#then we gotta hope the county animal people see his paperwork says he is a TNR boy

[words-and-seeds]

“They hear the music the other person is listening to in their head” for any ship, but this could make... one hell of a Sharky/Reader sksksksksksk

This is old as balls, and I don’t even know if this was a request or a comment, but you got a fic. 💋💋💋

Your parents hated your soulmate long before you learned his name or anything about him.

It all started when you were a baby. When you would wake up screaming in the middle of the night with no warning. Your already sleep-deprived parents took you to doctor after doctor, specialist after specialist, but the most the doctors could come up with was that maybe you just had a bad case of colic.

When it continued long after the age colic was supposed to go away, one enterprising young pediatrician came up with a surprising and unconventional answer: maybe it was your soulmate’s choice in music keeping you up at nights.

You were too young to talk at the time, so it wasn’t like they could ask you about it, and since it was possibly music that was only playing in your head, they couldn’t just give you earplugs. But since they were desperate for anything that would give you, and them, a full night of sleep, they installed a CD player in your room and began to play soothing, toddler appropriate music instead.

Your soulmate seemed to get the hint.

Once they started, you never woke up, crankily sobbing your little heart out, after that for anything other than normal baby reasons.

It didn’t mean you didn’t hear the music anymore, it just meant your soulmate was more considerate about when he played it.

You grew up listening to disco, which worried your parents a bit. They knew your soulmate was older by his taste in music, they just hoped he wasn’t too much older. You weren’t as worried, content to just go with the flow and see what happened.

You didn’t entirely love his taste in music, but he probably hated yours. After all, your tastes ran much more toward opera and classical, which was about as far from Donna Summer and The Trammps as you could possibly get.

But you thought about him a lot as you grew. What his name was, what he looked like, why on Earth he loved a genre of music that went out of style forty years ago. You found yourself wishing you were the kind of soulmates who could communicate by writing on your skin and be done with it, because your brilliant idea of communicating by song lyrics either went completely over his head, or he just chose not to acknowledge it.

You only hoped that he enjoyed hearing the first lines of The Zombies’ Time of The Season on repeat.

When the years stretched on and you started to despair that you would meet him, you started to date around. Mostly because your parents were sick of you moping around and crying every time one of your friends would get married. But the knowledge that the other half of your soul was out there, waiting for you, meant that any relationship you bothered to start was pretty much dead in the water.

Besides, you had started to suspect he knew when you were going out on dates, because on those nights, the disco played louder than ever.

You found yourself in the very awkward position of explaining to your dates that you couldn’t actually concentrate on what they were saying, because your soulmate seemed to be the jealous and passive aggressive type.

By the time you enter the police academy, you’d all but given up on finding him, and devoted yourself to your career. Law enforcement suited you, and you liked the idea of making a difference.

That pretty much changed immediately when you were given a desk job and moved to the basement to do reports.It was all you could do to get through a day, and during those times, the disco actually helped. It gave you something to dance around and lip sync to, even if you did look like a lunatic to anyone who walked in. But there was only so much paperwork one person could do before going completely postal.

So you start looking around for a new job, and for reasons you couldn’t even explain to yourself, you feel drawn to the job opening for a junior deputy in the Hope County sheriff’s department.

After applying and receiving a surprisingly quick response - a terse ‘you’re hired’ and a time and date to show up for orientation - you made the move to Hope County with a light heart.

You felt like you went in with your eyes open: you knew that Hope County wasn’t likely to be a hot bed of criminal activity, you knew you’d more than likely relegated yourself to the position of cow crossing guard - or whatever the hell they had out there in the boonies - but at least you would be out in God’s own country and the fresh air.

What you were not expecting was a federal marshal walking in on your first day - a day of doughnut runs and sorting paperwork - and tell you that you would be accompanying him to arrest a dangerous criminal.

In spite of yourself, the idea had a certain appeal, right up until the helicopter landed and you got your first look at the Peggie compound. Then your stomach dropped to your toes.

Almost to the second, as if he were just waiting for your cue, you heard the first strains of Disco Inferno start up and had to fight the nervous laughter, because it was actually quite comforting.

Plus, it was quite hard to concentrate on someone giving a sinister monologue when The Trammps were singing. If anything, it made you want to tap your toes. But because you weren’t paying attention, Marshall Burke’s demand that you cuff the dangerous psychopath in front of you made you leap about a foot in the air.

Things got a little blurry after that - probably due to the concussion - but there were flashes. Explosions, planes flying overhead, going off a bridge and being left for dead. Basement filing never looked so good as when you woke up in a bunker with a strange man telling you that you inadvertently put yourself directly in the middle of a holy war.

It definitely didn’t make you any happier to hear that the responsibility of restoring a little sanity had fallen directly onto your shoulders. What did help was the knowledge that an entire Resistance was standing behind you.

Several miles behind you, as it turned out.

It got easier when you started recruiting people to your side, guns for hire, Dutch called them - something that always made you feel like you were in the midst of a Clint Eastwood movie. 

Being the inveterate animal lover that you were, you went for Boomer and Peaches first. And then - even though all logic and common sense told you to get the hell out of the Henbane before Faith freaking Seed realized you were there - something else was telling you to stay. A gut feeling. 

That same feeling took you to the Moonflower Trailer Park. You weren’t sure what that feeling was, at first. At least, not until the music started and everything clicked into place. This was your soulmate. 

It…wasn’t quite the meetcute that you had in mind; there was music, and there was fire, but it wasn’t the violin music and candlelit supper of your dreams. In your dreams, you didn’t usually end up with the ends of your hair scorched beyond belief and covered in blood. 

You weren’t certain he realized it, not with the adrenaline cocktail buzzing in his veins, along with whatever other rush the fire brought him. You took a moment to study him as he danced off his nervous energy, gyrating and thrusting to disco music that was no longer playing. 

Older than you, but not too much older. Not exactly a MENSA member, but sweet, and oddly charming. The emphasis was on the odd there, and you couldn’t help but wonder what your parents would think of him. If you ever saw them again. 

As if he was only just seeing that your enthusiasm didn’t match his, he came closer, putting his hand on your shoulder to give it a little shake. “Hey, listen Po-Po, we got chemistry. I can tell, we’re going to make a great team! Like Starsky and Hutch, or Turner and Hooch.”

That got a laugh out of you, and you were grateful for the distraction. “Which one of us is Hooch?”

Sharky hesitated. “Listen, that’s not important right now. What’s important is that we get back to blasting these Peggies to hell. It’s like fate that you were coming, man; I put together a little playlist. It’s the good stuff, too. I wouldn’t share this with just anyone, but I can tell we’re going to be bueno amigos, you know?”

You liked him, you couldn’t help it. The more he talked, the more he grew on you. “Good stuff, huh? Like Donna Summers?The BeeGees? KC and The Sunshine Band?” 

As you went through the, admittedly, small number of disco artists you knew, Sharky pressed his hand to his heart. “Oh man, I knew we were going to be great together. I just knew, when I saw you, that here was a person who could truly appreciate the greatest music of all time.”

“Well, I grew up listening to it.” That hint went wide of the mark, so you decided to try again. “My soulmate loves the Trammps.”

The speed his face dropped would have been tragic, if it wasn’t so damn comical. Poor baby didn’t have a clue. 

“I am not at all surprised that someone as fine as you is taken, Shorty. He’s a very lucky man. Or she. I don’t judge. Everyone’s gotta live their best life.”

“He,” you replied. “He is very lucky. He also can’t catch a hint when it’s dropped from a great height.”

“Men,” Sharky said, with so much disgust that you couldn’t stop the laughter from bubbling up in your throat. 

What a guy.

You didn’t love him, not yet - soulmate bonds didn’t work like that, and you wouldn’t want one if they did - but you liked him. A lot. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Sharky. It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re right. We’re going to make a great team.”