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[thisduchessreads]

Across The Hall (11) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael brings you home and takes care of you. You talk things through, and by the end, you’re both on the same page and closer than before.

Word Count: 3990

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull), Non-sexual nudity

Authors Notes: Just one more part. Part 12 will be the last (until futher notice, Maybe a sequel depending on season 2??? I'm sad ngl LOL. I’ll save the sappy talk in the next authors note.) If any of you watch Animal Kingdom I’m writing an Andrew Cody fic. So keep a look out for that. I have it typed, but Idk what the call it. Idk my writing process is wack. I don’t think, I just do. I don’t plan at all and I just make shit up as I go… but whatever works right? All of this is just for fun hence my user lol okay I’ll go now. Enjoy - Ryn (sorry for errors if you’ve been following along for this long y’all know I don’t proof read whoops)

After the end of Michael’s swift, he walked through the ER, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack, the other intertwined with yours.

He felt the stares immediately—wide eyes from the staff, surprised expressions barely masked. They weren’t entirely sure what they were seeing. Or maybe they were. Maybe they just couldn’t believe it.

Michael caught it too. He met the glances of a few nurses, offered a small, tight-lipped smile, then looked away.

Michael wasn’t embarrassed—he could never be embarrassed of you. That wasn’t it. He just didn’t want everyone in his business. But that line had already been crossed.

Rumor and gossip swirled, but his main focus, his main priority was you. Nothing else matter

Michael, he took you home—his place. He wanted you to stay there; it was easier that way. He had emergency supplies if anything went wrong, and it let him keep a close eye on you.

As the two of you made your way down the hall toward his apartment, neither of you said anything about the arrangement. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer an explanation. He expected you to protest—maybe argue, insist on going to your side of the hall—but you didn’t.

You wanted to. You thought about saying you didn’t want to intrude, that you’d be fine on your own. But the words never made it out. You were in too much pain, too wrung out and exhausted to care. And you already knew what he’d say—something about keeping an eye on you, monitoring for symptoms, making sure you didn’t take a turn.

So you stayed quiet. And followed him in.

“You probably want a shower,” he said softly

You nodded, but your body swayed a little too far to the left.

He caught your arm. “Careful.”

Together, you made your way toward the bathroom. Every movement felt floaty and too heavy at the same time—like your body wasn’t entirely yours. The edges of the room tilted, just slightly, and you blinked hard to stay grounded.

When you enter the bathroom you. “Can you stay?”

Your voice was quiet.

Michael didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You reach for the hem of your shirt, but your hands fumbled, clumsy. Lifting your arms made your vision blur, and you winced, one hand going instinctively to your lump

He stepped forward. “Hey—stop. Let me.”

You didn’t argue.

His hands were gentle as he helped you out of your clothes, moving slowly, methodically. When he eased the shirt over your head, you closed your eyes against the spinning, and he steadied you with one hand at your waist.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, the shirt now crumpled in his hand.

You nodded again, though you weren’t sure. “Just dizzy.”

You kicked off your shoes, the cool floor sending a small shiver up your spine. Your fingers trembled slightly as you fumbled with the button of your jeans, struggling to pull them down past your hips. The fabric caught at your thighs, and you paused, leaning on the sink to keep from swaying too much. 

When you finally slid your jeans down and stepped out of them, you stood there, vulnerable in just your bra and underwear. 

Michael didn’t move closer or look away. His eyes softened, not with desire, but with something quieter: care and respect. He gave you space, knowing you needed it, but stayed close enough that you could reach out if you lost your balance.

“Sit for a moment,” Michael said softly.

You lowered yourself slowly onto the closed toilet seat.

Michael moved toward the tub, turning the cold and hot taps, adjusting until the water flowed warm. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and stepped out briefly. When he returned, he held a thick, fluffy towel and a neatly folded set of clothes. 

“I don’t think I should stand,” you admitted, voice low, your body still heavy with exhaustion.

“Okay,” Michael nodded understandingly. “You don’t have to stand. You can sit.”

Carefully, you got off the toilet and moved to the edge of the tub, the smooth porcelain cool beneath your hands. You dipped your feet into the water, feeling the warmth as it flows around your feet.

Michael goes to sit on the closed toilet seat. 

“I’m gonna…” you said softly, pulling at the strap of your bra to let him know you were about to take it off.

He shifted slightly, turning his body toward the door, giving you the privacy you needed to strip without feeling exposed.

You hesitated for a moment, then began to remove your bra, the fabric slipping softly from your shoulders. Then your underwear followed. You lowered yourself slowly into the tub, 

Curling your knees up toward your chest, you hugged them gently, covering your body feeling safe and cocooned.

“Okay,” you said softly, signaling that he could turn back.

“You sure?” Michael asked quietly, his voice gentle and concerned, wanting to make sure you were comfortable being this vulnerable in front of him.

“Yes,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but steady. “I trust you.”

“Okay I’m turning around” 

Michael turned and stood up. He reached for the shower head, pulling the pin on the faucet to redirect the water. The steady stream shifted from the tub spout to the handheld shower, and he adjusted the flow gently, ready to help you wash.

Michael held the shower head steady, the warm spray falling in a gentle rhythm. He aimed the water over your shoulders and back in careful movements.

“Let me know if the water’s too hot or cold,” he said softly.

You nodded, eyes closing as the warmth soaked into your skin. The sound of water filled the quiet room, calming your breath.

“I’m going to wash your hair first,” he said.

You gave a small nod.

He adjusted the shower head and used his hand to shield your eyes, carefully wetting your hair. His fingers moved gently through it, avoiding the tender lump where your skull was fractured. He worked the shampoo in with care, soft and slow, then rinsed it clean.

When he was done, he reached for a washcloth, soaked it under the water, and handed it to you.

“Here,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “I’ll let you do the rest.”

You took it from him with a quiet “Thanks,” and began washing your arms and chest, slow and steady. 

As you washed yourself, Michael respectfully turned his head, gaze fixed on the tiled wall. He kept holding the shower head steady, adjusting the angle when needed, but never looked your way.

Once you’d finished rinsing, you gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Michael turned off the water. He set the shower head down carefully and reached for the towel he’d left nearby.

“Here,” he said softly, draping the towel over your shoulders. His hands were steady, mindful. “Take your time.”

You nodded, then slowly pushed yourself up to stand. Your legs felt shaky beneath you. Michael offered his arm, and you took it, leaning into his steady presence as you stepped carefully out of the tub. Water dripped from your legs onto the mat below.

As he helped you find your balance, you adjusted the towel at your chest, making sure it stayed in place, then tucked the edge securely.

He reached for the clean white shirt he’d brought and gently held it open for you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded.

You held the towel closed as he slipped the shirt over your head, guiding it gently down your arms. The fabric brushed your skin, soft and clean. Once it was in place, you let the towel fall. The shirt settled over your body—short, but long enough to cover you where it mattered.

Michael turned away without a word, facing the bathroom door again to give you privacy.

You reached for the shorts and stepped into them slowly, pulling them up and adjusting the waistband. 

Reaching for the towel you’d just let fall, you brought it up to your head and began to dry your hair gently. The motion was slow, cautious. Each pat was careful, mindful not to press too hard.

“All set,” you said quietly.

He turned around and asked, “Are you hungry? I can make you something.”

You looked up, a little unsure. “You don’t mind?”

“Course not,” he said with a smile.

“Please.”

The two of you walked into the kitchen. Michael grabbed a pot and started making chicken noodle soup. The soft sound of the spoon stirring and the warm smell of the soup soon filled the room, making everything feel calm and cozy.

He set the pot to simmer on the stove, then turned to gather a few bowls and spoons. The soft clinking of dishes echoed through the quiet kitchen.

You settled onto a stool at his island table.

Michael glanced over and gave you a small, reassuring smile. “It won’t be long.”

You nodded, feeling the calm settle around you, grateful for this simple care.

Michael carried the bowls over to you, setting one down in front of you. You wrapped your hands around the warm bowl, feeling a small comfort in its heat.

He sat down beside you, and for a moment, you both simply savored the quiet. 

The two of you ate quietly at the island, the soft clink of spoons the only sound between you. The soup was exactly what you needed. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until your bowl was nearly empty.

When you finished, you murmured a soft thank you, and Michael just nodded, already rinsing the dishes in the sink.

Afterward, you both headed back toward the bathroom. Michael knelt down and opened the cabinet under the sink, pulling out a fresh toothbrush still in its packaging. He handed it to you with a small smile.

“Figured you might want this.”

“Thanks,” you said, voice low with weariness.

While you brushed your teeth, Michael disappeared down the hall. He moved quietly, setting up his bedroom—thinking ahead to anything you might need.

When he returned, he leaned gently against the doorframe and asked, “You ready to sleep?”

You nodded.

You stepped into his room and paused. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the space. On the nightstand, he’d placed a bottle of water, a few folded towels, and a small plastic basin—just in case. The sheets were pulled back neatly.

You climbed into his bed, sinking. It smelled like him, familiar in a way that made you feel safe.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly.

You heard him moving in the other room, picking up after dinner or maybe putting things away. But by the time he came back to check on you, you were already asleep—curled up beneath the blankets, the soft rise and fall of your breath the only sound in the room.

—

You woke in the middle of the night, disoriented for a moment. The sheets smelled of him. 

Michael

You were in Michael’s bed.

Yet, the space next to you was empty. 

Soft snoring came from somewhere nearby. You rolled over, careful with your head. Your eyes adjusted slowly, picking up the outline of a shape on the floor—a silhouette in the dark room. Quiet and still, except for the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing. Michael, curled up on the floor with a pillow and a blanket.

“Michael…” you whispered.

Nothing.

“Michael.” You say a little louder. 

He stirred with a quiet groan from the floor. “Hmm? Hey—what’s wrong? You okay?” His voice was heavy with sleep, words slurring together in the dark. 

“What are you doing on the floor?”

“​​I didn’t want to jostle you,” he murmured. “You'd sleep better without someone next to you.” he said, still half-asleep, words slurred with drowsiness. 

You listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing. Then your voice came softly, tentative but firm. “Lay with me…”

He exhaled hard, a sound of reluctant surrender, shifting to find a more comfortable position on the floor. “Not a chance.”

Trying not to sound irritated, you pressed on. “Whatever worst-case scenario you’ve built up in that doctor’s brain of yours, it’s not gonna happen.”

“Just go to sleep. You need the rest.” His tone was gentle but firm, and he didn’t move.

Silence stretched out between you, thick and heavy like the dark itself.

“Your back’s going to be sore,” you said quietly, your words a soft concern in the stillness.

“A sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he mumbled, already drifting back toward sleep, his voice fading like a whisper.

“You’re gonna regret it. You’ll never beat those old-man allegations.”

“I’m middle-aged, not old,” he protested weakly.

“Exactly, you’re practically headed to the old folks’ home.”

“Hey.” He scoffed, a dry laugh slipping through despite the quiet.

You giggled softly. 

The room fell silent again.

“Come on, Lay with me…”

“Sweetheart, please just go back to sleep.”

“Michael, Please?” 

He let out a long breath. You heard the blanket rustle as he sat up, then the creak of the mattress as he eased himself into the space beside you—slow, careful, like he was afraid of accidentally hurting you. 

He stayed on top of the covers, his body turned slightly toward you but keeping his distance.

“Happy now?” he murmured. “Now, go back to sleep…”

And somehow, despite everything—your aching head, the nausea,—you did.

A few times throughout the night, the nausea came back, unexpected and relentless. Each time, you stirred, feeling the sickness twist in your stomach. And each time, Michael was there—plastic basin in hand, ready before you even had to ask.

He got up with you, never once complaining or pulling away. He rubbed your back gently, his hand warm against your skin as he whispered softly, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“My chicken noodle soup was that bad, huh?” he joked, knowing you were only throwing up because of your injury.

“Michael…” you groan out a laugh. Your laugh told him everything — that you thought it was funny, but not funny because you were throwing up.

He laughs softly, “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He brushed your hair back from your forehead, his fingers light and soothing. Even in the darkness, his voice was a comfort, steady and reassuring. He leaned in and kissed the spot where your shoulder and neck met, a quiet promise that he’d be there, no matter what.

At some point in the night, Michael had ended up under the covers. Now, the two of you lay curled on your sides, facing the same direction, careful not to jostle your injury. Your head rested on a second, softer pillow he’d propped just right to keep pressure off the side with the fracture. His chest was pressed gently against your back, his body warm and steady behind you.

Michael's arm rested low across your waist, heavy in sleep but comforting. He’d left enough space between your heads to avoid brushing against the sensitive side, but his presence was still close. It wasn’t quite a spoon, more like a careful hover

When you woke, the space beside you was empty. The sheets were still warm, faintly holding the shape of where Michael had been. You blinked against the soft morning light filtering in through the curtains and slowly sat up in bed, careful with your head.

A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open. Michael stepped in, balancing a tray with both hands — toast, scrambled eggs, some cut-up fruit, and a cup of tea that still steamed.

“Breakfast in bed?” you chuckled, memories stirring of quieter mornings months ago when you’d surprised him the same way.

“Like I said, you set the bar pretty high,” he said, quoting himself from that morning with a crooked smile.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your smile gentle and touched with sleep.

He made his way over and climbed into bed beside you with the tray. You shifted slightly to make room, sitting up a little straighter against the pillows he’d fluffed and stacked behind you the night before. He settled in next to you like it was second nature, his thigh pressed warmly against yours, careful not to jostle the arrangement supporting your head.

The tray rested comfortably across your lap, 

“How are you feeling?”

You took a moment before answering, eyes flicking down to the plate in your lap. “Okay,” you said slowly. “Still a little off, but… I don’t feel dizzy. And my stomach isn’t doing somersaults, so that’s a win.”

“Good. That’s good.” He nodded, though the crease between his brows lingered. Then, more gently, “How’s the head?”

“I’ll give you some meds after breakfast,” he said, his voice low, edged with concern. “Something mild, won’t knock you out.”

You nodded slowly, leaning into his touch just a little.

“Okay.”

He let his hand rest there a moment longer, thumb brushing lightly against your temple. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

“I know...and thank you for yesterday at the ER, and last night...for taking care of me"

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said, his voice low.

He just gave you a soft smiled and leaned in and kissed your forehead—slow, steady, like he needed reassurance as much as you did. When he pulled back, there was a softness in his eyes that lingered just a beat longer before he shifted the mood.

Michael exhaled quietly and gave a half-smile, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own. 

“Though I kept it light,” he said, nodding toward the plate. “Hoping it’s not bad enough that you threw it up like the chicken noodle soup a few times last night.”

You groaned through a laugh, nudging his arm. “Stooopp,” you said, drawing the word out as your smile spread. You knew he was joking gently, lovingly and it made you feel lighter somehow.

He grinned and leaned in, his lips brushing your temple in a soft kiss. “Just saying… if you do throw it up, I’ve got the basin nearby. We’re a well-oiled machine at this point.”

You laughed again, more freely this time, “You’re the worst.”

“Nah,” he said, handing you the fork. “Just your personal chef, doctor, and comedian all rolled into one.”

You smiled as you picked at the fruit, choosing a slice of melon first. Michael reached for a piece of toast, took a bite, and chewed beside you in comfortable silence.

Then, you glanced over at him, something soft but serious settling in your expression.

“Can we talk?” you asked quietly.

His chewing slowed. He looked at you—really looked at you—and nodded like he already knew what you meant.

“You sure you wanna do that now?” he asked gently. “We don’t have to… we can wait.”

You shook your head. “No. I think we should.” Your fingers toyed with the edge of the tray. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, setting the toast back down. “Of course. Whatever you wanna do.”

Together, without saying much else, you both reached for the tray. He helped steady it while you shifted slightly, and you slid it carefully onto the nightstand beside you. The plates clinked lightly as they settled.

He turned back to face you, one leg bent slightly on the bed, elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you with quiet patience.

“I thought about what you said—the night of my ceremony, sitting on that park bench, and then the morning after, when you told me I needed to figure out what I really want, what I truly need. You said if I kept pushing people away, I’d only end up hurting people who care. And I realized even myself and… after everything went down in the elevator, I broke up with Aiden that night. I told him I was done. That I needed to be on my own. I’ve been working on myself since then. I still am.”

Your voice faltered slightly, but you held his gaze, feeling the weight of every word between you. It wasn’t easy to say, but it was true. You were trying, really trying, to heal.

“You told me a man won’t make me question whether I’m loved… He won’t make me beg for affection, or make me feel like I’m asking for too much just by wanting to be seen.”

You swallowed hard, vulnerability threading through your voice. “That man… that man is you, Michael. And I want you. I want us.”

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining gently, searching for reassurance. “But I still have so much work to do on myself. I want to be whole before I can really be with someone. I hope you understand.”

Michael’s eyes softened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Hey,” he said quietly, “we don’t have to rush into anything. We’ll take all the time you need.”

A warm relief washed over you, and you exhaled slowly, your heart beating steadier.

“We’ll go slow,” he continued, voice steady and certain. “At whatever pace feels right for you. Because you matter. And this—us—it’s worth waiting for.”

“You’re not worried?” you asked.

“About what?”

You hesitated. “That I’m… 25. Naive. Stupid… I don’t know…

You looked down at your guys hands. 

Michael didn’t speak right away. His, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady.

“The age gap crossed my mind,” he admitted. “You’ve still got so much ahead of you. And I’ve lived through a lot. I worried I might hold you back. That one day you’ll see all of this differently, me differently and regret it.”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just full.

After a moment, Michael’s grip tightened just slightly, as if to anchor both of you.

“But the truth is,” he said softly, “being with you… it’s never felt like a mistake. Not once. I’m here because I want to be—with you—not because I’m trying to relive anything, or because I’m afraid of being alone.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes, searching for the certainty you needed.

“I know you’re young,” he continued, “and that life still has so much to show you. But I don’t want to hold you back. I want to walk beside you, whatever comes next.”

Your heart fluttered, caught between hope and fear.

“Do you really mean that?” you whispered.

Michael smiled gently. “More than anything.”

“Like k said we’ll take it slow. You set the pace—always. No rushing, no pressure. It’s about us, moving at whatever speed feels right for you.”

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

“I just want to be here—with you—however that looks.”

You felt the tension ease, like a weight lifting from your chest.

“Whatever you need, we’ll figure it out together….okay” 

“Okay” you smile. 

Your lips find Michael’s—soft, lingering kisses that make your heart flutter, but you can’t help the giggles that escape between each one.

He pulls back slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his lips as he searches your face, his eyes warm and curious.

“What? What’s so funny sweetheart?” he asks, chuckling softly, his brows lifting in genuine curiosity.

You press your fingers to your mouth, still grinning. “Your beard… It’s tickling my face.”

Michael chuckles, brushing his thumb gently along your cheek. “Oh really?” he teases, leaning in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“It didn’t bother you before,” he says, raising an eyebrow playfully.

You smirk, teasing back, “Because when you first kissed me, tensions were high. I was too distracted by everything else to notice the tickles.”

He laughs quietly, the sound low and easy. “So you’re saying my rugged charm is… too much for you to handle now?”

You laugh again, softer this time, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him a little closer. “I’m saying your rugged charm needs a trim”

His grin widens, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he murmurs, pressing another gentle kiss to your nose. “But no promises.”

No more questions, no more worries—just a shared understanding. Whatever the future holds, you know you’re not alone. You and Michael are on the same page now, ready to take the next step, however slow or steady it may be.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere@beebeechaos@antisocialfiore@delicatetrashtree@xxxkat3xxx@homebytheharbor@woodxtock@letstryagaintomorrow@livingavilaloca@elkitot@annabellee88@hagarsays@emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989@whos6claire@harrysgothicbitch@trustme3-13@qardasngan@silas-aeiou@k3ndallroy@ohmystrawberrycheesecake@ay0nha@404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy@steviebbboi@alliegc28@catmomstyles3@ardentistella@madprincessinabox@circumspectre@the-one-with-the-grey-color@thatchickwiththecamera@violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin@capj-1437@airgoddess@nah2991@interestellarprincess@laurensfilm@peachjellyy@aj3684@sorryimstupidrn@escapingjune@robbyslittlelamb@nicisthename92@littlezee80@lucidanne@spooky-librarian-ghost@the-salty-asian@lonelyheartsm@lovelyjulieee @memoriesat30 @glamorizethechaos @guiltypleassure243 @princessjayll @teapartydreams

Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11)

[thisduchessreads]

Personal Space

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: ~1,600

Tone: Flirty, fluffy, slow-burn with teasing

Warnings: suggestiveness (tinsy tiny), one brain cell shared between Spencer and the reader when it comes to feelings

a/n: spencer Reid fic from the polee (I was hoping it was George Weasley😖) but I still love me some reid

Your desk faces forward. Spencer’s desk is directly behind yours, parallel in that perfect, FBI-efficient way. Which means you spend approximately 62% of your time slowly spinning in your chair to talk to him.

It started innocently—questions about reports, inside jokes during late nights, coffee refills delivered with a dramatic swivel. But now, it’s become a habit. You lean over his desk without thinking, draping across his space, nudging papers, stealing pens, “borrowing” candy.

And the most fascinating part?

He never tells you to stop.

Hotch once walked by and you were halfway sitting on Spencer’s desk, poking at his notes with your pen, and Spencer didn’t even blink. But when Morgan tried to leave his coffee cup on Spencer’s stack of files?

Spencer swatted it off like a fly and snapped, “Please don’t clutter my workspace.”

That’s when Morgan noticed.

“Yo, Pretty Boy,” Morgan says one morning, leaning on the edge of your desk with a too-wide grin. “How come when I so much as breathe near your books, you act like I’ve threatened national security, but she—” he nods toward you, where you’re perched backward in your chair, full torso leaning into Spencer’s space “—basically lives in your lap and you don’t say a damn word?”

Spencer glances up from his files, ears already pink. “I don’t—she’s not—”

You spin fully around, chin in your hand. “I’m charming. It’s a well-documented immunity.”

Morgan chuckles, folding his arms. “So that’s how it is?”

“Could be,” you say sweetly. “Unless someone else wants to let me take over their desk space and steal their snacks.”

Morgan holds up his hands. “Nah, nah. I like my boundaries.”

Spencer murmurs something into his folder, barely audible.

“What was that?” you ask, turning to him again with a teasing glint in your eyes.

“I said you can keep stealing my snacks,” he mumbles, not meeting your gaze.

Morgan gives you both the most dramatic side-eye ever recorded in Quantico history. “Mm-hmm.”

You test it later, just to see.

You drape yourself across Spencer’s desk with zero purpose—just your elbows propped up and your chin in your palms, watching him work.

“You're gonna get a paper cut to the face one day,” Emily says as she walks by, smirking.

“I’m conducting important psychological field research,” you reply. “Studying the Reid in his natural habitat.”

Spencer glances at you. “That implies I’m some kind of… lab rat.”

You grin. “A cute lab rat.”

Spencer stares for a second too long, then blinks and returns to his files. His ears? Pink.

Two days later, you wear something a little… new. Not scandalous. Just a fitted wrap top with a neckline that dips a little lower than usual. It hugs your waist. Shows just a hint more. You don't plan it for Spencer.Okay. Maybe you do. A little.

You barely sit down before you turn in your chair again, arms draped over the back as you rest your chin near Spencer’s stack of books.

“Morning,” you say softly.

His head snaps up. His eyes flick to your face—and then, instinctively, lower.

Just for a second. Barely a blink.

But you catch it.

He looks away immediately, pretending to read a chart. His posture is too straight. His jaw clenched.

You smirk. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” he says, not looking up.

You lean just a little closer. “You seem tense.”

Morgan, passing by, drops his coffee right into a trash can because he’s not subtle. “Well, well, well. Interesting outfit choice, sunshine.”

“Thanks!” you chirp, fully unbothered. “Spencer didn’t say anything, but he looked.”

Spencer chokes.

Emily stops mid-step. “Reid. Did you stare at cleavage on government property?”

“I didn’t stare,” he sputters, burying his face in a case file. “I glanced. There’s a difference. It’s neurological.”

“Dude,” Morgan says, grinning like the cat that caught the mouse. “You are down bad.”

You laugh, and Spencer gives you a helpless, side-eyed glance. It’s adorable.

Later, when the bullpen empties out for lunch, you linger. He’s still sitting at his desk, scribbling in his notebook, pretending nothing happened.

You perch yourself on the corner of his desk. “You really didn’t mind?”

Spencer looks up at you slowly, expression softer now. “When you’re here?”

He shrugs, offering a half-smile. “It actually makes the day better.”

Your chest flutters, but you stay cool. “Even when I mess up your system?”

“I built a new system,” he admits.

“Around you”

You blink.

“Oh.”

He clears his throat, going back to his notes. “Anyway.”

You hop off the desk and lean in close, lips near his ear. “In that case… I’m never sitting straight again.”

Spencer swallows hard. “Please don’t.”

You grin. “Told you. I’m charming.”

As you walk away, you don’t have to look back to know he’s watching.

And for once, you’re the one who doesn’t say a word…

[thisduchessreads]

Good As Gold

summary | You found yourself the object of the Prince Aemond's stares, the reason why, you knew not. (based on this request)

pairing | aemond targaryen x lady-in-waiting!reader

tags | fluff, awkward ooc aemond + shy reader, aemond has zero game, awkward courting, a spider is the ultimate wingman, Aemond With Kids!!!

wordcount | 4k

note | semester's over, i am FREEEE!! here's the first non-queued fic in over three weeks, so happy to be writing again! this one's short and sweet, and is the unofficial prequel to Sweet, Wonderful You! this is still a standalone fic but i wrote this with that fic in mind.

likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated! <3

(divider by @zaldritzosrose)

The prince was staring again.

His gaze was sharp, prickling your skin while you tried to ignore how the hairs on the back of your neck stood from the weight of his stare. You stood beside your princess, the quiet Helaena, while in court. Your fellow ladies-in-waiting whispered and gossiped under their breaths, but you could only listen, your body paralyzed under the constant stare of a certain one-eyed prince.

You knew not why he had taken such an interest in you; if you could even call it that. In your moons as his sister’s lady-in-waiting, you barely spoke a few words to prince Aemond, mostly in the form of formal greetings when your paths crossed. 

You came to King’s Landing with your father in hopes of finding a suitor for his only daughter. With your arrival, the queen welcomed you into the service of being one of princess Helaena’s ladies, spending your days with your fellow young women– sewing, singing, and accompanying the princess. When you were not called to your duties, your father introduced you to noble lords. You smiled and charmed them to the best of your abilities by your father’s bidding, which put you in many of the men’s good graces. There seemed to be no shortage of bachelors and unmarried lords within King’s Landing, both young and old alike, and so there was also an abundance of gifts delivered to your chambers. Be it flowers, books, or fabrics, there was always something new each day. The most extravagant gift you have received was a set of jewels, much to your astonishment. It was unclear who sent them; there was no letter from the sender and the servant kept his lips closed when he brought the present to your door. You couldn’t accept such fine jewelry with no idea of who it was from, and so you gently returned the present to the servant, sending your apologies to the mysterious suitor. 

The prospect of your marriage held little priority in your mind, blissfully enjoying your days with your sweet princess before you were to be whisked away by some lord. It was no secret within the court of the attention you have been receiving from the many lords of the Keep. You were young, quite fair, and the daughter of a respectable House, and many were vying for your hand. 

Perhaps that is why you have been subject to the heavy weight of prince Aemond’s stare as of late. Perhaps he thought the whole thing ridiculous, he was a prince of the realm, and it was beneath a man like him to spare any minute of his day wasting his time courting a girl like you, yet still, he stared.

You always felt it– at court, in the halls, even in the gardens. You wouldn’t dare confront him about it, but it irked you nonetheless. Did he know something about you that you weren’t aware of? Was someone spreading vapid rumors about you? Or worse, did he know of the time you had accidentally stepped on one of Helaena’s critters when she had gone to feed her babes? But you were alone!

Your thoughts ran wild as you walked to the princess’ apartments after she had called for you. The princess was heavy with her third child and often had no energy to entertain all of her ladies. Most days she only called for you, her favorite. You were much like her in a sense, quiet and reflective. Helaena enjoyed the moments when you both sat in silence, working on your embroideries or when you read to her while she lounged on the daybed, weary from the changes in her body to do anything else. Today seemed to be one of those days. 

Reaching the door to the princess's apartments, the knight standing guard knocked on the door to make your arrival known, before opening the heavy wood for you. 

“Princess,” you greeted her with a soft smile, though the surprise in your eyes was barely hidden at the sight of another silver-haired royal in her solar. 

“Prince Aemond.”

You curtsied to the prince who rose from his seat at your entrance. He only greeted you with a nod, the familiar sensation of his gaze upon you tingling your skin almost immediately.

“My apologies, I did not mean to intrude,” you started, but the princess only waved her hand in dismissal. She was only clad in her shift, her swollen bump covered by a robe. Her legs were extended on a footstool, and the exhaustion in her face was evident from the crease in between her brows. 

“Nonsense, my sweet. Come,” she beckoned you over. Prince Aemond moved away from his spot beside his sister to let you sit beside Helaena, settling on the settee opposite yours. The young babes, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, were on the carpet playing with dragon toys while their nanny watched.

“How are you feeling today, princess? The babe isn’t giving you much trouble, I hope?” you asked her. Helaena could only sigh, caressing her belly with a tired look on her face. “He is restless today. I can only hope he comes soon, for I can barely do anything without tiring myself out immediately after.”

“If I could do anything at all,” you offered, your features softening at your princess. She gave you a small smile, patting your hand on your lap and squeezing it appreciatively. 

“Having you here is more than enough. Your company is most welcome, and yours too, brother,” Helaena said, turning to Aemond who still sat quietly across from you. The corners of the prince’s lips lifted ever so slightly, a sight unfamiliar to you.

“It is the least I could do for you, Hel.” The prince’s tone was soft when addressing his sister, a sharp contrast to his austere demeanor. Aemond’s fondness for the princess was not well-known within the court, his cold looks and flinty nature preceding him. In the spare moments you found yourself present when the prince visited the princess in her chambers, you caught glimpses of the shift in his demeanor around Helaena. The sight was endearing, perhaps even bizarre to anyone else outside the royal family’s circle. He never stayed for long, departing with a kiss on Helaena’s hair and a formal nod to you. 

Today, however, it seemed that the prince found no disturbance in your presence within his sister’s sitting room. He listened along to your and Helaena’s conversation, lifting young Jaehaerys into his lap when the princeling crawled to his feet. 

“So,” Helaena started, shifting herself to sit up a little higher in her seat to turn to you. “Did your mystery admirer send you more jewels? Pearls, perhaps?”

Your cheeks burned at the princess’ words, wary of discussing the matter in front of the prince. Your eyes shifted to your lap, toying with your fingers shyly. You missed the way the prince’s good eye flickered to your form for a second, then to Helaena, before returning his attention to his nephew. 

“Oh, no. If he did, I would probably send them back again. I have no intention of accepting gifts from someone who does not make himself known,” you explained. Helaena giggled in amusement at your fluster, covering her lips with her ringed hand.

“Why not? I think it is quite romantic!”  You only shook your head at the princess, a shy smile lifting your cheeks.

“My affections cannot be swayed by jewels alone, I fear,” you said. Helaena only continued to giggle in amusement, her eyes flickering to Aemond and then back to you. You huffed along with the princess, though not quite catching what she found so funny. A clear of his throat cut through your chuckles, making you turn to the prince across from you.

“If I may ask, my lady, what would make one win your affection in gaining your hand?” Aemond asked. The question took you completely by surprise, leaving you stuttering for words as you struggled to give the prince a proper response. 

“W-well…” you stammered, turning to the princess who also awaited what you had to say. “I would like it if he would take an interest in me, as I will with him. If we are to be wed, I would want my lord husband to know what I like, and what I do not like. In return, I shall learn what pleases him and what does not. I would want our partnership to be fair, though I suspect that would be asking too much.”

“It is not,” the prince interjected. “A noble lady of a fine House should have her wants and needs met by the man who should take her as his wife.”

Surprise encompassed your features, taking on a bashful look at the prince’s words. You hadn’t expected him to take such interest in the matters of matrimony, especially yours. Aemond straightened up at the look on your face, awkwardly clearing his throat and turning to a grinning Helaena. “Don’t you think so, sister?”

“Oh, yes of course. I would like to see you happy in your marriage, and I think…” Helaena’s words were cut by a yawn, making her cover her mouth with her hand. Her evident exhaustion was only growing in the late afternoon, making you turn to her in concern.

“Why don’t you rest for a bit, princess? Supper isn’t for a few hours,” you suggested. The princess nodded but made no move to rise from her seat.

“That would be nice, but I would hate to leave Beth alone with the twins, they have gotten to be quite a handful to manage,” Helaena said, but you only responded with a shake of a head and a soft smile.

“I shall watch over the sweetlings happily, princess. ‘Tis no problem at all,” you gently persuaded her. The princess nodded, taking your hand to be helped up. As you accompanied her to her private bedchambers, the princess left a kiss on her brother’s cheek, who held a now sleeping Jaehaerys in his lap. You helped Helaena settle in her bed, lifting the covers to her chest. The tired princess let out a sigh of relief, letting herself relax against the cushions.

“I do hope my little critter is around here,” she mumbled. Your brows furrowed in confusion, asking her what she meant. 

“One of the spiders was gone from its jar this morning. I cannot recall letting it out, but I believe it cannot have gotten out of the apartments. Perhaps it is just crawling around.” 

You blanched at Helaena’s words, visibly gulping at her words. As much as you tried to indulge the princess in her interests, the little bugs she loved so dearly made your skin crawl. You willed yourself not to squirm every time Helaena made you take one into your hands, the sensation of their tiny legs on your skin unnerving. The thought of one possibly crawling by your feet made you unsettled, your eyes frantically searching the floors when you returned to the solar, so much that you didn’t spare a glance at the prince still sitting on the settee. You didn’t expect him to stay, but he seemed to make no move to leave.

“Is everything alright, my lady?” Aemond spoke up. You slightly jumped at his voice, before quickly composing yourself, flashing him a smile.

“Y-yes, my prince,” you responded. The nanny had taken the sleeping princeling from the one-eyed prince’s arms to return him to the nursery across the hall, while young Jaehaera continued to amuse herself with the dragon toys her mother had sewn together. You kneeled beside the young princess, taking one of the toys and playing with her, much to her delight. 

“You are good with her,” the prince spoke, making you turn to him. A bashful smile decorated your lips, closely following the princess who had started to waddle towards her uncle.

“They are adorable, I enjoy helping the princess take care of them whenever I can,” you smiled. Once Jaehaera settled into Aemond’s lap, she immediately took hold of the prince’s long silver tresses, pulling on them. The one-eyed prince merely groaned, but let his niece pull on his hair with no complaint, only pulling them away when she started to place them in her mouth. 

“No, no, sweet girl. Qȳbor ōghar iksis daor havor,” Aemond softly said, tickling the babe’s stomach. Jaehaera let out a squealing laugh, making you smile. The prince’s good eye flickered to yours when you chuckled at the sight of them, the corners of his lips threatening to lift at the sweet sound. (Uncle’s hair is not food.)

The young princess held out her arms to you, her small palms opening and closing. You stood from your place on the floor and walked over to the settee, dragon toy still in hand. You sat beside the prince, holding out the plush to the babe. She took them into her small palms, mumbling nonsense as she shoved it into Aemond’s face.

“The babes seem to be quite fond of you, my prince,” you commented, letting out another chuckle. Jaehaera managed to make herself stand up on her uncle’s lap, the prince holding her up by the armpits.

“Not as fond as I of them,” Aemond replied softly, planting a kiss on the babe’s plump cheek. You cooed when she mimicked him, planting open-mouthed kisses on her uncle’s face. The sight was utterly endearing, making you feel a warm twinge in your chest at the sight of the ice-cold dragon prince being melted away by his niece. 

Jaehaera soon managed to squirm her way off Aemond’s lap and onto the floor, returning to the scattered toys on the carpet. You stayed seated beside the prince, both of you keeping a close eye on the young princess. A silence encompassed the pair of you, the only sound in the room being Jaehaera’s wordless mumbles. Straightening his doublet, the one-eyed prince cleared his throat, turning his attention to you.

“I am aware your lord father has introduced many suitors vying for your hand. Have any of them managed to please you, my lady?” Aemond asked, his tone formal. You turned to find him staring at you, just as he always does. Your lips lifted into a downturned smile, while your fingers fiddled with your rings.

“They always do at the start, but their attention seems fickle. They ask the same things in hopes of getting to know me, and when I do respond it always floats into one ear and out the other,” you responded, earning a hum from the prince. His good eye flickered to Jaehaera and back to yours, his head giving you a small nod in agreement.

“And I assume the focus of the conversation immediately returns to them— their lands, their riches, yes?” Aemond asked, letting out a dark chuckle when you nodded in earnest. He grumbled something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch, though it sounded like his mother tongue. 

“Some of them aren’t too awful, and I am sure my father would want to find a respectable match for me,” you said, though you faltered at your own words. In truth, almost all of the lords who were courting you were absolutely dreadful to be around, and you couldn’t imagine spending a lifetime with the few that you found tolerable. Your hope for a good match was dwindling, making you realize that no fine gift can mask persuade you to make your choice.

“Earlier, you said you wished for your lord husband to be one to take interest in the small details to win your affections. What would that entail? How you take your tea in the morning and such?” 

You let out an awkward laugh at the prince’s words, though it seemed he had made no jest when his face remained neutral while he awaited your response. Your laugh died down to a clear of your throat, your cheeks warming in embarrassment.

“Y-yes, that would be a start,” you stammered. Aemond let out another hum, seemingly in thought. You bit your lip, turning away to check on Jaehaera, who continued to be lost in her own world of plush toys and blocks.

“And how do you take your tea in the morning, my lady?”

Your head whipped to Aemond, who stared back at you. In your shock, you gaped at him like a fish, your mind lost for words. The warmth in your cheeks spread over your entire face like a blanket, your pulse thrumming in your ears. His good eye trailed over your face, patient in his anticipation. 

Before you could formulate an answer, the door to Helaena’s chambers opened, Beth returning from the nursery. She informed you that it was time to put Jaehaera down for her nap as well, to which you nodded before she took the young princess away. The silence was deafening once the door closed behind the nanny, making you shift in your seat beside Aemond. The prince was the first to break the silence, his smooth voice slicing through the tension in the air.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I–” You barely uttered a response when you saw a splotch of black and orange on the edge of your skirts. 

Just your luck.

You jumped up from your seat, covering your mouth to mask your squeals so as to not wake Helaena. The spider continued to crawl its way up your skirts, making you shudder in fright. You resisted the strong urge to slap the critter away, your self-control barely kicking in through your panic. You had already killed one of Helaena’s spiders, you certainly were not about to kill another one.

“What is wrong?” Aemond asked, alarmed at your sudden reaction. You pointed to the creature on your skirt. It was hairy, with black and orange stripes. It walked slowly up your skirt on its legs, the sight utterly menacing.

“Spider!” you whispered loudly. In your panic, you failed to register how you had practically jumped halfway into Aemond’s lap. You ungracefully leaned your weight on a hand clamped on the prince’s thigh, making him groan when you squeezed a little too tightly. The position you were in was highly appropriate, but your rational thinking had flown out the window to make way for fear. Aemond wrapped an arm around your waist on instinct to balance you, though you continued to squirm uncomfortably when the spider inched crept towards your waistline. 

“Aem– my prince, get it off me, please!” you squeaked, making the prince let out a huff of amusement in your ear. You could only hope you weren’t disturbing the sleeping princess. With a pat on your waist, the prince reached to scoop the critter in his free hand. 

You finally let out a sigh of relief when Aemond pulled away to return the tarantula to its jar, calming down when the lid was screwed shut to prevent the spider from escaping once more. You recollected yourself, though you grew flustered once more at the sight of the amused smirk on the prince’s lips when he returned to his seat beside you.

“I take it you do not like spiders, then?” Aemond spoke, turning to you. You were filled with humiliation; your outburst was the most cowardly and the way you touched the prince was highly scandalous.

“My deepest apologies, my prince. That was highly inappropriate, I am deeply ashamed,” you apologized, but Aemond only shook his head.

“No need to apologize, I am glad to help a beautiful lady in distress,” he said, the roguish smirk still plastered on his features. Your cheeks grew only hotter at his words, making you look away from him while he let out another chuckle. Another silence passed, the rush from the adrenaline dying down into something awkward and sheepish. 

“You still haven’t given me an answer to my question,” Aemond mentioned. You turned to him once more, and as your eyes met, the prince held a hopeful glint in his good eye, his demeanor turning serious once more while he studied you. 

“Why do you ask, my prince?” you asked, though the pieces were starting to fall together in your mind. The prince cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. His eye fell toward your hand that rested in the space between you, his gaze running over the length of your fingertips before resting on the sight of your ring finger, bare and unclaimed.

“I ask because… I want to know what pleases you and what does not, so in return, you may know of mine.”

“What are you saying?” you asked once more, your voice falling into a whisper. You wanted to hear him say it, to witness the words falling from his pouty lips.

“I wish to court you, my lady, to win your affections so I may ask for your hand,” the prince admitted. It was starting to make sense— the stares, his constant presence with you and Helaena.

“The jewels…”

“They were from me,” Aemond confirmed. You could only stare at him in astonishment, at the idea of a prince, the prince Aemond joining the other noblemen in their attempts to win your affections was something you had never imagined. You were confused as to why he hadn’t let his intentions known from the start. Was he embarrassed? Was he being forced by his mother’s bidding? You dared not cage him in a marriage that would displease him.

“I am not good at flattery nor in the ways of courting a woman, especially one as fair as you, my lady, though I wish to make my intentions known now before I lose my chance,” the prince explained, his hand rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. It was almost amusing to see him so shy if it weren’t for the state of stupefaction you still found yourself in. “I apologize if the jewels were not to your liking.”

“No, oh, they were wonderful, my prince! I just… I had no idea,” you replied. The prince nodded in understanding, to which you gave him a soft smile.

“If I may ask, my prince, w-why me?” 

Aemond looked at you for a moment, pondering his words. He couldn’t recall the exact moment when he had first taken an interest in you, perhaps it was seeing you with Helaena and how you brightened his sister’s days, or how you glided gracefully during the dances at the feasts, or when he would catch you in the gardens, soaking in the sun peacefully on your own. All Aemond knew was that you had enamored him, and it would be a great honor to take you as his wife. He struggled to put all of this into words, the ability to express his emotions was not a strong suit of his after all. You patiently awaited his response, bright eyes staring up at him.

“An alliance between our Houses would be greatly beneficial, and your father would be granted a place on the King’s council upon our union.”

Aemond all but kicked himself at his awful response. He saw the disappointment flash through your eyes, your lips muttering a small, “yes, of course,” and he could feel you start to pull away. His palm covered the back of your hand, his larger hand covering the entirety of your smaller one. Your eyes fell to where his touch met yours, its heat engulfing your hand.

“You are a fine woman, my lady. I come to you as a man, not a prince of the realm, and I can only ask for you to grant me the benefit of courting you for your hand in marriage,” Aemond proposed. When you made no move to retreat your hand from his touch, the prince took your hand in his, before lifting it to his lips and bestowing a kiss on your knuckles. A breath was hitched in your throat at the feeling of his lips upon your skin, and you found yourself craving the soft sensation. 

“It would be my greatest honor to be your husband. You shall be a princess of the realm, and you will want for nothing. I shall gift you the finest silks and jewels from far and wide, whatever you wish for, I will grant it. You will be well taken care of if you will let me, and we shall be happy.”

Your cheeks burned in timidity at Aemond’s words, ones you had never imagined to hear from him in your wildest lips. Your mind ran a mile in a minute, weighing your options. There was no denying that you found the prince utterly handsome, with his long hair, lithe form, and sculptured face. He was dashing, even more so when you caught him swinging his sword expertly in the Red Keep’s yard when he trained. You would be a fool to deny it, but you were quite taken by him. To be the wife of a Targaryen prince was every noblelady’s dream, a position surely beneficial to your House. Your children will be dragonriders, the thought already making you blush when you thought of the prospect of creating offspring with the prince. You would not have to part with Helaena as well, much to your delight. When you came to a decision, you shuffled closer to Aemond, your knees pressing against his. You took your clasped hands into your lap, rubbing his knuckles with your other hand, before bestowing your kiss upon his flesh. As you looked up at your prince, your lips lifted into a smile, bright and sweet.

“That sounds like the most wonderful prospect, my prince. I would like that very much.”

Aemond’s lips lifted to mimic your smile, before letting out a sigh of relief. 

In the days that followed, they were spent with your prince. You watched him train in the morn, walked through the gardens later in the day, and joined him for supper with his family. Helaena let her brother whisk you away from your duties as her lady-in-waiting, waving you off dismissively with a smile when Aemond came to fetch you from her chambers. Your father was most enthusiastic about the courtship, eagerly negotiating with Lord Hightower on the concessions that would come with your union. And on the day it was decided that you shall wed, a knock on your door echoed through your chambers. You opened the door to reveal your prince, holding a present for you. A look of astonishment adorned your features when you opened the box, revealing a shining sapphire necklace.

[thisduchessreads]

𝗗𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗗𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀, 𝗦𝘁𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗧𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗭𝗼𝗻𝗲- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- PostPrison!Spencer x Gideon!Reader

WC- 5k

Summary- Jason Gideon's daughter reluctantly accepts a new position at the BAU. The night before her first day, she has a one night stand in order to quell her nerves. When that one night stand turns out to be her coworker and her father's old protégé, she'll have more to fight than just killers.

Contains- canon typical violence, reader coming head-to-head with an unsub, reader is a lil reckless and very stubborn, non-explicit sex scene (18+ MDNI regardless), Spencer has emotional issues from prison, actually proofread this time holla

A/N- divider from @thecutestgrotto !! I honestly don't love this fic so bon appetite I hope u guys do

Glasses clink together, celebratory whoops ringing through the crowded bar. Your crisp, refreshing vodka cran tickles your throat as a large gulp slides down. You’re desperate to quell the anxiety bubbling up in you, though you’re supposed to be celebrating. 

You’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. Your fingers squeeze around your glass, your heart pounding. You’re desperate to appear happy and grateful, and your friends truly are great to you, celebrating you in such a way. 

It’s hard though, knowing the clock just keeps ticking. The seconds fleeting, one by one, until your arrival at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Your father founded it. You swore you’d never follow in his footsteps, scorned from the way it tore your family apart.

Yet, when you received a call from unit chief Emily Prentiss, you’d been hard pressed to say no. Something screamed deep inside you, all the parts given to you by your father, at the case details Agent Prentiss provided. 

A serial killer targeting women, within 5 mile radii of historical landmarks all throughout D.C. She said she’d seen your work at the D.C. History Center, your ability to analyze and curate historical artifacts standing out. If you like it, then you have a permanent spot on the team. It’s more money, you told yourself. Yet, you couldn’t help but feel there’s a part of you, deep down, that needed to say yes. 

The loud shrieks of laughter emanating from your table snap you back to reality. You scan the bar, patrons packed in like sardines. The low light mixes with the smoke filtering the air. Your eyes narrow into slits as they land on something quite breathtaking. 

It’s a man. He seems older, a professional, with the tailored way his suit coat fits. That doesn’t stop his brown curls from flopping in front of his big eyes. His long fingers graze the rim of a whiskey glass, taking a long sip. Your friend follows your gaze, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline at what she finds. 

“Oh!” she gasps, impressed by what she sees. “Good find! You gonna go talk to him?” 

You shift your head from side to side, rattling the question around in your brain. You’re typically not bold enough to approach a man in a setting like this, let alone the Adonis sitting across the bar from you now. Tonight, though, you might be just tipsy enough, just desperate enough to escape the anxiety of tomorrow, that you may just go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?

You slide out of the booth, fingers delicately gripping the rim your glass as you make your way across the bar. You slink onto the bar stool next to him, refusing to make eye contact, though you feel his gaze on you. You adjust your mini dress, pulling the sparkly gold fabric down as far as it’d go, your upper thigh tantalizingly on display. His head drops down to where your hand lay, and he licks his lips. Check and mate.

“Long night?” You ask, crossing your leg over your knee. You sip your drink, still refusing to look at him. 

“You could say that,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving your frame. 

Your eyes meet his, unable to hold off any longer. God. He’s even more gorgeous than you thought. You study him up close now, your brow furrowing. There’s something about him- his round eyes, the slant of his nose- that feels hauntingly familiar. Like a friend from a past life, returning to you once more. You can’t place your finger on it, though, and the alcohol disorienting you just enough to brush it off. For now. 

“How could you tell?” He asks, and it dawns on you that you’d never responded. You poise yourself, sitting up straighter to shake off the mishap. 

“Had a hunch,” you reply over the rim of your glass. You let your lips close around it and take a sip. His eyes follow the movement. A shiver runs down your spine. 

“You seem like a very smart woman,” he says, his voice soft yet firm. You want to bathe in it. 

“You don’t even know the half of it,” you reply, your eyes narrowing as you size him up further. You introduce yourself, reveling in the way his eyes light up at your name.

“Spencer,” he responds, that pesky deja vu creeping back in at the name. 

It falls silent between you then, but it’s not uncomfortable. On the contrary, actually. Your eyes never leave each other, having a silent conversation all on their own. His are dark with desire and want, they hang low slightly, due to the alcohol, most likely. They’re otherworldly gorgeous, big and brown like melted pools of chocolate. You could swim in him all night. 

There’s something else there entirely, though. Hesitation, confusion maybe. The smallest tint of discomfort lasers through the heat, like he’s out of his comfort zone. A smirk crawls on your lips. What are the odds that tonight, of all nights, was the one in which you both decided to take a chance?

It only takes one more drink and some small talk until you’re up against your own front door. He’s kissing you within an inch of your life, his large hands completely captivating your face. His lips slot over yours, making your brain fuzzy. He kisses like a madman, all encompassing, borderline feral. 

There’s a hunger in his tongue that you haven’t tasted in far too long. It’s addictive, his smoky scent, his soft pants against your mouth. Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the sensations. Your nails grip the root of his curls as his lips move to your neck, softly sucking and nibbling. A whimper escapes your lips, your eyes squeezing shut as you scramble for the doorknob. You rattle against the lock before fumbling for your keys. 

You stumble in shortly after, tripping over your gold shoes. Spencer catches you, a large hand splaying over the small of your back. He tugs you closer with it, your chest pressing against his. You walk him down the hall before he scoops you up, taking you the rest of the way to your bedroom. 

“Spencer,” you muffle against his neck, overwhelmed by your desire for him. 

“I know, sweetheart. I know. Give me just one minute and I’m going to make you feel so good,” he whispers against your temple. You nod feverishly, like if you’d stopped he’d disappear. 

He lays you down, propping your feet to rest flat on the bed, spreading your knees apart with those large hands. He freezes, his breath hitching at the sight of you under your dress. You smirk, the lace thong you’d worn doing its exact job. His Adam’s apple bobs as you trace a fingernail up his forearm. 

“What is it, Spencer?” You question his hesitance, the way he’s stuck in front of you now, dazed. His eyes are wide, his lips slightly parted. It makes you feel divine, the goddess of the universe on display for him. 

“You gonna leave me hanging?” you pout, reveling in the way his eyes darken. He kisses you with the fervor to prove he could never do such a thing. You let go. The feeling of his hands are intoxicating, like a rich wine. 

They creep up your sides, your dress hitching higher and higher with the movement. You shift under his touch, your body writhing as heat pools in your lower belly. 

The second he grazes your bare skin, he freezes. Your eyes shoot open to find his, wide and desperate and so, so gorgeous. It shifts something inside of you, your heart clutching so severely that it scares you. 

“Spencer,” you whisper against his lips. He shudders. 

“I’m going to make you feel so good.” He kisses you again. 

You blink slowly, the soft light of the sunrise filtering through your parted curtains. There’s a slight thump in your head, but thankfully nothing too bad. You massage your temples as you turn. Your eyes shoot open as you hit a body next to you, still sound asleep. 

Memories of last night come rushing back- meeting Spencer, taking him home, the phenomenal night you had, and now this. This, the first day of your new job. Your heart drops. You scramble on the bed in a panicked attempt to find your phone. You whip around to see it sitting on your nightstand, thanking any and every higher power that might be. 

You let out a sigh of relief when you see you still have some time to get yourself ready. You ignore the 47 text messages from your group chat last night. You’ll tell them you’re alive later. 

You only have an hour, not what you’d ideally wanted for your first day of a brand new job, but it’s better than nothing. It still doesn’t solve your problem of the man in your bed, however. 

Your hands push the dead weight, rustling him awake. He rubs his eyes, a raspy, “what?” escaping his lips. For a brief moment, you’re sad that you don’t have enough time to appreciate the sight, the sound of his morning voice. You shake it off quickly, though. You push him again, urging him out of your bed.

“Babe, it’s 5:30 a.m.,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. You’re both too tired to address the pet name. At least that’s what you’re telling yourselves. 

“Oh, shit. I’m gonna be late for work,” he scrambles off the bed. You take a moment to admire his naked frame in the sunlight as he gathers his clothing. 

“Me too,” you say, lunging off the bed yourself. “It’s my first day on a new job, I’m running more behind than I’d like to be right now.” You’re running around your room like a chicken with her head cut off, grabbing your towels and rushing to the ensuite bathroom. 

You can’t help but give him one last peck on the lips. This, incidentally, led to two, three, four more. Lastly, one that lingers longer than it should. One long enough for him to graze his hand along your bare arm. You shiver. Your thin bedsheet is the only fabric separating your bare body to his fully clothed one. 

You pull away, taking a step back. You release a deep breath as you take him in once more before you leave. 

“Feel free to make some coffee on your way out! Cups are in the cupboard above the coffee pot! Thanks for last night!” You call, before slamming the bathroom door on him, running the shower. 

Miraculously, you managed to make it at an appropriate time. You park in the FBI car park at 6:45 on the dot. You lean back in your seat, taking a deep breath and a sip of coffee. Finally, you reapply your lip gloss before you turn off your car. 

Your heels echo through the hallway leading towards the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Your heart is pounding in your ears. You’d always told yourself you would never follow in the steps of your father. And yet, here you are. Each step you take feels as if you’re walking in a giant’s footsteps. You pray you’ll make him proud.  

The FBI seal on the door looms over you, unable to keep its claws out of the Gideon lineage. You’re frozen there, stuck staring at it, unable to enter. That is, until you hear your name from behind you. The voice is familiar, too familiar. Your stomach drops. 

You whip your head around, coming face to face with-

“Spencer,” you breathe, the air stolen from your lungs at the sight of him. 

His hair is slightly damp, falling in front of his eye. There’s static in your ears, a faint ringing torturing you. Panic swells in your stomach, bubbling, boiling. And then it hits you. 

Spencer. Spencer Reid. Dr. Spencer Reid. 

“You worked with my dad,” you whispered. It’s all you can manage. Your voice still cracks. 

“Your dad?” His brow furrows. He studies your face. His eyes scan up and down, desperation taking over. You can basically hear them asking, begging, “Who are you?”You’re still frozen, unable to speak.

Then, it hits him. You know, because he’s found the exact parts of you that resemble your father, his mentor. Your dark eyes, the slant in your nose, the curve of your mouth. The very mouth that was on his just hours ago. 

“Oh, God,” he gasps. You turn, walking into the office. All you hear is static as you move, your heart pounding in your ears as you fake a smile through your introductions. 

You move throughout your day as easily as you can. The rest of the team is incredibly kind, welcoming. The work starts almost immediately, which you’re thankful for. Like father, like daughter, you suppose. Yet, you can’t escape Spencer, looming over you like an inescapable shadow. 

He hasn’t spoken to you since your interaction outside the door, but you feel his eyes on you the whole day. When you speak to the team, when you analyze a document, he’s there. Watching. You feel his eyes creep up your spine, their penetrative gaze lodging deep in your chest. Your heart squeezes each time he walks past you without recognition. The cold shoulder lasts through the rest of the day. 

You’re conflicted, your heart at war with your mind. The Spencer you met in the bar last night is nothing like the image you’d created of him in your head years prior. He’s kind, funny, interesting, not because of, but in spite of his accolades and achievements. He’s someone you could fall for. At least, you thought so before seeing him today. 

You were young when your dad took Spencer under his wing. You’d never met him, then, just seen a few pictures and heard endless stories. You always felt in his shadow, though. The way your father’s eyes lit up when he spoke about him, the excitement lacing his tone, it was all reserved solely for Spencer Reid. 

You’d cry yourself to sleep some nights, desperate to do something, anything as worthwhile in the eyes of your father. You never did. He loved you, of course, and he was proud of you. Yet, nothing ever measured up to his pride and love for the Behavioral Analysis Unit, for Spencer. 

As the weeks went by, Spencer couldn’t help but find himself pulling further and further away from her. It’s an anchor on his heart, weighing it down more and more each day. Everything inside him, his soul, his heart, screams to be near her, to hold her, to have her every night the way he did that first one. His mind, though, is an entirely different story. 

His mind pumps the brakes, waging a civil war inside him that he won’t be able to win. He’s terrified. Terrified of being left the same way her father did, though he knows in his heart he can’t blame her for his faults. His mind once again holds him back, though. It’s funny that what’s supposed to be his greatest strength can also be his biggest enemy. He reconciled with that a lot when he was behind bars, yet another reason he’s apprehensive of opening up to her. So, he stays away. 

Now, Spencer buzzes through the bullpen, coffee in hand as the team rushes to the conference room. He’s stuck behind her, of course. The floral scent of her perfume infiltrates him, threatening a shutdown of his central nervous system. His heart constricts as he watches her, her snug blouse cinching her waist, the tight pencil skirt it’s tucked into rendering him nearly brainless. He sips his coffee, eyes diverting. 

He hasn’t spoken to her much in the month she’s been here, though not from a lack of desire. Quite the opposite, actually. His heart is fighting something. Something deep inside him from before he went to prison, before Gideon even left the bureau. Her relation to his former mentor has shifted his world on a different axis, like life is moving in reverse. 

With his luck, the only seat left is the one directly across from her, the shine of her lip gloss inescapable. He tries his best to focus as Penelope debriefs them on a triple homicide in Texas, though something peculiar piques his interest. He sees it through the window, someone delivering an envelope on her desk. It’s a black envelope, not anything that would be used for official government business. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. He stands. The entire team looks at him. 

“I need to go check on something,” he murmurs, but before he leaves, he taps her lightly on the shoulder. “You need to come with me,” he says lowly, so only she can hear. 

She stands, hesitantly, offering the team a sheepish, apologetic smile. He suppresses a soft chuckle at that. She’s a Gideon, for Christ’s sake. She could show up late for a year straight and they’d thank her just for showing up. He pushes that thought away as he leads her to her desk. 

“There was something that was dropped off on your desk just now,” he murmurs into her ear. “It was weird, I have a hunch. I just think you need to look at it before it’s too late.”

“Too late? Spencer-” she stops, her eyes going wide once she sees the envelope. “Oh, God,” she gasps, her fingers covering her mouth. 

“What? What is it?” Spencer asks, his pulse speeding up. 

“My father received letters in these exact same envelopes in the months before he died,” she looks at him, eyes wild and glossy, laced with deep seated fear. 

Meet me at the park at 2:30 p.m. You know which one. Don’t be late. 

Spencer races back to the conference room, the letter gripped tightly in his fingers. He lays it out on the table for the team, their brows quirking. 

“This was left on her desk. She said her dad received ones just like it in the months before his murder.” It’s all he needs to say before the team scrambles out of the conference room. Penelope’s already on the phone with the case director, forwarding them a new unit for their case. Rossi, Emily, and J.J. are scanning for a return address,  

Spencer exits the conference room to see her holstering her gun, fitting her badge in her back pocket. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asks her, a tentative hand out in front of him. 

“What do you think I’m doing?” she snaps, and he flinches at her tone. 

Regret flashes in her eyes, only for a brief moment. 

“There’s no way in hell you’re going to that park,” he insists with a shake of his head. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was someone you were interested in at all. What’s it to you that I’m fighting for myself when I couldn’t for my father?” Her voice shakes on the last word, his heart cracking at the sound. 

“I know I’ve been…distant,” he mutters, his voice low, “but you need to think about the implications of what you’re doing.”

“Distant? That’s what you want to call it?” She scoffs, moving to follow the rest of the team. “I’ve thought about the implications of these letters since the day my father was killed. You may have been his golden boy, but I’m his blood.” She sneers in his face, before leaving with the team.

His heart plummets, dropping into his stomach like a brick in the ocean. He plows ten fingers through his hair before bringing the letter to Penelope’s office. They have some analyzing to do. 

The car ride is silent as you drive. You knew what park they were referring to immediately. It’s the one your father took you to when you were a baby. You stare out the window, mind and body numb to the reality of what’s happening. 

“Hey Emily,” your voice is low, tentative. “Did my dad ever talk about me?” You inhale shakily, not sure if you want the answer. You couldn’t help asking, regardless. 

“Oh, yeah he did,” she has a soft smile on her face, and it melts something frozen inside you. 

You let out an exhale of relief. “Really?” You ask, disbelieving. 

“Really. He wasn’t a typical parent, not one to show off accolades or achievements, though we know you had tons of those,” she states, and you smile softly. “What he did show us were glimpses into his life with you.”

You furrow your brow at this, unsure of her point. She looks at you, then smiles, turning her attention back to the road. 

“He’d bring you up in random conversation, when we’d work on paperwork, when he was interviewing families…‘Oh, my daughter loves that show,’ or, ‘my daughter loves the color pink.’ Any chance he had, he’d mention it. At a certain point, I don’t think he even realized he was doing it. It just happened.”

You didn’t even realize your eyes were glossing over until a lone tear rolls down your cheek. You swipe it away with your fingers, clearing your throat and looking down at your lap. 

“Thank you,” you croak. Emily nods. 

It doesn’t take long until you reach the park, each member of the team splitting up in various directions. You’re with Emily, on strict orders to stay near any member of the team. You feel something, though. Something deep down that’s not right, that the team is headed in the wrong direction. 

You entered the park at the south entrance, the opposite side from where your father would take you. You scan the premises, your breath catching. It’s mainly families, some couples enjoying a walk or a picnic. It’s peaceful. Guilt boils in the pit of your stomach at the thought of disturbing these people. The job is the job, as your father would always say.

It takes a split second for you to make a decision the entire team will have your head for. You break off from the group, sneaking off to a backwoods trail you would hike with your father. It’ll get you to the other side of the park, the side you need to be. You know you should include the team in this decision, that you’re putting yourself directly in harm’s way. This feels so personal, so vulnerable, though, that your feet are moving before your mind can catch up to your body. 

It doesn’t take long for Emily to notice you’ve gone, as you can hear her muffled “shit!” come from behind. Your heart pounds against your ribcage as you pause, waiting for her to pass by to continue your route. 

The trail leads you to the other side, just as it always did, and it doesn’t take long for you to see him. Growing up in the shadow of your father means you know everything there is to know about psychoanalysis. This includes how to spot an unsub. It’s almost too easy at this point, like chess to their checkers. 

You exit the trail, the unsub clocking you almost immediately. He cocks his gun, pointing it right at you. You holster yours, holding your hands up in surrender. 

“I’m not here to fight. I just want to talk,” you say, voice calm and collected. 

“I refuse to talk to a Gideon,” he spits your name. It’s venomous, vengeful. So it is personal. 

“Okay, then pretend I’m not a Gideon. Pretend I’m someone who just wants to have a conversation,” you say. You move closer, despite your better judgement. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?!” He grits out, aggravation evident in his tone. People around are starting to notice, to flee. You put yourself between him and any other pedestrians still at the park. 

“God, you look just like him!” He sounds pained as he says it, like it almost hurts. 

He lunges at you, then. Before your body can react, his forearm is held tight against your throat, the gun pressed to your temple. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, as your eyes frantically search for anything they can find. 

 Then, you spot it. It’s tiny, you could’ve easily missed it. D.M. Small, stark letters tattooed on the inside of his wrist. Your breath catches in your throat when it sinks in. 

“Your dad killed my father,” you say. It’s strained as you fight for breath.

“What?” The man says, gripping you tighter. 

“D.M. On your wrist. Donnie Mallick. He killed my father,” you breathe, a bead of sweat forming on your forehead. The man pauses, lowering the gun from your head. He’s distracted. Now’s your chance.

You make quick work of gripping the gun, stomping on his foot with your heel to get him to let go of the weapon. His arms collide with your middle, knocking you to the ground. Your knee strikes his gut, and he keels into you. You watch as his arm winds back, gearing up to deliver a severe punch. You wiggle around, bracing yourself for impact. 

“I have to finish what he started.”

It’s the last thing you hear before  his weight is taken off you completely. You turn to see Spencer on top of him, cuffing his hands behind his back. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, the adrenaline mixing with the utter shock of seeing Spencer take down an unsub like that, of seeing Spencer at all. He hands him off to Rossi and makes quick work moving to you. 

You dust yourself off, standing on shaky ground. You look at Spencer, only a few feet away, but it feels like oceans. You’re both breathing deep, his chest mirroring your own heaving. You watch as he takes long strides, his hands gripping your face before pulling your lips to his. 

He kisses you like you’re Penelope and he’s Odysseus, reunited after 10 years apart. In a way, you feel like you have been. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer to you. He deepens the kiss, his lips covering yours almost entirely. His hands find the small of your back, hoisting you closer. He pulls back for air. You can’t help but chase his lips. He gives you one more peck before pulling you back into his chest. 

“You really shouldn’t sneak off alone like that,” he breathes. You laugh against him, squeezing him tighter. 

The ride back to the bureau with Spencer is quiet. Not tense, but a comfortable silence that falls over you two like a soft blanket. Your brow quirks when Spencer veers to the right, 2 blocks from the office. 

“Spencer, you’re going the wrong way,” you breathe out, knowing deep down there’s no possible way he made this mistake unintentionally. 

“No, I’m not. You’ll see,” there’s a small smile on his face. You settle back into your seat. 

A swarm of butterflies is unleashed in your stomach as he pulls into an all-too-familiar parking lot. The red and white neon sign frames the car in the late sunset. ‘Buddy’s 24H Diner. Best Milkshakes In Town!’ A tear sneaks its way down your cheek before you can stop it. 

“My dad used to take me here all the time,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “It’s the only place he liked that he could take me to after cases.”

“I know,” he smiles. “Let’s go.”

You’re seated in the corner booth, the one your dad insisted on every time. Your lips curl around your milkshake straw, fighting for your life to suck out the thick liquid. It’s not lost on you when Spencer’s eyes follow the movement, bringing his own cup to his lips. 

“I’ve been having a hard time, having you on the team,” Spencer mutters. Your heart sinks. 

“Oh?” You attempt to remain as calm as possible. “Why’s that?”

He shrugs, avoiding eye contact. Your heart picks up in speed, thrumming in your ears. 

“I was such a different person when Gideon was in my life. I don’t think I was prepared for another one to enter,” he takes a bite of his burger, chewing before continuing. “Since I got out of prison, I’ve been so desperate to put my old life behind me. You joining the team has forced me to admit that life doesn’t work that way.” 

You pop a fry into your mouth, chewing on that and what he said. 

“Why were you in prison?” You ask, feeling a slight tinge of regret at the way he flinches. 

“I was framed by an unsub. She had someone on the outside,” his voice is clipped. You count yourself lucky for getting even this much information. 

“I’m sorry,” you mutter. He shrugs. 

“It’s just…thinking about the me I was when I worked with your father…” he trails off, eyes darting out the window. “I was so different. So naive. I had no idea what this job would do to me. So, when I saw you on your first day, it was like all these pieces of my life were colliding. I wasn’t ready for it. I froze. It’s no excuse for how I’ve treated you these past few weeks, and I’ll do everything and anything to make it up to you. I’m sorry,” he finishes with a deep exhale. 

“I had a hard time, too,” you mutter, his eyes shooting up to you. 

“With what?” He breathes. 

“Reconciling my feelings for the great Dr. Spencer Reid.” His brow quirks in confusion. “You’re not the only one with a past life, y’know?” Your voice is sarcastic, but kind all the same. 

“You may have only heard about me in passing, but my dad…God, he worshipped you. You were all he talked about most days. I was young. I felt inadequate. When I found out that was the man I ended up sleeping with, I…retreated. I couldn’t make peace with it either,” you utter, a shaky exhale following. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mumbles, his eyes going soft. 

You reach across the table, holding his hand in yours.

“Thank you for the apology, Spencer. It’s okay. How could you have known?” your eyes gleam, the emotion palpable between you two. “Expect to be put through the ringer, though. You said everything and anything, I’m holding you to that.” You point a fry at him in a threatening manner. He smiles. 

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.” God, his smile is pretty. 

“So…” you trail off, flirtation lacing your tone. “What was that kiss back there? You weren’t even supposed to be in the field.”

He avoids eye contact again, fighting back a smile. 

“When someone I care about that much risks her life for a case, I’ll find a way to get there. No matter what.” His voice is low, warm. A shiver unzips your spine. 

“I’m glad you did,” you smile. 

Hours tick by, you and Spencer only moving to use the restroom. It’s like you’re catching up on all the dates you could have had in one night. You’re not complaining. 

Each new fact you learn about Spencer makes your heart swell. His pain, his joy, his work. You want to swim in his memories until you’re laced in all of them. 

You talked about your dad, about your work at the History Center, and how it led you to the bureau. 

“Emily sweet talked me into it. I don’t know how anyone can say no to her,” you chuckle, sipping what must be your fourth cup of coffee. 

It’s pitch black out now, the diner nearly empty. Your eyes began to feel heavy hours ago. You still haven’t moved. You can tell Spencer’s tired, too. The bags under his eyes are prominent, darker than usual. 

Speak of the devil, both your phones buzz with an alert from your unit chief. 

Emily: I know you’ve been at that diner all night. Go home and go to bed, you psychopaths. 

You look at Spencer, brow raised. “My place?”

“Let’s do it,” Spencer smiles.

[thisduchessreads]

I Thought We Were Already Dating

pairing | congressman!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 4k words

summary | you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it).

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, established situationship, mutual pining (but one of them doesn't know), miscommunication, public confession, soft!bucky, domestic chaos, comedy & angst, bucky barnes is your boyfriend (he just forgot to tell you), reader is unhinged (affectionate), FLUFF & SMUT, friends to lovers (but they skipped the "friends" and the "lovers" just happened), poor congressional staff, possessive!reader, love confession, bucky is so in love it hurts

a/n | based on this request. i love writing chaotic reader

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Your back hit the mattress in a blur of limbs and low groans, Bucky’s mouth never leaving yours, his hands already sliding under the hem of your shirt like he needed to feel skin, all of it, immediately.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough from hours of holding back everything but this.

You barely managed to smile before his teeth grazed your jaw, his scruff dragging just enough to make you shiver. His body blanketed yours, warm and solid, pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.

“You saw me this morning,” you murmured, fingers curling into his hair.

“Not like this.”

The shirt came off.

Then his.

You didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Because being under Bucky Barnes like this—held like something he didn’t want to let go of—was the only time you felt whole. His touch, his mouth, his breath in your ear as he whispered how good you felt, how fucking perfect you were when you were under him like this.

It was all consuming.

He kissed his way down your chest, every inch of skin worshiped like he didn’t just want you—he needed you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down, slow, like he loved the way you sounded when you gasped just from anticipation.

You watched him from above, chest heaving, skin flushed—and in that moment, something tight twisted in your stomach that had nothing to do with arousal.

It was the ache.

The quiet question in the back of your head that always came right before you let him *n.

What are we?

You didn’t ask.

You just let your legs fall open, let his body settle between them, and swallowed the question whole.

He looked down at you once more, eyes so soft they burned.

“You want me?” he asked, voice hushed, reverent.

You nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered, leaning down, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He groaned, low and wrecked, and then he was inside you.

One thrust.

Slow. Deep.

Your back arched, your mouth parting in a gasp as he bottomed out, hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself in you.

He didn’t move at first.

Just breathed.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You always feel like home.”

You blinked.

Your heart stopped.

But then he started moving—hips rolling slow, dragging pleasure from your core in waves. Every stroke was measured, precise, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him. Like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding you, claiming you without a single word about what it meant.

You let your nails scrape down his back, your thighs tightening around his waist, chasing every thrust like it could answer the questions you didn’t dare ask.

He kissed you again.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Just soft.

Like a man who thought you already belonged to him.

His pace stayed slow at first—torturously so. Each thrust sank deep, dragging friction that had your nails pressing harder into his skin, a soft whimper caught at the back of your throat.

He was watching you now.

Eyes dark, focused, mouth parted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when he was buried inside you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, and the way he said it—it was too soft. Too real. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

You arched up to meet him, hips rising into each roll of his body, chasing that dizzying edge as the room dissolved around you. The only thing real was the heat building between your bodies, the slick slide of his skin against yours, the way he groaned every time your walls clenched around him.

You could feel your release winding tight, breath ragged, body shaking.

And then—

His hand cupped your cheek.

His lips found yours again, tender and aching as he whispered into your mouth, “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

It hit you like a wave.

You shattered underneath him, crying out as your body clamped down, orgasm tearing through you with a sharp, wet sound of skin against skin and your name on his tongue like it was sacred.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts faltering, rougher now, deeper, desperate.

“I can’t—baby, I’m gonna—fuck—” he groaned.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulled him tighter, wanted him closer.

“Inside,” you whispered, dazed.

His eyes locked on yours—wide, vulnerable, wrecked.

Then he was coming—hot and hard and raw, his whole body shaking as he buried his face in your neck and let himself fall apart in you.

His voice cracked.

“I love you,” he gasped, barely more than breath.

And you heard it.

Your body was still trembling. Your mind was still fogged.

But your heart?

It snapped to attention.

Because he said it like it was obvious.

Like he’d said it before. Like you knew.

His breathing had slowed.

His body lay heavy over yours, arms curled protectively around your waist, lips pressed to your collarbone in a lazy, half-conscious kiss. You could feel the weight of his affection in every touch—adoring, familiar, like this was just another Thursday night in the life of Bucky Barnes, the man who clearly thought you were his.

Because he said it.

He said I love you.

And not like it slipped.

Not like it was some heat-of-the-moment moan tangled in a climax.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he’d said it before.

Like he thought you already knew.

Your hand twitched on his back.

Your heartbeat, which had only just settled, started racing again—but not with pleasure. With full-blown panic.

Because—

What the actual fuck?

You stared up at the ceiling, body still bare, skin still warm from him, and yet—

Your brain screamed: WHAT ARE WE?

He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, mumbling something incoherent as he pressed a kiss to your chest.

Meanwhile, your soul was clawing its way out of your skin.

Because if he thought this was that—you being his, this being real—then you’d missed a crucial piece of the plot somewhere back in act one.

He never asked.

There was never a “will you be my girlfriend?” conversation. No official status talk. No expectations. Just great sex, unholy chemistry, soft sleepovers, texts that made your stomach flip, and a drawer at his place you never questioned.

You suddenly wanted to sit up and scream.

But instead, you lay there frozen, blinking at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you.

His hand rubbed slow circles on your hip.

You resisted the urge to launch yourself across the room.

What the fuck is going on.

Are we dating?

Is this real?

He sighed against your skin, content and sleepy.

You swallowed hard.

One Week Later

Your phone buzzed beside you on the kitchen counter.

It lit up with his name, the one you still hadn’t changed in your contacts—just “James 🇺🇸” with a dumb little flag emoji he’d added himself the first week you started… whatever this was.

James 🇺🇸:

On my way back—what do you want for takeout?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.

The question was simple. Casual. Routine.

And that’s what made your stomach twist.

Because it was routine.

The texts. The keys to your place. The way he dropped his jacket over your chair like he lived here. The way he smiled when he saw you, like everything else melted away.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

Finally, you sent:

You:

thai? the dumpling place. y'know the one.

Your phone buzzed two seconds later.

James 🇺🇸:

Already reading my mind, huh?

I’ll be there in 30.

Got you extra peanut sauce because I know you hoard it like a gremlin.

You huffed a small laugh, despite the weight still coiled in your chest.

Then you stared at that thread a little too long.

The little hearts you’d sent last week.

The blurry selfie he sent you from his office at midnight, captioned "Thinking about you and losing a vote at the same time 🫡”

The I love you that still echoed in your ears like a gunshot.

You set the phone down.

Walked into the bathroom.

And stared at yourself in the mirror.

You’d never called him your boyfriend.

He’d never asked.

But he acted like he was yours.

And the scary part?

You wanted him to be.

You just didn’t know if he knew that mattered.

The door creaked open with a familiar scrape—he still hadn’t fixed the hinge.

You turned from the couch, face carefully neutral.

He stepped inside in that unbuttoned suit jacket, tie half-loosened, hair tousled from a long day of pretending not to want to strangle half of Congress.

And he was smiling.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, like it was the most normal thing in the world, setting the takeout bags down on your kitchen counter without even looking.

Baby.

You froze.

Okay, he calls you that all the time.

Maybe he calls everyone that.

Does he call Sam that?

“Place was packed,” he continued, toeing off his shoes. “Some guy tried to skip the line and the little lady behind the counter threatened to beat him with a ladle. Reminded me of you.”

You stared.

He wandered to the fridge, pulled out your favorite seltzer—your specific lemon one—and cracked it open before sliding it your way.

You caught it on instinct, fingers brushing the condensation.

He hadn’t even asked.

Just knew.

Then, casually, he took off his jacket, draped it over the chair, and loosened his tie more, tossing it with a sigh. His white dress shirt stretched a little at the biceps. He was still talking—something about a subcommittee vote gone to hell—but you were barely hearing it.

Because now?

You were tracking everything.

The way he set down two sets of chopsticks like it was automatic. The way he separated the sauces—your peanut ones on your side, his spicier one near him. The way he snagged the remote and flopped down beside you like he lived here.

Like this was his couch.

Was it his couch?

Was he paying your utilities?

“I don’t know why I let them keep putting me in these budget meetings,” he muttered, cracking open a box of dumplings. “Every time I try to talk, someone from Indiana gives me a migraine.”

You nodded slowly.

Then: “Do you… have a toothbrush here?”

He blinked at you mid-chew.

“Yeah?” He swallowed. “Under the sink. Next to yours. Why?”

Your eye twitched.

“Do you… always leave a change of clothes here?”

He nodded again, popping another dumpling in his mouth. “Babe, half my henleys are in your closet. You know that.”

You did.

You just didn’t process it.

You turned toward him fully, food forgotten.

His arm was already around your shoulders, pulling you in.

You didn’t resist. You leaned in.

And then you stared blankly at the TV as he rested his chin on your head, warm and soft and so stupidly comfortable.

He sighed.

“I missed you today,” he murmured. “It was shit at the office.”

Your heart did a weird thing in your chest—flipped, twisted, frowned.

You blinked slowly.

“…Do you keep anything at anyone else’s place?” you asked, very casually. Too casually.

He snorted. “What?”

“Just wondering.”

He reached for a spring roll. “No? Why would I?”

“Just wondering,” you repeated, mechanically.

He made a soft mhmm noise and handed you a dumpling without looking, already distracted by the TV again, thumb grazing lazy circles against your arm like his body just knew where you were supposed to be.

Meanwhile, your brain was screaming.

Are we dating?

ARE WE DATING?!

And he just sat there, all warm and sleepy and Thai-food-happy beside you, like the man absolutely not at the center of an existential relationship spiral.

You chewed your dumpling, eyes narrow.

You were going to lose your mind.

A Few Days Later

The sky over Washington was a thick stretch of slate.

Fine rain fell in that soft, insistent way that made everything damp without ever fully raining. The streets were quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, and your lungs ached just enough to make you feel alive as your sneakers slapped against the wet pavement.

Beside you, Rachel kept pace effortlessly.

Of course she did.

She looked like she’d been born doing yoga on a yacht.

“I still don’t get how you convinced me to jog in this weather,” she said, breath easy, ponytail bouncing behind her. “You’re getting fit for a reason or just embracing the sad girl cardio?”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “Trying to keep up with a guy who’s genetically engineered and built like a statue.”

She smirked. “Oh, right. The Bucky Barnes. Still a thing?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your feet hit a puddle, splashing your ankles.

Rachel didn’t wait.

“I mean… it’s cute. Really. Him bringing you coffee, showing up to all your little gallery events, texting you like a golden retriever with a crush.”

You squinted through the mist. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

She gave a mock innocent look. “No ‘but.’ I just think if he hasn’t made it official by now, he’s probably just riding the comfort wave. You know?”

Your stomach dropped—quiet, slow—like something sliding off a ledge in the dark.

“He’s… not like that,” you muttered.

Rachel made a noncommittal sound, the kind that sounded like “maybe” but meant “absolutely.”

“Sure,” she said lightly. “But a guy like that? Everyone wants him. Powerful, polished, and hot—but still gives off that ‘I could destroy you emotionally if I wanted’ vibe. It’s catnip.”

You bit your tongue.

She went on, like she didn’t just lob a grenade at your chest.

“I’m just saying. If I were dating him, I’d make damn sure everyone knew it. Otherwise…” She shrugged, smiling sweetly. “Kind of feels like letting a limited edition slip through your fingers.”

You slowed slightly, blinking rain from your lashes.

Rachel picked up her pace, unaware—or pretending to be.

Or maybe that was the point.

The worst part?

You didn’t even know what to say.

Because in your head, you were screaming: I don’t know if I’m dating him either.

You didn’t answer her.

You just picked up speed.

One second, you were jogging beside her—lungs aching, mind heavy—and the next, your legs were moving, not with purpose but with sheer emotional combustion.

“Wait—what the hell?” Rachel’s voice snapped from behind you, sharp with confusion. “Where are you going?”

You shouted over your shoulder, breath shallow, “Forgot—I left the oven on!”

It was a terrible excuse.

You hadn’t even used the oven that morning.

And Rachel, in all her smug, sculpted glory, definitely knew it.

But you didn’t care.

You turned down a side street without looking back, rain misting against your skin, hair sticking to your neck as you ran harder, faster, legs burning. You were vaguely aware of your own ridiculousness. You were sprinting through Capitol Hill in soaked leggings and adrenaline—not because of a fire, but because your chest was burning.

Because the words still a thing were still ringing in your ears.

Because her little smile made you want to scream.

And because deep down, you didn’t know how to answer her.

You didn’t know.

Your lungs ached, your sneakers skidded slightly on wet pavement as you turned a corner, and still—you kept going.

Toward the tall glass building you knew by heart now. The security desk that always smiled when you came in. The floor where the man who may or may not be your boyfriend spent hours arguing policy and quietly doodling in his tiny notebook between meetings.

You didn’t know what you were going to say when you got there.

You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

But you knew this:

You couldn’t keep playing house in your head while the floor beneath it kept shifting.

You needed an answer.

Even if it hurt.

Even if Rachel ended up being right.

You just prayed she got splashed by a Metro bus on the way home.

The doors of the administrative wing slammed open with a bang.

You stumbled in, soaked from drizzle, cheeks flushed, ribs on fire, and about three seconds from a full cardiac event. Your leggings were clinging to your thighs, your hoodie had definitely seen better days, and your lungs were currently staging a mutiny.

Several staffers at their desks froze mid-keystroke.

Someone dropped a pen.

Bucky looked up from where he was speaking with a few of his aides, a file in one hand, coffee in the other—and blinked at you like you’d just teleported in from an alternate timeline.

“Hey—what—?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Silence.

Every single head in the room turned.

Bucky’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.

You pointed at him, panting. “Because—I think it’s time. I want to be your girlfriend. Officially. Like—not just sleepovers and emotional eye contact over takeout—I mean actual, real-life, ‘we’re together’ kind of thing.”

You sucked in another breath and barreled on before you lost your nerve.

“I know you’re busy, and, like, technically running half of Congress with your jawline, but I just—I need clarity, okay? Because I was jogging with Rachel, who’s a menace to society, and she said some stuff and I started spiraling and I just—I ran here. I ran. Here. For this.”

There was a beat of complete silence.

Bucky’s eyes were wide.

His aides?

They were riveted.

One woman actually had her hand over her mouth like this was her favorite telenovela.

You blinked at the room.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You slowly lowered your arm.

“Okay,” you said, breathless. “So clearly, that was… too much.”

You looked around at the awkward stares, then back at Bucky, your voice flattening with pure, defeated embarrassment.

“So maybe I was delusional. Maybe this isn’t what I thought. And that’s fine.”

You nodded to yourself, a slow descent into insanity.

“If I’m just some situationship moron who caught feelings and made a public scene at a congressional office,” you continued dryly, “I’m going to kill myself and take everyone in this room with me.”

You made eye contact with one aide near the door.

He flinched.

Then you sighed heavily and scanned the room, noting every wide-eyed aide pretending desperately to become one with their laptops.

Then you snapped.

“Show’s over, folks. Go home. Or back to your unpaid Excel spreadsheets or whatever.”

No one moved.

One intern coughed.

You groaned, dragging both hands over your face in slow, mortified defeat, mumbling through your fingers, “This is literally my villain origin story.”

You barely heard his footsteps as Bucky approached, but you felt him—warmth, presence, tall and steady as he stopped just a few feet in front of you.

“Hey,” he said gently, “can you look at me?”

You shook your head without moving your hands. “I’ll die.”

“No you won’t.”

“I might.”

He chuckled quietly, and something about it made your heart twist. Like this wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe it wasn’t even close.

You slowly peeked between your fingers.

He smiled softly, eyes full of that same calm patience he used when trying to explain to you how Medicare reform worked.

He stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s 2 o’clock,” he said, glancing around the room. “They all get off at five.”

You stared up at him.

“Oh,” you said blankly. “Cool.”

A pause.

Then, softly—almost hesitantly—he added, “I thought we were already dating.”

Your arms dropped from your face as your expression completely short-circuited.

“…What.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Yeah. For, like… a while now?”

You just stared at him.

Unmoving.

Mouth parted.

One eyebrow quirked in silent disbelief.

“…What.”

He blinked again.

Now he looked confused.

“You… didn’t think we were?”

“…No?”

He gave you the most innocent, baffled look known to man.

“I brought you to Sam's birthday party. You met his nephews. You wear my boxers. What part of this didn’t scream boyfriend to you?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

“I—You never asked me!” you accused, voice pitching.

“I didn’t think I had to!” he exclaimed.

You stared at him, absolutely scandalized. “How was I supposed to know then?”

Bucky blinked. “I—what do you mean? Everything I do is—”

“You’re from the 40s, James!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “You guys used to, like, wear suits and give flowers and do grand declarations and ask girls to go steady in a diner over milkshakes! I was waiting for that!”

His jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“I watched Grease with you last week!” you cried. “You don’t get to act brand new!”

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “Okay, no more old movies for you.”

You crossed your arms, still damp and out of breath, glaring at him like he’d personally invented confusion.

Then he stepped back.

Took a slow, deep breath.

Straightened his posture.

And said, “Okay. Fine.”

He cleared his throat, eyes locked with yours, serious as a heart attack. Then he said your name—your full name.

“Will you do me the incredible honor of officially being my girlfriend?”

The room went so quiet you could hear someone’s chair creak.

You stared at him.

Then slowly, a dumb smile spread across your face.

“Wow,” you said, blinking. “This is… so sudden.”

Bucky paused, squinting

You pressed a hand to your chest. “I mean… we’ve only been sleeping together, sharing hoodies, texting nonstop, and eating Thai food three times a week for a few months. You barely know me.”

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t.”

“I mean, I barely know me, James. Are you sure about this? How could I possibly say—?”

He said your name—a low, gravelly warning that made your smile bloom full force.

You grinned.

“Yes,” you said. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

And before he could react—before he could breathe—you launched yourself into his arms, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his with every ounce of pent-up emotion and leftover adrenaline.

His arms instinctively caught you—one around your waist, the other beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around him like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He kissed you back, hard and fast, like he’d been waiting for this moment—like maybe he needed it as badly as you did.

Somewhere behind you, someone definitely muttered, “What the fuck.”

Another staffer fumbled their phone like they were torn between reporting this to H.R. and posting this on the internet.

Bucky didn’t care.

He just kissed you deeper, right there in the middle of his office, as if the whole damn building hadn’t just watched him get emotionally hijacked by the woman he thought was already his.

Eventually, you pulled back, breath a little ragged, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, arms still looped lazily around his neck.

Bucky was wrecked—eyes dazed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling under you like he’d just run a marathon and won.

You leaned in once more, planted a sweet, casual kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “See you at home.”

You slid off his lap and smoothed your hoodie like you hadn’t just climbed him like a tree in front of half his professional staff.

Bucky blinked. “Wait—what? I was just about to go on break—”

You turned at the door, already tugging your hood up. “Yeah, no, I gotta find Rachel.”

He frowned, still catching up. “Why?”

“To tell her to her face that you’re mine now,” you said flatly. “And so hopefully, she dies of jealousy in front of my eyes.”

You opened the door and strode out like a woman on a mission.

Bucky watched you go, completely speechless, still half-hard in his slacks, shirt wrinkled from where you’d yanked on him like you were trying to break his will to serve.

His aides were frozen, stunned, borderline traumatized.

And then, slowly, that grin started to grow on his face.

A little crooked. A little stunned.

But proud.

Because that?

That was officially his girl.

And God help anyone who tried to say otherwise.

[thisduchessreads]

Gyltig

Pairing: Michael Robinavich x reader

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: PinV sex, unprotected sex, fingering, masturbation, swearing, dirty talk, possessive, toxic behaviour, oral! male receiving, established relationship, age gap, angst, alluding to child loss, breeding, pregnancy.

Summary: Michael has a secret that he was too guilty to tell anybody about. Especially Heather Collins.

A/N: I think this might be a mix of everything I personally like when reading a fic hahaha. A complete mess but oh well 🤗

Guilty (adj.) - Originates from the Old English form gyltig "crime, sin, fault, fine, in debt".

Michael Robinavitch felt guilty. Hearing Heather bare her heart to him, her struggle, their shared cluster of cells that never got to be. The possibility that he could have been a father to her child. How different would his life had been? He felt bad because he wouldn’t mourn it. Wouldn’t grieve over the potential what-ifs that would plague her.

And then he had you. The happiness you brought him. The guilt he felt everyday for the life growing within you despite being the happiest he had ever been. Seeing you swell, your body change because of him had awaken a primal need inside of him that he was unfamiliar with up until that point. Sure, he had Jake and he loved Jake like his own but it was different this time around.

It wasn’t that he was ashamed of you. He was ashamed of the fact that he should’ve known better. He had robbed you of your youth, the supposed best years of your life, just for you to end up stuck with him. You and him would share a bond that could never be broken from now on.

Should he have told her? Told Heather about how his life would never be the same again whilst hers was… empty. It was crude and crass. Mean in a way he never wanted to be but it was the truth. Within his hands he held what she wanted the most, and he hadn’t even wanted it for the first few fleeting moments of knowing. That had filled him with guilt as well. How could he regret something so precious?

Those thoughts scared him. He was scared of the concequences. Of the potential karma, middah k’neged middah, that could come back to bite him in the ass for even thinking like that in the first place.

It was a coincidence that he met you. He wasn’t meant to. He should’ve been at work, he was always at work, but then he actually got to leave on time for the first time in weeks. As he was tiredly making his way up his front steps he was startled by an unfamiliar voice calling out his name, causing him to swivel around dangerously fast.

“Whoa, there.” You let out a giggle as you reached out in an attempt to steady him.

He didn’t know you. Had never seen you before. But god did he want to know you.

“Do I know you or-?” He let his voice trail of as he furrowed his brown in contemplation.

“Definitely not, sorry. My nana lives a couple of doors down. She insisted I left some of the cookies we made on your doorstep, didn’t think you’d be home!”

“Nana?”

“On number 4?” You waved your hand down the drive and he understood. That sweet old lady that was always kind to him, always checked in, always admired him for the work he did.

“Thank you.” He smiled tiredly as he accepted the plate of caramel cookies, his stomach rumbling appreciatively.

“You just coming back from work?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Busy day.” He laughed awkwardly as he studied you. You were beautiful to put it plain and simply. A face he would never be able to forget. A body he would think about as he fisted himself that night.

“I can image. Could never do that. Be a doctor.” You smiled again and he sighed.

“You visit your nana a lot?” He shouldn’t have asked. Should’ve left it at that, turned around and crawl back into his cave but you had captivated him in those few simple moments. Ensnared him in your being. Trapped him in between your loins without you even knowing it.

It had been inevitable after that. He sought you out. Spent more time on his lawn that he had never cared for before. Made sure to leave work on time whenever he could. It had been a welcomed change, a good change, he felt better for it but yet those thoughts still plagued him. The guilt for wanting to sink his dick into a girl that was too young for him to be thinking about. He wanted to hear you whine in his ear. To taste your slick as you gushed around his fingers. To melt into your entire being without abandon. And he would, eventually, and you would welcome him.

The first time he got you in his bed was one month after the first time he had seen you. You had been stopping by after you’d visited your Nana every Thursday and Sunday. Sometimes it was just for a chat. Sometimes he would invite you in for a cold beverage. And, eventually, it became so much more.

It was you who’d let yourself in after he worked a long shift, creeping through his house that you had grown more familiar with as you searched for him. He was sitting on the couch, hunched over his own lap with his head in his hands after another long shift, breathing heavily as he tried to will the adrenaline to leave his body.

“Long day?” Your hands slid over his shoulders as you asked your question in a way that was far too alluring for a question asked between simple friends.

“You have no idea.” Michael sighed as he leaned back, welcoming the way your hands moved to his shoulders, rubbing them firmly.

“You wanna tell me about it?” His eyes opened to meet yours as you moved to face him. He should’ve left it there. Should’ve talked to you, unload some of his burden through words yet he couldn’t do it. Instead, his hand grabbed onto your shirt, pulling you down so each of your legs rested on either side of him. You let out a giggle over his actions because they didn’t startle you, you had been greatly anticipating them. You had seen the way he would watch you, eyes heavy with lust whenever your shirt would ride just a little bit too low or your skirt would rise too high to still be decent.

“Do *you* want me to tell you about it?”

“Of course.” You ran your hand over his hair, caressing it as your hand came to rest on the back of his neck, watching as his eyes traced your face with wonder.

“Maybe later.” He murmured before reaching up to connect his lips with your own. It was like Michael could never get enough of you, biting and pulling at your lips. His tongue explored your mouth with a delighted moan. You couldn’t help but grind your hips down into his lap, gasping as you felt the large growing bulge that pushed against you. His lips found their way to your neck, suckling and leaving wet kisses in his wake. You grew wetter with every nibble.

Michael guided you to his bedroom, pushing and pulling at your clothes to undress you as you went before pushing you down on the bed as he hurriedly worked on pulling off his own shirt and jeans.

“I’ve had a really stressful day, honey. You gonna make it all better for me?” Michael asked as he gazed down at you, already dazed as you laid there on his bed. The bed that smelled like him, that was soft against your skin, and you never wanted to leave.

“Yeah.” You nodded eagerly. He was still in his boxers, hands running over your legs, up and down as he memorised the way you felt.

“You’re so sweet to me, honey, aren’t you?” He mumbled before crawling over you, his stiff cock rubbing against your thighs through his boxers as he went. You couldn’t help the moan that slipped out, and a small smile grew on Michael’s face as he heard it. Your moans were a symphony, singing through his house as he admired it.

As his lips connected with yours again, your hand trailed down, rubbing him through the material. The thickness overwhelmed you, your breath hitching as you pushed the fabric down frantically, need ing to feel it.

“Aren’t you an eager girl?” Michael pressed a kiss to your cheek, letting out a moan as you finally wrapped your fingers around him. Somehow, he felt thicker this way, long and throbbing for you as you pumped him timidly.

“God, you feel so good.” Something came over him as he heard you puff out those words, seeding with anticipation. He never thought he’d hear you say them and it awoke something in him that he couldn’t entirely control.

“You wanna have a taste, sweetheart?”

You were eager as you moved slightly to the side so he could lay down, sinking into the pillows as you came to your knees between his parted legs. Of course, you were compliant, eagerly opening your mouth to take him in. You rested your hands on his thighs to steady yourself.

He was quick to rest his hand on the back of your head, guiding you as you took him in your mouth. There was no easing into it. Not this time. Not when your mouth practically watered over the thought of tasting him, of feeling the slight tangy saltiness of him on your tongue.

Michael softly encouraged you to take him, the length of his shaft being swallowed as far as you could go, gagging around him as he hit the back of your throat.

“Shh… gentle, honey. Don’t hurt yourself.” He muttered softly, caressing your head before getting lost in the feeling of your hot mouth wrapped around him, moans and groans slipping out through his clenched teeth.

Your eyes watered as his hips almost involuntarily bucked to meet your mouth, but you loved the taste of him and couldn’t get enough of him as you hollowed your cheeks, trying to take him even further.

‘*Fuck!*’ He groaned out. You were watching him from under hooded eyelids and his gaze was intense as he stared back, eyes practically glowing with lust.

“You’re doing so well for me.”

You moaned around him, a small dollop of drool trailing down your chin. One of your hands moved from his thigh to gently play with his balls and he moaned before giving a final, small thrust into your mouth and then withdrawing himself from you.

There were tears of pleasure trickling down your cheeks and you couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction as you wiped your mouth clean with the back of your hand.

“Come here.” Michael went to take your hand but you drew it back, shaking your head as you smiled at him. You didn’t say anything as you turned around on the bed, sinking your front down and spreading your knees for him. Your face was down, ass up as you glanced at him over your shoulder, wiggling slightly to tease him. You needed him inside of you. You were already so unbelievably wet, practically dripping onto the sheets as your walls clamped down on nothing again.

He was admiring you. Taking his sweet time as he thought this would be the only time he would do so. You weren’t enjoying it as much as he appeared to be. You *needed* to be touched. There was this incredible yearning inside of you, it felt like your entire body was buzzing from how horny you were and the ache between your thighs was becoming unbearable. You couldn’t help but slide your fingers closer to your core, ready to plunge them into yourself to get some kind of relief. He stopped you before you could get any further though, caressing your fingers as he used his other hand to sit up behind you.

“You’re too perfect.” He muttered it quietly to himself but you still heard him, causing your body to flush with further heat.

You were hyper-aware of his proximity, he was so close you could feel his heat against the back of your thighs, and you were ready to beg for any kind of touch, you just needed to *feel* him. But you didn’t need to beg for Michael to slide his massive fingers down the curve of your spine just a few moments later. He palmed your ass, kneading your cheeks with both hands.

“So gorgeous.” He breathed out shakily, completely enamoured at the sight of you presented for him.

“Could keep you like this for days. Fucking you until you swell.” His words sent a shiver down your spine and you were flooded with wetness again. Your thighs almost jerked as you impulsively moved backwards, seeking some sort of further contact.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes! Please, Michael, please.” You could’ve started sobbing from the need right there and then, you couldn’t take the wait any longer.

Michael spread you wide in front of him, lining up his knees with your own as he gently and slowly dragged his thick cock through your folds, coating it in your slickness. You were sure that he enjoyed torturing you; your entire body was close to convulsions caused by the anticipation, it felt like it was eating you up, swallowing you whole.

“You sure, honey?” Michael teased you, sounding far too calm and unaffected by the situation, “You sure you want an old man like me?” He started withdrawing himself from you, hands leaving your flesh, but you reacted quickly, sitting up and grabbing a hold of his wrist before he was too far away.

“No, no, no, please, Michael. Only want you, only you, please just-“You usually weren’t one to plead but it was impossible not to, you needed him more than you’d ever needed anyone before.

Michael loved hearing you beg; it was obvious from the satisfied look that flashed across his face. It was so painfully obvious that you were ready to do just about anything for his cock.

He motioned for you to get back into your previous position on all fours and then, *finally*, he pushed in, in one slow, agonising thrust, burying his thick shaft to the hilt inside of you. The entire room practically shook from the loud groan he let out as he split you open.

“Jesus Christ, you take me so fucking well.” Michael sounded like he was almost in disbelief, ecstatic from the sight of his throbbing cock disappearing into the sweetness that was you, buried deep inside your slick warmth. The burn from the stretch was welcomed as pure bliss and you couldn’t help letting out a shuddering gasp.

He let you adjust, pressing himself into you and just resting there for a moment. The way you pulsed around him was killing him. He could feel the way your body urged his to move and all he could do was heed. He moved with small, shallow thrusts before he lost the small threads of the semblance of control he had managed to somehow maintain. He pulled back, his cock leaving you entirely for a moment before he started pounding into you.

You cried out, hands bunching up his sheets as bliss ran through you.

“Feels so good.” You breathe out shakily between urgent thrusts.

“Yeah?” Michael cooed as he pulled back out. “You like my cock? I’m gonna make you feel so good.” He promised.

His thrusts were sharp and precise with an unrelenting and frenzied tempo. His grip on your hips was so becoming almost painfully tight as he used it to slam you back against him, but you didn’t care, too lost in the waves that were overtaking you. You would cherish any marks left by him on your body.

“You feel so good around my cock, honey.” He praised in a murmur. “So fucking tight.” Michael grabbed a hold of your arms, pulling you up as he continued pumping into your sweet cunt. He had you pressed flush against his chest, back arching as the sound of skin slapping and the wet squelches of your sopping wet pussy echoed around the room. It made you even more drenched; the mixture of your pleasure pooling around the base of his cock, running down the inside of your thighs.

One of Michael’s hands shifted to palm gently at your breast while the other travelled downward to roll and lightly pinch at your clit while rolling his hips and you writhed against him.

“You gonna be a good girl and cum around me?” He asked lowly in your ear. “You gonna beg me to cum inside you?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes, please, Michael.”

Michael pushed you down onto the bed, unsheathing himself from you.

You didn’t even have to begin to miss the feeling of him before he had wrestled you into the position he wanted you in with legs wrapped around his waist and back to the bed so that he could easily drill into you in deep but short strokes.

You felt yourself slowly losing whatever composure you had left as your muscles tighten over the coiling tension. Your walls gripped him tighter and tighter until finally, your eyes rolled back as you reached your peak, walls spasming and moan bouncing around the room. You were seeing stars as your legs shook uncontrollably from the overwhelming feeling.

Michael was relentless as he continued pumping into you throughout your convulsing climax, determined to make you feel the best you ever had, although the pace was much slower than previously. His breaths were coming out in short pants whilst your own breathy moans as you trembled.

You reached up, treading your fingers through his hair to pull him down slightly to connect your lips in a kiss. It was soft. A sort of ‘thank you for making me come’.

“You haven’t begged yet.” He murmured after a few pecks, picking up the pace of his hips once again, balls swinging as they slapped against you every time he fucked into you.

His pelvis was rubbing against your clit in a delicious way, driving you toward the edge again but you were conscious enough in your own thoughts, not yet completely lost in the pleasure again, to follow his command.

“Please, Michael, cum inside of me. I need it.” You pleaded in his ear, causing him to let out a hissed groan.

“Fuck, honey. You sound so good when you beg. He praised with a wet kiss to your lips.

You were sure he was just about to cum, but then he surprised you, flipping you over so that you were on top. Michael placed his hands behind his head, studying you with a bold look.

“Wanna make me cum, honey?” He asked and you were more than happy to comply, quickly moving to the right position so you could easily bounce up and down his cock. Was it possible for him to be as deep as he was? Your hips snapped down over and over, hands stabilizing you on his chest. You loved it when Michael was in control but seeing the way you made his mind hazy underneath you were a sight for sore eyes.

Michael’s orgasm washed over him with a deep jerk upward, spilling deeply into you with a deep groan. Your previously vigorous bounces became softer as your walls milked him dry of every last drop. You bite your lip with a smile, running your hands over his chest for comfort. He was so solid beneath you, ropes of muscles flexing involuntarily.

“You look so pretty just like that.” Michael caressed your cheek sweetly.

Now, here you were. Months later and swelled with his child. With his love. With his devotion. You would so often tell him that he made you the happiest you had ever been but he didn’t know if he truly believed you. Jealousy plagued him whenever you would go out together and he would see the way others looked at you. You were an **enigma**, lusted after by many. And that green, sickly little monster that steadily grew beneath his skin roared its ugly head whenever he would catch their eyes lingering longer than appropriate. He’d placed his heavy hand at your waist, place a kiss beind your ear, and caress the skin of your arms when he did so, showing them that you were claimed by him.

He knew what they all thought. That he was too old, you were too pretty, it would never work. But he knew you. You wanted this life with him more than anything, basking in the happiness of sweet domesticity that had enveloped you and your little family. It was forever you and him until the end, you both had ensured that.

It would be foolish to think that others hadn’t noticed the change in Robby’s demeanour. The weight that had rested on his shoulders for the last few years was lighter. Glaringly obviously so. As much as he thought he could hide it before, the act of no longer trying was abundantly clear. Michael Robinavich had found his way back to happiness.

Yet, he did not tell them why. They could guess, muse over what they thought the cause to be. Maybe he started going to a new therapist? Tried a new workout form? Finally got laid?

No matter how relentless the questions where, the teasing glances, he never let them know. Not until you happened to walk into the E.R. on a Thursday afternoon.

You waltzed in to the Pitt with a smile that tasted of sunshine, with glee evident in every stride. Your hips swayed under the weight of your belly, yet the literal pep in your step couldn’t even be held down by it. You had slinked in through the ambulance bay, just as he’d instructed if ever you needed to. as much as he wanted to keep you all to himself, to never tell anybody of his precious, he couldn’t bring himself to stop you from seeing him whenever you wanted to or needed to.

Dana saw you first. Eyebrows raising slightly over the apparent audacity of sneaking in and then furrowing with worry when she saw your belly, concerned that something was wrong with you.

“Miss, can I help you?”

Her voice had startled you for a moment, mouth forming into an ‘o’ as you abandoned your search for something she wasn’t quite sure about.

“Oh, yes please! I’m looking for Michael.” You smiled and Dana was puzzled.

“Michael?”

“Doctor Robinavich?”

“I think he’s busy right now. Perhaps one of our other doctors can look you over? Is something wrong with the baby?” Dana led you over to one of the chairs in the hallway, nudging you to sit down as you cradled your stomach, letting out a small huff as you did so.

“No, I don’t think so?” You were puzzled, too tired to understand why she was concerned.

“It’s best if somebody has a look.” She said with a tone of finality that left you speechless, nodding your head as she apparently knew best.

It was a rush and tumble of limbs as Doctor McKay introduced herself to you, pulled you up with a helping arm, and had you ushered into a room and onto a gurney in the huff of a breath.

“How far along are you?”

”Oh, ehm… 32 weeks” McKay pressed gently and firmly on your stomach as he asked you some routine questions that you tried to answer to the best of your ability.

“Have you had any pain or tenderness today?”

“Could you get Dr. Robinavich?” Your question caused her to pause in her movements, a contemplative look being shared between her and Dana.

“Have you been to the E.R. recently?”

“No?” You looked unsure over your own answer.

“Dr. McKay, do you need help in here?” Michael’s voice carried through the room with a startle, yet it didn’t scare you. He pushed the curtain aside, pausing as he saw you laid there with your round stomach bared to the world, his child inside of you, and all sense of composure left his body. Your name left him almost breathlessly as he felt a cold shiver of fear run through him.

“Hi!” You chirped, happy to see him despite the situation you had somehow found yourself in. “I brought your lunch.” You motioned to the bag you had been lugging with you that was now resting on the floor.

“Lunch?” It wasn’t he that asked, it was McKay who had taken a step back from you, looking even more bewildered than before.

“Mhmm… I made lasagna.” You smiled at her.

“Lasagna.” Dana inserted herself, looking at Robby with an expression that was clearly asking for an explanation. “You said you were hurt?” She questioned you and Robby felt dizzy again over the possibility.

“No, I don’t think I said that…” You sounded unsure once more, hands smoothing over your belly as if yo check.

“You hurt yourself?” Michael asked you, ignoring his coworkers that were watching the situation unfold.

“You left before I gave you your lunch.” Your voice sounded small and Michael felt his heart ache. He crossed the small space, coming up beside you, taking your hand in both of his.

“I’m sorry.” He gave you a small smile, overwhelmed by the way you *cared* for him. He hadn’t felt that in a while, not in this way.

“Baby okay then?”

“Yeah, baby okay.” You nodded your head.

Dana and McKay watched as Robby caressed your stomach in a way that was too familiar, looked down at you with a softness in his eyes and a too sweet smile for you to be just a patient.

He helped you up and they quite slinked out through the curtains, sharing a look that screamed “what-the-fuck” before Dana looked around as if wondering if she had imagined it all.

“What the hell is going on today?” It was a rhetorical question. Asked to herself more than anyone else. Had she overworked her self so much that she was imagining things? But, of course, she wasn’t. Not to that extent. She hadn’t been alone with you and Robby.

The curtain was drawn back with a startle. Ronny walking out and you followed behind him, stomach tucked away in your shirt but it was still there. Still real.

“Sorry about that, ladies.” Dana almost wanted to laugh at Robby’s attempt to brush them aside. She knew that he knew she wouldn’t just let this slide.

“Let me follow you out.” Michael murmured to you, placing a tender hand on your lower back as he steered you toward the exit.

“I’m sorry.” You said as the two of you came to a standstill outside of the Pitt, looking down at your shoes with uncertainty.

“You don’t need to apologise, honey.” Michael let out a small laugh as he encircled you in his arms.

“But I- your colleagues thought…”

“They needed something to talk about anyways, today’s been to quite.”

“I don’t think you should say that word.”

“No, probably not.” He pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “Thank you for lunch.”

“I made lasagna.”

“So I heard. You ate, too?”

“Mhmm, baby was hungry.”

“Good.” Another kiss, another caress to your stomach, feeling his baby kick before you were on your way back home to the house you now shared.

Robby watched you go long after you had disappeared, bracing himself for the inevitable onslaught of questions that would face him once he entered back through those doors. His hands rested on his shoulders, massaging the invisible knots in his neck before he spun around on his heels.

He had barely had a chance to sit down before Dana materialised in front of him.

“Something you wanna tell me, Robby?” Dana asked, looking at him with feigned disapproval.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Robby pretended to be far too invested in the screen in front of him.

“No? You don’t happen to be more than half way to being a daddy? I doubt it’s somebody else’s kid in there.”

Robby glowered over the thought that somebody else had made you the way that you were. It was his doing. His achievement. He was the one that had fucked you until tears leaked from your eyes, over and over again. He was the one that had filled your womb with his cum as he grunted and groaned, fucking into you without abandon and pumping his cum into you to make sure it stayed. He’d wanted it to stick then, a baseless fantasy that eventually became reality.

“See, that look on your face tells me everything I need to know.” Dana let out a sharp laugh.

“Look, I don’t-“

“You think I’m stupid or something? She looked awfully young.”

“‘Course not.”

“Then what the hell?”

“I know it’s wrong, I know I’m a dirty old bastard, alright? I just- it felt… it was never the right time to say anything about it. Not here.” He leaned toward her, whispering the words as he glanced around the E.R. He knew the sight of you and him and yours had stirred the surface of the gossiping pool. The nurses didn’t even have to hide it as they eagerly tried to listen to the words their chief and charge nurse were exchanging.

And then he saw her. Heather. Michael Robinavich didn’t want to share his joy because he knew about her pain. It wasn’t because he still loved her or had lingering feelings of any kind. He just didn’t want to cause her more heartache. And then the guilt came rushing back. For everything, over nothing.

Heather watched him from afar, teeth gnawing on her bottom lip as somebody whispered his secret in her ear. And he wished he could have told her first. Robby felt as if he had owed her that much at least. But it was too late and he didn’t know if he wanted to see whether she’d be happy for him or broken. So, he looked away.

“I hope you know you owe me a pay raise for keeping that from me, you dirty old man.” Dana slapped a hand against his shoulder as she let out a laugh, oblivious to his inner turmoil.

He grumbled, putting his glasses back on to return to his work.

“So, how did you two meet anyways? You snatched her from a kindergarten?”

[thisduchessreads]

⤷ . ᵒ . 🥼 .༄ good girl confessions ! ࿔* ━━ series masterlist

pairings .' dr. jack abbot x morgue tech!reader

summary .' in which you ( the reader ) are shy, soft-spoken, and far too good for the world you work in—but dr. jack abbot wants you anyway. wants you especially because of it. he’s older, bigger, rough around the edges, and completely undone by the way you squirms in his lap and stumbles over your words. you never had anyone take their time with you—never been praised, teased, or touched the way he plans to. and when he finds out just how untouched you really are? he makes it his mission to teach you everything you didn’t know you needed.

trigger warnings .' lowercase intended!!!! \ medical trauma \ mentions of death \ hospital setting ( graphic references to autopsies, corpses, injury, blood ) \ social anxiety \ self-worth issues \ body image insecurity ( specifically surrounding reader’s curvier body ) \ reader internalizes micro-aggressions and negative self-talk \ emotional repression \ low burn with eventual power imbalance ( not exploitative, but notable that jack is of higher rank but NOT reader's direct superior ) \ age gap dynamic \ jack is gruff and emotionally avoidant at first ( but in his bf!era dw )

( readers physical apperance is not described EXCPET that reader has female anatomy and is curvy )

main masterlist | more jack abbot | join the taglist | dividers by @cafekitsune

CHAPTER ONE .' cold and predictable ( wc 1564 ) CHAPTER TWO .' cold storage ( wc 1402 ) CHAPTER THREE .' a cold shoulder ( wc 2073 )

CHAPTER FOUR .' too cold to touch ( wc 2208 ) CHAPTER FIVE .' cold cut ( wc 2314 ) CHAPTER SIX .' tbd ( coming soon )

CHAPTER SEVEN .' tbd ( coming soon ) CHAPTER EIGHT .' tbd ( coming soon )

[thisduchessreads]

𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 || 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary_ Right after Lucy breaks up with Harry, he is left with an extra ticket to Iceland, so he invites the most unexpected person to go with him: you, Lucy’s sister. Only to return to New York and learn that he knocked you up.

warnings_ age gap (unspecified), spoilers for the movie, pregnancy, angst, they fuck and then it’s slowburn, fluff, Lucy and reader kinda have beef (but they love each other), NO PROOFREAD, BEWARE (I’ll edit grammar and blah blah later okay?)

Notes_ just please listen in order while reading:

1. Relationships

2. So Close

3. Guess You Could Say I’m In Love

4. My Baby (Got Nothing At All)

♫ ♪ the worst playlist 4 Pedro

✰ Index (+ fics here)

୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ

It was the perfect night of extremely late spring, when it was not cold anymore but you still needed a light jacket. You had been out, leaning against the railing of a bar, smoking and looking at the passing city.

You heard the door opening and when you turned to look over your shoulder, you spotted Harry: your sister’s new boyfriend.

He also noticed you and barely smiled at you before walking closer. He was on a phone call, something about a meeting and appointment.

“Work call?” you asked after he hung up.

“Yeah. Lucy didn’t mind” Harry said and you allowed yourself to groan and roll your eyes at his words.

“Let me guess. She was talking with John?” you asked, and Harry seemed embarrassed, but he disguised it so well that he nodded.

“That woman is all talk-talk and no moves”

“I guess you’re her-“

“Lucy is my sister” you revealed to the man. “Well, my half-sister”

“I see, and… Why do you say that? About her?” He asked, making you sigh.

“You’re dating her. I don’t want to spoil your relationship” Harry chuckled, he stepped closer, also leaning on the railing like you.

“Swear I won’t tell…”

“Pinky promise?” You offered your pinky finger and he twirled his around yours. You spotted his gold ring and you finally confirmed that he was actually very rich.

“Pinky promise” he swore.

“Lucy claims she wants to secure a partner with money rather than loving them. But I know she yearns for sickening love”

Harry as the smart man you knew he was, understood quickly. Didn’t say anything, but you knew he would start thinking about your words eventually.

“What about you, kid? Do you want sickening love?” He asked and you crossed your arms, looking down at your boots.

“I once experienced it, as a teenager. But now… Not so sure. I don’t know if I have it in me anymore”

“We find it…”

“Childish” you finished for him.

Both of you smiled at each other.

…

You weren’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing that NYU hired you to be an advisor just weeks before the spring semester was over. With so much free time, you found yourself going to dance classes for adults and getting a volunteer job at your local library.

It was early in the morning when you had just finished getting ready to go to the library when your phone vibrated.

An unidentified number appeared on the screen and you debated whether to answer or not. You decided to pick it up, since it could be related to work.

“Hello?”

“It’s Harry…”

You frowned confused. Why was your sister’s boyfriend calling you? You had barely spoken to him before and after the night at the bar.

“Harry, hi. How did you get my number?”

“Your number is on the staff members list of NYU” he said and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Right. Well, How can I help you, dear?” You had no idea why he was calling. Lucy and you weren’t as close as it appeared.

She was the big sister and since your father preferred your mother before hers, it was not a secret in the family that you slowly became the priority.

You had just finished college unlike Lucy, who was a dropout. You barely had ex-boyfriends and couldn’t care less about dating, compared to her.

“I know this might sound weird…” he started, making you press the cell phone harder against your ear and cheek. “Lucy just broke up with me and we were supposed to take a flight to Iceland in the evening. And… She’s gone. I have this extra ticket and since you two have the same last name- I thought…”

You stopped listening to whatever he kept saying. Only focusing on the first part.

What would you do in Iceland with your sister’s ex-boyfriend? You didn’t know.

Then you thought about Harry himself. You barely knew him, he was wealthy, and apparently perfect according to Lucy.

Wouldn’t he prefer to take a model or fitness queen with him? And beyond that, Did he tolerate you enough to invite you?

“Harry, Are you sure? Cause-“

“Please, say yes. I can get you a room of your own and-“

“Perfect. I’ll send my driver to pick you up at 4:00. In the meantime I’ll put your name on the ticket” Harry said with evident optimism. “You have a passport, Right?”

“Yes, I have a passport” you confirmed with a smile.

“Great, I’ll see you later, kid” and he hung up.

You sighed, confused, happy, and overwhelmed. You weren’t sure why you said yes, you weren’t even sure if you completely liked Harry and you definitely weren’t telling anyone.

You went to grab your passport with the fear of finding it wasn’t expired. And when you saw it was all under control, you smiled.

It was a trip to the unknown. But you weren’t scared. In fact, you were curious about knowing better Harry and why Lucy broke up with him.

…

He was actually perfect. Harry went straight to see if the luxurious hotel in Reykjavík could give him another room for you. To his dismay, nothing could be done, but you assured him it was okay.

Sharing the same bed was not an issue. Not when the bed itself was bigger than any bed you had seen before.

He booked a private trip to walk inside a volcano and then, he rented a private spot in the Blue Lagoon, where hundreds of tourists waited to get a relaxing time in the waters but you two passed through all of them like nothing, as if Harry owned the place.

It was a medium-sized pool with amazing views of the mountains covered in green fawn and the gloominess of the surrounding water. You felt like a child, like a Nordic mermaid.

Harry had been nice, giving you hundreds of compliments and sharing light talk. He was very handsome, you noticed when he entered the pool. He had two scars in his thighs and you wanted to ask about it but you didn’t want to make him feel awkward. His wet hair made him look younger, but his fit appearance did all the work.

And as you enjoyed the feeling of swimming and basically savoring the water, Harry could only eye you with curiosity. And you wondered if he was noticing how childish you could be.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I love the water” you admitted, finally taking a seat instead of remaining wandering. Your cheeks disgusting the embarrassment as they already were red from the vapor of the waters.

Harry only offered you a brief smile.

“I don’t mind that you’re enjoying this”

“I never thought of visiting Iceland before” you admitted, looking at the portrait views of the place. “I’m ignorant of much of the beauty the world has to offer”

“Where do you want to go? Paris?” You chuckle, shaking your head.

“I mean of course I want to go to Paris but I’ve always had a thing for Italy and Japan” you admitted. “And lately I’ve thought about how much I’d like to go to Malaysia”

“Malaysia?” Harry asked with genuine interest as you nodded.

“Yes, it’s perfect”

“I never thought about it” you shrug at the man sitting across from you.

“I can’t believe Lucy wasted the opportunity to experience something like this…” you said and Harry seemed to get thoughtful. He turned away from you, his arms leaning on the rocks and looking at the biggest mountain in the place.

“You were right…” he said taking you by surprise.

“I was?” You asked with shyness, thinking maybe you’d gone too far.

“Yeah, about her wanting sickening love…” you didn’t know if it was correct to ask for more details, but Harry spared you the silence. “I can’t love so easily, I just want companionship and stop hearing my mother that she wants me to marry”

“Then find someone who also just wants companionship. No actual love and pointless sweet nothings” you said taking a place beside him, feeling your muscles relaxing thanks to the water.

Harry turned to his left to eye you. He smiled and chuckled.

“You’d make a hell of a good wife for my mother” You shook your head, chuckling as well.

“Oh my god, Why?”

“She and my dad have a chunky age gap. She always tells me to date younger women…”

“Well, most relationships with age gaps don’t work well. But there are somewhere… the relationship sticks” you started, trying to choose the right words. “I hope that yours sticks too”

Both of you smiled at each other.

…

The dinner was great. You were surprised at how great you got along Harry. He was older and had more experience in every single aspect but he listened to your stupid bullshit and followed along. Just like you listened and asked about his stuff. It was like actually befriending someone. But in the middle of a Scandinavian five-star dinner and Vínarbrauð for dessert.

Then both of you wished good night to each other and went to bed. He never made you feel awkward or obligated to do anything and you loved it.

But you couldn’t sleep. Harry had been rolling over the bed for hours. You didn’t mind, but you grew curious as to why the sun was still up. Until you are seated on the floor, looking at the balcony and you remember it was a time of the phenomenon called Midnight Sun. The sun barely set over the horizon.

The sky looked red, purple orange, and with hints of magenta, with the rest almost completely dark. You couldn’t recall a sunset as beautiful as that one in Iceland.

“Can’t sleep?” Harry asked, startling you.

“You scared me, shit. But… No, for some reason, I cannot”

“Jet lag. I can’t sleep either”

His dark grey pajama pants and black t-shirt made him look cozy, even worthy of cuddles, but as the non-love person he was, you knew that’d be hardly a reality.

“We can postpone tomorrow’s agenda”

“No, I’m fine. You planned out everything already, I can’t make you cancel or postpone….” Maybe you sounded a little too hysterical, but you felt slightly entitled to enjoy everything Harry had planned for the trip. Even if it was meant to be for your sister.

Anyone would’ve said it was morally wrong and imprudent to accept the trip invitation. But… Why not? Harry was great and he wanted company. You thought he offered the ticket to you because it was cheaper to change first names and leave the same last name.

“You can say no, y/n. The fact that I have you here with me doesn’t mean you have to accept everything I planned” Harry said with a kind smile. One that made you realize he was a really good person.

Perhaps Lucy was right: he was perfect.

“You’re far too kind, Harry. I swear I’m insisting because I want to enjoy this trip” You lied in the slightest, but Harry didn’t seem to notice.

“Good girl,” he said patting your head and you playfully yanked his hand.

“I’m not a dog, man” Both of you chuckle until there are those smiles again.

Since that night in the bar, you felt some peace when that exchange of smiles happened. And you felt it again in that hotel, in Iceland.

“Maybe it was meant to happen this way” Harry said looking at the still Midnight Sun. “To have you here and not Lucy…”

“Could be destiny telling you to have a female younger friend”

“Or you just wanted to save money on the extra ticket” Upon hearing your words, Harry started cackling, which made you smile confused.

“You think I did it to save money?” You nodded and he kept laughing.

“I knew you were rich but no this reach”

“That gives me more points, right?” Then you cackled, patting his knee.

“You seriously have been brainwashed”

“Why so?”

“This thing about dating being a business” you said with a slightly frustrated tone. “It’s all total bullshit, just find someone who you enjoy spending time with, don’t cheat on them, and call it a day”

“So if I wasn’t rich, Would I still be a fair option for you?” Harry asked.

“You’re good-looking. Despite being older than me, you’re hot so… That’s a good start for me, so yes”

“What about being shorter?”

“Why? You had the limb lengthening surgery?” You asked and he remained quiet, looking at you deeply in the eye. So you started cackling again.

“For real?” Slowly, he nodded with genuine shyness.

“Oh my god. If you were my boyfriend, this where I kiss your cheeks, tell you I don’t give a fuck but make fun of it for the rest of our time together”

Harry only glared at you with a little smile. The faint light of the room is getting brighter as the sun would soon start to rise again. But Harry thought you looked radiant, with no makeup or trying to make yourself look desirable. At one moment he thought he would regret taking you with him. But he was glad since you were good company.

“That’s it. Now you know my darkest secret, now you’re entitled to be my friend forever” he joked, so you offered your hand.

“Friends forever, then…” you said, shaking his big and warm hand.

He didn’t let go of your hand at first. And when he did, his fingers passed to caress your cheek, testing the skin of it. It took you by surprise, but you found yourself leaning closer to him.

As he started to lean as well, you thought twice if it was a good idea. But there wasn’t much to think about when you already had Harry’s lips on yours.

By the way, his lips tried to take complete control, you understood that Harry was a dominant lover. He wanted the power of giving pleasure and when you started to feel his weight pushing you backward, you also understood he was more interested in your release rather than his.

“Harry…” you whispered before leaning backward completely.

“Should we stop?” He says on your lips, his hands stopping their movements in your hips.

You instantly missed the way his thumbs caressed your hip bones, the ache between your legs growing at a desperate speed.

You finally got on your back, your right hand barely touching his chin. His beard tickled you and when he accidentally moved his head, you touched his lips, so you pushed him, urging him to kiss you again.

“Do you have condoms?” You asked, trying to articulate coherent words as Harry pushed your shorts aside, quickly feeling how you weren’t wearing any underwear. He gasped and gave your wet lips a soft pat before nodding as you moaned for the first time in the night.

“Yeah, in one of my bags” you nodded back, trying to focus on getting the protection first. But dear lord, his fingers rubbed you so well, expertly gathering your crystal clear juices and making a wet mess in your clit. Your legs opened wider by instinct.

“Go and get the damn condom before I start getting wetter and needier” he smirked and when you thought he was going for the condoms, he slid two of his clean fingers in your mouth.

“I think, you come first and then I get the condoms” It shouldn’t have turned you on how bossy he sounded. You were pretty boring when it came to sex, but… What were you seeing in Harry that he was making you feel so aroused?

“Now, suck my fingers while I use the rest on your pretty cunt” You moaned in his fingers and closed your eyes when he started fingering you. All the time comes to remember the damn condoms.

It was safe to say that neither of you remembered the booked whale sighting tour for the next morning.

…

Was Harry your friend, friend with benefits, lover? You couldn’t tell.

Iceland was a dream. It made you feel sad to return to New York. But as the days passed, you quickly got back to your old routine and self. You remember your life was also great with no man sleeping by your side, dealing with debts, and not having five-course meals.

Until he called. Exactly two weeks after returning home.

“Am I talking with the most optimist woman in New York?” You smiled, remembering how Harry started saying you were too optimistic while trying different things in Iceland. Or when things got a little rocky after visiting a melting glacier.

“I believe that optimistic woman stayed in Iceland, sir” he chuckled and it made you smile wider.

“I should’ve called sooner, but I was so busy. How are you, kid?”

“It’s okay, I get it. I’m fine and you? How is job and life going?”

“Things are fine. Things are fine…” he repeated.

There’s a comforting silence for a couple of seconds. You heard the birds near your window and the sound of traffic down the block.

“So… We should see each other one of these days” you felt your heart pounding, fluttering, and sending shockwaves through your body. The same thing that happened with people who made you happy. You couldn’t tell but you really wanted to befriend Harry.

“Yeah, we should hang out or something” you agreed quickly.

“Great, I will call you soon…”

“I’ll be waiting. And Harry?”

“Yes, darling?’

“Thank you for everything”

“You thanked each day. I know…”

You hung up with a big big big smile.

…

Three weeks later, life inverted, in the most twisted and unexpected way.

You had declined each call from Harry Castillo, you were with a confectioner to get a dress for Lucy’s wedding with John. And you were six weeks pregnant.

It all started the weekend after Harry called. You have a cozy Saturday alone at your apartment and decided to have wine. It tasted great but you felt odd. And the next morning, the nauseous feeling started.

Two negative pregnancy tests later, you still felt sick. So you started ignoring Harry until you knew with certain details if you were pregnant or not.

Turns out you were, you needed thousands of vitamins to have a healthy pregnancy and apparently a husband or at least a boyfriend. You didn’t know what to do.

You didn’t even know if Harry deserved to know.

In Iceland, you saw how he placed the condom each time he was about to fuck you. Each time he trusted you, you wished he wasn’t wearing a condom so you could feel better that delicious vein his cock had. What was the point then?

It didn’t make sense. But there was a creature that didn’t even look like a fetus yet inside your womb.

When Lucy came to your place with the news that she was getting married to John, you genuinely felt happy for her. But even better for John because you knew him since you were a teenager and he was a great man, only that he needed to get a better job.

Lucy asked you to be her bridesmaid and you couldn’t say no. Because for the first time, you felt light while being with her, you couldn’t ruin things. So you didn’t tell her you were pregnant.

And horror of horrors, the day of the wedding, when you were ready with your bridesmaid grey dress while trying to get a cab, you found Harry leaning against a ridiculously expensive car, his driver ready to any command of his.

The color in your face drained. You gripped your purse tightly. He was wearing a suit and looked sad.

“You look very pretty” was the first thing he said, almost making your eyes grow wet.

“Harry…” you said.

“I called…”

“I know” you admitted with shame.

“Then why you didn’t answer any of my calls?”

“I’ve been sick” his expression changed, from dissatisfaction to worried.

“What? Are you okay? Is it serious?”

“No, uh… anemic breakdown and a meltdown combined” It wasn’t a complete lie. You were anemic and you had a meltdown. You were only skipping the part of Harry’s child growing inside you.

“I’m truly sorry. I know it was stupid but-“

“Hey, it’s okay. But you worried me, next time you tell me. Talk to me, I can’t cook but I’ll try and I can get you the best medicine”

Your eyes finally grew wet, but you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I wish I could hug you right now”

“You can hug me, I don’t like love, but I’m human, dear”

You crashed into his arms and called it pregnancy hormones, but you kept holding Harry so dearly that you forgot about so many things while doing so. Except that, you felt worse for keeping the most important thing from him.

“We’re good then. And why are you so nicely dressed, little lady?” The nickname made you punch his arm as he made you spin around once to pay attention to your dress.

“Lucy is getting married” you revealed.

Harry couldn’t hide his shock.

“Really? With that actor?” He asked with pure curiosity. “What was his name? Uh-“

“John…” you told him and he nodded. “They’ll have a communal wedding and I’m the bridesmaid”

Harry subtly looked up and down at you, he was relieved to hear that you were not actually avoiding him. It was so weird that he was actually interested in you when he never pursued young women.

And it felt even better to not really care about Lucy’s love life.

“Can I take you to the wedding then?” He asked with a gorgeous spark in his eyes.

You weren’t sure if it was the best idea, but you couldn’t say no at that moment.

“Yes, you can” Then he opened the door of his car for you and the ride was comforting. You easily avoided sharing too many details about your sickness with Harry, but it didn’t mean you weren’t slowly feeling anxious about the whole issue.

When he dropped you at the place, you just couldn’t tell Harry to leave.

“We are going to have a little party at Lucy’s mother’s place upstate after the wedding. Do you want to come?” You asked feeling shy and small. He could’ve easily rejected you but he only smirked and started walking you toward the entrance, offering his arm,

“If Lucy and John have no problem. Then yes…”

“I hope not…’ but you knew it could get a little awkward.

And so it did, the moment Lucy appeared in a simple but beautiful wedding gown along with John, the smiles dropped when they looked at Harry.

“What did I miss?” She asked as she hugged you briefly.

“Uh, I wanted to say it sooner. But we’re…” In fact, you were clueless about your status with Harry. But soon he answered for you.

“We’re seeing each other,” Harry said, gently squeezing your arm. It took you by surprise and a little smile appeared on your face.

“She’s barely out of college” Lucy commented, sounding a little too judgemental.

“I know, she works at NYU” Harry answered, not feeling threatened at all.

So cynical, but polite and confident. That was Harry trying to not let the tension escalate between him and Lucy.

“And that’s great. If they get along, that’s also great. Right, Lucy?” John also tries to lighten the mood.

As Lucy was still eyeing Harry, you started to feel nervous. So John, took you by the arm.

“Hey, y/n. Why don’t you pick our seats?” You nodded immediately, but you didn’t want to let go of Harry, until you looked up at him and he offered a warm smile with a tilt, urging you to go with John.

“If you break her heart-“ Lucy starts, pointing at Harry with defiance.

“You know I won’t” he interrupted her.

And the truth was that Harry had so many points in his favor.

“Fine, go and sit with her”

…

It was a beautiful and humble party in a modest house. You remembered a few Christmass spent at that house: blue with white facades and too many flowers.

You forgot about a lot of Lucy’s family, and seeing them again was nice. She genuinely looked happy and relaxed. You knew she quit her job as a matchmaker and was trying to simply help plan weddings.

And it resulted in curious how hers was so light, classic, and homely.

Harry seemed to get along with the party, you wondered if he would feel like an outcast since it wasn’t a luxurious wedding, and it surprised you that he embraced humility as if he wasn’t part of the richest families in New York.

“So… you and Harry?” Lucy asked as soon as she appeared to take a seat beside you.

You sighed, nodding while watching Harry dancing with Lucy’s grandmother.

“I mean, I don’t know if we’re a thing but… is something”

“How couldn’t you tell me?” It was unsure if she was just curious or resented, but you wished it was just doubt and shock.

“I- I don’t know, it just happened”

“You’re aware that he’s older, avoidant and dominant. Right?”

“Lucy, I’m well aware of that. It’s not like I’m marrying him” Suddenly you felt irritated by his accusing tone. And you didn’t want to fight but as she kept bombarding you with comments, you started feeling anxious.

“Oh, you would. With all the materialist things he can get you. You’d hardly be willing to leave him…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lucy finally snapped out of it, she realized she was getting on your nerves.

“You can never be happy for me, it’s always judge and judge and judge. My god, Lucy, just let me live the way I want!”

“…y/n” Lucy grabbed your hand, placing the free one on your cheek.

“You’re pale. Are you okay?” She asked with worry.

At that moment you realized your hands were turning numb, your vision was getting blurred and you could only hear a pitch, Lucy’s voice sounding distant.

Then nausea started its way through your chest and throat.

“My blood pressure is dropping”

Lucy yelled, calling for John.

Lucy’s mother, John, and Harry gathered around you.

You couldn’t see well but you knew Harry was right there, telling you to breathe and asking for water for you.

“Is she sick?” John asked, fanning you.

“Maybe she’s dehydrated” Lucy commented, debating whether to call for an ambulance.

You looked very pale and you couldn’t even lift your hands anymore.

“Dear, Are you pregnant?” Lucy’s mother asked you with a relaxed voice.

You distantly heard her and started nodding.

“You got my sister pregnant?” Lucy started screaming at Harry. John was trying to calm her and the rest of the guests were looking at each other in confusion.

“Harry, get her inside the house, please” Lucy’s mother had always been nice to you, despite not getting along with yours, she was always kind and soft-spoken to you.

You barely felt Harry carrying you all the way from the backyard to the living room of the house.

…

The sound of water being poured finally made a return to reality.

Harry handed you a cold glass of water and you thanked him.

“Do you feel a little better?” you only nodded, looking for any sign of anger from him. But Harry looked calm, he got on his knees, facing you and looking so deeply into your eye that sent shivers through your spine.

“Is it true? You’re actually pregnant and is mine?”

“I- Yes…” you admitted, lowering your head.

‘And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure. I don’t even know if I’m having it…”

“How far are you?” His eyes felt heavy on your still flat stomach, with no specific emotion on his face.

“About six weeks…” the air felt thicker but not suffocating.

Harry remained calm, making it harder for you to understand what he was feeling.

“Harry, I don’t want to ruin anything. I really like you and I enjoy your company. This was an accident…”

“A one-of-a-kind accident,” he said, and his attempts to joke, made you feel less stressed out.

The condoms were fine. But he didn’t doubt some had a defect. That’s why only dated women who were on birth control. But… he couldn’t judge you, you were in your right to stay out of it. In fact, Harry admired you for opposing it, but it came with a great cost. And for some reason, he couldn’t be angry.

He was not getting any younger, his mother would hate the idea of him getting a woman pregnant before putting a ring on her finger. But he liked the idea.

“I’ll respect whatever you choose to do. But I’d like you to keep it, let’s have a kid. I promise we’re going to be fine”

Finally, you felt like you could breathe again. Not really because you desired to become a mom. Or because you wanted to tie Harry to you. But because now you had an answer. It was your time to choose.

“Are you sure?” You asked leaning forward, very few inches of distance between you and Harry.

“Yeah, I am,” he said before caressing your cheek. “I’m going to take care of you so well, darling”

Lucy saw the exchange from afar, from the sprint door his mother had in the kitchen. She found herself smiling. And accepting her maths was once again wrong. You and Harry Castillo made a match.

…

[ First Trimester]

The whole place smelled like chicken broth. You were drinking hot hibiscus tea while flipping through a fashion magazine.

“Holy fuck…” you heard from the kitchen. At first, it startled you but then, you started chuckling.

“Are you okay there?”

“Everything is fine, sweetheart”

Harry was attempting to cook for you. You were three months pregnant, he was coming at least three times per week to see you. But when you faced a whole entire week of nausea and vomiting, he stayed the whole week.

Slowly, you were getting used to having him in your life. The only bad thing was that you two had never defined the relationship. And you weren’t desperate to do so, but it was odd whenever an old lady asked if you were Harry’s wife.

“Dinner is ready…” Harry announced.

You made it to the kitchen and he had placed two bowls of chicken broth along with cranberry juice glasses. You stared at the scene in awe.

“We can order delivery if you don’t like it”

“No! Harry, don’t! It smells great!” you reassured him, caressing his hand.

He would never pressure you. But as Harry saw you slurping at the soup and engaging in whatever conversation he brought up, he wanted to make you consider marriage.

He was growing too comfortable with you.

He wasn’t in love and doubted he’d ever be. But felt nice, having a couple without a facade.

…

[ Second Trimester ]

Hospitals made you uneasy. Not even clinics were as terrifying as big white sanitizer-smelling hospitals. But there you were leaning in a cold bed with Harry sitting beside you.

It was the fifth-month appointment and so far, everything seemed to be going well. The nausea stopped and so the hormones became overproduced. You started staying some days at Harry’s penthouse and he got you a full maternity lingerie wardrobe to wear for him. It was silly, but you two had so much fun despite not being an ordinary couple. The relationship was still undefined, but it was too good, so you avoided the subject as much as he did.

“Alright, parents. Are we ready to know the sex of the baby? Or would you like to print the results?” The nice old doctor asked.

Harry and you exchanged looks before smiling at each other, nodding at the same time.

“We’d like to know now…” you said at the doctor. She was one of the best in New York and Harry easily got you an appointment with her during the second month of the pregnancy.

“Alright then… Let’s see” the cold gel in your womb almost made you squirm. But the warm touch of Harry’s hand on your shoulder relaxed you.

Through the echography, you start to see faint parts of the baby’s body. The head, what seemed like an arm and leg, and then… you squeezed Harry’s hand.

“It’s a girl, congratulations!” The doctor yelled. “I’ll go print some pictures and then I’m back to clean your belly.

You smiled again, and then Harry leaned closer, kissing your cheek.

“You heard that, baby? We’re having a girl…” Harry whispered in your ear, making you blush and caress his knuckles.

You were becoming addicted to him. But you knew it had to be the pregnancy playing with your emotions.

…

[ Third Trimester ]

Charlotte; Harry’s sister-in-law offered and insisted on throwing you a baby shower. You couldn’t say no, but you warned her how you wanted to be a casual party with no storks and sandwiches and games.

And it worked out.

She rented a rooftop that felt like a dream despite not being too ostentatious. There was pink everywhere, but it wasn’t blinding. People congratulated you and Harry and constantly asked if you two would get married. Others are reserved to compliment your outfit. You picked a sundress with comfortable heels, curled hair, and orange makeup. Your belly popped out weeks ago, and by the time of the baby shower, you were seven months pregnant.

And you were scared. Not because your due date was approaching, but because you were utterly in love with the father of your baby.

The sickening love knocked at your door and didn’t seem to want to leave.

Harry looked gorgeous as ever, he was in dress pants in sand color with a salmon pink shirt. He was proud of being babygirl father-to-be. And that was one of the many reasons that made you feel like you couldn’t live without him.

The cake was cut and some guests had already left, but there was a song from The Ronettes that Harry and you loved, so he asked if you wanted to dance with him.

“Charlotte outdid herself with this shower” you commented while placing your head on Harry’s chest.

“She did. Everything was nice…”

“Pink suits you” you dared to tell him, which made him laugh.

“Really? I never wear pink. But I’m getting used to it” his comment made your heart flutter.

“Same for me” you admitted.

“Be for real, baby. Everything fits you…”

“Even this bump between us?” The hand on your shoulder came to rest on your belly.

“That only makes it more special” Your smile was overflowing.

And just when he said that the baby kicked.

Harry felt it and sighed in disbelief. He couldn’t believe he was going to ask Lucy to marry him.

After you, nothing would ever top the feeling of having a woman like you in his life. And to your luck, he was also scared to be falling in love with you.

…

You were late. Harry was about to call you to see if everything was okay, and then you knocked on his door.

“Why are you sweating so much?” Harry asked upon opening the door.

“I came all the way here from my place walking?” you revealed and Harry huffed in disbelief.

“Are you insane? Why would you do that? You’re pregnant, y/n!” Harry pushed you inside his penthouse.

“Harry, I’m being too lazy, I can’t even hit my usual gym routine anymore”

“You’re insane. My baby girl must be so tired” You grew accustomed to having him kissing your bump whenever you two reunited after days of not seeing each other.

“Your baby girl was screaming, begging for a trip”

“When she’s at least four months old, I’m taking my girls to Malaysia like you always wanted” You wanted to rip your heart out and stop seeing him as the most perfect human being.

You wanted to scream you loved him. But you weren’t sure if Harry broke his boundaries like you did.

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to. You deserve it” Slowly, he dragged you to the kitchen, showing you delivery food bags and a pizza box.

“Now, we’re going to clean you up a little bit and then we’ll have a nice dinner and then watch those horror cases you like to see” he started kissing your neck, aiming at your melting point, you gasped, immediately getting turned on.

“Are you sure getting me cleaned is the first thing we’ll do?” Harry chucked, spinning you to kiss you on the lips.

“I can clean you and have a nice time with you at the same time, doll” It was a promise. He washed your hair and then gave you your head. Great communication, promising goals, nice sex. Harry was able to give you the world even if you ignored his money.

…

The moment you felt the bed wet, you got so embarrassed that you almost cried. But soon you started feeling contractions. The pain is ten times worse than the darkest periods of a year.

You looked at the clock and it was 5:00 am, Harry soon was awake as well.

“Are you okay?” He asked, yawning before sitting to take a better look at you.

You wanted to answer, but you let out a big moan of pain.

“No… I think she’s coming today, Harry” he stood up only to come around the bed and sit beside you. “Harry, it hurts too much!”

“Hey hey, baby. Look at me please” You struggle, but you do as he says. “Breathe, just like in the courses we took. Breathe…”

Trying to find some peace, you sigh, holding his hands and expecting the pain to pass.

“You can do this. You will bring our babygirl today and it’s going to be fine” You start nodding with tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

It’s too much happening at the same time. But there is your Harry holding onto you and urging you to keep going at the same time.

You need to tell him. To say-

“I love you” both of you say at the same time.

…

June, June, June, June…

That was all you could say. Over and over again. Ever since you woke up, she was already dressed in a pink onesie with an embroidered duck and gloves covering her tiny hands.

She had a head full of golden hair and had the same kind of eyes as Harry. She was born in the evening and smelled so unique that made you kiss her temple over and over again.

The moment you pushed her out of your body, you fell asleep and the rest of the day was blurry.

“She’s perfect. Isn’t she?” You asked the following morning. Harry hugged you from behind, feeling your body covered in bandages.

“And she smells perfect” Harry replied, feeling your body against his. You threatened to get surgery if your body didn’t return to normal after a year of giving birth. But Harry reassured you that he would love you no matter what.

“Here…” Harry offered you an envelope and it made you frown.

June was asleep, her soft breathing making you look at her like being under a spell. But Harry was still your core shaker. You opened the envelope and gasped in surprise.

Three tickets to go to Malaysia in the fall.

“Harry…” before you could speak, he hushed you.

“One thing in exchange…”

“Yes, dear?”

“Marry me” he told you with a big smile on his face.

Your cheeks burnt and you started giggling, only to end up crashing in his arms and kissing him all over his face.

“Sure”

“Sure that’s all you’ll say?”

“What else do you want me to say?” He rolled his eyes and hugged you tightly against his chest.

“God, I love you”

“June and I love you too, Harry” you assured him, hearing his heartbeats.

“So much?”

“Maybe a little too much, baby” you concluded.

_________________________________________

Taglist: @mirandablue1 @hopperbopper @aeriaselle1711 @persiar9 @qtmoonies @isa942572 @luvrrish @chewie-bars @particularlypuppetry @sweetlovepascal @samslvrgirl @holydreamflower @hummusxx @llamaproblem @sydneyandioop @gretagergwigsmuse @callmefroggy10 @withakindheartx @everandforeveryours @qyoongi @umadirectioner @bellatopo25 @dilfs4life69 @inlovewithchrisevans123 @littlemisslovesjpbp @arcticversed @maniac-penguin @destinythepanda

[thisduchessreads]

GLITZ & GLAMOUR & GLOOM

boss!harry castillo x assistant!reader

synopsis — when the assistant job you were desperately hoping to get turns into a fake dating scheme, you begin to understand the saying of “money can buy everything”. your new boss needs a girlfriend more than he needs someone to schedule appointments, and you could never say no to a larger pay check. especially when your boss is rich. filthy rich.

or — when your assistant job feels more like a sugar baby position

warning tags — SMUT 18+, fluff, angst, unfair power dynamics, typical misogyny, eventual BDSM-adjacent smut, reader has a backstory but it won’t be relevant for a while

read on ao3 here

chapter 1 — job no. 12

chapter 2 — coming soon

chapter 3 — coming soon

chapter 4 — coming soon

chapter 5 — coming soon

[thisduchessreads]

SOMEONE, SOMEDAY, SOMEWHERE

MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH x F!READER

Summary: The evening before you start your fellowship at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, you meet a man in a bar and spend a single, incredible night in his bed.

What was supposed to be a fleeting moment turns into something much more intense and extremely inconvenient when you arrive at the trauma center early the following morning.

Turns out that the charming older man with the sad brown eyes is an attending at the very same hospital.

Warnings: slow burn, typical medical gore, fellow!reader (neuro specialty), boss/employee dynamics, age gap (30, early 50s), past heather/robby, power imbalance, workplace tension, forced proximity, lovers -> idiots -> lovers (again), angst, robby is kind of a dick sometimes, eventual smut, ensemble cast, side relationships, specific tags at the beginning of each chapter

reader traits: cis-fem, pretty soft-hearted but with a touch of sass, shorter than robby & easy for him to (eventually) pick up etc., able to put hair up somehow, a little bit of backstory, jesse’s cousin!

A/N: well, well, well, here we are again. this fic is an ambitious undertaking, and i make no promises of finishing it, but i’m gonna try my damndest.

*i have a bit of experience with neurology just due to being epileptic and having a pretty intense hyperfixation, but i am by no means an expert, so take everything i describe with a grain of salt.

─── ⋆⋅ general taglist form

i. i remember being younger

ii. my mother told me the truth

iii. find someone who grows flowers

iv. in the darkest parts of you

v. take heed when things get hard

vi. don't you ever turn around

vii. find someone, someday, somewhere

viii. that grows you to the clouds

ix. i've been living, waiting on the day

x. that the good lord willing

xi. send you out my way

xii. i've seen hard times, bad luck

xiii. all that in-between

xiv. sweetest of the sunflowers

xv. you're the sun to me

[thisduchessreads]

️₊˚‧︵‿꒰ The Life We Grew series ꒱‿︵‧˚₊

summary : It starts with an audit. She’s a sharp-edged accountant sent to investigate hospital budget discrepancies. He’s a war-worn trauma doctor running an off-the-books supply system to keep his ER alive. Their first meeting is tense, all clipped words and locked eyes—but something in the mess clicks.

This is the story of what happens after: of two people falling in love slowly, deeply, and without a roadmap.

From fluorescent-lit hospital wings to mismatched dishes and prenatal vitamins lined up like trauma meds, this series follows Jack Abbot and the reader as they build a life from scratch. Marriage, parenthood, exhaustion, quiet joy. Toddler meltdowns and foot rubs. Sleepless nights and whispered “we’re really doing this” moments.

Through every audit, every phase, and every heartbeat—one, then two, then four—Jack learns how to be something he never thought he could be: a husband, a father, a safe place to land. And she learns how to let him.

This isn’t a story about falling in love. It’s about staying there.

note : this series has completely taken on a life of its own, so I figured it was time to give it a proper masterlist. I hope you love reading it as much as I’ve love writing it.

status : ongoing (last updated 06/16/25 : duck's origin story)

₊˚⊹ ୨୧ chapters :

prequel: irregularities

part one: he begins to notice

part two: the camouflage onesie

part three: a year of you

part four : sticky fingers, quiet mornings

₊˚⊹ ୨୧ bonus content :

happy father's day, Jack

the moment Jack realizes she’s it

duck's origin story

❤︎ fanart : (x) (x)

[thisduchessreads]

Youngest Putellas

Summary: There was a shadow growing in the Putellas family, unnoticed, while everyone kept their attention on Alexia. Somehow, your mom's house and your city felt too small for both you and your sister.

Word count: 10.7k

..

-> Part 1 - 4.5k

-> Part 2 - 6.2k

[thisduchessreads]

due for trouble | how it begins

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: i freaking told you guys (i say to an empty void) i'm having a baby renaissance in my personal life and i'll be writing about it for suuuuuure. sassy jack abbot thank u. also i have no idea where i am going from here so if you have ideas send me them i'm begging pleading on my knees thank you. i will be pool-ing with the gf this afternoon but i will come back sunburned and ready to write thank u v much

warnings: language, suggestive content

next >

"Christ, Jack, someone's gotta take away your MD," Robby sighs, resting his hands on his elbows and rubbing his hands over his eyes.

He leans back against Jack's leather couch and looks back at the man. Jack doesn't seem rushed to reply, so Robby starts up again.

"I mean, I knew you were getting back out there, but I thought you were just getting your toes wet," he questions.

Jack raises his eyebrows and brings the can in his hands up to cover his mouth.

"I mean, yeah, but I was also getting something else wet," he mumbles with a smirk.

"Jesus," Robby sighs, again. "You're not even taking this fuckin seriously,"

Jack looks back at him seriously before speaking.

"Okay, brother, you can get down off of that high horse you're on." he admonishes. "It's news to you but it's not news to me. I've already done all this." he says, gesturing to the stressed body language Robby is exuding.

"So you're just fine with the fact that you've impregnated some girl that's half your age?" Robby questions.

Jack takes another sip of his drink.

"First of all, don't say impregnated. Second of all, she's over half my age-"

"By how much?" Robby interrupts.

"Well, I'm not feeling like I want to tell you with this attitude you've got." Jack replies.

Robby rolls his eyes. Jack gives him an unimpressed look.

"Look, man, I get it. Everything you're thinking and saying right now, I've already thought and said. Yeah, we didn't mean for this to happen and yeah, she's a lot younger than me. So what, man? What's done is done, we've had the conversations, it's happening. I didn't tell you so you could do this at me," Jack explains, gesturing at Robby, "I told you because you're important to me."

The admission sits in silence as Robby takes it in.

"Okay," he sighs, "Okay, I get it. What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know, maybe try asking me about her? How I'm feeling about this?" Jack suggests.

Robby scoffs. "You, Jack Abbot, want to talk about your feelings?"

"Try me," Jack provokes.

"Fine. How are you feeling about all of this, Jack?" Robby asks, exasperated.

"Hmm," Jack says, pretending to think. "Why don't you ask me again when you mean it."

"Jesus fucking christ," Robby mumbles, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

"It's fine, man, take some time to reel it in," Jack says good-naturedly. "I didn't expect you to be this cut up about it,"

"I'm not cut up about anything," Robby denies. "I'm just thinking about you, I mean, are you even sure it's yours?"

Jack looks at him with a steely glare.

"You're on thin ice with that one, pal."

Robby has the good sense to look guilty.

"Sorry," he apologizes.

"It's fine," Jack says.

Robby takes a deep breath, shaking his head to clear it.

"Okay," he starts, "Please tell me about her. How did you meet, what's she like, all that." he asks.

"I'm old enough to be your father!" Jack yells over the deafening sound of the bar you're in.

"Ew, don't talk about my father!" you yell, grasping the firm bicep of the arm around your waist.

"But I-" Jack starts, only to be interrputed.

"I really don't give a shit," you roll your eyes, "do you?" you ask the man in front of you.

Jack looks down at you in his arms. The big eyes looking up at him, the expanse of skin of your legs shown below the hem of your shorts. Smooth and inviting; Jack is desperate to get his hands on you.

"No," he smirks, "no, I really don't."

"Good," you tell grasping the back of his neck and pulling him forward into a hot, messy kiss. He returns the kiss with enthusiasm, his tongue running along your lower lip before plunging into your mouth, muffling the noise of surprise you make.

Distracted by the feel of your tongue on his, your hair grasped firmly in his fist, and the soft skin of your waist in his hand, Jack realizes that this is the most alive he's felt in a long time.

[thisduchessreads]

stayed up all night reading a fanfic n it turned out to be incomplete and it hasn’t been updated in 3 years

[thisduchessreads]

gym crush — jack abbot x fem!reader GYM CRUSH JACK ABBOT. because have you seen his ARMS? im DEAD

warnings: none? it's just cute and fluffy masterlist

There's always this guy whose gym schedule lines up with yours. He's older, maybe in his 40s, with salt-n-pepper hair, and forearms you've been dying to touch but settled with staring. For now.

He usually shows up around 2 or 3 PM on weekdays—prime quiet hours—which makes you wonder what kind of job lets him sneak away like that. He's too young to retire, but maybe he's an entrepreneur, or he's in a good position in his job that allows him to leave work whenever he wants.

You're staring again.

You have to physically pry your eyes off his arms when he does curls. You try to focus on your set, but it’s hard—his breathy exhales do something to you, and not in a helpful way.

You shouldn't be thinking this way. He might be married—though you don't see a wedding ring, or dating, or whatever, you shouldn't—

"Hey."

Oh shit.

You lift your head to see him standing near you. He doesn't have the friendliest face, that was the first thing you noticed, and now you're worried if maybe you've done something wrong, or he's there to tell you he caught you staring.

"You need some help with your set?"

Oh.

"I noticed you're not really in it today. Maybe a spot?"

Oh??

Does that mean he's noticed you before?

"S-sure!" You get into position, and he stands behind you, hands loose at his sides, eyes scanning your form. It's oddly intimate, maybe just because he's your gym crush.

He has calloused hands. You make a note. Especially when he taps your elbow, coaxing out one more rep with that low, steady voice. God, you imagine how this all would in the right context.

"That's it, atta girl." He gives you a high-five. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, just—" You glance at him. "Work has been stressful."

"I get that." He nods. "I'm Jack."

You say your name. Hopefully correctly. And then he smiles, and heads back to his weights.

Jack has noticed you staring. Stealing glances. The way your eyes flick to him even when he’s on the far side of the gym, out of your line of sight. As if your brain has a compass, and he’s north.

He finds it flattering, really. And he can't hide it (well, maybe better than you), but he watches you too. He finds it adorable that you come in with a different gym set for every session, and your water bottle somehow always matches your outfit. Who owns that many water bottles? It baffles him. And entertains him. And somehow makes him like you more.

He likes your hair too. Sometimes it’s braided, sometimes it’s in a ponytail. Beyond that, he has no clue what the styles are called—he just knows they all suit you. Ridiculously well.

And today?

You’re wearing his favorite set.

Yes, sure, kind of creepy for a man who’s never spoken to you to have a favorite gym set. But that shade—God, that shade—brings out your eyes like nothing else. And on days like this, with that color hugging your body? How is he supposed to look away?

The day after he offers to spot you, Jack finds himself hoping you’ll show up again. What started as stolen glances has turned into quick smiles as you pass each other, protein shake cheers between sets, and casually trading spots like it's second nature.

You still don’t talk much—nothing too deep, anyway—but his presence makes the gym feel different. Like something to look forward to. Something that gets you out the door on even the laziest days.

Then a week passes.

No Jack.

You tell yourself maybe your rest days just aren’t lining up. But another day goes by. Then two. And now it’s been a full week, and the dread creeps in: maybe Jack’s found a new gym.

It sucks—but it happens.

You try to focus on your workout, but you’re hopelessly distracted. Every time someone walks in, your head turns, heart kicking up… only to sink again when it’s not him.

You sigh and settle under the barbell.

Creak.

The gym doors open.

You whip your head around—"Shit—"

Your form wobbles, balance gone. The bar slips, and the weight traps you beneath it.

"Um, a little help?!" you gasp, struggling under the bar.

A gym employee rushes over with another regular, both of them working quickly to lift the bar off you. The pain in your shoulder flares immediately, sharp and hot, and you try to breathe through it.

"I don't think you need an ambulance, but we're gonna get you to the ER just in case." A gym employee rushes over with another regular, both of them working quickly to lift the bar off you. The pain in your shoulder flares immediately, sharp and hot, and you try to breathe through it.

You nod mindlessly.

Greg—the gym employee, and Harry—the regular, are kind enough to help drive you to the ER. They left once it's your turn, and you're now sitting in an exam bay, waiting for a doctor.

The ER is freezing. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline fading. You're still in your workout gear, couldn't even grab your hoodie, and your arm in a temporary sling. The pain's dulled to a throb, but the embarrassment is still fresh.

"The doctor will see you soon."

You're not really listening, until you hear a familiar voice.

"Okay, so what do we have—oh."

You look up. "Jack?"

He freezes when he sees you, clipboard halfway raised. His salt-and-pepper hair’s a little messy, dark scrubs clinging to him like he’s been running all over the place. There’s a stethoscope slung around his neck.

A smile starts tugging at his mouth. "Hey."

"You're a doctor?"

"That topic never came up?"

You chuckle. "Not really, no."

Jack steps closer, eyes flicking to your sling as he gently helps you adjust it. "Wanna tell me how this happened?"

"I didn't have my usual spotter."

He half-smirks. "Sounds like an unreliable prick. But seriously, walk me through the accident, I skimmed your chart, but I need to hear it from you."

You look at your feet. "It's dumb."

"Try me."

You fiddle with the edge of the paper sheet under you. "I was going for a new PR on squats. And… I got distracted. Lost focus, lost balance, and the bar pinned me."

Jack studies you for a moment. "Distracted by what?"

You glance at him, then away again. "Does it really matter?"

"It does to me."

Your voice is quieter when you finally admit, "I thought it was you coming into the gym. I heard the door. And I looked up."

Jack’s brow softens, and then so does his smile. "You were looking for me?"

"Ugh, you were gone for a week, okay, and I miss—I got worried." You groan lightly, more embarrassed than hurt now. "Don't make a thing out of it."

He laughs, smoothing a stray hair behind your ear. "I absolutely will make a thing out of it."

Jack proceeds to examine your nasty bruise, and making sure you didn't hit your head too hard by telling you to touch his finger where he points it, but intentionally making you miss.

"Jack, I swear—"

"Just messing with you, sweetheart." He laughs again, and you think you might die. "You're good to go home, just take some aspirin if the headache is too much."

You get down from the bed accidentally bump into his chest. You can practically feel his breath on you.

"S—"

"For the record," he leans down, voice brushing your ear, "I missed you too."

Your breath hitches, eyes wide. He pulls back with a low chuckle, then presses a kiss to your cheek. "Get home safe, I'll text you later. Okay?" He murmurs.

"O-Okay." You try your best to speak.

"Oh, and no gym for at least a week!" He calls out as he walks away.

You’re still reeling as you head home, Jack’s jacket slung around your shoulders and your mind spinning from everything that just happened. That smile. That voice. That kiss. It all feels like a fever dream—until a sudden realization hits you.

Jack doesn’t have your number.

And you don’t have his.

You groan. Of course. You’re benched from the gym for a week and just when things were finally happening—

Ding.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unknown number.

Hey, it’s Jack. Got your number from your chart. Want to grab dinner tonight? :) Don't forget to take aspirin for your headache

You stare at the screen, grinning like a fool.

Okay. Maybe today wasn’t so bad after all.

[thisduchessreads]

To Have and to Hold — Chapter 1

Summary: finding a lost toddler's mother in the library wasn’t how Spencer expected to spend his afternoon. Later, when her mother arrives—panicked, breathless, and beautiful—Spencer starts to forget how to breathe. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Brief depiction of a lost child, mild panic from a parent, emotional vulnerability word count: 5.3k

A/N: This is the first work I had the guts to post (genuinely scared lol), slow updates! (so sorry, but uni is killing me), and lastly, English isn't my native language, so please do let me know if i got any grammar mistakes! (also not proofread cause i'm too embarrassed to show any of my friends)

Series Masterlist

Libraries have always been a great comfort for me. It’s a place full of knowledge, warmth, peace. Maybe it’s the smell of old books and how I can easily link that smell to the amiable parts of my childhood.

Those Autumn nights when everything was fine, where my wires were still intact. Mom was doing well back then. She’d read to me those old books she collected from all her years of teaching. That’s how I saw them back then... Old, decrepit books that contained the most fun stories... At least, I found them fun. Like Shakespeare’s Tales Retold – child-friendly versions of Shakespeare’s works.

Nowadays, they’re more than just fond stories or old books. Those books are relics and a memory of when my mother was... well, more lucid.

What I loved most about libraries was the quietness of it all. I spent a couple of hours of my day when I could, basking in the quiet. It was nice not to have to hear the gruesome details of some innocent woman murdered in cold blood.

Days like these only made the quietness feel even better. Soft Autumn day, nearing Winter already. We had just come back from a tough case, children were involved. Thankfully, we managed to get on time.

I had watched that boy while JJ tried to talk to him, trying to understand what had happened to him. He was barefoot, his hair disheveled, and he looked achingly thin. We later found that the boy’s parents held a “discipline ring.” According to his parents, it was a “behavior modification” experiment—one they claimed was “research-backed,” designed to “train” their child into being the perfect prodigy. The boy was denied food, affection, and even basic care when he disobeyed. But worse? The parents live-streamed it all on private forums for a group of like-minded “disciplinarians.”

It didn’t matter that we caught his parents. That the live-stream was shut down. That the others in that so-called “discipline ring” were going to prison. None of it mattered when he looked up at me with those eyes—hollow but obedient. Like love was something he still thought he had to earn.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone more than I hated those people.

I’ve done a lot of pretending in my life. Pretended I wasn’t scared. Pretended I wasn’t lonely. Pretended I didn’t want a family of my own. But that boy—he didn’t know how to pretend. He didn’t know how to fake normal. He just waited patiently in that hospital bed for someone to love him back.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, which is why I had decided to come to the library instead of resting after the case like a normal person. I needed a moment of peace, a moment of quiet.

That moment of quietness was rudely interrupted—torn apart by high-pitched, desperate sobbing. I turn to my left, and there's a girl at the end of the long corridor full of bookcases. A tiny one at that, since the whole corridor looked gigantic compared to her.

She couldn’t have been more than five, barely tall enough to brush the second shelf. A statistical outlier in this ocean of silence, suddenly very, very loud. There was something universally gutting about how her tiny fists rubbed at her eyes. Lost children cried in a language everyone understood.

“Are you lost?” I ask hesitantly, not moving from my spot in the corridor. The little girl stops crying for a brief moment. Well, not stop. Her big eyes are still so full of fear and tears, but they open wide to look at me as if she hadn’t been expecting someone to help.

She doesn’t say anything.

Just looks at me—eyes still shimmering, lips trembling, chest stuttering around hiccuped sobs. She’s scared. That much is obvious. But it’s the way she clutches the fabric of her little coat that really gets me. Like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth right now.

I walk towards her. I'm not close—just close enough to show I’m not a threat. A non-threatening stranger in a cardigan and tie, kneeling among the books like I’m part of the furniture.

She stares, still trembling, still silent.

“It’s okay,” I murmur gently. “I’m not going to come closer unless you want me to. I just want to help.”

Her little hand scrubs clumsily at her cheek. She sniffles, her shoulders curling inward. Still holding it in. Still trying to be brave.

Then, finally—after a moment that feels like something unspooling—she shakes her head. And her voice, when it comes, is a soft, crumpled thing:

“I can’t find my mommy.”

I nod, matching her quietness. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

A pause.

“I’ll help you find her, alright? No rush. We can check the kiddie section together. That’s probably where she’ll look first.”

I didn’t offer my hand. It felt like too much for both of us. Instead, I walked beside her, slow and steady, letting the silence settle between us like soft dust. She kept sniffling quietly the whole walk down.

I desperately needed a way to make the little cries stop.

“What's your name, sweetheart?” I asked softly.

She tilted her head back to look up at me—really look this time. She was so small she had to crane her neck to find my eyes. Her expression still carried that flicker of uncertainty, her trust not quite earned yet.

“I’m Spencer.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just stares for a second, like she’s still deciding whether I’m safe. Then, in the tiniest voice—barely above a whisper—she says:

“...Maddie.”

Maddie.

I nod, repeating it once under my breath to make it real.

“That’s a beautiful name, Maddie.”

She says nothing, but her fingers curl tighter around the hem of her coat. She’s still scared, but she’s not looking away anymore.

Progress.

I scan the rows of shelves ahead. The kiddie section’s not far now—colorful bean bags, tiny chairs, picture books splayed on wide tables.

“Do you like magic tricks, Maddie?”

She nods her tiny head, her eyes warming up to me at the thought.

I felt something in my stomach… I wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe yearning?

She nods—just once—and I see it. That flicker of trust, like a light turning on behind her eyes. Not quite safety, but something near it.

And something stirs in my stomach.

I don’t know what to call it. It’s not adrenaline, and it’s not fear. Maybe it’s yearning. Not for her, necessarily—but for what she has. What she’s lost. What she’s looking for.

For someone to come back for her.

For someone to call her name.

“Okay… how about I show you some magic tricks while we wait for your mommy to get here? that sound fun, Maddie?”

This time she nods enthusiastically. Her big eyes excited to see what sorcery I had planned to show her.

I dig the pocket of my pants, my movements slow and deliberate. I pull out a simple quarter. It’s nothing special. Just a plain, shiny quarter that for some reason, I’ve held on to for way longer than I should’ve.

“Behold,” I announce, holding it up between two fingers like it’s enchanted. “A perfectly ordinary quarter.”

She leans in, captivated—eyes locked on the coin like it’s something rare. A small smile starts to tug at her cheeks.

“It’s your everyday quarter,” I say, twirling the tiny thing between my fingers, doing my best to keep this unfamiliar girl comforted—as if her calm is the only thing keeping me steady.

“Watch closely.”

I place the coin on my open palm and slowly close my fingers around it. Then, with my free hand, I give the air above my fist a little wave—like I’m stirring something invisible.

“And now… it’s gone.”

I open my hand. Empty.

She gasps.

I see it—the way her mouth falls open, the way her eyes light up like I’ve just rewritten the rules of the universe.

I lean in, just a little. Not too close.

“Huh. That’s strange…” I murmur, pretending to look around her, behind her, above her. “Where could it have gone…?”

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, I reach behind her ear, and pull the coin free like I just plucked a star from the sky.

Her breath catches. She stares at the quarter in my fingers like it’s a miracle.

“It was behind your ear this whole time,” I whisper, grinning.

She beams at me, her fear momentarily forgotten. Her laughter is soft but real, bright and bubbly and innocent in a way that makes something sharp tug behind my ribs.

“Are you a sorcerer?” She asks, her big, curious eyes staring into my soul, trying to get answers out of me.

I blink, “A sorcerer?”

She nods, completely serious, “like the ones in Harry Potter.”

I chuckle fondly at her question, “Well… I don’t have a broom. Or a wand. Or an Owl.”

“But you made the coin vanish…” She pouts slightly, and although the sight of her minor pout was adorable, I would’ve given anything to see her smile again.

I didn’t know why. Maybe it was the case that had me feeling so fond of a child I just met. Maybe it got all the loose wires within me, all frayed and sparking from things I still hadn’t worked through. But there was something about this moment—this tiny human with tear-streaked cheeks and a Harry Potter reference—that made something ache deep in my chest.

I felt it so sharply it almost hurt.

This... this mattered.

And I hated how much I wanted it—interactions like this. Not just the comfort or the connection but the permanence. The possibility of something that was mine.

Kids of my own.

I glance down at her, still wide-eyed, still waiting for more magic. Her little hands twitch with excitement like she’s ready to believe anything I say.

“Yeah, but it’s only a magic trick, sweetheart,” I murmur, trying to offer the truth gently, without breaking the illusion. Without hurting her feelings.

But maybe I shouldn’t.

Maybe I should let her believe in it a little longer. Let her live in the dream. Give her what I wish someone had given me at that age—a reason to believe in wonder.

So I sigh, dramatically, like I’m about to confess something world-altering.

“Okay… you got me. But you can’t tell anyone, alright?”

She leans in, eyes shining.

“I’m actually a wizard.”

She gasps, delighted. A smile blooms across her face so fast it nearly knocks the air out of me.

“I knew it!” she squeals.

“Yeah, you did,” I grin back. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

She looks like she’s about to burst with thousands of questions. Eyes wide and shining with a special curiosity. I just hope her parent doesn’t murder me for fueling these wizard dreams that she has.

“Are you friends with Harry?”

I try my best to suppress a warm chuckle, but I can’t help the smile that shines through.

“Harry Potter?” She nodded so hard at my response that I worried her head might pop off. “Well… I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s mostly busy these days. But yes, we’ve met.”

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands, and this time, I couldn’t subdue the fond chuckles that her reactions got out of me.

“Can you show me more magic?”

I smile, helpless to deny her. “Alright. One more, but you gotta sit down for this one.” I say, holding up a finger like I’m laying down a rule neither of us will actually follow.

She hurries to a small chair in the kid tables. Wiggles in place, hands clasped in front of her like she’s bracing for something incredible.

I reach into my pocket again, fingers brushing against the familiar coolness of the coin.

“But you have to pay very close attention, okay? This one’s advanced wizardry.”

She nods like she’s preparing for a test at Hogwarts.

“We have, the very same coin from earlier,” I move the coin to the center of my palm, “But if I place it right here… and you keep your eyes on it…”

I curl my fingers over it, give them a little dramatic wiggle.

“This simple quarter will just…”

Disappear. Or—it’s supposed to.

Everything was going fine. The coin’s in my palm. My fingers close around it. I make the usual gesture—slight misdirection, a practiced flick of the wrist, the classic illusion.

Except this time… something goes wrong. There’s a soft metallic clink followed by—

“Ow!”

Not me. Behind me.

The little girl’s eyes go wide, delighted at first by the trick. But then her head snaps toward the voice—the one behind me, the one that just yelped in surprise.

And just like that… the magic disappears.

“Mommy!” She takes off running.

I stand and turn instinctively, ready to reassure the parent—let her know her daughter’s safe, that I was only trying to help. Maybe even apologize for the quarter that, somehow, made impact.

But then I see her.

And for a moment… I forget what I was about to say.

She’s standing there, breathless, eyes wide with relief, and the softest kind of panic still clinging to her expression. The kind that says she’s been searching—not just through the aisles, but through every possible worst-case scenario in her head.

And yet, despite the tension in her posture, despite the flurry of emotion on her face...

She’s—God, she’s beautiful.

Like something from another lifetime. Light catching in her hair. Autumn caught in her breath.

An angel.

I’ve always thrived on routine. Wake up, brush teeth, get dressed, go fulfill today’s duties… It wasn’t anything exciting, but it was dependable. Familiar.

That all changed when I had her.

My Madelyn.

Now, my mornings depend on a dozen unpredictable factors. Maybe Maddie wakes up before I do and cuts my desperately needed seven hours of sleep short. Maybe she had a nightmare. Maybe she wet the bed. Or—more often than not—she’s just too excited for the day and bursts out of sleep like it’s a celebration.

It’s exhausting.

But she’s my entire world. My sun. My moon. And I’d sacrifice every ounce of sleep or peace of mind a thousand times over if it meant making her life feel safe and full of joy.

Still, we do have one day of the week that rarely breaks pattern.

Saturdays.

Every Saturday, for as long as I can remember, I wake up early, make pancakes, get dressed, and head to the library—the one place where time slows down, where stories open like doorways and the world feels just a little quieter.

Bringing Maddie into that routine was surprisingly easy. I started taking her when she was just two weeks old. I would’ve done it sooner, but I was still figuring things out—how to be a single mother to a newborn. Just surviving those first few days was its own kind of story.

She loves our Saturdays.

Every Saturday morning, once the pancakes are ready, I head to her room—and without fail, she wakes up with the biggest smile.

She always knows it’s Saturday because of the smell. Like clockwork, the scent of warm batter reaches her tiny nose, and her whole body just springs to life. She throws off her covers, races into the kitchen barefoot and beaming, already asking for her syrup before I can even plate the first stack.

This Saturday morning was different.

I should’ve known things would go wrong the moment I decided to step even slightly out of routine.

“Good morning, princess,” I sing, beaming as I step into her bedroom—blueberry pancakes in hand. “Brought you breakfast in bed. Aren’t you a spoiled little princess today?”

Her face lights up like it always does. “Good morning, Mommy!”

She spots the pancakes, and her eyes sparkle. She bounces a little beneath her blankets, already reaching for the plate. “Blueberry?”

I nod, smiling. “Well, I know how much you like them, so I decided to change things up,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Alright, eat up. The library’s waiting for us.”

She hummed as she ate, little legs swinging off the edge of the bed, syrup smeared near the corner of her mouth. It was such a small thing, but I remember thinking—this is what happiness feels like. A plate of blueberry pancakes and a four-year-old who thinks I hung the stars.

We left a little later than usual.

Just ten minutes. That’s all.

She insisted on picking out her own outfit—a striped shirt and a pink coat—and I let her. Another tiny detour from routine. Nothing dramatic. Nothing dangerous.

The nearest library, which we were used to visiting, was a three-story building. It was old, but they kept it clean. The library had a huge variety of books, from Children’s books to cookbooks.

It was just as it always was. Quiet. Warm. A kind of sacred.

We walked in together. I remember holding the door open while she skipped inside.

I remember telling her—“Stay close, baby.”

she nodding.

And then…Then I blinked. I looked up from the shelves. And she was gone.

I’ve never lost my Maddie before. She’s a curious child, and she loves to wander off on adventures. She probably inherited that from me. This need to find whatever’s glowing. I understand it. We’re moths, both of us. Fragile, flitting things, always blinded by the glow, unaware that it might hurt us.

But I’ve gotten better at spotting the danger.

At least… when it comes to her.

I watch everything. Every step she takes. Every handrail she climbs. Every crack in the sidewalk I gently guide her around. Not even the tiniest fruit fly gets near her without me noticing. I make sure of it. I always make sure.

So how did I miss this?

How—how—did I lose her?

“Maddie?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Maddie, where are you, sweetheart?”

No reply.

Just silence. Just shelves. Just the sound of someone flipping a page somewhere far away.

I couldn’t see her.

I couldn’t hear her.

Panic bloomed in my chest, sharp and fast. I started moving—too quickly to think, too slowly to matter. I scanned every row, every corner of the first floor, spinning in half-circles, eyes darting, throat dry.

Think. You have to think. Breathe.

I forced myself to stop. Just for a second. Inhaled. Shaky. Exhaled. Useless.

That’s when I saw it.

A sign hanging above the staircase in soft, colorful letters:

Children’s Section – Second Floor.

I don’t think I’ve ever taken stairs that fast in my life.

I practically leapt two steps at a time, nearly tripping—twice—but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. My heart was pounding too hard, my breath caught somewhere between a prayer and a scream.

As soon as I reached the top, I heard it. Laughter. Soft, bubbling giggles echoing from the back corner of the floor.

Maddie. My sun.

I followed the sound like it was oxygen, rounding the shelves toward the children’s section—and there she was. She was fine. Smiling. Whole. Lit up with joy I hadn’t seen since breakfast.

I was so blinded by the sight of her—so completely caught in the gravity of that relief—that I didn’t see the small, shiny object flying straight at my face.

Thunk.

“Ow!” I yelped, instinctively pressing a hand to my forehead where the coin made impact.

“Mommy!” I blinked, still holding my forehead, and finally looked up to see my daughter running full speed to me.

I dropped my hand and opened my arms just in time, catching her as she flung herself into me.

The force of her little body nearly knocked the breath out of my lungs—and I didn’t care. I clutched her to my chest, my hands smoothing over her hair, her back, her arms—like I needed to physically confirm every part of her was still here.

Still mine.

“I was looking for you,” she mumbled into my shoulder.

“I know, baby,” I whispered. “I know. I’m here.”

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and only then—only then—did I let myself breathe. Let myself relax and look around with a clear mind.

And that’s when I saw him.

A man—tall, gangly, cardigan-ed, and completely mortified. His wide brown eyes darted from the coin in the floor, to my face and back again like he wasn’t sure which deserved more immediate attention.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t—I mean, the coin wasn’t… is your forehead okay?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. He reached down and took the quarter in his hands.

He was nervous. The poor thing couldn’t even get a full thought out without stuttering or switching pitch. He looked like a deer caught in headlights—in the most endearing way possible.

I adjusted Maddie in my arms and slowly rose to my feet, brushing a hand over the spot where the coin had hit.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m okay.”

“Mommy, that’s Spencer. He’s a wizard, but you can’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” Maddie’s little voice cut in, muffled by my shoulder. Her tiny hands clung to my shirt like this secret was sacred. Like this moment mattered.

“Is he now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

The poor man looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink, and he kept shifting like he wanted to disappear behind the nearest bookshelf. He was clearly mortified for making my daughter believe he was an actual wizard.

Meanwhile, Maddie looked like she might explode from sheer joy.

“He did magic, Mommy!” she beamed. “He made the coin disappear! And he’s friends with Harry Potter!”

I looked at him again—this tall, blushing stranger in a cardigan, holding a rogue quarter like it was evidence from a crime scene—and for the first time since the panic hit…

I smiled. No, not just that. I giggled.

“He’s friends with Harry Potter, sweetheart?”

“Yeah!” Maddie chirped, her little head nodding furiously against my shoulder. “He told me so!”

I glanced down at Maddie, still glowing with excitement in my arms, then back at him—this stranger with a guilty expression and a coin pinched nervously between his fingers.

“So you’ve met the famous Harry Potter?” I asked softly, more amused than anything else.

His mouth opened… then closed again. He looked completely out of his depth, like he wasn’t sure whether to defend himself or disappear behind the nearest bookcase.

“I… may have implied we’d met,” he said, almost apologetically. “In a—fictional sense.”

“Fictional,” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, eyes flicking anywhere but at me. “She asked if I knew him, and I just couldn’t say no. Plus, it calmed her down.”

My heart twisted, gently. Of course it did.

I crouched to set Maddie down, brushing a hand over her curls. “Don’t wander off, sweetheart.”

She nodded seriously—too seriously for someone who just believed she’d befriended a wizard—but she stayed put, her wide eyes still bouncing between me and the man standing awkwardly by the bookshelves.

When I stood, he was watching me. Not in a weird way. Just… watching. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say something, or leave before he embarrassed himself further.

I finally broke the silence.

“Thank you,” I said. “For keeping her calm. And for the magic tricks. Even if one of them involved hitting a complete stranger in the face.”

His eyes widened. “Oh my god—yes. I’m really sorry about that. That was not part of the trick. I swear it usually disappears. Like, away from people.”

I smiled again, gentler this time. “I believe you.”

A beat passed.

“You’ve got a very brave little girl.”

My chest squeezed.

“Yeah,” I whispered, looking over at Maddie, who was now spinning slowly in place, humming to herself like nothing had happened.

“She really is.”

I looked back again, and of course—despite being told not to wander—she had already drifted toward the toy shelf, her tiny fingers trailing along the edge of a plastic castle.

Moth. Always drawn to whatever glows.

He hadn’t stopped staring.

He kept looking at me like he wanted to tear me open—not in a violent way, but in that quiet, curious way. Like he needed to understand what made me me. Like he was trying to read my soul the way other people read books.

I hadn’t even noticed—Not until I turned my gaze back to him, and when I did, I nearly forgot how to breathe.

There was something behind his eyes—something searching. Gentle, but sharp. Not the kind of stare meant to intimidate. No, it was worse. It was the kind that saw. Saw too much.

The kind of look that made you feel like maybe you weren’t a collection of masks and moments. Like maybe you were a story he’d just opened to the first page.

It made my skin warm.

I looked away first. Not because it was uncomfortable—But because it wasn’t.

Because I didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at me like that. Like I was worth reading.

“So… she read the Harry Potter series?” he asked, breaking the silence.

His voice jolted me back to reality. I blinked a couple times, trying to shake myself free from whatever trance those hazel eyes had pulled me into.

“Has she read—? No, no. She still struggles a bit with reading. The only books she’s managed on her own so far are Frog and Toad Are Friends and The Tales of Oliver Pig.”

His lips twitched at that, like he was trying not to smile too hard.

“Do you mind me asking… how old is she?”

“She’s turning five in a couple weeks.”

He blinked. “And she’s reading at a first-grade level? That’s impressive.”

I smiled, soft and proud. “She’s always been a quick learner. Loves stories. I think it’s how she makes sense of the world.”

He nodded, like he understood that. Like maybe he did the same.

“So I take it she’s only seen the Harry Potter movies then?” he asked, circling back to his original question.

“Oh—no. I read to her a lot. We actually went through the entire Harry Potter series last summer.”

His eyebrows lifted, impressed. “All seven?”

“All seven,” I nodded. “It took us a few months, but she was completely obsessed. She didn’t want me to put the books down, not even to sleep. Had a million questions. Wanted to know why Harry had to live in the cupboard, how the time-turner worked, what butterbeer tastes like.”

He chuckled softly. “She sounds like someone I would’ve been friends with at her age.”

“You read a lot as a kid?”

He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he seemed to be sorting through too many memories at once.

“Pretty much all I did,” he said eventually. “Books were easier. Made more sense than people did.”

There was something in the way he said it—like it wasn’t just a fun fact, but a truth he’d learned the hard way.

I didn’t push. I just nodded, quietly understanding.

“Maddie’s the same,” I offered. “She talks to books like they talk back.”

He smiled at that. “That’s the best kind of kid.”

I was about to reply—to agree with the praise of my daughter, to maybe say something more—but then she came barreling back toward us, beaming.

“Mommy, Mommy! Look!” She held up a Rapunzel doll.

“Can I have her? Please? She has real brushable hair!” Maddie clutched the box to her chest like she’d just been entrusted with state secrets.

I chuckle, “That’s yarn, sweetie. You can’t brush it.”

“Can I have her? Please, Mommy?”

I looked at him, then at my daughter’s wide, pleading eyes. The panic from earlier was still fading in my bones, but the joy on her face grounded me again.

“Fine,” I said with a knowing smile. “Let’s check her out and ask if she’s ready for a new home.”

Maddie squealed and ran ahead toward the counter.

He straightened, glancing at me with the softest grin.

“She’s something else,” he said.

I met his eyes, the warmth still lingering between us.

“She really is.”

He smiled—soft, sheepish. A little unsure.

There was a pause.

My eyes flicked between him, the floor, and Maddie standing at the counter, rocking on her heels with the raggedy doll held up against her chest.

I didn’t know what it was about him. Maybe it was the way he spoke to her, so tender.

Maybe it was the way he panicked when I first approached them—all flustered and apologetic, tripping over his words like he hadn’t spoken out loud in days.

Maybe it was his eyes—big, toffee-colored, and far too curious. The way he kept looking at me like I was a puzzle he genuinely wanted to solve.

Despite everything in me that usually resisted introducing new people into our lives, I felt it—that pull.

I wanted to know him.

“I should get going,” he said, his voice low, like he didn’t really want to.

I nodded, even though something in me quietly hoped he’d stay just a little longer.

“Of course. Thank you again. For everything.”

He looked down, then back at me, like he was still trying to memorize something.

“It was… nice meeting you. Both of you.”

“It was nice meeting you too.”

He took a step back, then paused.

“I hope she keeps believing in magic,” he said, glancing toward Maddie with something almost wistful in his eyes.

“She will,” I said, smiling. “She has a good reason to.”

He didn’t say anything after that. Just smiled once more—brighter this time—before turning and walking away.

And even though I knew I’d just met him… I wanted to call out after him. Maybe invite him to eat with us, I had the pretense of him keeping my daughter safe. It would be so easy, just go, “hey wait!”

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because despite having every reason to call out to him, to try and integrate him into my life, the fear in me always ended up eating my intentions up.

Still. I had a feeling that wouldn’t be the last time I saw him..

I stayed still for a moment, just watching him leave.

It wasn’t until he disappeared from view that I finally moved—walking to the counter where my daughter was waiting, still cradling her new doll like a prize.

“Where did Spencer go?” she asked, as soon as I appeared beside her.

Spencer. So that's his name.

It fit him, somehow. A little old-fashioned, a little too soft around the edges for someone who carried so much weight in his eyes. But now that she’d said it out loud, I couldn’t imagine him being called anything else.

“He had to leave, sweetheart.”

Her little face fell just slightly. “Will we see him again? I want to see more magic.”

I crouched beside her, brushing her hair back behind one ear as I pulled her into my arms. The weight of the day finally caught up to me—settling in my chest like something too big to name.

“Who knows, Maddie,” I murmured, holding her tight. “Maybe someday.”

I pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“I need you to promise me something, okay?”

She blinked up at me, her Rapunzel doll dangling loosely from one arm.

“Don’t ever wander off like that again. Spencer was kind, and he kept you safe. But not everyone is like him. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

She nodded, serious now. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“I know, baby,” I whispered, holding her again. “I just need you safe.”

“I promise, Mommy.” She murmured.

“Thank you, honey.” I kissed her temple. “Now… let’s buy you this doll and go get something to eat.”

She grinned, her earlier worry forgotten, clutching Rapunzel to her chest like she’d just made a new friend.

We walked out hand-in-hand, the late morning sun spilling through the library doors as they shut behind us.

And even though I told myself it was just another Saturday…

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else had quietly begun.

[thisduchessreads]

Parents

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Merry belated Christmas from me! I know this is my second Christmas fic this time around but I finally got the courage to write about Wife’s awful parents. 

Summary: Javier puts his foot down during Christmas with your toxic family. 

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Toxic family dynamics, psychological abuse, childhood trauma, Christmas, conflict and confrontation, sobbing, declarations of love, hurt/comfort, body/fat shaming

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61942318

Parents

You get a call from your parents’ home number a few weeks before Christmas. Your mother and father haven't actually bothered seeing you since your wedding day last year but Lucas is four months old now and there’s suddenly a strange interest from them in being grandparents to your firstborn. Somehow, they talk you into spending Christmas with them and reassure you that they’ll take care of everything as long as you bring their grandson. The whole idea causes a ball of anxiety to settle in your stomach, almost imitating getting hit right in the solar plexus with how much your breath struggles to even out as you tell Javier about it. Your husband agrees reluctantly but not without raising a concerned brow, asking you several times - and with days between each time - if you are absolutely sure. 

He even asks you now as he parks the car in your parents’ driveway, looking at you with a serious expression, brows furrowed while you sit stiffly in the passenger seat. You glance towards the front door, trying to act casual as if you’re staring at a wild animal who might pounce if it notices your anxiety. It is an odd feeling you get, staring at your childhood home but feeling more as if it is the scene of a crime. This house is not a memory of warm and fuzzy feelings but rather a place of constant criticism and unjust pain. 

Javier says your name softly beside you. On the backseat, Lucas hiccups.

“Do I look okay?” You quickly ask instead of acknowledging the tone of his voice, fixing your hair without changing anything. 

“Yeah,” he answers and tries not to comment on your nerves, “You look beautiful, mi amor (my love).”

The call from two weeks ago had your shoulders tensing up before you even answered the phone but the way they had reasoned you into revisiting the place of your hardest years has made your shoulders not come down again. 

You sigh gently and unbuckle your seatbelt, “Okay. I can do this for just an afternoon. Let’s get this over with.”

You climb out of the car, Javier following you after carefully unbuckling Lucas and cradling him in one arm while balancing the diaper bag on the other shoulder. You leave his car seat, knowing how much easier it would have been to transport your son inside in it but Lucas has been fussy all night. You really wish he hadn’t because you don’t want to go inside with only half the energy that a good night’s sleep could have provided. 

As you ring the doorbell, you take a look at Javier one last time, “Please don’t interfere. I don’t want to make everyone uncomfortable.”

“Baby, are you sure that—“

“Oh, there you are!” Your mother exclaims when she opens the door with a syrupy smile, “We were starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost.”

“Sorry. Life with a baby and all,” you shake your head with an embarrassed chuckle and try to ignore the tension in your muscles, shrugging your coat off your shoulders to reveal your wine-red button-up and dark skirt. 

“Honey, I thought you knew we always dress up a little during the Holidays,” your mother says while glancing at your outfit with veiled disdain, “Where’s that nice blue dress? With the ribbons?”

“This is all that fits me right now, that isn’t maternity clothes,” you answer apologetically at the first jab of many. Beside you, Javier takes a step closer to you without saying anything. 

“Anyway! Where’s the little man?” Your mother chirps, already having moved on and looking to Lucas who has started stirring in Javier’s arms. When she gets closer, about to reach out to run a hand over his little head, Lucas immediately starts whimpering as if he is aware of the unpleasantries that his mother has had to endure at the mercy of this woman. He knows the culprits before they’ve even revealed themselves. 

“Oh, he’s a little fussy, isn’t he?” She laughs it off and retreats much to your relief, letting Javier bounce your son to make him settle down again. When he quietens down again, you share a glance with your husband who signals that everything is okay. You take a deep breath and let him handle the situation. 

“Where’s Dad?” You ask to turn your attention away from your crying child, smoothing out a nonexistent crease in your skirt. 

“I think he’s just about to get the turkey out of the oven,” your mother says, wagging a finger in Lucas’ face with a little smile, “Why don’t you go say hi and I talk to my grandson for a moment? Oh, look at you, Lucas! You’re just perfect, aren’t you?”

You reluctantly leave the three of them to head for the kitchen. You can feel each family photograph staring back at you as you walk through the hallway to your destination; a picture of your five-year-old self on a bike but somehow no picture of your graduation ceremony as if it has been decided where things went wrong before you could acknowledge it yourself. 

“Hey Dad, smells so good in here,” the kitchen does indeed smell wonderfully as you walk through the door. Your father looks at you over his shoulder, giving you a little smile and you try not to think about how he didn’t bother to come out to greet you. 

“Mom and I were wondering if you were ever coming,” he notes while plating pieces of turkey meat. In the hallway, you can hear Javier striking up polite conversation. He’s handling your mother with his usual calmness, and you feel grateful for his presence yet embarrassed that you aren’t strong enough to handle it yourself.

You shrug a little, Javier’s presence giving you the courage to try and mirror said calmness, “Newborns, you know.”

“He’s four months,” he corrects. 

“Right, time flies,” you reply with your confidence fading fast, the words coming out in a way that doesn’t quite carry the quick wit that Javier usually loves about you. You touch your arm, standing awkwardly by the counter, “Still figuring it out as we go.”

Your father doesn’t turn around, “Parenting’s not rocket science, you know. Your mother and I managed just fine without all the made-up nonsense you young people talk about these days.”

You jump a little as your mother puts a hand on your shoulder and says your name to get your attention. You look back at her, “Can you set the table? I put the tablecloth ready on the silverware cabinet.”

“Sure, Mom,” you smile, already heading for the dining room to escape from your father’s subtle judgments. You find Javier has already gone, an irrational thought popping into your head of how he has bolted and left you to deal with your mom and dad by yourself. 

You glance into the kitchen as you start placing the plates in each of their respective places, “Where’s Javier?”

“He went to get the presents from the car,” your mother replies from the kitchen. You hear her take out a serving bowl from a cabinet. 

“Oh, I should go help him wi—“ 

“He’s your husband, sweetie. Let him handle it. There’s no need to emasculate him like that,” she is suddenly in the doorway, staring you down in a way that makes your hands shake. Her gaze drops to the table and her brows furrow, “You’re using the wrong plates!”

You look up with a racing heartbeat, “What?”

She sighs your name audibly, “These aren’t the Christmas plates. We don’t use regular plates for special occasions. Honestly, I thought you’d know better.”

The words sting and you set down the plates you have been holding in case the littlest twitch will make you drop it onto the floor, “Sorry, Mom.” 

“Ah well, now you’ll never forget it,” she jokes without humor in her voice as she opens the door to the china cabinet, pulling out the plates adorned with what you recognize to be hand-painted holly. You shamefully realize you know them from childhood Christmases and that they are exactly where they’ve always been. 

Automatically, you gather the wrong plates to make room for the right ones. It’s Christmas, you remind yourself as you do it. It is one day. You can survive one day. 

“See? Isn’t this much better?” She says cheerfully when your mistake has been corrected and while you nod, Javier reenters the house. 

He joins the two of you, carrying a large gift bag in one hand and holding Lucas on the other arm. You immediately go to take him, doing a careful transfer until you can lay his tiny body against your shoulder while supporting his bottom. 

“¿Todo bien? (Everything okay?)” Javier asks quietly when you follow him into the living room where the tree stands. He sets down the bag and tries to act casual, laying out the gifts and waiting for your honest response in the meantime. Apparently, you haven’t been as successful in hiding the distress on your face as you thought you had. 

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes and Lucas starts whining again. You bounce him gently, “It’s nothing. Just… Christmas stuff.”

Javier glances toward the hallway to the kitchen where your parents’ voices can be heard faintly over the sounds of cooking. His jaw tightens slightly and his mouth becomes a thin line. 

“Don’t,” you say as firmly as you can muster because you wish he would, “It’ll only make it worse.”

“Dame un beso (give me a kiss),” he says instead, and you shyly lean in to peck him on the lips. Afterward, he pulls back but only after stroking Lucas’ back, “You’re both doing great, okay? Don’t let them get in your head.”

You are interrupted by your mother’s voice ringing out from the dining room, telling you that dinner is ready. Javier kisses you one last time before reassuring you that everything will be okay and that he is in your corner. You try to smile, tense as you take a seat with Lucas still in your arms. 

The Christmas meal begins with polite conversation, your father asking Javier about work and your mother telling you about neighbors that you haven’t spoken to in years. You mostly just speak when spoken to, having decided to focus on your baby as he keeps wriggling in your arms in discomfort. You try to rub his belly, try to make him settle by giving him your attention but still, his tiny face crumbles and he lets out a string of small complaints. 

“Maybe we could open presents while he naps?” You suggest hesitantly when your mother has given you enough judgemental advice, “He’s been so fussy all night, and I don’t want him to get more overwhelmed than he—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” your mother says your name with a sigh. You hear Javier’s chair scrape against the floor, almost as if he is about to get up and get ready for a physical altercation.

“Let’s do whatever is easiest for the baby,” your father interrupts, placing a hand on your mother’s wrist. Her annoyance shines through her eyes but she nods with a smile nonetheless. 

“Of course,” you hear her grit out, “It’s just… We’d love to spend time with him. We’ve already missed so much, and Luke needs his grandparents.”

“We’ll see,” Javier answers for you. 

The dinner continues in mostly silence with turkey being substituted by pie, cutlery clinking against plates, and glasses being lifted and set down again. There’s tension so thick that it can be cut with a knife, your mother glancing at Lucas with a smile before it disappears from her face when she shifts her gaze to your direction.  

Mercilessly, she finally speaks, “So, honey, have you thought about when you’ll start losing the baby weight?”

“Mom!” You exclaim in shock, surprised that sound comes out when your throat feels like it is about to close up completely.

In the same manner as one would spit out a drink in shock, Javier’s fork scrapes unpleasantly against his plate, and suddenly, your mother’s name falls from his lips like the sound itself leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth. She looks startled by the interruption, almost like a deer in the headlights of a car, but it doesn’t faze your husband, “My wife looks beautiful and she has just given me - us - the greatest gift which is our son. Let’s not diminish that, shall we?”

You try to feel the weight of Lucas against your chest instead of how you don’t feel safe within this house, with its bruises on the walls and its ghosts of a youth spent walking on eggshells. Lucas’ body is warm, a reminder that this doesn’t matter. He matters. 

“I’m focused on taking care of my son right now, Mom,” you reply coolly with your lips resting on the soft hairs on Lucas’ head. 

“Right, of course. I didn’t mean anything by it,” your mother argues, clearly flustered, “You know how important it is to stay healthy for the baby.”

“Your mother just wants what’s best for you, honey,” your father intervenes, trying to steer the conversation onto friendlier and safer topics but she has already gotten up from her seat. 

“Why don’t I clear the table so we can move into the living room and open presents?” She mumbles, putting on a show by letting her voice waver. She has begun stacking plates before anyone can even say anything, practically fleeing the room and leaving you all looking slightly sheepish. Javier hides the roll of his eyes exceptionally well and he smiles when you catch him.

“I’ll put Lucas down for a nap,” you announce to what is left of the party.

Javier gets up alongside you to help you. He walks upstairs right behind you, a calming presence with the diaper bag in hand as you head for the guest room.

When you close the door behind the three of you, the tension seeps out of your body at having a quiet moment with your boys. The lighting in the room is soft and calming, almost making you want to lie down to nap with your son. 

“There we go,” you say as you gently place Lucas on the bed while Javier rummages through the bag for his pacifier. Lucas blinks up at you, his tiny fists balled and his chubby legs kicking excitedly. He lets out a happy gurgle.

“Oh, now you’re happy,” you tease softly and kneel by the bed to rub his tummy, “Picky with who we’re smiling at, are we?” 

Javier joins you by the bed and offers Lucas his pacifier. Your son stretches his arms and reaches for his father, letting out a high-pitched giggle around the pacifier. However, as he suckles gently, accompanied by your soft touch that has now moved to his chubby cheeks too, his eyelids start to grow heavy. 

When his breaths have slowed, you do whatever you can with the pillows to create a safe space for him to sleep. You create a barrier around him, ensuring as well as possible that he won’t roll over. 

“You know, you’d think that they would have set up a crib for him if they’re so desperate to see him,” you murmur bitterly as you adjust the last pillow.

“You sure you want to go back down there?” Javier asks carefully. 

“Can you grab the baby monitor?” You ignore his question at first but Javier is already handing you the monitor, ruining your attempt at not addressing the situation further. You sigh and get up from the floor, “I can get through it. If it’ll make them stop pestering me for a visit for a while.”

“I swear, one more word out of her mouth and I’ll open my own,” Javier says with anger simmering just beneath the surface. He drags you into his arms when you stand up again, hears your sigh of relief at being squeezed. It calms your nervous system so effectively that you slump. 

“Believe me, I feel like I am going insane,” you whisper into his neck and shoulder, grabbing aimlessly at his strong frame and inhaling his scent. He returns the desperate touch by simply rubbing your back in slow circles. 

“Yeah, I don’t know how you stay so calm,” he kisses your temple a few times. 

“Trust me, humans can endure a lot when they know there’s a time limit,” you chuckle humorlessly and pull away, “Let’s just do the gift exchange and leave.”

Downstairs, your parents are waiting for you by the tree. The collection of presents is sparse this year due to the short notice but you find it relieving to know that the gift exchange will be over quickly. 

Placing the baby monitor on the coffee table, you sit down on the sofa but don’t allow yourself to relax into it. Javier drops down beside you but leans back into his seat, his hand resting casually on your thigh to ground you. 

“Let’s get to the gifts. It’ll be nice to end this day on a happy note,” your mother says overly cheerfully, pretending to have forgiven and forgotten all about the situation earlier. She reaches for the first gift under the tree while your father stands ready with a bag for the wrapping paper. 

“That’s mine,” Javier tells her with a little smirk in your direction. He holds out his hand until she gives it to him, “To my beautiful wife. Merry Christmas, baby.”

“How thoughtful,” your mother mumbles and sits on the edge of her armchair. 

“Javi, I thought we weren’t on gifts this year,” you scold playfully but there’s no seriousness to your voice. You finally smile and this time it is genuine, feeling his gaze on you while you impatiently rip the wrapping. 

“I know what I said but I know you’ll love it. It’s more for Lucas anyway,” he informs you shyly. 

Inside, you find two pairs of identical fuzzy and comfortable socks with a dinosaur print on them. However, one pair fits Lucas’ tiny feet and the other fits yours. Your whole demeanor changes with the sight of your gift, your face lighting up with a bright smile, “These are so cute!”

“For your cold feet. Thought you could use something cozy while you take care of Luke at home,” he moves his hand to rest just above the small of your back, his palm smoothing over you on top of the fabric of your blouse. 

Your parents sit idly by. They stare at the gift with confusion and arrogance, clearly holding their tongue over how ridiculous they find it. Your mother picks at her fingers, “Interesting.”

“Interesting? Aren’t they adorable?” You hold the matching socks up happily, not sure what to expect but not even your mother’s judgmental expression can bring you down right now. To really rub it in, you kiss Javier’s mouth gently in front of them, “Gracias, esposo (Thank you, husband).”

But the happiness is short-lived as your father goes to get the next present from the small pile. He searches for a moment amongst the few there are, deliberately seeking out the present that you have brought them, most likely to be able to leave the room soon due to the obvious tension. He has never been one to intervene. 

“You shouldn’t have,” your mother tuts with a small smile as she carefully unwraps it in her lap, her fingers doing everything they can to not tear the paper so she can reuse it. 

When the framed picture of Lucas is revealed - a photo taken during an afternoon when he was particularly happy and smiling - her smile develops into a slightly wider one even if it looks against her will. She studies the picture with your father looking over her shoulder. 

“We thought you’d like something to remember him by,” you encourage her to say something. 

Your mother places the photo on the coffee table, her hands smoothing out the wrapping paper while she talks, “It’s lovely, sweetie. Though I’m sure we’d have more memories if we got to see him more often.”

You tense up beside Javier. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him do the same but he squeezes your hip to tell you that he is right there. Anxiously, you curl your fingers into your skirt but your mother isn’t finished.

“I just don’t understand why you’ve been so distant,” she continues, cold in her tone. “You hardly call, which would be fine but you visit even less than that, and now you’re letting Lucas sleep through his first Christmas. It’s not like you’ve gone back to work, so what is it?”

“Mom, please,” you say quietly but it doesn’t veil the wavering of your words, “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Are you?” She challenges, “Lucas has been fussing all night, hasn’t he? Maybe he’s picking up on your stress.”

You hear Javier say your mother’s name as he had during dinner, low and with warning. At the same moment, the baby monitor crackles with the sound of Lucas’ tiny complaints. The sound pulls you from your seat, your instincts to go to him overriding your desire to defend yourself from further abuse. However, your mother’s voice rings out behind you just as you take your first step.

She rolls her eyes, “Oh, just let him cry a little. You’ll make him clingy if you keep running to him every time he whimpers.”

You stop in your tracks, finally turning around to look her in the eye with your own eyes narrowed. You can see Javier watching you closely while you talk, “Mom, if he cries, he needs me.”

According to you, she has already gone too far but it seems that she cannot stop once she has started, “You know, you really should stop babying him so much. He needs to learn to self-soothe.”

Tears of frustration start to build in your chest and you can feel the muscles of your throat start to tighten as they rise to your eyes, “Jesus Christ, Mom, I’m not going to stop babying my baby.”

Her final blow comes out with a deliberate intention to hurt you, “There you go overthinking again and snapping at your mother. He is whimpering. Honestly, sometimes I wonder how Javier puts up with it. You can be such a bitch when you’re stressed.”

The room falls dead silent and the first tear escapes your eye at the cruel nickname… then a second and then a third until you start to cry silently and hopelessly. You suddenly feel like a teenager again, suffering from forced proximity. Your father opens his mouth but nothing comes out, seemingly not able to figure out how to defend his wife for once. It is the final straw for Javier.

“What did you just say?” He firmly cuts through the silence. He has gotten up from his seat and has stepped in front of you to shield you protectively from your mother’s line of sight. His nostrils flare with anger that might explode into rage at any moment but he keeps his voice steady, “You better not have said what I think you did or I am wondering why you haven’t apologized already.”

Your mother’s eyes widen at the idea of consequences. She splutters, caught off guard, “Apologize? Javier, don’t be ridiculous! I’m her mother—“

Javier laughs dangerously and condescendingly and looks away with a roll of his eyes. He shakes his head, not afraid to let the room know that he thinks she sounds pathetic without even calling her out on it. He crosses his arms over his chest, “You got a hell of a way of showing motherly love then; all you have done is tear her down today.”

“Javier,” your father tries to interject, “Let’s not make this into a scene.”

“No,” Javier turns to him, his jaw muscles flexing slightly underneath his skin with how much anger is flowing through him. The simple word makes your father sit up straighter than before - a testament to Javier’s days in Colombia - but Javier is not done, “You don’t get to lecture me about making a scene. Not after sitting there and letting this happen. She is your daughter.”

When your father has shut his mouth, looking uncomfortable by his defeat while he leans back into his seat with no intention to follow up on his words, Javier’s fury settles on your mother once more, “What’s your goal here, exactly?”

You’re aware that it isn’t just a simple few tears falling from your eyes anymore but rather a silent stream that has your face puffy and sensitive. It is accompanied by grief over your younger self not having had someone like Javier in her corner. You sniffle audibly, feeling as if you have been punched in the gut with how much it hurts and humiliates you to sit idly by. Your mother catches a glimpse of you behind your husband but it doesn’t seem to have any effect whatsoever. 

“There’s no secret agenda here, for God’s sake. I didn’t mean anything by it,” she sneers, trying to keep her demeanor straight despite the humiliation of getting called out being evident on her face. 

“Yes, you did,” Javier argues immediately and fiercely, pointing his index finger at her in an accusing manner, “You knew exactly what you were saying. You wanted her to hurt. Well congratulations, you’ve succeeded. Unfortunately, your daughter is a lot nicer than me and handled your words with a lot more grace than you deserve. I will not be doing the same thing.”

Your mother’s composure falters. She says your father’s name helplessly but he looks at her with tired eyes, full of quiet disappointment. Even if he is absent and passive like always, his refusal to intervene further is a sign that he would never go as far as his wife has just done. He shakes his head in disapproval, “Why’d you do it? We were having such a nice time too.”

She gapes at your father while his gaze drops to his lap, shrinking herself slightly at the realization that she is outnumbered and has to face your husband alone. Javier takes a step closer, radiating authority when she tries to avoid further confrontation, distaste so clear on his face for how he has lost her attention for a moment. When you let out a quiet sob, too paralyzed in your spot on the couch to go to your whimpering child, his face hardens further and he continues, “Listen to me.”

Your mother looks up reluctantly. She appears to be on the brink of an attempt to turn his words against him and argue right back once more, but Javier cuts her off before she can even start. 

“You don’t talk to her like that again. Ever. And you most certainly do not question her ability to be a mother. She is a perfect mother and God knows, she hasn’t gotten it from you. Lucas is a happy, healthy, and thriving baby because of her,” he takes a breath, and for a second, it seems like he might be done but then, “You hurt my girl, you understand that? And if you ever speak to her like that again - actually if you even speak about her like that again -  I will personally make sure you don’t get to have Lucas in your life.”

“Are you threatening us?” Her composure slips even more. 

“No, ma’am, I am instructing you,” he replies coldly, “If you can’t respect his mother, we’re done here.”

Javier turns to you now, his face softening immediately at the sight of you sitting teary-eyed on the couch with your hands clutching the baby monitor. He says your name so softly, a sound that has always felt like an unfamiliar and unwelcome sound within this house, and gently pulls the piece of technology out of your hands. 

“Listen to me, baby. Go wait in the car. I’ll get Lucas and his things,” he instructs you, placing the baby monitor on the coffee table behind him without looking away from you. He helps you to stand when you find yourself nodding. 

When you’re up from your seat, he puts a hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the door. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let you linger in the room. 

“You don’t have to leave,” your mother protests with obvious surprise that you and Javier are carrying out the promise of consequences. She begins pushing herself to stand. 

“Sit down, I will not let you disturb any of the peace she has left,” he commands harshly when she tries to take a step toward you. 

Your mother falters, stunned by his audacity, and sinks back into her seat.

The moment you’re out of the front door, your legs start shaking so badly beneath you that you aren’t sure if you’ll even make it to the car. The walk feels endless, like climbing a mountain, the neighborhood surrounding your childhood home quiet because everyone is inside with the happy family that you never got to have growing up. 

Until now. You have it now. However, you have left them to fend for themselves on the battlefield to slide into the front seat of the car. You rub your chest as it feels tight but it soothes nothing and suddenly, the tears come harder than they had in the living room. You rest your head against the glass window, screwing your eyes shut and feeling drips of hot tears on your cheeks.

Memories come flooding and you have no power to stop them, pictures of many nights spent in solitude in your room because it was the only illusion of sanctuary in the house before you. The sound of your mother’s scoffs, her unbearable ability to make you feel small, inadequate, and unwanted. Her year-long cruelty feels like a knife in your chest but your father’s silent complicity twists its blade too, makes you think that you were never worthy of defending. 

Yet Javier had done it so effortlessly, had done what you’d wished someone would have done for you in your entire life, and he had done it without any hesitation. You are shattered by another night believing the worst about yourself, yes, but you realize that a part of your sobs comes from relief too. Suddenly, it all feels silly and you don’t know why you have always stopped Javier from speaking up for you since you met because his words - she is a perfect mother - have taken the power out of your mother’s incredibly fast. 

You hear the front door open and a shaky sob leaves you at seeing the two of your boys approach the car. Javier has the diaper bag over his shoulder whilst cradling Lucas against his chest, his face serious. He moves in long strides to get to you fast, not saying anything as he buckles Lucas’ sleeping form into his car seat before climbing into his own seat in the front. 

You sit up again, eyes still brimming with tears that streak your face. You feel overwhelmed like you have run a marathon or fought a bear or a monster. 

Javier puts on his seatbelt but doesn’t put the key in the ignition yet. He looks out of the windshield for a moment, breathes a sigh of relief. The car is quiet except for Lucas’ soft breaths as he sleeps.

Right until Javier says your name when you don’t automatically turn your head to look at him, ashamed of how the day has progressed. It is Christmas, after all, and Lucas’ first one ever too. 

“Mírame (Look at me),” he says in a gentle murmur. 

You shake your head, unable to answer with how tightly wound you are. You feel his hand under your chin, carefully pulling you by your chin until your eyes meet his. His outline is blurry from all the tears but his voice cuts through the fog in gentle firmness. 

“I love you so much, and I love our son, okay?” He says it like it is a promise, “They aren't ever gonna to talk to you like that again because I won't allow them to. Do you understand me?”

You silently look at him through your tears, nodding weakly. He reaches to brush your tears away with a knuckle. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay because you don’t have to see them if you don’t want to. You just have to let me take care of you,” he continues and cups your cheek instead, “And right now, I say you’re done with them for tonight. Actually, for as long as you fucking want.”

“I want… I don’t…” You say at first but then, “I’m sorry.”

Javier furrows his brows, “Why are you sorry?” 

“Because that’s my mom,” you try to speak around a fresh sob, “And you married me and I trapped you with my fucked up family.”

“Hey, heyheyhey,” he shakes his head, moving his other hand to cup your whole face now. He leans over the console of the car and rests his forehead against yours. When you simply cry harder, he pulls you into a hug, “You didn’t trap me, okay? You didn’t. I’m here because you make me happy. You make me so happy, baby, and Hell knows, I needed a bit of taking care of when you met me. Let me return the favor.”

His body is warm, soothing, and grounding. His embrace squeezes you hard enough to make you calm down, giving you a moment of quiet peace in your mind as you begin to take in his words. You feel the same. You want to say it but you’re afraid that you’ll never stop crying tonight, so instead you find the courage to say those words that you should have told yourself years ago, “I don’t think I want to go back.”

“What do you want to do then?” Javier pulls back to look at you. He moves back into his own seat again and starts the car to give you time to think clearly about his question. 

“Can we go to your dad’s?” You ask hesitantly. 

Javier’s brows rise slightly but he doesn’t argue, just nods as he puts the car in reverse. Before reversing out of the driveway, he pulls you in to kiss your forehead softly. 

“Claro, mi amor (Sure, my love),” he says simply, “He’d love to see us.”

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