Work Text:
Tim walks out of the room, shoulders a little looser than before, and drops down onto the couch beside Lucy.
He exhales like he’s just finished a debrief.
“I did it. It is handled.”
Lucy turns toward him immediately, reading his face the way she always does - searching for the micro-tension in his jaw, the crease between his brows.
“That took too long to have been easy.” Her eyes narrow playfully, but there’s real concern underneath. “Is she okay? Are you okay?”
Tim huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah. No, no... I’m great. It actually went a lot easier than I expected.” A faint, surprised smile tugs at his mouth. “She understood the whole boundaries issue pretty quickly. Acknowledged she can get overexcited. Doesn’t blame you or me. Just blames technology for being too fun to experience alone.”
Lucy’s lips part in disbelief, then curl upward.
“Wow. Okay. Sounds like it went great.” She leans into the couch cushion, studying him. “What took so long then?”
Tim’s mouth twitches. He looks at her from the corner of his eye.
“We started talking about a lot of other stuff.”
Lucy shifts closer, knee brushing his thigh.
“Like what?”
He gives her a look.
“Nosy.”
She laughs softly, nudging him with her shoulder.
“C’mon. Tell me. If you wanna tell me.”
He watches her for a beat, how her hair falls over one shoulder, how her expression is open but careful.
“Work. Childhood memories.” His voice softens without meaning to. “You. It was nice.”
Lucy’s smile changes. Warmer. Quieter.
“Yeah.” She nods gently. “I bet you guys have a lot to catch up on.”
“Yeah.” He relaxes back into the couch. “Oh, she told me about her weekly trips to the farmers market. And she told me all about her friend Linda who has been acting-” he lifts his hands, quoting with dramatic seriousness, “‘a shrewd bitch with a stick shoved so far up her ass.’”
Lucy bursts out laughing.
“Yeah, I heard about Linda and honestly I agree with your mother. She has to go.”
Tim freezes, turning slowly toward her.
“How did you know that was not in the group chat?”
Lucy presses her lips together, trying, and failing, not to grin.
“No… I am on a separate group chat with Genny and your mom.”
Tim stares at her like she’s just confessed to espionage.
“You are unbelievable.”
“Wait, stop. To be fair, I did not start that one. Genny did.” She reaches out, fingers sliding lightly up his forearm, slow and deliberate. “But now I have two main sources for vintage Tim photos, so that’s very nice for me.”
His eyes drop to where her hand rests against him.
“Gosh. So do I have to talk to Genny now too?”
“No. No.” Her left hand drifts to his thigh, squeezing lightly. “But if you have that powder blue prom suit lying around, that would be nice.”
Tim leans in, teasing.
“Okay. I’m sure I could dig it out from somewhere.”
Their smiles fade into something softer as they close the distance. Lucy’s hand slides up to his jaw, thumb brushing along the edge of his beard.
His hands move instinctively, down her shoulders, steadying her as if she might disappear if he doesn’t anchor her.
Their lips meet gently at first. Familiar. Warm.
Lucy tilts her head, and this time there’s no hesitation, no testing. Tim knows the shape of her mouth already. Knows the exact pressure she likes, the way she exhales right before she deepens it. He follows her easily, like slipping back into a rhythm they’ve practiced a hundred times before.
Her lips part, and his mouth moves with hers, slow, confident. Not searching. Not uncertain. Just claiming. The kiss turns richer, more sensual in its certainty. His lower lip drags softly against hers before he draws it between his teeth in a teasing pull that makes her sigh against him.
Her fingers slide up into his hair, not tentative, just automatic. She angles her head, and their tongues meet without awkwardness, warm, unhurried strokes that feel less like discovery and more like memory.
They move together smoothly, knowing when to press, when to soften, when to linger.
His hand tightens at her waist, thumb tracing along her side as he pulls her closer. Their bodies align naturally, hips settling, chests brushing with each slow breath. The couch dips under the shift, but neither of them notices.
He kisses her deeper, slower. Their mouths move in a steady cadence, lips gliding, parting, meeting again with quiet, heated intent.
A soft sound escapes her when he grazes his teeth along her bottom lip, and he answers with a low exhale that warms her mouth.
She pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes darker now, lashes lowered.
Then she swings one leg over his lap.
Tim’s hands slide to her hips automatically, steadying her as she settles against him. The position draws them flush, chest to chest. He exhales through his nose, forehead brushing hers.
“Lucy…” It’s half warning, half surrender.
She answers by kissing him again.
This time there’s no teasing edge. Her fingers thread into his hair, nails grazing lightly at his scalp, and a quiet sound escapes him before he can stop it. His grip tightens, thumbs pressing into the curve of her waist as if to prove she’s real.
The kiss slows.
Deepens.
Her white, one-shoulder top slips slightly as she moves, fabric sliding against his hands.
He brushes his knuckles along her collarbone.
Lucy’s breathing changes when his fingers find the edge of her top.
It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t just tug it off.
His hands slide slowly along her sides first, palms warm against her skin through the thin fabric, like he’s reminding himself of the shape of her. His thumbs hook gently beneath the hem at her waist. He looks up at her once, a silent question in his eyes.
She nods.
Barely.
He begins to lift.
The fabric glides upward inch by inch, brushing over her stomach, tracing the curve of her ribs.
His knuckles skim her skin as he guides it higher, careful, deliberate. The white cotton catches briefly at her shoulder where the neckline dips off to one side.
He lets the shirt fall somewhere behind him without looking.
And then he stills.
His eyes move over her slowly, unhurried, appreciative. Not greedy. Just absorbing.
The cascade of her brown hair down her back. The warm tone of her skin under the low light. The steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.
One hand returns to her waist, fingers splaying as if to confirm she’s still there.
She feels the weight of his gaze. Feels the way he’s taking her in like something rare.
Her lips part slightly.
He brushes his fingertips along her shoulder, down her arm, then back up again, tracing where the fabric had just been.
“Lucy…” he murmurs, almost to himself.
“You're staring,” she murmurs softly.
“I’m allowed,” he replies, voice low.
Her lips curve.
Lucy answers by tugging at the hem of his shirt, pulling it free. He lifts his arms, letting her peel it over his head. The air shifts against his skin, and for a second they simply sit there, studying each other.
She runs her hands slowly down his torso, over the firm lines of his stomach, feeling the warmth of him under her palms. The muscles under her fingertips tighten and release, every place she touches lighting up.
Her touch isn’t hurried or shy. It’s intimate in a way that comes from history. From knowing how he reacts. From knowing that beneath the strength and discipline is a man who lets very few people see him like this.
Tim swallows, eyes dropping to watch her hands move over him. There’s desire there, undeniable, but threaded through it is something deeper. Trust. Vulnerability. The quiet awe that he still can’t quite believe she looks at him the way she does.
He surges upward, capturing her mouth again.
Her fingers curl into his hair.
His hands slide up her back.
The room grows quiet except for the soft sounds of breath and the faint creak of the couch beneath shifting weight.
Lucy presses closer, and Tim’s grip tightens instinctively, like he’s afraid she might pull away.
She does just that.
She shifts off his lap.
For a split second, he looks almost startled, brows drawing together, breath still unsteady.
Lucy stands.
There’s something deliberate in the way she steps back, never breaking eye contact. The air between them changes. Slower. Thicker.
Tim leans back slightly, watching her.
Really watching her.
She reaches for the button of his jeans first. Her fingers brush over his stomach as she works it open, unhurried. His breath catches, not from surprise, but from the intensity of her gaze. She lowers the zipper slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room.
“Lucy,” he warns softly.
She just gives him that look. The one that says she knows exactly what she’s doing.
She eases the denim down his hips, inch by inch, her knuckles grazing his thighs as she goes. Tim lifts slightly to help her, eyes dark, jaw tight.
When his jeans fall away, she steps back again.
Then she turns the focus on herself.
Her hands move to her own waistband, thumbs hooking into the fabric. Tim’s gaze follows the motion, slow and intent. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t look away. The denim slides down her legs gradually, pooling at her feet.
She reaches for the back and to undo the clasp of her bra.
There’s something powerful in the quiet.
In the way he’s watching her like she’s the only thing in the world.
In the way she lets him.
She steps out of them and closes the distance again.
When she straddles his lap this time, there’s nothing separating them.
Tim exhales sharply as her bare heat meets him, the contact stealing the air from his lungs.
His hands come up instantly, palms firm around the curve of her thighs, thumbs pressing into soft skin as if to steady both of them.
She stays poised above him for a second, balanced on her knees, one hand sliding between them to guide herself.
He watches, jaw tight, breath shallow, as she aligns their bodies.
When she finally lowers, inch by inch, he hisses through his teeth. His grip shifts from her thighs to her waist, fingers digging in as she takes him fully, her hips settling with a slow, deliberate roll that makes his head fall back against the couch.
For a moment, she stays there, seated in his lap, bodies fused. Her breasts brush against his chest with each unsteady breath. His abs flex beneath her as he fights for control, the tension visible in the sharp line of his stomach, the rise and fall of his ribs.
Then he lifts his head and drags her mouth back to his like he can’t stand the distance.
The kiss is open, hungry. Her tongue slides against his, slow and deep, and she shifts experimentally, just a subtle tilt of her hips.
The reaction is immediate.
His fingers tighten at her waist as she rolls again, slow and deliberate, testing the friction. The movement drags a low groan from his chest. Her thighs flex around his hips, knees pressing into the cushions for leverage as she sets a steady rhythm.
The couch creaks beneath them.
Skin glides against skin - warm, slick, alive. Her breasts slide against his chest as she leans forward, nipples brushing over his sternum, making his abs tighten under her touch. He trails his hands up her sides, thumbs grazing the underside of her breasts before spreading wide over her back, pulling her flush.
She arches instinctively, chest pressing harder into him, hips circling now instead of just rocking. The slow grind pulls a strained exhale from his lips. He answers by lifting his hips slightly to meet her, the motion sharper, more urgent.
Their mouths clash again, teeth catching, tongues tangling. The kiss turns messy, breathless. Each shift of her body drags against him in a way that makes his fingers dig deeper into her hips.
Lucy breaks the kiss only to drag her mouth down his jaw, over his throat. Her teeth graze his skin, and his head drops back, throat exposed, abdominal muscles flexing as her hips press down in a harder stroke.
His hands slide down to her ass, squeezing, guiding her rhythm. He lifts her slightly and brings her down again, the movement controlled but powerful.
She gasps at the force of it, nails biting into his shoulders as she adjusts, legs tightening around his waist.
The rhythm builds.
Her hips rise and fall with more insistence, thighs straining, calves tensing as she moves. He meets her thrust for thrust now, lifting into her, abs tightening, chest brushing against hers with every collision. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, mixed with broken breaths and low, involuntary sounds that neither of them tries to suppress.
Her hair sticks to his damp neck as she buries her face there, breath hot and uneven. He turns his head to catch her mouth again, swallowing the small cries that spill from her lips.
Their movements grow less measured, more instinctive. She rocks faster, grinding at the peak of each motion before sinking down again. His hands roam up her spine, over the curve of her ribs, then back to her hips to drive her down harder.
Her breasts bounce with the rhythm, brushing over his chest. He watches for a split second, dark eyes heavy, before capturing her nipple in his mouth in one smooth motion.
She gasps at the contact, arching back as she steadies herself, her hands on his shoulders.
They don’t stop.
They can’t.
Their eyes meet - blue locked with brown - both blown wide, pupils dark.
She rolls her hips in a tight circle that makes his jaw clench. He responds by snapping his hips upward in a sharper thrust that steals the breath from her lungs.
The tension winds tighter, visible in the tremor in her thighs, in the way his stomach tightens like stone beneath her hands. Their movements grow urgent - rocking, lifting, grinding - until the friction is almost unbearable.
She leans back slightly, hands braced on his shoulders, riding him harder now. He grips her hips and drives up into her, controlled strength turning reckless. The couch shifts beneath them with every forceful movement.
Their bodies begin to tremble.
Her rhythm falters for a split second as sensation surges through her. He feels it and doubles his grip, pressing her down firmly as he thrusts up to meet her.
The coil snaps.
Not in chaos, but in a long, consuming rush.
Her body arches, thighs clamping tight around his waist as a broken cry of his name escapes her. His muscles go rigid beneath her hands, abs hard, jaw clenched as he drives up one last time, fingers biting into her hips.
They shudder together, breath tearing from their lungs, movements slowing into shallow, trembling pulses before finally stilling.
She collapses forward against him, chest heaving, breasts pressed to his sternum. His arms wrap around her automatically, hands smoothing up and down her back as his own breathing gradually steadies.
Skin still hot.
Neither of them lets go.