toolonely1

[toolonely1]

Rahhh it’s so good!!! I hate that it’s over and am def gonna miss waiting for the next update tho!!

real people masterlist

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

series warning: actor!bucky x f!actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, bucky is an asshole, grumpy x sunshine vibes, angst, smut, slow burn (or at least my attempt at a slow burn).

this series is complete, with requests for drabbles open.

series playlist

intro

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

drabble: caught

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen (finale)

[toolonely1]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he still hasn’t taken off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

Oh, you feel it.

The wet, sticky sound of your cunt swallowing him with every thrust. The soaked spot you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking of hitting you over and over again while you’re naked.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[toolonely1]

I don’t know how we’re letting trump get away with all this shit when I truly believe that if you threw a blanket over his head he would think it was nighttime and go to sleep like a bird

[toolonely1]

Someone (@ang3l0fde4th4ndd0gs, thank you soooo much for letting me write this, I had so much fun with it) mentioned the marauders as Minecraft YouTubers, and… why does it work so well??? Also, Peter doesn’t exist in this one (at least he’s not in their Minecraft world) because I said so, sorry to the Peter apologists out there.

Like Remus 100% is a redstone guy, he loves learning how to make the game more efficient. I also think he found the game by accident. He was doom-scrolling YouTube one night, and he saw this video of a guy explaining the basics of the game. Intrigued, he downloaded it to see what was up, and oh, he found out. His gamertag is definitely “moony” like be so fr, he didn’t have the energy to be clever, and it’s not like he made his account expecting to become some famous YouTuber or anything. Very quickly, Remus found ways to improve the game, and he felt the need to show people his discoveries. So, he started his career by posting these short videos on how to automate a chicken farm or something, and it just spiraled from there. People start watching his videos about his new ideas, like mob farms or like elevators (before bubble elevators were a thing), and they just fall in love. Oh! He definitely has a feral fan base (all the boys do), there’s just something about his nerdy vibe that gets the girlies going crazy even though they don’t know what he looks like. Because Remus would not have a face cam, he’s really big on his privacy, obviously (he knows about the dangers of the internet), but it’s also his insecurities getting to him. He’s scared that he’ll spook his fans away if they saw his scars, so he actively avoids any comments about how he looks irl. we also know how fans react to a faceless youtuber, they loveee to fantasize about what he looks like, amd like his voicve doesnt help at all (I mean it's so dreamy). every ine is still really supportive of his choice t be faceless, there have been a few who tried to find his identity but the overprotective og fans shut that down pretty quickly. Also also, speaking of looks, his skin is definitely a werewolf head wearing a jumper and jeans, Sirius and James spent a whole day at the computer designing the skin for him (this is before they joined the game, they’re were just so proud of their moony for doing this and wanted to support him the best they could) and Remus didn’t have it in him to change it (especially when they were practically buzzing with excitement to show him). 

Now, as for Sirius, I feel like he would be the builder of the group. I imagine him walking by Remus on the computer one day and seeing the catastrophe that was his world, and like having to fix it. That’s actually how he was introduced to YouTube. Remus was filming a video at the time, and his mic caught Sirius’s rant about color schemes and attention to detail, so when the video came out, Remus's fans begged to get more content with this new personality. It took some time for Sirius to actually start making videos; he wanted to learn how the game worked first (I mean, he wouldn’t want to embarrass himself in front of thousands of people). But once Sirius figured out the controls and the majority of the basics, he made his first real appearance on Remus’s channel. The video was a normal Moony video, just somewhere in the middle of explaining how he got the idea for a piston door and him explaining how he built it, in came this emo character (I’m thinking 2012 emo hair, band tee with a paw print, and ripped black jeans) named “padfoot” (Remus was already moony so he might as well have stuck with the theme). He wasn’t really in the video. Remus only made a passing comment on how “pads did promise to make the world pretty for you guys, you should check it out,” and everyone was hooked. It didn’t take that long for people to find his channel, starting with Remus’s fans who were happy for more content, but he did start gaining his own audience, too. People were definitely attracted to Sirius’s attitude (especially when he would grumble about his neighbor's advice experiments ruining his aesthetic) and his building style. I think Sirius tried to stay faceless as long as possible, but at some point, Sirius couldn't take it anymore, so he made a public insta (making sure to keep Remus out of it, he respects his friends' privacy) for his fans. Everyone went CRAZY when they saw how hot he was, like the fanfics came at an ungodly speed.

James really only joined the game due to his crazy case of fomo. Multiple days would he be looking for his roommates (because they are definitely roommates in this au) for someone to hang out with, only to walk by Remus’s room to see him on the computer talking to his fans, then to go the Sirius’s room to see the same thing. He spent a week pouting before Sirius and Remus invited him to join their fun. You should have seen the speed James had when he ran to the closest computer and set up an account. And that’s how “Prongs,” the character wearing a red and gold jersey, joined the world, completing the Marauders, which the fans loved to refer to the group as (they heard James refer to them as it in a video, and they were ecstatic to have a name for their favorite group of YouTubers). James, unlike Sirius, started his YouTube journey by learning the game. His first video, titled “You Can’t Hide Minecraft From Me, What is Minecraft?”, involved James running around the world, confused as ever. He cried when he saw a creeper for the first time. Fans loved watching James learn this game with them, it was a great change in pace from his two friends, who (they love and would never complain about) were goated at the game and instead see this himbo sob in a dirt hut. James’s fan base very quickly realized that he was not going to be this evolutionary Minecrafter who would change the game for the better, more than he was the personality hire (their words, not mine) that Remus and Sirius would spend way too much energy keeping alive. James didn't necessarily want to be a faceless YouTuber or show his face, but a few weeks after making his own Insta, Sirius posted a picture with James, and he went with it. After some begging from Sirius and his fans (people went crazy knowing the himbo in Minecraft was also a himbo irl), James went and made a profile for Prongs. He doesn't post much, but he is constantly tagged in posts by Sirius.

Everyone loved the dynamic between the Marauders: they had the brains, the beauty, and James. They tried to stay in Remus's og world as long as possible, but at some point, it couldn't keep up with all the updates, so they had to say goodbye to that one and make a new one. Fans were very upset about the end to this era until they realized they were going to be able to watch the Marauders build a new place from the ground up with all their knowledge. Watching Remus and Sirius combine their collective strengths to make all of James's wacky ideas into the coolest base known to the Minecraft world was so cool. I also feel like the boys avoid creativity like the plague. Remus feels like it's cheating, and the other two listen to him. Sirius will only use it when absolutely necessary, when a build is giving him a hard time and he like has to map it out.

[toolonely1]

Can I please please please write about this??????

Minecraft YouTubers marauders au. Please someone stop my brain from coming up with ideas 😀

[toolonely1]

the thing is that childhood doesn't just end when you turn 18 or when you turn 21. it's going to end dozens of times over. your childhood pet will die. actors you loved in movies you watched as a kid will die. your grandparents will die, and then your parents will die. it's going to end dozens and dozens of times and all you can do is let it. all you can do is stand in the middle of the grocery store and stare at freezers full of microwave pizza because you've suddenly been seized by the memory of what it felt like to have a pizza party on the last day of school before summer break. which is another ending in and of itself

[toolonely1]

[toolonely1]

i was never allowed to grow a penis when i was younger

[toolonely1]

━ the art of observation ( 18+ )

( tim bradford x girl!reader )

SUMMARY: you're struggling to study a specific topic for your P2 training exam. luckily, your TO knows exactly how to teach you- in his own special way, of course. AUTHOR'S NOTE: the feedback on my recent fanfics has been UNREALLLL thank you for the support! i have been having so much fun writing these for you honestly slay for us. i need to be y/n SO BAD in this GUYS PLEASE IM SO SERIOUS. the reader is tim's rookie if you couldn't tell lol. please enjoy and give feedback AHHHH xoxo INCLUDES: dirty talk (HE TALKS YOU THROUGH IT AHH), pet names, unprotected sex (wrap it up chickies), PRAISE PRAISE PRAISE, soft dom!tim, sub!reader, mentions of anxieties (more like stress-of-not-passing-an-exam type of anxiety), desk sex WORDS: 11.2K+

Amidst the peaceful night where the stars twinkle ever so luringly and the wind whispers gently against your window, the chaos within your apartment differs.

Stacks of paper and books are sprawled across your desk and the floor surrounding you- reflecting the mess of your mind and your feelings of stress, frustration, annoyance. The thin white sheets have already begun to threaten you with paper cuts after hours of flicking through the corners of each page. 

You’ve contemplated burning these books and papers into your colourful candles that stare at you from across your desk- they, too, are not neat from where they stand. But, you suppose that having them accentuate their flames may entice you to keep studying.

You tried to create a peaceful scene to your otherwise booming stressful emotions. You tried.

In all honesty, you thought that the warm tint of the candles, the soft cushioning of the pillow beneath you and your laptop that currently plays Frank Ocean’s ‘Forrest Gump’ would have been motivating enough to get you through this specific topic of studies. 

Sure, while it is quite mesmerising and comforting, the papers and books that scatter across your apartment along with pens, uncapped highlighters and sticky notes with frantic scribbles have deemed themselves overpowering to your once calm environment. 

And it certainly does not help you understand what you are staring at right now with twitching eyes and furrowed brows.

Chapter 5: The Art of Observation | Subsection 5.3: Decoding Body Language

Your highlighter bleeds through the page of your P2 training manual as you over highlight.

You whisper the highlighted points, “Nonverbal communication accounts for up to 93% of human interaction…an invaluable skill to master during interrogations, de-escalations, and day-to-day interactions….recognise universal gestures, understanding micro-expressions, and identifying incongruences between verbal and nonverbal communication…practice and situational awareness are key to refining this skill…and remember-” You mumble. The words you speak breathe into your lungs but never quite reach your brain. You blink yourself awake, “reading body language is not just about observing- it’s about understanding the story behind the movement.”

Understanding the story behind the movement.

You curse yourself to the universe above that watches you steer away from your desk, a huff drawing from you as your mind fogs from exhaustion. Fuck, this is supposed to be easy. Why can't you understand this one thing?

Throughout your time training with your TO Tim Bradford, you found yourself getting strung up on one thing: Body Language. 

Whether it be because your overthinking leads to self-doubt, or that you overanalyse every movement and try to memorise textbook definitions of cues rather than trusting your instincts or inconsistent interpretations. 

And we wouldn’t want to get you started on spotting subtlety in one’s movements rather than an overt cue.

Whatever kind of situation you were put in, which thankfully, wasn’t a lot, you struggled to read someone’s body language and identify who was the real threat.

Releasing a groan, you drop your head down to your desk with a thump, your arms wrapping around you out of comfort and shielding you as you try to ground yourself from the shitty situation you have been placed in. 

Physically and emotionally, you’re a mess. Your eyes are strained from how much focus you have pushed them into pursuing amongst the endless words and the screen on your laptop, and you can feel the oils in your hair greasing your roots from the stress your body has struggled to keep up with. Your brain feels fried and your heart patters tirelessly.

You're unsure how long you stay like this for...seconds, minutes, hours? But the moment you hear a knock boom against your wooden door, your thoughts immediately shrivel away as you jump out of your seat. 

Who the fuck is knocking at 8pm?

Pausing your music from your laptop and standing up from your seat, you try to ignore the ache in your lower back from the horrible posture you've kept sitting at your desk. You rub at your eyes and pace your feet one in front of the other, dawdling your way to the knock that still rings in your ears from its expectancy.

“I’m coming!” You groan out, your hands just reaching the knob and the twist of metal sends an immediate chill to your overheated skin. Finally, you pull the door away, only to frown in confusion at the sight of the person in front of you.

“Sir?”

And there he stands. You take in his blue-washed denim jeans and the navy jumper that cuddles his body. He smells…really good. His hair is freshly washed, a darker tint cascading throughout his strands of hair, and he’s staring down at you with a frown on his face.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Boot?” Is the first thing he spikes up with, indulging in your physique by looking you up and down and you can’t help but shrink under his inspection. He spots your cream-coloured fluffy slippers, your hair loose and messy, and the matching grey sweatpants and hoodie set that bags away from the framing of your body.

You look at him, then down at yourself, then back up at him, “What’s wrong?” You ask and your head angles to the side.

Tim throws his hands up, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that I’m here to pick you up to take us to the bar where everyone is waiting for us, and you’re not even dressed!”

Fuck.

“Fuck,” You find yourself whispering aloud anyway, your eyes shut as you remember the conversations earlier today with your Mid-Wilshire team and friends inviting you to join them at the local bar for a drink.

You remember shaking your head multiple times, saying: “Oh my god, no! That’s the last thing I need before my exam!”

“Oh come on…” Lucy drags on as her and John’s stance next to your sides draws closer, your body warming under peer pressure as they continue to allure you, “We’ll call it ‘preparation drinking’ for you!”

“And Sergeant Grey will be there,” John peeks up, nudging your side, “so you basically have to go.”

You halt in your footsteps as they now stand against you, blocking you from moving anymore. Clearly awaiting your confirmation, the two of them raise their eyebrows with excitement glinting in their eyes. 

You sigh, “Guys, no. I’m already stressing enough as it is, and plus, I have no one to take me...remember? Some loser decided to hijack my car and steal my baby away from me.”

“Excuses is all I’m hearing Officer Y/L/N,” Lucy places her hands on her hips, “One: Having a drink or two may actually do more wonders for your relaxation and de-stressing than you realise. And two…” Lucy scans the room over your head and her eyelids squint at her supposed spotted target, “I know someone who can take you.”

There’s no getting out of this, it seems. You give in to your dismay- and Lucy and John’s happiness.

So later that day when you’re riding with your TO in the shop, your mind running a mockery as you try to recite chapters and pages, you’re immediately distracted by Tim clearing his throat as he glances over at you.

“I’ll pick you up at 8, Boot, be ready by then.”

It’s 8:05pm.

“Well?” Tim begins, his arms back to being crossed over as he awaits your excuses.

However, your heavy sigh that covers your excuses slips out of your breath as you push the door open a little more. And Tim doesn’t get what you’re doing until his baby blues catch onto your desk- or what open space is left of it to his eyes.

“Sir,” You start, meeting his confused look at the surroundings, “I would love to go, but I really need to study for the exam. I’m struggling with this one concept and I just…” You huff, “I can’t get my head around it. I’m trying- I really am! And I just got so lost on time and-“

Tim frowns, “What concept?”

You stumble upon your words, unable to grasp the perfect way to admit to your TO that you are struggling even though your P2 exam is so short away.

But you can’t, because there isn’t a perfect way of saying this.

So, you drop your gaze to the floorboards and quietly usher, “Body language.”

The moment the words fall off your tongue, you don’t even need to look up to know that he reeks of disappointment- that, and you don’t want Tim to see your utter blush of embarrassment flushing your neck and ears.

His groan is heavy as he raises his right hand from where his arms were crossed to rub his forehead in circular motions with his index and middle finger, “Boot…”

“I know, I know, I’m trying so hard, Sir but it’s just not-“

“This isn’t good enough, and you know that,” Tim cuts you off, his gaze bordering frustration and disbelief- something you hate seeing with him, “We’ve gone over this section in multiple scenarios- how can you still not get it? I thought I taught you better than this.”

You’re a good rookie- you know that. But the overwhelming creatures that lurk the back of your brain stress to you that you really aren’t good enough as they keep pounding the walls you’ve built up against them.

You’re a good rookie. You’re a good rookie.

Your breathing is erratic as you blink back tears before reaching for your last bit of courage to look back up at him.

And it hits Tim like a dynamite to his heart.

His eyes soften as they study down into your cloudy ones and the way you’re just barely holding it together in front of him. Your hands fidget, you’re a mess, you can’t keep still, but you’re staring at him with plead in your pupils.

You’re trying- and he’s your last chance to get this right, to get you over the line, to just get it.

That’s when Tim realises that rather than ridiculing you (because it’s so not like you’ve already ridiculed yourself this whole fucking time), he should step up as your training officer and teach you because it’s only ever been his training techniques that have helped you to where you are now. It’s no use punishing you for something that falls entirely back onto him and his responsibility. 

A fail in the P2 exam doesn’t just mean a failure to you as an officer, but an ultimate reflection on Tim’s failure to train you.

His exhale is slow as the tension in his muscles becomes plush to the touch, “Okay, let's work through this.” And immediately, a rush of relief flushes through your face. Tim peeks his head a little more into your apartment as he steps one foot past the door, “May I?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” You mutter, extending your arms out into your home to physically welcome him, “come in. Tea or coffee?”

“Water, please,” Tim murmurs, his eyes flickering amongst the piles of papers and books across your desk the closer he reaches it. A deep knot furrows between his brows as he brings a chair from your dining room over to your white desk, all the while, moving the endless pages of information around to free space.

As he does so, you’ve disappeared into your kitchen, hands trembling slightly as you fill a glass with water. The sound of the faucet running is your only distraction against the thick air that has suddenly arrived just in time with his presence. You don’t know what’s causing the tension, whether that be that, quite frankly, this is the first time a man has entered your feminine home or it’s the weight of knowing you’re about to have a one-on-one session with said man. 

You’d be stupid to ignore the facts that Tim Bradford; your TO, means a lot to you. 

Of course, you can’t stop the high-school swooning crush you have for him. Come on, who doesn’t? He’s a man of protection and resources. Sure, you’re younger than him, but his masculine qualities and those veiny arms do something palpable to your body.

Most importantly, though, is that he’s someone who has moulded you into who you are and what you know now, and his approval means everything. He’s hard-headed and rough and dominant, but deep down you know that in that cold-stoned heart of his, he’s compassionate and willing to do anything to help you succeed. 

Your ovaries can wait. His time and knowledge is valuable- you can’t let him down.

When you return, you find Tim leaning back in his chair, arms crossed as his sharp blue eyes assess the chaos of your desk. You notice that he's placed your laptop and the lit candles on your dining table opposite the open space of your apartment.

He takes the glass with a small nod of thanks, setting it down without drinking. 

“Alright,” He starts off, his tone steady but tinged with a kind of quiet authority that makes you straighten your posture instinctively as you sit down on your chair, “Show me what you’ve been working on.”

You clear your throat, quickly glancing his way before pulling your P2 training manual closer and flicking through to the dreaded section of the book. The pages are an embarrassing mess of highlighted passages, margin notes, and sticky tabs that seem more decorative than functional at this point.

“I’m trying to go through the practice questions,” You speak up, pointing to Question 3: Clusters of Behaviour. 

Tim huddles closer to examine it, his arm just gently brushing yours and you try to suppress the absolute shock that spreads from his very touch, “Okay- During an interrogation, a suspect exhibits the following behaviours: Avoids eye contact, speaks rapidly, taps their foot repeatedly. How should the officer interpret these actions?” He tilts his head to look at you, “What do you think the answer is?”

You look at him, then down at the question that taunts you, then back at him, “I keep thinking A): These are signs of guilt and should be addressed immediately but I already had a look and it’s B): They indicate stress, which may or may not relate to deception.”

“As it should be,” Tim retorts, moving his body so he’s sitting directly in front of you and away from the manual, “Why did you immediately jump into action without assessing the suspect’s context?”

“I don’t know!” You fling your hands up with a huff, your eyebrows knitting as you also look at him, “Clearly, I’m not trying to. I’ve been memorising all these cues and examples, but when I try to apply them to actual scenarios, I just…blank. It’s like the more I try to focus, the harder it gets.” 

Tim studies you for a moment, his gaze unwavering and you can’t help but feel an ounce of intimidation and nervousness under his silent stare. 

You’re unsure of how he’s going to react to your admittance, but you shouldn’t expect any less from him. This is who he is- an unopened book with every response he gives you sending anxiety to your bones at whether he’s going to yell at you, smile at you, joke with you, snap at you, grumble, grunt, whatever.

However, to your surprise, he reaches out and flips the manual closed.

“Wha-“

“You’re overthinking it,” he says simply, resting his forearm against the closed manual. “Body language isn’t about memorising lists or definitions. It’s about instinct. Observation. You don’t need to know every term in the book to read someone- you just need to pay attention.”

You blink at him as the confusion in your brain fogs even more, “But…how am I supposed to pass the exam if I don’t know the technical terms?” 

Tim smirks and chuckles quietly, allowing his body to relax against your agitated one, “Trust me, Boot. If you can read people in the field, you’ll pass the exam. They’re not testing your ability to recite definitions- they’re testing whether you can use what you’ve learnt.”

Sure, his words are meant to be reassuring, but the anxiety gnawing at your chest doesn’t quite ease as the frown in your brows never shies away and you’ve now moved to biting your nails as your last coping mechanism.

Sensing your lingering doubt, Tim sighs and shifts in his chair, the corners of his mouth tightening. “Alright,” he says, his voice taking on a firm but patient tone, “If there’s anything you should take from this topic and, most importantly, from me, it’s that observing non-verbal language should be examined in 3 sections: Eyes, body, and breath.” You try your best to snap a picture of what he said into your mind as you pull your fingers away from your face. He resumes, “Ignore the words they speak and how they speak them because you’ll get lost trying to figure out whether they’re lying or tricking you. Their body will give away their answer- it always does. The body never lies. What’s important, however, is that with whatever information their body shows, you need to piece together what they’re trying to say.” 

Understanding the story behind the movement.

Tim's head angles to the side, “Does that make a bit of sense?”

Fuck, if only he was here five hours ago helping you would you be under different circumstances than just holding onto your last thread of hope and tears.

“Better than the textbook,” You compliment him, “Focus on eyes, body, and breath. Got it.”

“Good,” He replies and he exhales in relief, "Let’s try something different than reciting lines and lines of words.”

You eye him out of curiosity to his suggestion, however, you nod your head reluctantly and you shuffle a little in your seat, uncertain to what will come next.

“Body language is all about context,” he explains, “Every movement, every gesture- there’s a reason behind it. Let’s see how good your instincts are. I’ll act out a scenario, and you tell me what you see. No overthinking, no second-guessing- just say what comes to mind.”

Your stomach flips at the idea, but again you nod, determined to prove yourself. 

With your agreement, Tim continues, “Let’s start with eyes, Boot. The eyes are everything- they’ll tell you where the mind is going before they even say a word. It’s about where they’re looking, how long they hold a gaze, or even if they avoid it completely.” 

And then he draws closer, his sharp blue irises locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. For a split moment, his gaze softens, but then he shifts his expression ever so slightly- his brows narrow, his lids lower just a fraction, and his jaw tenses.

“What do you see?” he asks, low but steady.

“Uh…” You fumble, hyperaware of his scrutiny, “You…look like your normal self?”

He rolls his eyes, “Focus, Boot.”

Fuck, how can you with him looking at you so intently?

You swallow, “Okay, you’re focused…angry? But not really angry just…concerned?”

The flicker of approval in Tim’s eyes is unbearable to your racing heart as he slants back a little, “Good job, Boot. Concerned is close. My eyes are narrowing, my jaw is tight- they’re classic signs of someone processing something serious or difficult.”

There’s something about the words ‘good job’ and ‘Boot’ that you rarely hear form in a sentence from Tim’s lips and it has you lingering onto that hot flush of praise and validation that you oh so yearn for.

So you exhale, “Eyes. Where the mind is before words.” You recite, and suddenly the paining knot that’s been deeply rooted within your chest now for days loosens just a bit. Maybe, just maybe, you can actually do this.

A tiny hint of a…smile sparks onto his face as he carries on, “Alright, let’s move on to body. Stand up.” He orders, and you obey- as you always do. 

You push your chair back and rise to your feet with Tim following suit. Your bodies are only inches apart and you find yourself shuffling back a little before your hormones make you do something entirely inappropriate like fucking jumping on him.

It’s no use anyway whether you moved back or not, he still towers over you.

But then he does something so…unsexual, yet, it has your focus entirely set on him. He hooks his fingers under the hem of his dark jumper and, in one fluid motion, he pulls it up and over his head, his muscles rippling under the movement. The air feels charged, your eyes immediately zeroing in on his white shirt showcasing his toned chest and bulging biceps that you can’t help but gawk at with the quick beating of your core.

God, you’re so feral for him- this shouldn’t be flustering you the way it is. But with how warm the atmosphere in your apartment has grown, you’re sure now that it isn’t the muted light above you tinting your cheeks a hot red but, perhaps- just perhaps, it’s the man who stands confidently in front of you.

It’s like you’re tunnel visioning right on him and his muscly arms and strong wafts of cologne and that taunting smirk on his lips and…and he’s stepping closer to you. 

“Relax,” he says, his voice softer, almost teasingly, really. “You’re stiff as a board, Boot. Loosen up.”

Fuck, guess you really hadn’t noticed how lost in trance you were staring at him that your body completely solidified into the floor; a man’s physique has grounded you and sincerely, you know a crush turned this badly can only mean you are royally fucked.

But then, he places his hands lightly on your shoulders, guiding you to adjust your stance. And the heat of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you swear you see his lips twitch upwards in amusement.

“Better,” he murmurs, stepping back just enough to let you breathe- but certainly not enough to ease the sudden tension crackling between you. “Body language is about more than just posture. It’s the way someone leans in, the tension in their muscles, or how their movements shift when they’re comfortable- or when they want something. Watch me.” 

Tim suddenly crosses his arms (you try your best to avoid the way his biceps expand from the movement), his shoulders draw upwards and he taps his foot repeatedly against the floorboards. 

You knit your brows together in the hopes that it will make you observe better on him, “Closed off,” You spark up, hesitantly at first but it simmers more into confidence, “You’re defensive. The foot bouncing is…anxiety? Frustration?”

Tim stops the tapping of his foot yet keeps his arms crossed, but the small grin that tints his lips is far more important than anything else, “Not bad. Closed posture often signals defensiveness or discomfort, and the foot movement can show agitation or nervous energy- limbs can be utilised to cope with internalised stress such as fidgeting fingers or shaky knees. Keep in mind still that body language needs context. Frustration and anxiety can look the same, but the environment will tell you which one’s more likely.”

Understanding the story behind the movement.

You stand a bit straighter, pride rushing through your veins, “Okay, body language needs context, but it helps reinforce what the eyes tell?”

“Exactly- that’s it. See? You’re catching on now,” He praises, and you look up in surprise at his words and release a shudder through your bloodstream. 

You’re helpless, you’ve fallen, you’re entirely under his embrace as you whisper, “Thank you, Sir.”

God, you’re making a fool of yourself.

Tim smirks, “Don’t thank me yet, we aren’t finished.”

Right, of course, breath.

Tim leans back into your desk, the moonlight that shines through your window from behind him glimmers an everlasting white glow onto his physique- causing a simple yet effective spotlight onto his back. You watch his hands grip tightly onto the edge of the desk causing his muscles to flex and sharpen his veins and his knuckles whiten from the pressure. 

You quickly divert your gaze away.

“Breath is the hardest to fake. It’s involuntary and tied to emotion more than anything else. Breathing gives away more than you think. Controlled, even breaths mean someone’s calm. Quick, shallow ones?” He tilts his head and suddenly he’s moving closer to you where only two steps closer would have you colliding with him. His eyes tauntingly stare into yours, “Nervous. Or perhaps…something else?”

...Something else?

At first, you look at him blankly because the underlying words he points out in the explanation are far too relatable to how you feel in this sudden moment. 

And then, you immediately curse yourself with a shit in and try to hold your breath.

Yet, it would be too late supposedly- he’s already noticed.

Your face heats as you stammer a line of defence, “I’m…calm.”

“Relax,” he says, his tone equal parts teasing and commanding, “It’s not a bad thing. Just…interesting.”

Interesting? Interesting?

It's one word but with that, your heart’s thump echoes throughout your body, your rib cages shake and the blood swimming in your veins only accelerates with pace and quantity. You force yourself to breathe in…breathe out…but there’s no use to it. 

Does that mean he knows? Does that mean he’s caught on? And to the extent of how badly you want him? Surely he knows there’s tension, but does he know you’re not just thinking about kissing him but fucking him too? Does he know?

You shake your head to rid the thoughts- whatever he knows now is all that he’ll get out of you and nothing more. Your TO doesn’t need to know that you see him as something more than just a higher line of authority to you.

However, the air feels charged now, and the warm-tinted lights above you flicker against the overwhelming whirlwind of energy surrounding the room- the candles, too.

The bastard continues as if that moment never happened, “Breath is all about pace, depth, and how someone breathes when they’re worked up, nervous, or completely in the moment.”

You focus intently as he takes a slow, deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a purposeful rhythm. Then, without warning, his breath quickens, shallow and uneven, his shoulders moving with each exhale. 

“What do you notice?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You hesitate, your pulse pounding in your ears. “The slow breath...controlled. Like you’re trying to stay calm. But the quick breaths- panic? Or excitement?”

Tim’s expression softens, and for the first time, you catch a hint of something unguarded in his gaze, “Nicely done, Boot. You’ve definitely got it, you just need to stop overthinking and start trusting yourself.” 

Your body eases as his words settle over you and the anxiety that once was gnawing at you has long frizzled away; you’re getting better. “Eyes, body, breath,” you repeat, more to yourself than to him. “Got it.” 

Tim’s shoulders relax, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “That's it. Now let’s see how well you’ve been paying attention. I want you to read me.”

There’s a pause as you take into his words, and then you frown, “What?”

Your puzzled expression causes him to grin, “You’re going to observe me. Call it like you see it. Eyes, body, breath.”

Your heart skips, “You want me to...analyse you?”

“Exactly,” Tim says with a shrug, settling into the desk more comfortably as he leans back into it. His posture is relaxed, but there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes as he gestures for you to start. “Well? What do you see, Boot?" he prompts, his tone playful but laced with that familiar authority.

You swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of every tiny movement he makes and your fingers fidget from your sides. The pressure encapsulates you, you’ve never read anyone this closely before- let alone your own TO. 

“Okay, well…” Clearing your throat, you start at his eyes first, studying his baby blues closely, “Your gaze is...steady,” you say, your voice a little shaky at first. “You’re watching me closely but you’re not narrowing your eyes or tensing your jaw. That tells me you’re open but still in control of the situation.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t interrupt. 

“Your body is…relaxed,” You continue, noting how his posture oozes confidence. “But the way your fingers are tapping against the desk means you’re impatient.” But impatient of what?

Tim arches a brow, his expression unreadable, and you realise you’ve been holding your breath when you look down at his rosy lips, “And your breathing,” Your eyes move down to his chest too, “It’s even. Controlled. You’re not nervous or frustrated- you’re calm.” 

There’s a beat of silence as Tim studies you, his face giving away nothing. And then, slowly, a grin spreads across his lips, “Not bad- I’ll give that to you.”

Relief flushes to your cheeks at the same time a little sigh leaves your lips at his approval, your chest swelling with pride. Thank fuck for that, thank fuck you did it, thank fuck you-

“But you missed one thing.”

You halt. Brows furrowing and eyes squinting as you look back at him with your mind replaying the previous scenes continuously, “What…What did I miss?”

Tim’s gaze locks onto yours, and for that split moment of silence, the air buzzes between you two, “My eyes,” he says gently, “They’ve been completely locked on you this whole time.” He tilts his head as his tone drops low, “What do you think that tells you?”

You hesitate. The flames that crackle from the candles of afar produce white noise in a way to ease the tension within you two and you find yourself warming up at his honesty, “It means...you’re focused on me. You’re analysing me as much as I’m analysing you. Maybe even testing me.”

“Exactly,” he commends, “When someone maintains direct eye contact, it can mean a lot of things: confidence, challenge, or, in this case, testing boundaries. But always remember, context matters. Eyes alone don’t tell the full answer.”

Understanding the story behind the movement.

Your breath catches in your throat, and the room suddenly feels much smaller. Tim’s words hang in the air, heavy with a meaning you’re not sure you’re ready to unpack.

But he doesn’t wait for your approval of understanding- you two have gone too far for that now, "You did great but-" He suddenly stands up, “Let me show you how observation is done."

You swallow hard to where you watch him and how slow and calculated his steps are compared to your fast-pumping body. Like a trance, your irises are glued to him and how he begins to circle you.

“If you were smart enough to notice, Boot.” He begins, “You’d realise this whole time I’ve been observing you, from ever since the moment you opened your door and looked at me with begging eyes for help to now, where every look and touch I give you makes you melt.”

You look to your side and stare down into the spurts of fire that dance on your dining table in the hopes of grounding yourself.

“You’re trying too hard to control yourself,” he mentions first, catching onto your force of engagement away from him and you curse yourself in your head. “You and I both know it’s too late for that. Did you know your eyes gave you away first? The way you couldn’t stop looking at my lips whenever I spoke, or how they flutter when I step closer to you with pupils dilated.” He then pauses behind you, his breath just as warm against your ear as the flames that sit mockingly from afar.

Your stomach flips. His breath tickles your neck and you feel the motion of one of his hands gripping the left side of your hip to turn you towards the desk, leaving you trapped between the desk and him. His other hand lifts your right arm’s sleeve up and he hums at the obvious sign on your limb.

“And this?” His fingers ghost over your skin, “The goosebumps. Your body’s way of screaming at me without saying a word. ”

You shudder but, you don't pull away.

Tim approaches closer, his lips brushing your ear, “Do you want me to stop?”

Because undeniably, there is a massive line you two are crossing here between TO and rookie, mentor and learner…man and woman.

A line that is shamed upon, unforbidden, unrealistic, unnecessary, and all in all, everything wrong. You know that once this line has been crossed, nothing will ever be the same between you two and the actions that are made tonight could have terrible, horrible, guilty consequences. Would Tim even be able to look you in the eye after this? Would you be able to for him? Would all the progress of a partnership between a kind and curious rookie to her rough and shrewd TO mean everything or nothing at the end of this? Would it all be worth it in the end?

But despite it all, there is no inch in your trembling body that screams yes as an answer to him.

“No,” you whisper.

And that settles it.

Tim turns you around to face him and he's towering over you with how close you are. He's never been this close. Not even when he'd use it as an intimidating tactic to yell at you- but his usual complexion of dominating is softer now...luring...assuring.

With gentle fingers, he reaches up to one of your temples and tucks the loose strands of hair behind your ears, and a tremor releases so strongly that your exhale comes out shaky.

Tim teasingly smirks at your body's reaction, "You tremble every time I touch you, but you never tell me to stop or act upon your actions, which can only mean one thing," He resumes, drawing slow circles into the dip of your waist, "you want me to make the first move...Would I be correct?"

Your blush of embarrassment fills your cheeks at how easily he's read you and how awfully pathetic your body can betray you under his observation. And he's looking back at you with that knowing look that he truly has you wrapped around his finger.

"Yes, Sir," You mumble shamefully, "That would be correct."

"Well, if that's the case," He starts, re-tucking the strand of hair he was working on before cupping the side of your jaw into his warm yet rough hand, "What do you think your body’s telling me right now?"

You squirm. Not because you don't want to answer him, but because you don't know whether he knows just how badly you want him. You don't just want to feel his lustful lips seer into a fiery kiss with yours. God no, your needy and wet core yearn for him.

With a beating heart ringing throughout your ears and your half-lidded eyes locked onto his, you find yourself gathering any source of confidence before replying: “That it really wants to get fucked by you.”

Within those longing seconds of awaiting his answer, you notice how his eyelids widen but then retreat back to a squint with his blues no longer there. Instead, black takes over the space. His lips curl into a salacious smile and he whispers attagirl before bringing you closer to his face with the pull of his hand.

The praise sends a jolt through you, and before you can think, his lips crash into yours with a desirable hunger that ignites every nerve in your body.

It’s not soft nor tentative (not that you would have expected any different from Tim) but you're revelling in how raw, commanding and powerful it is. You’re drowning in it for your greed pushes your breath aside to capture his kiss again. But just as equally, it’s like his very own lips are the only thing keeping your head afloat. They're a gentle saviour to your overwhelming built-up of feelings that could have done more damage than good to yourself if you continued the way you had by trapping them in your already busy mind. 

In saying that, while Tim’s hand grips the side of your jaw to angle it back to deepen the kiss with his own personal invitation of his tongue, you can’t help but sigh in ultimate relief at how loudly this act of intimacy fills the weight of every stolen glance and unspoken word that has ever passed between you two. So much so that you feel like your feelings are being…reciprocated.

He’s precise with how he kisses you, and you don’t realise he’s pushing you back from the grip of his hand on your hip until you feel the hard surface of the desk just digging into your backside. 

A moan slips from your throat as his hands lightly trace all the way down to cup your ass. He squeezes lightly before hoisting you up so you sit completely on the desk's edge.

Are there some pages scrunched from the sudden friction of movement and are there some papers you’re sitting on right now? Sure, but it’s not like either of you noticed anyway. 

His fingers travel under your hoodie, roaming your velvet skin beneath his contrast of rough hands. As you finally pull away from the kiss, your moment to catch your breath is immediately disrupted by Tim lowering his face and placing wet and feather-like kisses on the side of your exposed neck. His stubble tickles your sensitive skin and your body reacts by canting your head back to provide more space for him to explore.

Your voice is breathy as you wrap your arms around his neck, “Tim, are you like this with...all your rookies?”

You can hear a small chuckle leave his throat, but he doesn’t pull away from you, “No, just ones who I know will…” He kisses you, “pass…” Another kiss, “their…” Another one, “exam.” And his tone is teasing with his raspy voice vibrating against you.

You stifle a laugh at the same time you let out a yelp at the sudden pinch against your neck, already knowing without looking that he’s creating a hickey, “Fuck- Sir,” And your hands have their own mind as they move up to his head. They cradle him there, your grip tight but comforting and your nails dig into the roots of his now dry short strands.

There’s no pushing him away as he draws one…two…three hickeys into your now bruised skin. Then, he pulls away to finally meet your low-lidded gaze, your mouth agape in hunger and full-blown lust.

But, he’s just like you. His cologne is now imprinted on your clothes and your eyes wander lower to his lips, then his sharp jawline, to where his chest furiously pounds against his white tee- and you feel yourself dripping wet at the thought of what may lay undernea-

“-You’re way too easy to read, Boot.” His voice cuts off your thoughts and you snap your focus to look back up at him to where a smug smirk rests upon those swollen red lips of his.

Your words are confident despite still flushing pink in your cheeks, “Not trying to be subtle about it.” You murmur, pulling your arms away from him to give him the space he needs to step back slightly. Then, he’s reaching behind his neck and your breath catches as he grabs the collar of his white T-shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid, practised motion. The movement is so calculated, so commanding, that it leaves you momentarily stunned. 

However, what’s most important is that he now stands before you, shirtless. It's such new territory that at first you aren’t too sure how to react- the sight of his bare chest and sculpted shoulders steals every coherent thought from your mind. But, when he moves in closer to you, your body instinctively reaches out and traces the muscles that flex beneath your fingertips' nerves.

You can’t restrain the moan rumbling deep from your core and you draw him into another kiss. This time, however, your hands roam his body- he’s even hotter than the searing air floating throughout your apartment.

Tim’s fingers inch to the hem of your hoodie, tugging it to motion you to take it off which, of course, you oblige. Pulling away, you glance up at him before grabbing the edges of your hoodie and taking it off, now becoming a collection on the floor with Tim’s shirt. Ultimately, this leaves you in nothing but your bra and sweatpants.

Again, new territory means you’re incredibly nervous for what's to come and it doesn’t help that Tim is just…staring at you.

“Do I look okay?” You try to swallow your anxieties as you try to not cover yourself and instead fiddle with your fingers in your lap, “Do you…like what you see?”

The low groan of Tim’s fuck that rasps out of his heavy breath is his first sentence, and then he’s gripping your waist again and he pulls himself closer to you, his eyes discovering every inch of your body for a split second before he trails his baby blues back to meet yours, “Oh, I don’t know, Boot, why don’t you tell me?”

At first, you think he’s joking, just playing along from your previous events of learning observation. But then he’s giving you that look, and he’s angling his head as if awaiting your answer and…oh, he wasn’t joking.

You blush furiously and you honestly feel like you could sweat from how hot you feel, but still, you obey and Tim can’t stop the pulse of pressure his hands indent into your waist from excitement and impatience. “Okay, well-” Already being so hyper-fixated on him assists in identifying his body language as you stare into his eyes, “Your pupils are dilated and heavy, which are easy signs of arousal. Your breathing is…erratic- meaning, you’re out of breath but also could mean you’re excited…or nervous. And…your body is close to me. Your hands hold me in place so I can’t leave and you’re leaning into me- you want more.”

He is leaning into you, and he certainly does want more. His forehead now nearly touches yours as he yearns for the touch of your body, “And?”

“…And?” You knit your eyebrows, trying to think about what else of his body language could mean more for his arousal.

Until, you feel his rock hard cock in his jeans pushing right into your covered core.

Your mouth faintly forms an ‘o’ shape at the realisation that your TO is very much so turned on by you. And the blush that was already there has doubled in heat and redness, your chest thumps wildly from it. 

“Remember, sweetheart,” He begins teasingly, his fingers rising up from your stomach and around your back to where your bra’s clasps sit, “Put it all together now- eyes, body and breath. Like a puzzle piece, what does it tell you?”

Understanding the story behind the movement.

You slightly choke on your breath as you struggle to form words at how to exactly tell him that he, too, wants to fuck you.

But, that’s it- there is no other way. There are simply no other words that can form a coherent sentence that relates even closely to what his body is begging for you to do.

You find yourself a stuttering and flustered mess, “You do like what you see and that-” You whisper the next words, “-you really, really want to fuck me.”

“That’s it,” he coos, his lips barely grazing your forehead as he undoes your bra one clasp by another, slow but sensual, “Good girl, you're such a quick learner.”

Your breath hitches, his words making your stomach flip and your mouth falls open like jelly. He pulls back just enough to smirk at your reaction and then he’s taking your bra off, leaving your breasts completely bare.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice rough, “You like hearing that, don’t you?”

But before you can reply, his lips move down your chest via kisses, only to then attach to your right nipple.

Immediately, you arch into the warm embrace of his mouth, the heat of his touch sending sparks of arousal through every nerve in your body down to your wet pussy. His left hand keeps your other breast occupied while the other traces lazy lines into your back.

You’re so fucking turned on that your hands connect with the one thing closest to them: his jeans.

So, as Tim licks and flicks your nipple with his tongue, your fingers move to unbutton his jeans and pull his zipper down with the utmost haste. Then, as his jeans fall to the ground, you tug down his grey Calvin Kleins’, and you can’t help but moan loudly as just when Tim faintly brushes his teeth against your sensitive bud, he becomes completely bare from entrapment and his cock springs free.

He’s…fuck, he’s massive.

You flutter your eyes as Tim tackles your other nipple, your top teeth gently grazing your swollen bottom lip. And without thinking a second into it, your hands are already reaching out to grasp his cock, one sitting at his thick base and the other resting at his leaking pink tip. There, you move in motion to how the man assaulting your chest circles your breasts and if there is one thing you could wish upon the dazzling moonlight from behind your apartment’s illuminating windows, it would be to keep a forever replaying record of your TO’s groan. It’s husky, low, and quite honestly, the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.

Your hands continue their rhythm, the one on the base twisting at the same time that your palm does too, making sure to collect all drops of pre-cum and distribute it onto every inch of him.

Tim pulls away, breathless and he lowers his forehead onto your shoulder, groaning again, “Fuck, Boot, feels so good,” He whispers against your smooth skin, kissing the spot his lips rest upon.

You pull back to capture his whole face just for a second and before you even realise it, your subconscious reads him- observes him; 

Shut eyes and knitted brows…concentration. Concentrated on the feeling. Messy hair…‘sex’ hair. Breathless and imbalanced breathing…aroused, excited. Pretty eyelashes fluttering. Leaning in…wanting more, always wanting more.

And then, he opens his eyes. 

But the emotions still stick around.

There’s a smirk tugging on your lips as the hand that once rested on his base has now lowered a little more to where his balls rest. The smallest touch of your fingers playing with them has pride blossoming throughout your veins at the gasp that escapes him. 

You’ve never seen him so vulnerable, so gentle, so…exposed. But, you like it. For someone so hard-headed and constantly wearing a frown so much it’ll probably cause early-aged wrinkles, you savour in this moment where he’s content. 

He’s content because of you. 

So lost in thought, you don’t notice that you both have directed your eye contact down to watch your hands glide perfectly around him- and Tim’s untying the drawstring’s bow on your sweatpants.

You feel his words more than hear them, his voice gravelly and thick with need as he grunts, “Shit, I’m not gonna last if you keep doing this.”

A sly smile spreads across your lips, your new profound ego boost intoxicating your persona as it breaks through your haze of desire. “What? This?” You tease as one hand reaches lower to trace his perineum and the other, slick with moisture, rubs his frenulum. 

His jaw tightens, his knuckles tightening on your pants’ waistband, “Careful,” he warns, his tone dark but laced with that tempting edge that makes your stomach flip. 

You analyse him and how his breath has changed its route to quick yet airy inhales and exhales and as much as he tries to look at you, his arousal says otherwise with the way his eyelids flutter.

You hum, “You should be the one that’s careful, Sir- you’re getting close.”

He lifts an eyebrow at you, “Oh, you want to test me?” he growls, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His baby blues are stormy now, locked on yours as his hands tug your pants down your ass and thighs until they fall with gravity to the floor and you're left in nothing but your panties. The cool desk connecting with your skin contrasts with the heat you radiate in this very sudden moment, “Well, let’s see how long you last.”

Before you can respond, his fingers are slipping your underwear down as well, and he’s brushing his index finger against your slick heat. 

You gasp, wrapping one hand back on his cock while the other places itself beside you, clutching onto the edge of the desk for stability. His thumb has already found your clit and he wastes no time circling it slowly and deliberately. “Already so wet for me,” he mutters, his voice low and full of satisfaction. His other hand grips your chin and tilts it up, forcing you to look at him. “I want to hear every little sound, understand?” 

You nod breathlessly, barely able to form words as one finger slides inside you, curling just right against that plush cushioning of your g-spot. 

“Good girl,” he praises, his tone sending a fresh wave of heat through you, "How's that feeling?"

Tim’s fingers are long and rough as he fucks them into you, hitting all the right spots within you that have you shuddering into a hot and overwhelming bliss. You've left your attention off of his cock as you pull your hand away and place it also on the edge of the desk, selfishly taking into account your own pleasure in this heated moment. He’s just so excellent at this that even your own digits couldn't reach the areas he can and you wish he were here every time you were aroused so he could come back and bless you like this over and over again.

You don't even know how to reply to him but yet you still stutter out incoherently, "Fuck, so good, holy shit."

Your senses hit an overdrive- you don’t know whether to look at his dark irises and that smug smirk you want to kiss off, the hand that's moved from your chin to your waist, his fingers or, really, nothing by shutting your eyes closed. The air is thick and sticky from the arousal filling your apartment, and the only noise that can be heard is your heavy breaths, the occasional moan from you and your pussy squelching from Tim’s teasing fingers. 

“Sir-” You start, but what are you even going to say?

Luckily, he knows exactly what you need, “I know, baby, I know,” He coaxes, placing a tender kiss on your lips as he adds a second finger and his other hand diverts its attention from your waist to your aching clit, earning himself another gasp that he collects into his memories, “Doing so well for me, aren’t you?”

Fuck, he's right- you aren’t going to last. Your bundle of nerves have already begun fluttering within your core’s walls and your breath is harder to catch the longer he’s fucking into you. 

You pull your lips away from him, finding comfort in the nook between his neck and shoulder as you nibble gently down on his skin and you’re begging, “Please, please, Sir…” but for what? Release? More? Harder? Rougher? Faster?

But, Tim gets it, he really does. Despite never have laying a finger like this on you ever since knowing you, it’s like he knows exactly how to please you. 

You’re a kind and gentle person and a good rookie who obeys and listens- that’s a starter. You need to be talked through things, especially from him whether that be helping you with your P2 exam or...well, fingering you (Regardless, he's giving you the satisfaction you need either way). And on the rare occasion when Tim praises your work, there’s a flash of something dark that flutters within your eyes and eyelashes like an addiction, an obsession to have more. It wasn’t hard for your body to tell him that his praise wasn’t just a compliment to you, it was something you’d be going to bed fantasising about.

"Taking my fingers so good, Boot,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, the rumble of his voice sending another wave of heat through your body. “Wonder what you’ll be like taking my cock.” His veins pump heavily out of exhaustion with each hook movement he gestures from his index and middle finger and his other thumb pushes into your clit with such delicate yet deliberate circular motions. 

His words have you gasping and your shaky legs widening which, in return, has the desk rattling even more- but that’s the last of either of your concerns. 

“Sir, I’m so close-”

“-Oh, don’t worry, I know,” He taunts because, really, you’re quite obvious about it. But Tim is more revelling in how your warm pussy flutters around him, your sharp breaths coming from your pretty lips and your trembling body that follows. 

Then, one of your hands clasps the back of his head and you’re pulling him closer to you, a loud gasp drawing from the deep heavens of your voice with a symphony of oh, oh fuck~ that he knows exactly the moment your orgasm has peaked.

“Breathe through it,” He coaxes, though his voice betrays the tension running through him, his own arousal barely contained as he watches you come undone beneath him. He milks your climax, his fingers slowing down to a faint manoeuvre within you and your clit just being grazed as he places featherlight kisses on your forehead. And yet, you still listen; trying to catch your ever-escaping breath as your body quivers down from your high, “That’s it, sweetheart.”

One, two, three heartbeats echo within your ears as you sit there tirelessly, your eyes that were once shut now fluttering open to meet your TO’s stare- the man who just gave you the most earth-shattering orgasm of your life. 

You swallow hard, your breathing slowly returning to a steady rhythm. Tim pulls his fingers out of you, and a pang of emptiness settles in your core. That is, until another wave of arousal tingles through you as your gaze drops to his fingers that glisten with your juices. You exhale a shaky puff of hot air, “Wow, that was-“

“-Was?” Tim cuts you off, his voice rich with authority and a suggestive lilt that he always had whenever you would say something while he was training you in the shop. He tilts his head as his hands travel under your thighs, canting your body so your pussy is fully exposed to the warm glow of the overhead light. The sight of you is iridescent - flushed, radiant, utterly wrecked - and it steals his breath. In this very moment of Tim’s sexual tendencies and the release of bundled-up feelings: you are an angel, “Oh, Boot, I’m not done with you yet.”

His words are all that you need to hear to have your heartbeat spiking back up again, your breath hitching and the wetness between your legs intensifying. 

Fuck, that is exactly what you wanted to hear.

There’s a smirk on his face and he widens your legs, stepping closer into your space. He gently pushes you back with one hand resting on the back of your head so you now lay completely flat on the desk. His cock's tip aches red as it just gently rests at your entrance. You squirm as he lets it glide through your folds, gathering your slick and nudging against your throbbing clit before returning to tease your entrance.

“Sir,” You prop yourself up on your elbows as you glare at him, a groan slipping in frustration and your hips instinctively arch towards him, seeking more.

“I got you, Boot,” He murmurs, eyes daring into yours as he drags his cock through your folds once more before pressing the blunt head against your entrance, this time with a little more pressure.

Then slowly, he pushes in. 

The small gasp you let out as you feel his tip stretching you forces Tim to recite lines and lines of the Police Handbook in his mind in order to not fucking cum from your pretty noises, and it doesn’t help that you’re staring deep into his dark gaze with heavy eyes, filled with pleasure and need.

He continues to push into you and your mouth falls agape, a soft whimper escaping your lips as he finally bottoms out, his hips completely flush against yours. 

There’s stillness, aside from the blood that races throughout your system and both of your chests heaving. And you’re staring at each other with such hunger, desperation, sensualness. In this angle from where you lay, the moonlight’s physique compliments yours as it shines directly onto you, lighting you up like you're some kind of Goddess.

In Tim's eyes, you are.

He doesn’t leave you waiting long- he pulls back just enough before thrusting in to bury inside you. Your head falls back against the desk as your body adjusts to the massive intrusion, a moan rumbling through the both of you. Whether it be your imagination or that you’re actually basking in it from where you lay, you are for sure seeing stars the more he pushes into you. The stretch is exquisite, every inch filling you and igniting a fire that spreads through your entire body. 

While at first, his movements are slow, a pace begins to pick up, and it’s to the point where Tim’s locked onto your waist and he’s pounding into you.

His fingernails dig into your flesh, “Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart. I want to see that pretty face,” He breathlessly says, to which you immediately lift yourself up, along with propping back up onto your elbows for support and you melt at the man that stands in front of you.

Of course, you always thought your TO was hot- in a way that was desirable and intimidating in chorus. But right here, right now where his hair is a hot sweaty mess, his pupils are full blown out black, and his muscles are flexing in all the best ways possible as he fucks into you is an absolute sight to see.

He grins at the way you observe him, “That’s right, baby, taking me so well,” He inches in closer to draw his lips into yours.

The kiss is everything of a mess; tongues fighting for dominance, teeth clattering, hot breaths engulfing one another, but, it’s everything right too. This new angle has him fucking you deeper and the stretch has you moaning into his mouth.

“You make me feel- fuck-” You choke out at a hard thrust, “amazing.” And sincerely, you don’t want this to end.

Tim groans, sweat beading his forehead, “Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” He fucks you hard again, “How much I…want you?”

Your heart flutters, an overwhelming dose of praise hitting you and you think about how he’s probably praised you the most today out of all the other days you soldiered through being tormented as his rookie. No other day you have had with him has or will ever compare to right now- sexually, romantically and morally. From moments where he’d spend the whole day glaring and yelling at you like you were an absolute waste of time to…now, where he’s confessing not just his desire for your body, but for you.

At first, you’re taken aback by it, eyes widening in utter surprise. But then you rake your gaze up his eyes, down to his body, then back up to his breath and…yeah he isn’t quite hiding it.

“I…” You collect your breath, “I think I may have an idea.”

He chuckles breathlessly, making sure to really bury himself into you for your smartass mouth, “Fuck, of course, you do, I’ve taught you well.”

But the banter falls just as quickly as your smile when you feel the coil in your core tightening. And it’s like he sees it too and so he slows his movements, pulling out almost entirely before leaning down to peck you. Then, he whispers against your lips, “Turn over for me.” 

The command sends a fresh wave of heat vibrating through you, and without hesitation, you obey. You allow him to reluctantly pull out and you shakily step off the desk (completely ignoring the mess of scrunch-up and ripped papers) before standing and turning away from him, bracing your hands against the desk. 

Tim’s calloused hands slide down your back, over the curve of your ass, then one hand moves to your mid-back and the other to the back of your head and again, he’s ever so slowly pushing you down. Finally, you’re face down on the desk and before you can say anything about how he’s never been so soft on you before and that maybe this should teach him to be more easy-going on you while training you, he’s sinking his cock back into his home.

He doesn’t hold back this time. His thrusts are steady and unrelenting, each one drawing a mix of moans and cries from you. He manhandles your arms to rest behind your back and he’s clutching onto your wrists with one hand. 

“You’re so beautiful like this. Every little sound you make- it’s all for me, isn’t it?” And then, if it couldn’t get any better than his flourish of praise reddening your already blushed cheeks, his other hand snakes around to your front, his fingers finding your clit again and rubbing slow, torturous circles that only add to the intensity.

With the extra stimulation to your bundle of nerves, that ever-growing bubble forms once again and your breath hitches, “Oh my God, Sir, please, I need to- ah-”

“What is it, sweetheart?” You can hear him hum, his stare burning through your head, constantly pounding into you at a pace that even you can’t handle. He knows what you need, of course he does- but, he’s a tease and won’t let you go that easily.

Your legs start to shake, your body trembling with the force of the pleasure building inside you. Your smart mouth has withered away under his dominance as you blush in embarrassment and stutter out, “Cum! Fuck’s sake, Tim, I need to cum.” Only to shyly add, “Please, Sir- you’re driving me crazy.”

Tim stifles a laugh at your sudden outburst before tightening his grip on your wrists, “Of course, baby, let go. I want to feel you cum around my cock.” But he isn’t far off from you either, feeling the tightening in his balls. 

It’s at this moment that he, as well, wishes you two could stay like this- hot, aroused. And with this position, you both have the moon brightening onto your scene, shining on you two as if you were one, if you were...together, connected.

Tim applies just the perfect amount of pressure to your clit that it pushes you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you with a force that leaves you crying out his name, your walls fluttering around him as your vision tunnels and blurs. 

Tim doesn’t let up, his thrusts slowing but growing deeper as he chases his own release, his breathing ragged and strained. Your whimper of overstimulation is swallowed by his low groan, the sound vibrating through your already spent body. With one last thrust, he leans over you, his strong arms bracing the desk on either side of you and he stills. His hips press flush against you as his hot threads of cum spill inside you, his grip on your body grounding him as he rides out the waves of pleasure.

The room falls silent.

Except, this time, there’s a sense of satisfaction lingering in the air- your breaths sync into a rhythmic cadence as they slowly return to normal, the goosebumps aren’t from tension anymore but from the coolness of the room, and your heart is stable, balanced, content. 

Tim is still leaning over you, and you can hear the moment his breathing steadies because he plants a kiss on the back of your neck and murmurs, “You okay?” His voice is silk to your ears but filled with genuine concern as his hand traces up your back, brushing strands of hair from your face and tucking them gently behind your ear. 

You hum in response, “More than okay,” you whisper, your voice laced with exhaustion and exhilaration. 

Tim chuckles, low and warm, before he stands back up and pulls out of you carefully, earning a little whimper from your sensitive body. He shushes you soothingly, his hands running down your back and over your hips, grounding you. “I’ve got you, Boot,” he coaxes, and you believe him. 

Before you can fully process it, he’s guiding you to sit in the desk chair that had been abandoned oh so long ago. He presses a kiss to your temple, “I’ll be right back.” 

You nod, your eyelids heavy as you sink into the cushioning chair.

Your mind is a blur, but thankfully, it isn’t because of stress for the P2 exam, or that stupid topic on Body Language. If anything, your body’s still buzzing, your mind blissfully blank from being thoroughly fucked.

When Tim returns with a damp, warm cloth, you watch him kneel in front of you. “I think I may have found my new favourite learning technique,” You whisper, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you watch him clean you up with the utmost care.

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, “Good thing you won’t be a rookie for long, then. Otherwise, I might have to come up with a few more creative teaching methods."

“…I’ll think of things to learn.”

He pauses, his attention turning fully to you, his eyes softening in a way that feels foreign on his usually hardened face, “Biased or not, Boot, you will pass the exam. I know it.”

The humour once slipping hoarsely from your mouth grows quiet as your cheeks flush with affection and his words of kindness, “Thank you.” You murmur just as you gently exhale.

He smiles, then leans in to kiss your forehead, “Always.” 

The weight of his gaze settles on you, and it’s not just lust anymore- it’s something deeper, something unspoken. It makes your heart flutter in a way that’s almost more overwhelming than the physical intensity you just shared. 

Once he finishes cleaning you, you invite him down to your couch. He obliges, pulling you into his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm, lulling you into a peaceful haze. 

You dare to look up at the clock ticking above.

9:47pm.

“Think we’re still late for the bar meet-up?”

[toolonely1]

He Knows

Tim Bradford x Traumatized!Rookie!Reader

Summary: where Tim’s rookie finally lets her biggest secret slip. (Can be platonic or romantic)

Warnings: depiction of past trauma, domestic violence, angst/comfort (lmk if I missed anything!)

Word count: 2.9k

You and Tim were out on patrol; Tim spent the time testing your knowledge, asking questions about everything you passed. That’s when dispatch told you about the call. It seemed like a usual domestic violence situation; the man was getting violent, and one of the kids in the house was worried for their mom, Sarah, and made the call. Though you always took these calls harder, you know you had to brave it for the sake of the victims. 

When the two of you got to the house, you heard a woman’s choked sob followed by a slam. It was going to be one of those. While you called in for backup, Tim took action and tried the door; thankfully, it was unlocked, so you both made your way in. 

You saw them, and part of you lost focus; memories you couldn’t afford to have started making their way to the front of your brain. But it wasn’t the time to worry about that because you weren’t in those moments, and Sarah needed your help. The man had her pinned to the wall, one hand on her throat, and the other had a firm grip on her jaw. This wasn't going to be easy. 

Tim finally announced your presence, and that's when it went from bad to worse. The man’s grip tightened on Sarah; ignoring the two of you, he started moving her head around like she was a doll and not another human being.

You couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but you could fill in the blanks. “How dare you? Why would you call them?” And you knew when he started whispering that the threats came in.

That’s what they do.

“Hey! Let Sarah go, and we won’t make this harder than it has to be.” You couldn’t help but speak up, knowing how Sarah needed someone to stick up for her. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything, though, because this wasn’t the usual domestic violence situation. When the man turned his head to acknowledge you, when you saw that slimy grin, you froze. 

You haven’t seen him since that night, the worst night of your life. He grins at you from above the woman, and you know he remembered it, too. 

“What are you going to do? Huh? Are you going to pull me off her?” His laugh was chilling; he knew the power he had, and he was enjoying it. All you could do was stand there and hope he didn't expose your worst secret. “Yeah, right. You and I both know how that’ll go.”

Thankfully, Tim, ever the protector, put a stop to this. “No, but I will if you don’t get off her right now.”

With his attention off of you, you could finally breathe. You let the two men speak while you got yourself back together. 

It was not the time to worry about this. There was a woman under him, and you had to give her the help you needed way back then. He was not going to get off her that easy, so it was time to set her free. You inched closer to Sarah, knowing you had to get her out from under him. Tim understood your plan and distracted him with their conversation, preparing for the worst. 

“You know, there’s one thing I know about men who beat women,” Tim knows exactly how to get in his head, so when he took the bait, you knew it was time to act. “They are too weak to fight men; they know they wouldn’t win.” 

That was it; he charged toward Tim, ready to prove him wrong. Sarah collapsed into your arms; she was hysterical when she asked to help her children. You knew one of the kids made the call, but in the chaos of the situation, you didn’t think about them. You couldn't.

It was then that your backup, Nolan and Chen, came to the door. You told them about the kids, and they made their way to the hallway in the back. With her kids taken care of, you made sure to calm Sarah down, ready to hand her off to the paramedics when Tim had him under control. 

A while later, he was secured in a shop, and the kids were with Nolan and Chen, so you and Tim set out to question Sarah. She was sitting in the back of an ambulance as you and Tim stood in front of her. This was going to be the hardest part.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sarah started before either of you could ask her a question. “Why would I let this go on for so long?” 

“No.” Tim’s immediate denial seemed to surprise Sarah. 

You, on the other hand, were used to Tim’s straight-to-the-point personality and knew Tim wasn’t going to elaborate, so you took the initiative: “No one is blaming you for being in this situation; they could only imagine what you have been through.” some more than others.

“Right. We don’t have to talk about any more than you are comfortable with.” 

She gave a weak smile at that. “I know, but I want to.”

“Okay, but if it’s too much, you stop.” You prepared your notepad and pen, ready to write the details.

“We got married seven years ago after I got pregnant with our oldest, Jimmy. I wasn’t ready to be a mom, but he convinced me to keep him. Other than a crazy temper and a loud voice, it wasn’t so bad. He had control back then and would leave the house before it got too mad, especially when I got pregnant with Emily.” 

“When did you get pregnant with Emily?” It started to get harder to breathe as you started connecting the dots.

Tim gave you a look for interrupting Sarah; you knew better than to ask useless questions. But it wasn’t a useless question to you; you had to know.

Sarah didn’t seem to mind your question, “Um… right when I was healed after Jimmy, he liked having me pregnant and stuck in the house. If I wasn't pregnant, then I was a failure as his wife.” 

That… 

That’s when you met… 

Oh.

You and Sarah seemed to both be having a revelation. Tim took notice of Sarah's distress, “Do you need to stop or take a break?” 

Sarah came back to reality with a sharp breath. “No, no, I’m good.” This time, you’ll let her finish. “Um, it stayed like that for years; if I or the kids got him in a mood, he would leave. Sometimes for just the night, others for days. There was this one time he didn’t come back home for over a week; I didn’t have dinner ready when he got home from work, and the kids were ‘out of control.’ At least, that's what he said…”

You remembered that week, he stayed at your place and it was bad. If he wasn’t at work, he was there in your space, criticizing your every move. One wrong step, and he… right. Sarah. She was still talking, and you needed to focus. Write your notes, and don’t let Tim realize you are off your game.

“… didn’t start to get physical until two years ago. One night, he came home in this crazy mood, the worst one yet. His boots weren’t even off before he was screaming at me and the kids; I don’t even remember what he was mad about. I just remember telling the kids to go to their rooms, and he was on me.” She stopped there, and you could see the tears flowing down her cheeks before she wiped them away. 

The tears in your eyes were also threatening to escape. You ignored the sting in your eyes and brought your hand close to her arm, not touching her but giving her the option of comfort.

“This is a lot.” You knew better than anyone that reliving these memories could be hard. “You don’t have to keep going if you don’t want to.”

She took your hand and led it to her shoulder, giving you an appreciative look. Your eyes met, and you saw the understanding in them; she knew. Maybe not everything, but she knew you understood more than the average person.

“It’s okay. I’m almost done, and you can report it all. Keep him locked up as long as possible.” You couldn’t help but admire her determination.

“Okay.” You gave Sarah a squeeze to make sure she knew she was not alone.

“It didn’t stop after that night; something must have set him off because every night, there was something. And tonight… Tonight was the worst. You know I dreamt about leaving him a lot, taking the kids in the middle of the night, and going somewhere safe. They were just dreams, though; I have nothing without him. I don’t have a job; he wouldn’t let me work when I had to take care of the house and kids. I don’t have money and haven’t talked to my family in years. I have nothing without him.” She broke out in a sob after that. 

You immediately took her in your arms, giving Tim a look that says she’s done; you won’t make her relive any more. Tim understood as much as you that she couldn’t take any more, so he left to find someone who could help Sarah and the kids in the aftermath of this.

Once Sarah was calmed and with her kids talking to people who could help her more than you, you were back in the shop with Tim, and as much as you tried to forget, your brain kept spinning. You couldn’t help but remember all the times with him; flashes of his slimy grin came and went. You could feel the sting of each slap, punch, kick, all of it. The more you remembered, the harder it got to breathe.

Oh god, you couldn’t breathe. Just like that night.

He was on top of you; his face was red. Why couldn’t you breathe? Right, his meaty hands were clasped around your throat. You thrashed and sobbed, but that only made him squeeze harder. He had a sadistic smile on his face as he fought you. He was saying something, probably what you did wrong this time, but you couldn't hear anything over the screams. Who is screaming? Why is it so loud? You couldn't tell. At least not until one of his hands left your throat and made its way to cover your mouth. Did you mention how big his hands were? So big and so thick that he was able to cover your mouth and nose. You couldn’t breathe. The weight of him on you. The pressure on your throat. You had no chance. He was plugging your nose and mouth, preventing air from entering or leaving.

You couldn’t help but think this is how you die. On the floor of your trashed apartment with this monster on top of you. The last thing you would see is that nasty, sadistic grin. You could hear it, the bang that came with the end of your life.

Who knew death would be so loud? Why was there so much screaming in the afterlife? You couldn’t understand what they were saying, but you guessed that was normal. Maybe death came with confusion to keep you calm by not knowing. You appreciated that. The less you knew, the less you would worry.

A honk brought you back to reality, it wasn’t that night; you weren’t in that apartment. No, you were at work, in a shop with Tim. and you couldn’t breathe.

Your chest felt like it was caving in.

The shop was so small.

You still couldn’t breathe.

Trying to gasp for air inconspicuously was harder than you thought, and Tim probably knew something was wrong already. So, you either suffocate in this small space, or you make Tim stop the car and panic in the fresh air.

“Can you pull over?” you wheezed out, elaborating no further. It required great effort to get those four words out, and you were not risking any more of your energy.

You didn’t pay attention to Tim; you just panicked and waited for him to slow down enough that you could get out. And you did, all but falling out the door, clinging to the ground. You still couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; you were safe. He was gone. So why were you still panicked? You were supposed to be strong now. You went to the academy. You were a cop now. It was your job to take these people down now. So why were you so scared? Why-

“Hey!” Tim’s voice broke through your panic; the sound of his voice was grounding. He was in your face, eyes tracking your every move. you knew he was trying to get you out of your head, calling out for you, but you couldn't understand him. His mouth was moving, but you couldn't hear him; you couldn’t breathe. 

“I can’t—“ You tried to make him understand, “What—why—“ He stopped you with your name, bringing you close to him, close enough that you could feel his exaggerated breathing. There you sat, in Tim’s arms trying to focus on matching his breaths.

Eventually, it got easier, and you calmed down. Still in Tim’s arms, you took a second to yourself before you had to explain what happened to Tim. He would want to know. You eventually pulled back far enough to look at Tim’s face, trying to see how badly you messed this up; you didn’t see anything but concern in his face. “I knew him.”

There was this look of understanding in Tim’s eyes, telling you he knew more than you thought. “He, um… we dated for four years, but I, uh… I got away a couple of years ago.” Tim’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to connect timelines. Sarah just told the two of you that they had been together for seven years, and here you were, claiming to have dated him for four of those.

“I didn’t know at the time, but we met around the time Sarah got pregnant with Emily. I realized that when she was telling us about him," You didn’t give him enough time to respond; you had to finish this while you still had the courage. "He was nice at first—they always are—but, um… it only took a couple of months before he started hitting me.” 

You stopped there, just for a moment. Tim let you, knowing talking now wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“I found out he had a wife after the first time he hit me, and I know staying makes me a bad person or a homewrecker. But that’s also when I realized that I was a punching bag that stopped him from hitting her. He told me it was all I was good for... I think… I think that made it easier for me to stay.” The tears started flowing, but Tim didn’t allow them to go too far. He was cupping your face and using his thumbs to wipe your wet cheeks.

Smiling, grateful he was being so nice about this, you continued, “It was like that for years; he would get mad at his wife or kids, and he would storm into my place, fists in the air. I was okay with it. I, um… I think a part of me thought I deserved it… until this one night. He was worse than usual like something got him seriously riled up.” Here it goes: “Anyway… it got bad. I thought I was going to die.” 

You could hear his intake of breath at that; he knew where this was going. You had just walked out of a scene similar to what you were describing. 

“I’m not going to get into the details; you don’t need to hear that. But, um… my neighbors heard me scream and called the cops… They saved me.” You let out a sad chuckle. “It’s uh… it’s actually why I joined the academy.”

That was it; now he knew. What he did with that information was the scary part. 

The way Tim was looking at you, with so much admiration, as if he knew exactly what you went through, was surprising. What was more surprising was the whisper of your name. The way it left his lips told you exactly how he felt, and it was awful. Knowing that he knew the worst thing you’ve ever been through was one thing. knowing that it changed the way he saw you? That was worse.

“You… you are so strong.” You try to stop him, to tell him that what you just told him is proof you aren’t, but he wouldn’t let you. “No, you are. You took something terrible that happened to you, and you made that your motivation to become a cop. to protect the people who are still in these situations.”

Somehow Tim knew exactly what you needed to hear and how to reassure your every worry. He pulled you into another hug before pulling back to give you a small smile. “Can we take it easy for the rest of the day? I don’t think I can handle any more today.”

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Yeah, I think we can.”

[toolonely1]

why do you and others like vaccines so much?

not dying of preventable diseases is actually one of my favorite hobbies

[toolonely1]

based on @waytootiredforthistoo 's post - background jegulus

"Even for your four, this is a new low," Minerva ranted, blood boiling as she stared down at her four favorite students, who were all seated in chairs in her office, looking less-than-contrite. "Breaking in to the Slytherin Common Room in the middle of the night? Sticking every single student to their bed?"

"We don't discriminate," Sirius Black nodded, sending her a grin. "Though James's boyfriend will be a bit mad."

"Oi! Shut up about Re-"

"Boys!" Minerva interrupted, trying not to laugh. "This is unacceptable. I have to take fifty points from Gryffindor!"

All four Seventh-Years paused, staring at her. "Fifty?" Remus Lupin asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Each!" Minerva nearly-screeched. "And detention every night for a week!"

"So that's two hundred points total," James Potter said sadly.

"Yes," Minerva nodded, trying not to feel too badly. "So if you-"

"Can you make it three?" Sirius asked, interrupting.

She blinked, quite sure she'd heard incorrectly. "I- what?"

"It's just, we're trying to set a record," Remus explained calmly, eyes wide. "We need to beat two hundred and fifty."

Minerva's heart began beating erratically. No. Surely they hadn't found out-

"We recently came across this, you see," James continued, grinning and pulling a paper from his pocket. "Peter, here, had a detention where he had to rewrite some old detention cards. And look at this one!"

Hand shaking slightly, Minerva looked at the card. On it, written in a scrawl, were the words:

Minerva McGonagall, sixth year, Gryffindor, a month's detention and a loss of 250 points for hexing all of the Slytherin team's brooms. (Most points lost in a single day.)

Sighing, Minerva tried to school her expression before she looked back at the four boys. But she knew it was far too late to do anything about this. The secret was out.

"You're our biggest role model, Professor," Peter said sincerely, an awed look on his face. "A record of the most lost points in a day? We just want to beat your record."

"Yes. Oh, well. We'll have to try even harder next time," James smirked, taking the card back from her loose grasp.

It was at that moment that Minerva McGonagall new she was absolutely fucked.

[toolonely1]

I just started watching The Rookie(real late to the party, I know) and brain went burr. So…. Would anyone want a Tim Bradford x traumatized!rookie!reader???? Cause I’m cooking something…

[toolonely1]

When it hits 9 pm and I pull out this combo:

Ps: I have severe writers block. Help

[toolonely1]

Little Miss Independent

Logan Howlett X F! Reader

He can take care of you, just let him

A/N: Ooof. I actually might come back to this and extend it, but here it is for now! enjoy. I was picturing 70s Logan but honestly any Logan could work??

Warnings: SMUT, its almost completely smut. MDNI, thankkkss. Fingering, teasing/edging, logan gets sorta mad, reader is an independent lil miss and Logan wants to break it lol, i guess dom/sub kinda?, M! Masturbation, cum-eating, reader gets tied up, a lil rough manhandling, ya cunt gets smacked!, overwhelming, unprotected PiV

“Oooh. I know sweetheart.”

He coos, a tone that sounds almost condescending. He added another finger, scissoring you open and your hands immediately grasped onto his arm, nails digging into his skin. 

You let out a pathetic whine, a babble that sounded close to Logan's name. He tuts, shaking his head, his thick fingers pumping in and out of you. 

“Now what was that? That sounded like nonsense. Use your words.” He orders, slowing the pace of his fingers thrusting in and out of you. You started moving your hips, desperate for more, for him.

“Lo…” You gasped. 

“What?” 

“I wanna cum….” Your lips pouted as you looked up at him. Big pleading eyes that stirred his heart. Your grip on his arms tightened, as you began pushing and pulling on it- attempting to use him to get yourself off since he seems to want to toy with you.

“Yeah?” He smiles. “That’s cute, but…I don’t think you deserve it just yet.” 

He removed his hand, and you sobbed, your head falling back onto the sheets. He delivered a smack! to your cunt, the sting of his hand sent a rush of pleasure over you. 

“Nuff’ of that.” He scolds. “Stop acting like a baby.” 

You huffed in frustration. The pleasurable sensation that was building inside you had now faded, leaving you irritated. 

If he won’t take care of you, you’ll have to take care of yourself. You’ll do just fine getting yourself off if he’s going to play these games.

Not looking at him, your hand pushed his away from cupping over your hot core- a teasing heat emitting from him that makes you desperate for stimulation. Your fingers moved through your folds, finding your swollen clit and you began circling them. You let out a soft moan.

It was temporary relief- until Logan quickly snatched your hand away. Holding it in a tight grip above you, he forced you to look at him, a judging look in his eyes- he looked pissed.

“Did I tell you to do that?”

“No.” You frown, creasing your brows together. He smacked your cunt again, a hint of a snarl on his lips- his hand landed on your skin harder this time, making you yelp and shut your legs, rubbing your thighs together for any sort of stimulation. Your core felt like it was on fire, desperate for that heated release to cool you down. 

“So why did you?” 

You turned your head away. He dropped your wrist, snatching your face in hand and forcing you to look at him. His fingers buried into your cheeks, puckering your lips- almost painful in the way he held you. Yet you still held a challenge in your eyes. 

“What’s with the attitude?” He grumbles, his voice low and dark. “Now I was trying to make you feel good, but you’re acting like a damn brat.” 

He stood up from the bed, and your heart fell- thinking maybe you really did piss him off. You sat up, looking at him with concern. He wasn’t looking at you, standing with an annoyed expression, before his hands came down to his jeans. You watched him undo his belt, snappy and rough in his movements. He shook his head as he slid the belt through the loops- folding it in half as he examined it carefully. He raised his head to look at you and a shiver went down your spine. 

“Lo?”

He smirked, a small huff of amusement escaping him. One step forward, and you tried to scramble away on the mattress only for him to grab your ankles and pulling you back. 

“Where ya think you’re going?” His tone full of amusement now. “Thought you wanted this? You were whining and crying just minutes ago to make you feel good.” He clambered over the mattress, straddling your body and pining you to the bed with his weight, your tummy pressed into the mattress. He grabbed your arms, pulling them together behind you and using his belt to bind them. He tugged on it a few times, making sure it was secure. He pushed himself up on his knees, flipping you onto your back. 

You looked up at him with shyness, your chin tipped back with those same pleading eyes as earlier. 

“Knock it off.” He scoffs, as he unzips his pants. “You hurt my feelings y’know? Acting all needy and then trying to undermine me.” 

You had to suppress the smile on your lips. He’s so full of shit. It quickly dropped when you watched him take out his cock.

Hard, swollen- practically throbbing with need. It occurred to you just how bad he must need the same relief you were desperate for. You wet your lips- hungry for the next thing he was going to do, you could practically feel the heavy weight of his cock on your tongue. 

He saw your action, and raised a brow. 

“You think you’re going to get a taste?” He grinned. He spit in his hand. “No, clearly you think you can take care of yourself. Two can play that game.” 

You watched him take his throbbing member in his hand and began stroking it. Pre-cum beads at his slit, and he used it to lube himself over. You watched him stroke himself slowly, starting at the base, fisting his swollen tip.

You wanted him in your mouth so bad. To taste the salty sweet skin, to feel his cum covering your tongue. You wanted him to use you. What is he doing?  A whine escaped you, as you squirmed underneath him.

“You want this huh?” He grin. You nodded, 

“Please? I want to suck you off, baby.” You begged, trying to use the sweetest voice on him. “I can make you feel good.”

He scoffs. 

“Maybe if you had behaved I would use those pretty lips of yours. No, you think you’re such a big girl, all impatient, didn’t let me do what I need to do. You think you know yourself better than me?” 

“I...No…” You simpered. 

As much as you hate to admit it. He was right. In the short time you've been together romantically- he had you figured out. Yet you loved that.

“Damn right. Now you’re gonna lay there and watch me get myself off. Look, but no touch. Got it?” 

You pouted, and he scoffed. “That cute little face isn’t going to get you anywhere with me sweetheart. Enjoy the show.” 

He continued stroking himself, ranging between speeds, going fast and then slowing down to fist his tip, running his thumb over the slit sensually. You noticed he was getting himself off similar to how you would touch and hold him. Grunts and pants escaped him, as he muttered under his breath how he could be fucking you right now, but you had to go be little miss independent. 

You watched him and pressed your thighs together, rubbing them for some type of friction that would relieve the pain your felt in your core, a pulsing that only made your need worse, your pussy was begging for Logan.

He tipped his head back, and you could see the shiver running over his skin. You thought he’d aim to spill himself over your face, allow you to get at least a drop of his finish. He didn’t. A moan escaped him as he arched his back, aiming his cock upwards and away from you. You watched rope after rope spill over his hand and belly. 

It was a gorgeous sight. The flush of his face, the sweat beading his forehead. The way he gritted his teeth, he was keeping the sweet moans of your name to himself. The rise and fall of his chest was evidence of his exertion, as he looked down at you with heavy eyes- but he was far from tired. 

He grinned, something sinister as he brought his thumb to his lips, a generous amount of his spunk dripping down to the knuckle. He stuck his tongue out, slowly- tauntingly, licked his own cum off his tongue. Then he licked his lips. He kept eye contact with you- your face contorted in lust and frustration. 

“Bet you want a taste huh?” He asks. You nodded. 

“Please?”

“No.” 

He brought his hand down to his now semi-erect cock, using the milky substance to lube his cock up more. He climbed off of you, and you quickly spread your legs- giving him a nice, clear shot of your drooling pussy. 

“Lo please, I need you-” You whined. 

“No you don’t sweetheart.” He chuckled. “Ya don’t need me for a damn thing. You can carry the groceries, fix the leaky pipes, move the furniture… I think you just keep me around cause I look pretty. Huh?” 

“No- No that’s not it at all…” You shook your head, shutting your eyes in frustration as your jaw tightened. 

Logan knew that wasn’t the case either. He just wanted to work you up. Ever since you’ve been together you fought tooth and nail to keep your independence- and he gets it, it’s not like he was trying to take that away from you. 

He just wants to take care of you.

You however, seem to always take his efforts as a challenge. Slowly though, piece by piece- he’s been wearing you down. He snatched your heavy groceries out of your hand the other day, forcing you to let him carry them in. Made you breakfast yesterday morning, brought it to you in bed. Put together that piece of furniture you bought months ago and kept insisting you’ll get to it eventually, you’re just busy. One by one he could see your walls begin to tear down, as you started to soften with your relationship, becoming familiarized to having a partner.

This was just another wall that he was tearing apart, brick by brick. 

He had you melting in his arms. A romantic night out. He brought you back to your place and began to take care of you. Once again, you’ve become impatient- never able to sit back and let someone else do the job. He’s spent months learning what makes you tick, getting you to submit to him. 

He’s enjoyed the challenge. 

He began stroking himself again, his cock becoming full and hard once more. A hint of sensitivity made his thighs shake, but he ignored it. 

He watched your squirming form, jerking back and forth as you through a mini-tantrum for his amusement. He was originally frustrated with your little rebellion- but now he sees that this is exactly what you needed. To give you a taste- and to take it away. Break down your will, make you beg.

You did it to yourself. 

“Logan please-” You whimpered. 

Fuck, your moans were pretty. The sound of you begging was music to his ears. You never ask him for a damn thing. What kind a man is he if his girl don’t need him?

“What’s that sweetheart?” He groaned, pumping his fist faster. “Couldn’t hear ya.” 

You groaned, tossing and turning your head. The cold air against your throbbing pussy was unbearable, that alongside the slick sounds of Logan getting himself off. You couldn’t even look at him, too unbearable to see the lustful sight of a man like Logan getting himself off instead of using you.

Tears filled your eyes. “Logan…Please I- I need you.” 

The slick noises stopped, and you heard the creak of the floorboards. His large hands rested on your thighs, keeping your legs opened as he leaned over your writhing figure. 

“What was that?” He asks in a calm voice. You took a shaky breath, your tears threatening to spill over. 

“I need you.” You repeat, looking up into his hazel eyes. 

“What do you need me to do?” He asks, a smile threatening to break through. 

“To take care of me.” 

His smile broke through, cocky, cheeky. “Well, I thought you could take care of yourself?” He tilts his head. He reached up, gently brushing some hair behind your ear. “Little miss independent?” 

You shook your head, pressing your lips together. 

“You need me? Yeah?” 

You nodded, tears finally breaking over and rolling down your cheek. You weren’t hurt, or truly upset- just overwhelmed. A hit to your pride to finally admit it- You needed him. You needed him badly, more than he’ll ever know, more than you can truly express. 

 He tuts, gently leaning down to press fluttery kisses over your face, kissing your tears away. “S’alright darling.” He hums. “How about you say it one more time, and I’ll take real good care of ya?”

“I need you Logan. I want you. To take care of me.” 

He would have came right there just from your words- but no, it was time to take care of you. Ignoring the throbbing of his cock, he brought his hand- messy and covered in his cum and began sliding his fingers carefully through your soaked folds. 

You gasped, spreading your thighs open farther, tipping your head back at the relief you felt from his messy fingers. He found your clit, all puffy and swollen- begging for relief. His fingers were too much and not enough, having been worked up both mentally and emotionally. 

Your hips thrusted forward into his touch, then realizing you may have made a mistake- gasping, you quickly apologized. “I’m sorry I just-”

“Ssh.” He pecked your lips. “Need more of me, huh?”

“Mhm.” You whimpered with a nod. He hummed approvingly. Sitting up, he flipped you over onto your belly, pulling your hips up so your ass was in the air, and face planted into the sheets. 

He pushed his cock through your folds. Shivers ran down your spine at the feeling of his cock- and you leaned back, encouraging for him to finally take you the way you so desperately needed. Someone to take control, to take power over you- and still take care of you the way you always wanted. 

You never told anyone, including Logan, that very desire. Seems like he may have figured it out.

He pushed himself inside. The feeling- overwhelming emotions melting into comfort, relief. It made you almost sleepy, the way you could relax, speared on his thick cock. You cunt was accepting of him, squeezing around him almost painfully tight.

“That feel better baby?” 

“Mhm…” You needed into the bed. Turning your head to the side, you shut your eyes and your mouth hung open in pleasure.

“See how good it is to just let me take care of ya?” 

A smile grew on your face, nodding as you melted into the bed, a small moan escaping your as Logan began to slowly pull out, and back inside you. Your pussy, soaked and creamy sucked him in- desperate for to stay buried deep inside. He took his time, making sure you felt every inch of him. 

“Take it all sweetheart. I got you.”

[toolonely1]

sirius secretly loves to torture james sexually and james secretly loved being tortured sexually and they are both too embarrassed to admit it until one day sirius sees james reading about an explicit bdsm scene on tumblr and he pounces because he’s so horny and he finally found a willing victim.

james is already begging and pleading and so, so excited because he never thought anything like this would ever happen to him in real life, especially not by his hot best friend.

he eagerly lets sirius tie him up with the tightest, roughest ropes, his eyes shine with excitement as sirius starts to ruthlessly edge him and call him a slut, a whore, a filthy faggot. james is drooling and keening by the time sirius shoves a vibrator against james’ weeping cock and leaves him there for ten long, agonizing minutes.

and when sirius comes back, james begs to be abandoned for even longer. and sirius grins and obliges, edging himself as james is further forced into the throes of overstimulation.

so then, when sirius comes back for a second time, he fucks james like an animal, using his mouth, using his cock and hole, making him feel like a writhing, squirming, beautiful object beneath him. bruising him, choking him, scratching him.

and james is sobbing from pain and pleasure, so happy that he’s finally being used exactly the way he’s always wanted to be.

[toolonely1]

SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN dir. Stanley Donen + Gene Kelly