#trouble the tabby | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luveline · 2 years

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𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary You're having trouble sleeping and pot seems like the only solution. Good thing your dealer, Eddie Munson, knows of another method that he's willing to to teach you. You get more than you bargained for when he tells you what he gets off to every night - you. [8.8k]

warnings 18+ only smut, fem!reader, eddie teaches you how to masturbate, p in v sex, light praise kink, mutual pining/lusting, lots of kissing, dirty talk, weed ment, aftercare, they are not so secretly infatuated with one another, eddie is a soft dork but also dirty <3 r implied as dressing very femininely

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Eddie kneels outside his trailer.

You stop at the lip of the grass and wonder what he's doing. His back is to you, covered by a band shirt familiar even from this angle and riddled with rips and moth holes. You're about to call out to him when he speaks.

"You're hot, huh, sweetheart?" Softer than you've ever heard him. "Why don't you go inside? Escape the heat, yeah?"

You approach slowly, footfall smothered by the lush green underfoot. He's scratching behind the ears of a tabby cat.

"It's so hot out! The sun's gonna cook you," he says, whisper-shouting.

Like the tabby can understand what he's saying it stands, stretches tall and then slinks off into the trailer. "Good girl," Eddie says, standing up.

"Are you collecting strays?" you ask lightly.

He turns to you, surprised but not scared. "Don't worry, you're still my favourite."

Good girl. His words ring loud between both ears. "I'm not a stray."

"Uh-huh. What's my shy girl want today?" You spin on your heel and Eddie starts laughing. "Sorry, I'm sorry! Come on, you'll like what I have!"

"You know I can't talk to you when you get like this," you tell him, pouting from over your shoulder.

He pushes a mess of black curls behind his ear and beckons you forward. "Come on," he says, sing-song. "Let daddy set you up."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, following Eddie into his house unhappily.

You hate when he gets in this mood, not because he's ever really made you uncomfortable, but because you like to be teased, and he knows it. Or he likes watching you squirm. Either way, it's dangerous territory.

"How much did you want?" he asks.

The cool inside of his trailer is a blessing. You hold your naked arms away from your skin and try to take a deep breath of cool air. "I have thirty dollars. So… however much that is."

"Babe, what the fuck do you want so much for?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder at you incredulously.

You follow him into his room. "Do you not have it?" you ask, tracing posters you've seen upwards of ten times by now. Eddie's a good dealer – reliable, sweet, and prone to freebies without any pervy requests in place.

He once swapped you an eighth for a cheap charm bracelet. He wears it now, the silver delicate and entirely too sweet for his metalhead appearance. It looks good on him, anyhow.

He pulls open the usual lunchbox you hadn't noticed sitting on one of his amps and pulls out more pot than you've ever seen at one time. "Don't I?"

"Woah."

"Uh-huh. Ern't she preddy?" he asks in a drawing southern accent.

You hold out your hands and he lets you take it. When you open the zip lock bag, the smell isn't awful. The buds are thick with green fuzz, and your eyes water.

You pass it back to him. "How much can I have for thirty?"

"For you? Half."

"Don't do that, Eddie. Gimme what you'd give anyone else."

"But you're not anyone else, babe. You're my favourite customer."

"I'm gonna put you out of business," you say, lightly chiding. "Can I sit down?"

He hums and nods and you sit cross legged at the top of his bed. His bed sheets are pushed away and the space is cold. His pillow under your hand is colder.

Eddie doesn't bother weighing it. You roll your eyes at him but also feel amazingly happy, because it's a lot of pot for not a lot of money, because his favouritism speaks for what you hope might be a small crush. Still, when he passes you the new bag you feel guilty.

"Eddie, I can't take that. I know that's more than thirty."

His eyebrows jump. "I don't care. What's the point in doing this if I can't give pretty girls a little something extra?"

"I don't know. To make money?"

He holds out the bag. You don't take it. "Fine," he says, sighing.

"Thank you." You watch him fish three or four bigger buds out of the bag. He presents you with a much more reasonable amount, his hands stained with the smell. "Thank you," you say again.

"Yeah. Wanna stay and watch a movie?"

You've known Eddie since middle school. Classmates, not really friends, not not friends, though ever since you've started buying a small kinship has blossomed between you.

"What movie?"

"Whatever you want."

You nibble the inside of your lip. "You'll roll up for me?"

"Sure will."

So you end up on Eddie's couch with the tabby cat that isn't his purring heavily on your lap as he rolls a couple of joints for you. You won't smoke anything until tonight so Eddie drops them into your newly acquired ziplock bag with papers and the leftover bud.

He sniffs. "So, you're not sleeping?" he asks knowingly, straightening out with a groan and disappearing out of view into the kitchenette. You're a total overthinker. Pot helps you calm down.

"I'm sleeping."

"After toking up."

"There's…" You scratch the vibrating cat behind its ears, frowning to yourself. "Worse things to do."

"Better ones, though. Hey, do you want a drink?"

You say no and he brings you a glass of water anyways. His hands smell strongly of hand soap and faintly of weed as he passes it to you. You take it carefully, wary of disturbing your cuddle partner.

"Like what?" you ask.

"Cranking one out, for starters."

You wince, afraid to bring the lip of the glass to your mouth in case you choke on it. "Anything else?"

"Running?" Eddie suggests, sitting with you but leaving a more than comfortable gap between your legs.

"Not my thing," you murmur.

It's weird, but anything above murmuring feels like shouting in the calm of his home. The movie plays on the TV and the cat purs, Eddie spreads his legs out and slouches into the cushions, his face surrounded by dark hair. He smiles at you like he always does, amicable if slightly flirty.

"Maybe pot is your only option," he says mournfully. He pulls a lock of hair in front of his face and his eyebrows pinch together. "Make sure you brush your teeth after though. Or you'll get bad teeth."

"Bad teeth?"

"Smoking ruins your pearls."

You put down your glass of water and weave your fingers into the cat's rough fur. Eddie is really nice. Really really nice. And he probably likes you, so… what's the worst that could happen, by asking?

I'm only asking, you decide.

"Eddie," you say softly, disrupting a big tobacco rant that he'd started. "What- when you say cranking one out, that's-"

"You know." He holds his hand above his crotch and squeezes the air. You feel a terrible heat start to collect in your abdomen. "Five to one? Uh- Nulling the void?" He grasps for words at your lost expression. "Making soup?"

His voice goes high. You think he's as embarrassed as you are, and you're not gonna ask again. You giggle. "Oh, right."

He drops his hand heavy against the seat of his pants and leans back. "Crank one out and sleep like a log."

"That works for you?" you ask tentatively.

"Every night."

You sink down into the couch and hide your face in cat fur. Eddie starts asking about how your job is, a genuine, earnest interest that further cements your next decision. You clear your throat.

"Eddie, can I ask you something?" He grins and waves his hand. "When you," you wince, "'make soup', do you just- how do you…" You slink down so far you're almost falling off of the couch. "How do you make yourself-" You gesture to your pelvis and then screw your hand into a fist, self-conscious.

He blinks. "Finish?"

You look at the chain around his neck rather than his face. "Yeah."

"Are you asking me because you want to know how I do it, or because you don't know how to do it to yourself?"

You rub your cheek with your shoulder. "The second option."

"Shit," he mutters.

"Sorry, you don't have to- I just thought-"

Eddie sits up. He looks more serious than he had before but not any less patient, elbows braced on his knees and head propped up in his hand. He parts his fingers over his lips.

"You don't know how?" he asks.

"I must've missed that lesson in sex ed," you try to joke. It comes out awkward. Eddie laughs anyways, a huff of breath.

"Lucky you, I've sat through sex ed three times." He grins brilliantly, but his joking tone softens when he sees your hesitant expression. "If you wanna know, I'm happy to tell you."

"Are you sure?"

"We're friends, right? What are friends for?" You don't miss the sarcastic twist to his words or his ironic smile.

Friends like you and Eddie likely aren't meant to be giving one another lessons on masturbation. But really, he's the only person you know who you could ask and wouldn't feel totally looked down on. Eddie's nice to his core, but better – he doesn't judge.

You struggle to know what to ask.

The cat chooses this moment to wake and jump off of you, strutting out of the trailer's open door and back into the sunlight without so much as a grateful look back.

And now you're alone with him.

"How's your anatomy?" he asks. You shake your head slowly. "You know, grade wise? Are we passing? B? B-? C?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Munson."

"Do you know what's what?" he asks concisely.

You sit up and press your knees together, suddenly very aware of your 'anatomy'. "I think so."

He purses his lips for a few seconds before shrugging. "Alright. We can work with that." Eddie pushes his cheek into the couch and looks at your face unflinching as he says, "You know what your clit is?"

You cringe. Full body.

Eddie shrugs. "What? That's what it's called. You don't have to be embarrassed about it."

"I know what it is."

"And you can't make yourself-"

"No."

He doesn't miss your frustration. "Hey, hey, it's fine. Some people think that it's, like, a magic on-button, but it's not. There's a whole process."

"How do you know?" you ask genuinely.

His answering smile is wolfish. "I'm in a band, babe. Fucking a guitarist is like, a bucket list thing or some shit. Girls will tell you exactly what they want if you're willing to listen."

Something about his knowing look has your heart skipping a beat. Maybe two. He pushes his hand across the couch and you're not sure if it's on purpose or accident, only that he's leaning in, a small smile on his face.

"And I'm a damn good listener."

You meet his eyes and know what he's offering. He waits, ring heavy fingers splayed wide in the space between you. It's the sight of them – thick, long and adorned in string-wrought calluses – that tips you over the edge.

He's already pulling back with a reassuring smile on his face, lips parted to likely say something too nice when you interrupt him.

"Will you teach me?" you ask quietly.

A split-second of surprise is quickly overtaken by enthusiasm. "You're not high, are you?"

"No."

He gets up to close the door and starts for his room. You linger on the couch uselessly and he doubles back, hand on the wall. "Are you coming?"

The noise from the TV fades as you walk down the hall and into his room. Your socked foot nudges into a tower of books close to the door and you reach out to steady them. Eddie pulls the sheets back into place and flicks on the lamp. He pauses by the stereo before turning that on, too.

A song you don't recognise starts to play. Eddie climbs up onto his bed and stands there for a second, suddenly very tall. "You wanna take off your jacket?"

"It's a cardigan." You peel the thin white cotton off of your shoulders and shift from foot to foot, unsure of yourself.

Eddie settles on his knees, pulls off his rings. "It's pretty. Come here," he says, holding out his arms.

You slide onto the bed cautiously, naked calves rubbing against the sheets. You feel as though every sense has been dialled to eleven; you're thinking about every brush of fabric, every small sound that they make.

Eddie takes one of your hands and you sit with one leg crossed and the other hanging off the edge of the bed, surprised at his soft touch. He soothes your hand and brings it to his lap, eyes on your now-bared shoulders.

"You dress real pretty." He says it with his usual dramatics, though there's enough sincerity there to make you smile.

You look down at your delicate clothes thoughtfully. "You think so?"

"Mh-hm. It suits you," he says as he drums his thumbs against the back of your hand.

He pushes one palm up the length of your arm and pulls it towards him at the same time. You've never been touched like this before and you want it bad, shuffling towards him with a shameful speed. He takes it in stride, hand bumping up the hill of your shoulder. His index finger slides under the skinny strap of your top and tugs at it playfully.

"You look sweet. Really sweet," he says, his voice more hushed than before. His eyes drop to your thighs. "You'll have to take those off, though."

"My shirt too?" you ask weakly, eyebrows pinched up at the starts.

"Not if you don't want to." You hesitate. He takes your thigh into a big hand and gives you a small shake. "It's okay. Take your time. Or, if you changed your mind, that's totally cool."

"No, I haven't," you deny, voice trembling with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. You kick your legs out in front of you one at a time and ease your shorts over the slopes of your thighs and calves, pushing them off of his bed with your feet.

“If you change your mind at any point-“

“I’ll tell you,” you say, nodding as you pull your knees together.

Eddie manoeuvres so he’s close, twisted toward you with his hand braced by your thigh. The cold metal of the charm bracelet you'd swapped him bites into your skin. If you leaned back and he leaned forward, he could kiss you. You think maybe he has the same idea as his eyes dart to your lips.

They linger.

He blinks and it’s gone.

“I’m gonna rub your leg,” he says quietly, “and when I get to the inside, I’m gonna touch you. Okay?”

As he says it, his hand moves onto your thigh. Down to your knee.

Slowly, so slowly, back up. His fingers caress the inside of your thigh. He pauses.

“‘Kay,” you whisper.

His fingers flex over your flesh as he draws in. Then, like a shock, his fingertips press to your underwear.

“I’m not surprised,” he says steadily, fingers brushing over your cunt, ghosting but never truly touching where you want him to.

“By what?”

“That you wear such cute panties.” He strokes the hem with the tip of his finger and you hold your breath as he slides it under the elastic, running the fabric over his digit gently. “S’exactly the kind of thing I pictured you wearing.”

“You’ve pictured them?”

He looks up from his teasing and your panties snap into place. You gasp on instinct and his eyes narrow, his lashes kissing in the corners. “Does that bother you?” he murmurs.

You shake your head. His lips quirk up, a smugness that makes your heart race ever faster.

"Do you do anything like this with yourself?" he asks.

"I'm never this nice."

"That's a crime," he says, and he laughs loud, momentarily shattering the distilled atmosphere that had settled over you both. "Thighs like these and you don't touch them?"

"Is that what you do?" you ask, insecure.

"No, but it's different. I don't need to get warmed up like you do."

"Warmed up?" you whisper. Having to ask these questions feels so embarrassing.

Eddie being so soft about it makes it easier. "Relaxed," he whispers in turn, laughing towards the end.

His thumb rubs the elastic of your underwear and drifts slowly inward until he's pushing over your folds. You gasp and it's slightly startled, sounding too close to panic for Eddie, who's hand flinches away.

"Didn't like that?" he asks.

You rush, "It's okay. Surprised."

One big hand holds your thigh, the other strokes your cunt. He's a little firmer now, pushing the breadth of his thumb over your panties until he touches something very sensitive. "Here?" He pushes up a little higher and your breath catches. He makes an almost inaudible cooing sound and flattens his hand, rubbing the length of your cunt without finesse. It feels good anyway. It surprises you how much you like it.

He pinches your panties.

"Ready to take them off?" he asks.

"Yeah."

You lift your hips and peel your underwear down, folding your legs to pull them off of your ankles. You clutch them in your hand, unsure.

Eddie sits back and pulls you towards him. You let him manhandle you with a small gasp, his hands pressing into the soft of your tummy. You can't see his face anymore.

"Alright," he murmurs, pulling your thigh over his lap and spreading you wide. His voice is loud in your ear because of his proximity, and you resist the temptation to turn your face to his.

"Let's just-" he works your underwear out of your hand and tosses them aside.

His hand lands on your knee and moves down fast.

You lean back heavily into his chest with your hands pulled to your sternum.

"Eddie," you say, "what do I do?"

He hums. "Touch yourself."

You seize up and he's quick to soothe, fingers closing around the crook of your elbow.

"Hey, I'm gonna show you. I'm gonna show you," he repeats. He pulls at the lip of your cunt and spreads you open, groaning softly. You wouldn't hear it if his lips weren't so close to your face. "How'd you have a cunt this sweet and never touch it? I mean, fuck."

His fingertips whisper past your pubic hair like he's going to say something more, but he only asks, "Hand?"

You put your hand into his, the back to his palm.

He sets it to your thigh. "Do what I did before, okay? Slowly…" He drags your hand up and down the length of your thigh.

Your heart is racing. Every time you crawl close to your cunt the burning longing to be touched, to touch yourself, and to have him touch you intensifies.

Eventually he pulls your hand to your clit. "You're so sensitive. Is it always this bad?" he asks sympathetically when you jump, tickled at the feelin.

"I haven't tried in a while."

"Oh, I see." Eddie encourages you to push your fingertip into the bead of your clit, drawing slow circles. "Poor baby. Just desperate to have someone take care of you." His voice is so low, so ridiculously soft, you find yourself sinking into his hold. He squeezes the crook of your elbow with one hand, the other still guiding your ministrations. You bite your lip at the sensation that's begun, the tiny spark of pleasure.

"Here, let me-" He lifts your hand away from your clit and you whine involuntarily. "Shh, sweetheart, I'm only gonna give you something to work with."

You turn your head to him and watch as his mouth opens. He sucks the very tip of your finger between his lips, the heat of his tongue a momentary flash. When he pulls it back, your finger shines with his spit.

Your eyes are half-lidded, watching through the crush of your lashes as he presses it back to your clit. "How's that? S'that better?" he asks, crooning. His tone sports an underlying mockery, a light-hearted teasing that's slowly turning intense.

It is better. It's different. Your fingertip searches for purchase against the slick skin and struggles to find it, the wetness allowing for freer, faster movement.

You push a second finger against the first.

Eddie stops helping. You pause, confused.

"No, you got it, sweetheart. You keep going," he reassures, grabbing a hold of your thigh again. He teases the dough there, never cruel but maybe close, fat moulding under his fingers as he squeezes.

Your breathing builds with pleasure. Still, it's hot enough; there's no sign of an oncoming climax, no tightening coil in your tummy. You huff with exertion and frustration. "Eddie, it's not working."

"I'm not done." He sounds almost stern. Your stomach flips. "You have to think about what you want."

"What I want?"

"What turns you on."

You think of his hands and their rings. His happy trail.

His voice. Good girl.

You slam your eyes shut.

Eddie gives you another mean squeeze. "What do you think about, when you-"

You don't let him finish. "What do you think about?" you ask, too loud.

He stills. His nose pushes into your shoulder, his hair tickling your skin as he asks, "Are you sure you wanna know?"

Your breath catches. Your fingers stutter where they work into your clit and Eddie starts you right back up again. His lips brush your shoulder.

"Yes," you say, gasping as pleasure like little shocks of heat shoot to your core.

The hand at your elbow starts to rove, tickling your arm as he strokes downwards. "You first," he murmurs, teasing your wrist. You swear you can feel his smile against your shoulder.

You breathe in through your nose. "Uh, I think of- of somebody…" You try, but you just can't say it.

Eddie's fingers push down your crease. Stop right before your entrance. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah."

"Mmm…" He circles your entrance. "Now what does a pretty girl like you think of when she's touching herself?" You don't think he wants an answer. His middle finger brushes across the slick well and pushes in. You squirm and he holds you in place.

There's something very hard digging into your spine.

"Something sweet as you… Let me guess. Boy next door comes around to mow the lawn, you invite him in for a drink, one thing comes to another-" He pushes his finger in deeper. "And he's fucking you.

"That sound about right?"

You shake your head. His own perks up where it rests on your shoulder. "No? Huh."

Your circles have grown slow and staggered, distracted by his touch as he eases his ring finger in beside his middle. "Something more romantic? Wedding night, love of your life. Guy that's gonna treat you like a diamond. Way a girl like you deserves." He pushes in, stretches them out. You moan as he curls them, as his arm works back and forth. "Gives it to you gentle." His movements slow to match.

And sure, that sounds nice. But it's not what you think about.

"No," you manage to get out through shallow breaths.

"No? You don't want it gentle?"

"Not- not all the time."

"How about right now?"

"Please."

Slowly, slowly, the shape of Eddie's hard cock against your back starts to move in time with the thrusts of his hand. He pushes in deep, fingers searching emphatically for the sweet spot, the thing that's gonna make you-

"Fuck," you whimper.

His cock jumps. You feel it.

"You keep rubbing that pretty little clit of yours, sweetheart."

You do as he asks. You're desperate enough now that you imagine you'd do most anything he says, your climax a tangible, physical possibility. Your tummy feels heavy and aching with want, worse when he probes deeply and marks your sweet spot again. His lips press to your shoulder, soft enough that you worry you're imagining it.

"You see what I'm doing here? See what fingers I'm using?" he asks. You open your eyes reluctantly. His wrist turns. You watch his fingers sink into the gummy heat of your cunt. "Tight little hole's just pulling me in, fucking clinging to me, baby, she's greedy."

You gasp, a hiccup of scandalised sound.

"Want you to try, okay? You gonna do that for me?"

"Yeah, Eddie."

"Good girl." You moan, you don't mean to, but he's fucking into your quick and your finger pushes into your clit roughly. Eddie revels in it. "You like that? You like being called a good girl? I fucking knew it."

You frown and start to turn to him. He presses his cheek to your head so you can't, stuck looking down the length of the bed at your trembling legs.

"You looked so flustered, standing all sweet and quiet by the van out front with your thighs squeezed together. You think I didn't see that shit?"

You're limp against him, thighs spread wide as you work into your clit, chasing this new feeling. You can hardly breathe, every exhale a keening moan that has you shame-faced and weepy. You roll your hips to meet his fingers, his hand slapping against your cunt with a slick slap.

"You looked so sweet. Y'always do." He turns his lips to your ear and curls into you until your squealing. "Guess looks can be deceiving."

You're so close, so close. Tendrils of heat curl heavily at your core. "Eddie, I'm- I'm-"

"You wanna cum?"

"Yes," you pant.

He pulls his fingers from your cunt and you're so confused that you stop, your climax slipping away in seconds.

"Sorry, but you have to do it yourself. This is all pointless if you can't get there on your own," he says.

Your chest heaves. "That's mean. You're mean."

"I never claimed otherwise. Here, middle and marriage, babe." He guides your hand to your entrance. You push your fingers inside, your tongue between your lips in concentration. Your fingers aren't as thick as his, they don't feel quite the same, but Eddie pushes your thumb into your clit. "Move your wrist. Feel that? Feel how soft you are? How fucking warm you are?"

You're not nearly as good as he was but every clumsy touch feels electric. You push your thumb into sweeping circles and pant your frustration aloud, feeling close to tears.

"You wanna know what I think about, when I jerk off?" he asks unexpectedly.

You nod, your head moving back into his collar. He rubs the lengths of your arms leisurely, his lazy demeanour in total juxtaposition to your desperation.

"There's this girl that comes to see me," he starts, coloured by a smug amusement. "Sweet thing, soft-spoken, always wearing these pretty clothes looking like something straight out of the movies.

"I think about a lot of things. Her thighs-" One of his hands falls to your thigh in time, massaging, "fuck, just wanna bury my face in them and never come out. Pull down those cotton shorts she's so partial to with the dainty stitching and-" He laughs and his lips part over your shoulder. His teeth scratch up, up, up. "Make her fucking cry my name. Feel those thighs tense up around me."

You're so close your entire body shudders. You slow without meaning to, holding your breath in wait for Eddie to finish his story

He gives you one final push. "Always wondered if she sounds as pretty as she looks when she cums." He kisses the small graze he'd given you mere seconds ago and everything is blue-white with heat. "Gonna clue me in, sweetheart? Gonna cum for me?"

Your eyes close hard and you breathe out, an exhale ragged and weak and mewling. You don't moan so much as sob without tears, tensing up in Eddie's arms as bliss blooms. You pull your hand from your sopping cunt and feel your walls contract around nothing as you cum.

He pulls you close, throbbing cock pressing hard into your back. "Fuck," he hisses, hands placating where they lay.

You go lax, head tipping back as you suck in air that had felt elusive moments ago.

Eddie rubs your arms without saying anything. You cover his hands and try to summon up words.

"Just as pretty as you look," he murmurs.

He's so fuckng nice. So fucking nice, and what? He thinks about you when he jacks off? Since when?

You sit up and drop your chin to your chest, panting still.

"You okay?"

After a few seconds you smile and turn to him, intent on saying, Yes, thank you, and maybe something with more gratitude, something silly, just something. But you can't speak.

His face is close.

Eddie brings a hand to the slope of your rising shoulder, follows a line to the curve of your neck. You look to his eyes and find him staring at your lips unabashedly.

He pulls you into him. You close your eyes.

Eddie Munson tastes like lots of things as he kisses you.

Cigarettes, unavoidable. Under that, sugar. Something sweet but heavy as bourbon vanilla. Your lips part and close in tandem with his, slow and hungry. Your heart races and your fingers are still wet as you twist in his arms and take his face into your hands.

You climb up onto your knees and Eddie doesn't know what to do with you.

He smiles so hard he has to pull away. Not smirking, smiling, a cheek-aching, too-happy smile that softens everything in your chest.

You rub a shaking thumb over his cheek. You don't know if it's because of the post-orgasm rush of hormones or because he just kissed you and now he's smiling like he might do it again.

He does. He kisses you and grabs your waist. His fingers mess with the hem of your shirt and he breaks the kiss short to say, "Take it off?"

You sit back on your knees, feel the mess of wet between your legs spread as you grab at the edge of your shirt and pull it up. Eddie helps though he doesn't need to, and just like that you're shirtless.

"Oh my god, I can't believe this is happening," he says, voice weak in what you suspect is one of his dramatics.

He slides his hands up your sides and stops just below your breasts. His thumbs grace the undersides and his brow puckers. "Fuck," he mouths appreciatively.

You flush head to toe. "Yours, too?" you ask gently.

Eddie reaches back to pull off his shirt. His hair's in total disarray and he runs his hands through it, biceps flexing with the movement, torso taut. The black ink of his tattoos move with him and your eyes eat up every single one.

He catches your eyes where they linger on the volley of bats. "You like that one?"

"I've always liked that one."

He grins and it's honey thick, hands at the small of your back and tugging. You spread your knees wide on impulse and find yourself flush to his chest, his arms locking you into place as he dives in for another kiss. Again you're surprised at how deeply he kisses you, how it ebbs and flows from slow to fast like he's both savouring and gorging himself on your closeness.

You've never been kissed like this. You're weightless. You feel every contiguity between you, the hot and wet of his mouth, the crook of his elbow against the nape of your neck, your nipples peaked against his chest and the length of his dick pushing up into your aching cunt.

"Fucking pretty," he says, pulling back just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth, your chin. He kisses your jaw over and over and over, lips pulling into crescents and then the same word. Pretty.

His mouth opens wide at your throat, teeth scratching lightly as it closes. He sucks your skin between his lips and rolls it, hand spreading wide and palm flat at your shoulder blade. Steadying. .

"That's cute," he says when he pulls away, lips shining.

"What?" you ask, hand drifting up. You poke at the quick-forming contusion.

He nudges it aside with his face as he moves in to further mark up your neck. "You're so fucking pretty," he says, each word separated by a nipping kiss.

His hands are everywhere.

Everything is warm and you can't breathe. You plant your hands at his shoulders and push away from him, and he stops you from falling flat on your back, levelling you with a worried glance.

"Is it too much?" he asks.

"No, I'm just hot. Really hot." You take a big breath and wipe your face with the back of both hands.

"That's true," he says, leaning back against the wall. His hands fall to your thighs. "Are you okay?"

You drop your hands abruptly and can't believe the fondness you're feeling. "You're pretty, too," you tell him. Honest if very shy; meek, entirely sincere. "I'm okay. I want…"

"You want?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I have this fantasy," you begin.

Eddie widens your legs to move from under them. It doesn't surprise you when he comes to lie on your chest, holding his weight off of you with an arm at the side of your ribs. His hair falls and hides the room from view. All you can see is his face, and it's beautiful.

"Tell me about it."

"It's- okay. It's…" You drift off as he dips down to kiss your collar, only chaste pecks but enough to distract you. "It's kind of like this."

"Yeah?" His breath warms your chest. More ditzy kisses.

"I get here and you're coming out of the shower-"

"Tasteful."

"With a towel low on your hips," you add pointedly. It's useless, his sarcasm has pinned you spot on. "And you- you touch me."

Eddie kitten licks the skin he's just nibbled and looks up. "Like this?"

"Like this."

"And after that," his hand moves between you to the zipper of his jeans, the sound of metal clicking metal ringing through the room, "what do I do?"

"You push me down into the bed, and-" You feel the fabric of his jeans rub your thighs as he pulls them down. "You…"

"What do I do, sweetheart?"

"You push my legs up and you fuck me," you confess.

He scrambles back towards his nightstand, a hand on your ankle that says, I'm not going far. "How do I fuck you? Am I rough?"

"Not at first."

There, in his hands, the red plastic of a condom wrapper, bright as a maraschino cherry. He holds it up and you nod.

"Not at first," he murmurs, ripping open the condom, hissing as he pulls it over his weeping cock. It's big – not too thick, but big, surrounded by a thatch of dark curls trimmed neat. "But eventually?"

He rolls it on tight and then there's nothing but this admission of your guiltiest fantasy. You spread your legs without thinking and he pulls you towards him, thumb collecting slick where it's pooled and pushing it up towards your entrance. What's left on his fingers he smears over the length of his shaft. You watch him rub at the head and sigh.

"Eventually," you agree.

His cock rubs up against you as he leans down and pinches your chin between his fingers, lips parted from a sharp gasp and opening further. "Can I fuck you? Is that what you want?"

You nod voraciously.

He gives you a very firm kiss at the highest point of your cheek. "In words."

"Yes, you can fuck me. That's what I want," you say without hesitation.

"You tell me if I do something you don't like," he says, lining up.

"I will," you say earnestly.

Eddie pushes your leg up towards your tummy and holds it there. "Good girl," he praises, and pushes in.

You're already worked open by his hand, your own hand and your climax, and still it's a snug fit. You cross your arm over your chest with your lips bitten hard to stop from making what you anticipate to be a very great and mortifying sound. He takes it slow, real slow, towering over you with his brows furrowed just slightly and his back arching. Every move he makes is accompanied by a careful thrust of his hips. He's rhythm in motion.

"Fuck," he mutters, more than once. He's halfway when you feel that stretch, your pulpy walls accommodating him with little complaint and a lot of pleasure.

You drop your head back against the bed sheets and hug yourself.

Eddie reaches for your hand where its cracking your breast absentmindedly and squeezes your fingers. "How's that?" he asks. "How's that feel?"

You close your eyes. "S'good, Eddie." You lay out your own roll of expletives as he pushes in ever deeper. "You're really- oh," you gasp, "really deep."

"You should see it, babe, pretty pussy gripping my every fucking inch." He leans down and his cock fills another inch of you. Your fingers ache with how hard he's squeezing them, and you look up to find his eyes on yours. "I'm gonna fill you up, okay? You gonna be a good girl for me and take it?"

You blink and your lashes feel heavy with tears. "Yeah. I can take it. I can take it."

"I know," he says, hovering over you, close enough to hug if you wanted to.

He grabs your side and his thumb pushes into the soft swell of your breast, his grip tightening as he fits those last inches of his cock inside you. You rub your cheek against his bedsheets, your head fuzzy from being so full. He takes your bared neck as an opportunity and ducks into the juncture of it and his face fits there like it was made to, his nose bobbing against the column of your throat as he starts to fuck into you. His hips roll, a mess of his sticky pubes kissing your clit.

This close you can smell him, the heavy scents of pot and smoke, the sweet nutty smell of oil clinging to his hair. Sweat, as you imagine you smell of too, and sex. The room is filled with it, the smells and the sounds of his thighs thudding into yours.

"Eddie- Eddie," you whimper, muffled by the sheets beneath you.

He pushes in deep and rubs his nose into your skin emphatically. "What's wrong, hm? What's got you all wound up?"

You wrap your arms around his back. You're not sure if you're allowed to but you're hardly thinking ahead – you can't. Every thrust, every movement he makes is at the forefront of your mind, commanding all of your attention. The tickling of his hair against the side of your face. The skipping of the chains of his necklace where it teases your neck.

"Babe?" he asks, pulling back to turn your head. He stills inside you.

You protest, loud and completely unlike yourself. "Eddie, don't stop. Please don't." Your hands push into his shoulder blades. He ruts in at your request, thumb rubbing your cheek. "Feels so good," you say. You trip over your praise, voice breaking.

He starts up again, whispering, "Do you want me to hold your leg up, pretty girl?" and, "Taking me so well- taking it so fucking well," and, worse, "Fuck, sweetheart, just like that," when you tigthen around him.

You weave your fingers into the messy crush of black curls surrounding his face, careful not to tug as you covet the back of his head and nape of his neck, scratching his scalp lightly with one hand as the other strokes his side.

Your moans become a half-sobbing sort of mess, quiet and desperate, drawn out of you with every tap of his cock into your soft spot. When he finds it he can't not search for it, rutting into it over and over until you can't produce anything but an unintelligible stream of babble and happy sighs.

He laps lazily at your neck, the stretch of skin dampened and stinging from love bites. He thrusts in hard and hits something sweet that has you clinging to him.

"You smell good," he says into your skin.

Your hips ache with pleasure. "I must taste pretty good," you say. What, with how he's willing to nibble on you like this.

He squeezes your neck and narrows his eyes at you playfully. "I intend to find out." He moves down until your lips are a hair's width from touching. "Bet you taste as sweet as everything else."

You lift your chin and kiss him, dedicating your affections to his top lip. He groans into your mouth, hips moving slow and thrusts shallow when suddenly they're not. His cock drags out slowly and slams in deep, his pelvis hitting into yours.

You keen into the kiss, gentle and at odds with his fucking. His fingers find your ear and his thumb follows down the shell until he's pinching your earlobe, a split-second touch that melts you into putty. He pulls away from the kiss and inhales loudly, his fingers under your ear and pushing your face to the side so that he can wade in from a new angle.

You curl your fingers around his wrist and let yourself be kissed and fucked and touched. Anything he wants to do, he can do.

Eddie breaks the kiss.

"What did I taste like?" you ask breathlessly.

He traces an invisible teardrop down your cheek with the back of his pinky finger. "Oh, sweetheart," he says quietly, lowering his lips to the shell of your ear. "That's not where I meant."

Another hard thrust. You gasp at the dull aching spreading through your tummy and Eddie softens slightly, not so deep but just as fast, faster, his cheek to your cheek as he works you open. His rugged panting in your ear is everything you need. You force your hand between your body and Eddie's and search for the wet mess of your clit, chasing quick circles into the swollen bump.

Eddie realises what's happening and his fucking turns desperate. "You gonna cum again? Shit- keep touching, I'll get you there, fucking promise you." He's hardly pulling out an inch before he's rutting back in, kicking up the speed until all you can feel is pleasure again.

Eddie slows down as you cum, moaning as you tighten around him. He pushes away from you to kneel between your legs again, eyes locking onto your cunt obstinately, his panting loud as he drags his cock in and out.

"Insane," he mumbles, hands coasting down your legs until he's grasping the fat of your thighs and pulling you back onto his cock. "You're insane."

As if proving it, his hands rove the hills and troughs of your torso, your skin clammy underhand, his hips moving mindlessly. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand and blink back into focus.

"Are you close?" you ask him, whispering.

You're lucky he can hear you with the music he's playing and the sounds of your slick hole being stretched. Eddie tucks a lock of sweat-dark hair behind his ear and his eyes pause in their reverential searching to meet yours.

He peels your hand off of your mouth and holds it.

"Fucking teetering, babe. Been close ever since I felt you wrapped around my fingers." He pulls your hand and you take it as a cue to try and sit up. Eddie helps you into his lap, your thighs straddling his thighs, slipping down his length until you're stuffed to bursting.

You hide your face in his shoulder and he rubs your back. "You're okay," he says sympathetically, "I got you. You just sit pretty, there's a good girl."

You wrap your arms around his neck and try your best to bounce on his cock as he thrust up into you, a steady pace that turns sloppy. You rake your hands through his curls and kiss at the curve of his neck down to the slope of his shoulder, dizzied and cock-drunk, totally fucked out. You hum into your kisses with every prodding of his mushroom tip against your deepest spot, rambling nonsense at him in a way you hope is making a difference.

"Fucking me so good," you mumble, equal parts tearful and euphoric, lips wet and spreading a shine like frost in the sun over his lean shoulder. "So good, Eddie. Thought about this too much."

"Yeah?" he asks, sounding like a different person. Voice rough as hewn stone and hands bruising where they grip you, his heavy sack slapping into you with every sluggish rock of his hips. "Good as you pictured? M'I fucking you like you wanted?"

"Better," you say sincerely.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he says, and he's close, you know he is.

You roll your pelvis in circles and try your hardest, aflame as you plead, "Cum for me, please? Please, Eddie, wanna feel it."

Despite your shy intonation Eddie goes rigid. He fucks in with one final thrust that sends shocks deep to your core and spreading out, cutting your happy little gasp short as he pulls your head tight to his neck. His hips twitch underneath you and he's making sounds that are going to haunt you, whiney, begging moans over your head.

Eddie's tight hold on you slowly loosens. You're breathing fast, finally out of motion. Your thighs burn where they're spread over his lap and you squirm unintentionally.

He pulls your neck back from his shoulder and looks over your face, concern lining the soft set of his eyes. He cups your cheek in question.

"I'm okay," you say softly. "I'm more than okay. That was amazing."

"It was amazing," he agrees, caught off guard.

"Yeah."

You shift backwards and the two of you wince at the sensitivity. You ease your legs open and Eddie pulls out, pumping the sticky shaft once. His eyes flutter closed.

You move off of his lap and turn to the side so you can stretch out your aching legs. Eddie follows suit, collapsing off of his knees and onto his back, the pillow behind him keeping him propped up.

You watch him ease the condom off of his cock curiously, White cum has smeared and drips down the length of him, his pubes tangled by a mixture of your slick and his.

He spots you watching and smiles. "What, sweetness? What are you thinking about?"

"I made you cum."

His eyebrows jump but quickly smooth. "I think I went blind, for a second."

You giggle at his hyperbole and he pulls you down against his chest, your side pressing into his navel. Your cheek to the space shy of his heart.

His hand comes to rest on your forehead.

"Do you really think about me?" you ask, knowing the answer.

"Every night."

You close your eyes and hide your smile in his skin. He chuckles and wraps you up in one arm, his hand a firm pressure as he massage the dipped plane of your back.

Nestling your cheek into his chest, you say, "I think about it, too. All the time."

"Uh-huh. Maybe we can make some more of those racy thoughts a reality. What was that one about me coming out of the shower?"

You like this casual conversation and decide to try and make him laugh, stretching your words out low. "Well, you're coming out of the shower, and your towel slips open-" There, his bumping laughter at your over the top salaciousness.

"That's awful. Most cliche, overdone, cheap porno concept ever," he chastens.

"I never said I was creative."

"What happens after that?"

"The towel gets swept away by a sudden gust of wind, so I have to cover you. With my body."

He bursts. There's no other word to describe it, his back arches with the force of his laughter and he holds his fist to his mouth, shaking and giggling like an idiot.

"Where's the wind coming from?" he questions incredulously.

"I don't know! The window?"

"Oh my god," he says. He hooks his hand under your arm and pulls you up his chest, dotting a fond kiss to your forehead as you near. "And after that?"

"Well, I told you that part."

"Right, we hook up, but after that."

You clench your fists, insecure. "After?"

He brings the hand that isn't loving the length of your back to your face, stroking the skin under your chin with the backs of his index and middle finger, the flat of his fingernails sliding gently in a soothing back and forth.

"I guess it's kind of like this," you answer eventually.

"Does fantasy Eddie get another kiss, too? Or does he- do they stop, afterwards?"

"It's a fantasy. The kisses never stop," you tell him. Adrenaline must linger in your veins; you can barely speak.

His expression becomes impassive, and a lull in the conversation blossoms. He searches your face for something and you don't know what, but he must find it, because he dips down and kisses you chaste on the lips.

Your hands are back to tentative as they explore his neck. Your fingertips grace the curves of his throat and then sink behind, into the dampened mess of his hair.

He stays chaste, dainty kisses, pulling back to dot them against your lips over and over.

"Eddie," you say softly, "what are you doing?"

"It feels like kissing," he says, tone a mirror of your own.

You huff a laugh against his lips and kiss back.

Later, after more kisses than you could ever count and an hour dozing on his chest whilst his hand rubbed circles into your tired back, you get dressed into your clothes that he likes so much and slip your goodie bag into the belly of your strappy purse.

"Don't go over the top with it, alright?" he says, watching the green bud dissappear.

Jeans back in place and still bare-chested, Eddie sits on the end of his bed and scratches the back of his neck. You give him a grateful smile. "No, I won't. I actually think I might sleep really well tonight without it."

He smirks. "I bet you will."

Eddie walks with you to the front porch. You'd linger if you didn't have to go, and you're pretty sure he'd let you. There's a fraction of awkward silence.

"See you later," you say, walking sideways down one step, another.

Eddie catches your hand. It takes you a second to realise what he's done: forced your crumpled thirty dollars back into your hand. Your heart misses a beat and you feel your stomach plumet – you hadn't fucked him for the free pot.

"Eddie-"

"My girl can't pay for her own supply. That's not happening."

You take one step up. "Your girl?"

He has the good graces to look nervous. "If you wanna be."

You don't know how to answer. He looks pretty like this in the last dregs of sunshine, big brown eyes waiting patiently for you to say something, hand clutching his elbow. It doesn't feel entirely real.

You step on tip toes and work your hands behind his neck to kiss his cheek before rubbing your forehead against his chin. "I'll come by tomorrow?" you ask hopefully. He relaxes under your weight.

"Any time you want. I'll take you some place nice, if you're up for it."

You set back on your heels and pull away. "You don't need to go all fancy on me, Munson." You're happy to get stoned and eat burgers on the couch.

He looks you up and down, eyes catching on the flanks of your thighs before he takes in your face. His smile is almost dorky when he says, "No I- I think I do. I'll see you tomorrow, pretty girl."

You nod with an aching smile and are a little ways away when he smugly calls, "Sleep well!"

After the lesson he just gave you, you're sure you will.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

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#eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson smut #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson imagine

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jupitercomet · 5 months

Text

There Are 15 People in This House, You’re the Only One Who Has to Make Trouble

summary - Your job was simple: write a heartwarming article about the selfless firefighters who are working around the clock instead of celebrating the holidays. You thought it would be easy, firefighters are supposed to be friendly, right? Well the fire captain who's had it out for you since the day that you started certainly isn't. When he's not undermining you at every turn, he's making your life a living hell and downright ruining your Christmas. All because he caught you from falling out of a tree one time!

warnings - firefighter au, language, enemies to lovers (I tried), firefighting inaccuracies, mentions of guns, mentions of arson, there's a fire, mentions of toxic family, age gap though it's not really specified, a little suggestive, Bradley is 6'6" because I said so

word count - 14.2k

this fic is part of @sailor-aviator christmas challenge, be sure to check out what everyone else has written and I hope you enjoy!

the christmas fics

“Honey, I don’t think—”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Layford,” you wave off the older woman as you move to unbutton your coat. “Here, hold this please.” She takes your purse from you apprehensively, still wary as you set your coat on the ground and start sizing up the tree in front of you.

Mrs. Layford wets her lips against the chill of the morning air, trying again to deter you when you wrap your hand around one of the low branches. “I’ve already called the fire department, honey. They said they’re on their way.”

With a soft grunt, you hoist yourself up onto the lowest branch of the tree, peering through the snow covered foliage to catch sight of your target. Mittens, the slightly pudgy (though you’d never say it to his face—or Mrs. Layford’s) orange tabby, clings to one of the branches, letting out distressed meows every few seconds. He has a habit of getting stuck in trees—hence why Mrs. Layford knows most of the firefighters by name—and as the neighbor she often came to for help with things like the wifi and the apartment upstairs that plays their music too loud, you felt it was your civic duty to rescue Mittens on this snowy morning.

“Hey, buddy,” you call out to him softly before turning back to call down to Mrs. Layford. “I’ll have him out before they even get here, don’t worry.”

Letting go of the tree with one hand, you move to unwrap your scarf from around your neck, balancing around the rough bark of the trunk. You certainly have a hole in your tights and this was not the best activity to do in a skirt, but you shuffle along the trunk anyway and now, if you outstretch your hand all the way, you can reach the tips of Mittens’ puffed out fur.

“Oh, thank goodness!” You hear the relieved voice of Mrs. Layford, but you’re too busy trying to maneuver your scarf around Mittens’ plump middle that you don’t look down. “My neighbor’s trying to get him now but…”

Whatever she’s saying dies off and suddenly you hear heavy footsteps approaching the tree. A gruff voice clears its throat. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to get down from there.”

You wrinkle your nose. Ma’am? You’re 27. That’s hardly an age that people start calling you “ma’am”. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever been called ma’am in your life. “Miss” maybe, but never “ma’am”—“mademoiselle” that one time you went to Montreal on a work trip.

“Ma’am—”

“Hold on, hold on! I almost got him.” You interrupt the man who is terrible at estimating ages, finally wrapping your scarf around Mittens.

Carrying a cat in a scarf is a two handed job, and a cat as heavy as Mittens had no trouble throwing off your balance. You suppose you should have thought more of this through—if you were holding Mittens, it meant that you weren’t holding the tree and your thighs are not quite secure nor strong enough to keep you attached to the bark. A shriek leaves your lips and you hold Mittens to your chest as you suddenly lose your footing on the branch and feel yourself falling backwards off the tree.

Closing your eyes tight, you prepare for the impact of hitting either icy dirt or concrete sidewalk, but feel neither when you land in secure arms and a solid chest, the scent of cedar and smoke almost overpowering your senses.

Blinking your eyes open, you collect your bearings and find yourself face to face with a well groomed mustache that’s twitching in agitation. Before he can say anything, Mrs. Layford is rushing over to you with a worried expression pinching her features.

You unwrap your scarf quickly, holding out an unharmed Mittens to hand over. “He’s okay,” you assure her. “Not a scratch on him.”

Mrs. Layford lets out a breath of relief, holding the cat close to her chest before turning her attention to the man still holding you. “Thank you, Bradley.”

“What? I saved him! Don’t I deserve a thank you?” You squawk in offense.

“Well, he saved you both,” Mrs. Layford glares at you with a look that tells you that you don’t want to keep arguing with her. Her face softens when she turns back to your—alleged—savior. “I’m sorry for any trouble we’ve caused, I’ll bring some cookies over to the station for you and the boys.”

“No need.” You feel his words vibrate in his chest, sending tingles along your arm. “Happy to be of service.” He lifts you suddenly, as if to gesture to you, and you let out a squeak of surprise, clinging to his compact, black t-shirt. “I’m just gonna check her for any injuries and be on my way. Why don’t you and Mittens go inside where it’s warm.”

Mrs. Layford does just that, with one last goodbye, and you watch her make her way back into your apartment building with one last glance back at you. Finally, the firefighter sets you back down on your own two feet, crossing his very large arms as he scans you up and down. You can’t help but fidget under his stare even though you know he’s only making sure you’re okay.

“Do you usually have this much disregard for your own life, ma’am?” He asks finally.

You scoff. “I wouldn’t have died from a fall from that height. And don’t call me ma’am.”

“Yes, you could have. You were falling backwards—head first at that—if you had landed on your neck wrong, this could have been a whole different story,” the firefighter narrows his eyes cockily, like he’s beaten you somehow by being more right than you. “And what should I call you then? Kitty? ‘Cause those are the only things I save from trees.” He smirks when your jaw drops at his audacity.

“Excuse me? I was saving a kitty. You were just standing there—”

“Just standing there?” He drops his cool guy persona to look at you incredulously. “I saved you from serious injury!”

“Ha! So you admit I wouldn’t have died!”

The firefighter’s mouth snaps shut when you point a finger at him. You watch his jaw clench and then he rolls his eyes.

“Well as delightful as this has been, I’m going to be late,” you smile at him sweetly as you bend down to grab your coat, much more smug now that you’ve finally silenced the man in front of you. “Gosh, I hope the firefighters I have to interview are as heroic and charming as you.” You shove your arms through your jacket before shooting him another look. “Am I free to go?”

“You know what—” The firefighter looks like he’s going to start another lecture, before his features falter and he pauses. “Did you say you’re interviewing firefighters?”

“Yeah, I’m writing an article for the paper. For the holidays and all that,” you pause from buttoning your coat, fingers stilling on one of the large, black buttons.

“You walking?” He questions.

You give him a weird look. “...Yeah?”

He looks at you for a moment and then lets out a deep sigh. “Come with me.”

“Excuse me? I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Well, you might as well.” With that, he starts walking away from you, not even giving you the decency of facing you as he continues his sentence. “We’re going the same place, kitty.”

“So…” You tap your fingers along the wooden stool below you, drawing out the word as you watch the man in front of you clean up things around the station. “Bradley Bradshaw, huh?”

“Fire Captain Bradley Bradshaw.” He corrects.

You hold back an eye roll, lifting your pen to jot something down on your notepad. “Right.”

“What are you writing?” Bradley stops suddenly, marching over to you and ripping your notepad from you before you can protest. He reads over the few words you have scribbled and narrows his eyes. “I do not have an authority kink. And I highly doubt your article is supposed to be about my sex life.”

You shrug, plucking the notepad back from him. “I’m just writing what I see.” Hoping down from the stool, you give him another sickeningly sweet smile. “Maybe if you actually gave me an interview, I wouldn’t have to rely on my people reading skills.”

“I already told you, I already have a guy that’ll give you an interview. He eats this press shit up.” Again Bradley seems to have no regard for face-to-face conversations as he’s already walking away from you.

You’re borderline running to keep up with him. “And I already told you that my assignment is to follow you guys around for a week, I’m going to need more than one interview.”

“Alright, fine.” Bradley stops suddenly and you nearly trip over your own feet to stop from bumping into him. “You want an interview? Here’s an interview. I’m a firefighter, I fight fires. Sometimes I catch careless girls from falling out of trees—it’s not really my job, but I like to give back to the community.” He shrugs sarcastically. “When I’m not putting out fires, I wait here until someone calls me to put out a fire, and then I do. That good enough for you?”

You ignore his not so subtle dig at you in favor of jotting down notes. This is probably the most you’re gonna get with him, so you might as well take advantage of it. “Are you sad you won’t be getting time off for the holidays?”

“No, I’m not. I don’t really celebrate, so I don’t care that much.” Bradley crosses his arms.

“Uh-huh,” you nod, still looking at your notepad. “And when will you be accepting your award from People Magazine for Grumpiest Man of the Year?”

“When will I—” When Bradley processes your words, his jaw clenches and you’re suddenly aware of your height difference as he towers over you menacingly. “Oh, you’re real funny, kitty. Look, in case I haven’t made it clear, I don’t like you. And if I had it my way, you wouldn’t be here at all, so let me make this easy for you. Stay out of my way.”

The two of you stare at each other and you note how tense Bradley’s shoulders are. He looks like one of those bulls in the bullfighting rings that chase after the red capes. You read once that it isn’t the color red that sets off the bull, but actually the movement of the cape and if you’re the red cape in this scenario then you probably shouldn’t move. Honestly you wonder if bulls can even see the color red. But that caricature of a bull with smoke coming out of his nose is exactly what Bradley looks like right now. You wonder if you should tell him that.

“Seresin.” He barks suddenly, still keeping his eyes on you and it takes everything in you not to jump.

You hadn’t even noticed the other firefighter making his way down the stairs and you’re mildly impressed by Bradley’s peripheral vision. Finally Bradley breaks eye contact with you and it’s only then that you turn to take in the other man in front of you.

Much like Bradley, he’s unfairly tall. His uniform certainly hugs him in all the right places and he fills it out with what you know is concentrated muscle. Blond hair is gelled up slightly on his head and piercing green eyes meet your own with a polite smile that his captain hadn’t given you.

Bradley nods his head in your direction. “Give our journalist here an interview.”

“Sorry, Captain,” The man’s eyes dart to the exit and he almost seems to shift his weight nervously. “I actually have to be somewhere—”

“That was an order, Lieutenant.” Bradley interrupts him and then he’s stalking off before you or the other man can get another word in.

With that lovely, uncomfortable aura in the air, you shoot the man in front of you an apologetic smile. “Hi,” you introduce yourself, holding out a hand. “I’m with the Union-Tribune. I’m writing an article about the firefighters working over the holidays and would love to get an interview from you if you have the time.”

“Well, apparently I do,” the blond chuckles awkwardly, scratching at his neck as he shakes your hand with his other one. “Jake Seresin.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jake.” You smile again.

He nods—infinitely friendlier than a certain Bradley Bradshaw. “So what questions were you wanting to ask me?”

You move to find somewhere for the two of you to sit and Jake follows with what looks to be a strained smile. His name feels familiar, though you certainly couldn’t have put it to the face, and you recall a recent article one of your colleagues had written about a nasty apartment fire that had practically brought the complex down. As of now, there weren’t any casualties, but you’d heard there had been a high number injured, including one in critical condition. Jake Seresin had been one of the firefighters to arrive on the scene—that’s how you recognized his name—and had been the last one to go in and look for any other people.

You know better than to ask him about the event, not when it has nothing to do with your article. You clear your throat with another smile. “Um, did you always know you wanted to be a firefighter?”

“I guess so,” Jake chuckles before pulling a bit of a face. “I thought it looked cool in the movies. My ma always said I was a bit of a wild child.”

“Oh, so you find firefighting to be a bit of an adrenaline rush?” You push.

“Well, I—” Jake falters. “I don’t know if I’d say that. I mean it can be, but it’s also…” He trails off, clearly looking for words that don’t seem to be coming to him.

“It’s okay,” you assure, knowing when to move on. “Complicated question. What about the holidays? Are you sad to be working?”

Jake looks infinitely relieved that you’ve changed the subject. “Originally, I was planning on heading home but… things changed and I figured if I was staying here, I might as well be working.” He glances at his watch suddenly and winces. “Is there another time we could do this? I’m sorry, but I really have to get somewhere.”

You nod hastily. “Of course! I’m sorry to keep you. I’ll be here all week so anytime you’re free, you know where to find me.”

Jake lets out a breath of relief. “Thanks. I’ll— I’ll be sure to do that.” He gives you an awkward wave before hastily heading towards the exit. Right as his hand meets the door, Jake pauses, turning back to you with a more sincere smile. “Oh, and don’t worry about Bradley. He’s like that with everyone.”

You watch him leave before sagging in your seat with a soft sigh. If the rest of the firefighters were like Jake then maybe this week wouldn’t be so bad—at the very least, you’d be able to write your article. Your thoughts drift to honeyed brown eyes and that permanent sneer that seems to cement every time it’s shot in your direction. You look down at your notes.

Bradley Bradshaw:

Authority kink

Biting back a smile, you scribble something quickly.

Authority kink (maybe)

The next day, you’re back at the fire station with a bright smile on your face. After a good night’s rest, you’ve decided that you’re not about to let the whole Bradley thing deter you. You are a trained professional and you’re certainly not about to let a man with a stick up his ass make the world think any differently. Securing your fingers around the bright pink box in your hands, you take one finally deep breath before walking inside the station.

“Hello?” You peer around, hoping to catch a lingering firefighter (ideally doing something praisable, like fostering a litter of abandoned kittens—it would look good for the article.) When you find no response, you call out again, louder this time. “I brought doughnuts.”

There’s a slight commotion from upstairs and then a group of six are filing down the stairs. At the front of the pack is a man with the prettiest curls you’ve ever seen, his eyes lit up excitedly as he takes in the treats in your hands.

He shoots his hand up suddenly. “I call jelly-filled!”

The man behind him shoves him and you hold back a gasp when he almost trips over the last step because of it. “You can’t call the jelly-filled one, dude.” You watch as they both make it down the stairs, still arguing with each other as they get closer to you.

“Boys!” There’s a sudden whistle and you also look up to see a stunning woman with dark brown hair pulling her fingers from her mouth. “You wanna say hi first? You’re being rude.”

The two men turn to you, much more sheepishly, embarrassment covering their features. “I’m Mickey,” the first one says, holding out his hand before realizing you’re not quite in the position to shake it.

“Reuben,” provides the other one.

You give them your name—along with your whole spiel about why you’re here—and open the box of doughnuts for them. “Don’t worry,” you wink. “I got two jelly doughnuts.”

Reuben and Mickey light up, taking the two powdered treats from you hastily as the rest of their colleagues finally make their way over to you. Jake you recognize and he’s flanked by a man slightly taller than him with a cropped buzz cut and jovial eyes. The woman is accompanied by another man whose thick glasses are balancing on his nose. Out of everyone, he seems the kindest—he just gives off that vibe—and he smiles at you politely when he realizes you’re staring at him.

“Bringing in the big guns, I see,” Jake teases, gesturing to the doughnuts Reuben and Mickey are already snacking on. He seems in better spirits than yesterday—or, at the very least, more sure of himself.

You play along, picking up a maple frosted doughnut and offering it to him. “I figured a little bribery never hurt.” You wait for him to take the doughnut before turning to the other three people standing next to him. “Would you guys like any?”

The man behind Jake, raises his hand, stepping forward to grab a sprinkled doughnut from the box. “You clearly did not think this through, because there’s no way I can give an interview with my mouth full,” he jokes before taking a large bite.

“Oh, good point,” Jake points at him and you feel you’re already getting a sense of their dynamic when they fist bump.

“Okay, since clearly all of you were raised in a barn, I’ll be the polite one,” the woman in front of you rolls her eyes, before shooting you a kind smile. “I’m Natasha,” she introduces. “That’s Bob.” She points at the man with glasses. “As you’ve heard, that’s Mickey and Reuben. The smartass over there is Javy.” The smartass in question waves, still eating his doughnut. “And I’m assuming you’ve already met Jake?”

You nod as both she and Bob finally reach over to grab a doughnut. Bob lets out a quiet “thank you” as his fingers wrap around a blueberry one.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” you say honestly.

“Well, it’s nice to meet the woman who’s gonna tell all of San Diego how sexy and heroic I am,” Javy winks at you. “Right?”

Jake scoffs good-naturedly. “Javy please, she’ll be far too distracted watching me.” He shoots you a look that you assume usually leaves women reeling (you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little flustered yourself.) “Just let me know when you want to continue that private interview, sweetheart.”

“Private interview?” Javy whines. “C’mon man, you can’t give me one of these things?”

You snort. “Well, actually, I was hoping to get private interviews from all of you.”

Before anyone else can respond, someone clears their throat from the top of the staircase. “If you’re just gonna be distracting my firefighters, this isn’t going to work.”

You recognize the voice—of course, you recognize the voice—and you force a smile onto your face as Bradley Bradshaw, in all his black t-shirt and firefighter pants glory, descends

the stairs. Though you’re trying to keep it professional, Natasha does not share that sentiment and rolls her eyes.

“Oh lay off it, Bradshaw. We’re not even doing anything right now.”

“Yeah,” Jake chimes in. “Just grab a doughnut man, we saved you the chocolate frosted one.”

Bradley growls. “I don’t like chocolate frosted doughnuts.” From over his shoulder, Jake mouths “He does!” and you bite back a smile. “And you may not be doing anything right now, but you’re all on call. You shouldn’t be standing around eating snacks.”

“Bradley—” Bob starts, but you wave him quiet, forcing your smile even wider.

“No, he’s right,” you nod politely in Bradley’s direction, closing the box of doughnuts. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have distracted you guys.”

“Your job is to follow us around, not get in the way,” Bradley reminds you—because you’re learning it might actually kill him to be nice to you. “And put those in the fridge or something. I don’t want Goose getting to them.”

You pause, brows furrowing in question. “Goose?”

As if on cue, a large dalmatian suddenly comes bounding down the steps, nearly tripping on his big paws in his haste. Behind you, you hear Mickey whisper something about how “he must have jumped the baby-gate again”. You can hardly react before the dog sets his sights on you, racing over to you with wide, brown eyes and a tongue practically flopping around the side of his mouth.

On instinct you bend down, shifting the doughnut box in one hand and leaving your other free to pet the very excited dog. You miscalculate his force though and when he runs into you, you stumble, the doughnut box wobbling in your hand as you try to steady yourself and pet Goose at the same time.

The box is snatched from your hand right before it can fall to the floor and you look up—fingers still locked in Goose’s fur—to find Bradley glaring at you, the doughnut box now in his possession. “What did I just say?”

“Leave her alone, Bradley. You’ve let him eat way worse than a couple doughnuts.” Reuben comes to your defense, but there seems to be a silent agreement in the air that the firefighters are going to get back to work as they all start making their way up the stairs where you assume the offices and bunks are.

Luckily, Bradley does decide to let it go, moving to shove the doughnuts in the mini-fridge they had set up nearby. He brings his fingers to his mouth and lets out a sharp whistle. “C’mon, Goose.”

The dog doesn’t move from where he’s panting in front of you and—not wanting to start another argument with Bradley—you remove your hands from the dog in hopes he’d be more incentivized to return to his owner.

“Goose.” Bradley calls again, a somewhat confused expression on his face as he pats his leg.

This time the dog plops his butt down on your shoes, looking up at you with Bambi eyes as if urging you to keep petting him.

From behind Bradley there’s a snort and you’re unsure what to do except stand there until Bradley finally rolls his eyes.

“Fine.” He turns around. “Stay there then.”

You wait for Bradley to ascend the stairs and disappear from sight before crouching down and scratching behind both of Goose’s ears. “Thanks for keeping me company,” you whisper.

You spend most of your time with Mickey and Reuben after that. The two are more than happy to answer your questions, sharing little fun facts with you as they check the firetrucks and do all the other things Mickey likes to call “busy work”. They have plenty of anecdotes - like the time Jake organized a sexy fireman photo shoot or the time a drunk Javy went down the fireman’s pole upside down. Through every story, both men are smiling brightly and you can tell that they genuinely care for the other people working around them.

“I mean, yeah it sucks I’m not seeing my family for the holidays,” Mickey tells you, eyes trained on checking the hose attachments on the truck. “But these guys are kinda like my second family, you know?”

Reuben elbows him good-naturedly. “That was fucking cheesy, dude.” He turns to look at you. “But what about you?”

“Sorry?”

“Well… You’re spending the holidays with us too, right? How do you feel about that?” He questions and, once he points it out, it seems to register to Mickey too and he looks equally invested in your answer.

You shrug, fidgeting with the end of your notebook. “Um, I was kinda expecting it honestly. It’s sorta my thing to work over the holidays, so I was ready for it.”

“You don’t go home?” Mickey furrows his brows.

“Nope,” you force a laugh, desperately hoping to move the conversation on to something else. You’re saved thankfully, when Natasha comes bounding down the steps.

“Guys, we’ve got a car accident on Waters and 1st,” she informs you all and you step out of the way quickly, not wanting to slow them down in the slightest.

Mickey and Reuben just nod, giving you a brief wave goodbye before following after Natasha. You watch them all load up into the truck quickly, wincing slightly when the loud siren starts sounding. They leave impressively fast—a note you make sure to jot down—and once they do, you look for something else to do until they return.

Remembering the doughnuts you brought—and the fact you’ve had yet to have one—you make your way over to the mini-fridge to grab the box. A small smile stretches across your face when you realize that the chocolate frosting one is missing. You discard the thought of grabbing a doughnut, instead reaching for your pen.

Bradley Bradshaw:

Authority kink (maybe)

Likes chocolate frosted doughnuts

Day four and you’re walking in with a smile on your face and a paper bag clenched between your fingers. The day before had proved to be similar to your second day at the station, you followed Jake and Javy around as they did much of the same of what Mickey and Reuben had done the day before. It meant that you also got to watch in on the tour of the fire station that they gave to a small class of children and their teacher. Unsurprisingly, the kids were most excited to meet Goose, but it was clear how much fun they were having with Javy and Jake.

When you asked why a classroom would be visiting the station over their school break, Javy informed you that they’d scheduled another day for all the kids who were sick on the days that their classes got to visit the station. It was heartwarming to see both Jake and Javy take extra time out of their schedules for these kids and it was definitely going into your article.

You’d caught sight of Bradley a few times that day, but, unsurprisingly, he was doing his best to avoid you. Not that you exactly minded, but you knew you couldn’t write this article without at least one interview with the fire captain and you were determined to do just that.

Bradley doesn’t even look up when you finally find him in his office and drop your somewhat crumpled paper bag on his desk.

“What’s this?” He asks, flipping through more paperwork, like your sudden appearance hardly warrants pausing his work.

You shrug it off, telling yourself it’s highly unlikely that he’ll want to talk to you if you catch an attitude after his first question (granted he already has one, but still!) “A chocolate frosted doughnut.

This catches him and he lets his eyes snap to the bag. “I don’t want it.”

Asshole.

“That’s okay,” you force a wide smile. “I just thought you might, but you don’t have to eat it.”

“Why’d you bring it?” Bradley asks suspiciously and, with the way he’s looking at the bag, you’d think there was a bomb in it.

You let out a breath. Now or never. “Well… I was hoping to get an interview with you.”

For the first time, maybe ever, you see Bradley’s lips twitch upward slightly. “The first one not enough for you?”

A joke! He made a joke!

“Well, it was, but then I realized it made you sound like a tool,” you tease. And the smile drops. Damn it! You open your mouth to amend quickly. “I mean, I figured you might want to say more… about being the fire captain and everything.” You’re gonna have to pull out all the stops for this—including the authority kink.

Bradley studies your face and, again, you want to fidget under his gaze, but you do your best not to. He glances at the clock and then gestures for you to sit. “5 minutes. I have work to do.”

You physically hold back the eye roll and the retort that he must be quite good at knowing what 5 minutes feels like. (Actually, you know for a fact that he probably doesn’t, not with those arms… and those thighs. He could probably go for 12 hours, the bastard.) Shaking off all your thoughts, you sit down in the chair at Bradley’s desk. Goose lifts his head from where it’s resting in his dog bed and trots over to you for head scratches.

Bradley watches the interaction but keeps his mouth shut.

After giving Goose one more scratch for good measure, you shift into work mode, reaching for your pencil and notepad. Deciding to ease your way into everything first, you start off with a fairly simple question. “Is there anything you would want people to know about you?”

Bradley shifts and then shrugs. “Not really. I don’t believe in getting praised for just doing my job. I still don’t even know what the point of all this is,” he gestures to your notepad as if to refer to your whole article.

“Well, I think a lot of people would disagree with you, your job’s pretty heroic,” you tell him honestly, even in the few days you’d been here, you’re able to see that. And you’re able to see how much Bradley has to do with it. “What about your childhood? Did you always want to be a firefighter?”

Bradley visibly stiffens at your words, the papers in his hands crumpling a bit as his fingers tense. “No.”

“No?”

When it’s clear you want at least a little more from him, Bradley shifts in his seat. “I wanted to be a cop.”

That catches you by surprise, your pencil stilling on your notepad.

“My godfather was one— Well, still is, he’s chief now,” Bradley continues, almost as if you aren’t there. “I spent my whole childhood trying to be just like him and then he pulled my application from the police academy.”

It’s clear that this affected Bradley far more than he’s showing with his nonchalant retelling—if the haunted look in his eyes is anything to go by. And he’s telling you far more than you ever thought he would, far more personal things. The air is uncomfortable after he finishes and you really don’t know what to say, so you just say the first thing to come out.

“Oh, thank god.”

Bradley seems to snap back to the room, his brows furrowing. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, I don’t even want to think about a world where you were given a gun.” The words keep coming out and you know you shouldn’t be saying them, but you genuinely can’t stop yourself. “Probably woulda shot me out of that tree or something.”

Bradley looks genuinely speechless, lips slightly parted as he stares at you in disbelief. “You—” Words fail him until he finally narrows his eyes. “Was that a joke?”

“Yes!” You blurt quickly in a last ditch attempt to save face.

“You are—” Bradley chuckles darkly and it’s very off putting. “You are something else, kitty. And I really don’t think you’re in a position to be judging.” He says it like he knows something you don’t.

You cross your arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leans forward against his desk, a condescending smile on his face. “You really think people care about shit like this?” He gestures to the station around you. “No, it’s the holidays, and I know a lot of very important things worth writing about over the holidays.” Your face falters and you know that Bradley knows he has you. “Things that, if you were respected in your field, you’d be writing about. But instead you’re here for something no one’s gonna read. You know what that tells me, kitty?”

You swallow. “What does that tell you?”

“That I’m not the only person who finds you incredibly annoying.”

Okay.

Massive asshole.

Godzilla sized asshole.

However two could play at that game. You sit up in your seat, meeting his cocky gaze with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Are you an arsonist?”

“Excuse me?” Bradley blinks back in surprise.

“There’ve been studies that show that firefighters with god-complexes could be more likely to become arsonists because they love the thrill and attention. They light the fire, wait for someone to report it, and then they put it out and play hero,” you lean back in your chair with a smug look on your face. “Some actually get sexual gratification from it.” You sniff. “So I think it’s in both of our best interests that you answer me honestly, Mr. Bradshaw, because I can promise you that people would read about a fire captain outed as an arsonist. So could you state that you do not get sexual gratification from putting out fires?” You smile and blink up at him. “For the record.”

How’s that for annoying, asswipe?

Bradley clenches his jaw.

“Oh, would you look at that?” You pretend to gasp, getting up from your chair so you’re finally the one towering over Bradley, and move to step out of his office. “I guess my article will be about your sex life after all!”

With that, you close the door a little harder than you need to, smoothing down your skirt and tipping your chin up before walking away from Bradley’s office. So your interview hadn’t gone as well as you’d hoped. But, as you spare a quick glance behind you and see him through the window angrily pulling out your doughnut, you get the feeling that anything good you learn about Bradley Bradshaw wouldn’t be anything he’d tell you to your face.

“Thank you, Bob!” You smile kindly as the bespeckled man starts heading back to continue working around the station.

Now with a notepad full of anecdotes and personalities, you feel a lot better about the state of your article. As you suspected, all of the firefighters were far more forthcoming than Bradley had ever been—and significantly nicer too. Speaking of the disgruntled man, you’d taken his advice and stayed out of his way as much as you could these past couple days. It proved to be a bit difficult because his dog Goose seemed to take special liking to you, which clearly annoyed Bradley to no end. But he has yet to give you some old man lecture or threaten to kick you out again so you’re doing your best to keep it that way.

If this were anything but your job, you’d probably be far less likely to put up with his bullshit. (And even though it’s your job, you know you still make fun of him constantly if given the chance, which is why you’re doing your best to avoid him so that you don’t have to suddenly explain to your publisher why you’ve somehow been banned from the fire station.) You’re sure you’ve gotten off on the wrong foot with him, but you’ve actually never seen him be nice to anyone here. He’s respectful—to a point—and he cares about them, but he’s never nice. The only person you’ve seen him be nice to is Goose. And Goose is a dalmatian.

Looking over your notes with another breath, you decide to see if you can find Natasha for another interview. Out of all the firefighters you’ve met, you’ve found her to be one of the most inspiring. One of the few women in her field, she shared with you briefly just what she’s overcome to get here. Everyone around the station calls her “Phoenix” after an accident in the beginning of her career that only caused her to come back stronger.

That’s how you know that Bradley cares about his firefighters. Reuben told you that he seemed to take Natasha’s accident the hardest—that he takes all of their accidents the hardest. You can see it in the little things Bradley does too, you’re sure if you were allowed to follow them onto scenes you’d see how he always has her in his sights, always accounted for. But it’s also in the waters he wordlessly hands her when they get back to the station and the fact that they always ride in the same truck. How he never stops her from doing her job or acts like she can’t handle it, but just simply cares about her.

It’s Bradley’s job to look after his firefighters—and you know if you pointed that out to him, he’d say it in some almighty, obnoxious way—but he takes it more seriously than you ever expected him to. Natasha isn’t the only firefighter he treats like that. You have a feeling if you called him out on it, he’d deny it, possibly stop altogether. So you don’t. You just silently watch the parts of Bradley Bradshaw that come out when he doesn’t think you’re looking.

Finally making it to the common quarters and small kitchenette, you spot Natasha leaning against one of the counters, taking a bite of a cream cheese bagel.

“Nat!” You call with a wave (she asked you to call her that), heading over to her when she looks up with a smile. “Are you busy?”

She sucks some cream cheese off her thumb. “Not especially. Why?”

“Well, I had a couple more questions, if you were up for it.”

“Oh,” Natasha seems a tad surprised before a grin overtakes her face. “Oh, Jake and Javy are going to hate this.” She laughs.

“Hate what?” Javy catches the end of her sentence, strolling into the kitchen and opening the fridge.

Natasha smirks. “That you and Jake haven’t wooed her enough to be her favorite.”

“I’m hurt.” Javy directs at you with a pout, pulling out a lunch container that definitely has the word “Bob” written on it on a piece of masking tape. “Didn’t you see how upstanding I was, giving those little kids a tour of the station?”

You raise a teasing, unimpressed eyebrow. “You mean when you almost popped a blood vessel trying to stay flexed for their teacher?”

“Ouch! Kitty’s got claws,” Javy wiggles his brows as you and Natasha laugh at him.

You pause, your giggles pattering off as you take in his words. “Wait, what did you call me?”

“Kitty?” Javy seems unbothered, peeling off the lid of Bob’s tupperware and pulling out a white bread sandwich with the crust cut off. “Bradley’s been calling you that since you got here. Since he rescued you from a tree and all that— To be honest, I didn’t know he could make jokes like that.” The explanation is told to you through a mouthful of turkey, cheese, lettuce, and tomato and you try to keep your expression in check.

He rescued you? Is that how he told it?

You purse your lips before smiling. “And where is Bradley?”

“Unloading one of the trucks, I think.”

You nod, meeting Natasha’s knowing gaze before turning on your heel with a quiet “Excuse me” before you start marching back to the staircase, your anger growing with each step. It wasn’t that you hated the little name Bradley had given to you. Embarrassingly, you almost liked when he called you that. What you didn’t like was why he felt it was appropriate to share this nickname when you weren’t around like it was a joke between him and everyone else and not like it was something between the two of you.

When you reach the last step, you’re practically seething, marching over to Bradley without a care of who might be around him at the current moment.

“Fire Captain Bradley Bradshaw.” You call out loud enough to get his attention.

Bradley turns around—almost surprised—before his expression falls to the one of muted annoyance you’re used to him directing at you. “Can I help you?”

“You see how nice it is when someone calls you by your name?” You continue like he hasn’t spoken. “And not some nickname they use to make fun of you when you aren’t there?”

Bradley’s eyes widen slightly in understanding and, for once, he has the decency to turn around and face you fully. “Look—”

“No, you look, Bradshaw, I am honestly so done with you thinking that you’re better than me because of a narrative that you made up!”

“I made it up?” Bradley narrows his eyes incredulously. “I would understand if your memory was a little shaky if you’d hit your head after a fall or something, but you didn’t because— Oh, wait! I caught you.” He crosses his arms.

“Yeah, and every day since then, I’ve been wishing you didn’t because then you wouldn’t be holding it over my head!” You argue back, before you realize where you are and take a deep, grounding breath.

If you weren’t so angry at him, you might be angry at yourself that you’d let a man get under your skin this quickly, but you weren’t about to stick around to be some kind of low blow comedy routine for a man who had yet to treat you with an ounce of respect since the moment you met him. But honestly, it hurt. You know you aren’t Bradley’s favorite person, but you’ve seen him with everybody else. You know how he thinks of every little thing that could affect them or hurt them in some way and does what he can to avoid it. You don’t know why it hurts so bad to realize that he’s so careless when it comes to you.

You’re just a little over halfway through the week, but you’ve gotten a fair amount of what you need. If you added a few embellishments and wrote like a high schooler trying to meet an essay word count then maybe you could hand something passable to your publisher. It wouldn’t be your best work, but that didn’t matter, because you didn’t want to spend another minute in the company of Bradley Bradshaw.

“Well, congratulations.” You laugh bitterly. “Think of this as my Christmas gift to you because I’m leaving.”

You have every intent to just walk right out of the station and never take a step back in. You wouldn’t even let yourself be dragged here. No, Bradley Bradshaw could rot in hell and you’ll live happily knowing you never have to be around his stupidly groomed mustache and giant muscles ever again.

From behind you, he calls out. “Why would I want a Christmas gift from you? I don’t like Christmas.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” You whirl around, throwing your hands up in the air because you have genuinely never met a man more infuriating. “That’s all you have to say? After all of that, the only thing you’d like to correct is that you’re a giant fucking Scrooge?”

Bradley scoffs. “Scrooge? What is this? The 1840s?”

“I hate that you actually know when A Christmas Carol was published!”

“And I hate that you’re throwing a tantrum because I called you a name that wasn’t even an insult!” Bradley argues back.

Rage is simmering on your tongue, but you swallow it down in favor of making sure your words come out exactly how you mean them. “You will never understand what it’s like to have to somehow earn the respect of everyone you talk to, okay? You will never understand what it’s like to not even get the chance to prove yourself because a bunch of men have already decided what you are for you. You may think it’s funny to turn me into some sort of joke around your station, but it’s not and I’m done putting up with it.”

You turn around again, finally ready to be done with this man who, for the life of you, you cannot stop arguing with.

“Wait.”

His voice causes you to freeze and, when you turn around this time, Bradley looks as though the fight has finally left him too. “Don’t go,” he tells you. “You… You don’t have to go.”

“Bradley—” You start, but he shakes his head.

“You’re right, I’ve been… unfair. Just finish out the week. Tomorrow’s training day, that would be good for your article right? You can follow me around.” It’s hardly an incentive and he has yet to even say he’s sorry, but you know someone dropping a proverbial sword when you see it.

You let Bradley sit in his awkward silence for a few seconds before you finally let out a soft breath. “Fine.”

The next day, you can tell that Bradley’s doing his best to be on his best behavior. He gives you a polite nod as a greeting and lets you follow after him as he starts setting up for drills and the CPR recertifications. You’re also trying to play nice, you don’t ask any smart ass questions and you spare him all your quips. You simply watch him, taking the occasional note and petting Goose, who’s also been following the two of you around.

When Bradley calls down all the firefighters to start running through drills, even they seem surprised that the two of you are standing next to each other so peacefully. Bob raises his eyebrows and Mickey literally does a double-take. You just wave at them all politely and then try to stay out of their way.

Oddly, it’s a little boring watching them all climb up and down the fire station stairs, Bradley shouting orders at them as they run through drills. You find yourself doodling on your notepad until they all start moving towards the rescue dolls. (Is that what you call them? You’d have to google that when you get home.)

You’d gotten CPR certified once when you were 15, you were working as a lifeguard over the summer and it was obviously a requirement. It’s been a while since you brushed up on it though, so you do pay attention as the firefighters go through the motions of compressions and breaths. 30 compressions, 2 rescue breaths, with a rate of 100 to 120 compressions per minute. Hopefully it wouldn’t have to be vital knowledge to you, but good to know all the same.

There weren’t enough practice dolls for every firefighter, so after the first round finishes, Bradley calls for them all to take a quick break.

“Fitz, open one of the doors, will you?”

The newer recruit looks happy that his name was even remembered (even if it was just a nickname) and hastily heads over to the side wall to press a button that would open one of the large garage doors of the station. You watch Bradley watch him, his face neutral until something seems to trigger what almost looks like panic.

“Wait, Fitz, not that one—”

Fitz presses a button on the wall and, instead of the doors opening up like you expect them too, suddenly the sprinklers from the ceiling turn on. You let out a shriek as water starts pouring down onto you, nearly tripping over Goose—who’s bouncing around like this is the best day of his life—looking for cover before you’re soaked through.

You realize quickly that that’s a useless endeavor as you take in everybody else accepting their fate of getting doused in water and try to decide that it’s okay. You didn’t love this outfit anyway. Instead, you wipe your hair away from your face and try not to shiver too much from the chill of the air. Natasha gestures you over to her and the two of you can’t help but laugh at how soggy the other looks.

“Aright, got it.”

Finally the water shuts off and you look up to see that Bradley had made it to the other side of the room to fix everything. Fitz is next to him looking drenched and sheepish and you hope Bradley doesn’t give him too hard of a time.

Instead Bradley surveys the room, placing his hands on his hips as he sighs. “Everybody go change.”

The squadron cheers and you can’t help but join in, until you realize that you don’t technically work here and that means you don’t have a spare set of clothes with you. Bradley seems to have accounted for that too though, as he comes over to you with a nudge of his head.

“Follow me.”

And that’s how you end up in a pair of Bradley’s old sweats and a baggy t-shirt with the fire station’s emblem on it.

Thankfully your underwear stayed relatively dry, so you weren’t going entirely commando. But your bra had been beyond saving and it wasn’t lost on you that you were wearing something of Bradley’s against your bare skin.

The whole sprinkler fiasco seemed to cut the day short, but no one seemed to mind not having to continue drills, if anything, Fitz was a hero in their eyes. With nothing left to do, Bradley gifted everyone the day off and you watched as they all started trickling out of the fire station, hair dripping and smiles wide on their faces. You stay though, for some reason.

You honestly don’t feel quite ready to leave yet and, with basically everyone gone, you reason that maybe it’s okay to make yourself a bit comfortable. Mickey and Reuben had shown you once where they’d gotten a TV set up for the long nights with not much to do and they’d even brought in a small, comfortable looking couch to add to the whole thing.

Settling down in the cushions, you try to relax as you browse through the movies and TV shows the station has downloaded. Your lips perk up when you land on Home Alone and you start the movie quickly, setting the volume low even though you’re practically alone.

You think the whole thing would be better with some popcorn, but there’s not too much to complain about and you’re perfectly content watching the antics of Kevin McCallister anyway.

Over the movie, you hear the sound of muted footsteps and then, “What are you still doing here?”

It’s Bradley—of course it’s Bradley—but he doesn’t sound as clipped as he usually does. You roll your head over to look at him with a small smile.

“Watching a movie,” you say as if it isn’t obvious.

“Why haven’t you gone home?” Bradley asks, though it’s not quite as accusing as you’re used to.

You don’t really have an answer so you shrug. “I wanted to watch a movie.”

Bradley doesn’t respond, but he does step inside, wordlessly making his way to the couch and sitting down next to you. It’s quiet and a little awkward, but it’s the nicest Bradley’s ever been to you and you know you’d ruin it if you whipped out your phone now to time him. Instead you do the next best thing and sigh, too tired to inevitably start fighting with Bradley again.

“But I can go,” you tell him, moving to get up.

Bradley stops you. “You don’t have to. I just didn’t know anybody else was here.”

It’s quiet and you start to think that maybe Bradley had really taken to heart how he’d been treating you because he seems almost thoughtful as he sits next to you. Still the silence makes you shift as you try to think of ways to fill it.

“Thanks for the clothes,” you land on.

Bradley shrugs. “Figured they’d be more comfortable than your wet clothes.”

“They are,” you look down. “Actually, what detergent do you use?”

Bradley looks at you strangely. “You ask a lot of weird questions, you know that?” He leans back against the couch.

You laugh. “Comes with the job, I guess.”

The conversation patters off and you look down at your fingers to hide your nerves. You’re not used to having actual, polite conversations with Bradley, at least you knew how to act when you were making fun of him. Now you don’t know where to look or when you should laugh or what you should even say.

“Persil.”

“Huh?” You look up when Bradley speaks.

He turns to look at you. “That’s the detergent I use. Persil.”

“Oh.” You blink. “Um, thanks. I’ll be sure to put that in my article,” you try to joke with a small smile.

Bradley wrinkles his nose. “Why would anyone want to read about that?”

“Well, it’s not like anyone is gonna read it anyway,” you slouch down against the couch cushions and laugh a little. “You were right about that, I guess.”

“I didn’t—” Bradley’s mouth remains open as he's reminded of the harsh things he'd said to you, but no words come out. When a few seconds go by and he still hasn’t spoken, you wonder if your conversation has died for the second time. You and Bradley aren’t very good at this whole being nice to each other thing.

“I’ll read your article” is what finally comes out of Bradley’s mouth and when you look surprised, he nods more resolutely. “Yeah, I didn’t mean— I’ll read your article. When it comes out.”

In this light, he looks almost nervous and you smile softly. “Thanks, Bradley.”

“Sure,” he coughs awkwardly, looking at his watch to avert his gaze. “Are you sure you want to stay here? I mean, wouldn’t you rather be spending time with your family while you can?”

Your smile dims slightly and you give Bradley a knowing look. “Why do you think I’m watching Home Alone?”

Bradley doesn’t seem to follow, but his eyes drift to the screen to watch Kevin in the middle of grocery shopping all by himself and you watch his features still slightly.

“I actually can’t remember the last time I spent the holidays with someone. Isn’t that sad?” You don’t really know why you’re telling him this. Maybe Bradley’s been nice to you long enough that you’ve tricked yourself into thinking he’ll care. Maybe you’re just tired of being by yourself. “I went no contact with my parents a few years ago—and I know it was the best thing for me to do—but, I don’t know, it’s made the holidays a little… rough.” You confide quietly.

You watch Bradley roll his lips between his teeth in thought. His eyes finally leave the TV. “Oh, thank god.” He says finally.

You blink, letting out a surprised laugh. “Sorry?”

“I thought you were watching Home Alone because you liked it,” Bradley explains. “But now I get it, it’s like a ‘woe is me’ thing.”

You realize now that he’s basically flipping your whole cop/gun conversation back onto you, but you can’t even begin to process that because “You don’t like Home Alone?”

“No,” Bradley wrinkles his nose. “It’s all physical comedy. Like, yeah, the bad guys get hurt, is that all there is?”

You turn to face Bradley, jaw dropping. “You can’t be serious,” you tell him. “Are you serious? Home Alone is a classic!”

Bradley just shrugs.

“No.” You grab the remote to restart the movie. “No, I am not sitting by and letting this happen. You are watching this movie and you will like it!”

Bradley snorts in disbelief. “Yeah, and how are you gonna make that happen?”

You don’t really know. You’ve never actually met anyone who didn’t like Home Alone because that would make them an actual crazy person. Maybe Bradley just hasn’t seen it in a while and has forgotten how good it is. Maybe—

“Wait a second, you’re not pretending to not like Home Alone just because I like it, right?” You look at him accusingly.

Bradley rolls his eyes. “Right, because a guy can’t just not like a movie.”

“You totally are! I can’t believe you, you have to be mean just because I like something—”

“Not everything is about you!” Bradley protests.

“This is!”

“No, it isn’t!”

Before you realize it, you and Bradley have moved so close to each other that you can practically feel his angry huffs on your face. You seem to both register this fact at the same time as your cheeks begin to heat and Bradley’s gaze drops to your lips for the briefest of seconds. You should pull away. This is Bradley for crying out loud! You’d rather burn your lips off with acid than kiss him.

It’s unclear who moves first—you probably move at the same time honestly—but you both surge forward before you can think better of it, your lips smashing into Bradley’s. He holds your face in his large hands, frantic but still gentle, and you can’t stop yours from weaving into his still damp hair.

The feeling of his lips against yours is addictive as is the way that his tongue coaxes into your mouth, swallowing any muffled sounds you let out. Every action reads clearly - he’s thought about this before, maybe a lot.

Bradley’s hands move from your cheeks, down your sides to your hips. He plays with the hem of your shirt, and you wonder how he feels about the fact that it’s his, before his large hands make their way under it, planting onto bare skin. They’re warm and calloused as he strokes your stomach and tips you back so that you’re laying flat on the small couch.

It’s a bit of a fit for the two of you, but that’s hardly going to stop you now. Bradley’s lips leave yours—and pull a whimper of protest from you—but only so they can latch onto your neck, his teeth sinking into your pulse point. As his tongue soothes the sting, you let your hands crawl under his shirt, running over the curves and divots of his defined muscles. Your nails rake against them gently and Bradley grunts into your skin. It’s such a masculine sound, it would make your thighs clench if he wasn’t between them.

A crash sounds from the television—no doubt Harry or Marv falling for one of Kevin’s traps—and it pulls the two of you apart, the reality of what just happened crashing down on you. You can’t quite meet Bradley’s eye as you take your hands out from under his shirt and he can’t quite meet yours when he pulls his hand out from where it was dangerously close to holding your bare breast.

It’s silent as the two of you catch your breath and, finally, Bradley clears his throat.

“We should—” His voice is husky and his lips look thoroughly kissed. “We should probably get home. We have an early day tomorrow.”

He’s not saying anything about how the two of you were just making out on a couch like horny teenagers, but you decide that you don’t really want to talk about it either, so you nod.

“Okay… I’ll see you tomorrow,” you smile weakly.

Bradley only mirrors your nod.

You’re in an unusually chipper mood when you enter the station. You greet Natasha gleefully and Jake and Javy even joke that you’re glowing. You decide that you are when you think about it. After a night of good sleep, you’re able to come to terms with the fact that you actually like Bradley Bradshaw. He’s still an asshole and makes it too easy to argue with him, but he can be thoughtful and, weirdly, talking with him—even if you started arguing over Home Alone—had made you feel better despite your holiday situation.

He wasn’t perfect, but you knew deep down Bradley Bradshaw was good and he was certainly someone you wanted to talk to more—preferably during civil conversations.

Which is why you’re smiling at everyone as you walk into the station with a bag holding a chocolate frosted doughnut and one goal in mind - asking Bradley on a date. A proper one, where the two of you talk about your favorite things to do over dinner and try to guess which of the people at the tables around you aren’t going to be going on a second date. And maybe a date that involved more of Bradley kissing you senseless… but only if it felt right.

When Bradley finally appears in your vision, you light up, scampering over to him. “Bradley!”

He turns around and almost looks surprised to see you, but schools his expression quickly. “Hey,” his eyes dart down to the bag in your hand.

You swallow your nerves. “Hey.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence and weirdly—in all your time knowing him—things with Bradley have never felt this awkward. You open your mouth to desperately fill it, but it seems he had the same idea.

“I was actually hoping to ask—”

“I was thinking—”

You both stop and you laugh nervously. “You first.”

“Right.” Bradley scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I was thinking and I know today’s your last day at the station.” You’d honestly forgotten about that fact during the whirlwind of everything and your hope rises. Maybe you didn’t have to ask Bradley out on a date because he was already doing it! “Honestly we’re not going to be doing anything interesting today and I wouldn’t want to waste your time with stuff you already have notes for, so if you’d rather just head out and, I don’t know, do other stuff… I don’t know, I just don’t think it really makes sense for you to stay.”

Oh.

Suddenly you’re not so sure you’re glowing anymore. In fact maybe you’re the opposite. Maybe you’re dull. Because Bradley is now pretending that your kiss never happened and he’s even going as far as letting you know that he actually never wants to see you again after. Like kissing you was nothing more than a lapse in his judgment.

You could be mean to him, make fun of him or say something just to spite him, but you know that’s childish. Bradley has every right not to be interested in you romantically. And you certainly know how to take a hint.

“That’s—” You give him a stiff nod. “That’s a good idea. Thanks.” You suddenly remember the bag in your hand and you jerk it out to him. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

You force a smile. “A goodbye gift, I guess.”

That’s all you can say as Bradley takes the bag from you and then you’re walking away. You keep your eyes on your fingers, lost in thought as your feet lead you back to the exit. You know that you should say goodbye to everyone—it’s rude to just leave like this—but you can’t. Even though it’s only been a week, you’ve really come to love everyone at the station and the thought of saying bye to them now feels unbearable. Besides, you’re sure they’ll enjoy the peace and quiet now that you’re no longer aggravating their captain.

Bradley’s right, anyway, you have more than you need for your article and maybe now you could start on it and get it done earlier. It makes more sense than you just hanging around. And that’s exactly how you explained it to your publisher when you walked through the doors of the Union-Tribune a day earlier than you’re supposed to.

“Alright,” he looks at you skeptically. “It better be a damn good article then.”

He walks away once you promise him—scouts honor and all—and Lucy whistles from where she’d been watching the whole thing in the hallway. She strolls over to you with a grin, bumping your hip with hers.

“Back from your field trip?”

“It appears so,” you shrug.

Lucy knows you better than that though. Having become your best friend the minute you first walked through the doors, you and Lucy have always been inseparable, spending a little too much time gossiping when you weren’t working. You genuinely don’t think you could survive without her.

She raises a brow. “Meet any sexy firefighters?”

“A couple,” you tease. “I’ll give you their numbers.”

“I meant for you, but you know I’ll never say no to that.”

No longer wishing to talk about sexy firefighters and whether they’re interested in you, you quickly change the subject. “How have things been here?”

Lucy rolls her eyes and you know you’ve hit the jackpot conversation topic that will keep anything firefighter related far from your mind. “Mindy’s annoying as always, even worse now that I didn’t have you to glance at when she said something outrageous,” she complains and you laugh. “Oh! And Scott started acting super weird too. He’d just stand in the kitchen area and watch me— He microwaved the same thing, like, 12 times to not look suspicious, but he kept trying to talk to me every time I left my office.”

“And the microwave still worked after?” You joke, it was a fact known all through the office that your kitchen microwave was on its last legs and it certainly didn’t help that everyone loaded the outlet either.

The two of you reach your office as Lucy replies. “Remarkably. As for Scott, he left me alone after an offhand comment about how much pepper spray I carry. Anyway, I’m going to use the bathroom, but then you are telling me everything about your little fire station visit. Don’t think that I’m just letting that go!”

She doesn’t give you a chance to argue before skipping off to the bathroom and you huff a laugh. You knew she’d know something was up. If only to delay the inevitable, you step into your office, pulling out your notepad to start compiling notes for your article—you wouldn’t need everything you’d written down, so you still have to pick out the best ones.

It’s slightly ironic that after a minute of you flipping through your firefighter notes, the fire alarm goes off. You’re not too hectic with getting up and getting out of the building, you’re pretty sure it’s just a drill even though you’d already had one earlier this month.

It’s not until you hear someone shouting about the microwave and where the fire extinguisher is that you realize that this is real. You scramble up quickly and make your way out of your office. Your coworkers are already forming a line to file out of the building and you can hear your publisher shouting to just leave the fire and call the fire department, but something in your gut feels amiss.

Lucy.

Without even thinking, you rush back towards the bathroom. You wonder if she knows what’s going on. She can definitely hear the alarm, but maybe she was like you in thinking that the whole thing was a drill.

“Lucy?!” You call out as you try to open the bathroom door, but you're met with resistance and it doesn’t budge.

From behind the wood you hear a faint, “It’s stuck!”

Does nothing in this office work?!

“Okay, um, okay,” you try to think, taking a deep breath. “The fire department should be here soon and they can probably break the door down,” you reason. “So I’ll stay here, okay? They’ll be able to hear me better.”

“What! Are you crazy? You can’t stay here!”

“Well, I’m not leaving you!” You argue. “Look, it’s fine. The fire’s contained to the kitchen and it’s still pretty small.” You’re actually not sure of that, but that’s what you’d assume—you also aren’t going to tell Lucy that last part.

“Alright, fine!” You hear Lucy suck in a breath and you try to open the door again. “But promise me you’ll leave the second it looks dangerous.”

You know how fast of a response time the fire department has, but now you’re witnessing it first hand as, a little more than 5 minutes later, you’re hearing sirens. You let out a breath of relief and try to listen for people entering the building.

“Help!” You call out. “We need help over here!”

Nothing.

You call out again, cupping your hands to your mouth to project louder. There’s a rustle of movement and then a bit of a commotion. Someone shouts your name—almost as a question—and then Jake and Javy are rushing over to you.

“What are you doing? You should have evacuated the building already.” Javy looks at you incredulously.

“My friend’s in there,” you explain. “The door won’t open.”

The two share a look and then Jake nods, moving to break down the door as Javy escorts you out of the building. All your coworkers are lined up in the parking lot along with fire trucks and ambulances and you smile at Javy gratefully when he pats your shoulder in comfort, but he appears to be looking behind you, a pinched expression on his face.

You turn around to see what he’s looking at and then someone’s hugging you.

You recognize the scent of smoke and cedar instantly and the large arms that are practically cutting off your air passages. He only hugs you for a couple seconds—and you hug him back—and then pulls away to look at you, checking you quickly for any obvious injuries. You’re not sure what you’re expecting him to say, but you don’t expect him to be so angry.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Bradley yells. You blink. “Are you insane?! Because I’m trying to understand why the hell you would stay in a building when there’s a fire!”

“My friend was still in there—” You try to explain.

“Yeah? Then we would have gotten her out!” Bradley counters. “Do you know how reckless you were being?”

“I—”

“No, I really don’t want to hear it! I mean what were you thinking?!”

“Bradley,” you try to calm him down. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t seem to be listening, words spewing out of his mouth in rapid succession. “What if the fire had spread, huh? Did you even have an exit plan that wasn’t the front door? You could have trapped yourself in there all because you were too fucking reckless to just tell one of us where your friend was when we arrived on the scene!”

Truthfully, you hadn’t thought of that and you feel a little stupid. Maybe you hadn’t had the best plan and it was never your intention to make anybody worry about you. You open your mouth to apologize. “Bradley, I’m—”

“Just because you have nobody to come home to doesn’t mean you can just go on fucking suicide missions, because some of us have to fill out the paperwork!”

His words ring in the air and Javy ducks his head quickly to pretend like he isn’t listening. You're speechless, trying to stop the tears stinging at your eyes as you take in what Bradley said. You know you hadn’t exactly told him about your family in confidence, but you didn’t expect him to just use it against you so quickly. And paperwork? You know Bradley didn’t like you but is that all he saw you as?

Bradley lets out an angry sniff, turning his head like he can’t even look at you before directing his attention to Javy. “Just take her to the EMTs to get checked out.”

Bradley doesn’t talk to you again after that. The firefighters pack up and leave, and everyone goes home, and Bradley doesn’t reach out once. As you suspected, the fire wasn’t that damaging—only being the catalyst for the kitchen’s much needed remodel—and it was safe to go back to work a couple days after. Bradley never attempted to contact you—even when the rest of his squadron came to visit you with a little goody basket—and you spent the time you weren't at work eating ice cream, watching break up movies, and crying.

It was pathetic. But maybe so were you.

“The hell is this?”

You hardly look up when a newspaper is thrown carelessly on your desk. Turning away from your computer boredly, you cross your arms, raising your gaze to meet Bradley’s cold eyes.

“Well, if I’d have to guess, I’d say a newspaper.”

Bradley scoffs, grabbing the newspaper again and holding it closer to him as he reads aloud the article it contains. “Then there’s Fire Captain Bradley Bradshaw, always followed by his co-captain, a black and white dalmatian affectionately named Goose. Bradley Bradshaw does more for his community in a day than most people do in a lifetime. In fact, I had to stop keeping count of every chivalrous act he completed by day two because I knew that would make this article far too long—” His eyes snap up to you again, though you both know that there are paragraphs more singing the same praises. “Why did you write this?”

You sniff, crossing your legs to slightly settle your nerves, with a light clear of your throat. “Contrary to what you think of me, I am competent in my job, Bradley.”

“You have done nothing but make fun of me and get in my way since the day we met, and I know I haven’t been friendly to you either,” Bradley corrects, taking a step farther into your office. “So why did you write this? Did you want me to feel bad or something? Like this makes up for the past week because—”

Not liking the way he’s towering over you, you spring up from your chair, matching his body language. “I wrote it because you’re a good firefighter, Bradley! And that was my job - to write about how good of a firefighter you are. Not about how you can’t fucking smile to save your life, or how you need to control everything otherwise you’ll throw a fit like a child, or how you somehow don’t like the movie Home Alone— Who doesn’t like Home Alone, Bradley?! You are the person who decided that I’m some incompetent airhead. And I’m sorry that me actually being able to do my job surprised you so much that you marched all the way down here, but if that’s all you came here for, then why don’t you just leave?”

The air is tense once you finish, so silent you could hear the slight whirring sound of your diffuser puffing the light scent of cinnamon into your office. You catch your breath slightly, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively. Suddenly, you feel vulnerable in your work skirt and blouse, swallowing thickly as tears prick your vision. You don’t want to cry right now.

Bradley only stares at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “I don’t think you’re an incompetent airhead.” He says finally.

You let out a watery scoff, letting your eyes dart to the ceiling as you feel more tears well up. “Yes, you do.”

“No I don’t,” he repeats.

“Really? You’ve done practically everything but call me that to my face—”

“Do you have to argue with me every time? Why can’t you—” Bradley stops himself, shoulders relaxing as his features soften. “Look, I’m sorry.”

“What?”

Bradley swallows. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” You shake your head in disbelief, if only to hide the way your tears are starting to fall. “Sorry for what, Bradley? That you’ve treated me like a chore since the moment you met me? Sorry that you kissed me? Or sorry that I confided in you—that I trusted you—and you threw it in my face?” Bradley opens his mouth, but you continue. “Look, I know you didn’t like me, okay? You made that abundantly clear. And I know that I wasn’t trying to be very likable either—why would I? I didn’t even like you. But then we got to know each other and I thought maybe you weren’t so bad. I thought…” You could almost laugh at how stupid you feel. “God, I thought you could actually be nice sometimes, and caring, and sweet. And— And then you kissed me and I realized that I really like you. And I thought that maybe you liked me too, despite everything, but then you just went on like nothing ever happened. You— You made me feel so stupid. And now you’re in my office, causing a scene, because you still think that it’s impossible that I could ever be nice to you.” You wipe your cheeks hastily, trying to compose yourself as more tears roll down your cheeks. “I know you don’t like me. But… But, god Bradley, was I really that—” Your lip wobbles and your voice cracks and you hate yourself for it. “Was I really that awful?”

The room falls to silence and Bradley just looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face. Honestly it makes you want to scream, that he thinks—after everything—he has any right to barge in here and accuse you of playing games. If you were closer, you might try to punch his stupid, sculpted chest, but you don’t—you doubt he’d even feel it anyway.

You sniffle and it seems to jump start the room, or at least Bradley, as he jerks up suddenly and, before you know it, he’s grabbing your arm and pulling you into his chest. You fight back, not wanting to admit that you find comfort in the familiar scent of cedar and smoke, trying to push him away, but you’re no match for his strength and he only pulls you closer with more determination.

“Let go of me!”

“I’m sorry,” Bradley says again and he sounds so guilty that it causes you to freeze. “I’m sorry that I treated you like a chore. I’m sorry that I didn’t do more after we kissed. I’m sorry that I said those things to you… I’m sorry that I made you feel like you were awful.” His arms are wrapped around your neck, his cheek nestled against the top of your head.

You’re not quite hugging him back, your arms trapped between your chest and his, but you’ve stopped trying to fight his hold.

Bradley continues. “I know I went about this all wrong, I know that. And, if I could, I promise you that I would have done a lot of things differently. You just don’t understand—” He sucks in a breath, his biceps tensing around you. “You don’t understand what it was like to show up on the scene and realize you weren’t there. I’m supposed to be in charge, I’m supposed to keep a cool head and tell everyone what to do, it’s my responsibility to stay calm in any situation. But when I realized you were still inside? I couldn’t even think. Jake had to physically stop me from just running into that building by myself.”

Your eyes—which had been closed in a weak attempt to stop the tears—open in surprise at his words. No one had told you that. Had Bradley really been that shaken up?

“I shouldn’t have said what I said to you, I didn’t mean it and it wasn’t okay.I was just— I was just scared. I was scared because I thought for a minute that I hadn’t been able to protect you. And I was scared because I haven’t felt that fear of not protecting someone in a long time. I wasn’t mad at you—I was never mad at you—but I just didn’t know what to do. I should never have said that though. I’m sorry.”

Bradley lets out a breath as he finishes and, for a moment, neither of you move. You swallow thickly, taking in all of his words before tentatively wrapping your arms around Bradley’s middle. He relaxes at your touch, burying deeper into your hair.

“Why didn’t you just come here and say that?” You finally ask him weakly.

Bradley lets out a quiet chuckle. “Honestly, I thought that I’d already fucked everything up. But then I read your article, fully expecting you to drag me to filth, and you didn’t. Instead you talked about me like I was some kind of superhero and… and I guess it just made me feel worse about everything.”

You nod your head in understanding slowly. “You’re an idiot.”

You feel Bradley laugh against you. “I know,” he agrees. “And I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For everything.”

“Everything?” You look up at him.

“Well…” Bradley trails off, head dipping so that his nose is brushing yours. “Maybe not everything. There is one thing I’d like to do again.”

And then he’s kissing you sweetly and letting his arms untangle so that his hands can land on your hips. You lean into him, without a doubt in your mind that he’d ever not be able to support you, humming appreciatively when he deepens the kiss.

It’s only when he murmurs your name that you pull away with a wrinkled nose. “Why are you calling me that?”

“You said you didn’t like being called ‘kitty’.” Bradley looks equally confused.

“Well… I don’t mind when you call me it,” you mumble bashfully before looking up. “As long as it’s not to make fun of me!”

Bradley chuckles, his hand moving to your ass to give it a squeeze. “Oh, it was never to make fun of you, kitty, believe me. You know, Cat Woman was my celebrity crush growing up. You don’t wanna know the things I imagined—”

“Okay, I get it,” you laugh. “You can have your kitty privileges back, Fire Captain Bradley Bradshaw.”

Bradley growls, his hands moving to your thighs, prompting you to jump as he steps forward to pin you against the wall. “You don’t know what it does to me when you call me that.”

“I told you you have an authority kink,” you tease.

“Yeah?” Bradley smirks, and then the hairs of his mustache are brushing your ear. “Why don’t we test that?”

You know you should worry about having sex in your place of work first and foremost, but you actually can’t help but worry about the fact that Bradley is still supporting all your weight as he holds you up against the wall.

“Like this? You’ll get tired, Bradley.”

He shoots you a look. “Did you forget what my job is? I could probably do 5 rounds of this, kitty, and still be able to go for a run after.”

At the mental image you can’t help but let out an exaggerated moan. “That is so hot.” Bradley grins, but before he can respond, you hold your finger to his lips. “But, I also like my job and would rather not get caught having sex— No matter how good it is.”

“Fair enough,” Bradley concedes. “But I did almost get to second base at my job, so if we want to keep it even…”

You glance over Bradley’s broad shoulder to make sure the door is firmly shut—you know you should go lock it but that would mean parting from Bradley and you don’t want to do that. “I guess that’s fair. You ready to hold the best boobs of your life, Bradshaw?”

Bradley laughs. “Oh, I’m ready, kitty.”

When you finally leave your office, Lucy’s shooting you a look like she expects a thorough debriefing as soon as you get home and also like she could maybe hear the two of you through the walls, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not when you're holding hands with Bradley and talking about your holiday plans. Your shared holiday plans.

“I’m gonna get you A Christmas Carol and a bundle of all the Home Alone movies,” you tell him.

Bradley glares at you playfully. “You’re not supposed to tell someone what you’re getting them for Christmas.”

“How would you know, Scrooge?”

Bradley huffs a laugh, giving you an “are you serious” look.

“I’d throw in a matchbox too,” you continue. “But I think my service to the community will be sexually gratifying you enough so that you don’t have to keep committing arson—”

Your words cut off when Bradley swoops down to kiss you firmly. He doesn’t pull away until you're dazed and he nods smugly.

“That’s better.”

You could argue with him, but instead you grab his collar and yank him down to kiss you again. Because that’s a much better alternative to get Bradley to shut his massive pie hole and you’re sure he feels the same way.

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#bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw imagines #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw fic #rooster imagine #rooster imagines #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster fanfiction #rooster fic #top gun maverick imagines #top gun maverick fanfiction #x reader #the christmas fics

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olsenmyolsen · 5 months

Text

Ever Since Natasha Saw You (18+)

master list

dark master list

Post Black Widow Dark!Natasha Romanoff (Female Reader X Natasha Romanoff)

Summary: She was a hero. But to her, YOU were so much more.

Word Count: 6.1K

Content: Dub-Con, Obsession, Kidnapping, Stalking, Blood, Knife, Knifeplay, Mommy Kink, Feelings, Trauma, Death,

The Black Widow hid a secret.

She was in love with you. Sounds pretty innocent... right?

"Night Y/N!" Your coworker Daisy called out as you were still typing at your computer. It was Friday night, and everyone but you was already leaving. Leaving to be free of the thoughts of work for at least the weekend.

You had a marketing job in downtown Manhattan. Skyscraper. Cubicle. Long nights. That kind of job.

You liked it, honestly.

Sure, New York and the surrounding areas were dangerous. Hell, at times. But you had heroes and vigilantes to save you. You had first-hand experience in 2012 when you and your Dad were saved while out at your "I made it through University without killing myself" lunch.

Now, here you were 4 years later. Still in the city while your Dad left. But that was fine. Being on your own has been exemplary. Sure, you have some friends... coworkers, really. You went on dates! I mean, they didn't lead to much more. But you were going through life.

A cat! You have a cat. An orange tabby who only loves you for food...

Anyways! You were fine and finishing up work on your computer when a pop-up of World News showed up in the top right-hand corner of your screen.

What's New 3 Weeks After The Fall Of A Secret Organization Hiding In The Sky? Russia and the U.S. Remain Quiet.

You heard about the debris and strange things found over on that side of the world earlier this month. With that came the theories.

You rolled your eyes at most. But some were fun. Like aliens was a popular one. People online said it was a crashed group of green-shape-shifting aliens. Your coworker Lindsey swore by another that claimed it was a giant purple guy who crashed on Earth.

Yeah, that'll be the day.

You even had a friend of a friend named Darcy who said an Avenger was present to what happened, leaving you curious.

The Avengers, as far as you were concerned, were in trouble. Rumblings, sightings, and videos of two sides of the superhero group fighting at a German airport left many to speculate that this was the end. Plus, this coming weeks after what happened in Lagos and the murder of King T'Chaka made it all the more plausible.

So, if the rumor was confirmed that an Avenger was at the collapse of what many were confused about, it was... interesting.

But you couldn't dwell on that. You shook your head and closed out of the news to finish up your projected cost for the next wave of Roxxon Marketing.

As you walked out of your office building, you were unaware you were being followed.

It wasn't the first time you had been followed. Fuck it wasn't even the fiftieth time it had happened, but still you remained clueless. She thought it was cute at first how unaware of your surroundings you were. It always made her smile.

Because in one second, an innocent and pretty thing like you could be gone.

But she wouldn't let that happen.

Not by anyone else, at least.

You have to understand. She was your protector. Yeah.. Yeah, that's right! The one to make sure you got home safe. The one to take care of threats no matter how minuscule they might be. She also made sure no one got too close or even dared to ask you out.

You couldn't date. That would be unfair and very hurtful to the one who... watched over you...

I mean, you never wondered why suddenly Dennis never showed back up to work after asking you out to lunch, now did you?

Rumor was his family got sick, and he had to skip town. But we know about rumors now, don't we? I.E., purple aliens. Green shapeshifting ones. You get it.

Oh. Also. What happened to Dennis, you may ask?

I'll let you know when his body turns up.

However, all of this is to say that you were lucky Natasha Romanoff picked you.

She was back after being gone, having to deal with some family business. But she was back! For you! Natasha thought you should be grateful. She could be- SHOULD BE on the run right now, but here she was twenty feet behind you.

After tonight, you were going to know precisely who she was.

Natasha smiled as she followed you. She laughed as she saw how cautious you were of people even when you're on your phone like you are right now.

However, as cautious as you may be, it leaves you vulnerable. Sweet. Easy.

Natasha thinks you're too nice for your own good sometimes. Like you always see the best in people. It drives Natasha crazy the amount times she has had to stop because you stopped to help someone. A drunk. A homeless man. A- you get it.

As you and Natasha head down into the subway, she appreciates how your route hasn't changed at all since your first day of work many years ago. Yet she can't help but snicker at how you've never noticed her taking that walk with you. But then again, even with how cautious you are, you don't notice things.

You still haven't noticed the tiny cameras Natasha installed in your place. Or the amount of panties she's stolen. Or even the amount of times you've slept with her arms around your body. In addition to the hushed whispers and stolen kisses, she's left on your lips.

On top of that, you haven't noticed her feelings for you.

Natasha moves closer to you as you both are nearing your stop. With a plan in motion, The Black Widow can't help but smile.

Natasha takes another step forward and grabs onto the metal pole in front of herself to stop her movement when you look up and around the car. You stop when your eyes reach Natasha's green ones in a hoodie and jeans. You smile quickly before putting your head down, focusing back on your phone.

What you did just now was polite. You looked from your phone to stretch your neck and smiled at a cute blonde who just so happened to be looking your way.

That's what you thought.

To Natasha, you signaled her out.

With your eyes, you noticed her. After all this time, you did it! On tonight of all nights. It was a sign. It was meant to be!

Natasha smiled and stared at you, unaware.

When you finally got up to get off at your stop, you felt your arm being yanked back. When you stumbled back and turned your head to find a bald man older than your father looking at you like he won a prize, you pulled as hard as possible. But his grip was tight. "Where are you going, sweetheart?" He looked over your body, making you pull again.

How was no one stopping this man? Was no one seeing it? Did no one care?

The train car beeped, signaling the doors were going to be closing, and the man had yet to remove you from his grip. You were about to scream when the blonde woman from before grabbed your other arm, making you shriek in surprise. The woman acted fast and kicked the man in the knee hard enough to break it before rushing the two of you out of the train car just as the doors closed on three other men hitting their first against the door.

You wanted to wave them bye and flick them off, but your arm hurt. Not the one the man held.. But... but your other one. The one the woman held as she saved you.

"You, alright?" The blonde had a raspy voice as she spoke. It sounded familiar, but as you quickly scanned her face, you declared she must have that kind of face. (as if) But her eyes. Her eyes were one of a kind. Beautiful and a shimmering green you wanted to get lost in.

So lost that you almost forgot about the arm pain and the dizziness you were starting to feel...

"Yeah." You nodded to the blonde who had yet to release your arm. "I'm fine."

This was a lie, and Natasha, of course, knew that. I mean, she was the one wearing the ring that, with one turn of the gemstone, revealed a tiny needle. One that the blonde used to inject your arm with a sleeping agent.

"Are you sure?" The woman smiled as she asked you. Why was she smiling? You went to nod that you were indeed fine but found yourself more tired. Weaker even. "Oh, honey, you don't look so good."

Natasha smiled as she felt your body losing the fight. Natasha quickly looked around before wrapping your arm around her shoulder to make it appear as if you were a drunk friend who needed help getting home.

"Oh, Y/N, it looks like that guy must have really done something, huh?"

The guy in the group of men that she paid off.

Your mind was becoming black as your body went limp, and before you could ask her how she knew your name or who the hell she was, you took one last look at the blonde.

This time, you recognized who she was.

You went to speak but slurred your words as you closed your eyes, passing out in Natasha Romanoff's arms.

Getting you home was easy.

As Natasha unlocked your front door, she smiled, pulling you closer as you entered through the threshold between the hallway and your apartment. Natasha smiled wider as she looked around at what would become her place with you before looking at your limp, unconscious body. "We're home!"

Home was with you.

With a kick to the door, it closed behind you two as she hurried you to your room.

Once inside, Natasha was happy to find that not much, if anything, had changed since she last visited. She said hi to your cat, who purred at the sight of the blonde.

Natasha loved your cat and couldn't wait to be a good cat mom.

Natasha took you and gently placed you on the bed before looking around the room. She was looking for something. Natasha closed the bedroom door and went back, kicking the floorboard to the right of your end table, and up it flipped. She bent down and pulled out a small black backpack she stored two years ago.

Opening it up to make sure everything was still there. She knew you probably didn't even know that it existed. (You hadn't.) But Natasha had to be sure.

Dumping out the bag's contents, she was happy to see that nothing was missing. But she still took inventory. 5 Widow Bites. 1 Pistol. 12 Bullets. 1 Set of Handcuffs. 1 Knife. 3 Needles of the Sleeping Agent. 1 Burner Phone.

Finally, 2 very dry Nutri-Grain Bar.

Natasha kept the loaded gun, knife, and handcuffs out of the bag and placed it on the desk in the corner of your room. The bag moved to the edge of the bed—no point in hiding it now.

"Oh, Y/N!" Natasha sat next to your upper body, passed out on the bed. She spoke as her soft hand ran through your hair. It calmed Natasha. "You're so pretty, Y/N."

Natasha looked over your still-covered body before moving her hand down your back. "Here. Come on." She flipped you over onto your back and pulled you more onto the bed.

Natasha's eyes found your face. "Baby, I can't wait for the rest of our lives." Natasha bit her lip as she spoke to you. Hopefully, and giddy for the future. "We're going to be so happy." Natasha leaned down and planted a kiss at the top of your head. "You still smell like coconut. I still don't really like that shampoo, but I know how much you do." Natasha smiled as if this was a normal conversation before giving you another kiss. Just as one of her hands began to snake its way across your stomach before landing at your hip.

"I love you."

Natasha couldn't help herself. She smiled brightly as she said those words out loud to you for the first time.

Natasha's lips found the side of your face again and again. She always loved how soft you felt against her. Delicate. Like something Natasha wanted to cherish. Keep perfect. Forever.

But there was also that part inside of her. The side of Natasha that wanted to own you. Take that softness and fuck it out of you. Damage you. Hurt you.

Both were fighting for control.

Regardless, Natasha slid down the zipper of your unbuttoned jeans and slipped her hand over your black cotton panties. Moaning as her stomach flipped in the joys of touching you, feeling your heat on her fingers. Letting excitement wave over her, she cupped your pussy before dragging her index finger up over your growing wet-covered folds. "Oh fuck, baby!" Natasha moaned before looking at the side of your face.

Natasha smiles to herself. She leans over and kisses your cheek, and quickly removes her hand from your recently shaved pussy.

Natasha licks the little slick on her fingers off.

Natasha savored the taste before she laid flat on her back. Lifting her ass as she tore off the black jeans she was wearing along with her red panties. Choosing to keep her slightly raised pullover hoodie on, Natasha grabbed your left wrist. "I want you to feel me..." Natasha looked over and spoke to you. "I want you to feel how wet you make me, Y/N! How tight I am for you. I've been waiting."

With that, Natasha kept her eyes on your left hand as she moved it down her toned stomach. The tips of your fingers brushing over her skin, making her squirm in anticipation for what's to come.

Moving them further down, Natasha gasps as your hand gets pushed down onto the top of Natasha's bare pussy. "This is for you." She moans as she pushed your hand further down. Directing your middle and ring finger to her clit. "Oh fuck!" She moans and grows wetter at your unconscious touch.

"Keep going. Keep going!" Natasha directs your fingers to move in a circular motion. Before her mouth drops as your fingers get pushed over The Black Widows dripping pussy. She moans and grips your hand. "Right there." Natasha moves your fingers around her opening for you.

"It's for you, baby. Come on. I want you to fuck me!" She gives your hand one more push and bucks when your fingers easily slide into her. Natasha loudly moans while her left hand grips the comforter of the bed.

Your fingers feel perfect inside of her.

Natasha can't get over that.

She thinks you were made for her.

Slowly, Natasha starts to move herself against your fingers. Her hips working overtime. Only using her right hand to position your hand better. "Oh my God!" Natasha smiles as a shaky breath comes out. You're doing this to her. You're making her feel this good. You're fucking her right.

Natasha is rocking her hips up and down your slick fingers. You're pushing her closer and closer. "Oh god!" She grunts as she slams the back of your hand to feel you deeper, indirectly slapping her pussy and clit that, sends a wave of pain that morphs into pleasure. "Oh yes!"

Natasha does it repeatedly while her left-hand works on her clit. Her middle fingers pushes the bud of it up as she continues her circular motion. "That's it, baby! Make me cum! Make me fucking cum!" She turns her head to you and stares at your unconscious body. "You're doing so well, baby."

If you were awake right now, you'd feel Natasha's wetness run down your fingers. Into your palms. And down your wrist. You'd hear her moans and screams of pleasure as she makes herself cum with your fingers. "Oh my God!" Natasha Romanoff jolts up. "Y/N, I'm cumming! I'm cumming! Oh fuck! Oh, fuck, baby.."

Natasha rides her orgasm out and smiles when she falls back onto the bed. She turns and looks at your body. "You made me feel so good."

You're perfect.

As she catches her breath, Natasha gently pulls your fingers out and brings them up to her mouth. She marvels at the sight of you now covered in her before she takes her tongue and runs it over your fingers. Enjoying the taste of herself. "I can't wait to taste you." Now that we're together, she forgot to add.

Natasha insets your finger back into her mouth. Loudly sucking on them and moaning before shoving your fingers to the back of her throat, making herself gag on them. She repeats the action.

"Will you let me do that to you?" Natasha says after she's pulled them out and caught her breath. "Hmm?" She licks them again. "Will you gag for me?" She kisses your ring finger and twirls it around. "I wonder..."

Natasha kisses you one more time as she gently places your hand down and moves her body to lay half of it on you. "I wonder what you won't do now that you're mine." She takes your chin in her hand and moves it in her direction. "I can't wait for you to be awake. For us." Natasha deeply kisses your lips as her hand quickly pushes your boobs up. "But first." Natasha releases you and gets up from the bed. She takes off the rest of her clothes and tosses them into your now-shared laundry basket before moving to the desk where her belongings are located.

"I need to take care of a few things."

Slowly, your body starts to stir awake.

You go to move to your side but wince when you land on your arm. You are unsure why it hurts, but you are too stiff and tired to worry about that right now. But for some reason, since you're awakening, your body isn't going back to sleep.

Silent bells are ringing in your head, but you don't know they're there.

You groan and manage to flip your body onto its stomach. This position feels terrific, especially since you feel the coolness of the bedsheet against your body. You snuggle your face into your pillow- your eyes shoot open.

You don't remember coming home...

You open your eyes wider and take a look around the room. It's your room. You're relieved to see that but grow more worried at your nonexistent memory of getting home.

Plus, it looks like things around the room are off... you turn your tired back against the mattress and find yourself surprised to have another person in the room.

A blonde-haired woman wearing one of your college sweatshirts looking through one of your old journals... Once again, the alarm in your head is not alerting you. It's distant and faded.

"That's my shirt..?" Your groggy voice makes the woman look up with a smile.

To you, the woman's smile looks like a kid on Christmas morning.

To Natasha, she's testing out how you're gonna act.

"Hi!" The woman gets up with a glass of water from the chair at your desk. The action reveals to you that it looks like she's not wearing any bottoms, but you can't tell because of the length of her- your sweatshirt. The blonde rounds the bed and carefully gets on her knees before you on the floor. She looks kindly at you as your eyes quickly scan her face and exposed legs. "Nice to see you up." She says to you. Innocently enough. "How are you feeling?" She sweetly asks as she hands you the glass of water.

"I don't- I don't remember..." You say, making the blonde smile wider. "I was walking..." You struggle to come up with anything after that. It's like your mind went blank.

Why couldn't you remember?

You shake your head and take a few sips from the glass before the blonde takes it from you to place on your bedside table—a kind gesture on the outside. But the less you know about the pheromonal powder agent you just ingested, the better.

"Oh, honey..." The blonde lifts and places her hand on yours. The soft contact makes you feel warmer. However, the feeling of this being wrong is still unreachable to you. Natasha smiles when you don't pull away. The drugs from before and now are working. "Those men really did a number on you, huh?"

Men? You think as Natasha watches your face.

"You know you're lucky I was there," Natasha says as she rises from her kneeling position to stand in front of you. Now she towers you, and you feel her legs brush past your own. You don't stop her as she moves closer to you. She raises a hand and pushes some of your hair back. "A man grabbed you and wanted to hurt you, but I was there to stop them. But honey, I think they drugged you..."

Her touch and voice were soothing. She felt and smelled wonderful. You even did your best to not react to the pet name she gave you. "Dru-drugged me?" Once again, the bells should be going off, but Natasha knows exactly what she's doing. "Yeah, I got you off the train, but as we were walking, you started to walk funny. Your face got sleepy." She says this while looking into your eyes. She has her gaze fixated on you, and it pulls you in. "But you were smart." The blonde smiles down at you. "You made sure to tell me where you lived so I could get you home safe." Her raspy voice makes you smile, but her words are making you question if that happened... but you don't remember...

"Are you okay?" She asks as you're thinking. You look back up at her concerned face. "Yeah.. I- I was just trying to remember..." Natasha nods and moves her body in between your legs. Spreading them further apart. "What did you say your name was again?" You ask, making Natasha laugh. "I didn't. Good try, though." She places her hands on your shoulders. She's bold. "What's the matter? You don't trust me?" Something about the way she says it makes you feel sick and guilty for even thinking that you didn't trust her.

Natasha, of course, knows this.

"No- no, I trust you! I'm sorry!" You reach your hands out and place them on Natasha's covered hips. Natasha smiles at your action while faking a sad sniffle. "My name is Natasha." You look over the blonde and smile.

That's when it clicks.

"Natasha Romanoff." Natasha's frown turns into a smile. "Wow, you know who I am?" She fakes surprise and turns on the innocence. You nod with your mind, unable to think about anything else but her. "Wow! I got saved by The Black Widow."

Natasha watches as you process this faux information. Gosh, you look so cute. "I guess I was lucky, huh?" You look at her, earning a chuckle. "I just didn't want anything to happen to you," Natasha says, warming your heart. "You're too perfect." She adds in a low whisper. Something you catch that makes your brain fuzzy.

However, before you can do or say anything else, Natasha pushes her body closer to you. Carefully, she watches your eyes as she lifts one leg over yours. Placing one knee on the bed next to your hips before doing the same with the other. She smiles down at you as her bare ass finds itself sitting in your lap.

You feel her wet pussy on your tight black bike shorts.

"Is this okay?" She whispers as she brings her face close enough to yours to feel her breath on your ear. You inhale her scent and feel the butterflies in your stomach.

"More than okay, Natasha..." You find yourself saying. The alarms in your head have officially been silenced. You should be asking why she's doing this, why she's still here. You shouldn't be accepting her advances. But yet you aren't questioning her. You accept her actions with a smile.

She smiles back.

"You know..." Natasha leans down and kisses your cheek. "I'll always protect you." You feel a blush on your face when her soft lips touch your skin again. "I've loved you for so long, and now I get to show you." Natasha lifts her face away from you to look at your eyes flutter.

Natasha sees how defenseless you are now.

The drugs have all worked.

"You love me?" You question as you move your hands down from Natasha's hips to her thighs. The touch of her feels cool to your warm hands. You peer into her green eyes and see them sparkle. "For years, I've loved you." She unwraps her arms from around you and places them on your hands. She moves them up from her thighs to under what used to be your shirt. You feel the bend of her hips and the softness of the sides of her body as your fingertips brush past their way to her nipples.

She pushes your hand to grope her boobs.

"For years, I've wanted you, and now I have you. Don't I?"

Natasha slowly moves her hips back and forth, sending a wave of pleasure through her body as her wet clit brushes up and down the end seam of your bike shorts. She moans and whimpers while looking at you, waiting for an answer. "Don't I, Y/N?!" You push and pull her boobs as you look at Natasha Romanoff acting like a slut for you. "Yes. Yes, Natasha! You have me!"

"I'm yours!" You wanted to scream.

"Good girl." She whispers as she leans down and kisses you again and again. Her tongue pushing its way into your mouth. The taste of her is salvia is electrifying. The pleasure you feel makes you moan into her mouth. Natasha smirks as you push yourself deeper and closer to The Black Widow.

Natasha reaches down as you two fall onto the bed to places her hand in the middle of your bike shorts. She begins rubbing your core up and down as her hand pushes your legs open. "Come on, baby. Open up for me."

You nod with your eyes closed and feel Natasha's fingers slow down in speed as she now gently brushes her fingers past your wet clit seeping through the shorts.

Each time she touches it, you jump.

And then. Natasha pulls her hands away from you: nothing but the cool air touching the wet spot on your shorts. You feel needy and frustrated. You open your eyes to see Natasha on her knees, lifting her shirt off her body. Her blonde hair falls back into place right above her shoulder.

She smiles at you and watches as you take her in.

You feel your mouth become dry as you look up at Natasha's toned stomach. A set of abs staring at you. You move from her perfect breast and hard pink nipples to her shoulders and biceps. The definition in her arms makes you close your mouth to hold in a noise that would've been embarrassing.

You look up at her neck—a smile when you see a cute mole that was previously hidden. Finally, you bring your eyes to her face and the smirk on her lips.

"Can I take these off?" Natasha points down to your bike shorts. You nod, making Natasha internally laugh. The shorts were coming off no matter what your answer was.

You pull your head from Natasaba's gaze and watch as Natasha's left hand goes to the bottom seam of your shorts and lifts them up from your body.

Once again, her touch makes your skin flush with pleasure. It's as if you're addicted to her and her touch.

Natasha pulls her right arm from behind herself, and that's when you drop your mouth. "Na-natasha, what's that?"

"Did I say you can speak?"

You sit stunned as the knife in her hand comes closer to your body. You weren't aware that you couldn't speak unless spoken to, but... di- did Natasha expect that of you? Did she tell you, and you just forgot?

"Look at me." She sternly asks of you. "Not at the knife but at me." The movement of the knife doesn't stop when you pull your eyes to Natasha and her beautiful green ones. "What did I say earlier?" She asks. "Think real hard and then answer me, okay." Her eyes leave you as she focuses on the blade, meeting the bottom seam of your shorts. You keep your eyes on Natasha's face and hear the ripping sound of your shorts as she goes further and further up.

She stops at your hip close to the top seam when you decide to speak up.

"That you'll always protect me." Natasha smiles wide. You listened and answered her perfectly. Natasha smiles and can't help herself when she leans in and kisses you. "Good job." She says with care dripping from her lips. "What else did I say?"

"That you love me."

Natasha nods. "I do love you." She leans in and, with the knife still in her left hand, drags up the rest of the way. Her lips touch yours at the same time the blade cuts through your shorts.

Immediately, Natasha tosses the knife off the bed. It clatters on the floor, making you jump into Natasha's lips again. "Sorry." You say when she backs away. "It's okay." The blonde tells you. "As long as you know that I would never hurt you, right?"

"Right." You agree easily.

Natasha smiles as she pulls at the fabric resting on your pussy. The coating sticks to you as she pulls it further away until the string of wetness breaks mid-air. Falling back onto your thigh. "Did Mommy make you feel this way?"

She knows that she did.

But she wants to hear you say it.

"Yes." Natasha brings her fingers back to where they belong. "Yes, what?" She glides her middle finger over your pink mound. You moan and shudder.

"Yes, Mommy."

Natasha should've left soon after that night. But she couldn't bring herself to do it.

She knew her friends needed her help, but she couldn't leave you. She finally had you, and you had her. Why would she want to jeopardize that?

So as, the days turned into weeks to months to years. Natasha felt the pressure to run continue to build.

In contrast, as the days turned into weeks to months to years. You felt yourself falling deeper and deeper in love with the one who saved you. The Black Widow. The cute blonde hero who made you breakfast in bed. The woman who stayed with you. The one who whispered sweet nothings into your ear every night as you drifted asleep. The woman who saved the world repeatedly could now be there for you.

Natasha even let it be known that you didn't have to work anymore. She had an array of offshore accounts and wanted to spoil you, and you, in turn, let her.

You blushed when she looked your way and never got tired of seeing her smile. A goddess herself sculpted her body, and Natasha happily made sure you came for her. Only her.

"Hey, what's going on?"

You walked out of your and Natasha's bedroom after finding the bed empty to see her in the living room going over her weaponry. Something you didn't like, but you trusted Natasha with them. Knowing she would never harm you.

It was early afternoon, and after your morning trip to the farmers market, followed by some light grocery shopping, you came home to Natasha, waiting with some brunch and a board game.

You took a nap after that, and while you slept, Natasha made her decision.

"They need me."

You knew who Natasha was talking about. It wasn't a secret that you were dating Natasha Romanoff. Well, it was a secret to everyone else. But you get my point. You were dating a fugitive labeled that by the United Nations on account of the Sokovian Accords—an ex-Avenger who still wanted to help.

"What if I don't want you to go." You asked with hurt in your voice. You finally had the love of your life. Someone you weren't even looking for, and now she wanted to go?

"Baby..." She put her gun on the coffee table and made her way to you. Wrapping her arms around you as you wrapped around her body. "I don't want to go..." A white lie, considering her little weekend-avenging trips from time to time weren't enough. "But I have to. To protect us. To protect you." The truth.

"Rogers needs me. Plus, with Vision and Wanda running around trying to be a normal couple again. He really needs the help."

You nodded into Natasha's shoulder. You hated that she was right. "How long?" Natasha sighed. She really didn't know how long it would be.

"Give me two weeks, and I'll be back."

You deflated, and your heart formed cracks. You didn't want her to leave, and you didn't want her to go for that long!

Natasha started kissing your head and rubbing your back, and you didn't understand why until you felt the tears leaving your eyes. You were crying.

Natasha hated it. She hated hearing how heartbroken you were. But at the same time, she loved it. You were hers. And she was yours.

"I love you Y/N. I'll be back before you know it."

"I love you, Natty. Please be careful."

Natasha wasn't even gone for two weeks. In fact, her time with Captain and Birdboy lasted a mere pair of days.

On day 3, Vision turned off his transponder.

Within 48 hours, half of everything was dust.

When Natasha found the others at the corpse of the synthezoid. Two people ran through Natasha's mind.

Yelena.

And you.

"Y/N!"

Natasha screamed as she busted open the door to your shared space. She threw her useless phone onto the counter as she ran through the living room, still in her uniform. Passing by the TV that sat on the emergency broadcast. "Y/N!" She called out again as she stopped at the bedroom door. "Please be here. Please be alive.."

Natasha had tears in her eyes as she slowly opened the bedroom door. Her breath left her lips in a gasp before she blinked away tears that were escaping. She carefully made her way to the bed and sat down.

You turned over as you felt the bed shift. Then you opened your eyes when you felt Natasha's presence. "Natasha? Natasha!" You sprung up from the bed and collided into her body.

You both wept as the relief flooded your combined emotions. "You're alive..." Natasha whispered into your head before inhaling.

She grew to love your shampoo.

"I miss you." You said. "Don't worry, Detka. I'm here. I'm here." Natasha kissed the side of your head before leaning back and kissing your mouth.

God, she missed your lips and the softness of your cheeks as you tried to hide your blush.

"I miss you." You repeated, confusing Natasha.

"Babe?" She pulled back and held your head in her hands. Her green eyes scanned your beautiful face and saw nothing wrong until a speck of dust flew off your nose. "No.." Natasha whispered with pain. "Y/N." She kept your face in her hands as little by little. You ceased to exist. "Y/N!" Her hands started to be covered.

"I miss you."

"Y/N, please no! No! Please!"

"I miss-" "Stop it!" "Nata-"

"No!" She screamed and screamed as you vanished until she woke up thrashing in her bed at the compound. Alone. Gun drawn and ready...

"Whatever it takes..." Whispered by you... Is this the last thing Natasha always heard when she woke up from her nightmares..

Natasha looks around the room with bags under her red, dried eyes and chapped lips. She struggles every day to live. She hates herself for leaving.

She hates that the last thing you told her was, "be careful."

She is hurt. Alone. Scared.

She misses you.

Every day, she tries and uses her resources to find a way to bring everyone back. But so far, she's always coming up empty-handed.

The worst part is, is that even after three years of you being gone. Natasha never told anyone. You were a secret to everyone else.

But to Natasha, you were everything.

dividers by @/benkeibear & @/firefly-graphics

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