Announcement

Announcement

Summary: Your pregnancy announcement to Spencer doesn’t go how you had always planned.

Tags: Pregnancy announcement, established relationship (implied marriage), f!reader, bittersweet feelings, slightly fluff, mostly sad but not angst.

*not a happy ending, short fic - in my head all morning so had to write! Constructive criticism and thoughts always welcome!

“Congratulations! It looks like you’re actually around 9 weeks pregnant. It’s a wonder you couldn’t tell before now, Mrs. Reid”.

You could hear what the doctor was saying, but you hadn’t yet grasped the meaning behind the words, moving to look at the screen she had turned towards you. She hadn’t told you what she was checking for, just that your blood work had come back and she needed to verify something. This being the reason hadn’t even crossed your mind.

Pregnant. 9 weeks. Truthfully, you could tell her the exact day of conception, although you are still just silently staring at the screen in wonder.

Your doctor seems to understand that you need time to process the words, even if she knows you’ve been trying for over a year. She hands you copies of your first sonogram and information that you’re sure your husband has already gathered.

You hadn’t even gone to the doctor because you’d been feeling unwell - it was just an annual check up. You hated them, had always felt they were a waste of time, but Spencer always insisted.

Spencer.

You needed to tell him. Right now. You two had been trying for so long, and nothing had seemed to work. Of course the moment you two agree to stop trying, to just be natural, it happens. Just like Spencer had said it would. It was almost annoying that he was always right, and you could hear his voice in your head telling you the statistics like he had that day.

You two had agreed long ago that when you found out, if he wasn’t with you, that you wouldn’t do anything crazy to try to tell him. Instead, you left the doctor’s office in a daze, driving to the bakery Spencer loved but never had time to get to. You picked up his favorite sandwich and even got a pastry for yourself, before driving to see him.

Your mind wandered on the drive, barely paying attention to the traffic around you. It didn’t matter to either of you what gender your unborn child would be - you’d already picked out names. Godparents had been easily decided - Luke Alvez and Emily Prentiss being the most obvious of choices.

Thinking of that, your mind replays the day Spencer had sheepishly come back home when you two had first started trying, carrying a bag from a store you’d never heard of.

He revealed that he had been at the bookstore and saw something in a store window that he had to buy, his cheeks turning red with embarrassment.

You remember laughing loudly and how much your cheeks had hurt from your wide smile, claiming the three shirts he had purchased were perfect. Godparent shirts for Luke and Emily, and one that said “Favorite Aunt” for Penelope.

At first, when you two had discussed godparents, you’d been slightly worried on how you’d choose a godmother - not knowing how you could possibly pick between Penelope or Emily. But Spencer had said that Penelope was a sister he had never gotten to have, saying that her title would be Auntie P. to however many children you two had.

You’d have to take the shirts with you next month to Rossi’s house mansion. Spencer had gone back to the store and bought ridiculous shirts for every member of the team, even one for Hotch, in case he ever saw him again. You wondered if Rossi would like his “grandpa” shirt, or if he’d complain that he wasn’t old enough for that title. (Even though he had an actual grandchild).

Shaking your head from your thoughts, you park, taking a deep breath and grabbing the food. Slowly, you exit your car, meandering to where you know Spencer will be.

As you stand in front of him though, you find the words are stuck in your throat. You sit down, forcing yourself to breathe as you open your mouth.

“Hey love. I brought your favorite food! Um, guess what? I’m sure you already know - you probably knew before me. We’re pregnant, Spencer! Well, I’m pregnant… but I’ve made you a dad! 9 weeks - the last time…” you trailed off, blinking back tears.

“You were right, sweetheart. Like always. I’m- I’m so sorry, that it happened too late. But, well, it’s okay, right? Now I’ll always have a piece of you with me. I love you, Spencer Reid.”

You can’t stop the tears from streaming down your face now, but you continue to say every thought that’s been in your head since you got the news as you wait for his response.

A response you know you’ll never get.

After all, the saying has always been “silent as the grave”, and the 8 week old headstone that marks where Spencer lies does not reply.

Every Part of You

Pairing - Grumpy!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader A.N. - Alright, I've been asked to write about Bucky and Sunshine's first time many, many times. And the thing is, like sure, I could write that, but also I want us to take a moment to consider trying to build up to that. There's so many firsts buried in there that I think need to be navigated through before they even get there. This is one of those firsts. Like the first time you see Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist | Grumpy Sunshine Series

"You're just- " You stop speaking, searching for his lips again. Though you're breathless, you can't bring yourself to pull away from him, "You're so pretty."

You shudder as you feel his hand slip under your sweater. The occasional graze of the cool metal on your skin enough to send shivers down your spine.

His lips trail down, nipping at your jaw, "I'm not pretty."

Your hands, winded in the hair at the nape of his neck, glide down his neck, to clutch the fabric of his henley. The moment he feels your fingers toy with the collar of his shirt, his heart hammers against his ribcage. Not in the sort of way that he usually feels in these moments with you. He feels a sense of dread, of panic. It wraps around his spine like a python. It feels like he can't breathe.

"You're so -"

He wrenches away from you, his chest heaving, "Stop, stop, stop."

You freeze, immediately dropping your hands. Panic starts creeping up your throat, coating your words. "Did I - did I do something wrong?"

He gulps, silently shaking his head. It takes him a moment to regain his composure, to regain the ability to speak clearly, "No, no, you're - you're perfect."

Guilt starts to eat at him. He can see you doing your very best to keep your own feelings off your face. He can see the sting of his rejection in the way your lips press together in a tight line. The embarrassment in the pallor of your once flushed cheeks.

You two have worked so hard to overcome your own personal issues and traumas, to build trust in each other, moments like these hadn't come easy. And he so callously pushed you away, it makes him feel worse. And what makes his heart ache even more, he sees nothing but concern for him shining in your eyes. You just look so worried for him.

Your hands rest in your lap. You twist and untwist your fingers. "If you don't want to, we don't - we don't have to do anything. I'm really sorry -"

"No, no, please don't be sorry." He reaches for you, gently squeezing your hand. It soothes him as much as it does you. "I want to. You don't know how much I want to."

"But?"

His eyes squeeze shut. He can't bring himself to meet your eyes. "You haven't seen it before - my arm, my shoulder."

"Oh."

He drops your hand. That feeling takes over him again. It feels like there's not enough air in the room. He slides away from you, closer to the edge of the tiny couch in your apartment. "It's - I am not pretty."

It breaks your heart, watching him pull away from you. You can only imagine how many people have turned away from him before. "James..."

He fervently shakes his head, refusing to open his eyes, "No, no, I know what you're gonna say, but it's bad. A lot worse than you're thinking."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?"

"It's bad," he insists. "I see it every day and I can barely - it's just bad, okay?"

You take his hand, squeezing it tightly. "It's okay if you don't want me to see it. I understand."

He finally opens his eyes again as his eyebrows pull together. He still doesn't meet your eye. "No, no, I want to - I trust you with this, I do. I just - I want you to be prepared."

In that moment, you realize that it's not really about preparing you. Not at all.

He thinks you're going to react badly. He thinks that this will make you turn away from him for the first time ever. He's worried that the love and adoration in your eyes will turn to disgust and repulsion.

It's less about preparing you for the scarred flesh, and more about warning you that he couldn't take a bad reaction. He's not sure he could take it if you turned away from him too.

"I love you," you promise him. "There's nothing that you could show me that would change that. I hope you know that."

There is no response to that. And you know that he won't believe it until he sees it. It takes him a moment. His hand toys with the hem of his shirt. His hand grips the hem, only to let it go.

"I love you," you remind him.

He takes a large gulp of air, pulling off his shirt with one quick movement.

You weren't really sure what you were expecting. You knew the story. You knew how Bucky lost his arm. He even confided the bits and pieces he remembered from getting his vibranium arm.

Your eyes trail over his skin. The shoulder is scarred, scars jut in every direction. Each scar is etched into his skin. It's clear it was a painful, violent experience for him. The metal plate protrudes from the scar tissue in a way that you're sure was painful when first placed. You look on with curiosity, you're not really sure how this, a sign of survival, a badge of resilience, could ever make anyone turn away from him.

He's as breathtaking as you could ever imagine.

Your eyes flicker up at him. He looks at the blank wall of your apartment, scared to watch your facial expressions as you take it in. "Can I?"

He nods, barely able to look you in the eyes. He sucks in a breath when your fingers make contact with the scar tissue surrounding the metal plate.

You immediately pull your fingers back, worried you've accidentally hurt him. "Does it hurt?"

"No," he answers reflexively.

You know he's lying. "I've seen you holding your shoulder before - holding it like it hurts."

"Sometimes," he amends. "The doctor said there's a lot of nerve damage. Things they can't fix."

"Does it hurt now?"

"No."

You run your hand over the plate, over his scars, down to his shoulder blade.

"Still think I'm pretty?" he sarcastically remarks.

You press a gentle kiss to his bare shoulder. "I'll always think you're pretty. Every part of you."

Bucky Barnes Masterlist AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 💛

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Not A Verstappen Masterlist - Complete

Final Word Count: 83.2k

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Family trip

HE HAS MY WHOLE HEART IDC IF HES A MIDDLE AGED MAN

The two extremes of my ideal type: the dilf much older than my dad aaron hotchner, or the nerdy angel face boy spencer reid.