#never writes

---

Your hands were shaking slightly when you put down your phone. You’d just ended a call with your mother, where she’d demanded that her and your father come and stay for a week with you and your husband while they were visiting LA. It’d been about a year since you’d seen them – probably around last Christmas. With them living in New York while you lived in California, visits were rare. An intentional fact, something you’d chosen very purposefully when you’d decided to join the LAPD instead of the NYPD. Not that you would’ve ever joined the NYPD in the first place. Partly because your parents would’ve done everything they could to lock you out, but mainly because you had no faith in the department after hearing your entire childhood about how your parents could get the police captain to do ‘anything they wanted.’

You set your phone on the sofa and took a steadying breath. Your husband, Tim Bradford, would be getting out of the shower soon, and while he knew some things about what your childhood was like, he didn’t know the full story (and never would). It’s not even that you thought he wouldn’t believe you, you knew he would, but how could you possibly complain about your upbringing when his had been… undeniably worse? So, you took a breath to steady yourself, and waiting for Tim to emerge from your bedroom.

Tim walked out, predictably, in sweatpants and a dark green shirt, his usual sleeping attire. You stole that shirt whenever he was away, because his constant wear of it meant it always smelt like him.

“Hey, baby,” you said, glancing up. You ran a hand through your hair quickly and forced another deep breath.

Tim’s eyebrows furrowed, and in an instant he was beside you on the couch, gentle grasping your hands in his. “What’s wrong?” His eyes searched yours.

You shook your head quickly, answering, “Nothing, Tim. I just got off the phone with my mother.”

Tim scowled. He’d never liked your mother, not since he’d first met her and had been forced to sit silently while she criticised you for how much weight you’d put on (it was less than a pound). Still, you insisted on maintaining a relationship with her, and with your father, so he softened his expression slightly and asked, “Oh?”

“She and Father are going to come over next week. Father’s in town for business, so they thought they’d… drop in.” You swallowed.

“And you’re okay with that, right?” Tim asked hesitantly. If you ever expressed even the slightest indication that you didn’t want your parents to visit, he’d call them himself and tell them to fuck off. But you nodded, and said it was okay, so Tim relented and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Okay,” he murmured into your hair, “I love you.”

You ducked your head and whispered, “I love you too,” all while guilt and nerves settled into your stomach.

--

You were panicking. Not enough for the average person to notice, maybe, but enough for your husband to. Tim sat on your bed, putting on his fancy shoes, and watched you struggle to choose which dress to wear for dinner with your parents. It’d taken you an hour to do your makeup, a process which usually took half of one, max, and nearly another hour just to put light waves into your hair.

“Sweetheart.” Tim finally said, coming to stand behind you in the mirror. He rarely used pet names, and the sound of the word softened the tension in your shoulders. “You’re going to look beautiful whatever you wear. You always do.”

“Not beautiful enough for my mother.” You almost spat the words out, alternating between holding two nearly identical dresses in front of your body.

Tim gentled grabbed your waist and maneuverered you around so you were facing him. “What did we agree about dressing for your mother?” He asked, cupping your face so you were forced to meet his earnest, dark blue eyes.

“…Not to.” You admitted begrudgingly, a slightly flush coating your face at the intense eye contact. Even after three years of marriage and five of dating, Tim always managed to fluster you.

“Exactly. You are stunning. I promise. But if you’re worried, I would go with the darker one.” Tim carefully avoided touching your hair, knowing a single hair out of place would send you into another spiral of panic. He hated seeing you so stressed, hated it with every fibre of his being. Especially when it was caused by your parents; he knew all too well the pain a well time jab (verbal or literal) from a parent could cause.

You took a breath and nodded. “Thank you.” You got into your dress just in time for the oven timer to go off.

--

Your mother never knocked more than once. It was, she believed, completely unnecessary for someone of her and your father’s social importance to ever deign to bang on wood like deliverymen. So, when you heard the one sharp, precise rap against your front door, you knew exactly who had arrived. Your stomach dropped in preparation, and with one last fitful look at the mirror, then Tim, you opened the door.

“Hello, Mother. Father.” You said with a gracious smile, sweeping your arm to the side. “Come in, please.”

Your father embraced you in a quick, impersonal hug, but even as you hugged him back, your eyes were glued to your mother. She swept her gaze over what seemed like every inch of your house, searching for the invisible dust she would inevitably find. She glided a finger along a bookshelf, looked at it, scrunched her nose in silent judgement, before finally turning to you with a precise smile.

“Darling,” She said, quickly taking you in, “It has been too long since we’ve visited. God knows you don’t want to see your parents anymore, hmm?”

You forced a slight chuckle, refusing to take the openly dangling bait, “Yes, Mother. It’s been too long. Please, come join us for dinner.”

Tim watched the interact out of the corner of his eye as he made small talk with your father. On the surface, the two of them should’ve gotten along – both outwardly grumpy and work obsessed. But where Tim’s grumpiness and work obsession came from a desire to not get hurt, and to help people, your fathers came from a cold disinterest and casual cruelty. Tim had never managed to force himself to like your father, but he pretended to, for your sake. In Tim’s eyes, it was a miracle you’d turned out to be such a soft, kind person. One hand on the small of your back, the other gesturing as he spoke to your mother, he led your family into the dining room, where the meal you’d slaved away at for hours sat waiting.

--

“So, Timothy,” Your mother asked, setting down her cutlery, “How’s Y/n treating you as a wife?” The was a sharpness in her town that made your skin prickle – the kind of sharpness that came right before a criticism, thinly veiled in polite conversation. Your father had an ever so slight smirk on his face, but he chewed his food silently.

Tim opened his mouth to respond, to brag with great pride about how lucky he was to have married you, when your mother interrupted him.

“I mean, if this is the standard of meals she’s making you, I can’t imagine marriage is living up to everything you dreamed.” Your mother made direct eye contact with you as she said that, her eyes seeming to pierce directly into your soul.

Your cutlery clattered to the table. Luckily, you were holding it only a few centimetres from the wood, and it barely made a sound. Just enough for Tim to reach out and clutch your thigh under the table, a silent comfort.

“Actually, Mrs. Taylor, I love the food that Y/n makes for me. I’m very lucky to call her my wife.”

For a brief moment, a scowl flashed over your mother’s face. Then she laughed, the sound high and sharp, and utterly fake. “Oh, I jest, I jest, darling. I’m sure Y/n here wouldn’t dream of letting you down. Would you, dear?”

“Of course not, Mother.” You replied, the food you’d earlier thought so delicious turning to cardboard in your mouth. It was an effort to swallow.

Your father chuckled at that, adding, “Our Y/n always knows better than to let people down, hmm?”

Your smile was as weak as your response was noncommittal.

--

Things were… okay for the next few days. Not good, but not as bad as it could’ve been. Tolerable. Your parents were always nicer when Tim was around, covering their critiques with smiles and sharp laughter.

So, when Tim announced he had to run tac support for Lucy for a few days, and your parents had another five of their visit, you almost broke down in tears. You had no problem with him going undercover – he’d done it a couple of times before, as tactical support, and you knew it was relatively safe. But you hadn’t been truly alone with your parents for years, and you didn’t want to be now.

Still, you couldn’t exactly explain that to Tim, not without telling him a lot more about your past then you really wanted to, so you swallowed your fears, kissed Tim goodbye, and prayed that it would be a short assignment.

Things went downhill quickly. Your parents stopped covering their insults, and you woke up each day feeling like you were seventeen again, crumpling under the weight of their words and expectations. It wasn’t long until you were at the end of your tether, and a casual insult turned into a proper argument.

“You know, he’s probably cheating on you.” Your mother’s word were completely unprompted, the two of you sitting next to each other on the sofa, browsing Netflix.

Your blood chilled. “Excuse me?”

“Timothy, dear,” repeated your mother. “I mean, honestly, what do you expect? He’s spending all his time with this… Lucy woman, and you’ve really let yourself go since you two got married.”

You took a deep breath and tried to keep your tone steady. You ignored the insult and simply addressed the accusation. “I trust Tim, Mother. And I trust Lucy. She was at our wedding, and I work with her every day. They would never do that.” You pushed off the couch, walking around the lounge room.

Your mother hummed noncommittally, and of course your father chimed in. “Y/n, all your mother is saying, is that men… well, they have desires. And if Tim feels you aren’t satisfying him as a wife…”

“He doesn’t.”

Your mother plastered on a sharp smile, “Good, then. Because Lord knows it’s embarrassing enough for us to tell our friends back in New York that you’ve moved here to become a cop, instead of a lawyer, but to have you be divorced? It would be pathetic, even for you.”

You scoffed, the tiny bit of the patience you had left disappearing. “It’s a good thing I’m not getting divorced, then.” You winced at the snap in your tone.

The shift on your mother’s face was instant, moving from bland cruelty to cold anger, and she pushed herself off the couch You felt your head snapping to the side before you felt the sting of the slap. Your mother grabbed your collared shirt, pulling you close.

“How dare you speak to me in that tone. You are nothing. You’re lucky we didn’t cut you off when you abandoned your family and moved out here like a little shit. Do you know how embarrassing that was for us? How much of an embarrassment you are? Where did our perfect little daughter go, hmm? Why do you insist on being such a failure?”

You stared forward, tears welling in your eyes. Your cheek stung, and you could tell a red print was already forming. Before you could open your mouth to come up with a half-hearted defence, a cold voice cut through the room.

“Get your hands off my wife.”

Your mother dropped you instantly, and you turned to see Tim, a little dirty and a lot furious, glaring at your parents from the doorway.

Ever defensive, your mother spat out, “What did you just say to me?”

Tim stalked forward, towering over your mother, “I said ‘get your filthy hands off my fucking wife.” His voice was a low snarl. “Get out of our home. Now. Before I arrest you for assault and harassment.”

Your fathers jaw dropped, “Excuse me-.”

“I said GET. OUT.” Tim’s voice was so full of venom, that even not directed at you, it made you flinch.

Your mother grabbed her purse with a huff, and, with one last glare at you, scurried out of your house, your father following behind her.

Instantly, Tim was in front of you, leading you to the sofa with gentle hands and warm concern.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly, eyes flickering over the palm-shaped mark on your cheek.

You shook your head numbly, unsure what to say. You’d never wanted him to see this, and a few stray tears fell down your cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tim pulled you against his chest, gently rocking forward and backwards. The soft touch was all it took for you to start sobbing, clutching his shirt in shaking fists. All the while, he rocked you and stroked your hair, whispering comforting words into your ear.

When your tears finally subsided, you pulled back and sniffled.

“Has this happened before?” Tim asked, and even though he tried to soften his voice, he couldn’t quite hide the rage that was clearly racing through him.

Still unable to speak, you just nodded.

Tim cursed under his breath, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Has this been happening all your life?”

You pulled your knees to your chest and wiped the heel of your palm against your nose. No point in hiding it now, you supposed. You took a shaky breath, and forced yourself to say, “Yes. It has.” Tim glowered. “I don’t know… I didn’t want to tell you. You… you had such an awful childhood, your father was such a monster, and I didn’t want you to think I was trying to one up you. Besides, I grew up so lucky, I mean, you know how loaded my parents are… I was worried… I…” Your voice broke. “No one ever believed me. When I was a kid. Even when I’d go to school with bruises, people would look at my parents and the circles we were in and assume I was just clumsy or deserved it. The only person I ever told laughed in my face. I guess I just… I didn’t want to be that stuck up little rich girl complaining about mommy and daddy being mean.” Your face was wet, and guilt writhed in your stomach. Guilt at lying, guilt at telling the truth, guilt over your parent’s words, but still, you continued to speak. Continued to pour your heart and soul out to your husband.

Tim’s face crumpled in time with his heart as he listened to you tell the whole sordid tale. When you finally stopped speaking, he was silent. After a moment of just staring at you, he just pulled you into another hug.

“I am so, so, sorry, my love,” he whispered, stroking a hand over your back, “I’m sorry that happened to you, I’m sorry you were born to such bastard parents, I’m sorry no one believed you, I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me, I… I’m just sorry. You didn’t deserve that. And they’re wrong. You’re not pathetic. Or a failure. Or anything else they’ve ever said.”

At that, Tim pulled back slightly and looked directly into your eyes. Into your soul. “You are the most important part of my life, Y/n. I am here for anything, anything, you need, and it kills me that you were hurting in silence this whole time. But never again, okay? We’re going to deal with this together – whatever you want to do. I will never let those bastards hurt you again.”

And for maybe the first time, you believed him.

--

FIN.

---

“For the last time, ma’am, we don’t serve frappucinos here. If you want one of those, you’ll have to go to the Starbucks across the street.” You repressed the urge to roll your eyes as the woman across the counter from you started a tirade about how you really should be selling ‘basic drinks’ like Frappucinos and Strawberry Cobblers – whatever the hell that was. She ended her speech by storming out of the store and declaring you’d lost a costumer, to which you mouthed ‘good’ to yourself.

You took a moment, pinched the bridge of your nose, before plastering a smile across your face and looking up to the new costumer in front of you.

“Hi, sir,” you started, “I’m sorry about her.” Your eyes flicked over the man’s face, taking in his dark hair, shorn short, and icy blue eyes. He was… wow. And in a leather jacket too? It seemed like God was making up for your shitty previous customer.

“It’s fine,” the man said, a dull smile tugging at his lips. “You probably weren’t mad to see her go, huh?”

You bit back a smile, trying to maintain some professionalism. “It wasn’t the worst part of my day, no,” you admitted. The man in front of you hummed, shifting slightly to pull down the sleeve of his jacket. You caught a glimpse of something dark and shiny beneath the leather but didn’t pay it much attention. “What can I get started for you?”

“A medium flat white, please,” He answered, and you almost sighed in relief at his normal order. You had too many bizarre, impossible ones already and you might’ve thrown him out if he’d tried to order something too crazy.

“No problem. What sort of milk?”

The customer frowned. “Are there… different types?”

“Of course,” you chuckled gently, “We can do full cream, skim, lactose free, oat, almond, s-.”

“Just milk from a cow, please.” He cut you off, but it wasn’t aggressive, more… confused. Not that you minded, of course. Though you could’ve sworn you heard him mutter to himself about there only being one type of milk in the forties.

“Perfect!” You smiled, “That’ll be $5.40. Can I grab a name for that one?” You looked up at the man in front of you, meeting his eyes over the till. God, they really were the most startling, icy blue.

“Uh, Bucky,” replied the costumer. Where had you heard that name before? Bucky… holy shit. You glanced back down and realised that the black shiny thing you’d seen was a hand. A metal hand.

Your jaw dropped. “As in Bucky Barnes?”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed, if metal could really tense, and his jaw set into a hard line like he was expecting confrontation. “Yes, that Bucky,” he said dully, waiting for the fight. What he wasn’t expecting you to say was:

“Holy shit, you’re a hero!”

“I, uh,…” Bucky floundered, thrown off by your words. When was the last time someone, let alone a beautiful woman, had called him a hero? Never, surely. But the tension slowly released from his shoulders and, slightly unsure what to say in response, he stuttered out, “Um. Where- where do I pay?”

“Oh, no, please,” You waved away his hand, clicking a button to push through his order, “It’s on the house.”

The frown was back, a perfect crease between two blue eyes, “I can pay, miss, it’s-.”

“I insist.” You cut him off. “Your coffee will be out soon.”

“I-.” Bucky paused, nodded, swallowed. “Thank you.”  

As he walked away, coffee in hand, Bucky couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to you. The way your eyes had sparkled as you handed him his coffee, the way your smile lit up your whole face. The awe in your eyes when you realised who he was. Awe, not fear. Admiration, even.

He started going to the café every day, just for the chance to talk to you. To feel like- like something other than a monster. You started having actual conversations with him. You learnt that he had a tiny white kitten one day when you accidentally saw his phone lockscreen. He learnt that you were the eldest of three children, and that you grew up in Chicago before you moved out to Brooklyn. He quickly became your favourite costumer, though your hero worship of him dissolved quickly as he became less Avenger and more human to you. Once, you asked him if he’d ever met Frank Sinatra.

He laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Is it heavy?” You asked once, nodding at Bucky’s arm. You were sitting with him on your break, drinking a coffee of your own across the table from him. “It looks heavy.”

Bucky always got awkward when you talked about the arm. You didn’t get it, really. The black vibranium was, frankly, gorgeous, and he’d only ever used it to help people. This one, anyway.

“Um… not really. I’m used to it, and vibranium’s a pretty light metal, so…” Bucky looked down, focusing intently on the sandwich you’d dropped in front of him.

“Hmm,” you hummed in consideration, “Does it make fighting easier? Saving people? Surely, right? Cause you can do all this extra stuff.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably as you rattled off questions, and when you looked back at him, your smile dropped instantly.

“I- I’m sorry, I’m pushing. You don’t have to tell me-.” You scrambled for an apology, hating the way tension sat in Bucky’s whole frame at your questions.

“No, it’s fine, doll. It’s, uh, not the easiest thing to talk about.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. But the real, full truth was that Bucky simply couldn’t comprehend you talking about the arm like it was- it was a power of something. Something he used for good. Not all the things he didn’t that he could barely speak about but revisited him every night in his dreams.

You didn’t ask Bucky about the arm again after that. But you didn’t understand his shame around it. Not really, anyway. Sure, he’d done bad things with the one Hydra had given him, but that wasn’t him, not in any way that mattered. And it wasn’t the arm he wore – wore? – anymore. Still, you dropped it. In fact, you dropped anything even related to Bucky-the-soldier, instead focusing on Bucky-the-person that you were quickly falling for.

That was, until, someone else brought it up for you.

It was September 27th when it happened. Bucky had been visiting you for months, and you’d started spending nearly all your breaks with him. If he didn’t hurry up and ask you out soon, you’d do it for him.

Anyway. It was the middle of a rush, and Bucky was waiting patiently for you to be free in the table he always sat in. He’d pulled off his glove to better turn the pages of his newspaper (he’s such an old man, you thought to yourself whenever you saw him flicking through the pages), and his metal hand sat visible on the edge of the table. His dog tags had slipped out from under his shirt.

You hadn’t even noticed it happen, not until you heard him curse. Someone had walked straight over to him and poured their freshly ordered espresso onto his chest while giving him a dirty look.  You didn’t hear what he said, too busy trying to drown out the ringing in your ears that had suddenly started, but from the way Bucky’s face flickered then shut down, you could guess.

You excused yourself from serving your customer, called over a coworker and raced to Bucky, grabbing a handful of napkins on your way. In an instant, you were seated beside him and patting at his chest.

“Hi,” you said, concern lacing your words, “Are you okay? What the fuck was that about?” You pat Bucky’s chest gently, sopping up the remaining coffee.

Bucky shook his head, “’S nothing, doll. Don’t worry about it.”

You pulled back, “The fuck do you mean ‘it’s nothing?’ He just assaulted you!”

“It’s okay. Nothing I didn’t deserve,” Bucky murmured.

“Bucky.” You deadpanned, “Are you kidding? What could you possibly have done to deserve that? What did he say to you?”

A dull shrug, “The usual. Called me ‘Soldier,’ said I should’ve been, uh, ‘put down.’”

Called him Soldier? If you weren’t focused on comforting Bucky – though he seemed insistent on denying you – you would’ve chased down his attacker and punched him. Instead, you focused on “’The usual?’ What do you mean – Buck, does this happen often?”

He nodded slowly, unable to meet your eyes. “There’s a lotta people angry at me, doll.”

You frowned, confused, “What on Earth for?”

Bucky looked at you then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I am- was the Winter Soldier.” He forced the name out like it was glass in his throat, like he deserved every bit of coffee spilt on him and anything else anyone wanted to give him.

It didn’t help.

“So what? You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore, right? Right. So why does it matter?”

Bucky continued to stare. “I’m a murderer.”

You chuckled, “Bucky, don’t be ridiculous.” You swiped at his chest again before setting down the napkin.

And then he frowned. And a fear overwhelmed him as he realised that you didn’t know. You didn’t know what he’d done, that’s why you’d never been scared of him. He considered lying – of course he considered it. But, God, he was falling for you, and he couldn’t be with someone who didn’t… who didn’t know. So he took your hand, with his flesh hand and held it. “What do you think I did, as the Winter Soldier?” He asked slowly.

You shrugged, “I didn’t really think about it. Spy shit, I assumed.”

Something shattered in Bucky. God, he was really going to have to do this, huh? He said your name gently. “I was an assassin. I killed- God, I killed hundreds of people. That’s why that man – why so many people – hate me. Why I deserve their hatred. It wasn’t me who did it, Hydra brainwashed me, but I still did it. I was the Winter Soldier, even if I’m… not now.”

You paused, digesting the information. What did you say to that? Eventually, you settled on, “So?”

Bucky did a visible double take. “What do you mean ‘so?’ I killed people, doll.”

You shook your head. “No, the Winter Soldier killed people. Bucky, you aren’t… who you are is not what you did back then. What they made you do.” You frowned, “People shouldn’t hate you for something you couldn’t control. That’s dumb.”

Bucky just stared at you like you were something holy. “You don’t care?” He asked softly, reverently.

“Why would I care? I care about you, Buck. The real you. No one should hate you; you don’t deserve it. Anyone who does is an idiot.” With a soft smile on his face, Bucky squeezed your hand. He opened his mouth to thank you, but nothing came out. He couldn’t find the words to express the relief he felt at your forgiveness, if he could even call it that. You smiled back, squeezed his hand in return, and despite his coffee-stained shirt and his attacker’s words still ringing in his ears, on that Wednesday afternoon in a softly lit coffee shop, he felt safe. And more to than safe, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he was good.

fin

--

"You okay, sweetheart?" Tim asked, looking at you with concern. You’re sitting at opposite ends of your couch, Tim ‘scrolling’ (watching you), and you reading.

You looked up from your book, frowning. “Yeah, why?”

“That’s the fourth time you’ve rubbed your chest and grimaced in the last hour,” deadpanned your husband, though you didn’t miss the subtle concern in his eyes.

“Oh. Yeah. My boobs’ve just been sore the last few days.” You shrugged. It wasn’t particularly uncommon, at least for you. You did giggle slightly at the fact that Tim had noticed though. “You payin’ particular attention to my breasts, Bradford?” You teased, lips quirking.

“No more than usual.” Tim grinned, that special smile he reserved just for you, before adding, “You want a massage? If they’re sore, that is.”

You responded by throwing a pillow at him and going back to reading. He just laughed.

---

“Dinner is served.” Tim smiled softly at you as he put down a plate. He’d made one of his best meals, a roast chicken slathered in gravy with veggies on the side. Usually, you loved it. In that moment, though…

The smell hit your nose and your stomach churned. You swallowed thickly, trying to force down the wave of nausea that had suddenly arrived. Just slightly, you pushed the plate away from your body, gagging in your mouth a little.

Tim, of course, noticed. “Sweetheart?” He asked, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, I just… feel sick, suddenly.” You poked the side of the plate again, chewing on your inner cheek. Part of you felt bad for not wanting the meal Tim had made. The other part of you just felt sick.

“Oh. Okay, well, why don’t we eat later?” Tim said, grabbing the plate away from you. The movement just brought the scent of gravy closer to your nose.

You nodded, then ran to throw up.

---

Your underwear was clean. Now, that wasn't a particularly unusual experience, but your period was two days late. You were never late. Your breasts throbbed with a dull ache, and you lent your head back against the toilet. God. Everything had felt off the last few days. You’d barely been able to stomach any sort of food, your body was aching and…

Oh, shit.

---

You didn’t tell Tim. You waited two more days, in fact. Still, your period didn’t come. Still, your breasts ached. Tim was getting worried, you could tell. Every time you pushed away a plate of food, he frowned, but he never said anything.

But that silence wasn’t going to last long. You could tell by the way his eyes narrowed each time you excused yourself to the bathroom during a meal, or absentmindedly massaged your chest. He was catching on.

You yourself were starting to worry. You’d only been married a year, and you’d agreed to wait before trying for kids. You were always careful, too. What if you were pregnant, and Tim freaked out because he didn’t want kids yet? Worse, what if you weren’t ready for kids?

Were you? Ready for kids?

---

Tim realises, before you even tell him. It’s subtle, but he’d clearly figured it out. Still, ever the gentleman, he waited for you to bring it up first. That didn’t stop him hinting at it, though. No, not at all. The bi-weekly flowers he got you? Blue and pink. You look over his shoulder once and saw him googling ‘How to prepare for your first child.’ It was adorable. And it eased the concern that’d been bubbling in the pit of your stomach. You should probably talk to him.

“Tim…”

“Yeah, y/n/n?”

You were about to utter the fateful words – “We should talk” – when you almost doubled over from a surprise cramp rippling through your stomach.

“Nevermind!” You bolted to the bathroom, and when you dropped your panties down, they were stained red. Huh… you couldn’t stop the disappointment that bubbled up.

---

“Tim?” You were about to call for him again, but he rounded a corner just in time to stumble into your husband’s chest.

“Woah, sweetheart,” he chuckled, steadying you with his hands on each of your arms. “You good?”

You nodded, “Yeah. ‘M good.” A pang shot through your stomach, but you hid it under a neutral face. Bloody cramps…

“Good.” Tim hesitated for a moment, “So… I don’t know if you’ve noticed, I mean, I certainly haven’t… noticed, but you’ve been a bit off the past few days…”

You raised an eyebrow. Tim panicked, rush on.

“And I don’t want to make any assumptions, but are you… do you think maybe, you’re pregnant?” Tim looked up at you, eyes positively glowing. There was hope in them. How could you crush that?

You sighed. “Tim..”

“I know, I know,” he rushed on, “Maybe it’s pre-emptive, but…”

You couldn’t listen to this. “Tim!” You cut him off quickly, and he looked up at you with furrowed brows. “I just got my period.”

“Oh.” Tim looked down, trying to mask his disappointment. He wasn’t doing a very good job.

“Yeah… oh. The symptoms are just really similar, sometimes.”

“So… you’re not pregnant?”

You shook your head. “No. Not pregnant. But we wanted to wait, right..?” You bit your lip. You’d started to believe you might’ve been too… You hated crushing Tim like this.

“I mean. Yeah. We did. Of course.” Tim nodded quickly, before almost pulling back. “I just… when I thought you might be pregnant, I started thinking… well, maybe I want you to be pregnant.”

You looked up from where you’d been staring at your lap. “Really?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. I know we said we’d wait, but how good would it be? I mean, we could have a little mini you and me running around. They’d be the best baby in the world.”

You chuckled quietly, clutching one of Tim’s hands. “Yeah. They would be.” You paused for a moment. “Do you think… maybe we’ve waited enough?”

“Yeah?” Tim’s eyes widened, and a grin broke out across his face.

“Yeah.” You nodded quickly, excitement fluttering in your stomach. “Let’s make a baby, Bradford.”

Tim’s grin turned slightly feral then, and he picked you up and flung you over his shoulder. You squealed. “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t know what you started…”

----

Being Tony Stark's daughter was hard. It wasn't supposed to be - you had the money, the brains, the influence, the body and the face. It should've been easy. After all, your father was a genius. A philanthropist. A hero. Always in the spotlight. Being his daughter was a privilege.

And that was exactly the problem.

Because the thing is, when your father is a hero, everyone knows who you are. The media knows who you are. And the media wasn't known for being kind, or gentle. Everyone was expecting you to live up to your father's legacy - he was a genius, so you had to be too. He'd left a mark on the world, and so should you - but more than anything, they where waiting for you to fail.

And it wasn't even the media - it was everyone, except perhaps, your admittedly oblivious father, who was in your life. Your teachers, your peers, even your friends. They all expected you to live up to Tony's standards. To be perfect. You couldn't lose a mark. Couldn't have a hair out of place. Could never say the wrong thing in public.

It was a crushing weight for anyone to bear, but a seventeen year old high school senior most of all. Your father wasn't completely oblivious to the way the media affected your life, but his knowledge was... limited. You refused to tell him anything, not wanting to worry him. He dealt with enough, what with being an Avenger and near-constantly having to save the world. And he worried enough already. When you were thirteen, he'd found you crying over an article suggesting you needed to lose weight, and he'd spent the next six months constantly checking in on you to make sure you ate, on top of banning you from looking at media articles.

You frequently ignored that rule. So frequently in fact, that you had Google notifications turned on for Y/n Stark. You were admittedly a bit obsessed with your public perception.

For all your father's fear around the media, and all your knowledge of the fact that they would descend upon you the moment you slipped up, the articles were usually... kind. Which was almost worse. Every post praising your mind, or your body, or anything, just raised the standards which you had to meet.

----

You sat at your desk, hair still damp against your back, and muscles aching from almost an entire day spent at the beach. It’d been your best friend, Zahra’s birthday, and she’d insisted that you and your friends have what she called a ‘water and art festival,’ which really only including the five of you swimming all morning and painting on the beach all afternoon, whilst lounging in bikinis. You’d been hesitant at first – your period had just finished, and you felt slightly bloated, and you had a maths exam coming up which you desperately needed to study for. But Zahra was the youngest of your group, only freshly 17, and when faced with her pleading puppy dog eyes, you’d given in and agreed to attend her ‘festival.’ Besides, two of your friends had spent the day not-so-subtly eyeing off your body, jealousy in their eyes, and another had made numerous comments about how you could easily afford to skip a day of study because you were just ‘so naturally smart.’

Despite that, it'd been an amazing day, though part of your mind had been preoccupied running through formulas, but you were feeling the costs of it now as you sat, staring at the half-done practice test on your desk. So far, you were confident you’d gotten everything right, but the test only covered half the content you needed to have perfected by next week. You were decidedly not a maths person, a fact you were painfully aware of. Sure, you managed to maintain straight As in maths, but it was a lot of work, and it left you feeling constantly inadequate when compared to Tony ‘My maths is always right’ Stark.

You couldn’t afford to fail this exam. It was your senior year, and everything counted, and anything less than an A couldn’t be accepted. Universities were watching your every move, practically begging to hand you scholarships, and the media was perched waiting to joyfully announce that you’d secured valedictorian – or failed to. And so, you slaved away.

The question in front of you taunted you. You knew, in theory, how to do it, but every time you tried, you got it wrong. Every cross shaped mark of the red pen seemed to scream ‘NOT GOOD ENOUGH.’ Your hands started to shake as you tried the question another time. You shouldn’t have gone out, you’d wasted so much time and now you were going to fail and everyone was going to realize you were an imposter and you didn’t deserve to be a Stark because you weren’t good enough.

Your pen clattered on the desk in front of you just as you started to hyperventilate. Your breath wasn’t coming normally, and it seemed as if static was playing in your head, mixed with voices chanting out all the ways you didn’t live up to standards.

A series of notifications on your phone pulled you out of your panic. The sound snapped you back to reality, and you closed your eyes for just a few seconds. The panic started to subside, and you managed to get some air into your lungs. Only then did you check your phone.

And by God, did you regret it. Three new Google alerts stared back at you, all accompanied by different images of you at the beach earlier that day. The first wasn’t too bad, though it sent thoughts of time-wasting whirring in your mind again–

‘Y/N STARK: WORKING HARD OR HARDLY WORKING? DOES THE DAUGHTER OF A GENIUS EVEN NEED TO STUDY?’

The next was worse, and you breathing again quickened-

‘BIKINI BODY OR BIKINI BELLY? Y/n Stark’s new bikini is a… bold choice.’

One arm instinctively wrapped around your stomach, and you knew, you knew it was stupid, but you couldn’t stop it. You should’ve known this would happen, should’ve known better than to go outside not looking perfect. Still, this had happened before, and you fought off the tears pricking at your eyes. But it was the final article title that sent your blood running cold.

‘STARK HEIRESS NOT SO PERFECT? SCARS SPOTTED ON THE TEEN AT FRIEND’S BEACH PARTY.’

The article heading was accompanied by an inappropriately close up shot of your thighs, which were dappled in thin, straight, white lines. Your stomach dropped, your worst fear coming to life. The scars were old, from over a year ago, at one of the worst periods of your life. You’d spent every spare second obsessively checking the news and the weight of your perfectionism had nearly crushed you. Still, you’d managed to marginally improve and hadn’t touched scissors in that way in over a year. And you’d managed to make sure the media hadn’t found out. But you’d been so preoccupied by your stomach, and your upcoming exam that you hadn’t even thought about making sure the scars were covered.

You’d failed, and soon the whole world was going to know you were a failure, and you weren’t the perfect princess they thought you were. You were scarred, fragile, not as smart as your father, never as good as your father and- your vision was starting to go black. You hadn’t realized you’d stopped breathing, but you were soon quickly trying to suck air in. It wasn’t working. Because why would something you ever did, work?

“Kid?” Your father was knocking rapidly at your door, “Y/n, honey, I need you to open the door.”

You couldn’t get enough air in your lungs to say anything, so you made some vague gesture you hoped JARVIS would interpret as ‘let him in.’ You heard the door click, and soon, Tony was rushing over your desk, kneeling in front of you.

“Honey? Y/n, honey, hey, what’s going on?” Tony quickly looked over you, clearly recognizing you were having a panic attack. He’d talked you out of enough of them to know them by just the sound of your breathing. His eyes fell to your maths paper, and he was going to ask about it, but then they fell further and landed on your phone screen, the article title still visible. His eyes immediately darkened, and he bit out an angry ‘motherfuckers’ under his breath. He quickly shut off your phone, throwing it onto your bed and out of your reach.

“Okay.” Tony grabbed your hand, his warmth grounding you, “Honey. I need you to look at me? Can you look at me, kid?”

Just barely, you managed to meet his eyes. They were filled with concern.

“Good job, you’re doing great. Okay, can you squeeze my hands? That’s perfect. Alright, breath with me, okay?” Tony took an exaggerated breath in, “Like this,” And an exaggerated breath out. “In… and out…”

You slowly began to breath with him, but as soon as your breath returned, you collapsed into his arms, sobs wracking your body.

“They fou- they found out, Dad.” You sobbed, “They weren’t supposed to know, I can’t- They can’t know- I shouldn’t’ve let them find out, ‘m a fuckin’ failure, Dad…”

You couldn’t see it, but as soon as the word ‘failure’ left your lips, Tony’s entire face collapsed. He slowly smoothed one hand over your hair as he whispered, “Hey, kid, that’s ridiculous. You’re not a failure, at all. They’re the fuckin’ failures, for making news articles out of information they shouldn’t have. You are perfect.”

“But I’m not,” You cried, pulling back to stare at Tony with a tear-streaked face, “I’m NOT. They all think I am, but I’m not, I can’t do it Dad, I can’t do it. I can’t even do fucking maths, I’m barely passing as a Stark! I can’t keep doing it, ‘m never good enough…” You trailed off, chest heaving and chin dripping.

Your father’s face hardened, “Is that what you think? You listen to me, okay, Y/n? Are you listening? You. Are. A. Stark.” He spat out each word, “You. Are. Good. Enough. Nothing they say will every change that. You don’t need to be perfect, honey, not for me, not for anyone. You don’t even have to be good, okay? I love you, no matter what.” He stroked the hair out of your face, before pulling you into a tight hug. “And for the record? I don’t give a shit if you can do maths or not. I love you, kiddo. Always remember that. You will always be enough, no matter what your friends think, or the paps say.”

Your breathing started to even out, and you looked up at Tony with wide eyes. “Promise?” You whispered, hating how small and childlike your voice sounded.

Tony brushed away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb, “Promise.”

You sniffled and nodded slightly, “Will you help me with my maths?”

A small smile broke onto Tony’s face as he cradled you. “Absolutely. But not tonight. Tonight, we are going to put away this test, go watch a shitty action movie, and gorge ourselves on Ice-cream and New York style pizza, okay?”

“But…”

“Uh-uh. No buts, little miss. Pizza. And ice cream. Now.”

You couldn’t help but smile slightly, before forcing yourself to nod and whisper, “Okay.”

“That’s my girl. Let’s go, kid.”

Tony guided you from your chair and towards the Stark Tower theatre room. And only when you were curled up under a blanket, absentmindedly flicking through Netflix’s selection of action movies (you were going to end up watching something with the Rock, he knew), did Tony quietly command JARVIS to block any sort of notification with your name from your devices, and to start drafting a law suit against the outlet who wrote that article.

fin.

---

“Fuck, y/n,” Tim groaned, threading his hands through your hair. His hips twitched from the effort of not fucking into your mouth.

It was a cramped under Tim's desk, and you were admittedly a bit squashed, but that wasn’t going to stop you from giving him all you had. This honestly hadn’t been your intention when you’d decided to surprise Tim at work, but you’d taken one look at him in his uniform pants and demanded that the two of you spend some one-on-one time in his office.

Hence why you were kneeling under Tim’s desk, your hair just brushing against the wood, with his cock in your mouth. At Tim’s moans, you grinned and looked up through your eyelashes. You pulled back slightly, sucking on only his head. You ran your tongue over his slit, the salty taste of pre-cum meeting your lips. Your tongue traced the vein on the underside of his cock, the one you knew drove him insane, and Tim cursed.

“Stop playing, y/n,” Tim pleaded, watching you carefully tease the head of his cock without truly giving him what he needed. “Please, baby, ‘m dying here.”

If you’d had more time (and more space), you would’ve kept teasing Tim until he snapped and started fucking your mouth, but unfortunately, his lunch break was nearly over, and you had groceries waiting in your car. So, you breathed deeply through your nose and swallowed as much of Tim’s dick as you could. You bobbed your head slightly, suctioning your teeth and Tim moaned.

“That’s it… fuck, y/n,” He praised, manoeuvring your head slightly, “So good for me, just like that.” You preened at the praise, something that was always your weak spot, and took Tim as deeply as you could. Your eyes watered slightly as his cock hit the back of your throat. His hips spasmed, and you knew that if they were anything else, he wouldn’t be holding back.

Knock, knock.

You froze. Looked up at Tim, who was hastily trying to regain control of his breathing.

“Tim? You in there?” The unmistakable voice of Lucy Chen floated through the door.

“Shit,” Tim grumbled, “Yeah, Chen.” He called out. He looked down at you, reaching down to help you remove your mouth from him, but you’d already pulled off and moved closer under the desk. Tim shuffled forward, hiding his leaking cock from sight just as Lucy walked in.

“Sir, I just wanted to see if I could get assigned to Lopez for the rest of the day,” Lucy started. She sounded nervous.

“Why?” Tim asked, his hands twitching at his sides with pent-up energy. You looked up at him, eyes glinting with a challenge. He didn’t see you.

“She’s working that double homicide from Sycamore Square, and I was hoping I could tag along,” Lucy continued. She rambled when she was nervous.

Tim paused for a second. Considering. “That’s fine, Chen. I’ll-,”

You pushed yourself up slightly and dragged your tongue up and around his mushroom head. Tim spluttered, his voice breaking off. He glanced down at your for just a moment, almost unnoticeable, and you winked before swallowing the rest of his shaft.

Lucy frowned, “Tim? Are you… okay?”

“I’m fine, Chen.” Tim’s voice was thick with barely restrained moans. He fisted his hands against his sides, already trying to figure out a way to repay you once Lucy was gone. You didn’t stop, taking Tim deeper. You gagged silently, and you could tell Lucy was scanning Tim assessingly.

“Are you sure, sir?” Lucy prodded, gaze flitting over Tim.

“I said I’m fine, Chen,” Tim snapped a little, but it was less to do with annoyance and more to do with you hollowing your cheeks around him and his rapidly approaching orgasm. “I’ll -fuck – I’ll have Grey assign you to Lopez. You should get going, her break is almost over.” Tim’s breathing was starting to speed up, and you knew he was going to burst soon if you didn’t stop. So, you didn’t.

“Okay. Thank you, sir.” Lucy’s voice was lighter when she spoke this time. Holding back laughter.

You hummed around Tim cock as he said, his voice strained, “Goodbye, Chen.”

You heard footsteps, then a door clicking, and then Tim’s hands were back in your hair and his hips were thrusting lightly.

“You little brat,” He growled, though his voice was filled with affection. “Did you like that, hmm, y/n? Sucking me off with Chen here?” Tim’s voice was heavy, and you knew that whatever he did for payback, you’d feel if for days.

You nodded slightly, eyes a bit watery from Tim moving your head further around him. His cock twitched inside your mouth, and you grinned, dragging your tongue over him. He came with a rough shout, and even as the white liquid hit the back of your throat, you knew this was far from over.

fin.

Hope this is what you were thinking & you enjoyed. Feedback is fuel.

---

It was inevitable, really. You and Tim Bradford falling into this… arrangement. You’d seen it coming from the moment you met…

You stormed through the station, anxious to get back to Detective Lopez and talk to her about a break you’d just made in your case – your first one since you transferred to Mid-Wilshire. Just as you were rounding the corner from processing into the bullpen, something slammed into you.

“Hey! Watch where you’re goin-… hi.” You trailed off slightly, your greeting sounding weak even to your own ears. Before you stood perhaps the most gorgeous man you’d ever seen. A little over six foot, a slight scowl, blue eyes that seemed more like bottomless ocean than eyes, and thick arms crossed over his chest. Oh god, his arms. Your eyes flickered across his chest, scanning his badge for his name – Bradford.

“Hi.” Bradford’s voice was unimpressed, but you couldn’t miss the way his eyes swept over you appreciatively. You silently thanked yourself for choosing your nicest pair of jeans that morning. After a lingering glance at your lips, the man asked, “You alright?”

You nodded slightly, “Yeah. Fine. I didn’t see you coming.”

“You seemed pretty focused,” Bradford deadpanned. You bit back a laugh.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, holding out a hand.

“Tim. Bradford.” the man responded, shaking your hand. His palms where rough and calloused against your own.

“So do you make it a habit of running into your coworkers, or…?” You asked, your tone teasing.

Tim smirked slightly. “Not usually.”

You chuckled. “I must be special, then.”  

“Mm,” Tim hummed, eyes again dropping to your lips. “Must be.”

So, it wasn’t even remotely surprising to you when, two months later, you ended up pushed against Tim’s living room wall, panting as he pressed open mouth kisses to your neck.

“Just so we’re clear,” you gasped, “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Tim chuckled, his breath warm against your skin, “I know. Totally casual.”

“Right. Completely.” Even as you spoke, you were pulling Tim up to meet your lips. His mouth parted, meeting yours in a kiss that made your blood warm. His tongue slipped in your mouth, and you moaned. His smile pressed against you, much like his hardening length pressed against your thigh. You snaked a hand down his chest to feel him through his pants, and he cursed.

“Fuck. That’s it. Bedroom. Now.”

---

It went on like that for months. Honestly, it was an easy pattern that the two of you fell into. You didn’t ride together, so you didn’t have to worry about inappropriateness during the workday.

Well… that wasn’t strictly true. There were definitely moments on shift when it took all your self control not to pull Tim into a spare closet and make out like teenagers.

But, somehow, you survived.

And so you settled into a sort of routine. You’d look at Tim after work, your eyes heated, and he’d come over. He’d look at you while you took the lead on a case, and you’d come over. Over and over and over again. It didn’t take long before he’d learnt your body like it was your own. He knew exactly where to kiss, where to caress, and where to bite to get whatever reaction he wanted from you. And you memorized his body in turn. You were pretty sure you could make him finish in your sleep, you knew him and his body so well.

You didn’t go a week without hooking up. In all honesty, you only really went a few days.

But for all your learning his body, you didn’t expect to start learning his mind too. His tells. The way his shoulders sat a bit higher and tighter than usual whenever a case was getting to him. That tick in his jaw when he was worried. And you could tell, despite your attempts to keep things casual and without feelings, that he was learning you too.

Thing started to… morph. It started small. He brought you a coffee in the middle of the day (a pump of vanilla, half strength, just how you liked it), claiming that he could tell you were tired. You’d denied it, but he was right. You’d barely slept the night before, tossing and turning all night over a murder you just couldn’t clock. No one had noticed, and you’d layered up on concealer, but there was Tim, handing you a coffee in silence.

He started doing that every day. That wasn’t the only thing that was different either. You were both starting to… rely on each other. You went to him after someone died because you didn’t solve a case in time, and he pulled you into a hug silently, scratching the hair by your ear in the way that he knew would take all the tension from your body. He came to you after a rough day and fucked you against a wall so hard your hips bruised, and he kissed your forehead and thanked you after.

Neither of you admitted it. You still claimed that everything was casual. Tim really seemed to believe it, even as he acted more and more like your boyfriend each day. But every time you slept together, he’d remind you of your ‘no feelings’ rule. He’d never stay after, and you wouldn’t dare say anything. Because, goddammit, you’d fallen for him. And you knew that for him, this was nothing more than meaningless friend-sex. A release of tension and stress. So, you stayed silent. You repeated your mantra of ‘this is just casual’ before he had the chance to say it himself. Because it was better to have half of him than nothing at all.

---

Your stomach was growling. You hadn’t had time to eat, having been too focused on the case you were working on. Your eyes weren’t focusing properly, most likely a product of too little food and too much caffeine, but you didn’t have time to take a break.

A burrito appeared on your desk. You frowned and looked up. Tim was standing in front of you, scowling.

“You need to eat,” he said, voice gruff. “Here.”

You stuttered, unsure of what to say, “I… thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Tim was gone before you could ask how he’d known you hadn’t eaten. You unwrapped your burrito in silence, but if you listened closely, you could hear the sound of your heart thumping in your chest.

---

Tim was the one to initiate the next time. At that point, you’d been in this arrangement for close to six months, and you’d have three people ask you if you were dating. You laughed it off and shrugged; “We’re just friends.” Angela knew you were hooking up, but she didn’t know you’d fallen in love with Tim. At least, you’d never admitted it too her.

The sex was starting to hurt. Emotionally, that was. Physically, Tim was still the best you’d ever had. But every time he looked at you with bedroom eyes, a little part of your heart ached.

“You okay with this?” Tim asked, looking up at you from where he crouched between your damp thighs. You were spread out on your sofa, legs resting slightly on Tim’s shoulder. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence - Tim ate pussy like a man starved. His eyes had a way of widening when he looked up at you down there, and he looked remarkably vulnerable. The blueness in his eyes was almost overcome by his blown-out pupils. He glanced between your legs and licked his lips.

You considered saying no. It was easier to pretend you didn’t feel anything when he was fucking you hard and fast, and you couldn't see his face. But you nodded your head, threaded a hand through his hair, and brought his lips down to meet you. Instantly, his lips attached to you, sucking and nibbling. His tongue darted to press against your opening, and you moaned.

“Shit, Tim,” you groaned, watching him move. He didn’t take his eyes off your face, even as he licked a stripe up your cunt. The eye contact was too much for you – Tim’s eyes always held so much emotion. Something bordering on adoration. Or maybe that was just your sex-addled brain mistaking lust for genuine affection.

What would it be like for Tim to pleasure you this way if he loved you? Would he still watch you the whole time? Would he mark your thighs to show that you were his? Not just his fuck buddy, but his. Your pleasure came in shocking waves as Tim worked you to an orgasm. If only to break the eye contact, you threw your head back. It was lucky you lived alone, because just after, Tim slipped a finger inside you and circled his tongue around your clit.

“Fuckin’ delicious,” he muttered. He must’ve been choking, because that was the only time he’d come up for air. He sucked gently on your clit and crooked a finger.

Two tears fell right as you came.

---

Tim didn’t stay after the sex. He never did. It was part of your agreement. You fucked; you didn’t cuddle. Still, lying in bed alone, you couldn’t help but picture what it would be like to fall asleep next to him. It had happened once, at his house, after a particularly stressful case. You’d both been so exhausted, and so worn out from the sex that you hadn’t been bothered to leave his bed. That’d been before you’d fallen for him, and you regularly cursed yourself for not appreciating what you had at the time.

God. How had you gotten yourself into this situation? Tim was… well, he wasn’t perfect, but he was rough, and grumpy and hard to get to know. But underneath that, he was genuinely sweet and compassionate, and had a bigger heart than anyone you knew. Of course you’d fallen for him. How had you been so naïve to think you wouldn’t?

Tears came quickly then and soon turned into wracking sobs. You just wanted Tim to feel for you what you felt for him – to want you as more than just someone to relieve stress with, as more than a casual fuck buddy. You wanted him to want you. It wasn’t enough any more to take the scraps of affection he threw to you during sex. You wanted all of him.

But he’d been very clear about the fact this was supposed to be no-strings-attached. No feelings. Definitely no falling in love. He didn’t look at you the way you looked at him, and he never would.

So as much as it hurt, you only had one choice. You had to stop. No more hookups, no more booty calls. Definitely no more free lunch or coffee when he saw you tired. You needed to save your heart, even if it meant loosing him completely.

---

The next time Tim asked for sex, you said no.

It was one of his less subtle requests – he’d pulled you into his office during the middle of the day.

“Do you want to come over tonight?” He asked, arms crossed over his chest in that way that made them bulge unfairly.

You just stared at him, frozen. It took almost an entire minute of him staring before you finally mustered up the courage to say no.

Tim frowned, “Oh. Okay. That’s fine. Are you alright?” You’d never said no to coming over before, not in the eight months of you doing this.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said with a quick nod. You paused. Took a shaky breath. “We can’t do this anymore, Tim.” You looked away for a moment, refusing to let emotion overwhelm you.

“What? Why?” He took a step forward, but didn’t make a move to touch you. His eyebrows furrowed. “Did I do something?”

“No!” You exclaimed, “No, you didn’t do anything. I just… I can’t.” You voice was thick in your throat, and you looked anywhere but Tim. There were four spiderwebs in the corner of his room.

“Okay. Why? Are you okay?” Tim’s eyes flitted over you. Not in an appreciative way, but in a scanning, assessing one. Your shoulders were tight, and you were refusing to look at him. Or answer him, for that matter. So, he stepped forward and tried to meet your eyes. “Y/n. What’s wrong?”

You swallowed. Rolled your eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine.” Your voice came out a bit harsher than you intended. Goddammit, why did he have to be so perceptive? “Just let it go,” you snapped.

“No! Something’s going on. This isn’t like you.” Tim insisted.

At that, you scoffed, mourning over your not-relationship bubbling up into anger, “What’s not like me? Saying no to sex? Sorry if I don’t want to just be a cheap booty call anymore, Tim.”

Tim actually staggered. “Is that what you think this is?”

“Isn’t it? That’s what we said, right? No feelings!” You threw your hands up in frustration, tears burning behind your eyes. “Well surprise! I fucking… fuckin’ caught feelings!” Your voice broke, more a choked sob than anything else. You looked at the flaw, desperately trying to blink away the tears in your eyes.

Tim stepped forward slightly and gently pinched your chin between two fingers. “Y/n. Look at me. You have feelings for me?”

Two tears slipped down your cheeks. That was enough of an answer. “I know. I know. You don’t feel the same.”

“Oh, you wonderful idiot.” Tim barked out a laugh. “Is that what you think? Of course I have feelings for you, Y/n! I’m in love with you, for God’s sake! You think I bring coffee and food to people I’m just hooking up with?”

You stared in shock, unable to look away from Tim. “You… love me?”

“Of course I love you!”

“When?” You barely whispered the word.

“Months now.”

You choked out a watery laugh. “Oh, god. Oh, god, we wasted so much time. Why didn’t I see it? Why did you say something?”

“I was scared,” Tim admitted, “I didn’t think you felt the same.”

You shook your head, leaning your forehead against Tim’s chest. “God, we’re such idiots.”

Tim’s chest rumbled with laughter. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.” Again, he cupped your jaw and brought your gaze level with his. “But since I can say it now… I love you, Y/n Y/l/n. More than I… thought I could love anything. Anyone.”

You smiled softly, a funny warm feeling blooming in your chest. “I love you too, Tim Bradford.”

“Give me the chance to make up for lost time. Let me be yours,” Tim whispered, his lips brushing over yours. “Go out with me?”

You didn’t even answer, you just pressed your smiling lips against his. You had wasted time to make up for, after all.

fin.