment as he looks up at Ollivander.

“I’m afraid not, my boy,”

“Aren’t you supposed to know?”

Smiling fondly, Ollivander begins to explain the process, happy to answer the questions of a curious child, “Ultimately, it is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr Black,”

Sirius contemplates Ollivander’s words for a moment as Regulus gasps in astonishment beside your ear. The awe and interest are evident in the youngest’s silently twinkling grey eyes, matching that of his elder brother. Their wonderment is clear and both are equally skilful in concealing it.

“How will I know that a wand has chosen me?

“You’ll know,” Ollivander nods. There’s something in his pale eyes that makes Sirius keep from asking anything further. Something that says ‘trust me’.

Together, you and Regulus watch over the counter as Sirius tests out a variety of wands.

At one point Sirius makes several misplaced papers catch fire, which makes you giggle quietly. Regulus stiffened in your arms momentarily at the sight of the sudden flames and only seemed to relax as soon as he heard your soft laughter. It isn't until he presses his face into the junction of your neck and shoulder that he finally draws your attention. It didn’t seem like an issue to press further about so you gave his small back a few reassuring rubs and continued to watch over Sirius – perhaps Regulus was feeling a little exhausted already. Despite the disastrous flames, Ollivander had the situation handled and simply magicked away the fire before rummaging around for a different wand, muttering softly to himself as he did so. It wasn’t until Ollivander came back with a jet-black wand with familiar-looking markings carved along its body that you smiled to yourself. This was the one.

“Try this...” Ollivander offers up the wand but after the previous incident, Sirius is much more hesitant to proceed. He was only able to resume the testing when Ollivander flashed him a kind, reassuring smile - though he remained hesitant and stiff. Sirius was too scared to turn and see your reaction to the commotion he had just caused. But it was an accident! Surely you’d understand– “Give it a wave, then, young man,” Ollivander's chuckle was able to ease some of the stiffness from his limbs as the markings beneath his fingers urged him for a sturdier grip before giving the black wand a small flick.

Appearing from the tip of his wand, a small circulating breeze moves through the room, not caring for the mess it makes of any unfiled papers nor the rattling it causes amongst the stacked boxes of wands. The breeze eventually returns to circle Sirius, ruffling his hair and clothes before eventually dying down to leave him looking bedraggled.

The result was quite confusing to the ordinary eye, which worried you, but not for the elderly wand artisan. Ollivander slaps his knee and throws his head back with a laugh. “Now that’s a match if I’ve ever seen one!” His words make Sirius stare up at him with wide eyes of disbelief.

“Really?”

Ollivander kneels beside him with a twinkle in his eye, “That’s quite a choosy wand, my boy. Wands made out of jet black Ebony are happiest when in the hands of those who are not afraid of being themselves, sticking to their beliefs no matter what external pressures there may be,” the elderly wizard’s words washed over Sirius and flooded him with a feeling of vindication. He felt light and there was a flutter in his chest. In his short life so far, it’s been so hard to adhere to his convictions, and he has never before felt so validated, “you, young man, have a very courageous heart,” Ollivander’s words make you smile widely.

You set Regulus down as Sirius makes his way back to you. The two brothers share a hug but Sirius is still unable to meet your eyes. It isn't until his younger brother pulls away from the embrace that Sirius finally wills himself to look up at you. Regulus can see the slight fear in his older brother’s eyes and he knows the exact cause; Regulus was scared too. Regardless, you haven’t done or said anything to further his fears so the younger brother tries his best to be optimistic and flashes his older brother a small smile as if to say ‘it’s going to be okay’.

Biting his lip, Sirius finally turns to find that you’ve come down to his height. Rather than a scowl on your face for his earlier misbehaviour with the discordant wands, he finds you smiling brightly at him instead. Before he could comprehend what was happening, you pulled him into your arms. One hand presses against the back of his head and encourages him to bury his face into your shoulder as the other splays across his small back to give him supportive pats.

Beside his ear, you whisper, “I’m so proud of you, Sirius,” pulling away your eyes find that his own have significantly watered, holding back tears. Tears of joy, you assess and deliver a small kiss on his forehead.

“You’re not mad at me? For setting fire to the papers earlier?”

“Of course not!” you protest and pull him into your tight embrace once more, “I’d be surprised if I don’t set something on fire when trying to find a new wand too,” he giggles against your shoulder and it's the most beautiful sound you've ever heard, “I’m so so proud of you Sirius, you have your wand now, and you’re going to be attending Hogwarts soon,” you sigh into his dark curls and mutter against his temple, “Far too soon…”

Relieved by your reaction, Sirius can finally digest your words and the sincere tone behind them. He’s never heard his mother praise him or voice how she’s proud of him but here you were, whispering rare words for him to hear only. He doesn’t know if he could ever feel happiness like this ever again. It’s hard for him to even describe - he’s just so so happy.

It’s your turn to get a new wand now and the process is entirely the same. Ollivander goes through a selection of wands for you to test the feel of, giving each one a chance to see if they want to become your companion or not. After going through the first handful, you manage to light a stack of papers on fire yourself and when Ollivander swiftly distinguishes it, your group shares a laugh.

“See? I told you it would happen to me too,” you smile over your shoulder at Sirius who giggles with his little brother.

A few more inharmonious wands go by before Ollivander hands you one that's made of a light-coloured wood. The design of its body was very elegant and emulated a pattern that was reminiscent of vintage stone pillars. Widely spaced vertical ridges run along the main body and lead towards ornate, uniform designs that either look like curling leaves or crashing waves. It’s beautiful but what matters is whether or not the wand chooses you.

Flicking the wand, a spark of light escapes from the tip and you prepare yourself for another pile of papers to be set on fire. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when the light floats through the room as if it were swimming through water. It reaches Sirius and Regulus, where it proceeds to circle each of them before departing and leaving a warm touch that lingers on their cheek. The light eventually returns to you again, where it orbits your figure several times, enveloping your silhouette in an ethereal glow before disappearing. In its wake, it leaves a path of warmth that loiters in the air, suspended like the many particles of dust dancing in the light filtering in through the high windows.

Smiling in success, you hold the wand to your chest and turn to your boys who had begun to cheer for you. You could have easily lost yourself in the moment if it weren’t for your keen ears picking up on Ollivander’s mutterings. His words were all in a whisper and not meant for anyone else’s ears.

“How fascinating…” the elderly wizard smiles whimsically to himself again, “the singular wand whose properties are the precise opposite of the original became your destined companion,” you meet the pale, almost translucent eyes of the wand artisan, who smiles at you as soon as he finishes muttering to himself, “it’s truly an honour to be able to witness the pairing of an Applewood wand,”

“Why is that?” Regulus asks before you can even react. With a smile, Ollivander moves to the front of the counter and bows at the knees to his height. Their eyes lock like that of a patient but talented teacher and his diligent student.

“There are many properties of a wand that can be attributed to the reasons why it chose its ultimate owner, one of which is its wood. Your brother,” Ollivander gestures to Sirius, “has himself a wand that is made of Ebony wood, while your mother has herself one that’s made of Applewood. Applewood wands are very powerful indeed, I can assure you of that,” you find yourself leaning closer, eager to learn more, just as much as your two sons were to learn of their mother and the nature of wands, “their owners are typically ones who harbour ambitious goals and even higher principles. As a result, there stands a positive correlation between possessors of Applewood wands and the life they tend to live,” your breath remains trapped in your throat, held there by anxiety as you tensely anticipate Ollivander’s successive words, “they live a life that is long and where they are well-loved,” the relief was great and one that you were desperate to maintain. You know what you're setting out to do is going to prove a difficult challenge but it is going to be worth it, as long as your two boys are happy and by your side.

Together, both wands cost 14 galleons. And, despite the excitement you first held for meeting such a distinguished Harry Potter character, you were eager to leave, slightly scared of the amount of knowledge he potentially held. At the very least, you were able to depart on a good note

Naturally, the next order of business was to get all of Sirius’ robes and uniform at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions shop. That would be on the north side of Diagon Alley and, considering you were on the south side for Ollivander’s wand shop, you needed to direct your boys back up to the North. You admit, it was quite inefficient to go from Gringotts, which was North, to Ollivander’s (South), only to go back North when all the shops you had left to visit were up there. There were many shop names that you recognised on the way down, however, it was best to get the only singular South-side shop from your list out of the way so you could spend the rest of the afternoon easily hopping from shop to shop in the North-side.

“What’s wrong, darling?” you ask, noticing that Sirius has been staring off in one direction for some time, completely motionless and glued into place.

“Nothing… let’s go,” he grabs a fistful of your dress’ skirt but you already noticed what had captured his attention.

“A joke shop…” a small grin tugs on the corners of your lips. You remember the child-like wonder that washed over you whenever you watched the scenes featuring Fred and George Weasley’s joke shop. This joke shop isn't theirs but you wonder if it’s just as remarkable.

Sirius had no hope of ever convincing you to take a look, especially when most of today would be packed full of shopping at other shops for his supplies as a first year. In his insecurity, Sirius was only able to muster a quiet, “...yeah…”

“What a good idea,” you smile brightly and take both their hands into yours, heading in the direction of the shop happily named, ‘Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop’, “Let’s have a little look shall we? A small detour like this can’t do much harm,” Sirius was smiling from ear to ear as soon as he overcame the shock your agreement brought, “Although, I'm afraid I won’t consider buying anything,” a treat like that is meant for another time...

“That’s okay!” Sirius cheers and hurries along, making it to the door before you could and holding it open for you.

You’re beginning to realise a recurring discrepancy between the size of a shop’s exterior compared to its interior space; the joke shop is considerably larger on the inside compared to its outside appearance. It added to the joke factor of the store itself - how funny that it appeared so deviously small on the outside.

The entrance was lined with shelves filled with an assortment of joke items, all were vibrant and eye-catching. It was hard to enforce any form of restraint when your eyes couldn’t stay in one place too long, nor could your feet. There were several other children with their parents roaming the galleries of jokester paraphernalia too. Only then were you finally able to focus your gaze on your two, fascinated boys, not wanting to lose them.

“How undignified!” your eyes roll at the scratchy, annoying voice that invades your head once more, “No child of mine should ever be seen in a Joke Shop!”

“Oh Shut up, let my kids be kids,” you retaliate, folding your arms loosely as you observe Sirius dragging around his younger brother by the hand. Regulus happily heeds, not needing to be dragged to be able to shadow his older brother. Nevertheless, their small hands remain connected. The scene made you smile warmly, they’re the cutest boys you’ve ever – you want to prolong their happiness and give them as many opportunities as possible to experience the same delights over and over again.

“THEY’RE NOT YOUR KIDS!”

“YES. THEY. ARE!” shaking away Walburga’s shrill screams, you try to focus on the ground beneath you. It’s best to end this argument quickly, you don’t want to faint in the middle of a joke shop and ruin the day for your two boys; it's barely started.

You didn’t prolong your stay but enough time was spent there for you to witness Sirius’ certain appeal towards a particular item: a purple box of stink pellets. Smiling to yourself, you make a mental note of the fact before leading your two boys out and back to the north side of Diagon Alley.

It’s a relief that most shops offer delivery services, you don’t believe you would be able to carry all of your purchased items home.

At Madam Malkin’s, you bought all the necessary uniforms and robes for Sirius to have. Being an established house and family, you were attended to right away despite your insistence on no special treatment. Sirius was then measured and the appropriate sizes for his robes and other items were brought back to be tried on. He looked somewhat embarrassed from the attention but you couldn’t help yourself. There are many joys of being a mother and one of them was the ability to brag about how beautiful and exemplary your child was. To anyone within earshot and to those who, both, cared and didn’t care to listen, you openly talked their ear off about Sirius. Said son grew redder and redder with each expression of praise that left your lips without an ounce of hesitation.

Was he hearing right? You're just joking with him...but you sound so sincere. Surely those other people don't care, why are you such talk on them?!

“He looks all grown up, I’m so so proud of him,” Sirius’ ear tinted a faint red.

“I worry that he’ll attract too many girls’ attention and grow a bad reputation over breaking too many hearts. But, then again, look at his handsome face, of course, they would fall for my son,” Sirius looks to the side, trying to find interest in the cracks of the shop’s walls -- a weak attempt at distracting himself from the flames in his cheeks.

“I can already tell! He’s going to achieve so many great things, I just know it!” Sirius looks over and narrows his eyes at his giggling younger brother. Wait until he has to go through the same thing when he starts his first year!

“Yes yes, I know your son looks wonderful in his robes too but look at my son! His robes look like they were made for him!” try as he might, Sirius can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips. His heart swells up in his chest and threatens to burst from the amount of happiness your endless praise fosters in him.

Just as the checklist states, you made sure to get three sets of plain work robes in black, a pointed hat, a protective pair of dragon hide gloves, a black winter coat with silver fastenings and, lastly, name tags to attach to all items. The total amounted to 28 galleons and 44 sickles. Madam Malkins offered a service that stitched on the name tags for you but you kindly refused. It’s a tedious task but you wanted to stitch the name tags on yourself; you had the time and you wanted to do your due diligence as a mother. This is your job and you aren’t going to hand it over to anyone else. You were told to expect the owl delivery within a week.

“How about a break?” you suggest upon seeing a sudden fall in your boys’ energy. Their once slumped shoulders suddenly tense and the two peer up at you with cautious eyes. Despite the amount of progress you’ve made in cultivating a mutual rapport with them, it appears that some phrases put them on high alert regardless of the harmonic atmosphere.

“It’s okay mother,” Regulus hurriedly assures, his smile now much smaller and wrinkled at the edges from superficially conjectural nerves.

“Yeah, we’re not tired, we can continue shopping just fine,” Sirius continues, reaching out to hold hands with his brother as they stand before you with identical ambivalent expressions. It breaks your heart. Their words are simple but their actions are heavily veneered by a thin veil of coy nonchalance.

“Aren’t you two hungry?” you ask, crouching down to meet at their level, where you’ve gotten into the habit of being able to converse deeply with them. Keeping their gaze, holding each other’s attention and listening closely has led to so much understanding and that’s all you want with them.

They look at each other from your question. Sirius can see the obvious hesitation in his younger brother’s eyes and he gives his hand a small squeeze. Usually, Sirius was the more outspoken one, never letting his fears show while allowing his tongue to run and verbalise all the thoughts and opinions in his head. It was his small bit of freedom in a house that was so set on censoring him and his many opposing views, despite his young age. Oftentimes, his parents would guilt him into thinking that he was being a bad influence on Regulus, simply by voicing his views, which are usually opposite to those of his parents. Regulus had a much softer disposition, however. While Sirius carried about smug confidence and had a deficiency for self-preservation, Regulus reigned in studiousness and quiet wit. Sirius knows that his younger brother is gifted but his bright mind shouldn’t be cultivated under such oppressive practices and methods. If that happened, Sirus feared that his darling, little brother's gift would be reduced to nothing. There's no way that Sirius would let that happen to his baby brother, which is why he’s so vocal! But… what's changed?

Now he was hesitating, his throat clogged up, his palms were sweaty…he was scared. Scared to have you look at him with disapproval or disappointment. Sirius doesn’t know what happened to you, his mother, but you’re different now, he wants to love you and be loved in return. You’ve shown him that you can give the tenderness he desires, you’ve proven that he’s loveable and that he’s worth your time and attention.

He’s scared because if he makes a single misstep now… he’s going to lose that. It’s much harder losing something you’ve known, felt, and experienced than losing something that never existed in the first place…

“My dears?” you whisper with concern, leaning forward ever so slightly with furrowed brows of worry, “what’s wrong?”

“We’ll have to go home to eat…” Regulus confesses softly. He avoids your eyes as he fiddles with the hem of his long-sleeved shirt and completely misses the confused look on your face.

“It is not proper to conclude important errands prematurely,” Sirius explains as if reciting from a rulebook, “...and we don’t want to go home yet either…”

“We’re not stopping entirely,” you reassure, petting their soft hair affectionately and rewarding them with a kind smile as soon as they raise their hopeful faces to you, “we’re just having a lunch break, my loves,”

“You mean…” Sirius begins.

“We’re eating outside?” Regulus continues. Both look astonished at the notion.

“Of course, it’s better than eating back at home,” it then occurs to you a simple explanation for their odd behaviour, “Do you two not want to eat outside?”

“No!” Sirius jumps over-excited before a flash of realisation flourishes in his grey eyes and he quickly drops back, “No, it’s not that, m-mother,”

“W-we’ve just never eaten outside before,” Regulus explains shyly, “you have us on a strict dietary regime as a proper gentleman wizard of the Black family should be,”

“I’m putting a stop to that ridiculous ‘diet’ as soon as we get back,” they perk up at you but are quickly ushered forward to the nearby pub; unable to press you further on the matter.

Stepping into the Leaky Cauldron, you're greeted by the comforting aroma of hearty meals, mingling with the faint scent of crackling firewood and a faint fog of cigarette smoke. The space is a cosy retreat from the chaotic cobblestone streets outside. From the ceiling hangs several candle-lit chandeliers made of blackened iron, its flickering lights casting a warm glow upon the worn wooden tables and mismatched chairs positioned about the room. The walls are lined with shelves displaying an eclectic assortment of magical curiosities - from peculiar potion ingredients preserved in jars to enchanted artefacts that seem to hum with hidden power. An array of portraits decorate two parallel walls above brick archways. The portraits contain inky sketches that move about freely, some interacting with other portraits as a few characters walk between the varying displays. You guess they might be disappointed to realise that their selection of landscapes are largely the same - plain - but having the freedom seemed sufficient for them to stay jovial enough. At the heart of the room stands a grand fireplace, its flames dancing merrily within its brick frame. Its ochre light casts playful shadows across the room, socialising with the silhouettes of fellow bar guests.

Lighting within the pub relied heavily on candles so the atmosphere was quite dim but the tall candle illuminating the centre of your table gave the time spent there a very idyllic ambience. The two were unfamiliar with the menu items so, with their permission and trust, you ordered in their place.

Since Sirius didn’t mind what he got, you ordered for him Hunter’s Chicken. Regulus said he had a liking for fish so you got him a classic plate of Fish and Chips. For yourself, you got the cottage pie. For drinks, they got apple juice while you had a hot tea. Thinking back on the bland meals served at the Black family household, you’re certain that they were in for a treat today.

It doesn’t take long for the meals to be given out after your beverages; thankfully all of your entrees were delivered together. In front of Sirius were two succulent chicken breasts wrapped in smoky bacon and smothered in a rich and tangy barbecue sauce, baked to golden-brown perfection.

He takes his first bite and moans in amazement at the taste. The tender chicken yields effortlessly to reveal layers of savoury goodness - the sweet and smoky notes of the bacon harmonising with the bold tanginess of the barbecue sauce. Every mouthful he takes thereafter struggles between going slow or fast, the symphony of textures and tastes, leaves him craving more of the hearty dish. He doesn’t think he’s ever tasted something so appetising. Why couldn’t the food at home taste like this?

Regulus had before him a plate displaying a golden fillet of flaky fish. It’s encased in a light and crispy batter, served alongside a generous helping of thick-cut, crispy-on-the-outside-fluffy-on-the-inside chips, garden peas and a small ceramic of tartar sauce. Having not seen this appearance of a fish dish before, Regulus looks up at you with a curious look as if to say ‘What is this?’. You greet his curiosity with a sympathetic but patient gaze.

Gently, you urge him to squeeze the lemon slice over the battered fish and nod when he timidly follows your instruction, “Now give it a try, my darling, I promise you’ll like it,”

…and like it, he did!

With each bite, Regulus is met with satisfying crunch after satisfying crush. The exterior is perfectly fried, giving way to the tender fish within. The delicate cod melts in his mouth, introducing the delicate flavour of the fish, complemented by a sprinkle of salt and the squeeze of fresh lemon. Together they create a harmonious balance of savoury and tangy notes that dance happily over his palate.

“It’s delicious Mother!” Regulus grins with partially stuffed cheeks and crumbs of the batter decorating his lips. Sirius nods enthusiastically beside him, unable to speak from stuffing his mouth full of his chicken dish.

“Big brother, you have to try some!” you watch with a heart swelling up from adoration and pride as Regulus offers a big chunk of his fish and places it onto his brother’s plate.

“You too Reggie!” Sirius does the same with his chicken, generously offering up a portion from his plate. Once the two try a bite of each other’s meal, an explosion of ardour lights up their grey eyes, creating a galaxy of endless constellations in their wake. They are so precious.

Giggling at their antics, you turn to your dish and begin to eat. In all honesty, seeing them enjoying their food for the first time had your stomach already halfway full. So you happily offered a portion of your cottage pie as well. They wanted to say no but you were much too convincing and when they offered a bite of their dishes, you explained that you were already getting full.

They were named after stars but at this moment, their eyes held a galaxy of their own, just from tasting a delicious meal. You want to see them like this all the time…maybe you should begin cooking in the kitchen again? It was a hobby of yours that you enjoyed, baking too but found limited time to partake in it when your business had exponential growth.

Throughout the meal, you often forgot your unfinished plate to be able to tend to your boys. They’re not usually this messy but they were enjoying their food so well that they couldn’t help themselves. They haven’t tasted food this good before!

“You two are so messy,” you joke, giggling to yourself as you reach over with a napkin to wipe at the edges of their mouths while they chew their food. A look of shame crosses their adorable, sweet faces and they slow their mastication, avoiding your gaze.

“Sorry mother,” Regulus apologises meekly as Sirius mutters a similar apology beside him.

“Whatever for?” you pout at them, “I love seeing you enjoying your meals so much,” their expressions relax slightly when they turn to gaze up to witness your kind smile, “maybe I should get a cookbook and begin cooking up some delicious meals at home for you two, hmm?” a wide grin overcomes them, their astonishment quickly washing away from their elation at the prospect.

“Really mother?!” hopefulness makes Regulus’ voice raise an octave higher as Sirius bashfully stares up at you.

“You’d do that?... For us?” Sirius’ voice comes out unusually shy.

“Of course,” you shrug nonchalantly, trying to temper your exuberant grin, “I was getting tired of the dull, tasteless meals anyway,”

The main topic for the next visit was Eeylops Owl Emporium.

In your head, you remember the dark feathered owl Sirius owned in the films who had a horrible habit of biting people. Surely it wouldn’t affect the timeline drastically if you bought a different owl for him. It’s been on your mind how you would like to write letters to Sirius regularly, especially during his first year. You might even convince Regulus to join you so you could send your letters together; you didn’t want your son getting bit every time you wrote a letter to him so you’ll be getting him a different bird for all prospective deliveries.

Upon entering the shop, you encourage your boys to explore and keep a lookout for an owl that would be suitable for Sirius to have for school. In the meantime, you tried to pinpoint the owl with the terrible biting habit so that you may be able to steer Sirius away from ever encountering the bird. You don’t understand why Sirius would have ever decided to get a bird like that in the first place so if he manages to find it before you and decides he wants it, you don’t know how you’ll be able to convince him otherwise—

“That insolent thing bit me!” as the original Walburga’s voice enters your head, an image of the familiar black-feathered owl flashes behind your eyelids.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

‘The amber-eyed owl, quick as lightning, launches its head forward with a vicious snapping of its beak. Successful in its attack, you reel your arm back – except it’s notyourarm – with a shriek of fright and pain. Upon looking down, you observe the torn fabric of your sleeve as well as the lacerated skin of your arm – still not your arm – which begins to bleed a crimson red. Anger and embarrassment flood your veins as you prepare to curse at the insolent thing but stop when your eyes lock onto the hidden smirk of your eldest son.

“I want that one,” he says, a devious twinkle in his eyes. Before you could protest, his negligent and, often, preoccupied father, steps towards the shop clerk to request the owl for purchase. Orion hadn’t seen the vicious beast attacking you; too eager to return to his work and rushing through the list of school supplies needed for Sirius' first year. The man you call your husband only has himself to blame for waiting so late, only a week was left before Sirius had to depart for Hogwarts but, thankfully, most delivery services didn’t require that long to complete shipment.

“Let's hurry along then,” Orion clicks his tongue in displeasure over the sudden slowing of everyone’s pace, “we must be done by noon, I have better things to be doing!”

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

“Wh-what the–?” blinking rapidly, your vision of the present slowly returns as you reach out to grasp onto something just to steady yourself. Unlike all other squabbles, the original Walburga doesn’t return to elaborate in her screeching voice; she is unusually silent but you’re too dazed to point it out.

You don’t realise what’s happened until you’re flinging your arm back with a sharp cry, cradling your arm to your chest.

“Mother!” Regulus runs up to you with furrowed brows marked by distress, “Are you okay?” he reaches for your arm and you bashfully show him your injury, inflicted onto you by a black-feathered owl. The cheeky thing tilts its head at you as if it’s done nothing wrong and merely proceeds to preen its feathers, unbothered by the whole ordeal – so rude.

“Not that one,” Sirius glares at the malevolent bird, narrow eyes filled with malice before turning to you with a softened look of concern.

“It’s alright my darlings,” you smile reassuringly at them both, “it’s just a scratch, let’s look for a different owl, alright?”

It took a while to calm the boys enough to distract them from the mishap and finally return to the task at hand. You're injured but you, thankfully, didn’t have to do much to convince Sirius about choosing another owl. Only… The fact that your injury looks identical to the one that appeared on the arm of (what you assume) is the original Walburga’s vision, was disconcerting.

You make mental notes of everything that happened in the short period, not wanting to ponder on the sinister details just yet, not when you were having such a fun day with your two boys.

In the end, Sirius settles on a majestic barn owl with beautiful gold and white feathers. The shopkeeper informed you that the owl was a female as he prepared all the additional items you wanted to have with the owl; treats, a small care guide, its cage, water bowl, food bowl, and all of its necessities. You don’t want to acknowledge the shopkeeper’s suspicious gaze as it periodically falls on you. It was beginning to make you feel self-conscious and you’re eager to distract your racing mind. This was probably all original Walburga’s doing. You know how much of a bitch she is but her reputation is proving to be incredibly troublesome when it comes to interacting with other people.

“What will you name her, Sirius?” you ask, hoping your voice doesn’t give away your discomfort. Thankfully, your question is a good distraction for everyone, including the shopkeeper.

“I don’t know…” Sirius ponders to himself, “Maybe… hmmm… Owletta,” he grins cheekily, proud of himself for the creative name. You can already see the marauder in him and it makes you grin as well.

“That sounds very fitting,” you wink at him as Regulus giggles to himself, enjoying the given name as well, “great choice,”

“What happened to the last owl you purchased?” the shopkeeper asks suddenly, finally finished with preparing all the items and eying you warily. You feel Sirius and Regulus’ eyes on you from his question as well and hurry to make an excuse. This situation has grown very uncomfortable.

“Last owl?”

“Yes, the screech owl, from last week,”

“It was for a gift…to a friend,” you smile innocently despite your awkward wording, grateful that the shopkeeper doesn’t ask any further questions although he does appear reluctant to hand over Owletta. But with an impatient flap of her large wings, he hands her over inside her cage. She probably felt the taut tension of indecision in the air far worse than you.

“10 galleons…” you gladly hand over payment and usher your boys out.

This has the original Walburga's name written all over it.

Continuing with the shopping, your next stop was Flourish and Blotts for Sirius’ books. The list of publications needing to be purchased was long, amounting to eight volumes of knowledge ranging from magical creatures to history and magic theory. You were tempted to read through the books yourself and learn a thing or two but didn’t want to appear lacking. As unfortunate as it is, you’re supposed to be the Walburga Black, a very proud, ‘high-class’ witch within the wizarding world, meaning that you had to be proficient in, at least, 1st year of wizarding knowledge.

Fortunately, there was an owl delivery option for the books, which saves you from carrying the heavy load but you’re beginning to feel sad for the poor owls subjected to delivering such a package. Not only that but you worried for your poor Sirius’ little shoulders and arms having to carry around those heavy books at Hogwarts. You hope to god there’s a magic bag that could carry many things without transferring the weight onto you. From the books and the delivery fee, everything costs 14 galleons in total.

It wasn’t listed on the official school supplies list but you had the foresight to go to Scribbulus Writing Instruments to buy an assortment of inks, quills and parchment. Sirius and Regulus were fascinated by the colour-changing inks available, some transitioning between two to three colours and some cycling through much more. At first, you found it odd that they hadn’t encountered such a simple and commonplace magical item before until you remembered their parents and all the unfortunate implications that came with that realisation. It made your fists clench in anger and had you impulsively buying a small pot of each colour-changing ink to the surprise and subsequent delight of your two boys.

“Y-you didn’t have to do that Mother,” Regulus comments shyly with a soft pink glow dusting his cheeks as he cradles a small pot of colour-changing ink in his little hands. That particular one was his favourite, if you remember correctly, it transitioned through an array of blue hues. He looks so adorable; you don’t know how you were able to resist reaching down to pinch at his pudgy cheeks.

“Of course, I had to,” you huff with a playful sternness before leaning down and bringing them in close to whisper for their ears only, it was as if you were telling a century-old secret. Intrigued by your actions, they lean in with rounded eyes of wonder, “But promise not to tell your father, he doesn’t deserve to know about our secret ink stash,” Sirius grins mischievously as Regulus' cheeks dimple. Nodding firmly at each other, your agreement was sealed and the three of you continued with your shopping spree.

The next stop was Potage’s Cauldron Shop, where you purchased a small cauldron before getting potioneer equipment and a telescope from Wisearce’s Wizardry Equipment. Again, like all the shops before, it was incredibly touching to be able to see your son's eyes sparkle in fascination and wonderment. You can practically hear their thoughts. Even though Regulus has to wait another year before he can attend Hogwarts, they’re both glowing with enthusiasm and alacrity to learn and experience something new. It just makes your heart ache a little over how you’re going to be mostly absent from that venture, seeing as Hogwarts is a boarding school. In the meantime, you’ll savour having them with you now and spending the little time you have with Sirius worthwhile and carry that on with Regulus while his older brother is at school creating chaos with the rest of the marauders.

Sirius’ assortment of school equipment was quickly piling up and so was his excitement. It was an excitement that proved to be very contagious as Regulus stood to his right, absorbing the delight that flowed from him in wave after beautiful wave. Seeing such precious smiles on their faces, it was hard to believe that the first day or so was filled with them fixing you with permanent scowls or passive expressions that were too mature and ill-suited to their youthful faces. These gorgeous smiles suited them a lot more… and you want to keep it that way.

Stepping back out onto the cobblestone streets, you look around with your mental list of shops that still need visiting but find your gaze stopping on the sign of a quaint, unassuming shop dubbed ‘Belby’s Potions and Ingredients’. You don’t remember ever hearing of a shop like this being in Diagon Alley but that’s to be expected, the world building wasn’t very expansive in the Harry Potter movies or books when it came to Diagon Alley, and this is without considering that you were in a different era of the Harry Potter Universe. You’ve already come across some shops that you’ve never heard of before but sit comfortably, right at home, amongst the other recognisable shops in the district; this one in particular shouldn't strike you as so intriguing.

“Is that where we’re going next, mother?” Sirius speaks up, snapping you out of your dazed state.

Smiling shyly, you make a small confession, “It’s not part of the list, I’m just hoping for a little detour to get you familiar with potion ingredients before school," you skillfully fib, "is that okay with you boys?” asking for their opinion and giving them a choice to agree or disagree always seemed to make them happy. It’s a freedom and a luxury, that they were rarely given when under the real Walburga’s ‘care’ so they were more than happy to oblige.

“Of course that’s alright,” Regulus looks past the skirt of your black dress to meet eyes with his brother, “right, Sirius?”

“Yeah!” grinning happily, they hold your hands in their much smaller ones and start pulling you along to the shop, their enthusiasm making appear like normal, happy kids, “let’s go, mother!”

Looking up at the sign once more, you allow your curiosity to spring forward. Indeed, you can’t recognise this shop before your transfer into the Harry Potter, Marauders era universe but the name ‘Belby’ definitely piqued your interest. It’s on the tip of your tongue but you couldn’t quite place where you recognise the name.

Entering the shop, you were presently enticed by the entirely separate atmosphere it presented. Unlike most of the other shops that were, either, barely lit or bursting with colour, the atmosphere of this shop was remarkably serene. It was pleasant. A good change of pace. Switching from two extremes of decoration, it was relieving to finally find one that danced in the middle, leaning towards an aesthetic that was homey and unsophisticated.

Your two boys were quick to begin surveying the shelves of products themselves - a library of carefully crafted potions and their ingredients. It was clear that they too, were welcomed and put at ease by the cottage-core aesthetic of the dwelling. There were dried bunches of flora hanging from the walls and ceiling, some with cute blossoms, frozen in their prime, whilst other herbage sported brittle stems and frail, veiny leaves. The colours of the ingredients and tightly packed potions meticulously measured into phials were somewhat muted but in a very pretty sense. It was like opening a beloved, ageing book and diving into its wondrous, antiquated tales, freckled with wise passages that transcend all time and languages. The shop was very small but also very charming and well-loved; you felt right at home.

As your two boys weave through the isles of merchandise, a genial voice calls out to you, “Welcome to Belby’s Potions and Ingredients, I’m Damocles Belby, how can I help you today?” at the front counter, you observe a man in his mid-thirties with a full beard and moustache framing a no-eye smile. Slowly easing himself out of his merry greeting, his eyelids unfurl to reveal a beautiful pair of honey-amber eyes. He looks kind; his affable demeanour is just as welcoming as his cosy shop.

“Hello sir,” you hope your smile conveys, at least, half of the warmth of his own, “I’m just taking a look around, thank you,” he gives a soft ‘ahh’ of acknowledgement before nodding, “My two boys are also around here somewhere. My eldest son will be starting his first year at Hogwarts next month so I wanted him to get a little familiar with the potion ingredients he’ll be encountering at school,”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Damocles grins in approval, chuckling to himself at your chest swelling with pride for your son, “what is your son’s name?”

“Sirius Black,” you announce fondly, the friendly atmosphere coming to a screeching halt when realisation washes over Damocles’ features. The once cordial air has plunged to freezing temperatures within seconds, prickling your skin with goosebumps.

“M-madam Black,” he greets formally with a bow of his head. It’s clear that Walburga’s reputation is notoriously menacing but you’re not her and you kindly ask that he refrain from such discretionary (in your eyes) behaviour.

“I’m simply a mother to my sons and a wife to my husband,” a disgusting, pile of shit that’s a complete waste of oxygen, who doesn’t deserve the title of father or husband, “that is all,” your answer doesn’t soothe him as you’d hoped it would but your attentions are soon required elsewhere when you’re both drawn to an even cosier corner of the store.

Led there by the whisperings of your two sons, both accompanied by a tired yet melodious voice, you are greeted with the most charming sight — your boys sitting at the foot of a rocking chair, where a frail but equally kind-looking woman slumps into, her pale blue eyes shining with fondness at them as she embroiders a shimmering pink thread into a plain square of cloth in her lap. She’s dressed modestly, with her top hiding her arms in long lantern sleeves as her collar stretches up her neck. The long skirt of her dress looks layered, puffing up at the sides of her seat and what little skin you would have seen at her ankles are covered in thick socks. You wonder if she’s cold at all. Or maybe she’s just a very unobtrusive person with a likeness for coquettish and demure fashions.

“How do you know how to make the flowers if you don’t draw them first?” Regulus asks, peering over her lap in an attempt to catch sight of her work between her elegantly working hands.

Sirius nods and adds to the conversation with his question, “Yeah, and why aren’t you using magic like everyone else?”

“It comes with a lot of practice,” she answers your baby first before turning to your slightly older baby, “and I do it because I enjoy embroidering; besides…” she turns her work over to them, allowing you a glimpse of her masterpiece as well, “it always looks prettier when I embroider it myself,” your two boys ‘ooo~’ and ‘aaah~’ at her work. The interaction draws a soft giggle from you while the shopkeeper beside you sighs quietly – he sounds relieved.

“Are you feeling better, my dear?” Damocles steps up to his wife, placing one hand on the head of the cane that’s kept beside her rocking chair. His other hand reaches up to curl his fingers into a shy ringlet of her blonde hair. They are a loving couple, a 'one true pair'.

“Mr Belby, you need to stop being such a worrier,” his wife chides playfully at him, abandoning her embroidery to smile lovingly at her husband, “and besides, there’s nothing for you to fret about when I’m around such good company,” her comment makes you smile widely, proud that your two boys were growing a reputation of their own, ones separate from the infamous Black family. You can handle the stares and uncomfortable accommodations for your prominence but you wouldn't stand for them to experience it too.

“Right, of course,” Damocles nods with a short but airy chuckle and nods at the boys thankfully when they shuffle their way back to you. Sirius and Regulus had never seen such an affectionate couple before; their parents weren’t like that. And, although they wish they could grow up under such a soft and healthy model of love, they know that it wouldn’t be possible; to them, mothers and fathers don’t normally show affection for each other and that was how it was going to stay between their parents. There was no use in hoping.

“You must be these two young men’s mother,” Damocles’ wife meets your gaze and smiles, her beauty unable to be masked by her pronounced ailment, “My name is Ruth Belby, I see you’ve already met my worry-wart of a husband,” the two of you share a laugh before you’re able to introduce yourself as well. Unlike her spouse, Ruth's first reaction was not fear but rather surprise, an astonishment that quickly melted into a soft smile.

“You two have a very lovely shop,” Sirius and Regulus nod eagerly by your sides, agreeing with your comment, “it’s so much cosier than all the other shops around here,”

Damocles’ expression softens, his eyes mirroring sweet honey before he presses a kiss to his wife’s temple, “It’s all because of my wife’s keen eye, I catered this place solely for her palates’ enjoyment,”

“I’m very lucky in that sense,” Ruth’s twinkling laugh rings out as quickly as it gives way to a coughing fit. It sounds as though she’s trying to hack up a serrated knife, the sound of it making all witnesses' hearts shake with panic except for Damocles', who rushes about to quell her discomfort. He hides his worries well. His expression is completely neutral as he offers her a crisp glass of water, however, his other hand reveals his true sentiments – his true fretfulness. As soon as she's had her fill of the glass, Damocles offers up a phial of magenta liquid that you’re all too familiar with, “darling, there’s no need for that,” Ruth’s nose scrunches up at the appearance of the healing potion.

“It’s for your own good, please Ruth. I only want for you to feel better, my dear,” she grumbles and whines but eventually gulps down the healing potion, taking a moment to get over the ghastly taste before changing the topic. Your eyes fall onto her with sympathy. That potion is truly disgusting.

“That’s enough about me, I hear that this young man is going to be attending Hogwarts,” Ruth gestures to Sirius as you fondly bring up a hand to comb your fingers through his perfectly permed hair.

“Yes, he’s growing up far too quickly…” you hum, melancholic despite only being with your newly acquired sons for a little over a week. Sirius’ ears tint a soft pink and he shyly peeks up at you with pouting lips.

“Growing up is normal…” he utters like a grump.

“I know,” you sigh in gentle acceptance, “but I quite like you as you are right now,” Sirius’ eyes widen in disbelief and his cheeks burn as pink as his ears. It’s an expression that makes you smile warmly, you like the appearance of it on him, he needs to express it more often, “I want you to stay like this with me just a little bit longer, is that too much to ask?”

“...not really,” you didn’t expect him to answer but it was in a whisper so you had to lean down ever so slightly to hear him clearer, “I’ll try to stay like this a little longer for you…if you want,” his comment, heard by you and Ruth, have you both cooing at him as Regulus grins hard enough for his dimples to show again; his older brother’s rose-red face is so funny to look at!

When it comes time for you, Regulus and Sirius to leave, you thought it would just be a regular goodbye but not for your two boys. They've made good friends with the couple, especially Ruth so a memorable adieu was in order.

Regulus bows to Ruth like a true gentleman while Sirius places a small kiss on her knuckles, whereby he then turns to his younger brother and says verbatim: that’s how a true gentleman bids farewell to a beautiful lady. The gesture of your eldest made Damocles’ eyes bulge out as Ruth laughed aloud, her shoulders shaking as her eyes lit up in glee. It's a relief that she didn't have a coughing fit this time. You, yourself, don’t know why you were so surprised. It appears as though Sirius’ philanderer ways didn’t start in Hogwarts; he already had the potential even before attending the boarding school.

With another wave of your hand and a glance over your shoulder, you leave the couple whilst leading your two boys to the door in front of you.

It was then that you saw it…

In Ruth, you saw your past self. It was like looking into a mirror, a mirror into the past where you couldn’t have children no matter how desperately you wanted to have ones of your own. Like you, she probably had a list of names picked out in her head already. Like you, she probably pictured their innocent, beautiful faces in the appearance of other children. Like you, she envied the mothers who were able to conceive and desperately wished for a miracle to happen only for that miracle to never materialise. It was a mix of hopeless yearning and doleful forbearance. From your peripheral, you discern a similar impression on Damocles as he stands beside his ill-stricken wife.

Damocles Belby… why does that name sound so familiar to you?

The boys did so well today. It was long and arduous and you could see the sun beginning to set, however, it’s never too late for–

“Ice cream?” Regulus asks with glittering grey eyes.

“We can have two scoops each,” you announce, eager to reward yourself as well, “we deserve something delicious for our hard work today,” Regulus was bouncing on the soles of his feet, something both you and Sirius noticed.

“You can go first Reggie,” Sirius smiles at his little brother, who turns to you with pleading eyes.

“Can I choose my flavours myself?” he asks to which you smile and nod. Eagerly, he looks through the collection of available ice cream and decides to go for, “one scoop of strawberry and peanut butter, and one scoop of apple crumble please,” he seems proud of his order and is soon savouring it with the happiest expression on his face. It’s unexpected but he, undoubtedly, has a sweet tooth. A studious, quiet boy with a secret love for sweet things - how charming and precious.

“Can I have one scoop of the clotted cream, and one scoop of the sticky toffee pudding please,” just like Regulus, Sirius was soon delving into his ice cream too, both teetering on the edge of wanting to devour the rare, cold treat whilst also trying to make it last as long as possible. You giggle at their antics briefly before ordering your own two scoops from the same vendor who smiles at you kindly. In his gaze and wrinkled but dexterous fingers, familiar and elegant with their motions, express a love for his craft and a love for those who show their appreciation of it – the simple act of enjoying their ice cream was payment enough to him.

“Thank you kindly, sir,”

“Not at all mam, enjoy yer ice creams,” the man offers a slight tip of his head upon accepting payment.

On a nearby bench, Sirius, Regulus and you sit quietly together and finish your doubly topped cones, taking the time to observe passing wizards and witches while enjoying the little time you have left of your day out shopping. You don’t think the day could have gone any better, and Sirius and Regulus don’t think anything would be able to transcend the fun they’ve had.

Meeting each other’s eyes, Sirius and Regulus silently agree that today has been the best day they’ve ever had, not knowing that you have plenty of great days lined up for them.

NEXT. | 04 : BEGINNINGS → | SERIES M.LIST

A/N : it's finally here, my promised, final update before i go on my hiatus. i'm sorry it took me so long to get out to you darlings. after my indefinite hiatus announcement, i got really busy. however, i'm sure you darlings would be happy to know that my situation has gotten better. it's not to the point that i feel like i can comfortably write but i'm definitely getting there so i can confidently say that I can see myself returning from my hiatus later on this year. in the mean time, i hope you darlings enjoy this chapter and please take care! i love you all so much and i'll see you soon x

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realityjoey · 1 month ago

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SEASON 1, EPISODE 4, “THE SWITCH.”

The morning hum of the precinct had its usual rhythm — coffee brewing, boots stomping across tile, the occasional shouted “Where’s my damn vest?” echoing from the locker rooms.

But there was an energy in the air. A kind of anticipatory buzz that hinted at chaos, the kind that only Sergeant Grey seemed capable of orchestrating without ever raising his voice.

The bullpen filled fast. Tim Bradford leaned against the wall at the back of the briefing room, arms folded across his chest, watching the usual suspects file in. His expression was unreadable — but the slight twitch of his jaw said he was already skeptical.

Beside him, Dylan Jenkins strolled in, black coffee in hand, her eyes sharp and steady, that usual air of British smugness wrapped around her like armour. She clocked the mischievous glint in Grey’s eyes before he even said a word.

Uh-oh.

Grey cleared his throat, standing tall at the front with his clipboard. “Today is a special day.”

Bradford rolled his eyes. “Here we go…”

Dylan smirked into her coffee.

Grey continued. “As part of your ongoing development, and because some of you are getting a little too comfortable in your partnerships, we’re mixing things up.”

A ripple of surprise — and light panic — moved through the room.

“Today, you’re each going to work with someone new. Not just to test your adaptability, but to challenge your communication, your habits, and your trust.”

He began reading off the new pairings, voice firm and deliberate.

“Chen — you’re with Bishop.”

Lucy blinked, wide-eyed, and looked over at Bishop, who just offered a tight-lipped, amused smile.

“Nolan — you’re riding with Officer Yates.”

John sighed softly and gave a nervous thumbs up to the corner where Yates leaned, already unimpressed.

“Bradford — you’re with West.”

Jackson grinned like a kid unwrapping a gift. “Let’s go, Coach.”

Tim muttered under his breath, “This is going to be a long day…”

“Lopez,” Grey said, “you’re with Jenkins.”

Angela Lopez’s eyebrows shot up — and despite herself, she let out a soft but audible: “Yes.”

Dylan looked over, amused. “You alright there, partner?”

Lopez played it cool. “Just… always nice to work with someone who’s actually intimidating on purpose.”

Dylan’s grin widened. “Flattery gets you a better playlist.”

The truth was, Angela Lopez was genuinely thrilled. She’d admired Dylan since day one — her quiet intensity, her control, that cool accent and no-bullshit approach. Dylan was a walking detective’s manual with a tragic past and a wry sense of humour. And she carried herself like someone who could win a bar fight with one arm.

Lopez wanted to learn. And Dylan? Dylan secretly felt the same. Lopez was sharp, assertive, and charismatic in a way Dylan would never be. She liked her. Which unnerved her slightly.

But she wasn’t going to admit that. Obviously.

Grey stepped forward again. “One more thing — today’s not just about routine patrols or team-building exercises.”

Cue Tim’s second eye-roll of the morning.

Grey went on, “Your objective today is to learn one personal thing about your temporary partner. Something they don’t advertise. Something real.”

There was a collective groan from every corner of the room.

“No surface-level nonsense,” Grey clarified. “I don’t want to hear about favorite bands or pet names. I want something they wouldn’t normally share. And by end-of-shift, you’ll each report back.”

“Seriously?” Tim muttered.

Grey met his eyes directly. “Yes, seriously. You all spend more time with each other than your own families. It’s about time you acted like it.”

“Sounds invasive,” Dylan said casually, sipping her coffee. “I’m in.”

Grey glanced at her. “Careful, Jenkins. You’re not as impenetrable as you think.”

She raised a brow, accepting the challenge with a half-shrug.

Tim pushed off the wall, heading toward Jackson without a word. But the moment his back was turned, Dylan caught the way he glanced her way — just for a beat.

That half-second pause.

A reluctant tug at the corner of his mouth.

He wouldn’t say it — ever — but she knew.

He was going to miss riding with her.

As Dylan turned toward Lopez, Angela was already flipping open a notebook from her vest pocket.

“Alright,” she said. “First question — what’s your interrogation strategy when someone’s clearly lying but knows they’re cleverer than you?”

Dylan blinked. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“I don’t mess around.”

Dylan smirked. “You’re not going to let me get through the day without talking about my feelings, or detective tips, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

And with that, the pairs began to peel away, fanning out toward patrol cars, assignment sheets in hand, new energy in their step.

Dylan Jenkins had no doubt she’d uncover something about Lopez.

What she didn’t realise — not yet — was just how much Lopez was going to dig out of her.

The briefing room had emptied quickly after roll call, with rookies filing out toward their assigned units like chess pieces scattering across the board. The parking lot hummed with the sound of cruisers starting up, boots hitting pavement, clipped conversation crackling through open radios.

But just outside the rear entrance, in the slight shadow of the awning, four training officers lingered.

Tim Bradford. Talia Bishop. Angela Lopez. And Officer Yates.

All four leaned against the concrete wall in practiced silence — the kind that only came from people used to leading the charge. For a moment, no one spoke. Just the shared nods, the low clink of coffee cups and tactical belts.

Then, naturally, Lopez broke the silence.

“So,” she said casually, hands on her hips, “Jenkins. What am I in for?”

Tim didn’t immediately respond. He stared out toward the lot, watching as Dylan disappeared around the corner with her coffee in one hand and her signature walk — unbothered, steady, quietly intimidating — cutting across the asphalt.

“She’s solid,” he said finally. “One of the sharpest cops I’ve worked with in a long time.”

Lopez raised her brows. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

“It was,” Tim said flatly. Then, reluctantly, he added, “But she’s got a few… quirks.”

“Oh, I love quirks,” Lopez said with a grin. “Shoot.”

Tim shifted his weight slightly, arms folded across his chest. “She’s got a short fuse. Controlled — mostly — but if someone’s being an idiot or doing something reckless, she doesn’t always hold back.”

Lopez nodded. “Noted.”

“She also takes too many risks,” Tim continued. “Not the adrenaline-junkie kind — more like… if she sees someone in danger, she doesn’t hesitate. Even if it puts her in the line of fire.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Bishop murmured with a look toward Bradford.

Tim ignored it.

“She’s got instincts like a detective who’s worked twice her years,” he added. “Cuts through lies like nothing, picks up on details most people miss. But…”

“But?” Lopez prompted.

Tim hesitated.

“She shuts down sometimes,” he admitted, voice lower now. “Just… goes quiet. You’ll be mid-shift, everything fine, then something will hit her — a call, a suspect, a phrase — and she’ll go radio-silent. Detached.”

Yates glanced over. “Trauma?”

“Definitely,” Tim said. “What kind, I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about it. Not to me.”

Lopez tilted her head thoughtfully. “So she internalises. Pushes through. Bottles it up.”

“Exactly.”

Bishop crossed her arms. “And yet you still say she’s solid?”

Tim looked at her, voice even. “She is. She doesn’t let it get in the way of the work. But you’ll see it if you’re paying attention. She’s not a mess — she’s just carrying something big. And she’s good at hiding it until it gets too heavy.”

Lopez nodded, taking all of it in with a quiet seriousness.

“She’s one of the best partners I’ve ever had,” Tim added after a pause. “But she doesn’t want people to know that she still bleeds.”

The group was quiet for a moment, the weight of his words settling over them like heat.

Yates finally broke the silence with a grunt. “I’ve got Nolan. He’s probably already offering to pay for lunch.”

Bishop smirked. “Chen’s practically allergic to talking about herself. This should be fun.”

Lopez took one last sip of her coffee, then dropped the cup into a nearby bin.

“Well,” she said, stretching her shoulders, “sounds like it’s going to be an interesting day.”

Tim offered a dry smirk. “Just keep your seatbelt fastened.”

Lopez glanced over at him as she headed toward her cruiser. “Don’t worry. I’ve been waiting for this ride for a while.”

As the others dispersed, Tim lingered for a beat longer, eyes following the direction Dylan had walked.

He wouldn’t say it aloud.

But part of him hated that someone else was riding with her today.

Not because he didn’t trust Lopez.

But because he did.

The cruiser rolled down a sleepy stretch of side street near Echo Park, warm sun filtering through the windshield, the usual city noise quieted by a rare pocket of calm.

Angela Lopez gripped the wheel with one hand, trying very hard to look casual — and failing. The second she’d been assigned to ride with Detective Dylan Jenkins, she’d been a mixture of giddy, focused, and slightly terrified. Dylan wasn’t just sharp — she was magnetic. The kind of cop whose silence made people talk, whose gaze could unearth things buried years deep.

Angela wanted to learn. Desperately.

And Dylan?

Dylan was the kind of person who didn’t give anything away for free.

Which is why Lopez had parked in the shade, killed the engine, and said — casually, but very much on purpose — “Figured now’s a good time for the whole ‘tell me something personal’ thing Grey’s making us do.”

Dylan, in the passenger seat, raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re really following through with that?”

“Absolutely,” Lopez said, turning to face her fully. “You’ve got layers, Jenkins. And I want to know what’s underneath.”

Dylan gave a soft snort and looked out the window. “You’re too eager.”

“I’m ambitious,” Lopez corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Dylan didn’t respond immediately. She seemed to weigh the silence, like she was deciding whether to fill it or let it stretch.

“You know what, let’s just get this over with.” Then she said, very quietly: “I had a younger brother.”

Angela’s smile faded slightly, caught off guard by the abrupt sincerity in her voice. “Yeah?”

“Rio,” Dylan continued. “He was… a mess. Charming, funny, but always in trouble. Drugs, theft, fights — you name it.”

Lopez stayed quiet, sensing the shift.

Dylan’s voice was calm. Controlled. But there was something just beneath it — like she was walking across glass, barefoot.

“I was more of a parent than a sister. Our dad was a drunk, high more often than not. Mum never cared enough to ask where we were, let alone what we were doing. So I took care of him. Cooked, cleaned, covered for him. Tried to keep him on the rails.”

Angela frowned, already feeling the tightening in her chest. “That’s a lot for a kid.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “When I joined the Met, started working my way toward detective, I got tunnel vision. Thought if I made it — if I became someone — I could pull him out of it all. But I stopped watching. He started acting off. Secretive. Jumpier. I chalked it up to immaturity.”

She went quiet for a beat.

Then said, so softly it nearly disappeared: “One day, I was on shift. Got called to a scene. Anonymous tip. Body dumped in an alley behind a kebab shop in Camden. Male. Early twenties. Gunshot to the chest.”

Angela didn’t move.

Dylan stared straight ahead, eyes locked on something far away. “It was Rio.”

The air in the cruiser went still.

“I was the one who unzipped the bag,” Dylan said. “Didn’t even realise what I was looking at until I saw the tattoo on his collarbone. I still see it. Every single day.”

Lopez’s throat tightened. “Dylan…”

“I should’ve done more. Should’ve pushed harder. Should’ve seen it coming.” Her fingers tapped once on her thigh. “That guilt? It doesn’t fade. It just shifts. Changes shape. But it never leaves.”

Angela took a slow breath, grounding herself. “You were a kid trying to carry two lives. And then you were a woman trying to fix something no one trained you for. That’s not your fault.”

Dylan finally looked at her. “Tell that to the part of me that sees his face every time I look in a mirror.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Real.

Angela, moved but composed, reached into the console, pulled out a granola bar, and handed it over like it was a peace offering.

Dylan blinked at it. “What’s this?”

“Something to chew on instead of your guilt,” Lopez said simply. “Also, you skipped breakfast. I saw you.”

Dylan let out a surprised huff of laughter. The smallest, briefest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re relentless,” she muttered.

Angela grinned. “Ambitious. We went over this.”

They sat for another quiet moment, the engine off, the city moving around them like distant waves.

And for the first time since the shift started, Dylan felt like she wasn’t just being studied — she was seen.

The cruiser had been rolling again for about ten minutes, but the earlier conversation hung in the air like dust — soft, but ever-present.

Angela Lopez hadn’t stopped thinking about Rio. About the way Dylan’s voice had shifted when she said his name. About the quiet resilience behind the guilt that she wore like armour. Dylan had cracked open something real and painful, and somehow she hadn’t done it for sympathy — she’d done it like it was nothing more than breathing.

Angela was still in awe.

Which was exactly why she was caught off guard when Dylan said, casually:

“Alright, your turn.”

Angela blinked. “My turn?”

“Grey’s little challenge?” Dylan said, glancing at her with a hint of a smirk. “You got my tragic backstory. Time to cough up yours.”

Angela tried to laugh it off. “Come on, I don’t have anything near as heavy as that.”

Dylan didn’t look away. “Didn’t say it had to match. Just said it had to matter.”

Lopez hesitated. Her hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, knuckles flexing as she stared straight ahead. The light turned red, and the cruiser rolled to a gentle stop.

She exhaled slowly, thinking. Then, finally:

“I wasn’t supposed to make it this far.”

Dylan turned toward her, intrigued.

Angela kept her eyes on the road. “Not that I wasn’t capable. But where I’m from, people like me — young, brown, working-class — we don’t get handed a damn thing. My older brother? In prison. My cousin? Dead at twenty-two. My mom worked three jobs and still couldn’t keep the lights on sometimes. Every teacher I ever had told me I was ‘spirited’ — which is just code for ‘you’re gonna burn out or blow up.’”

Dylan listened in silence, her gaze steady, but not pressing.

Angela’s voice dropped slightly. “I learned how to fight young. Not physically, just… push back. Speak up. Out-talk, out-work, out-smart everyone around me. I told myself I’d get out. Become something.”

“And you did,” Dylan said quietly.

“Not yet,” Angela replied, her smile faint but tight. “Detective’s still the goal. Getting the badge, cracking the cases, putting my name on something that matters.”

She paused again.

“But sometimes… I still feel like that girl from Boyle Heights. The one who got overlooked. Like at any minute, someone’s gonna realise I’m faking it.”

Dylan was quiet for a long beat.

Then, with a small smile: “Imposter syndrome.”

Angela nodded. “Yeah.”

Dylan leaned her head back against the seat, watching the world move past the window. “You’re not faking it. You’re earning it. Every damn day.”

Angela glanced at her, surprised.

“You’re sharp,” Dylan continued. “You lead with your instincts, but you’re not reckless. You want to learn, but you don’t beg. You ask. Direct. Respectful. And you listen. Not many people do that.”

Angela’s chest tightened slightly — not from discomfort, but from something deeper. Recognition. The rare feeling of being seen and understood without having to scream for it.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Dylan didn’t make a big deal of it. Just gave her a slow nod.

And just like that, something unspoken fell into place between them.

Not rivalry.

Not hierarchy.

But mutual respect. The kind that comes before a real friendship.

The rest of the shift passed in a comfortable rhythm — answering calls, sharing dry humour, working like they’d been doing it for years.

And as they drove back to the precinct with the city dipped in gold from the setting sun, Angela looked over at Dylan and said, half-smirking:

“You ever think about transferring to training officer? You’d make a pretty great mentor.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “You saying I’m old?”

“I’m saying I’m learning more from you in one shift than I have from some people in six months.”

Dylan scoffed. “Don’t get sentimental. It doesn’t suit you.”

Angela just smiled wider. “Too late.”

And this time, when Dylan smiled back, it wasn’t guarded or small.

It was genuine.

The beginning of something solid.

The warehouse sat low and wide in the fading light, its corrugated steel walls already rusting at the seams. It looked forgotten, tucked between a scrapyard and a storage yard, but the intelligence was solid — it was a front. A gun runner had been operating from the inside, moving modified rifles and pistols through the city like clockwork.

Tim Bradford stood just outside the perimeter fence, his vest heavy over his chest, one hand resting on the grip of his service weapon. Jackson West stood beside him, less steady, shifting from foot to foot like he couldn’t quite settle his nerves.

Tim gave him a glance. “You good?”

Jackson nodded, but it was the kind of nod that came too fast — automatic. Not rooted in confidence. His eyes were wide, scanning everything too quickly.

Tim noted it. Tucked it away.

They moved in with two other units, taking different access points around the back of the warehouse. The tension hung thick in the air — that razor edge before the breach, when anything could go wrong and usually did.

Tim signalled.

They stepped through the side door into shadow and must.

Then came the shout.

“LAPD! Show me your hands!”

The response was immediate — the pop of gunfire cracked through the air like a whip, loud and disorienting in the tight space.

And that was when it happened.

Jackson froze.

He dropped to his knees behind a steel crate, arms over his head, his entire body trembling with the sudden crash of adrenaline. His gun hung useless at his side. Breath ragged. Eyes locked on nothing, like he’d been transported somewhere else entirely.

Tim barely had time to process it — diving behind a forklift, returning fire with precision. One suspect went down. Another bolted through a side door, and the sound of boots echoed through the far corridor.

Once the gunfire stopped, everything went still.

Except Jackson.

Still crouched. Still shaking.

Tim’s heart thundered in his chest — part residual adrenaline, part something heavier.

He holstered his weapon and crossed the floor, boots crunching over spent casings and shattered glass. He crouched down beside Jackson, his voice low but firm.

“West.”

No response.

“Jackson. Look at me.”

Jackson finally did — and his eyes were glassy, terror swimming just beneath the surface.

Tim’s gut twisted.

This wasn’t just rookie nerves. This was real fear. The kind that locked the body down and cut off instinct. The kind that, in the wrong moment, could get someone killed.

Tim had seen it before. Hell, he’d seen it in himself once — long ago.

He helped Jackson to his feet slowly. The kid didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His silence said everything.

Later, once the scene was cleared and backup had taken over, Tim stood near the cruiser, arms folded, watching Jackson sit quietly in the passenger seat, staring out at the pavement with haunted eyes.

Tim had seen rookies break before. It came with the job. But this moment, this bust — it brought something else back to the surface.

Dylan.

That gunfight. The blood. The noise.

The way she’d run to him — even as she bled.

The way she stayed focused, stayed sharp, and dragged him out with one arm and zero hesitation.

He’d almost died that day.

But she hadn’t frozen.

She hadn’t flinched.

She’d acted.

She’d saved him.

And now, watching Jackson crumble under the same kind of pressure, Tim felt that truth dig deeper than before:

He was fucking lucky.

Lucky Dylan had been the one with him that day.

Lucky she hadn’t second-guessed herself.

Lucky that, even carrying her own trauma, she still ran toward the danger, not from it.

Jackson wasn’t ready.

He might never be.

And Tim?

Tim realised, for the first time in weeks, just how rare it was to have someone like Dylan at your side when everything went to hell.

The lunch crowd at the burger van buzzed with casual energy — the clatter of boots, the scent of grease in the air, and the familiar sound of laughter bouncing off brick walls. Officers gathered in loose circles, leaning against cruisers, paper-wrapped burgers in hand. It was one of those rare moments where the precinct exhaled.

Angela Lopez and Dylan Jenkins sat together at one of the dented folding tables beneath the truck’s faded yellow awning. Grease-stained napkins rustled in the soft breeze, and the sun baked gently on their shoulders as they picked at fries and sipped lukewarm sodas.

“I swear,” Lopez was saying through a grin, “if Bishop gives me one more lecture on ‘leading with empathy,’ I’m going to start handing out emotional support stickers during arrest reports.”

Dylan smirked. “And here I was thinking the point of training officers was to beat the empathy out of people.”

Lopez snorted. “You and Bradford are basically a ‘Caution: Emotional Repression’ poster.”

“Flattered,” Dylan replied dryly, but her eyes glinted with amusement.

That’s when they heard it — the unmistakable screech of tires, a black-and-white cruiser pulling in too fast, skidding slightly before jolting to a stop just beyond the picnic area.

Lopez and Dylan both looked up.

Tim Bradford climbed out of the vehicle. His vest hung open, jaw set, hands flexing at his sides like he was physically trying to contain something.

“Lopez!”

His voice snapped through the air like a gunshot — sharp, commanding, pissed.

Angela froze mid-reach for her drink. Her smile vanished.

She turned toward Dylan with an uneasy glance. “Give me a sec.”

Dylan nodded, slowly lowering her cup, but her eyes never left Tim. She knew that walk. That energy. Something had gone very wrong.

Lopez met him halfway, intercepting him just before he stormed past the van. She kept her voice low, cautious. “Tim. What’s going on?”

Bradford didn’t sugar-coat it. “Why the hell did you let me hit the street with a rookie who folds under fire?”

Lopez flinched — barely — but Dylan caught it from the table.

“What are you talking about?” Angela asked, her stomach tightening.

“Jackson froze.” Tim’s voice was rising now, louder than it needed to be, hot with frustration. “We hit that warehouse, called out ‘LAPD,’ and the second bullets started flying, he dropped behind cover, covered his damn head and did nothing. Didn’t draw his weapon. Didn’t return fire. Didn’t even radio. Just shut down.”

Lopez swallowed hard. “I—” She hesitated. “I knew he had an issue with gunfire. Early on. Back in the first few weeks. But we worked through it. I thought it was handled.”

Tim’s eyes flared. “You thought wrong.”

Angela’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t find the words.

“I could’ve been killed,” he snapped. “We could’ve all been killed. You think I don’t know rookies mess up? Of course they do. But freezing like that in an active fire zone? That’s not just a mistake — that’s a dangerous blind spot. And you should’ve flagged it.”

“I didn’t hide it,” Lopez said quietly. “We worked through it. I saw him improve. I thought he’d gotten past it.”

“Well, today proved he hasn’t.”

Across the lot, Dylan sat still, gaze sharp. She didn’t move, didn’t interrupt, but her entire posture had changed — alert now, spine straight, fingers slowly flexing around her soda cup.

She could hear every word. So could half the lot.

Lopez’s voice dropped, the weight of it heavy. “You think I’d knowingly put you at risk?”

Tim didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched. “No. But that doesn’t make this better.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Lopez promised, regret lining her voice now. “I’ll handle it.”

Tim nodded once, clipped, then turned and stalked back toward his cruiser, tension still radiating from his frame like heat from asphalt.

Angela stood there a moment longer, blinking against the sun, before making her way back to Dylan — slower now, each step heavier.

She dropped into the seat with a quiet exhale and rubbed her temples.

“I thought he was ready,” she muttered. “I really thought we fixed it.”

Dylan was silent for a beat. Then, gently: “Some cracks don’t show until the pressure’s real.”

Angela glanced at her. “Bradford’s right to be pissed.”

“He is,” Dylan said evenly. “But you’re not the first to believe in someone and get proven wrong.”

Angela’s eyes drifted toward the squad car where Tim sat alone behind the wheel, gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor him.

“You think he’s okay?” she asked.

Dylan looked at Tim, her voice unreadable. “No. But that’s not the question he’s ready to answer.”

The lot was starting to thin out.

The post-lunch lull had settled, officers drifting back to their cruisers or stretching out a few more minutes in the rare California shade. Dylan stood a few paces from the burger van, arms folded, eyes tracking the patrol units as they loaded back up.

She spotted Jackson West lingering beside the passenger side of his and Bradford’s shop, face tight, posture tense — clearly still rattled. He kept glancing toward the ground, like the pavement might offer him answers. Or forgiveness.

Dylan stepped away from the table and casually made her way over.

“West,” she said softly, keeping her voice level. “You alright?”

Jackson startled, looked up. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Fine.”

“Liar,” Dylan replied calmly.

He gave a nervous chuckle, but didn’t deny it.

She leaned lightly against the car, looking ahead rather than at him. “I’ve seen that look before.”

Jackson frowned. “What look?”

“The one where you think one bad moment defines the rest of your life.”

Jackson’s throat bobbed. “It wasn’t just a moment. I froze. Completely.”

“And you think you’re the first?” she said, turning toward him now. “You think every single cop out there is born fearless? Invincible?”

“No,” Jackson murmured. “But Tim—Bradford—he’s not like that. He doesn’t tolerate fear.”

“No,” Dylan agreed. “He doesn’t. Because he’s scared of what it says about him. Not you.”

Before Jackson could respond, a familiar voice cut across the lot like a blade.

“Jenkins!”

Tim Bradford was marching toward them, face flushed, jaw locked.

Dylan sighed through her nose. “Here we go.”

Tim didn’t slow as he approached, his voice low but laced with fury. “Stay out of this.”

“I was talking to him,” Dylan replied, equally low. “Not you.”

“I don’t need you softening my rookie.”

Dylan pushed off the cruiser. “Maybe if you offered an ounce of actual support, he wouldn’t need someone else to do it.”

“Leave. Now.”

Dylan stared at him for a second, jaw tight, then turned to Jackson. “You’ll be alright. You’re not broken.”

Then she walked off without waiting for Tim’s reaction.

She found Lopez leaning against a light pole nearby, arms crossed, having clearly seen the whole thing.

“He’s in one of those moods,” Angela said.

Dylan scoffed. “He’s in one of those lives.”

Angela offered her a burger she hadn’t touched. “Peace offering?”

Dylan smirked. “Only if it comes with duct tape for his mouth.”

Later that day, the fluorescent lights of the locker room buzzed overhead as Tim changed out of his vest, shirt sticking to his skin after a long, tense shift.

The room was mostly empty.

Until Jackson walked in.

He hesitated by the row of lockers, then made his way over, standing a little too straight, his voice shaky but determined.

“Sir.”

Tim didn’t look up from re-strapping his sidearm. “What is it, West?”

“I just wanted to say… I know what happened today wasn’t acceptable. I know I screwed up. But I’m not giving up. I’m in this for the long haul. I just… I need some guidance.”

Tim finally looked up, meeting his eyes. Cold. Measured.

“I don’t do lost causes,” he said flatly.

Jackson flinched. “Sir—”

“You want a badge, prove you deserve it. Tomorrow, you show up and either act like a cop, or don’t bother showing up at all. Because if this happens again, it won’t just be your life on the line.”

Jackson’s face fell.

Then he nodded once, quietly. “Understood.”

He turned and left.

From behind a locker wall, Dylan stepped out.

She hadn’t meant to overhear — but she didn’t look sorry about it.

She folded her arms and stared at Tim, unimpressed. “That was brutal.”

Tim didn’t flinch. “It was honest.”

“It was unnecessary,” Dylan shot back. “You’re not training a robot. You’re training a person. One who just admitted he needs help.”

Tim snapped the locker shut, glaring. “He’s a cop. There’s no room for indecision when bullets are flying. You freeze, you die. Or worse, your partner dies.”

“I know that,” Dylan said, voice sharper now. “But he’s trying. You gave up on him before he even had a chance to process what happened.”

Tim’s voice dropped, low and cold. “I don’t have time to hand-hold people through panic. That’s not the job.”

“No,” Dylan said. “But it is the job to know when someone needs a hand and not a fist.”

The room crackled with tension.

Finally, Dylan shook her head, backing away. “No wonder you miss riding with me. I didn’t need to be perfect to get your respect — I just had to bleed.”

She turned and left.

Tim didn’t stop her.

But for the first time that day, the locker room felt colder.

And Bradford stood there, completely alone.

The morning sunlight was sharp and clear over Los Angeles, the city buzzing as it always did — too bright for how heavy some of its people felt. Jackson West had reported for duty on time, polished and proper as always, but a heaviness still clung to him. Not just the aftermath of freezing up during the bust, but the weight of disappointment — in himself, and maybe in how Bradford had looked at him afterward.

So when Tim Bradford told him they were taking a detour before patrol, Jackson expected another brutal reality check. Maybe a shooting range, or worse — a walk-through of the warehouse from the day before.

Instead, they pulled up outside a modest apartment block in Echo Park. Nothing fancy — rust along the railings, windows smudged with city grime, a building that had seen things.

Jackson followed Tim inside, silent and confused, until they stopped outside apartment 4B.

Tim knocked once. Twice.

The door opened a few inches — a cautious pair of eyes peeking out from behind the chain.

“Wallis. It’s me.”

The man behind the door blinked, then let out a breath of recognition and slowly unlatched the chain.

Wallis was short, round, pale-skinned with glasses too big for his face and a hoodie that looked two sizes too large. He shuffled back, waving them in. “Sorry. I don’t do well with… surprises.”

“You’re fine,” Tim said. “Thanks for letting us stop by.”

Jackson entered slowly, eyes scanning the small apartment. It was spotless but dark, the windows covered with blackout curtains. Video game consoles were neatly stacked beside a TV, and the faint smell of takeout hung in the air.

“Wallis,” Tim said, gesturing to Jackson, “this is Officer Jackson West. Jackson — this is Wallis. He’s a good man who went through something real. Something he’s still working through.”

Wallis gave a sheepish smile and a nervous wave. “Hi.”

Jackson returned it with a polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Tim glanced at Wallis, voice softening. “You mind telling him what happened?”

Wallis hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the couch. “Couple years ago, I got jumped. Hate crime. Three guys. They waited for me outside my building. Didn’t like that I… existed, I guess.”

Jackson blinked, slowly lowering himself into the chair opposite.

“I had broken ribs. Lost a few teeth,” Wallis said, trying to keep it light. “Bradford found me. Made sure I got to the hospital. Checked in on me every week for months. Even when the case went cold.”

Tim stayed silent — arms crossed, eyes low. Letting the moment belong to Wallis.

Wallis continued. “Now? I can’t even open the door without picturing those guys again. I don’t go outside. Groceries, meds, work — it’s all delivery or remote. I live in a box of fear.”

Jackson’s expression shifted, something deeper unlocking behind his eyes. “I think I get that.”

Wallis looked up at him. “You froze, huh?”

Jackson nodded. “Yeah. In a shootout. And now I can’t stop thinking about how badly it could’ve gone. How I should’ve moved, should’ve drawn my weapon, done something.”

Wallis nodded. “Sounds like you’re thinking a lot about what you didn’t do. That’s the loop. It’ll kill you if you stay in it.”

“What do you do?”

Wallis gave a wry smile. “I do it anyway. Scared. Shaking. Sometimes crying. But I do one thing each week that scares me. It’s slow, and some days I fail. But I figure if I move through it just once, I’ve already won.”

Jackson absorbed that like a sponge. His shoulders weren’t quite so tense anymore.

“Thanks,” he said. “That… helps.”

Later that day, the squad gathered in the roll call room. Grey stood at the front with a whiteboard covered in intel and a projected map behind him.

“Alright,” Grey said, “we’ve got word of a sizable drug operation operating out of a residential house in Glassell Park. Mid-level supplier, running fentanyl-laced product through the East Side. We’re moving tonight. Tactically. Quiet. No heroics.”

The room rustled as officers shifted in their seats, nodding, focusing in.

Dylan Jenkins, sitting at the end of the second row, noticed something immediately.

Jackson West looked… different. Still reserved, still serious, but his shoulders weren’t hunched anymore. His jaw wasn’t clenched. His hands weren’t fidgeting in his lap.

She glanced sideways, toward Bradford, who sat like he always did — arms crossed, jaw locked, attention sharp.

But when she caught the faintest, most subtle flicker of Tim’s eyes drifting to Jackson — just for a second — it clicked.

After the briefing, as everyone stood to disperse, Dylan sidled up to Tim, her voice pitched just for him.

“You took him to see someone, didn’t you?”

Tim didn’t look at her. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smirked. “You big softie.”

That made him snap his eyes to hers, jaw tightening. “I am not a softie.”

“You kind of are.”

“I took him to someone who’s been through it,” Tim muttered. “Doesn’t mean I’m braiding his hair and journaling about my feelings.”

Dylan grinned. “No, you’re just personally helping scared rookies face their trauma head-on. With community support. Very un-Bradford of you.”

He glared at her. “You done?”

“Oh, not even close,” she replied, patting him on the arm. “But I’ll let you stew in your accidental emotional growth for now.”

She walked off, still smiling.

Tim stared after her.

Grumbling to himself.

But he didn’t deny it.

Not this time.

The briefing room had the kind of buzz that only came with high-risk operations — quiet but charged, like the air just before a thunderstorm.

Sergeant Grey stood at the front with a large printed layout of a multi-level car park, each floor marked with red ink and annotations in his tidy, efficient handwriting. A drone photo hovered behind him on the projector — grainy, but clear enough to show the layout. Five levels. Dozens of cars. At least six points of entry and exit.

And, according to intel, one active drug deal happening in the chaos of mid-afternoon foot traffic.

“This is not your standard takedown,” Grey began. “No front doors to kick in, no guaranteed sight lines. They’re using the location for exactly one reason — chaos. The suspects know they can disappear fast if we don’t move right.”

He tapped the map.

“We believe the exchange is going to happen here,” he said, indicating a blind corner on the third floor, tucked between two supporting columns and shielded by parked cars. “There’ll be lookouts posted on either side — that’s our first problem. The second? It’s public. Civilians everywhere. We need eyes. Fast reaction time. Zero gunplay unless absolutely necessary.”

The room was tense. Focused.

Grey began assigning positions.

“Chen and Bishop, northeast stairwell. Nolan, Yates — top deck. Lopez, south exit ramp. Bradford and Jenkins—” he pointed to the lower west stairwell, just adjacent to a pedestrian bridge.

Dylan arched a brow, glancing across the room at Tim. He gave her a single, silent nod.

Grey finished his rundown, making it clear: once the signal was given — a visual confirmation of the handoff — every unit would converge. Quick, quiet, and tight.

No heroics.

No missed beats.

Two hours later, the sun was still high and unforgiving, baking the concrete structure of the car park like an oven.

Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins sat together in the shop, parked one block away. Their position was locked in — they’d be on foot, moving through the side stairwell once the suspects entered the third floor. For now, they waited. Radio quiet. Phones dark. Everyone on standby.

Tim sat behind the wheel, shades on, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in slow, measured beats.

Dylan had her vest half-unfastened, sipping on a bottle of warm water, eyes watching the pedestrian traffic beyond the windshield.

“Ever notice how stakeouts are always ninety percent boredom, ten percent near-death?” she muttered.

Tim didn’t look at her. “Try doing them with Nolan. Apparently he narrates the pigeons.”

Dylan smirked. “Bet you’d love that.”

“Absolutely not.”

There was a moment of quiet between them, not uncomfortable — just heavy with anticipation.

Dylan shifted slightly in her seat. “This one feels off.”

Tim glanced over. “How?”

“Too messy,” she said. “They’re not amateurs, but using a crowded car park in broad daylight? That’s erratic. Either they’re desperate, or they’re baiting.”

Tim gave a slow nod. “You think it’s a trap?”

“I think it’s a warning,” Dylan replied. “To someone. Maybe even us.”

Tim’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful.

“Still,” she added, tightening the straps on her vest, “wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Tim’s mouth twitched slightly. “You like the chaos too much.”

“Only when I know who’s watching my back,” Dylan said simply.

Tim didn’t respond at first. He just looked back out the windshield, jaw flexing once.

Then, quietly, he said, “I’ve got you.”

The words weren’t sentimental.

But they didn’t have to be.

They were true.

A static crackled on the radio — Grey’s voice, low and sharp:

“Units be advised — suspects have arrived. Silver SUV, third level, west end. Eyes on. Prepare to move.”

Tim clicked on the dash cam. Dylan pulled her gloves tighter.

The hum in the air snapped to attention.

“Let’s go,” Tim said.

And they stepped out of the car — two shadows moving into the fray, calm in the storm, partners in the fire.

The car park stank of oil and sunbaked concrete, the kind of staleness that stuck in your throat. From their shadowed position behind a row of cars on the third floor, Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins moved with silent precision, each footstep calculated, bodies low and tight.

The air buzzed with tension.

They had eyes on the suspects now — three men, one holding a duffel bag, the other two scanning the lot with too much frequency to be mistaken for anything but muscle. One leaned against a pillar, tapping his boot anxiously. The other kept a nervous hand close to the hem of his oversized hoodie.

Tim muttered into his comm, “Visual confirmed. Suspects are in position. Package in hand.”

Grey’s voice crackled back: “Standby for signal.”

But the suspects must have caught a shadow, a flicker, something out of place — because in a single heartbeat, everything went to hell.

“Cops!”

Then—

Gunfire.

The deafening crack of it echoed through the concrete cavern.

Tim immediately shoved Dylan down behind the engine block of a black SUV as bullets pinged off metal and shattered windshields.

“Third level! Shots fired, shots fired!” Tim shouted into his comm, drawing his weapon and returning two sharp, clean shots toward the far wall.

Dylan was already moving — rolling across to better cover, taking up position at the rear wheel of a parked sedan. Her breaths came fast, shallow, but her grip was steady. Her eyes flicked to Tim’s position, checking on him.

And he was checking on her just as frequently.

Neither of them said it, but the fear was there — not for themselves, but for each other.

This was their first gunfight since the day they both bled into asphalt.

The last time, Dylan had dragged Tim out while bleeding herself.

The last time, Tim had nearly died.

That memory clung to both of them, silent and heavy.

Suddenly — movement.

One of the suspects broke from cover, sprinting across the open space toward the stairwell exit. Dylan pivoted sharply, gun raised, tracking him—

—and a second suspect turned and fired.

At her.

CRACK.

The bullet whizzed past her face — so close it clipped the edge of her vest strap. She threw herself behind a concrete pillar, her back slamming into it with a grunt.

“Dylan!” Tim’s voice sliced through the chaos, panicked, raw.

He lit up the shooter with three controlled bursts — two to the shoulder, one to the leg. The man went down hard, screaming.

Backup swarmed seconds later, a flood of officers closing in from every stairwell, guns raised, shouting commands. Suspects were cuffed, weapons kicked across concrete. The air reeked of smoke, rubber, and adrenaline.

And through it all, Tim was already moving toward her.

“Dylan—Dylan, talk to me.”

“I’m good,” she said hoarsely, pushing up from her cover, but he was already there — hands on her, pulling her behind another car, shielding her like the danger wasn’t already over.

She blinked, startled. “Tim, I’m fine—”

He didn’t listen.

His hands moved to her vest, checking her sides, her back, his fingers shaking slightly as he searched for blood.

“Take it off,” he muttered.

“I’m—”

“Take. It. Off.”

His voice was low, sharp, almost desperate.

So she did.

He yanked the vest off and ran his hands along her shirt, brushing her shoulder, ribs, waist — and then finally stopped. His hand lingered just above her stomach, pressing lightly.

Nothing.

No blood.

She placed her hand over his, stilling him.

“I’m okay,” she said, eyes steady on his.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t believe it yet — like he was waiting for the red to bloom somewhere anyway.

She softened. “You okay?”

He let out a slow breath. “Yeah. I just— it was close. Too close.”

Their hands were still touching. Her vest lay between them, forgotten on the ground.

Something passed between them then. Not just the rush of post-gunfight adrenaline. It was quieter. Heavier. Unspoken.

A kind of care that didn’t fit in their usual back-and-forth. Something unfamiliar, yet impossible to ignore.

Dylan was the first to pull back, sliding her vest back on and tightening the straps herself.

“You’re a menace when you go into protective mode,” she muttered.

Tim straightened, clearing his throat. “You almost got shot. Again.”

“And you looked like you were about to rip someone’s throat out with your bare hands.”

He shrugged. “Just part of the job.”

But neither of them believed that.

They didn’t say what it really was:

It was fear.

It was protectiveness.

It was something brewing that neither of them had language for.

And neither of them dared to name it.

Not yet.

The locker room was quiet, the day winding down, the adrenaline from the bust slowly giving way to exhaustion. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting pale reflections on the tiled floor. Most officers had already cleared out, heading home or to paperwork — but Dylan Jenkins sat on the edge of the bench, rolling her shoulder gingerly, trying to hide the grimace she didn’t want anyone to see.

Except Tim Bradford wasn’t just anyone.

He walked in without a word, a first aid kit tucked under one arm, a bottle of water in the other. His vest was half undone, shirt untucked, a line of sweat clinging to his jaw from the chaos of the day. But his eyes were on her.

She smirked. “Let me guess. Florence Nightingale routine?”

“I’d say ‘patching up my rookie,’ but you’d probably bite my hand.”

Dylan tilted her head. “Tempting.”

Still, she didn’t protest when he dropped the kit beside her and knelt slightly to her side, fingers tugging at the strap of her vest to pull it down and assess the bruising near her collarbone. The bullet had missed, but just barely — it had clipped her vest, grazed the edge of her skin, close enough to leave a wicked bruise already blooming beneath the fabric.

Tim’s hands were steady — at first. But then his fingers stilled.

Just below the bruise, a sliver of skin was visible — a fresh, pink scar, still healing. A reminder of the last time they’d been under fire.

The day they both got shot.

Only difference was… Dylan didn’t stop for herself that day.

She’d bled through her shirt, dragging him to cover, patching him up while ignoring her own wound.

Tim stared at the scar. The way it stretched just beneath the bruise, fresh but closed. Clean, but not forgotten.

His jaw tightened.

He wasn’t touching it, but he didn’t need to. The image alone sparked a flash of memory:

—her face pale, focused, bleeding and still firing rounds—

—her hand pressed to his hip wound, voice urgent in his ear—

—“I’ve got you, stay with me”—

—blood on her shirt, her hands, her eyes locked on his, even when her own body was failing—

“Tim?”

Her voice broke through the spiral.

He blinked, pulling his hand back, eyes flicking up to hers. She was watching him now — not confused, just quiet. Knowing.

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

But she knew what he’d seen.

And she knew what it meant.

Before anything more could pass between them, the locker room door burst open.

“Aww, come on!” Angela Lopez strolled in, peeling off her gloves and grinning wide. “I knew it. I knew I’d walk in on some weirdly charged moment.”

Dylan rolled her eyes and pulled her vest the rest of the way off. “It’s not charged. He’s just overdramatic.”

Tim stood, trying to shake off the look in his eyes. “You were almost shot. Again.”

“And yet I wasn’t. You’re welcome.”

Angela raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Well, whatever’s happening here, I’m glad you’re both still in one piece.”She walked over to Dylan, softer now. “Hey. Just wanted to say thanks. For today. For the backup. For the calm-in-the-storm thing you do so well.”

Dylan smirked. “You’re welcome. You’re not terrible either.”

Angela grinned. “I think we’re gonna get on really well.”

Dylan gave her a look. “We already do.”

Lopez patted her on the good shoulder, then turned to Bradford. “Don’t let her bully you too much, okay?”

Tim grunted. “She can try.”

Angela left with a wink, disappearing down the hallway, leaving a heavy silence behind.

Dylan glanced over at Tim as she started to strap her vest back on.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her scar.

“You alright?” she asked, voice low.

He nodded once. “Yeah. Just… saw something I should’ve noticed sooner.”

She paused. Then added, gently, “It wasn’t your fault.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

Instead, he bent down, zipped the first aid kit shut, and muttered, “Let’s get out of here.”

But as they walked toward the door side by side, his hand brushed hers — barely there, feather-light.

She didn’t move away.

And neither of them said a word about it.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

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#oc #the rookie #tim bradford #jackson west #john nolan #lucy chen #tim bradford x reader #fanfic #oc x tim bradford #angela lopez #talia bishop #officer bradford #sergeant bradford #wade grey #sergeant grey #rookie x oc

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