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[thisduchessreads]

𝐕. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

Summary : After a night spent in the safety of Marcus’s arms, you wake to confusion, doubt, and the weight of everything left unsaid. But as the days unfold with unexpected softness, something between you both begins to shift. And for the first time, maybe… it’s time to try.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Words : 8,2K

Warnings : trauma recovery, mentions of bruising, secret relationship, soft intimacy, bit of fluff, arranged mariage, no y/n

A/N : I couldn't keep it in my drafts any longer, I've received so many messages, comments and reactions... Soooo I'm giving it to you now guys ;)

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⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The morning light filtered the thin drape of the chamber’s window, soft and golden, casting pale striped across the bed. You stirred slowly, your body aching in places you had not realized had tensed in sleep. The space beside you was empty. Cold. 

Your hand moved instinctively across the linen, searching for the heat that should have lingered. But there was nothing. No trace of Marcus. Only the imprint of where he had been, like a dream dissolving on waking. You blinked, trying to remember when exactly you had fallen asleep. When his arm had curled around your waist. When your body, exhausted from weeks of fear and silence, had finally let go. 

For a few seconds, you lay perfectly still. The ceiling above you was painted with soft movement—tree shadows swaying faintly in the breeze—but all you could see was last night. Titus’ voice. His hands. His lies. And then, Marcus. Silent and steady in the dark, the weight of his body beside yours.

You let out a quiet breath, but it trembled at the edges. Where was he now ?

Your eyes darted to the edge of the room, his sandals were gone and so was the cloak he had draped across the back of the chair. No sound came from the hallway—no voices, not even footsteps. The silence was not oppressive, but it pressed all the same.

Was he avoiding you ? Regretting you ? Had you misunderstood the quiet closeness of the night ? 

A knot began to twist in your chest, slow and uncertain. You sat up, brushing the sleep from your eyes with the heel of your palm. Your hair was tangled across your shoulder, still holding the faintest scent of him, and you hated how safe it had felt. Hated how much you wanted to believe in a single night of stillness ? As if that could undo everything. 

Maybe you should not have come into his room, kept avoiding him, pretended he did not exist. What the hell were you thinking ? How could you think h could comfort you when he could not even apologize ? Like a fool, you let yourself be softened by his reassuring and protective touch, when he never knew how to be tender with you. What an idiot.

He was not there. Of course he was not. You blinked once again at the empty space beside you like it had personally offended you, then promptly flopped onto your back with a groan, hands over your face. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. You had let him hold you—hold you—like some tragic little wife, all tear-stained and fragile, and now he was just gone ? Maybe he was with Lucilla. Gods. Drinking something expensive and brooding handsomely while she praised his noble restraint. You scoffed aloud at the ceiling. Restraint your ass. You should have bitten him too.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, trying not to wince at the soreness in your arms—bruises you had not had the courage to look at yet. 

You needed air. 

You needed to see him—to know, even without words, if last night had meant something. Anything. You were tired of worrying, of resenting people, of feeling out of place. And so, barefoot, you crossed the room. The floor was cool beneath your feet. The hallway stretched quiet ahead. You did not know what you expected, find him waiting for you ? Gone altogether ?

But when you turned the last corner and stepped into the dining hall, your breath caught. 

There he was. 

Marcus sat at the end of the long table, as he always did. Regal without trying. A goblet in one hand, his dark eyes resting on the morning light pouring through the open archways. His tunic was simple, but perfectly set. No armor today, no sword at his side, just him. Composed. Real. And alive, apparently, which was somehow infuriating.

He looked up, and when your eyes met his, the strange tightness in your chest eased like something heavy being set down. His expression did not shift dramatically, but it did not close either. “Good morning.” He said, his voice even. 

You nodded once, the simplest answer. One second, you were sulking your way into the dining room—ready to hurl yourself into a cup of wine and strew like a tragic heroine—and the next, you froze in the archway like you had spotted a ghost. 

Your heartbeat scrambled like it had been caught doing something wrong. You hesitated for a breath, then crossed the room with more confidence than you felt and took the seat beside him—not too close, but not across the entire Empire either.

He looked at you then, quietly, as if assessing a storm cloud that might pass or pour. “Is everything alright ?” 

“Yes.” You said quickly, too quickly. “Perfect. Absolutely. Why would not it be ?”

He arched an eyebrow, and you gave him your best imitation of someone not unraveling internally. It probably looked more like a poorly trained actor in a second-rate tragedy.

And so, silence felt between you. Not the old, cold silence full of resentment, but something more… tentative. Testing the air between two people who did not know how to begin again. You reached for some bread, took a bite and chewed it like it was your sole task on earth. 

He was the one who moved first, reaching for a fig, the smallest shift of his shoulders brushing ever so slightly toward you. You glanced at him, then looked again—truly looked. He looked different now, not just older, but worn in, like marble weathered by time. His face was thinner, as if something had been quietly carving at him from the inside out. The line of his jaw was darker with stubble, rough and uneven like he had not bothered to shave in days, and it suited him far too well. 

His eyes—always intense, always watching—held a quieter storm behind them now. But it was his body that caught you off guard the most. Broader somehow. His arms, strong before,  now looked as if they had been chiseled harder by effort or whatever weight he had been dragging through the months of your silence. He looked heavier with it. More real. More tired. And, if it was possible, even more beautiful. The kind of beauty that was not sculpted, but earned. The kind that made your breath catch in your throat, and your pride pretend it did not.

Should you say something ? Ask where he went last night ? Make a joke ? Thank him for not letting you cry like a stray dog ? Gods, was that pathetic ? Maybe you should compliment his beard. No. Terrible idea. He would think you missed him. Which you did—did you ? He did not need to know that.

You cut a fig into quarters like it was a military strategy as he sat behind you, quiet and still—the kind of stillness that made you want to scream just to see if he would flinch. You could feel his presence, heavy and calm, and it made your thoughts more chaotic by contrast. Was he only kind because you were falling apart ? Or worse, did he pity you ?

You were midway through constructing a compelling inner monologue about how you were absolutely, definitely never going to bring it up, when his voice cut through your spiraling.

“Do you want to go for a walk ?”

The question hung there, small and simple. But it felt like a stone dropped into still water. You were not sure why it hit you like that. Maybe because he had not asked you anything gentle in months. Maybe because, for the first time, it was not about duty or damage control. There was something different in his eyes; a thread of hope, too thin to name. 

And Gods, you did need a walk. Fresh air. Space to sort through the riot inside your head. To figure out what to say to him, because you were absolutely not going to let him avoid it this time. Not the apology. Not what happened between you. If you had to drag him through it one question at a time, so be it. 

You drew in breath. Nodded once. “I should… get ready.” You said quietly, already rising from the table. But before you could take a full step, his hand caught your wrist. You froze, not from fear, but from the suddenness of it. His grip was not hard, but firm enough to stop you and to hold your attention. 

“What are those ?” His voice had changed—lower now, rougher, like something had scraped through his throat. 

You turned slowly, your gaze finding his. His eyes were fixed on your arm—on the edge of the sleeve that had fallen when you reached for your cup. The bruises were faint now, dulling to that sick yellow-violet, but they were still there. Ugly, lingering, leaving the memory of Titus branded into your skin.

You did not answer right away. Instead, your heart thudded, loud and unhelpful. You could feel the heat climbing into your neck. That too-familiar feeling of being exposed, blended with shame.

“It is nothing—”

“No.” He cut in, quiet but certain. You tried to pull back, just an inch but he did not let go. “Tell me who did that.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. You did not know what to say or how to say it. The words tangled in your throat. You could see it now, the shift in his whole posture, the way the air around him pulled tight. This was not casual curiosity. He knew. Maybe not everything. But enough.

And he was angry. Not at you—never at you—but something simmered beneath his skin; and it scared you, because you did not know if it would spill. You looked down and swallowed. Then, finally, you said, “It does not matter anymore.”

His jaw clenched, and still, he did not let go. “It matters,” he said, “It matters to me.”

You jerked your head towards him, but looked away quickly, jaw tightening. The words were there—pressed like thorns behind your teeth—and you could not make them come out. 

“I said I am fine.” You muttered, quieter this time, the fight draining from your tone. 

Marcus studied you, his fingers still around your wrist, but the grip was looser now. Almost hesitant. His brows furrowed with worry, the effort of holding something back. For a moment, it felt like the entire villa held its breath. Then, with a soft sigh through his nose, he let you go. 

The absence of his touch was immediate. You stepped back, smoothing your sleeve like it mattered. Like you could erase what he had seen. You could feel his eyes on you still, heavy and sharp, trying to fit the last pieces together.

“This is not finished.” He said at last, voice firm. “You do not have to tell me now. But you will tell me.”

You nodded, or something like it. A slight dip of your chin. Not a promise, neither a refusal. Then you turned, and left the room to get ready—your heartbeat still tangled somewhere between his words and your own silence. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The weeks that followed moved like a quiet tide, surprising in their peace. Marcus was often gone during the day, pulled between the Senate and the army, his name spoken like a spell in every corner of the Empire. But somehow, despite the demands, he returned to the villa more often now—and not just to sleep. 

Sometimes, it was just to share a late meal with you in the gardens, his armor unbuckled, tunic sleeves rolled to his forearms as he listened to you talk about nothing and everything. Other times, he would find you reading beneath the trees and simply sit near, not intruding. Just there, a shadow beside yours, his presence oddly calming. 

Things were not perfect—no, far from it. There was still heat between you, but not the kind that burned to has. It crackled in the way you traded sharp glances over breakfast, when you teased him for forgetting he had already told you about some senator’s outrage (again), or when he would call you a ‘menace’ for beating him at a gale you swore you did not cheat at. 

It was strange, really. The tension did not break you, instead it built something. He was still hard to read sometimes, still carried the weight of the Empire in the set of his jaw, in the quiet way he stared at the horizon when he thought you were not watching. But there were moments when he let you in. When he laughed too loudly at something you said. When his eyes softened during quiet walks, brushing your fingers just barely with his.

And you—you stopped flinching when the silence stretched. You started trusting it. Trusting him in a way.

Even the villa felt different. Less like a gilded cage, more like a strange kind of home. You found yourself leaving the doors open longer, letting sunlight spill across the floors, the air less heavy. There were no declarations. No grand promises. But things were changing, growing softly and deliberately. 

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself hope that whatever this was—whatever was unfolding between you and the man once made of cold marble and war—might actually be real.

Still, not everything had been said. 

Sometimes you would feel his eyes on your arm, the one that bore the fading yellowed shadows pf bruises that had never quite healed right. You had caught the way his gaze lingered there when he thought you were not looking, jaw tight, fingers curling against the edge. But he did not press further, and you did not explain. 

You had not spoken about that night neither. The fight that had splintered you both. The night you had said things too sharp, too honest, and he had let you walk away like it meant nothing. Everything still hung between you like a wire pulled taut.

There were times you felt it again, that crack under the soft, everyday peace. When the air stilled and a silene stretched just a little too long. When Marcus returned from the Senate with his shoulders squared and his voice clipped. When you wondered if the soft truce between you was simply a lull, not a solution. 

And though his presence had grown warmer, his touch gentler, his words more frequent. Something inside you still braced. Just a little. Waiting for the question, or the accusation—the return of the cold. Because neither of you had dared to touch the wound, you had just taken it upon yourself to bandage it without even disinfecting it. Not thinking that it could become infected again, and not heal, continuing to burn. And wounds, even quiet ones, had a way of bleeding through silk. 

Still, he stayed. And so did you. That had to mean something. 

You decided long before the sun set, but it was not until the villa had quieted and the stars spilled fully across the sky that you found the nerve. Tonight, would be the night. 

You stood outside his chamber door for a long moment, hand hovering just above the carved wood. You had not stepped a foot in here since the trembling aftermath of something you had not even dared name aloud. The memory of his strong arm around you still lived beneath your skin. So did the way your breath had hitched when his hand found your waist.

Now ? You were not sure what you felt.

Your knuckles rapped gently once—a sound so soft it was nearly swallowed by the hush of the night. You heard nothing in response, but the door was ajar, just enough to invite doubt. You pushed it open slowly. 

The room smelled like him, the curtains stirred lazily in the breeze, moonlight draping itself across the bed. And there he was; seated at the edge of it, half turned toward the open window, boots still on, elbows on his knees. He had not heard you, or maybe he had and just had not moved. His hair was mussed, beard thicker than usual, shadows pooled beneath his eyes. Even in stillness, he looked heavy—like he carried the whole world on his shoulders. 

He glanced toward you, brows drawing ever so slightly together. “Could not sleep ?” He asked quietly, voice like smoke. 

You shook your head. “No. Not really.”

A pause. You could feel his eyes searching your face as you stood there like an idiot. This was not how you planned it. You had rehearsed. Gods, had you rehearsed. In the mirror, in the gardens,… At one point, you practiced a ‘serious but emotionally available’ face in a spoon. And now ? Now your mind was blank your hands clammy, and Marcus was looking at you like he had been expecting something coherent. 

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. 

Great start. 

You cleared your throat, “I, uhm—well, I just—” You gestured vaguely toward the chair. Or the fireplace. Or the concept of words. “I was walking. And then I… kept walking. And now I am here.”

Marcus blinked slowly, like a man trying not to spook a very nervous deer. 

You gave a nervous laugh. “Not because I was following you. Obviously. That would be strange—I mean not that strange. We are married. I am technically allowed to know where you sleep.”

Dear Gods. You were actively unraveling in real time. He did not laugh, but something shifted at the corner of his mouth—the ghost of a smile, maybe. Or sympathy. Or both. 

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Anyway. I am here. And I will just… sit. If that is alright. Unless it is not. In which case, I can stand. Forever. I have excellent calves.”

There was a pause. 

And then, to your complete and utter horror, he spoke gently. “I have things to say actually.” Marcus said, voice even. “And I would rather not say them to a woman pacing holes into my floor.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

A beat. And then you finally sat. Not gracefully, but it counted. You did not speak—not because you did not want to, but because your whole brain had been reduced to a very faint buzzing noise. Marcus was not looking at you with frustration or coldness. He looked like someone trying very hard to be careful. 

His voice, when it came again, was quiet. “I should have said them a long time ago.”

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped like he needed them to stay still. The fire cast shifting shadows across his face—more angles than softness, but his eyes… they were quieter now. Tired. Honest.

“I have spent most of my life doing exactly what I was told,” he began, tone flat but not without feeling. “Born into duty. Raised with purpose. There was no space for softness, not really. My father taught me that empathy was a crack in the armor. And if you leave that crack, someone uses it.”

You did not move. You barely breathed. 

“I was trained to lead man. To win wars. To make decisions and never waver. But no one teaches you how to live with those decisions after. Or what happens when the battlefield follows you home.” His voice dropped a little, like the words were being pulled out one by one. 

“When we got married… I did not know what to do with you.” He looked down, his jaw tightening. “You were so alive, so bright. And I was afraid—not of you but of what it meant to have something—someone—I might not be able to control for once.”

You felt a prick behind your eyes, but you did not dare to interrupt. Not now. For the first time since the ceremony, you never heard him talk that much.

“I thought distance would protect us both.” He spoke. “If I kept you at arm’s length, maybe you would stop wanting more from me. Maybe I would stop wanting something I did not deserved.”

He swallowed hard, “But you did not stop. You were kind, you were patient, you made… space for me. And I filled it with silence. I treated you like you were the one intruding. And that night—” His voice hitched for just a breath. “That night I raised my voice to you—”

He shook his head, shame rippling through the gesture. 

“I should have never spoken to you that way. I was cruel. I knew I was hurting you but I did it anyway. And when you started to see him again and again, looking at me like I was a stranger—” He drew in a slow breath, eyes flicking to you then away again. “I have seen that look before. On men in battle, right before they realize the blade’s already gone through.”

You felt your throat tighten as Marcus exhaled through his nose, slowly. “I promised myself I would be better after that. That if you ever gave me another chance, I would not waste it. I did not think I would get one…”

He finally looked at you again, and his gaze was everything he had not been able to say until now. “I do not expect you to forgive me easily. Or quickly. But I have to say it. Because I was wrong. And I see you now. I seeyou.”

You sat frozen, the room too still, too full. Your fingers were clenched in your lap without realizing, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. It was not a grand declaration, neither poetry, but it was the most honest thing Marcus had ever given you. 

You sat still for a long time after he finished, the only sound between you the soft crackle of the fire. The weight of his words pressed against you like water—not drowning, but deep and heavy.

“I do not know if I can ever really forgive you Marcus…” You said at last, voice low, trying to not be cruel. “I am… trying to understand. And I heard what you said. I did. It meant something that you said it.” You glanced down at your hands. “So, thank you for that.”

A flicker of a smile touched his lips, faint and rueful, but he said nothing. 

“I just…” You shook your head. “I need you to understand that what you did—how you treated me—it made me feel like less than nothing. Like I was stupid for even hoping I could be seen. You made me feel disposable, small, and I hated myself for the things I did.”

His jaw tightened but he did not interrupt, letting you take your time, just like you did with him.

“As for Lucilla,” Your voice faltered, sharp and bitter. “I do not want to talk about her. Not now—maybe not ever. I am not stupid… I know there are things I do not know, things I will probably never know. But if there is one thing you can give me now, it is this: let me choose not to know. At least for now.”

“I can do that.” He said quietly, his voice solid with sincerity. “Whatever pace you need. I just… I want to make sure things go well for our marriage. Even if it takes time.” 

You looked at him for a long moment, your chest aching—not from hurt, not anymore. From something else. Something that might one day become softness again.

Then you inhaled, slow and shaky. “I should tell you about the bruises.”

Marcus straightened with that quiet, focuses stillness he always had when preparing for something painful. His eyes did not leave you a second. 

You wet your lips, “You were away that night and Titus found me in my chamber.”

His name landed like stone. Marcus did not speak, but you saw it in his face—that flash of rage quickly banked, forced down with effort. 

“He thought I wanted something from him. But I did not… I did not see what he wanted. I did not want it.” Your throat tightened. “But he did not care.”

You looked down at your arm, at the ghost of the fading bruises beneath your sleeve. “He grabbed me. Told me I had led him on. That I wanted it. That I could not act like I did not.” You were trembling now, but you did not stop. “He kissed me.”

Marcus’s hands were fisted in his lap, his knuckles white.

“The marks are from when I tried to pull away,” you said. “He was stronger. He did not care. And then, I screamed for the guards.”

Silence crashed in the room, loud and suffocating. Then—“I will kill him.”

You looked up sharply, “No.” 

His voice had turned ragged, wild with fury. “He touched you—” 

“I know what he did.” You snapped, louder than you meant. You swallowed hard and lowered your voice. “But that is not why I told you. I did not come here so you would explode again or fight another man.”

He stared at you, still trembling with restraint. “I told you because I needed you to understand,” you continued, voice gentler now. “When I came to your bed that night—it was not about forgiveness. I was not over what you said, or how you made me feel. I was still angry, hurt.” 

You breathed in. 

“But I needed someone. I needed safety. And even after everything. I still felt safer beside you than I did anywhere else.”

That silenced him. Not in weakness, in something deeper, a hit that landed behind the ribs. You rose from the chair and took a step closer. “I am not telling you to fix it. I am not asking you to make it disappear. I just… I did not want to carry it alone anymore.”

Wordless he closed the distance between you. There was no hesitation this time, no tension, just the steady, unshaking way he folded you into his arms: one hand at the back of your head, the other pressing gently to the middle of your back like he was afraid you might break if he held to tight.

“I am sorry.” He murmured voice low and rough against your temple. “If I had been here—if I had just—” He did not finish. His jaw clenches against the words. “I should have protected you. I should have known.”

You shook your head faintly, your fingers curling into his tunic. “It is not your fault. He is the one who did it.”

“I still left you alone,” he whispered. “And you were already hurting—from me.”

He kissed the top of your head—not rushed or desperate, but slow. Steady. Like something he had been wanting to do for a long time and did not want to do wrong. Then, softer still, “Stay tonight.”

You looked up at him. “Please,” he said. “Just stay. I need to know you are safe. I need to be here when you wake up.”

You did not speak right away. But something in your chest loosened, some old, sharp fear that had been clinging to your ribs for too long. It did not disappear. But it dulled, just enough.

And you nodded without really knowing why. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was loneliness dressed up as resolve, or maybe it was something you did not have a name for yet. You could not forgive him yet, but Gods you were tired of holding your own weight, tired of sleeping cold, tired of feeling like you were always bracing for impact.

And here ha was, finally reaching back. It was not enough… but it was something. A step. Maybe you were foolish for wanting to try. Maybe you would wake up tomorrow with regret curled in tour chest like smoke. But for tonight, you just wanted quiet. A moment of calm. A place to set your heart down and rest. And for some reason—you hoped he might be that place.

He kissed your forehead gently once more. “Thank you.” He whispered. “And… I am sorry. For all of it. For what I said that night. For the months before. For making you feel like you were anything but wanted.”

You leaned your head against his chest and closed your eyes. This time, when the silence settled between you, it was not heavy with unsaid things anymore. It was true peace.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

After that, the mornings were the easiest, you sat across from each other like two people sharing a long truce, a loaf of bread, and mild confusion about how you got there. At first, they were filled with the soft scrape of plates and the occasional clink of a cup. You would steal glances at him over your plate, and he would pretend not to notice. 

One morning you were sipping watered wine while he read parchment over fruits, sometimes glancing up like he had something to say. You caught him watching your hands as you took something from a bowl, but did not ask why. Then, he broke the pattern. 

“The cook adds honey now,” Marcus said, gesturing to the same bowl your hand was in a few seconds ago. “He said you liked it that way.”

“Your spoon paused midair. “That is thoughtful I guess.”

“He said it is better for your mood,” he added, eyes flickering upward. “His words. Not mine.”

You snorted, and for the first time in weeks, something like amusement sparked between you. He did not smile right away, but you caught the ghost of one tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Later, he would start taking digestive walks in the gardens. This happened from time to time, until it happened after every breakfast. They became a place strange of comfort where he would walk ahead sometimes, hands clasped behind his back, talking about nothing in particular—history, the state of the vines. You listened without answering, but never left his side. 

One day, he had offered you his arm, but you did not take it. You were not quite ready for that. Still, you walked beside him, close enough that your hand might brush his if either of you stopped pretending you did not want them to. 

The garden air was cool that morning, still carrying the damp scent of night-bloom flowers. You passed the row of cypress trees where the sun broke in perfect slants—and suddenly, your breath caught. You had walked this same path before. Not long ago. Not with Marcus. With him.

The memory flared like heat against the base of your neck; his voice too close, the press of his hand on your body, the way he looked at you. You could still feel it sometimes. The weight of that night lingering on your skin like dust that refused to wash away.

Your steps faltered. Not noticeably, you hoped. But the General noticed everything. He did not say anything, only shifted slightly closer, as if to shield without smothering. His hand did not reach for your again, but you could feel it hovering, just enough to remind you he was there.

You did not speak of the memory. But the shadow it cast stayed with you for the rest of the walk. And even as the sunlight warmed your face, you could not help but wonder if the past would ever stop bleeding into the new.

“This tree,” Marcus said after a moment, gesturing toward the fig grove, “My mother planted it when I was a boy.”

You blinked. “She had good taste.”

“She did.” He said quietly, letting sadness taking over him for a short second before winning control back. “In trees, at least.” 

That earned a dry look from you, and a corner-smile from him. A truce, again.

One afternoon, you found him in the book room—not a place you often wandered anymore. The air was cooler there, quieter in a way that felt sacred, like even the dust had agreed not to stir. The sun cut through the tall windows in golden angles, bathing the room in soft light that spilled across the mosaic floor and pooled at Marcus’ feet. He sat like a statue half-forgotten by time, a figure caught somewhere between war and rest, the curve of his brow relaxed, the corners of his mouth just slightly unguarded. 

He looked younger in the sun, or maybe just.. less worn. 

You hovered in the doorway for a moment, unsure. But something about the angle of his shoulders, the quiet scratch of turning page pulled at you. So, you stepped inside, each footstep hushed by the plush runner beneath your sandals, and sank onto the second lounge opposite him, a respectful distance away.

He did not look up, but you saw his hand pause on the page. His voice was low, smooth like poured bronze. “Did not expect you in here.”

“I thought you might be hiding something scandalous in the scrolls.” You said lightly, teasing—trying, gently, to find your place in this new softness between you.

A faint exhale escaped him, amusement, maybe. “Just Caracalla, Geta and the city’s water systems. Scandalous, indeed.”

You smiled. Just barely. But it stayed. The silence returned, though this time it settled like a comfort rather than a wall. You let your gaze drift lazily over the room: the shelves stacked high with neat rolls of parchment, the thick scent of ink and old vellum, the soft creak of his chair as he shifted. Somewhere outside, birds chirped in the olive trees. It was peaceful in a way that made your bones feel heavy.

At some point—without quite meaning to—your head tilted back against the lounge. Your lashes dipped. The words in your mind began to blur. And then, with the gentlest of exhales, you gave in to sleep. You did not notice sleep had claimed you, not until something warm and light was laid across your shoulders.

Your eyes fluttered half-open, just enough to catch the shape of Marcus’s figure standing near. His shadow passed over you as he draped a blanket—soft wool, faintly scented of him—across your arms. He did not speak. Did not linger.

He only returned to his seat, the material of his chair groaning faintly beneath him. The scroll reopened, the words read again. But his gaze did not stray far. Every so often, between one paragraph and the next, his eyes lifted toward you. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you. Not hunger, not longing, but a kind of... awe. Or maybe confusion, that you were still here. Still trying. Still close enough to reach if he only dared.

And so, he did not reach. But he watched. And that, for now, was enough.

On another day, in the quiet shade of the peristyle, you stood beside him as the birds dripped in and out of the courtyard fountain, scattering droplets like glass. The afternoon air was warm but mazy, the hush of the villa stretching between columns and falling into a rhythm all its own.

You were not looking for him at first, you told yourself you were only wandering, restless and uncertain, your thoughts knotted after to many night of still pretending not to care. But something pulled you toward the baths. Something quiet, curious, and perhaps, a little foolish. 

You pushed the door open without thinking. The air inside was thick with steam and warmth; perfumed faintly with rosemary and heat-soaked stone. At first, you did not see him. Only the curve of the pool, the golden ripple of water. Then—

There he was.

Marcus.

Leaning back against the stone edge, eyes closed, dark hair slicked from his face. He looked less like the General then, less like the man with the burden of Rome on his shoulders. He looked… peaceful. Almost.

Your breath caught.

You should have left. Should have turned on your heel and walked straight back out the door. But your feet did not listen. Something strange and warm and deeply unsettling pulled you forward, not quite longing, not quite anything you had admit to. You stepped quietly across the tiled floor and sat on the rim of the bath, just beside him, careful not to let your dress touch the water.

He did not open his eyes.

Your pulse quickened—Gods, what were you doing ? The heat from the bath curled around your legs, climbed up your spine. Your skin prickled where the steam kissed it, and your palms pressed flat against the stone to keep them from shaking.

You were not even sure why you were there. Only that the closeness made your thoughts blur, and your body had grown traitorously warm. You looked at him and something unfamiliar bloomed in your chest, heavy and heady and hard to name.

You had sat beside him before, but never like this. And never with your breath this short.

You should not have stayed. You knew that. But your body had made the decision long before your mind could catch up. He was still. His chest rose and fell with the steady breath of someone who had not yet realized he was being watched. Or maybe he had. Maybe Marcus always knew more than he let on. Maybe he was letting you look.

You did.

Gods, you did.

Your eyes drifted down—over the water beading on his collarbone, the way it ran in lazy rivulets across the planes of his chest, sinking into the hollow beneath his throat. His arm rested on the edge, strong and relaxed, muscles softened by heat but still unmistakably powerful.

You thought, absurdly, of how those hands would feel on your skin. What it would be like if he turned his head and looked at with that quiet, unreadable gaze. If he said your name in a way he never said before: low, and without armor.

And then, your thoughts grew bolder.

The things he could do to you.

With those hands. That mouth. That voice—firm and low, made for command and confession alike. You imagined his breath hot against your neck, his weight pinning you to something that was not cold marble for once. His voice in your ear—no orders, no cruelty, just need.

Worse still—or better—you imagined the things you could do to him. The slow drag of your fingers down the scar at his side. The way he might shudder under your mouth. How his control—so prized, so carefully guarded—might crack when you whispered that you wanted him.

You swallowed hard. Your thighs pressed together before you realized what you were doing. He still had not opened his eyes as you bite your lower lip hard, trying to calm the feeling growing in you. And maybe that was a mercy. Because if he had, if he had looked at you in that moment, and seen the thoughts unraveling in your mind like silk slipping from a spool, you were not entirely sure you would have stopped yourself.

Not this time.

Not when the heat between your legs burned hotter than the bath itself. Not when his nearness made you forget all the reasons you were supposed to hate him. And Gods help you—not when you did not want to anymore.

You were not sure what prompted it—the tilt of his head in the light, maybe, or the way his fingers absently traced the rim of the marble basin, steady and unthinking, like he had forgotten you were there. There was a gentleness to him in that moment, unguarded and rare. 

And without much thought, your hand reached up—slow, hesitant—and brushed your fingers against the faint scar that curved along his temple. It was not deep, just pale and thin, nearly lost in the bronze of his skin. But you had seen it a hundred times and never once touched it. Never dared. 

The moment your skin met his, he flinched. Not violently—not like someone bracing for pain—but quick, instinctual, like a breath drawn too sharply. His shoulders stiffened. His jaw set. And when his eyes snapped to yours, there was something unreadable in them. Caught between memory and alarm.

You pulled your hand back at once, heat rushing to your face. “Sorry,” you muttered, trying to laugh but failing. “I did not mean to— I was just curious.”

His expression did not soften. If anything, he seemed to withdraw into himself, folding shut like a gate. “It is nothing.” He said, voice suddenly colder, clipped. “Old wound.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the shift. The sunlight did not feel quite so warm anymore. “Right,” you said, folding your arms, letting the sarcasm slip out like defense. “Of course. I forget you only bleed strategically.”

That made him look at you—sharply, this time. But he did not speak.

You felt ridiculous. Embarrassed. Small. “If you are going to act like that every time I touch you, then maybe do not let me stand so close.” You added under your breath, more wounded than you meant to sound.

A pause followed. Long enough that you regretted speaking. Long enough that you wanted to disappear entirely. Then—“No.” He said, quieter now. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… pained. “Do not apologize.”

You glanced up. He was watching you, the tension around his mouth loosened, though his eyes still held something tight. Fragile. You looked at him. Really looked.

The years hung on him in ways he did not try to hide, not anymore. There were faint lines at his brow that had not been there when you first met. His eyes held shadows even when he smiled. That scar, and a hundred others you had never seen, told stories he rarely let escape.

“I never asked where it came from.” You said softly, meaning the scar but not only that.

He shook his head, gaze sliding back to the birds. “Does it matter ?”

“Maybe not,” you murmured. “But I still wonder.”

He turned his head and watched you. Not with the cold stare he wore in the Senate or when rebuffing servants. No, this one was quieter, patient, amused. You froze, heart thudding like a hammer against your ribs. 

“Why do you look at me like I have wronged you again ?”

You bristled. “I am allowed to have feelings.”

“I did not say you were not.”

There was silence again, he did not look away—and that was the worst part. He saw you, all of you, even when you tried to hide behind clipped retorts and crossed arms.

Then—without warning—he reached out and took your wrist.

“Marcus—”

“Come here.” He said, and tugged. Not roughly, not demanding. But firmly enough that resistance meant nothing.

You stumbled forward, nearly slipping, your foot hitting the shallow step of the bath. “I am clothed.” You hissed, voice low with mortification.

“I do not care.” His other hand rose, brushing damp hair from his brow. “Touch my scar again.”

You blinked. “What ?”

He tilted his head, the faintest ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “You touched it before. Do it again.”

“I am not going to—”

But then you were already closer, your knees pressed to the edge, his legs brushing yours under the water. The heat of the bath—or maybe just him—was getting to you.

“Marcus—”

He shifted again—and suddenly, with practiced ease, he pulled you fully onto his lap.

Your breath caught, a sharp inhale. The water soaked into your dress at once, turning the fabric heavy against your skin. Your palms flattened instinctively on his bare shoulders to steady yourself, and Gods, there was nothing between you but wet cloth and silence.

He did not gloat. Did not tease. Just looked at you, steady and open.

The water clung to you like a second skin. You shifted slightly in his lap, acutely aware of the way your soaked dress now pressed against your body—thin and near-transparent, clinging to every curve. It offered no protection, no mystery. Not there. Not with him. 

And he was still naked beneath you. 

You could feel him, his warmth, the sheer size of him, the strength held barely in check. It jolted something in your memory. That first night. The stretch, the heat, the way he had filled every part of you lie he had been made for it. 

Your breath hitched. 

You cursed your own thoughts, trying to still the sudden thrum in your veins. 

Marcus noticed. 

His eyes dropped with a slow, reverent calculation that made your skin prickle. His gaze swept over the soaked linen plastered to your chest, then darted back up, locking on yours. His jaw tightened, but he did not say anything. Did not move. He was letting you decide. And it made everything worse. Or maybe better. You were. Not sure anymore. 

You tried to speak, to reclaim some kind of composure. “This is inappropriate,” you muttered, not quite able to meet his eyes. “I am—I am practically indecent.”

His voice was quiet. Rough. “You are beautiful.”

The words struck harder than they should have. Not because of what he said—but because of how he said it. Like it was not a line. Like he was not trying to win anything. Just stating a truth he could not help but see.

You swallowed, pulse loud in your ears. “Stop that.”

“Why ?”

“Because I do not know what to do if you are kind.”

He did not smile. But his hands, large and warm beneath the surface of the water, tightened gently around your waist, then his fingers found your wrist with a gentleness that almost undid you. The kind that said he knew exactly where the hurt was. He lifted it slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and then bowed his head. His lips brushed over the fading bruise there, warm and deliberate. Once. Then again. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Just… careful. As if he could take the ache into himself if he kissed it enough. As if he was sorry in ways he hadn’t found words for yet. “Then do not do anything.” He said. “Just stay.”

Your fingers curled into his shoulders again. You did not trust your voice, but you did not move either. Maybe this was foolish, but in his arms, for one quiet moment, it did not feel like a mistake.

“Do you always ask for the impossible ?” You murmured.

He exhaled through his nose. “Only the things I hope you will give.”

And somehow, just like that—without apology or command—your walls faltered. Just a little. Just enough to stay there, soaked and silent, your heart a fluttering thing in your chest.

There were other moments too. Smaller ones. Quieter than breath. The kind you almost missed if you were not paying close enough attention.

Passing him in the corridor—your arm brushing his by accident, or perhaps not entirely. His hand would linger, just barely, fingertips grazing the inside of your wrist like a question he did not dare ask. He never said anything, but he always looked back. Just once. Just long enough to make you wonder if he felt it too.

There were the near-collisions over wine at dinner—your hands both reaching for the same carafe, fingers brushing. A static moment that always hung a beat too long before either of you moved. You would pull back with a muttered ‘sorry’ and he would offer the faintest smile, as though that brief contact had said more than words ever could.

And sometimes, when he was not looking, you watched him. From the edge of the garden, half-hidden by the cypress trees. From the far end of the dining room where the candles did not quite reach. From shadowed hallways where he passed like a figure carved from marble—all broad shoulders and unreadable calm—except when he did not think anyone could see him.

Then, he was different. Less like a statue. More like a man.

You did not know why you still wanted to try. Why, despite everything—the fights, the silences, the bruises that were not his doing but still lived under his roof—you found yourself hoping.

Why your heart had the audacity to beat faster when he laughed—not that dry, curated chuckle meant for senators and generals. No. The real one. The rare, startled kind that cracked through his composure when you said something genuinely stupid or clever or both, and he forgot to be perfect for just a second.

Maybe you were a fool.

Maybe you were just lonely.

Or maybe—Gods help you—some quiet, buried part of you had started to believe that even a man made of stone could learn to hold warmth in his hands.

And maybe, if he did, he would learn how to hold you too.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

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[thisduchessreads]

introducing . . . ADMIN!READER . ᵒ . 📁 📗 🖋️

you are the new director of emergency services administration — but don’t let the title fool you. you are not some clipboard-carrying bureaucrat hiding in an office tower. you are boots on the floor, sharp-tongued and sharper-eyed, calling out code violations and budget oversights in the same breath.

you didn’t leave peds trauma because you couldn’t handle the blood. you left because your ex-husband caught a felony charge and suddenly your daughter needed a parent who made it home for dinner.

you built a new life out of broken glass and court transcripts. clean slates don’t exist for people like you, but second chances? sometimes. if you’re lucky.

you run on burnt coffee and low expectations. you iron your blouses and wear heels taller than your patience. you keep your voice low but your words cut deep. sarcasm is your default setting; exhaustion is your baseline. empathy? well, you still have it — you just learned to lock it behind steel doors so it doesn’t get in the way.

and then there’s michael robinavitch.

the trauma attending from hell. the man who thinks hospital policy is a suggestion and quarterly reports are a personal attack. he’s chaos where you are order. instinct where you are strategy. hands covered in blood while yours are ink-stained with budget reports.

and yet—he’s not what you expected. you thought he’d be arrogant, impossible, unmanageable.

(okay, fine. he is those things.)

but he’s also brilliant. fast. reckless in a way that saves lives and destroys protocol in equal measure. and under all that noise, there’s something quieter. something raw. something that sees the mess in you and doesn’t flinch.

you call him dr. robinavitch like it’s a warning shot. he calls you admin like it’s a dare. this isn’t a romance. not yet. right now, it’s a warzone. but maybe someday—if the paperwork ever gets filed and the walls come down—it’ll be something else.

this isn’t a series — it’s a universe. a collection of standalone stories where tension simmers, tempers flare, and slow burn becomes something neither of you can ignore. angst, banter, quiet softness, and ( eventually ) smut. not today, though.

today, you have got reports to file and a trauma attending to wrangle.

CHAPTER ONE noncompliant ( wc 1.7k ) CHAPTER TWO tbd ( coming soon ) CHAPTER THREE tbd ( coming soon )

michael robinavitch x admin!reader concepts

⤷ tbd ( coming soon ) ⤷ tbd ( coming soon ) ⤷ tbd ( coming soon )

🔖  .  @silas-aeiou @alldaysdreamers @concentratedconcrete @blackirisesinthesunlight @notgothenough @timeofmadness @valkyreally @hiireadstuff

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚  want to join the admin!reader taglist??? click here!!!!

layout inspo ||| dividers by @cafekitsune + @saradika-graphics + @uzmacchiato * ✷ ⊹ * ˚  main masterlist ||| more robby ||| inbox

possible trigger warnings .' lowercase intended!!! medical trauma and emergency scenarios work-related stress, trauma-induced detachment, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and emotional exhaustion, abuse and domestic violence ( from readers ex ), single parenting, possible power imbalances, profanity and substance use, implied threats of violence / retaliation, smut ( detailed per part )

[thisduchessreads]

AMOR VINCIT OMNIA

Your hopes and dreams are crushed when you find yourself trapped in a loveless marriage to General Marcus Acacius, you feel betrayed by the people you loved the most, including your mother Lucilla, and when all hope seemed lost, you'd realize... Love conquers all, even if sometimes takes its time, even if its messy and complicated, even if it was thrusted upon you, even if you loved him first when he didn't yet

Warnings: The triad: Fluff, ANGST, and Future Smut, Ancient Rome accuracies and inaccuracies, animal slaughter for ritualistic purposes, arranged marriages, age difference (Marcus is late forties reader is 20), cursing, use of historic characters that don’t belong on this timeline, and other sort of inaccuracies (i'm not an historian), slow-burn, other warnings might be added by chapter

*Happy ending (you know me)

Notes: Alright, this... is a fic inspired by the greatest, @stylesispunk's "The soldier in the armour", one of the greatest fics I ever read! I hope you like this love! Thank you for writing that masterpiece so I was inspired to write this one! jijiji

Prologue

I. Antithesis

II. Floating Jasmines

III. Starving

IV. Bicephalous Eagle

V. Crumbs

VI. Thesis

VII. Incantore

VIII. The theatre

IX. Raw

X. Yours

(more coming soon)

[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