Author note: I don’t have any one to beta read my content. As stated I've tried to make everything I’ve wrote gender neutral but If I have slipped up somewhere please just let me know and I’ll fix it asap. <3
Triple Frontier Boys :
Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales
Do you want to know a secret? (Gender Neutral)
Oh My love.. My darling (Gender Neutral)
Will Miller
Hello Nurse (Gender Neutral)
Benny Miller
You are my sunshine (Gender Neutral)
Waking up in Vegas (Gender Neutral)
Santiage ‘Pope’ Garcia
Hey Brother (Platonic x Triple Frontier boys)
Yelena Belova:
To make her smile: (Ace!Yelena Belova x Gender Neutral Reader)
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Authors note: I got a bit carried away with this…. need that cookie bad. Reader uses she/her pronouns. No physical description of reader except she has long-ish hair. NSFW is under the read more. Content tags are cannon divergence, smut, fluff, pet names, hurt-comfort, scenting, biting, mentions of pregnancy, minor cannibalism imagery as a metaphor for love (obvi) As always, thanks for reading. <3
໑You were apprehensive on your wedding night, as most brides were. Cregan had assured you before the ceremony that there was no need to consummate, no obligation to share a bedchamber, but it felt like a whirlwind of changes all at once. After the wedding ceremony, you sneak away to find quiet solace in your own bedchambers. Sitting at the foot of your bed, was a gift from your new husband. Fur lined slippers, made with suede and a flexible sole, perfect for walking and lounging around your chambers. For a long moment, you simply stare at the slippers, unable to move, just absorbing the meaning of the gift. Your chilled fingers pick them up and stroke the soft lining -white rabbit fur - the same texture you imaged a cloud would feel like. You take in the room, furnished simply since most of your personal items were still en route to Winterfell. Long shadows fall like ominous figures against the walls. Your breath comes out in cloudy puffs. But you had fur clippers. So when you rose first thing in the morning your bare feet would not have to touch the icy stone floor.
A tentative knock at the bedroom door pulls you out of your thoughts. You open the heavy door expecting a servant. Perhaps your new lord husband had noticed your absence and sent one to search for you. But Cregan was the one waiting on the other side. Your eyes widen. You were not expecting him to come for you, and even if he did, you were not expecting him to knock. This was his home after all, and you were the newcomer. “Cregan? H-husband?” You stutter, unsure of how to address him.
“Is everything to your liking?” He asks.
“It is, yes.” You step aside and let him enter.
His brows furrow as he contemplates the room before him. “Like I told you before, this is your space now, your own bedchambers. There is no need to share a marital bed if you do not wish it. Anything you desire for your own space will be provided for you.”
You nod “Thank you.” You hold out the slippers “For these.”
“You will need them.” He states, matter of fact. “The nights are long and dark here. You will take some time to get used to them, no doubt.”
He strides over to the fireplace, and you quickly set the slippers down and trail behind him, like a duckling follows its mother. Cregan crouches down to add a few more logs, with you hovering at his back. He speaks while he adjusts the fire to his liking, “This is your home now. Anything you need, ask it.” You watch a few sparks fly, sounds of fresh wood popping and crackling fill the dim room. He nods, satisfied that the chill is conquered for now, and rises up to his feet. He turns and jumped a little, as he almost collides with you standing mere inches behind him. You have always treaded lightly on your feet.
“You’re following me like a lost pup. What is it?”
“I feel-” you hesitate, confessing what you truly feel sometimes proves a challenging feat “I feel afraid.”
His look softens. “Of what?”
“This place. The stories I have heard all my life. Strange Northern customs. Brutish Northern men who turn into wolves. Grumpkins and snarks that lurk in the woods.” You wring your hands, having forgone the idea of trying to bring feeling back into them. “I don’t know” your voice wobbles, your husband's grey stare is so intensely focused on your that you must cast your eyes down to the floor “Winterfell is big.” You sniff. “And cold. And I am a bit frightened.” Tears are welling in your eyes, so your view of the stone floor is obstructed now. “And my hands” You hastily wipe your leaking eyes “are numb.”
Cregan wordlessly closes the distance between you, bringing a massive hand across your low back, while the other cradles the back of your head. As his body envelops yours, so does the heavy fur cloak he wears, covering your shoulders, blocking out the chill. The space under the fur feels like a hearth, burning hot and smelling of cedar. You almost sob at the relief the protective fur and his embrace provide.
Cregan’s voice is a soft rumble, lowered for your comfort and the close proximity “I cannot do anything about my being a ‘brutish’ Northern man. But as for the rest, you will be protected, you needn't worry about any of it, pup.” You feel his nose rub slowly back and forth across the top of your head, then he adds “Grumpkins and snarks too.”
You cannot help a watery laugh. The warmth seeping into your bones, easing out the tightness in your muscles. The fire is roaring now. The eerie shadows are long vanquished, and now you notice the comfortable fabrics and honeyed wood furniture is all bathed in warm light.
໑ Very carefully, Cregan helps you loosen the ties of your wedding gown before turning his back, giving you the privacy to slip out of it and into a simple nightgown. You step before the mirror. In its reflection, you see Cregan sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, waiting patiently for you to undo the Northern wedding attire. One by one, you begin removing the adornments from your hair. Servants had carefully woven in feathers of every shape and size—sleek black corvid feathers, brown-and-white speckled ones, and long pheasant plumes—along with multicolored beads and dozens of tiny braids. Your fingers work slowly, gently freeing each decoration before laying it on the table.
Cregan glances toward the mirror, studying your thoughtful removal of the traditional ornaments of his house. Without the finery, you looked younger, softer, and somehow more beautiful than before. You wear the fur slippers in your feet, and Cregan’s own cloak over your nightgown. The garment completely overpowers your frame and drags on the ground, but your husband had insisted that you wear it until you were tucked warm into bed. It was nearly comical; if one squinted, they might think a small bear was wandering Winterfell, not the lady of the castle herself. But it comforted you, as you prepared yourself for bed, and your husband sat waiting patiently.
໑ Even though the warden of the North is a demanding position, calling his attention equally between south and the wall, everyday he finds time for you. In the beginning of your marriage, you walk the halls of Winterfell together, learning about the vast grounds of the castle, and the secrets hidden in his ancestral home. He tells you about matters dealt with as warden of the North, as well as personal anecdotes. "This is where I held a sword for the first time." he says, as you enter the armory. "And this is where I kissed a girl for the first time" he says in a study used for entertaining guests, ears reddening as he glances down at the floor "Had no idea what I was going, Gods help me." You enjoy learning about his life, and the intricacies of his duties that so many depend on him to perform. Night after night, he walks with you to your bedchambers, dropping you off at the door and lightly pressing his lips to your cheek to bid you goodnight. One night, as he lingers at your door, before leaving you to sleep alone, he gives his usual farewell "Goodnight, pup. Come get me if you get too cold, yeah?" His hand holding your hip practically burns through your dress, sending a melting sensation pooling in the base of your belly. The realization hits you at once that you no longer think your husband a burly, bestial man- someone to be feared- now you simply desire him. “I think I would like to sleep in your chambers tonight” You rise up on tip toe to kiss the side of his mouth, that hangs open in shock. “Let me just grab some things” You emerge at the doorway, arms full of woolen socks, your favorite hairbrush, and of course your slippers. “I’m ready now” you chirp.
໑ As the head of House Stark, he is obligated to take routine visits to the wall to check on operations, and give morale to the men of the Night's Watch. You hate when he leaves for the wall. The bed is cold. The food tastes bland in your mouth. The wind howls louder when he is gone. "Can I go with you?" you ask.
He gives his response after not even a second of thought "No. It is out of the question." Cregan Stark is a reasonable man. He treats you as his equal. But this is a matter he will never budge on. "You fear grumpkins and snarks-"
You roll your eyes, remembering the childish tales you believed before you came to Winterfell, and how silly they seem now.
"- but you should fear the Wall. Some of those men were murderers and rapers. For most, it has been years that they have even seen a woman. If you -" He shakes his head, unable to finish the thought "Absolutely not."
You turn back to your book, disappointed that his answer remains the same. He steps over to you, hands gravitating to your belly. "Soon you will have a piece of me. That when I am away, you won't be alone."
"But, I am not-"
"I know." His hand rubs your womb, as if to warm or soothe it. He recalls only hours ago filling you up, and holding you still on his cock to keep every ounce of spend inside. While you waited, you brushed soft touches over his cheeks and jaw, fading scars from battle and adolescence alike. When he returned home, he thought, he would try again in the Godswood, in such a sacred place the seed simply had to take.
໑ Originally, you would have been repelled by the idea of hands that have killed. However, when his cradle your face, you cannot help nuzzling into the callused skin, rubbing the scent of him all over, so hopefully it clings to you the rest of the day. At night, those same hands manhandle you to the point where you don’t have to think about the next movement or position. He’s already picking you up and placing you how he wants you. His grip is punishing, huge paws digging into your wrists or the curve of hip bones with so much force, that you bend to their will instantly. The contrast of his words and actions is dizzying. Tone softened when speaking to you, and almost apologetic as he praises you, “Oh pup, huh-uh you’re doing s- good”. He says soothingly, Northern accent intensified, as his iron grip fists your hair, pulling your neck back and exposing your jugular vein - the most enticing place to sink his canines into. But afterwards his touch is light as a feather as his fingertips rub your back, or soothe any marks he caused. Semicircle indents, that often bloom into violet bruises litter your thighs, the fat of your arse, the places your husband chose to worship that day. He calls you his "sweet girl" as a pet name, but also he literally means it; the taste of your flesh is sweet. Honestly, he wouldn't mind picking bits of your skin out of his teeth for days.
Summary: Jack Abbot's relaxing day off takes a turn for the worse when he hears his phone ring. After all, his phone is on do not disturb and there's only one person that he's allowed to interrupt his peace — you. Even worse, your voice isn't the first thing he hears when he picks up.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x nurse!reader
Warnings: f!reader, violence against healthcare workers, language, mentions of bodily harm, mentions of blood, mentions of injuries sustained at the workplace, use of the word 'assault', Jack Abbot's dead wife mentioned, description of a drunk driving accident, Frank Langdon catches some strays, use of the nickname 'sweetheart', use of the nickname 'slugger', no use of y/n, mutual pining, fluff, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 5.5k
Author's Note: Yo — so I'm still alive. I have been stuck in The Pitt for awhile now. This one has been sitting unfinished in my drafts for a hot second. I also have a Robby fic sitting in there that I desperately need to finish. Those two men have truly bewitched me. Anyways, hope y'all are ready to be stuck in The Pitt with me for the time being. Hope you guys enjoy this one!
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP
“Motherfucker!”
You angrily hit the coffee maker that has been causing the entire emergency department trouble for the majority of today’s shift. Langdon had watched you struggle earlier this morning before swooping in to fix the problem with a swift hit to the side of the machine and an off hand comment about having the ‘magic touch’. So, you imitate his actions now — hoping another dose of caffeine will help get you through the last couple hours of your shift. The machine stops its incessant beeping just as it had hours ago, but instead of brewing a fresh cup of mediocre coffee, the interactive screen goes completely black.
Great.
You squeeze your eyes shut and take in a deep breath. If Jack were here, he’d miraculously show up beside you with a latte in hand. You don’t know how he does it, but the man just knows exactly what you need and when you need it — you’ve taken to calling it his ‘sixth sense’. In reality, that’s Jack — observant and steadfast.
You miss the night shift.
It’s not that you dislike the day shift. In fact, you happily accepted Dana’s request for your help covering for Donnie during his paternity leave. In Robby’s words: they needed another nurse practitioner on the day shift and there’s only one that he trusts. A part of you thinks that it was just flattery to get you to come to the light side, but deep down you know that Robby only knows how to speak honestly. Lena wasn’t necessarily happy to let her best help switch shifts for an extended period of time, but she also knows that the ED is a team — sure the staff is split between day shift and night shift, but things only run smoothly when the shifts help each other out.
Jack wasn’t too keen on the idea.
He couldn’t stop you of course — Lena is your supervisor, not him. But that didn’t stop him from voicing his concerns. Jack Abbot has always been protective of his nightcrawlers, but there was something verging on possessive in the way he told Robby that this is simply a temporary arrangement after he realized he couldn’t change your mind.
“Should I call Ahmad to escort the caffeine criminal off the premises or do you have a handle on the situation?”
Robby’s voice breaks through your thoughts. You let out a sigh before turning to face the day shift’s senior attending. His expression, usually threaded with deep exhaustion and stoicism, is teetering on the edge of playfulness while a small smile tugs at his lips.
“Y’know what, Robinavitch? We never had this problem when we had the old machine. Mr. Coffee only had three buttons and never betrayed me.”
Robby lets out a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh, but the closest he’ll get to one this late into his shift. Gloria had decided to get the department a fancy new coffee maker that makes individual cups instead of a full pot a few weeks ago to celebrate improved patient satisfaction scores. What was meant to be a gesture of goodwill from upstairs has become the staff’s worst nightmare.
“You sound like Jack.”
You roll your eyes, but you also know no one has been more upset about this change than the night shift’s senior attending. Robby has always brought his own coffee from home, but Jack has been relying on the emergency department’s supply of shitty coffee for the entirety of his career at PTMC. You’d asked him about it once when you first started working together and he’d revealed under fluorescent lights that there was something comforting about the way it reminded him of the coffee rations he’d receive during his deployments.
“Have you talked to Jack recently?”
Robby attempts to sound nonchalant; however, you know him better than that. You’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s worse than the night shift nurses. Always needing to be in the know about everything and everyone. He swears that it’s because he’s the senior attending, so it’s his responsibility to keep an eye and ear on all of his staff. But Jack isn’t like that. He’s always been reserved and professional during shifts, always keeping his staff at a distance so he doesn’t get too attached — everyone except for you. In between cups of coffee and rooftop conversations, you managed to slip through the cracks of that cool, steely exterior.
“We talk during handover, but that’s not exactly the same as working a twelve hour shift with someone. Why? Anything I should be concerned about?”
Robby’s lips pull into a tight smile at your response, but anxiety finds its place in your chest. During handoff about a week ago, Mateo had pulled you aside to ask if you had any idea what was going on with Jack. Your brow furrowed as Mateo filled you in about Jack’s sudden change in demeanor with his staff — the once calm and collected attending has been increasingly impatient and scattered. You’d reassured Mateo that it was probably just stress related since Jack hadn’t had a day off in months — and even then he spent his rare off-call moments volunteering as a SWAT medic. You figured that Jack had finally hit a wall and was running on fumes, but Robby’s words were now making you second your assumptions.
“Nothing of concern, just looking out for you and Jack.”
Robby has this tone that makes it seem like he knows more about your relationship with Jack Abbot than you do. You know about his history with the night shift’s senior attending physician, but Robby hasn’t been there for the close calls at three o’clock in the morning when Jack puts his complete trust in your hands without a second thought. He hasn’t been there for the nights that seem to drag on for days when it seems like the sun will never rise again. He hasn’t been there for the hushed conversations in stairwells when the night feels darkest and the only comfort to be found in PTMC is in each other’s presence.
It’s not a bond built on flirtation — God knows, Jack Abbot flirts with everyone. And does that make you a little jealous? Maybe. And were you hoping that the distance created due to being on day shift for a few weeks would help you create some boundaries with the man? Possibly. But here you are, still infuriatingly infatuated with a man you have absolutely no chance with.
“I can assure you there’s no Jack and I.”
“Mhm.”
That damn tone again. You want to smack that smug look right off of his stupid face, but before you get the chance to fire back a commotion outside abruptly ends your conversation. The two of you move in tandem, Robby holding the door to the break room open as you duck under his arm before surveying the scene. Your eyes immediately widen as you spot Langdon attempting to keep two infuriated men on their separate gurneys as they yell over each other. He meets your eyes before moving his gaze to Robby, relief flooding his features.
“A little help here?”
You and Robby share a brief, knowing look before dividing and conquering the situation. Robby steps in, wheeling one of the men away while you follow after Landgon who is moving with the other.
“What’s the story here?”
You have to shout over the man’s incessant yelling, but Langdon ducks his head down slightly as he navigates the gurney through the ED to hear you better in the chaos. From not too far away, you hear Robby yell for Whitaker to take over his unruly patient so he can go find Ahmad for back up. Langdon’s shoulder bumping into yours pulls your attention back to your own situation.
“Bar argument gone ugly.”
The man laying on the gurney is bleeding profusely from lacerations on his forehead, but is cognescent enough to keep loudly threatening the other patient that came in with him. You manage to get a closer look at his wounds once Langdon locks the gurney in place and through the deep crimson you see little, semi-translucent pieces of debris. Your brow furrows as the light catches one of the pieces.
“Is that glass?”
Langdon nods before meeting your eyes with a crooked smile plastered on his face.
“Beer bottle to the head. Told you it got ugly.”
You let out a breath before gloving up with Langdon. As the two of you attempt to assess his injuries the man begins to fight you both off, pushing your hands away before either of you can start getting control of the bleeding. You pull back hoping to get the man’s attention so that Langdon can start giving him the care he needs.
“Sir, I’m gonna need you to calm down so that we can take a look at your injuries. Can you tell me your name?”
Finally, the man’s eyes land on you but they are filled with nothing but unbridled fury. You fight off the urge to take a step back from the situation and, instead, stand your ground.
“What I need is to get my hands on that son of a bitch who tried to fucking kill me. Can you help me with that?”
You raise both of your hands as the man fights off Langdon once again. He gives you an exasperated look as his shoulders slump in annoyance.
“I can not, this is a hospital not a fighting ring. What I can help you with is getting your bleeding under control and taking that glass out of your head before you get a nasty infection. How’s that sound?”
Your tone is stern but gentle as you attempt to talk the patient down. For a moment, his face softens in understanding and you almost let out a sigh of relief after having gotten through to him, but then Whitaker’s voice tears through the moment.
“I’ve got a runner, incoming!”
“Oh, shit.”
Langdon’s tone makes your heart rate spike, but before you get a chance to turn towards the commotion Whitaker’s very angry patient shoves you into the wall.
“We need some help in here! You good?”
Langdon’s worried eyes are locked on you as he tries to keep the two patients from tearing each other apart. Your shoulder took the brunt of the impact, but you had managed to stay on your feet which saved you from any additional trauma. After catching your breath, you leap in to help restrain the patient who just assaulted you.
“Sir, please. We need you to calm down!”
Your words fall on deaf ears as he continues to lunge at your patient who is now being held back by Langdon. What a fucking mess. You haven’t had a situation like this since last year’s Fourth of July night shift when two drunken men came into the E.D. after one of them practically eviscerated his buddy’s legs after shooting off a firework directly at him. Your eyes desperately meet Langdon’s, hoping he’s in the same boat as you, and he gives you a similar look of bewilderment.
“Whitaker! Ahmad! Anyone!”
Langdon’s voice is strained as the man in his arms struggles against his hold. You’re using all of your strength to pull Whitaker’s patient away from your own, but he’s got at least a foot and a hundred pounds on you. Keeping him restrained is taking all of your strength. Finally, Whitaker’s shoes squeak as he slides into the room.
“Woah, what can I do?”
Langdon gives him a ludicrous look before his eyes land on you.
“Give them a hand, will ya?”
Whitaker immediately jumps in to help you. You were hoping the additional body could help even the odds with these men; however, they seem to be getting more violent by the minute. The man in your grasp reels back and shoves Whitaker, who stumbles back. Now with only you holding him back, he takes this as a chance to take a swing on Langdon.
“Absolutely not!”
You grab his arm and pull back before he can land a punch. The man lets out a desperate, angry cry and swings his arm back hard. His elbow connects with your nose with a loud crack. The room explodes further than you thought was possible as you spit out the blood draining into your mouth due to the blow. The searing hot pain blooming across your face blinds your vision.
Fuck, that hurt.
You blink once, then twice — your eyes finally adjusting to the damage. Your patient has seemingly settled down enough to be left alone, while Langdon has your assailant in a chokehold as Whitaker tries to pin his arms behind his back.
“What the hell is going on in h—?”
Robby’s words die in his throat once his eyes land on you. His face twists into concern for a brief, fleeting moment before a dangerous rage washes over his hardened features.
“Knock it off before I knock you out.”
Robby’s voice is ice cold and it suddenly pauses the entire room. The only noise filling your ears is everyone’s heavy breathing. Robby lets everyone cool down for a moment before barking out orders.
“Ahmad, get this man out of here. Whitaker, take over the patient who didn’t attack one of our nurses. Langdon, with me.”
Everyone complies instantly and you let out a relieved sigh as the tension in the room finally dissipates. Robby makes his way to you in two large strides with Langdon behind him. He drops his head to meet your eyes which have regained their comforting warmth.
“How you doing, Slugger?”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing, really.”
Robby raises a brow as you spit more blood on to the floor, narrowly missing his sneaker. Langdon gives you a similar incredulous look. Obviously, your attempts to brush off their concern have fallen on deaf ears. Great. Two hours from shift change and now you’re a patient.
This day can’t get any worse.
Robby takes another step forward and carefully places a hand on your chin and gently tilts your head up toward the ceiling. You grimace immediately at the bright, fluorescent lights above you.
“You’ve got two black eyes, a broken nose, and you’re bleeding all over the floor. This isn’t nothing.”
His voice is surprisingly gentle and his features soften into a look you can only describe as brotherly concern. You sigh defeatedly, squeezing your eyes shut as the adrenaline in your body begins to subside giving way to an invasive and persistent shooting pain in your head. Robby’s hands find your shoulders — you aren’t sure if the physical contact is meant to provide you comfort or a precaution in case you pass out. Either way, you appreciate the way his delicate hold grounds you back into this moment.
“I’m going to have Langdon take you to an empty room and do a full exam. Okay?”
You open your eyes again and nod at his question. Robby’s posture relaxes slightly, obviously relieved that you didn’t stubbornly push back against his orders. He rubs your shoulders reassuringly for a moment before speaking again.
“We’re going to have to document all of this. Dana is dealing with a situation in chairs, but I’ll have her come find you when she’s done.”
You nod again, pursing your lips together into a straight line. You don’t love the idea of making a big deal out of this, but you also know that violence against health care professionals is at an all time high. The last thing this department needs is you trying to push this under the rug. Finally, Robby releases his hold on your shoulders and allows Langdon to step in.
Robby runs both his hands through his hair as he watches Langdon lead you towards a room at the back of the ED. He moves towards the hub in the center of the large room, gripping the countertop as he allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts. This is a nightmare. He needs to call Gloria about the situation that just happened. There’s a stack of paperwork that needs to be filled out. Someone has to alert the authorities. And worst of all, he needs to call Abbot.
Hopefully, the asshole that assaulted you will be off the premises before the night shift attending rips through the emergency department. Not because he cares for the wellbeing of your assailant — more so that he doesn’t necessarily want to bail his best friend out of jail tonight. Robby sighs as he digs his phone out of his pocket. He finds Jack’s contact easily in his favorites and presses the speaker to his ear. To his surprise, the call immediately goes to voicemail. Robby knows that Jack has the day off; however, he’s always easy to reach — especially if you’re on shift. So, he dials the number again and presses the phone to his ear. But just like before, he is once again met with Jack’s voice apologizing for missing the call. That’s odd. His brow furrows, but before he can think about his friend’s odd behavior further he’s distracted by a concerned voice behind him.
“I heard about what happened. Dana’s almost done in chairs. How can I help?”
Robby turns to look at Perlah who is currently trying to catch her breath from her obvious sprint over to him.
“Do you know who their emergency contact is?”
If he can’t get ahold of Jack, he might as well let your other loved ones know what happened. Perlah side steps the attending and logs in to one of the computers on the other side of the counter. It only takes a couple seconds to pull up your digital file and a smile spreads across the nurse’s features as she spots the name listed.
“Abbot.”
Of course he is.
“I can’t get a hold of him.”
Perlah’s expression reflects his own confusion for a moment until she remembers a conversation she had with you in the break room earlier this morning.
“He’s gone fishing.”
Robby’s eyes shoot to his hairline as a laugh bubbles in his chest. He attempts to picture his friend in a boat by himself on the river with a fishing rod in his hand, but his mind cannot seem to compute that absolutely ludicrous concept.
“Abbot is fishing?”
“Apparently they convinced Abbot to actually take a day off, put his phone on do not disturb, and find a hobby that doesn’t involve getting shot at.”
Robby’s eyes drift to the room he watched Langdon escort you to as he attempts to wrap his head around the information he was just given. Jack Abbot is fishing on his rare day off because you asked him to find a hobby that doesn’t involve putting himself in harm’s way — and he listened. He wants to be impressed, but instead he’s just annoyed at the two of you — he’s fucking tired of watching the two of you dance around your feelings for one another. He looks down at his phone again, still confused at how his paranoid best friend could actually relax when he’s unreachable while you’re still on the clock.
Oh.
The realization hits him like a slap to the face and he looks up at Perlah who is still anxiously waiting for the attending to start barking out orders.
“Do you think you can manage to get their phone?”
Perlah frowns for a moment, confused by his question. And then her face lights up as she comes to the same realization as the attending standing in front of her. A smile pulls at her lips as she nods at Robby’s request.
“I think I can manage that.”
Jack Abbot enters the emergency department like a hurricane — his presence immediately disrupting the fragile peace they’ve managed to establish since your assault. Robby meets him at the door, stopping him before he can cause any unnecessary damage.
“Where is she?”
Robby frowns. Abbot’s voice is lacking its usual warmth — in its place is a fiery, impatient intensity.
“Let’s just cool down for a second. She’s alright — getting checked out by Langdon as we speak. Okay, Jack?”
Abbot’s brown eyes darken at Robby’s words. His posture stiffens and he’s suddenly aware that he’s no longer looking at his best friend. No, the man standing before him is a devoted soldier with one mission and God help anyone who gets in his way — he certainly isn’t dumb enough to stand between the two of you.
“Exam room 11.”
Abbot brushes past Robby without another word and marches toward the back of the emergency department. He finally feels like he can breathe again as he enters the doorway and watches Langdon press an icepack to your nose. You flinch away from him and Frank lets out an exasperated sigh.
“You are a horrible patient.”
“Well, you’re a horrible nurse. You have to be gentle.”
Abbot leans against the doorframe, his body relaxing now that he’s heard the sound of your voice. A smile pulls at the corners of his lips at your defiance. Eventually, Langdon pulls the icepack away from your face and his blood runs cold as he gets a look at your injuries. It takes every ounce of what’s left of his self control to stay put, instead of forcing Robby to let him know who did this to you.
“I’ve got it from here, Langdon. You can get back to work.”
Both of your heads snap towards the attending standing in the doorway, but Jack’s eyes never leave yours. He watches as your expression shifts from confusion to relief before taking a few steps into the small exam room.
“Hey, Abbot. I’m actually almost done here. The rest of the exam will only take a minute.”
Jack finally regards the other man in the room, but his demeanor shifts to annoyance as Langdon continues to occupy your personal space — as he watches another man’s fingers glide gently over your cheek while he’s standing right there. The sight makes him sick to his stomach as a pervasive, ugly feeling claws at his chest.
“Langdon. Out. Now.”
Langdon’s movements suddenly still and the room immediately feels too small for the three of you. Luckily, the resident does what Jack says and exits the room without sparing you a second glance. Jack’s cold demeanor melts as soon as he hears the door close behind Langdon.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Jack’s voice fills the room and you finally feel safe. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you hear his boots take careful, calculated footsteps move towards you. This is a dream — it must be. Jack’s fishing today, unreachable until after your shift ends. But then he’s standing in front of you, invading your personal space in a way that’s so undeniably him. You finally look up, meeting his piercing gaze and you swear his jaw ticks slightly as he takes in the full extent of your injuries.
“It looks worse than it is.”
It’s a lie, but all you want is to smooth out the worried creases on his forehead. Jack tilts his head slightly at your words — considering them for a moment. His hands move slowly allowing you time to pull away, but you let him cradle your face with a tenderness that feels misplaced in this environment. His thumb gently brushes under your eye, where deep purple bruising has made its temporary home, and you flinch away from his touch before he even makes it to the worst of your injuries. Jack pulls his hands away from you and you involuntarily frown — a smirk plays at the corner of his lips as he watches the way you chase his touch.
“Do me a favor?”
You nod at his question — not fully trusting your voice at this moment. Jack bows his head slightly, meeting you eye to eye. His gaze is a raging wildfire of emotions. It’s a stark contrast to his calm demeanor and steady hands.
“Don’t lie to me.”
You roll your eyes at this as he stands to his full height again. His hands find their way back to you again, settling on your knees as he begins assessing your injuries further. You lean in closer to him without even thinking about it — it’s like Jack Abbot is the sun and you’re simply a planet trapped in his orbit.
“How are you here?”
Jack’s brows knit together at your question, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. His thumb absentmindedly rubs gentle, grounding circles against your scrubs as his gaze trails over every visible wound on your face.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re supposed to be fishing.”
His face scrunches at your words, but he doesn’t stop his careful assessment of your condition.
“I got a call.”
“Your phone was on do not disturb — you were unreachable.”
“To everyone other than you.”
Your breath catches in your chest at his words. He says it nonchalantly, but the significance of that statement lands harder than the elbow you took to the face. You’re the only person that Jack would let interrupt his day off. Hell, you’re the only reason he took a day off to begin with.
“But how… Perlah.”
Jack’s head tilts as he watches you put the pieces together. Not too long after Langdon got you into the exam room, Perlah found the two of you. She helped Langdon with the exam for a few minutes before cursing that her phone had died before she made an important call. You had offered her your own, thinking nothing of the interaction. But now you understand exactly what transpired when Perlah left with your cell.
“Yeah, scared me half to death when it wasn’t your voice on the other end.”
Your frown deepens at that. You can only imagine the fear that clawed its way back into Jack’s chest — can only imagine the unwanted memories it brought up. Your eyes glance down at his left hand, where a silver wedding band permanently resides. You remember the morning on the roof when Jack finally told you about his late wife after a particularly difficult shift. The two of you had lost a young woman whose vehicle had been struck by a drunk driver. You watched Jack go above and beyond for the woman in a way you’d never seen before. And you noticed the way his entire demeanor shifted once he had to call it after an hour of compressions. Jack slipped out of the ED the moment that the day shift showed up and you followed after once you completed handoff. You found Jack on the edge of the roof — not surprising on any other day, but a concerning visual after what you just witnessed that night. He knew you’d find him — you always do. And as you took your usual place, leaning your elbows against the railing right behind him, he finally opened up about the worst day he’s ever experienced. You listened as he told you about how his wife was in an accident. How she was dead on impact and EMS found her phone on the scene. How Jack was her only emergency contact. How he despises that the last time his wife called him he never even got to hear her voice. How he knows he’s your emergency contact. How his heart can’t go through that again.
“I’m sorry, Jack. The last thing I wanted was for you to worry about me on your day off.”
Jack’s brow furrows at your words.
“Sweetheart, all I do when I’m not with you is worry.”
You both let that sentence linger in the room for a few moments. Jack continues to trace shapes into your shrubs as you attempt to calm your nerves as you realize how intimate this conversation feels. Finally, Jack breaks the silence.
“Can you just come back to the night shift so I can stop freaking out every time my phone rings throughout the day?”
You almost smile at that.
“Donnie comes back in two weeks.”
You mean for that to be comforting; however, this only makes Jack’s body stiffen in response. His head drops as he lets out a long sigh.
“Two weeks is too long.”
“You’re not my boss, Jack.”
Jack pulls his hands away and you watch as he runs them through his short, grey curls. He looks exhausted — and you suddenly feel guilty that his relaxing day off has turned into this.
“You’re right, but sweetheart, I can’t do this without you anymore.”
A part of you wants to throttle him because of that nickname and how easily it falls off his lips — how it’ll only feel right when it’s his voice saying it to you.
“Do what?”
Jack looks at you and his face twists into confusion as he realizes your question is genuine.
“Get through the fucking night.”
A beat passes. You desperately want to just say yes. It’s what you want isn’t it? Returning to the night shift — returning to him. But that’s also the problem. What is this? You thought your switch to day shift would give you some sort of explanation, but your time away has only made you more confused. Would it actually just be easier if the two of you only saw each other during handoff? No domestic moments between cups of coffee, no more mornings spent side-by-side on the rooftop, no more stolen, fleeting touches as he passes you on your way to the hub. You know what you are to Robby — to everyone on day shift. It’s simple. But with Jack — it’s never been simple and maybe that’s the problem.
“What if I want to stay on the day shift?”
Jack recoils like you just threw a punch at him. Guilt claws up your throat as you watch his face fall. It’s a lie — you know that it is. You love everything about the night shift, but you also don’t know how much longer you can keep playing this game with Jack before you simply fall apart.
“Why would you want that?”
“Because at least I know where I stand with everyone here.”
Jack’s brow furrows — you hate that it’s cute. That everything about him draws you in.
“You don’t know where you stand with me?”
You shake your head and he scoffs — the sound is surprisingly cold. He looks at you, brow pinched into a scowl. And then he realizes that you’re serious. Your expression is nothing but unashamed honesty and his head cocks to the side at that. Do you really think he’s been stringing you along this entire time? That this has all been meaningless flirtation? That you mean nothing to him?
He takes a step forward, slotting himself between your knees. Your breath catches as he reaches up and gently cradles your face. His touch is different than before — all professionalism has been cast aside and is now replaced with his overwhelming adoration. Without thinking your fingers grab the hem of his black t-shirt. He smiles as he feels you nervously pick at a loose stitch before he ducks his head and his lips finally meet your own. Your grip on his t-shirt tightens as he moves his hands through your hair. Now this is a dream. The kiss is soft and restrained — you know he’s holding back due to your injuries. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you. Jack pulls away too soon for your liking, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he places his forehead against yours.
“Sweetheart, I’ve been yours since the minute you walked through the fucking door.”
You bite your lip as you attempt to hold back the giddy grin that begs to spread itself across your face.
“You never said anything.”
Jack pulls away at that, not far — just enough to get a good look at you. The look on his face is incredulous — like it’s absurd you don’t know that his entire life revolves around you at this point.
“I thought I made myself abundantly clear.”
You laugh at that and Jack steals a kiss from your lips just because he can.
“I take it Robby gave you the rest of the day off?”
You nod, smiling as you feel Jack thread his fingers through yours.
“He told me to go home after Langdon finished my exam — who you should apologize to.”
Jack’s jaw clenches slightly as his brow furrows.
“Him being here was unnecessary.”
You watch him for a moment, trying to understand what happened between the two men that never seemed to have any sort of animosity prior to today. And then your hand tightens around Jack’s as you realize what happened.
“You were jealous.”
Jack rolls his eyes.
“I have no reason to be jealous.”
You raise a brow at his statement. He’s not wrong — he has no reason to be jealous of Frank Langdon, but you know the resident somehow got under his skin. He may be able to maintain his facade of nonchalance to the rest of his staff, but you see right through him.
“What makes you so confident?”
“Because Langdon isn’t the one taking you home right now, is he?”
A yandere is someone who is lovesick, someone who has been driven to insanity by extreme obsession or love, thus resulting in abnormal behavior if not violence.
Brendon Park who gets too carried away when he falls in love with you. It's not that he' doesn't trust you's lacking trust, but he simply wouldn't survive if he lost you so he made sure that you always got what you wanted, and what he deserves, even if it means nudging fate.
Your old car wasn't reliable. He had made sure of that by sabotaging the engine making it randomly break down sporadically. So of course he got you a brand new one, the newest edition of the safest car on the market. He bought it for you, even if you insisted that you could get your own, or at least something within your budget. Brendon had simply rolled his eyes, telling you to just to thank him though in reality he thanked you for accepting it as the car's GPS now gave him your location 24/7.
Then sleeping in your apartment had become unbearable due to your noisy neighbours whose alarms kept going off at random moments during the night. It had been a bit harder for Brendon to figure this one out but he had realised that your neighbour was on vacation so it was easy sneaking in his own alarm clock into the vacant home. After a few weeks of sleepless nights you had finally agreed to his proposition of moving in. Now Brendon was able to cuddle with you every night, spend all his free time with you, and keep an eye out on all your activities.
You're lucky he's here, making sure that you're taken care of, even if he's the one that causes your problems in the first place.
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Summary: After a month of marriage to Titus, it’s finally time for your first public appearance as newlyweds.
Words: 6741
Warning: Age Gap (No specified), Arranged Marriage/Marriage of Convenience, Dark Romance, Swearing, Non-consensual interaction, Murder
Author's Note: I was wondering if ready or not 2 came out on digital because Twitter had an influx of hd clips, gifs and photo of Titus the other day. I was like here the hell is everybody getting these??? 😭 or someone’s just good at editing or got good quality when sneaking pics and videos at the movies LMFAO. Enjoy - Ryn
TILL DEATH | MASTERLIST
It had been about a month since you and Titus married, and tonight would be your first public appearance as a couple. You’d be attending a benefit gala hosted by another family that owned a hotel empire, raising money for charity.
The media already knew about your marriage. It was the biggest story yet. How Titus Danforth, bachelor, partial heir to the Danforth Hotel and Casino Resort empire, had finally settled down. Clearly, this marriage had come out of nowhere. The story fed the world? That you and Titus had known each other since childhood, growing up side by side. That much was true, everything else was fiction.
Childhood sweethearts, but life had pulled you two apart. You went off to college and Titus worked for his father, learning to run the empire of the hotel and casino that would one day be his.
When Titus’s father passed just a month ago, you reunited at the funeral, realizing life was too short not to be together. You eloped soon after…blah blah blah. The kind of sanitized, romantic nonsense the headlines loved.
Your love was painted as wholesome, but nothing about you and Titus was wholesome. A month in, and it was the same relationship you’d always had with him. Except now you were married, forced to play the part.
You sat in the sunroom in the manor, breakfast in hand, flipping through a magazine that gushed about your “love story” with Titus. Just as you were about to take a bite of your cream cheese bagel, someone snatched it from behind.
You gasp. Of course—it’s Titus.
He moves around you, casually taking bites of your bagel.
“Hey!” You grab a whole bagel from the tray and whap!—smack it right on his head as he strolls past to the side.
He freezes mid-chew, crumbs everywhere, blinking at you. “What the fuck?” he mumbles around a mouthful of bread.
“Quit acting like a heathen and get your own food!”
He swallows “I’m the heathen?” he wipes cream cheese from his lip, staring at you like you’ve just insulted basic logic itself. “You’re the one throwing food.”
“And last I checked, being married means we split everything—so this,” he adds evenly, “is my half.”
Then, as if the matter is settled, he sits down.
“Our marriage is not even real” You huff, grabbing your knife and your other untouched half of the bagel.
You spread the cream cheese a little too aggressively, dragging it across the surface with precision that is definitely not calm.
“Oh, it’s real,” he says, eyes glinting “on paper, in blood”
“Well everything else is meaningless, especially the vows.”
You clasp your hands dramatically over your chest, sitting up like you’re in the middle of some over-the-top romance scene, eyes going wide and glassy on purpose.
“I swear to protect you with every breath I have,” your voice suddenly soft and breathy, painfully exaggerated. You lean forward across the table, batting your lashes at him.
“My loyalty is yours… you have all of me,” you continue, dragging the words out, tilting your head like you’re completely lovestruck. “Every thought, every heartbeat…”
You press the back of your hand to your forehead like you might faint.
“I am yours completely,” you sigh, practically melting over the table now, reaching toward him like you’re in some tragic love story. “I honor you, now and always… till death do us part—”
You choke on the last word, your face twisting instantly. “Ugh, gag me…”
You pick up the bagel and take a bite.
Titus doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t take the bait you’ve so carefully laid out.
Only the smallest shift crosses his expression when you gag. So brief it’s almost nothing, so subtle it could be missed if you weren’t looking for it.
Then it’s gone. Immediately buried, smoothed over and locked down, like it was never there at all.
“Are you done with the theatrics?” His voice is calm. Almost bored.
“Thought you’d find it amusing,” you shoot back.
“Amusing?” he echoes, unimpressed. “No.” A beat. His gaze drags over you. “Just annoying… like you’ve always fucking been.”
Without missing a beat, he continues eating your bagel as if the conversation has already been demoted to background noise.
“Ah, good—you’re both up.” Your father steps into the sunroom, already moving with purpose.
He crosses to you first, pressing a brief kiss to the top of your head like it’s routine, expected.
“Your first public appearance as a couple tonight!”
Titus and you don’t say anything, both dreading the event.
Neither you nor Titus responds. You just exchange a look, both silently dreading what’s ahead. At least something you can both agree on.
Your father, meanwhile, doesn’t take notice of the look you both gave each other. “It’s important. First impressions matter. You’ll stand together, you’ll smile, you’ll be composed—”
“We know, Dad,” you cut in.
He finally pauses, looking between the two of you as if weighing whether you’ve fully absorbed what he’s saying.
“I’m just making sure,” he says more carefully now. “You two have a very… complex history—”
It wasn’t complex at all. Titus didn’t like you, and you didn’t like Titus. That was the beginning and end of it.
“You’re only putting on a performance in public,” he continues. “Once you’re back at the manor, you can return to disliking each other as much as you want.”
Titus lets out a faint breath through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite.
“Comforting,” he says dryly, glancing away.
Your father ignores the tone completely, already moving past it.
Titus knew how to play the role when it mattered. He’d been rich his entire life. Raised on image, performance, and unspoken rules. Whether he wanted it or not, he’d been trained for this. Taught how to move through rooms like they belonged to him. Cameras didn’t rattle him. He knew exactly how to stand, what to say, how to sell it.
The real question wasn’t him.
It was you.
You’d lived around it, close enough to understand the rules, but never fully inside them. Not like this. Not where every look, every touch, every word would be watched, picked apart.
Because this wasn’t real.
It was arranged. Constructed. A marriage built for appearance, not love.
Would you be believable?
Would you be able to stand beside him and make something fake look real?
—-
Although you hated everything about this, you couldn’t afford to get it wrong. Your thoughts weren’t really on Titus. They were on the rest of the Danforth family.
Chester and Mrs. Danforth had done so much for yours. They’d been generous, kind, welcoming in ways they didn’t have to be. You couldn’t be the one to unravel that.
You wouldn’t be the one who ruined their legacy.
You had to see it through with Titus. That was the hard part. The one part that sat heavy in your chest, but you were willing to try.
For them, if not for him.
For everything this meant, and everything it protected.
It was later in the evening, and you’d lost track of time, rushing to get ready. Off to a great start.
“Hurry the fuck up, Pip! We’re already late as it is!” Titus shouts, his voice echoing through the house.
You rush down the foyer stairs, heels and clutch clutched in your hands. Balancing on one foot, you hop awkwardly as you try to slip the other heel on, nearly missing a step in the process.
Titus is already by the door, impatience written into every line of his posture.
“Seriously?” he mutters when he sees you, dragging a hand down his face. “We don’t have time for this.”
“I’m coming!” you shoot back, finally forcing your foot into the heel and straightening up, smoothing down your outfit like that alone might pull you together.
You quickly rush over to him, slightly out of breath, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
His eyes drag over you, slower this time. Taking you in. The dress, the heels, the way everything falls just right. For a second, something almost soft flickers across his face and gone just as quickly as it came.
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, as he opens the door.
“Where’s Ursula?” you ask,
“She’s already there… we were supposed to be at the gala half an hour ago,” Titus says, like it’s obvious, like it’s been obvious the entire time.
“Right… sorry,” you mutter
You step out of the manor, the cool evening air hitting you. The front drive is already lit, a sleek car waiting at the curb with its engine running. Headlights casting a clean glow over the stone pathway.
A driver stands by the rear door, opening it as you approach.
Titus doesn’t slow down. He reaches the car first, then pauses just long enough for you to catch up just long enough to make sure you’re not left behind.
—
You could feel the attention before you even stepped out of the car. Reporters, socialites, hotel executives all waiting for a glimpse of the newlywed couple.
Titus got out first, immediately offering his hand to you as you followed. The moment your feet hit the pavement, it hit you all at once: the flashes, the shouting, the crowd pressing in like this wasn’t a benefit gala at all, but something closer to the Oscars.
Titus noticed it instantly. The way your composure tightened, the subtle hesitation in your breath. He shifted closer as you slipped your arm through his.
He knew you weren’t ready for the interviews and he wasn’t going to force you into that, especially when the two of you are walking in late.
He guided you toward the entrance of the Constantine Hotel as the photographers shouted over one another. Just beyond them, a line of interviewers leaned forward from behind the barricade, microphones extended, voices sharp and practiced as they tried to cut through the noise.
Their questions overlapped, relentless in a different way than the cameras. Less chaotic, more targeted.
Titus didn’t break stride.
Titus glanced over, just a flicker of attention. He gave a brief, easy smile. “Evening” he said, casual. A small acknowledgement. Didn’t give them the chance to pull anything more out of him.
Once you stepped inside, the chaos softened, fading into something far more controlled.
The gala was already in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over polished marble floors. Guests moved in quiet currents across the room. The sharp noise from outside was replaced by a low hum of conversation. The soft clink of champagne glasses, and the subtle swell of music threading through it all.
“Keep up” Titus said glancing at you.
You nodded, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
You stayed close to Titus as he moved you through the gala, from one group of guests to the next. He was calm and composed. Every smile, handshake, and conversation smooth and unbothered.
You tried to keep up. To mirror his confidence, stand a little straighter, answer without second-guessing yourself. But your nerves still showed in small ways slight pauses, quick laughs that didn’t quite land, hands that kept searching for something to do.
Across the room, Ursula spots the two of you. She doesn’t approach right away. Instead, she pauses and watches, her attention narrowing as she takes in how Titus is with you.
It isn’t just that he keeps you close, it’s the way he adjusts to you. The way he notices your nerves and quietly shifts to match your pace. When you seem unsure, he slows down. When attention feels like too much, he naturally steps in just enough to ease it, without making it obvious.
Ursula looks surprised. Because this isn’t Titus simply leading. It’s him meeting you where you are.
She starts toward you.
“Hey,” she says when she reaches the edge of the group you and Titus are speaking to. Her gaze flicked between you and Titus. “There you are.”
“Urs!” you say, immediately pulling her into a hug.
She hugs you back without hesitation. When she pulls back, her hands stay on your shoulders for a second. Giving you a quick, assessing look that softens into something warmer.
Then she tilts her head slightly, glancing past you to Titus.
“Mind if I steal your wife for a bit?” she asks, tone light but pointed, a faint smile tugging at her mouth.
Titus looks between the two of you, then exhales through his nose, almost amused. “Depends how long,” he says calmly.
Ursula huffs a quiet laugh. “Not forever. I promise I’ll return her in one piece.”
His hand at your back shifts just slightly, a subtle release rather than a hold.
“Go ahead,” he says at last, eyes briefly flicking to you.
And just like that, Ursula hooks her arm lightly through yours, already guiding you a few steps away from the crowd and toward a quieter, uncrowded corner of the room.
“Well,” she says after a beat, tilting her head as she studies you. “You look like you’re surviving just fine.”
“I feel like everyone can see right through us,” you admit, pressing a hand to your forehead.
Ursula lets out a quiet laugh. “How about a drink to calm the nerves?”
“Please,” you groan.
“Okay, I’ll be back,” she says, already starting to turn. She leaves you standing there.
You exhale softly and start fiddling with the rings on your fingers turning them slightly, grounding yourself in the small motion. Laughter rises somewhere and glasses clink.
“You doing alright?” a voice asks nearby.
You glance up quickly, caught a little off guard. “What? Oh—yeah, I’m fine.”
The man gives you a small, patient look like he isn’t fully buying it but isn’t pushing either.
“You sure?” he asks.
You hesitate. Your eyes flick briefly back toward the crowd, then down again to your hands.
“I’m just a little overwhelmed, I guess,” you admit quietly.
He nods once, like that makes more sense.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “That’s kind of the standard experience in a room like this.”
He glances around the ballroom, then back at you, his expression easing into something lighter.
“If it helps,” he adds, “you look like you’re handling it better than most people who act like they own the place.”
There’s a brief pause.
“And honestly,” he continues, a small smile tugging at his mouth, “half of them are just as overwhelmed. They’re just better dressed and louder about it.”
That gets you.
A quiet laugh slips out before you can stop it—small, but real.
His expression brightens slightly at that, like he was aiming for it without pushing too hard.
“There it is,” he says, tone light. “That’s the first good sign of the night.”
Titus’s gaze finds you across the room.
He lets you drift off with Ursula, only to see you already caught up with someone else.
You’re talking to a man smiling, laughing, fully at ease now like the nerves from earlier never existed. You lean in slightly as the conversation flows, unaware of how closely you’re being watched.
Something shifts in Titus’s expression.
He’s fixed on the exchange with quiet intensity. He reads the man quickly. Titus knows exactly what he’s trying to do. The intention. The angle. The kind of man who thinks he’s already halfway there.
And you're still smiling and don't seem to notice it at all.
“By the way,” he adds, offering a hand with an easy smile, “I’m Warren”
You introduce yourself, shaking his hand.
“Are you here with anybody?”
“Actually I’m here with—”
“Let’s go” Titus cuts in out of nowhere, his hand in your back guiding you.
“Oh- Uh Sorry!” you say politely to the man, as Titus is whisking you away.
Titus’s hand settles at the middle of your back, steering you away with steady insistence. As you move farther from the crowd and closer to the corridor that leads toward the exits, his hold changes. His fingers tighten around your forearm.
“Titus—” you gasp, the shift in him catching you off guard.
He doesn’t stop.
He threads you through the room with practiced ease, offering small, composed smiles and polite nods to anyone who happens to look their way, like nothing is out of place. Like this is normal.
But his grip doesn’t loosen.
He guides you down the hall, away from the door and deeper into the corridor. Then, abruptly, he turns and pulls you to face him.
“What is your problem?!” You wrench your arm free, rubbing the spot. Your eyes drop to your skin—already reddening beneath where he held you.
“You! You’re my problem!” he snaps, jaw tight. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, huh?”
“What? What am I doing?” you shoot back, thrown by the accusation, unsure what has made him so angry.
“the guy you’re talking to” he jerks a hand toward the gala where you just were.
You furrow your brows. “We were just having a conversation—”
“Oh, bullshit! I noticed the way he was looking at you.” The words come out clipped, sharp, full of heat and possessiveness. It’s obvious: he’s unsettled, and it’s personal.
It almost sounds like he’s jealous. You blink, caught off guard, barely having time to process it, but he doesn’t pause.
“In case you forgot,” he says, lifting his hand between you. The black band catches the light like a blade. “We’re fucking married.”
“How could I forget?” you huff, rolling your eyes, even as your gaze flicks to the ring.
His jaw tightens. He lowers his hand slowly. “Then fucking act like it!” he snaps.
“He’s flirting with you,” Titus adds edged with frustration he’s not bothering to hide. “In case you didn’t notice!”
Did Titus think you were flirting back? You knew what was at stake here—knew better than to jeopardize this, especially your first appearance here as husband and wife.
“Titus, I—I wasn’t—” you start, trying to explain, to make him understand that wasn’t your intention, that wasn’t where your head was at, that you weren’t seeing it the same way at all.
He cuts you off.
He steps closer. “People are always watching,” he hisses. “Every move, every look… waiting for a reason to talk. I will not let you embarrass my family’s name, make me look like a fool, or ruin the story we’ve crafted and fed the media. Once they paint me as a man who married some unfaithful gold digger, that story sticks. It doesn’t go away. More stories, more rumors—they’ll fly, and it never ends. We don’t need fucking scandals and whole drama mill!”
“So get your shit together. I’ve already told you—if you’re reckless, if you fuck up—”
“You’ll kill Father… and make me suffer, slowly, painfully. I know, Titus,” you say, keeping your gaze anywhere but his, bracing against the suffocating weight of him.
It wasn’t intentional. You hadn’t meant to provoke him. But no matter what you did, it was never enough. Never right. He had been like this since you were children always measuring, always judging, always a threat.
“You’re skating on fucking thin ice, Pip,” he growls, the words slicing through the room like knives, leaving no doubt he means it.
With that, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there alone as he disappears back into the gala
——
You find yourself on one of the observations balconies on an upper floor. he sound of the gala below softened into a distant, muffled hum.
Cool night air hits your face, but it doesn’t settle anything inside you.
You wipe at your cheeks quickly, almost angrily, trying to erase what just happened downstairs along with the tears. Your throat feels tight, your thoughts still tangled in Titus’s words.
Is it always going to be like this…constant arguments, blame, belittling? That constant feeling of never doing anything right, never being enough?
The thought feels heavy and inescapable.
You press your palms lightly against the railing, trying to steady yourself. Your breathing is still uneven, but slowly calming as your mind catches up.
You weren’t trying to mess anything up. You were trying—trying to stand beside him, trying to get it right in a world where every move feels carefully watched and judged.
And beneath it all is the quiet fear that people will see through it. Through you, through Titus, through the whole thing.
Still, you know you can do better. You just have to work at it.
“Sorry—am I interrupting something?”
You turn at the sound of Warren’s voice, your heart stuttering for a second before you quickly wipe at your eyes, hoping it isn’t obvious.
“No—I just… I needed some air.” Your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to, a little unsteady. You avoid looking at him for too long, suddenly more aware of him than before. Of what Titus said. The way he’d looked at you.
Was Warren actually flirting… or had that just been Titus looking for a reason to be upset?
Warren’s expression softens.
“Yeah,” he says, a small huff of agreement. “It’s pretty hectic down there.”
There’s a brief pause before he studies you a little more closely.
“Are you alright?”
You nod too quickly.
“I’m fine,” you say, brushing the last trace of moisture from under your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax like nothing’s wrong even if it doesn’t quite land.
“You don’t really sound fine,” he says, quieter this time. “Did something happen?”
“You don’t have to tell me,” he adds after a moment, voice softer. “I just… didn’t like the look on your face.”
“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, a little more firmly this time, even if it lacks bite.
Warren studies you again, then lets out a small breath, like he’s choosing not to argue.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ll believe you.”
But he doesn’t really.
You can tell.
“You know,” he starts, quieter now, “you don’t really seem like you belong in a place like this.
“What does that mean?”
“I just think,” he continues, voice lowering a fraction, “you deserve to actually enjoy yourself tonight. We can get out of here”
Your guard goes up a little more at that.
“I came here with—,”
His hand catches your wrist quickly, unexpectedly and before you can fully react, he leans in.
His lips brush yours.
You shove at his chest, twisting your head away. Your voice comes out sharp, breathless, your eyes flicking around. “I’m married.”
“So?” he shoots back, already pulling you in again.
You brace this time, palms pressing hard against him, but he crowds your space anyway, backing you a step. His mouth finds your jaw when you turn your face, then your neck—messy, insistent. His grip tightens at your waist when you try to wrench free.
“Stop—get off—” You struggle, pushing, twisting, your heel catching as you try to break away.
He doesn’t.
You drive your hands between you, forcing what little space you can, but he closes it just as fast—like he refuses to hear you.
Your hand finally slips free.
The slap lands hard. The sound is sharp, final.
Everything stops. He staggers half a step, more from shock than force, his hand coming up to his cheek, eyes wide. And for the first time, he lets you go.
You rush back inside, adrenaline still spiking, your steps quick and uneven as you cut through the halls. Your only thought: find a bathroom—fast. Somewhere you can fix this. Fix yourself. Before anyone sees.
You take the stairs quickly rushing down them as fast you could.
At the bottom, you step onto the main floor, emerging into the hallway just outside where the gala is being held.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you where you’d—” Ursula’s voice catches you mid-stride.
You stop abruptly.
Her eyes sweep over you, taking everything in at once. the tousled hair, the strap of your dress slipping off your shoulder, the smear of lipstick no longer where it should be. Her expression shifts instantly, brows knitting as she closes the distance between you.
“What happened? Are you alright?” she asks, hands coming to your arms.
You grab onto her like you need the anchor.
“H-he’s already angry with me…he’s gonna be even more,” your voice trembles, panic tightening in your throat as the words spill out.
She knows exactly who you mean.
“Hey—slow down,” she says, softer now. “Talk to me. What happened?”
You swallow hard, tears falling. “A man—I was talking to him earlier. Titus got upset that I was talking to him—he followed me out to the balcony. He tried to—”
“Ursula? Have you seen—” Titus’s voice cuts through the moment.
Both of you turn.
He stops short the second Ursula shifts, revealing you fully. Disheveled, shaken… exactly who he’d been looking for.
His gaze locks onto you. He makes his way over.
“What happened?” he asks
You try to speak, but the words snag in your throat. Ursula beats you to it.
“She was just explaining—”
“I asked her.” His eyes never leave you.
You force yourself to meet his gaze, even as your fingers tighten around Ursula’s.
“Titus, let me—” Ursula starts.
“Don’t.” His voice slices through hers. He still hasn’t looked away from you. “Leave us.”
You don’t want her to go. You know what comes next if she does. The sharp words. The blame.
Ursula hesitates, reading it all over your face. He notices the way she doesn’t move right away.
“I said leave”
Ursula’s grip lingers for a second longer before she looks at you, something apologetic in her eyes. A silent I’m sorry.
Then she lets go. She steps back, then turns, heels echoing softly against the floor as she heads down the hall back toward the noise and light of the gala.
You watch her go.
He doesn’t look at you. Not yet.
His gaze follows, making sure she actually leaves. He waits until she disappears completely around the corner.
Only then does his attention shift back to you.
You end up blurting out everything, knowing you shouldn’t delay the inevitable verbal lecture you’d receive from him.
“Titus, I didn’t—I wasn’t…I told him no!” you rush out, words spilling over each other. “I was on the balcony to get air…the guy you got mad about earlier….”
You swallow hard, voice catching. “He… he kissed me. I tried to leave, but he held me there… I had to slap him to get him off.”
He doesn’t interrupt. He just keeps staring at you as you ramble.
“That’s the truth—I wasn’t trying to jeopardize anything. I know it might look like I was, like I’m making excuses or putting us at risk, but I’m not. I swear, I know better than to—”
Your voice breaks as you wipe at your tears, more falling before you can stop them.
“I never said I didn’t believe you,”
He does believe you. Never doubted you for a second. The moment he saw you, he knew. Your disheveled appearance, the tension in your body, the fear in your eyes was vivid to him. There was no question, no hesitation. You weren’t lying.
Slowly, he reaches out, adjusting the strap of your dress back onto your shoulder. He smooths stray hairs and, licking his thumb, carefully wipes the smudged lipstick from your face. His touch lingers just long enough to brush away your tears.
“Stop crying.”
You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, but the tears linger.
“Enough,” he says. “Get it under control,” he adds, quieter now, making sure you actually pull yourself together not just pretend.
You draw in a deep breath, hold it, and slowly let it out. Finally after a minute or two you feel yourself regulated.
He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. It’s still warm, heavy with his cologne, and it settles around you.
“Go find Ursula,” he says.
That’s it. No lecture, no sharp edge, no storm of words. Just calm instruction. Not kindness, exactly. Not cruelty either. Something unreadable in between.
Did he believe you? You can’t tell.
Your stomach twists anyway as you turn and walk down the hallway, forcing yourself forward. You steal one glance back. He’s still there…standing in the middle of the corridor, watching you leave, unmoving.
—-
When you step back into the gala, the noise and laughter crash over you all at once. Bright lights, scattered voices, music—too much. But your attention locks in on one thing only: finding Ursula.
You spot her through the crowd and move quickly toward her.
“What happened?” she asks the moment you reach her, her hands closing around yours.
“He just told me to come find you,” you say.
Her brows knit together. “That’s it?”
You nod, still thrown off by how quickly it ended. “Yeah. Just—go find you.”
For a moment, she doesn’t respond. Her gaze drifts past you. She scanning the room, then returns to your faces. It’s like she’s weighing something she can’t put into words.
Ursula already knew Titus was going to do something about what happened.
“…And he said nothing else?” she asks carefully.
“No lecture. Not anything.” You swallow.
She pulls you into a hug.
“Are you alright?” she murmurs.
“I just want to go home,” you say, voice smaller, you feel the tears coming again.
Ursula eases back just enough to look at you, nodding once like that settles it.
“Okay,” she says gently. “We’ll go. When Titus gets back okay?”
You don’t answer right away. You just try to breathe through it.
About fifteen, maybe twenty minutes pass. Then Titus finally returns.
He moves through space, a champagne flute loosely held in his hand, like he has all the time in the world like he’s just been lingering somewhere else entirely.
And something in you tightens at the sight of him.
That’s what he was doing?
After he dismissed you. After he told you to pull yourself together and walked away like it was nothing, he was…drinking.
Part of you was mad at him…hurt, though you told yourself it shouldn’t be surprising. He’d known you for so long, and you’d still hoped, somewhere beneath it all, that he might care enough to show it. He didn’t even try to comfort you or ask if you were okay. Just told you to stop crying, to get it together. Not that you expected much from him… but it still stung.
You make eye contact with him, but quickly look away, fixing your attention on something …anything else.
“Where’d you go?” Ursula asks, her brows drawing together. Her voice is low, meant only for him.
“I had something to take care of,” he says, too smooth, too effortless.
Before she can press him further, a scream slices through the room.
“Somebody call 911!”
The music stutters under the sudden chaos, voices rising, bodies turning.
“Someone fell—from one of the balconies outside!”
Titus doesn’t even flinch. He tilts his head slightly, lifting his champagne flute for a slow sip like he’s watching something mildly inconvenient.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice detached, almost cruel in its calm, “that’s a shame. They must have been leaning to far over the balcony”
Ursula’s gaze snaps to him sharp, knowing. She studies his face like she’s looking at something already confirmed rather than discovered.
Titus had pushed that man. Because of you.
Because of what he did to you earlier. The way he crossed a line. He touched you without permission. You were still trying not to think about it.
But you don’t know that.
You’re still standing there, caught in the noise and confusion like everyone else. Trying to make sense of the chaos. In your mind, it’s just a freak accident. Something awful and random. Nothing more.
Around you, the gala unravels voices overlapping, people rushing toward the windows to see the scene.
Titus sets his glass down with a soft clink on the table beside him
“This is our cue to get the fuck out.”
And just like that, he’s guiding you out of the room.
You follow, still believing it’s just an accident, just a bad turn in an already chaotic night. Not knowing the man who fell was the same one who kissed you. Not knowing Titus made sure he wouldn’t do it again.
—-
You step through the front doors of the manor, the weight of the night still clinging to you.
Your father was in the foyer “So, how was the—” he begins.
You’re moving before anyone can stop you. Heels dangling from your fingers, your pace quick as you make for the stairs.
All you want is to be alone. To finally let yourself fall apart without eyes on you, without cameras, without people watching your every move.
“Pip—” Titus calls, catching the jacket.
You don’t stop. Don’t turn. Just keep going.
He follows anyway, close behind—just a step or two back like he’s not ready to let you disappear on your own.
“…first appearance,” your father finishes, the words quieter now, trailing off as he watches you rush away.
A beat of silence.
Then your father’s gaze shifts to Titus.
Titus stops at the base of the stairs. For a moment, neither of them says anything. Titus just looks up the staircase where you disappeared.
Your father studies him.
“…I take it,” he says finally, voice even, “it didn’t go quite as planned.”
Titus turns around.
“Nerves got the best of her,” he says evenly, “but it wasn’t as bad as she’s probably thinking.” His jaw tightens faintly, like every word has to be measured before it’s spoken. “She handled it,” Titus adds. “She was trying.”
As much as he knows you hate him, he didn’t expect that kind of effort from you. Even after everything, after the countless threats he made over the past month, since the day of the marriage, he thought you might shut down or lash out. Instead, you tired played the part the best you could.
“Okay, that doesn’t sound too bad, but why is she so upset?”
“There was… something else,” he says. A pause follows.
Your father’s expression sharpens slightly. “What kind of something else?”
Titus’s grip on the jacket tightens, his jaw setting. “A man approached her,” he says. “Wouldn’t take the hint.” Your father says nothing, only watches. Titus exhales once through his nose. “He kissed her.”
The words hang in the air. Silence follows, heavier than before. Your father goes still, something colder settling into his expression. “And?”
Titus’s gaze flicks upward again, toward your room. “She didn’t ask for it,” he says flatly.
Your father studies him, reading everything and what’s missing between the lines. “…and you let him walk away?” he asks.
Titus’s expression hardens a fraction. “No.”
“I took care of it,” he adds
“…define that,” he says at last, voice low and steady.
Titus lets out a quiet, cocky chuckle, shaking his head slightly as if the question is almost insulting in its obviousness. “Come on,” he says lightly, but there’s an edge under it. “You know what I mean.”
“Humor me,” he replies flatly.
“Let’s just say he was leaning a little too far over the balcony.”
“…I see,” he says at last, the words measured, unreadable. A pause. Then—“Good.”
—
Titus leans in the bathroom doorway, watching you at the sink as you go through your skincare routine. You had already taken a shower, in your nightgown.
You side-eye him briefly before your attention drifts back to what you’re doing. When you’re done, you move to slip past him but his arm shoots out to brace against the opposite side of the frame, blocking your exit.
He straightens, suddenly taking up more of the space than he was a second ago, the easy lean gone. He looks down at you.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Look, if you’re going to belittle me, snap at me for tonight—tell me how terrible I was, how we didn’t even look like a believable newlywed couple, and blame me for what happened—I’m not in the fucking mood, okay!?” Your voice cracks with frustration, hands gesturing sharply as you speak. You opened your eyes. “Please. I already had a night as it is—”
“I wasn’t going to come in here and pick you apart,”
Silence falls.
“You’re…not?”
“I mean, I can,” he says, almost dryly, “but I figure you’ve dealt with enough tonight already but why the hell not”
“Titus”
“You did… okay,” he starts. “Your execution could’ve been better, but we didn’t look like a dumpster fire. It wasn’t perfect,” he adds after a second, tone leveling out again. “But it held.”
You didn’t know what to say. Titus was saying you actually did…okay?
That alone feels strange enough to sit wrong in your chest. Not approval exactly. He’d never frame it that way but it wasn’t criticism either. Not the usual sharp edge you’d been bracing for.
You glance at him, searching for something in his expression that explains it, but he’s already looking away again like the moment is closed.
“Don’t make it a thing,” he mutters, like he can feel where your thoughts are going. “It’s just an observation.”
“What I was gonna say was… ask you—” his voice trails off, faltering for a beat before he exhales. “—I was going to ask if you were okay.”
“Oh…” It slips out before you can stop it.
You blink, the question catching you off guard more than anything else.
“Um… I’m okay… I guess,”
His gaze lingers on you for a second too long like he’s measuring whether that’s actually true.
“You sure?” he asks, quieter now.
You hesitate, then shake your head faintly.
“I just… I hope I don’t have to see or deal with him ever again.”
The words land between you both.
For a moment, Titus doesn’t respond. His expression doesn’t change much, but something in his posture shifts.
Then he finally speaks.
“You won’t,” he says. “Trust me.”
It’s simple. Certain. Too certain.
“That shouldn’t have ever happened,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now. “I’m sorry that it did.”
“Nothing like that will happen again,” he adds, no longer reassurance, but something firmer. Absolute. “Not from him. Not from any other man.”
Then, as if the conversation has already reached its end, Titus moves past you, already stripping on his way to the shower. You swallow hard. You don’t say anything. You leave the bathroom and close the door softly behind you.
You climb into your side of the bed and turn on the TV.
“—Titus Danforth of the Danforth hotel and casino empire made his first appearance as newlywed with his wife—”
The news anchor’s voice drips with admiration. The screen fills with images of the two of you—perfectly framed, perfectly timed.
“They look completely in love,” she adds, almost breathless. “Just look at the way he watches her.”
The camera had caught a moment.
You, smiling, your attention somewhere else. Unaware.
Titus, beside you, his gaze fixed entirely on you. Soft. Intent. Convincing enough to fool anyone.
To the world, it’s effortless. A picture of devotion. Of something real.
No one questions it. No one suspects a thing.
If you didn’t know better, it almost looks like he’s in love with you. But he’s good at pretending.
The broadcast shifts. The tone changes. The anchor continues, now talking about the charity gala and what followed.
“A man now identified as socialite Warren Lockeheart fell from a fifth-floor balcony—”
Your stomach tightens. That was the man who kissed you. He was dead.
The report continues, insisting that it was ruled an accident.
Titus’s words from only moments ago come back to you. The moment you told him you hoped you’d never have to see or deal with him again.
You won’t, trust me.
And suddenly, everything in your mind shifts into place.
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No thoughts just reader being so reluctant to take ghost home...
You've been kinda-maybe-dating for nearly a month now. It's about time you take him to your apartment, you can tell after the third time he asks "where are we going tonight, love?" That he's dissapointed when you say his.
"Do you not trust me?" He finally huffs one day, half-curled into your side while some match neither of you care about plays on screen.
It's not because you don't like him. You care more about ghost than you have any reason to. You're terrified of rejection, but your own fear is hurting both of you anyways. "It's....i trust you, simon."
"Then what, love?" Simon rolls to prop up on his elbows and really look at you.
"It's...i..." you bite the inside of you mouth, twist around your anxiety and spit it out "I still have stuffed animals on my bed!"
Silence. You brace for the mocking laughter that you always hear.
Feeling ghost slip off the bed hurts more than you want to admit. You blink up at the ceiling and try not to cry. It's fine. He can think you're stupid and childish, you don't care, you still love him and—
"Here. Open your eyes." You do. Plastic, black beaded eyes stare back. Cupped in scarred hands is a small cat plushie, body sagging from beans, fur a little dulled. Well-loved. You look past it to stare at ghost, stunned.
"This is Mr. Kitty." He tells you. Gently, ghost scoots right back to your side and sits the plushie in your hands "I've had him for...years. he means a lot to me."
Oh. You try to imagine ghost, this giant of a man curled in bed with the tiny kitty plush next to his face.
"...I have a cat plushie." You tell him, belatedly fishing your phone out and trying to ignore the tightness in your throat at such easy acceptance.
You spend the rest of the night looking at photos of your plushie collection with ghost. He likes the cats the best, has strong opinions about sanrio characters, and insists on seeing them soon.
You find you don't really mind the thought of that.
he eats a peach and everyone watches // jack abbot
in which everyone watches the way jack eats a peach over the sink in the breakroom. totally normal btw.
(a/n: lmao sorry i just daydreamed this and couldn't help myself)
You almost didn't clock the crowd by the break room door. You were fifteen minutes early for your shift, coffee in hand and brain still half asleep.
But then you noticed it. A cluster of nurses and residents, shoulder to shoulder, jammed into the break room doorway like it was opening night for a movie premiere. Princess was up front. Someone else had a hand clapped over their mouth. Nobody was talking.
Nobody was breathing, possibly.
You slowed down. "What's going on?"
Nobody even looked at you. Whatever was happening in that break room had apparently short circuited everyone's brain functions.
You nudged your way in between two residents, peering over a shoulder to see what fresh hospital hell had captured the entire day shift's attention.
And it was just Jack.
Eating a peach over the sink.
Except. Okay, no, it was not just that. Because Abbot was eating this peach like it owed him money. Like it was the last peach on planet Earth and he'd been lost in a desert for forty days to find it. He had one boot braced against the cabinet, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and he was devouring it.
Slurping, biting deep enough that juice ran down his chin, down his wrist, dripped in fat little splashes into the steel sink below. He tipped his head back to chase a rivulet with his tongue before it could escape down his forearm.
Beside you, Princess had one hand clutched so tightly around her necklace you were convinced she was going to snap the chain. "Oh." she whispered, eyes wide saucers. "fuck."
You snorted. A grown man eating a peach and the entire break room had turned into a reverent congregation? Come on. You'd seen this man debride a wound without blinking. This was what broke everyone?
You opened your mouth to say something appropriately sarcastic about it.
And then Abbot took the last bite.
He worked it slow, methodical, down to nothing but the pit, juice glistening on his knuckles, on his jaw, catching the light. He tossed the pit into the trash with an easy flick.
Didn't even look, didn't even need to look, it just went in and then, like the final cruelty in a very long day, he lifted his hand and sucked the juice clean off his own fingers, one by one, unbothered and unaware of the fact that he had an audience.
The sarcastic comment died in your throat. You felt heat crawl up your neck and settle high in your cheeks, and you had approximately zero explanation for it.
That seemed to be everyone's cue. The crowd dissolved like they'd all simultaneously remembered they had jobs. Princess peeling off toward the nurses' station still fanning herself with a chart, the residents scattering back into the hallway, muttering things to each other you were positive you did not want to know.
You, for reasons you would later refuse to examine, did not move.
Abbot turned around, wiping his hand on a paper towel, and clocked you standing there alone in the doorway like an idiot.
He smiled. "The peach truck came by the hospital today. They're so good."
You nodded and that was it. That was your entire contribution to the conversation. A nod. Because what the fuck were you supposed to say to that?
Yes, I saw, the entire staff saw, several people may need to be debriefed by Psych?
He gave you a small nod back, apparently satisfied with your input, and walked past you out into the hall, smelling faintly of peach and coffee and completely oblivious to the fact that he had just ruined your entire morning.
You stood there. Gulping like a cartoon character. Your face was going hot and you were sure it was visible from space.
"Hey! You!"
Trinity's voice cut through the fog, sharp from the nurses' station. "Wipe your drool and clock in. I need your help with a patient!"
That got you moving. Fast. You speed walked toward the station praying that nobody would ask you why you looked like you'd just run a marathon.
You had a shift to get through and you were not going to think about Jack Abbot and that peach ever again.
summary: amid the war you’ve yourself stranded, holding onto what of your marriage you have left. but once the crown princes, your own nephew dies, you are forced to make a decision.
pairing: gwayne hightower x targwife!reader
warning(s): SMUT, established relationship, angst, canon death mentions, mentions of violence, pinv, domestic/needy sex, breeding kink?, oral (fem!receiving) body worship, bittersweet ending
word count: 3.2k
a/n: lowkey took this from my old unfinished series of gwayne x reader.. because this pairing wounds me. enjoy <33
The spring you and Gwayne were wed was a gentle one. A quieter time when genuine happiness filled the streets of King's Landing, where summer flowers bloomed and sunlight graced your faces, ruled by a gracious King and Queen and their faithful council.
There was unity, once.
King Viserys' and Queen Aemma's second daughter, as fierce and beautiful as Rhaenyra, with your father’s kindness and your mother’s temperament. And perhaps your sister’s mischief.
And the first Targaryen Princess to be married.
You were both only children then, fresh faced and blushing in the eyes of the court. And yet, you and Gwayne found one another naturally, not from arrangement or calculation, but from pure attraction. He sought after you from the very moment he was introduced at his father's side from Oldtown, green eyes casting across yours with a unique politemess. The Hand of the King’s son.. The first time he had taken your arm was mere weeks after his arrival, a feast celebration held in the Great Hall for your mother's upcoming birth.
The music had softened into something slower, gentler, the kind that filled the spaces between conversation instead of drowning them. Laughter drifted through the hall beneath the glow of a hundred candles, their flames dancing against polished stone and silver goblets.
There was peace there.
For once, no whispers of succession. No sharpened glances, no blood yet staining the future that none of you could see. Baelon still lived inside your mother’s belly, the realm still believed that tomorrow would resemble that day, and everyone drank as though happiness were permanent.
You hid a smile behind the rim of your goblet as your sister traded another clever remark with a lord twice her age. The wine was sweet enough to dull the noise without stealing your senses, and only the music filled your ears until you heard him.
"Princess..."
A single voice came from your side, poignant and certain.
Your head turned almost as quickly as your feet did, skirts whispering across the floor as you faced the speaker.
Ser Gwayne Hightower.
And you knew the face long before you knew the man. Across tourney grounds and council feasts, across the crowded courts where neither of you had ever found reason, or courage, to cross the distance. He had always seemed carved from Oldtown itself with his proud posture and emerald stitched into every thread of his doublet, auburn hair catching every stray beam of light.
So appeasingly handsome.
That night however, he looked less like a knight before a princess, and more like a man wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.
"I mean not to impose," he said, offering a respectful incline of his head, "though I wondered if I might have this dance." For a heartbeat, the world continued around you while your own stood perfectly still. You let your gaze linger on him, amused by the faint uncertainty hidden beneath practiced confidence, tempting to look around to study if your father’s were perhaps watching.
But no one was, far too taken with their own celebrations, even the snaking advance of Otto Hightower had been shadowed by his son’s chivalry.
"So," you said at last, lowering your goblet into the waiting hands of a servant, "you've finally decided to stop staring from across the court."
A flicker of surprise crossed his face before a reluctant smile answered it.
"I had hoped," Gwayne admitted, extending a hand toward you, "that when I did, I might say something considerably more impressive."
Your lips curved despite yourself, taking his hand as you set the goblet down onto an empty table. They slotted into his with a shiver up your spine, the warmth of his swarming your hand gently.
And as a well trained Knight and son of the Hand, word swept faster than either of you knew.
Sweetness across feasting tables soon became hushed kisses in the library and whispered promises, where he asked you to first be his. And you had accepted, spending the weeks and months that passed dreaming of a future that would not come so simply.
You wore your house colours on that day, stark crimson and white, as he did his own, graced in a black cloak that bore the royal sigil, as you wore his. Your mother and father present has smiled on proudly, your sister at their side at last ready to take your arm to share the joy. And Gwayne, he looked upon you with such a blinding adoration you had not known where to look, but when he had kissed you at the altar, all else seemed to fall away.
It was where you belonged.
Such happiness that shouldn't have ended like this, where only darkness loomed in the present. Where Queens passed to another and your younger brother with her, leaving only choices of heirs and legitimacy remained.
The Dance of Dragons divided everyone in its path, renouncing Princess Rhaenyra as heir, and the state of the realm overtaken by your husband’s house. Trust and loyalty faltered where you were at a loss, cradled behind court and torn from your marriage and family entirely.
And that’s where it began.
—
King Viserys’ death had succumbed the realm to a deep sadness, perhaps not the strongest or fiercest, but their good King was gone. But that was not all for you, he was your father, your leader, and though the family had grown through the years, you and your sister had dealt with it only together.
Snakes snuck fast around the court, ever more lurching their way closer to you both, because as your father’s last breath was breathed as the years had passed, it was said that your older sister’s name was not on his lips, but your younger half brother Aegon.
He was but a boy, callous and cruel and unnamed by your father, other than by the word of Alicent Hightower.
Gwayne held you that night, the whole time you had wept for him, for your sister and the news that swept faster than any false rumour. He did not speak, but his arms stayed around you, feeling your betrayal as much as rage thundered in his chest. Because there was nothing to be done.
Neither of you were in the position to change it or revoke their decision, only stand idly by as the Red Keep made way for their new ruler. And when the news had reached Rhaenyra by your Raven, before any other, the war had truly begun.
They had usurped her throne.
Though only more death was to come. Where Lucerys' death fueled the fire, Jacaerys’ stoked it into an abcess, shifting the realm into finally. And with your sister to take King’s Landing, to journey back home and sit upon the throne of swords that was at last to be hers, you were to be at her side.
Standing proud, no matter how fractured.
But you couldn’t leave him, not yet. Even as he stood far away distantly on battlefield in a sea of green, wiping away your very dynasty, you were not enemies, nor traitors to your alliance, you were simple torn.
Letters were passed for as long as they could be, after leaving court for good, you had decided to reside with your sister and nephews, Gwayne alas being called upon to raise the Hightower banners. And he did, reluctantly and wrongfully, he hung his head low the last time he had kissed you, watching you take to the skies across the narrow sea.
That was beyond a year ago, the last word you had received before they had began getting lost, by death or payment to burn them, was that he was settled at Rook’s Rest.
It was no secret that the pair of you were a danger, the union that once delighted the realm, now a tear in the very structure they had wanted to built. Even as you stood at her war table, speaking strategy and warding soldiers their way, you thought of him, and even your Rhaenyra looked upon you with despair.
Because she knew, and more than most.
You held each other for those nights that surrounded you in darkness and fear more than anything else. Through every loss, every upset and worry, you bore those burdens together in the privacy of her solar, hidden away from the rest of the world just as you would when you were girls.
And just so, she did not speak a word, not even as you had finally had enough, succumbed to the worry, the need to find him. Grief had overwhelmed her enough, and Rhaenyra did not stop you, but not because she had been weak, because she knew you’d be back, and she knew where you were going.
More so, who you were going to.
—
Long slender silver wings spread through the sky, gliding through the misted clouds as blue casts a shadow beneath the stars.
Grey Ghost.
And he lives true to his name, flying low in silence, keeping beneath the valley and into the cover of trees. Moonlight strikes the sharp membrane of his body, curving with the wind from head to tail, but you remain out of sight. Wind catches your hair, tangling the strands that fall, the shine reflecting onto your face as you duck into the saddle, fingers tight around the rope.
He keeps quiet as he is known to, reserved and patient but somehow now a tense silent. There is no rumble, or loud screech of excitement that passes through the air around you. The flight was less than a mere hour, driven swiftly by your held and held from the memory that he had last given you direction to.
Rook’s Rest.
In the heart of the Crownlands and seated on the northern shore of Blackwater Bay, the encampment lo and behold lit up through a sparse in the trees, surrounded by sconces and hundreds of tents camouflaged by tree cover.
“Māzīs, Grey Ghost.” Approach, Grey Ghost.
You called out to him, flying in a turn far above them into a small break in the woodland, diving out of sight and settling with a thud to the ground as his feet planted into the earth. You slid from him carefully, steadying yourself as you patted his side, rubbing along the silver scales gently, clasping your hand around the dagger at your side with the other.
Restless nights come frequent in battle, leaving men tossing and turning in their cots from aches and sore backs. But that did not keep Gwayne awake. Nor was it the watch he was put on in the early hours that did so, it was the sound. The soft whooshing that echoed through the treeline and around the camp, swaying the bushes with it. Many would call it the wind, or a storm rolling in and nothing more, but he had been around enough dragons and their riders to know the difference.
The way you had taught him years ago.
“No their wings are here..” Your hand placed over Gwayne’s own, pressing gently to the beast’s belly, “his underside is hardly noticeable. It keeps us from harm, shielded and invisible to attackers.”
“But the sound is unmistakable, even in ambush. It is low, guttural, far more effective than your canons or torches.” You continued, feeling the heated brush against your fingertips as the dragon bristled.
He studied them ever since. At a distance and far from the depths of the dragonpit, he watched on. Every ride you’d take with Grey Ghost, every conflict that required them to fly out in their hoards. They were a power unlike any other in the world, a force of be reckoned with, and one that still shook his bones whenever he had been faced with one, but there was something familiar.
His fingers drop from the quill and ink, sliding the parchment aside on the small desk, lit only by two candles, casting shadows as he goes to stand.
His eyes fart every direction as he exits the tent, to and from and back again heeding the snores and dying rumbles of drunkards in the nearby pavilions. But he pays no mind, that isn’t what he follows. At first it was a guess, only a thought but he picks up the pace when he sees it.
The great silhouette that hides expertly behind the tree wells, long and slender, and far too big for a horse. His hand clasps around the pommel of his sword, keeping it tight to his waist as he stalks nearer. From this angle it’s hard to tell. The size was large enough to stand out but not as large as Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not one of their own.
Its colour is blank in this light, no shine, and no scale and his eyes go to squint sharply to make it out, but he barely makes it another step before.
Crack.
A twig crunches from behind, spinning on the spot onto his heel to catch a shadow moving beyond the creature. His grip tightens around the steel as he stalks around, a heavy exhale spilling from the beast’s nostrils, almost annoyed.
But the shadow was heading so swiftly through the trees Gwayne had no choice but to chase it. If it were the enemy, they could burn the whole encampment with a single command. And the thoughts run through his head before he can stop himself, “Who goes there?”
He calls through the night. Not loud enough to wake the others, but enough it was direct, but no answer came, so he follows, brushing branches out of his way as he catches up. And then his arms fall in front of him, feet quickening as the silhouette grew more human.
“Hey—“
His arms clamp as hard as he can, twisting the unknown figure in his grip as he seethes. The breath burns in your throat as you plant your fist in front of you, colliding with the pad of tunic, kick fighting toward the man’s shins. It collides with a crack, heavy and thick through boot.
Gwayne barely staggers before his reflexes catch hold, his free hand seizing your wrist while the other circles your waist, dragging his supposed attacker’s momentum into his own. You stumble backward together, boots tearing through damp earth until your back meets the rough trunk of an oak.
His sword is half-drawn, ready to raise just as moonlight slips delicately through the branches. A low screech responds, short and quiet, bristling through the hedgerow hair behind. And that’s when he sees it. Eyes wide with the same shock reflected in his own.
“…Gods.”
His grip loosens at once, standing before you just close enough that his knees don’t buckle.
“You?”
“Gwayne?” You whisper breathlessly, his name leaving your lips in disbelief, a cold shiver wracking your body as you catch your breath.
He shoves his sword back into its scabbard with more force than necessary without so much as a look, the hand at your waist loosing its hardened grip, but holding you closer by instinct.
“What,” he demands, voice caught somewhere between fury and relief, “in the Seven Hells are you doing here?”
You only frown, easing your wrist from his hand to slide the dagger back between your belt.
“I might ask you the same.”
“I am stationed here.”
“And I am merely visiting.”
“Visiting?” he repeated incredulously. “You flew into an active war camp in the middle of the bloody night.”
“I landed well beyond it.” You counter, gesturing to Grey Ghost lowering himself to tuck into the dirt.
“Beside it.”
“There is a difference.”
“There is not.”
Before either of you could speak again, the trees behind you shift, a great pale head emerging from the darkness with uncanny silence, its silver-grey hide almost disappearing beneath the moonlight. Grey Ghost regards Gwayne with calm, intelligent eyes before lowering his great snout beside you, as if to confirm you were unharmed.
The knight scarcely looks at the dragon now, bowing his head back without blinking, eyes still wild and shocked as they turn back onto you. His attention settles entirely on you, the hand at your waist drawing into you by the slightest .
“What possessed you?”
The sharpness had left his voice, and he rethinks his words where only fear remains now, stepping closer, searching every inch of your face as though to look for hidden wounds and blood.
But there is none.
“When the sentries reported news of a dragon encroaching..” His voice drops rougher. “I thought it was an advance scout. I thought Rhaenyra or Daemon had come to us.”
You hold his gaze, breathing steadily where it threatens to hitch.
“I heard there was a Hightower encampment from your letter.” You answer him, pausing before you continue.
“I only wanted to see if you truly were here.” Your voice threatens to break, shaking as you begin to feel the warmth of his palms around you.
“You could have sent word.” Gwayne argues, and it’s a blunt instrument, one of no use of fire in it, one he only attempts not to take you into his arms right away.
“And if it had been intercepted?”
“I would rather receive intercepted letters than news that my wife had been killed wandering through enemy woods.”
Silence passes between you then, wind whispering through the pines, carrying the distant sounds of the sleeping camp far below. You lookedown for only a moment before meeting his eyes again.
“I had to see you.”
Four simple words you give him and they strike him harder than any blade. His jaw tightens at that, his other hand raising slowly, carefully to your face, only hovering.
“But if someone sees us…” he says quietly, glancing back towards the camp. “If anyone finds you here-“
The look you give him then isn’t defiance or stubbornness, it’s with longing.
The sort that comes from too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered prayers, and too many days waking alone. The ones you had both spent far too long inside of, a nightmare. There’s a desperation in it, an ache that neither dragons nor crowns can soothe. Gwayne simply stares at that and you see the conflict unfold in him, everything that has been expected and ordered of you both.
Duty and reason and fear, but something more.. love.
Each emotion wrestles the next until the rigid lines of his features fracture beneath their weight and his mouth parts as though to argue again, to tell her you that should leave, like he should do, that all of this is madness.
But no words come and he can’t bring himself to speak them. Instead, something inside him gives way, his hands rising almost hesitantly, rough palms cradling either side of your face, afraid that you might disappear if he held holds you too tightly.
He exhales a breath, surrendering as he thumbs at your cheeks, drawing you to him. He bends without another word, his forehead brushing your own for the briefest instant before his lips finds yours in a kiss that carries the weight of the separation. It’s gentle despite the urgency behind it, the sort of kiss that speaks every word he couldn’t say before, if he’d ever have you again.
His eyes never leave yours, not even as he pulls away.
“…How I’ve missed you, my love.”
And it’s real, the closest thing to the reality you’d lost years ago that you’d longed to hear. Your eyes flutter close at his whisper, holding onto the words as he stands breathing, alive in front of you.
“You underestimate me, husband.”
A groan bites low in the back of throat. Husband.. That word, that title that has been shoved too far behind all else. The knight, the man, the commander.
But here he was, your husband. The one you could joke with, the one would only underestimate himself before he ever would you, because he knows better. And yet it’s the only thing that you can manage, a jest.
“Perhaps for a moment.” He admits through a teary smile.
“Then you are the idiot.”
Your noses nudge together as a smile finds your lips from his own, your arms reaching around his middle.
“Indeed I was.”
His grip grounds you back into the tree bark, your turn to groan as you mouth at his lip, teeth tempting to bite into the plush flesh. Something growing beneath the shock and the longing, something hungrier.
“Not here.”
And as he takes your hand again, leading you through the dark, you feel the thumping in your chest, the once regret of your decision falling to nothingness.
—
"How I've missed you my love.."
His words ring in your ears, loud and clear as you pass through the trees, ducking and stalling behind bushes until you find the tent. His own. In the distance wings flap quietly, carrying on the wind just further out of reach, to safety knowing that you are once again.
Fingers clutch at the sides of your arms, bracing through the thick fabric and taking you under the draping entrance of the tent. Smoke and burnt incense fills the space, filling your nostrils with a burn, all adorned in shades of emerald green, but that isn’t what catches your attention. It’s the warmth, the dirt beneath your feet on the measly carpeted floor where he urges you backwards.
“I have not wanted to wait..” You moan into his mouth, a gasp escaping your lips as your back braces into the wooden beam at the pavilion’s center.
One hand roams higher, cupping your cheek with a delicate fondness, tearing away from your lips hesitantly with a tremble. Like doing so pained him.
"Then I shall not make you.” He breathed against them, warm air tickling your jaw and sending a shiver through your body. He was so close, so real, and near, for the first time in a long time. It felt like it had.. “For tonight.. you have me."
"I always do." You corrected with a hum, bracing your back further into the bite of the worn wood, fingers resting along the stitchings of his doublet.
"You torture me.." He whispers into your lips without protest, not against, into, across, a brand into your skin, burning hot and searing before he captures them again.
Hotter and more desperate, anchoring you with his body as his hand clutched at the layers of fabric around your waist, his tongue sweeps across your lip to allow him to pass. And you do, kissing him back with the same eager ferocity you have held back for longer than you can remember. Your fingers tighten around the nape of his neck just to drag him into you, his knee pressing between the damp heat of your legs.
You remember this. The push and pull, where the nights drew long and heated, and where the only terror was the thought of someone seeing. The blush crept up his neck often at the thought, abandoning all honour just to have you. Where alcoves in corridors would become your greatest sin and he would whisper promise and vows into your ears, running hot beneath layers of steel and armour.
His true desire, his fatal flaw. The one he’d abide all laws just to feel you against him once more. And now he has you, there’s no holding back. Gwayne’s eyes flutter shut as he takes every moment to linger over your skin, lips worshiping along the hollow of your throat, slowing to feel the thrumming rush of blood, kissing at your jaw as his teeth bare at your collarbone. His fingers follow, unclasping the ties of your armour just as patiently he undoes you.
A gasp leaves you as the material falls away, cool air pebbling your nipples and dimpling the rest of your skin, your hands bracing against the broadness of his shoulders to steady yourself.
He opens his eyes when his knees finally met the floor, glancing up at you with materials strewn in piles across the floor, his own shirt hanging open and unkempt in the low light, green tunic long discarded. From here you can see him, not the soldier or the enemy, but truly, the knight, the man you’ve known for far longer than any of this. The one that bent the knee to you without question, the one that had kissed your hand at every meeting, the one that had held you through every dark night.
That look hasn’t changed, only hardened with the lines on his face and the faint dirt that clings to his brow. But green eyes are blown, tender and starving, his mouth hanging open as his hands trace the flesh of your calf up to the plush of your thighs.
He hooks his fingers around the riding leather of your trousers, tugging slowly to shuffle them to the floor, inhaling with a sarcastic grimace, uncaring of the ash that falls away from them despite himself.
“Never will I become accustom to that.” A smile cracks across your face, nodding your head back against the wooden beam with a creak. Dragon back has always had its scent, like fire and smoke and the faintest tinge of blood. But he didn’t care for that now, not even while it dusted his fingers and filled the air, the knot of fingers tangling into his hair only drawing him closer. Hungrier.
“Unlike this..”
He places your leg over his shoulder with a careful bend, shuffling closer, bracing his palm onto the wood behind you. He purses his lips at the skin of your knee tenderly, mouthing sharply while locking eyes with you. Heat pools in at your core, a sudden rush of blood with his breath ghosting over your legs.
“My beautiful..” He placed a kiss, right over the bend of your leg, his eyes fluttering closed once more, “sweet..” Another right at the apex of your thighs, and again for every scar and blemish that he passes, stopping short just to glide his hand up the rest of your body, steadying at your stomach to hold you in place, “wife..”
Shades of green blink up at you, lidded and glazed over, nosing at the flesh of your thigh. Gwayne looks almost angelic in this light, as if gazing up at you, shivering and wanting above him, could wash away every wrongdoing and crime duty had made him commit.
“My undoing..”
He whispers low in a rasp, grazing over your mound with his teeth as he breaths cool air onto your cunt, lips parting breathlessly as he kneads the backs of your legs, beckoning you closer. You don’t speak, not yet, but your face flushes a deep crimson, the back of your neck burning as you buck your hips absentmindedly. He hears you, listens without needed a word. And he wastes no time, because that’s all he needs, the broken, pitched whine hitching from the back of your throat.
You have me.
Gwayne plants one last kiss at your navel, resting up on his knees as his tongue licks a heavy, flat lick through your folds. He traces every curve, gathered the arousal as it drips down onto his mouth, parting your heat with the drag of wet muscle and his want. A groan rumbles out deep from his chest, fingers grasping tighter to anchor you to him, the taste of your sweetness makes him lose all control of sense.
Your teeth bite hard into your lip, piercing near enough to draw blood just to stop yourself from making sound. Your hips buck into him again, this time caught by grip of his hands, circling attentively at your waist as he sucks swirling teases around your swollen pearl, dragging it between his lips only to hum into you as your hand clamps over your mouth.
“Give it to me, my love..,” He centres himself not even a breath away, dragging two fingers from your middle to tease along your slit, scissoring them around his tongue as he dips in again, “let me taste you.”
But he doesn’t pull then, not once, not for air, nor for any sound that passes by the tent. He’s fixated, wholeheartedly, and utterly on you. His feet plant deeper into the dirt, tugging you further to him to nuzzle himself into your heat, his nose dragging across your clit as his tongue plunges at your entrance, dipping into your hole with one sharp flick. The length of his fingers curl tight into the spot inside you that makes you reel, your head rocking back as his mouth slips between, collecting the wetness that pools from your drooling cunt.
“My love..” You whisper through a whine, eyes darting around the space blindly before landing back onto him, sucking in a breath as to feel your thighs begin to shake. That familiar slow pull of your body falling and losing control, the muffle of moans into your palm heightening your need.
And he was nothing if not dutiful, and now he was determined. He palms your thighs apart, leaving space only for him, fucking you onto his tongue as he hooks an arm at your legs, undeniably and shamelessly worshiping you at your feet, like a septon would at the altar, praying with every dragging promise of his tongue.
You arch your back, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, fighting silently to keep your voice muffled, but the sensation is too overwhelming. Every deep, swirling lap of his tongue feels like a spark igniting a fire in your gut, sending you closer and closer to the edge. But he only uses it, propelling his face deeper into your heat, tongue lavishing with one final swirl around your bud that sends your release crashing over you.
Your eyes clamp shut, sudden and burning as white blots behind your eyes, your vision blurring while his gaze only stirs on you. Auburn hair sits mussed and unkempt, a blush across his cheeks as you drip deliciously from his lips.
"That's it, sweetling... let it go for me," He coaxes it from you, a soothing command, without stopping. The tremors break shivering through your legs, hips rocking back into the beam and into his firm hold as slowly stands, keeping his lips pressed into you, tasting your release, tongue swirling over your swollen clit for every drop of pleasure he can drink in. His breath stays hot and heavy, guiding you through your peak, your body beginning to feel boneless.
Your breath hitches as you feel it. The devoted ascent, the worship with lingering, wet kisses he had claimed before. Once to the inside of your thigh, then another to your hip, stubble grown over months in battle grazing deliciously over your skin as he works his way back up.
His tongue traces the line of your navel, leaving a trail of heat in its wake, pausing as he tempts to stand, latching his mouth around your breasts, swirling with his tongue across your nipples until they grow hard and sensitive under his touch. Gwayne traces the trail from your chest to your neck with murmurs, rasped words spilled only for you. Missed you, missed this.. They continue until he captures your mouth once more, resting his forehead against your own, in a deep, hungry kiss, tasting himself and you on his tongue.
“My sweet girl.” He rasps, hands swarming your body all over with warmth as he rests himself into you, unlacing the collar from his shirt to fall away. It leaves only his breeches, now tented so painfully hard you could see it, brushing your thigh as your eyes flick between you.
He would have no protest if that were all he had from you, to give and pleasure you all the ways he saw fit. But he had to have you, this was different, this was craving and months worth longing. And so he gives you everything he takes.
You taste yourself from him, glistening sweet on his lips and chin, pressing back into yours with a growing desire. And without breaking it, his arm slides beneath your knees, the other firmly at your back. It’s effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, damp heat pressing against the rough fabric of his breeches as you rock yourself back down onto him. The furs curl at your back, sticky and hot as he lays you onto the bed.
"Gwayne please, I need you," You plead, breaking the kiss to reach down and place your hand over his clothed cock, rubbing over the thin fabric to feel him. He shrugs it away with a groan, nuzzling into you as he frees himself, your fingers grasping as you take his cock in your hand. You swipe your thumb delicately over the sensitive head, smearing the precum around the aching slit. He kisses your cheek and temple to kiss your cheek, mumbling into your hair as he stutters in your grip.
"Please.." You beg again, tugging your hand around his length to draw him toward your entrance as he settles over you.
"I know, I know..." The bed dips as Gwayne places one last kiss to your lips before sitting back onto his legs, peering down at the sight of you, so undone and beautiful before his hands are on your thighs. He strokes the soft skin, curling over you as he takes his cock into his own hand, resting the tip of him hovering over your weeping cunt, “My poor wife.. I've kept you waiting for too long, hm? So wrong of me...”
You whimper quietly as his hands find the backs of your thighs, splaying out fully as he holds them open, angling them back toward your head, the breath knocking from your lungs as you moan.
“It has been too long for both of us..” He confesses in a groan, sliding himself closer that his cock nestles itself through your folds, throbbing against you as you grip the sheets.
A hand draws to your face, catching your head before it lulls backward, gently making you look at him, his gaze bearing into you as he lines himself up with your entrance. His hips flick, one careful thrust that settles himself all the way inside of you, the head of his cock nudging towards your cervix. The angle sucks him so deep you feel him there, your mouth falling open as his length nestles deep into your womb.
His mouth drops open in a thick, broken groan of your name, for the first time not a whisper, but a breath as he used to, without hiding and with pure affection, “Seven hells.. "
He settles further over you then, the hard lines of his chest bracing just above your breasts, skin catching along skin as he captures you in his arms, caging you with a hand curling at your nape. Only then does he move, the rhythm slow and torturous as he slides inside of you, body curving with the drag of his hips.
“Gwayne..”
“That’s it.. say my name again.”
And you do, over and over in pathetic, mumbled whimpers that pitch from the back of your throat. The pale muscle of his legs inch you back into him, slapping with every drive he gives you, his palm smoothing over your thigh to hook it to his side. It’s an anchor, your other leg locking around him as you take him.
“Yours.. take me, sweetling. Take all of me..”
“Thought I already had it.”
“You do..” An arm circles underneath your waist, pulling you up and into him, rising onto his haunches as he settles you into his lap, your legs sliding around his back. The angle hits deeper there, his length sinking inside of you tight to the plug of your cervix, keeping you into him as he fucks up into you, “Gods you do.”
He rocks himself then, head lulling into your forehead as you whine, the air punches from your lungs with every thrust he gives you. It’s fast and messy, rolling his hips with every pass just to grind and feel more of you, to nestle himself right where he belongs. His groans press into your ear, breath hot across the mussed hair at the corner of your head.
Your hands claw along the strain of his back, long streaked lines that make him hiss, driving deeper into you as he takes heavier grasps at your hips, locking your legs around his middle. The sheets ruffle beneath you, tangling with the weight and force of what you can only feel.
All of him.
The pressure burns bright in your belly, walls clenching around his thickness with every thrust that mercilessly drives harder into you.
A sheen coats your bodies, along the crook of your back and between you, dripping with arousal at your core around him and a swear between your breasts. His tongue catches it, tasting the salty sweetness between you in a train to your neck.
“Divine you are.. every part of you.”
Your moans muffle into the clutch of his hand, and his face shifts, a broken look in his eyes and across his features. How he wants to hear you properly, to let the it fill the space the way it used to, the way it should. But the risk is too much, and so he settles for the feeling, the vibration of you into his skin and the convulse of your body drawing closer to your edge beneath him, the tears pooling at your eyes simply from pleasure that makes you both lose it.
“Not leaving you, not now.. or ever.” He proclaims it like an oath, more than just want it declaration, it buzzes against his skin as he stutters over you. Tears pool in your eyes, his breath hot at your ear while his eyes close tightly, breathing you in, making what he can last.
His movements grow frantic, pulsing with a desperate need inside of you while his hips slam faster and needier, your walls convulsing around him in one heavy snap. The orgasm rips through you, harder than last time, squeezing him like a vice as you bite into the flesh of his hand, moaning his name and curses that follow.
He coaxes you through your release in tandem with his own, hushing against your lips gently, cooing as you whine through the sparks igniting inside of you. his hips stutter all at once, faltering as the flex of his arms threaten collapse, but he catches himself, dragging the length of his cock deeper and deeper, guttural sounds mingling with your breath as he spills.
But neither of you stop, even while spent. You only still, resting into the rise and fall of each other’s chest heaving into one another.
“I love you..” You manage out through the tingling and twitching in your body, coming down from a high that only seems to reignite with his touch. He stays nestled inside of you, rocking gently as he fills you, spend leaking around his length onto the bed.
“And I love you, more than anything.”
He settles you onto the throw of plush pillows before he enters you fully again, this time sliding behind you as his chest slides up your back. And he didn’t leave you, not once, taking you over and over until the candles had burned low and the sheets lay damp and worn between you.
—
Both of you knew that you could not stay.
Tomorrow, you would be on either side of the war.
You would be needed at your sister’s side, flying in on Grey Ghost’s back to command an army and take the city of King’s Landing. And he would remain. Vigilant and honourably, with his sword drawn and waiting. The pair of you both uncertain what was to happen, uncertain when, if, you would ever see one another again, or how it would ever happen.
But for now, alliances and sworn oaths did not matter, the only one that did was your own, the vows you laid before the septon years ago.
The rise and fall of his chest lulls you, your fingers tangling and combing tenderly into the damp strands hair falling into his face. His hand traces the dip in your back, hushing you as a familar rumble echoes from the distance, slowly calling you back. But you don’t rise, not yet..
Histories would write of victories, of gory deaths and betrayal, however in between it all there were lines of dotted ink written of something else. Of the two people that stood vigilant between the Greens and the Blacks.
A Princess and the Hightower that didn’t just kneel to a monarch or a flag, but their only love. Eachother.
"After they overheard that ICE was at the courthouse to arrest someone, they improperly accessed court databases to determine who was not born in the United States," a DOJ detention filing says. "They then snuck every suspected illegal alien who was at the courthouse out a back door, where ICE, who was waiting in the parking lot for their target to leave the building, could not see them."
Think about what you can do at your job or in your daily life to resist fascism when the opportunity presents itself!
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