so, let’s do it like they do on the discovery channel
y’all can call me Mars!
MDNI this blog is 18+ only
(more about me, my masterlist & rules below the cut)
Before we get too far into anything, I’d like to make a few things crystal clear:
THIS BLOG KILLS FASCISTS!!!
I will absolutely not tolerate the following: homophobia, transphobia, racism, sexism, xenophobia, antisemitism, Islamophobia, ableism, etc.
Fuck AI! Fuck ICE! Fuck Donald Trump!
I believe in a FREE PALESTINE, FREE CONGO, FREE SUDAN, FREE YEMEN, and a FREE LEBANON!!!
Okay now that that’s out of the way, I’m Mars! I’m a college student born and raised in Tennessee (breaking stereotypes of being southern and being ultra leftist). I’m clearly super normal about things I enjoy (aka expect months long hyperfixations). I do have autism so like… do with that what you will I guess (you def can tell by scrolling through my blog lmfao).
WARNING: This blog will have some freaky nasty content every now and then because god forbid I sometimes smoke and get horny (IM FREAKED TF OUT YOUVE BEEN WARNED). It’s going to be all over the place, I think this is really going to mainly be me screaming nonsense into the void.
I’m going to try to properly tag my writing and give appropriate content warnings, but if I miss something let me know and be nice about it. same goes for grammar and spelling mistakes, I try my best but sometimes I can’t be bothered. SO BE FUCKING SWEET TO ME OKAY???
Anyways, feel free to hit my inbox!!! As I get back into writing more stuff I’ll make a masterlist and rules and all that but until then just scroll through my reblogs and let yourself be entertained. The gorgeous gorgeous photos of my pookie lala Hayley Williams in this post were provided by @paracunt
Okay now that that’s all out of the way, here is my masterlist: *★,°*:.☆(￣▽￣)/$:*.°★*
that’s all for now bye
Do not repost, translate, or reproduce any of my works. I do not give ANYONE permission to feed my works into AI. Don’t piss me off.
think it's a deep consolation to know that spiders dream, that monkeys tease predators, that dolphins have accents, that lions can be scared silly by a lone mongoose, that otters hold hands, and ants bury their dead. that there isn't their life and our life. nor your life and my life. that it's just one teetering and endless thread and all of us, all of us, are entangled w it as deep as entanglement goes. v neat i think.
ৎ୭ synopsis. fed up with the war and criston cole, gwayne decides to leave the camp to go for a walk through the forest where he meets a girl washing her clothes in the river.
ৎ୭ word count. 4.5k
ৎ୭ warnings. mentions of war, criston cole hate, blood, not proofread
gwayne steps out of the command tent, the heat of the fire dying behind him. the night air is cool and damp, a relief against his skin after hours trapped with maps and shouting men. he doesn't look back. he just walks, pushing past the outer ring of guards before anyone can ask where he's going.
the forest takes him in with a heavy, quiet stillness. pine needles crunch under his boots, a soft and rhythmic sound that slowly replaces the static buzzing in his ears. he drags a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble along his jaw. he hasn’t shaved in days, maybe a even weeks. god, he is tired. tired in his bones, tired in a way a good night's sleep won't fix. this war feels like a slow drain, pulling every bit of patience out of him until there's nothing left but dry resentment.
and then there's criston cole.
the hightower snaps a low-hanging twig off a branch as he passes, snapping it in two just to hear the crack. the man is unbearable. he has actually lost his mind. gwayne can handle a fanatic, and he can handle a hypocrite, but criston cole is both. he wears his dirty white cloak but doesn’t act like a knight at all. protecting the vulnerable? graciousness to enemies? or even his kingsguard vows? criston has probably never heard of that once in his life, or fucking his sister alicent has made him even dumber. maybe deep down, the lord commander is just practically begging for an arrow to the neck so he doesn't have to live with his own guilt anymore.
he leans against the trunk of an old oak, taking a deep breath of the pine-scented air. out here, away from the banners and the clinking armor, the dragons and the blood, the world feels normal again, like it did before the war. no lords posturing. no cole looking at him like he's an inconvenience.
gwayne tilts his head back against the bark and closes his eyes, letting the quiet wash over him. he knows he has to go back eventually, back to the camp and the endless strategy meetings. but for now, he stays right here, alone in the dark, enjoying every second of the silence.
he stays against the tree for a long time, listening to the wind move through the high canopy. the forest doesn't care about green or black banners, or who sits on the iron throne in the south. it just exists, cold and indifferent, and gwayne finds a weird sort of comfort in that.
he pushes off the oak and keeps walking, deeper into the dark. the camp light fades to a faint, orange glow behind the thick wall of trunks. he finds a small clearing where a creek cuts through the moss, its water rushing over smooth stones.
gwayne kneels at the bank. he unbuckles his leather vambraces, dropping them onto the damp earth, and dips his hands into the icy stream. the cold hits his skin like a shock, sharp enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he scoops the water up and splashes his face anyway. again and again, trying to wash off the smell of woodsmoke, sweat, and his own blood and the blood of others.
he sits back on his heels, wiping his dripping wet face with the sleeve of his tunic.
criston probably thinks gwayne is weak. he can practically hear the lord commander's flat, self-righteous voice lecturing him on vigilance. a knight of the king does not wander alone in enemy territory. gwayne scoffs aloud, the sound small against the rush of the creek. cole plays at being a tragic martyr, carrying the weight of the realm on his polished shoulders, but he's just a man who takes himself far too seriously.
gwayne picks up a flat pebble from the mud and flicks it into the dark water. it sinks with a soft thump.
he’s so fed up with all of them. his family, the targaryen, the endless marching toward another field of blood. none of them seem to remember what life was like before every conversation became a death sentence.
a bird shifts in the branches above, rustling the leaves, and for a second gwayne considers just staying here. he could keep walking north or west, leave the armor in the mud, and let cole assume a tiger or a riverlands peasant got him. let the king's hand explain to alicent why her brother vanished into the woods.
he lets out a low, bitter laugh. he won't do it, of course. the hightower blood in his veins is too stubborn, and he’s too tired to live on the run.
with a heavy sigh, gwayne reaches down and picks up his vambraces, strapping them back onto his forearms with slow, reluctant movements. he stands up, turning his back on the quiet stream, and begins the long walk back toward the light of the fires.
he stumbles onto the lake shore before he even realizes he’s left the thick tree line. the trees thin out into a wide, gray expanse of water, flat as glass under the moonlight.
and there, kneeling on a flat stone at the water's edge, is a figure.
he stops dead, his hand dropping out of habit toward the hilt of his sword. but as his eyes adjust, he sees no armor, no banners, no weapons. just a girl surrounded by wooden baskets, a mound of wet fabric, and the sharp, clean smell of lye soap.
you’re scrubbing a coarse wool tunic against a flat rock, your muscles working in a steady, rhythmic cadence. you don’t even look up when his boots crunch against the gravel.
gwayne frowns, taking a few slow steps closer, keeping his hands visible. "what are you doing out here alone?" he asks, his voice hoarse from the cold and the hours he spent without saying a word. "it's middle of the night. there's an army pitched two miles back, and half the riverlands is burning."
you finally pause, your hands submerged in the frigid lake water. you wring out the tunic with a sharp, practiced twist, setting it into a basket beside you before turning your head to look at him.
"washing clothes," you say flatly. "the lake is quiet now. nobody steals my soap in the dark."
gwayne tilts his head, leaning against a nearby boulder. he watches you reach for another shirt. "you know who's out there, right? greens, blacks, men looking for a fight." he leans forward slightly, a bitter little smirk tugging at his mouth. "so tell me—which side are you on? green or black?"
you stop again. slowly, you turn to face him fully, wiping a damp forearm across your forehead. you look at his expensive boots, his fine tunic under his leather armor, and then right into his eyes.
"i'm on the side that doesn't get burned by a dragon," you say, your tone completely level. "i don't care about your green dresses or your black flags. I don't care who sits on the chair in king's landing. as long as nobody burns my village and i stay alive to see tomorrow, you can all tear each other to pieces for all i care."
you plunge the shirt back into the water with a heavy splash and go back to scrubbing.
gwayne stares at you for a long moment, completely caught off guard. then, a quiet, genuine laugh slips out of his throat—the first real laugh he’s had in months.
"gods," he mutters, rubbing his face. "that is the most sensible thing i’ve heard since i left oldtown."
he walks over, unbuckles his heavy, damp cloak, and drops it onto the gravel next to your washboard. "reckon you can wash the dirt out of that too? i'll pay you in silver, and i promise not to talk about the war."
you eye the cloak, then the silver coin he tosses onto the rock beside you. you pick up the coin, pocket it without a word, and pull his cloak into the water.
gwayne sits down on a dry rock nearby, pulling his knees up to his chest, and for the first time all night, he feels like he can actually breathe.
you don’t stop scrubbing his cloak, but after a minute of silence, you tilt your head slightly toward him.
"you're not a riverlands peasant," you assume, your voice low over the sound of sloshing water. "and you're not one of those desperate sellswords clinging to the edges of the camp."
you wring out a corner of the heavy wool, letting the water drip back into the lake. "so who are you? who's the lordling hiding in the dark while his men are sleeping?"
gwayne rests his elbows on his knees, staring out over the black surface of the water. the cool night air catches the dampness on his skin.
"gwayne," he says simply. "gwayne hightower."
you pause for a second, your hands stilling under the surface. you know the name—everyone knows the name. it's on every guard's lips, tied to the queen mother, tied to the king, tied to the green banners flapping outside their ruined fields.
gwayne waits for you to freeze, or pull away, or start curtsying like people usually do when they realize who he is. but you just lets out a short, quiet exhale and go right back to rubbing the lye soap into the fabric.
"a hightower," you mutter. "no wonder you look so miserable."
gwayne chuckles, a dry sound in the quiet night. "is it that obvious?"
"you look like you haven't slept since spring," you say, dunking the cloak again. "and you look like you're about two seconds away from throwing your sword in this lake and walking until your feet fall off."
"you're not wrong," he admits, pulling a blade of grass from the dirt and twisting it between his fingers. "if i have to listen to one more tactical speech about duty and honor from a man who thinks he's the god of war himself, i might actually jump into the river."
"criston cole?" you ask casually.
gwayne blinks, looking over at you with a mix of surprise and amusement. "you know him?"
"everyone has heard of the lord commander and hand of the king," you slap the wet cloak onto the stone to beat out the dirt.
"of course."
you wipe a streak of suds off your wrist. “you don’t sound so thrilled about this war. why don’t you just run away?"
gwayne looks at his boots, the silver buckles catching the moonlight. "because my sister was the queen. because my father built this mess with her. because my nephew is sitting on that throne. because if i leave, i’m just a coward running from a war my family started." he quietens down, his voice barely louder than the river. "and because i don't really have anywhere else to go."
you don't offer him pity or empty words. you just wring out his cloak one last time, the thick fabric twisting tightly in your hands until the water stops running.
"well, gwayne hightower," you say, setting the clean cloak on a dry rock next to him, "for tonight, you're just a man paying me a silver coin to wash his clothes. so sit there, keep your mouth shut about the war, and let me finish my work."
gwayne leans back against his rock, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips as he closes his eyes. "deal."
gwayne stays seated on the cool rock while you finish the rest of your laundry. the air grows colder as the night wears on, but neither of you speaks again. the quiet rhythm of water splashing against stone fills the space between you, and for gwayne, it's the most peaceful hour he's known in months.
finally, you wring out the last shirt, tossing it into your wicker basket. you stands up, smoothing down your damp apron, and pick up the basket.
gwayne reaches down and picks up his cloak. it's still damp, but it smells clean—like river water and soap instead of smoke and sweat. he drapes it over his arm, stepping closer as you turn to leave.
"you come here every night?" he asks, his voice cutting softly through the dark.
you stop, balancing the basket against your hip, and give him a wary look. "not every night. only when the tubs are full and the camp isn't patrolling this side of the woods."
gwayne shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. he feels strangely hesitant, like a green boy trying to figure out what to say. "i'm not just asking because of the laundry," he says plainly.
you blink, eyeing him up and down. "you're a highborn knight, ser. you shouldn't be slinking off into the dark to sit on wet rocks with a poor girl."
"i don't care about being a knight out here," gwayne says, stepping into your path, though keeping a respectful distance. "back in that camp, everyone wants something from me. cole wants me to be a martyr, my family wants me to be a soldier, and the men want me to lead them to get slaughtered." he looks directly into your eyes. "you're the only person in this whole godsforsaken realm who makes me forget about this war."
you don’t look away, but your expression softens just a fraction.
"i want to meet you again," he continues, his tone quiet and honest. "not for clothes. just... to sit here. to spend more time with you."
you hesitate for a long moment, looking past him toward the faint orange glow of the distant war camp, then back to his tired face.
"you have only known me for a few minutes, ser, but two nights from now," you say quietly. "when the moon reaches the top of the big pine tree over there. if there's no patrol, i'll be by the water."
a small, genuine smile breaks across gwayne's face. "i'll be here."
"don't bring your sword," you add, turning to walk up the bank. "and don't bring your lord commander."
"i wouldn't dream of it," gwayne mutters, watching you disappear into the shadow of the trees before he turns to trek back toward the camp.
the moon hangs right above the peak of the pine tree, just as you agreed, but the shore is completely empty. only the sou d of your breathing and the rhythmic lap of tiny waves break the silence.
gwayne isn't standing by the water waiting for you.
you pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders, your jaw setting in a firm line. you tell yourself to pick up your laundry basket, turn around, and go back to your house. he’s a knight, after all. a hightower. men like him don't keep promises to girls who wash clothes in the dark; they get distracted by maps, wine, or the sudden whim of a crown.
he probably forgot all about wanting to see you again, or worse, realized how foolish he looked and decided not to bother.
and yet, your feet refuse to move toward home.
it makes no sense. you don't know him. you've spoken to him once, exchanged a few bitter words about the war and a handful of dry laughs. he is the enemy's kin, a soldier wrapped in steel, and getting involved with anyone from that camp is a quick way to end up dead.
but as you look at the dark, dense wall of trees where the camp path begins, a knot of unease tightens in your gut. you remember the bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes, the way his voice quieted when he talked about his family, and the raw desperation in his voice when he asked just to sit with you.
you let out a harsh, frustrated breath that mists in the cold air. cursing your own stupidity under your breath, you pull a small iron dagger from the folds of your skirt, and step off the shore into the shadows of the woods.
you pick your way through the thick underbrush, relying on your memory and the moonlight to navigate the overgrown trail. the woods are eerie this late. you keep one hand tight around the hilt of your iron dagger, your pulse hammering against your ribs.
you tell yourself you're only going as far as the big oak. if he isn't there, you're turning back, forgetting his name, and never thinking about gwayne hightower again.
as you round a sharp bend where the pine needles give way to heavy mud, a scent hits you—.
blood.
you freeze, your knuckles turning white around your knife. for a second, terror urges you to run back to the lake. but then you hear it: a low, ragged rasp of a breath coming from the shadows ahead, heavy with pain.
you step around the thick trunk of the ancient tree, and the faint moonlight filtering through the high canopy catches a shape collapsed against the roots.
you find him huddled in the roots of the old oak, slumped against the trunk with his head hanging low. his green cloak is shredded and coated in wet, black mud, and when you step closer, the sharp copper scent of blood cuts through the pine air and makes you want to throw up.
"gwayne?" you whisper, dropping your empty basket onto the grass.
he grunts, his eyes opening slowly. his skin is pale, slick with cold sweat. his hand is clamped tight over his left ribs, dark blood seeping through his tunic and staining his fingers.
"i kept... my promise," he rasps out, trying to force a tiny smirk, but a ragged cough cuts him off. "no sword. no cole."
"you idiot," you mutter, kneeling beside him and pulling his bloody hand away to check the wound. a sword slash, deep and jagged, still oozing red. "what happened?"
"a skirmish. ambush at the ford," he groans as you press your apron against his side to stop the bleeding. "i got away... but i couldn't go back to camp. cole would have... sent me right back out."
you look at his pale face, then down the dark trail. "you can't stay here. you'll freeze or bleed out before dawn."
"i'm fine," gwayne lies, his head lolls back against the bark. "just... need a minute."
you make a quick decision. you wrap his arm over your shoulder, hauling him up with a sharp grunt. gwayne groans loudly, his knees buckling, but he leans his weight into you, stumbling as you guide him away from the lake path and down a hidden, overgrown deer trail.
"where are we going?" he asks, his voice slurred with pain.
"my house," you whisper, your eyes darting through the trees. "the village is half a mile back. but you keep your mouth shut, gwayne hightower. if anyone in the village finds out who you are, they'll string you up on the town tree and sell your belongings to the nearest patrol."
"won't say a word," he mutters against her neck.
you drag him through the back alleys of the quiet village under the cover of shadow, dodging the low light of a few small windows. no one is out. you lead him through a creaky wooden gate into a tiny, sagging cottage at the edge of the woods.
you push the door open, slipping inside and lowering him onto a narrow cot near the cold hearth.
gwayne collapses onto the thin mattress, catching his breath while you quickly bolt the heavy wooden door shut and draw the thick curtains over the tiny window. the cabin is dark and smells of dried herbs, lye soap, and old wood.
you light a single candle, filling the room with a dim glow. you sit down on the edge of the cot and immediately start tearing open his blood-soaked tunic.
"nobody comes here," you say softly, your fingers working fast to clean the wound with a wet rag. "my brothers are gone, my parents died of the fever two winters back. you're safe for tonight. but if anyone asks..."
"i'm a traveler," gwayne grunts, flinching as you dab at the open gash. "a sellsword who picked the wrong side of a tavern fight."
"exactly," you say, grabbing a small jar of ointment and a roll of clean linen. "now hold still. this is going to hurt."
gwayne grunts, his body tensing up as you spread the cooling herbal salve over the raw, jagged slash on his ribs. he grips the edge of the mattress until his knuckles turn white, but he doesn't make a sound.
"you're tougher than you look, lordling." your fingers gently wrap a long strip of clean linen around his torso.
"i'm full of surprises," gwayne breathes out, his voice a low rasp. he sits up slightly to let you pass the bandage behind his back.
you work in silence, leaning in close to secure the tight knot against his hip. with the candle burning low on the bedside stool, the faint golden light catches the curve of your jaw, throwing soft shadows across your skin. gwayne finds himself staring, completely caught off guard by how close you are—close enough that he can smell the faint, clean scent of lye soap on your skin, close enough to hear your steady breath.
for months, every touch gwayne has known has been sharp and brutal; lashing steel, heavy armor, cold rain, and rough hands pulling him into battle. but your touch on his skin is careful, soft, and entirely gentle.
you finish the knot and rest your hand lightly against his uninjured side, looking up into his eyes to check on him. "there. that should keep you from bleeding out on my floor."
you start to pull your hand away, but gwayne reaches out and catches your wrist.
your skin is warm beneath his fingertips. you still, your chest rising and falling in a quiet rhythm, but you don’t pull away.
"thank you," gwayne whispers.
"i just didn't want a body in my cottage,"
gwayne lets out a small, tired laugh, his dark eyes never leaving your. "i mean it. for everything. the clothes, saving my life."
he moves his hand up from your wrist, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek, wiping away a stray smudge of dirt. you lean into his palm just a fraction, your breath hitching softly in your throat.
"gwayne..." you start, your voice barely a whisper.
"just for a second," he mutters, his voice thick with an emotion he can't quite name. "let me pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist."
he leans forward, closing the small gap between you, and presses his lips to your.
the kiss is slow, soft, and hesitant at first, like he's afraid you might break or disappear into the dark. but as your hand slips up to rest gently against the side of his neck, gwayne releases a deep, shuddering breath he feels like he's been holding. he deepens the kiss, pulling you just a little closer, letting the quiet warmth of you consume every bit of cold left in his bones.
the kiss stays soft, but as your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck, gwayne leans into it deeper, unable to stop himself. he parts his lips slightly, capturing yours with a quiet, desperate warmth that aches with everything he hasn't been allowed to say. his palm cradles the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your hair, while his other hand rests against your waist, holding you close to his uninjured side.
every breath you exhale against his mouth feels like life pouring back into him. he tastes the faint trace of berry wine and cool lake water on your lips, a contrast to the ash and copper that usually coats his throat. you tilt your head, deepening the kiss, and your weight shifts forward against him. gwayne lets out a low, ragged sound against your mouth, a quiet surrender, pulling you in until there is no space left between you two. for those few long, suspended moments, the cold cottage, the bleeding wound on his ribs, and the horrors waiting in the dark outside simply fade away.
when you finally pull apart, it is slow and reluctant.
your foreheads rest together, both of you breathing heavily in the candlelight. your eyes are still half-closed, your lips parted and soft, your hand lingering on his cheek. gwayne feels the quiet, steady thump of your heart against his chest, and a sudden, fierce clarity settles over him.
he shifts slightly, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone, holding your gaze with an intensity he has never felt before.
"listen to me," gwayne whispers, his voice thick and rough with emotion. "i'm going back to that camp, and i'm going to survive this godsforsaken war."
you open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off with a soft pressure of his thumb against your chin.
"when it's over," he continues, his dark eyes fixed entirely on yours, "when the dragons are gone and the banners stop flying... i am coming back here for you. i’m leaving the armor, the name, and the high tower behind. we'll run away. as far west or north as you want. no lords, no kings, no war."
you stare at him, your breath hitching as you search his face for any sign of a lie or a noble's empty promise. but gwayne's expression is raw, completely devoid of his usual dry sarcasm or quiet bitterness.
"you're a lord, gwayne," you whisper softly, though your hand squeezes his shoulder, trying to anchor him to reality. "they don't just let men like you walk away."
you pull back slightly, shaking your head as the weight of what he's suggesting settles over you. "and as i already said before, you don’t know me, gwayne. you don't know my name, you don't know my past, you don't know who i am when there isn't blood on your face and a sword wound in your ribs. we’ve shared a few quiet hours by a lake and a cottage in the middle of a night. you’re exhausted and you're bleeding, and you're mistaking a moment of quiet for a whole life."
you look down at his blood-stained bandages, then back up into his dark, searching eyes. "you can't plan a future with a stranger just because she washed your cloak and didn't yell at you. what if you wake up in six months, far away from your home, and realize you threw away your whole life for someone you barely even know?"
gwayne listens, his gaze never leaving yours, the muscle in his jaw working as he takes in every word. a small, quiet sigh escapes him, but he doesn't pull away. instead, his hand moves up to gently cup the side of your face, his thumb catching a strand of hair and tucking it behind your ear.
"i know enough," he says softly, his voice steady despite the pain radiating from his chest. "i know you didn't leave me to die in those woods. i know you don't care about my name, or my sister. out there, everyone knows who i am, but nobody actually sees me. you saw me when i was just a tired man sitting on a rock in the dark."
he leans closer, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with a desperate, quiet sincerity.
"i don't need a hundred years to know that you're the only real thing i've touched since this war began," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. "if it takes the rest of my life to learn everything else about you, then that's the only task i want."
"gwayne..." you whisper, your voice cracking slightly, torn between the sheer madness of his words and the terrible, beautiful hope swelling in your chest.
"let them try to stop me," gwayne mutters, closing the small distance between you and pressing one last, tender kiss to the corner of your lips. "i promise you. i'll come back."
Michael Robinavitch x Chronic Pain!Reader x Jack Abbot
synopsis: Your boyfriends are drowning in an understaffed ED while you drown in a pain flare
warnings/Notes: discussions of chronic pain and migraines as well as treatment. everyone's journey with chronic pain is their own. Flangst, my favorite. This is much longer than i intended.
wc: 5.4k
You hadn’t seen your boyfriend in three days, which was a feat really when you considered you had two of them and you all lived in the same house.
Flu season was a bitch for patients and doctors alike. You knew that. They were covering shifts for sick colleagues so you tried not to complain, tried not to add to their burden. But sometimes, just sometimes, you felt like you could disappear and they wouldn’t even notice. They hadn’t even sought you out to say hello or goodbye or thanks for the food. It was hard not to take it personally. Especially when you’d been in a pain flare for days and hadn’t felt like doing half of things you had been.
You sat on the edge of your bed and scrolled through the texts on your phone. You’d noticed their responses to your texts getting shorter if they weren’t being ignored completely. As you scrolled you realized you were always the one that initiated the conversation, always sent the first message. Maybe you were just annoying them.
All of you had your own rooms, but you were used to them climbing into bed with you or dragging you into their rooms to sleep with them. Jack hadn’t been getting home until midmorning and Robby was closer to midnight some nights. You were already at work in the home office by the time Jack arrived home but he hadn’t popped his head in to say hello once. Hadn’t found you to say goodbye. You’d tried to stay up for Robby one night and woke up on the couch shivering in the chill at the two in the morning, telling you he hadn’t even noticed. A quick glance in his room showed him passed out in his bed. You could have crawled in with him, with either of them, but you weren’t certain they wanted you to anymore.
The last time you’d seen them, Robby had just seemed irritated that you were in his space and Jack hadn’t listened to a word you said before saying “That’s nice, sweetheart. I’m gonna get some sleep.”
So, you decided to stop. Stop messaging them first, stop seeking them out at home, just stop. The days passed and they didn’t seem to notice. You continued taking care of them for a few days, leaving food to make sure they ate, washing their scrubs, etc. You knew these back to back shifts were hard on them but you were hurting mentally and physically and just so, so tired. You knew you should talk to them, make them see you, but you didn’t want to burden them with anything else.
So, you called your best friend and packed your things, biting back your tears as you walked out the door.
Jack was the first to notice that something was wrong.
He came home just after ten from an extended shift. The house was quiet but that wasn’t out of the norm as you shut yourself up in your office to work. He opened the microwave and frowned at finding it empty. You always left them something, worried they wouldn’t eat unless you fed them. He checked the fridge only to find it devoid of a meal as well. Maybe you were annoyed that he hadn’t eaten the meals the last couple of days, grabbing something at work to combat the hollow feeling in his stomach during his long shifts. He grabbed a protein shake, too tired to do anything else.
As he headed for his bedroom, he paused outside your office, hesitating, wanting to see you, wondering if perhaps you hadn’t been up to cooking today. When your condition flared, you didn’t feel like doing much of anything. But if that was the case, you were more likely to be curled up on the couch. He sighed and eventually moved on without knocking. He didn’t want to bother you just to say hello and goodnight. After a shower, he had just enough energy left to collapse into his bed and crash, far too exhausted to realize it was Saturday and you shouldn’t be working at all.
When he woke a few hours later, he went looking for you, wanting to apologize for not eating the meals you’d undoubtedly left him. Besides, he just missed you. These long shifts were killing him. You didn’t answer his gentle knock at your office or bedroom doors. A glance in the garage showed your car was gone. He looked in the kitchen to find no note. He frowned. None of this was like you. He glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. He couldn’t worry about it now. Half an hour later found him standing by the hub talking to Robby.
“I’m telling you man, something’s not right,” Jack said.
Robby huffed. “Why because she didn’t make you breakfast? Maybe she just forgot.”
“Okay, but she didn’t leave a note. She always leaves a note. She knows we worry.”
Dana looked between them as they talked wondering how two incredibly intelligent men could be so fucking stupid. You’d been in her guestroom for two days now and they were just noticing something was up? No wonder you left their asses. Idiots. She made a sound of disgust.
Both men’s heads snapped in her direction. “What?” they asked in unison.
She arched one brow and pursed her lips. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”
Robby and Jack turned to look at one another and reassess. Dana was your best friend. If she was pissed off at them, that meant you were as well. Shit. “Okay, well what did she say the last time you talked to her?”
“I think she told me to have a good shift,” Jack said with a frown, pulling out his phone. That had been five days ago and he’d responded with a terse thanx. “Uh, Mike, when’s the last time she texted you?”
He pulled out his phone to find much the same scenario as Jack. You usually texted them multiple times a day just to let them know you were thinking of them. “Oh.”
Jack raked his hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Did anything seem off when you saw her?”
Robby shook his head. “I’ve been too tired when I get home to do anything but shower and crawl in bed. My bed. Figured she’d come to my room if she wanted.”
Jack’s brain short circuited and he froze. “Michael, when is the last time you physically laid eyes on our girlfriend?”
Robby sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. Earlier this week? I’ve just been so fried I haven’t been seeking her out. What about you? What’s she been like with you?”
“I haven’t seen her either.” His voice was quiet, worried.
Robby’s gaze sharpened. “Like since when?”
Jack bowed his head as he thought. “Jesus. It’s been a week. At least. She sat at the table with me while I ate but I was too tired to even process what she was saying. I didn’t stress about it because I figured she had you.”
“And I was the same way. Fuck.” Robby’s eyes went wide and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Fuck!”
Dana hummed in acknowledgment of their idiocy.
Jack turned to her immediately. “She’s obviously said something to you. What did she say? How mad is she?”
She glanced over the top of her glasses, entirely unimpressed. “Since when has that ever worked with me, Jack Abbot? You want to know how mad she is, try talking to her. If she’ll listen. I’m going home. You two better get your shit together.”
Handoff with Lena complete, Dana grabbed her things and headed out the door without looking back, Robby and Jack’s eyes trailing her as she went.
“Oh, our girl must be furious,” Robby muttered.
“Yeah,” Jack agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Robby left his shift when he was supposed to for the first time in two weeks. This matter with you was more pressing. Your car was still gone. He knocked at your office out of habit as he opened the door. Everything you needed for work was gone. Shit. His footsteps carried him quickly down the hall. He threw open the door to your bedroom to find a neatly made bed. Your suitcase and a large amount of your clothes were missing.
Robby pulled out his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He called Jack who answered immediately. “Is she home?”
“She’s gone, Jack.” Robby’s voice broke on the words. “Her office is empty. Half of her clothes are gone.”
“Shit,” Jack said. “Trauma’s coming in. See if you can reach her.”
Robby tried to call first. You sent the call to voicemail three times before he gave up.
Next, he sent you a text. Baby please pick up the phone. I want to talk to you. I need to make sure you’re alright.
I’m fine, came not even a minute later.
He heaved a sigh of relief. At least you responded. I don’t think you are. Please talk to me.
You haven’t cared if you talked to me in weeks. Why should now be any different?
God, you always knew exactly what to say to make your point in the sharpest way possible. Please. He didn’t know what else to say.
I moved out two days ago. You didn’t even notice.
Two days? That can’t be true surely. Jesus. He knew you well enough to know that he and Jack had been horribly wrong. You weren’t pissed. You were hurt. That was so much worse. They’d hurt you. They were going to lose you and they’d deserve it.
I don’t know what I can say to that. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.
Okay. Goodnight Michael.
No, no, no. That couldn’t be your response. This couldn’t be the end of everything. What the fuck had they done?
Baby please. Just meet us at least. Let us sit down and talk about this. Please.
The two of you will never have the time for that. I can say yes but it will never happen so why bother. I’m done talking.
Please talk to me.
Please don’t leave us.
I love you.
Just give us a chance
All four messages were left on read.
Jack tried next.
Robby hadn’t told him how things had gone until handoff, not wanting Jack to dwell on it all night. While part of him understood Robby’s reasoning, the rest of him was pissed off. If he’d known, maybe he could have gotten you to respond. It wasn’t logical, you weren’t any more likely to talk to him than Robby but Jack couldn’t just give up.
He sent the first text as he walked to the truck.
Honey I am so sorry. Please talk to us.
He tossed his phone on the passenger seat. When he pulled in the drive, he was disappointed to find no response.
I love you. I miss you.
He took a shower to scrub the day away. When he got out, he found that you had responded to his texts with a link. He clicked on it and was taken to a local housekeeping service that did cleaning and laundry. His brows snapped together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.
What’s that?
Figured that’s what you were missing. You can probably find someone to make meals for you too. Or doordash.
Jack scowled. What the fuck? I don’t give a shit about any of that. I miss you. I want you. Not some fucking maid service. Why would you think that?
Are you telling me that you didn’t notice stuff wasn’t getting done before you noticed you hadn’t seen me? It’s been days Jack. Days.
Look I know things haven’t been ideal lately. Mike and I have both been working more than we should have. We just have to get through this and then things will go back to normal.
I don’t want normal.
What?
When was the last time either of you texted me first? Took me on a date? It was a long time before the flu.
Jack frantically scrolled through his texts knowing you had to be wrong. The two of you talked all the time. Another message from you came through.
You just got off shift. You should get some sleep. Goodbye Jack.
Jesus fucking Christ. Now he understood what Robby had been talking about. You were talking like this was over. He wasn’t ready for this to be done. Didn’t think he would ever be.
I’m fine Honey. I’m worried about you and hating myself for fucking this up.
I can’t do this anymore Jack. Not right now.
He tried to text you two more times before switching to phone calls. The third time he called he went straight to voicemail. He raked a hand through his hair and tossed his phone on the bed before dropping back to lay flat. He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. How the fuck were they going to fix this?
Two days passed of them trying to call or text and getting no further response from you. They’d managed to learn from Dana that you were staying with her and were ‘doing just fine. Now fuck off’. Jack and Robby stood at the hub just before seven going over the schedule, trying to figure out who would be willing to shift around so they could head over to Dana’s together to beg for forgiveness.
Dana hurried through the bay doors and made her way straight to them. Both of them turned at her unusual behavior. “What’s up with you?” Robby asked.
“I need you both to behave like fucking adults or I’ll get Gloria down here,” she snapped.
Jack’s brows shot up. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”
“Stow it, Abbot.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes scanning the department. “Whitaker, grab a chair. Patient being dropped off in the bay.”
Both men straightened at that. “Dana,” Robby said drawing out the word.
She pursed her lips and sighed. “She’s been in a flare for days. Meds triggered an intractable migraine. Neuro told her to come here.”
“Is she okay?” Robby asked then immediately said, “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”
“How long?” Jack asked already heading for the doors.
She huffed out a breath knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “Three days.”
Jack stopped and turned back. “Three fucking days? And she’s just now coming in?”
“I can’t imagine why she would be hesitant.” Dana rolled her eyes as she moved past him to meet Whitaker at the door.
“What’s open, Lena?” she called over her shoulder.
“Five is all yours.”
Robby and Jack froze as you were wheeled inside. You had an icepack pressed over your eyes, the elbow of the hand holding it resting on the arm of the chair. You were curled in on yourself and had an empty bucket in your lap. Dana shot them a look as she pushed you past them and into your room.
As much as they wanted to invade the room, to check on you themselves, they waited. Dana emerged nearly twenty minutes later. “I’ve got her in a gown and got an IV started for fluids. She’s checked in and waiting for a doctor. She said you can come in.”
They stepped forward and she held up a hand. “Don’t upset her or I’ll kick your ass.”
Entering the room quietly, their eyes immediately fell on you. You were curled on your side, icepack still laying on your head. They split, each one taking a different side of the bed. Jack sat on a stool and wheeled it to your side, clasping your hand in his. You sucked in a breath at the contact and immediately started to sob.
Robby had pulled a chair up on your other side, placing a heavy hand on your back. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”
Jack touched the icepack to find it warm. He moved it aside so he could see your eyes. He wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Why are you crying, honey?”
“It hurts.” You practically whimpered the words. “It hurts so bad. Nothing is helping.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.
Before he could say anything else, Dana came back into the room hands full. She sat the tray full of medication aside and hung a bag of saline to run into your IV. “Doc Reynolds sent in the order for a cocktail.”
“What’s he giving her?” Robby asked as he put on his glasses and headed over to the computer.
Dana ignored him and started filling syringes with meds.
“Well?” Jack asked.
Robby glanced over with a frown. “Toradol, Reglan, Zomig, and Decadron.”
“Jesus.” Jack watched Dana inject the drugs into your IV. “Must be particularly stubborn, huh?”
Another tear ran down your face in answer.
Dana glanced at Robby. “You working or calling someone in?”
Robby ran a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
She nodded and moved to the computer to make her notes.
Robby went back to your side and kissed your temple. “I’ll be back, sweetheart. Just let me get things settled out there.”
“I need to do handoff,” Jack said, looking between you and Robby.
You turned away from him, careful not to tangle your IV. “I’m fine. Just go.”
The pain in your voice pierced through him. “Honey—”
“Go!” you yelled then winced.
Dana’s gaze snapped over to Jack. “You heard her. Out.”
When he hesitated, she said, “Now.”
“We’ll be back,” he said at the door, turning back to look at you. Dana had her hand resting on the side of your face, talking to you in a low tone. He sighed and left the room, sliding the door shut behind him.
“I feel like we just failed a test,” Robby said, voice tired.
“Yeah.”
You didn’t want to be a bitch, to be unreasonable. You knew your temper was shorter because of your migraine, because of the pain that you had been drowning in for days. The truth was you’d been in a flare for two weeks at this point. You’d been careful with your meds but eventually they’d caused the headache you’d had since you left their house. Stress undoubtedly playing a large part in both the flare and the migraine. You’d only admitted to it three days ago. If Dana knew you were going on five days, she’d beat your ass.
But you’d told the neuro the truth. He’d told you if the cocktail didn’t work, they’d have to admit you for stronger meds. You knew that of course, this wasn’t your first trip to the hospital for a stubborn migraine, but you hated it. All you’d wanted from the beginning was to curl up with one of your men and let them take care of you.
You missed them and they always seemed to make everything better. Well, they used to. It’s why you’d told Dana they could come into the room. You’d hoped they’d choose you. Take care of you. Prioritize you. But once again the Pitt won.
It wasn’t rational. They needed to do their jobs. They were attending physicians. Lives literally hung in the balance. But you didn’t want to be rational. You were tired of always being understanding. Of always letting yourself take a back seat. You were tired of always being the second choice.
Your heart ached when you thought about how long it took for them to even notice you were gone. They didn’t need you. Didn’t want you. Not really. You’d been crippled with pain for days and they hadn’t known, hadn’t cared. Had never once asked how you were doing. Dana had told you that you could stay as long as you wanted but you knew you were wearing out your welcome. No one wants a permanent houseguest.
You wondered how much money was in your savings. You didn’t check the balance often as you were afraid you’d spend it, so you left it and just added to it when you could. You’d need enough for a deposit and first and last month’s rent. Jesus, you hated apartment hunting. Hated apartments. You’d gotten used to the quiet neighborhood where you lived now. You didn’t want to think about it right now, it certainly wasn’t helping your headache.
Your head had that floaty feeling that told you the meds were working. Your thoughts were a little slow and time passed in weird increments but you were still aware.
Dana popped back in after almost an hour had passed. “How you doing, doll?”
“It’s definitely better, but it still hurts.”
She pulled you up on the computer. “Instructions here for another round. After that…”
“Yeah, I know.”
She patted your leg. “I’m going to get you some more fluids and something to drink. Need anything else?”
“Another icepack?”
“Sure. I can do that.” Her gaze ran over you as she crossed her arms over her chest. “They’ve stationed themselves in the hallway, you know.”
You frowned at her. You’d assumed they were working. Hell, Jack might have gone home for all you knew. “What?”
“I told them they couldn’t come back in, not after they made you cry.”
“They didn’t. I was crying because it hurt.”
She hummed in agreement. “And then you were crying because they told you they had to go back to work.”
“That’s not their fault.”
“It is. If they didn’t keep picking this place over you, you would be more understanding when they didn’t have a choice. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be upset. They fucked up.” She sighed. “But they love you. And you miss them. That’s okay too.”
Another tear ran down your cheek.
“Do you want me to send them in?” Her voice had taken on that mom tone of hers that always made you feel comforted.
“Yes, please.”
She nodded once and patted your leg again. She stepped past the curtain and out the door. You heard her say, “I’m getting another bag of fluids. She needs water and an icepack. I’ll let you deliver them. Don’t upset her.” Then she shut the door.
Jack appeared first, cup of water with a straw in hand. “Just chilled. Don’t want to shock your system.”
“Thanks.” You licked your lips before leaning forward to take a sip. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth was until then.
He sat it on the table when you finished, his hazel eyes running over you. His hands gripped the railing. “How are you feeling? You look better.”
“Still hurts but it’s better. Dana’s bringing me more drugs in a bit.”
Before he could respond, Robby came into the room. “Hey, sweetheart. One icepack as requested.” He snapped it to activate it and kneaded it before handing it over. You pressed it to the back of your neck with a sigh.
“Here,” he said and folded your pillow so it would keep the icepack pressed where you wanted without you having to hold it. Your eyes closed in relief.
“Where are you at on the pain scale?” Robby asked as his fingers found your pulse on your wrist.
You huffed out a breath without opening your eyes. “Already have a doctor, Robinavitch. If you’re going to stay, you can’t doctor me.”
You could feel him wanting to argue without looking at him. Could practically feel it vibrating under his skin.
“Okay,” he said instead, hand shifting to lay on yours instead.
You opened one eye to look at him in disbelief.
A small laugh fell from his lips and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Honey, I would do about anything you asked to keep you talking to me.”
You hummed and closed your eye. They settled to either side of you, each of them holding one of your hands. Jack kissed the back of the one he held, then Robby kissed the inside of your wrist on the other. Your lips twitched in amusement.
“You can talk. I meant it when I said I was feeling better. Another dose should kill it completely.”
“I’m going to lecture about one thing, then I’ll shut up,” Jack said.
You cracked your eyes to look at him.
“I don’t care how upset you are with us, you don’t wait three days to come to the hospital when you’re hurting like this.”
Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it. Damn it.
Robby’s gaze immediately narrowed. “How long?”
“It started before I even left the house.”
“What?” Jack snapped, the sharpness in his tone making you wince. “Sorry, sorry,” he immediately apologized, rubbing your hand with his thumb.
“Your doctor know that?” Robby asked.
“Yes.”
You could tell there was so much he wanted to say but he simply nodded once and said, “Okay.”
“I kinda like the you that’s trying to stay in my good graces,” you said. Guilt flashed through his eyes but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad for your words. They’d earned them.
Dana came in and hung another bag of saline. Jack slid out of the way so she could give you the next dose of meds. She looked between the men when neither of them said anything before looking to you in question.
You grinned. “I told them they couldn’t doctor if they wanted to stay.”
She laughed. “Good for you,” she said before putting them out of their misery. “Same meds as last time. If it works, she can go home under supervision. If not, she’s heading upstairs.”
“Thanks, Dana,” Jack said, voice rough with worry.
She gave you a nod and left.
“Don’t you guys need to go back to work?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.
“Nope.” Robby leaned back in his chair, hand still on yours. “We put in for some of our PTO.”
“And Gloria’s just going to let you do that?”
“She doesn’t have a choice. Told her to get some temps in if she needed,” Robby said. “Neither one of us uses our time. Plus, we’re way over the hours we were supposed to be working the last two weeks.”
Your eyelids began to feel heavy as the new meds swamped your system.
“Hey, open your eyes, baby,” Jack said.
You blinked at him.
“This round working? Can we take you home?”
“Yeah, Jack. Take me home.”
You weren’t certain how much time passed before you became aware of your surroundings again. As you blinked away the slumber, you realized you were in Robby’s bed. Huh. At least you weren’t in the hospital. Seeing a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. You were halfway done downing it when the door opened slightly, Robby’s head popping into the gap. His concerned expression melted into a relieved smile. “Hey, you’re awake.”
You didn’t answer as you finished your water. You felt so dehydrated which was stupid considering how much fluid they’d given you at the hospital. Robby stepped into the room tapping on his phone which he slid back into his pocket when he saw you’d finished the water. He took the cup from you and set it aside. His fingers instantly found your wrist but he paused, “Can I doctor you for a second?”
“Sure,” you said, a smile teasing your lips.
He’d just finished checking your pulse when Jack stepped into the room. His gaze ran over you, assessing before giving you a bright smile. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?”
“Better. Much better.”
“Good.” He held a fresh glass of water out to you. “Mike said you were thirsty.”
“Thank you.” You took a drink then set the glass on the table. Your attention shifted to Robby who sat on the edge of the bed, fingers still on your wrist. “Will I live, doc?”
He nodded his head but didn’t look at you.
You tilted your head with a frown. “Michael, are you okay?”
“I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, broken. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Your brow furrowed as Jack sighed. “I thought we were going to give her a chance to get her bearings before we got into this.”
Robby sniffed, finally releasing his hold on you only to wipe the moisture from his eyes. “Sorry.”
“Let me go to the bathroom,” you said and Robby hopped up, offering you a hand to help you out. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
You took your time in the other room, taking the chance to wash your face and feel a bit more human. Despite the obvious pain fatigue, you looked better than you had in days. Finally, you took a breath and stepped back into the bedroom. Both men stopped talking as you opened the door and stood from where they’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.
Robby cleared his throat after Jack nudged him. “I’m, uh, sorry about before. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “I’d rather get the conversation out of the way if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh, thank god,” Jack said, shoulders dropping as tension flowed from him.
You pressed your lips together to keep from snorting a laugh at the incredulous look Robby gave him. He muttered under his breath while he shook his head. He took your hand and led you over to the chair that sat in the corner of the room. “Sit. We have a couple of questions and then several things to say.”
Your gaze moved between the two of them. “Did you practice this or something?”
“Well, you were asleep for almost twenty-two hours,” Jack said.
You were only slightly surprised by that information. The meds always knocked you out. Usually not quite that long but you’d expected it. Jack sat on the edge of the bed in front of you while Robby stayed standing.
“First, Dana said you were in a flare before the headache. How long?” Jack asked.
You sighed, knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “A couple of weeks.”
“Jesus, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say anything?” Robby said.
“What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you’re incredibly busy at the hospital right now and barely have time to sleep but could you take care of me?”
“Yes,” Jack said without hesitation. He slid forward on the bed a bit. “That’s exactly what you should have done.”
You rolled your eyes. “Be serious, Jack.”
“I am.”
His tone was so sincere you could do nothing but look at him.
“I don’t know when you started believing that you were less important than us or our jobs, but you are not. And we’re so incredibly sorry for anything we’ve done that made you feel that way,” Robby said.
Hot tears rolled down your face before you could stop them. He swooped in immediately making hushing sounds as he wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll get another headache.”
You sucked in a breath and tried to regulate your emotions. “I know.”
“Listen,” Jack said. “Mike and I have talked about this. We don’t want to start over. We all have to much history for that. But we do want to prove to you that you’re still our priority if you’ll let us.”
You thought about it for a moment. You loved these men. Yes, they’d hurt you, but there was reason you’d fallen in love with them in the first place. Maybe you all just needed a reminder of what that was. Finally, you nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
And prove themselves they did. They cut their hours, focused on making your relationship a priority. As Robby said, the three of you were hopefully going to be together long after they retired. It wasn’t long before your relationship was stronger than it ever had been. To the point that, though you maintained your own rooms on the off chance you needed the space, you all slept in Robby’s king-sized bed most of the time, whether he was home or not.
And the next time you had a flare that lasted for longer than a couple of days, they took turns taking care of you the way you always did for them. They loved you, and they never let you doubt that again.
⋆❀˖ gwayne hightower x wife!reader married life habits .☘︎
cw: fluff, suggestive language
a/n: based on this lovely request <33 loved writing for him sm!!
──── ♖ ────
✦ gwayne is the type of man who absolutely adores his lady wife. borderline worships the ground she walks on. his wife is his north star, the core of his life purpose, the source of love and affection so deep, he thanks the gods daily for giving you to him
✦ despite all the battles he won and heroic victories, once you are wed, he realizes that he is the happiest in the comforting atmosphere of oldtown and you by his side. it sounds simple but apparently it is all he ever wanted, something solid to devote his life to, something he could never find in fights or tourneys
✦ your days always start with each other. gwayne wakes you up with trailing soft kisses down your neck, shoulder, chest, worshipping the skin slowly, until you stirr fully awake. he can’t get enough, simply obsessed and grateful, appreciating what he considers his very thoroughly
✦ he insists on always having breakfast in your company, discussing plans for the day, and recent events. it's always a very animated discussion, followed by a clash of opinions and laughing. he always listens to your opinion in political matters, it is one of the many things you can share together
✦ one of gwayne’s main love languages is physical touch. always kisses your temple in passing, puts his arm around your shoulder just to have you closer, always touching you in some way. sometimes it’s soft and romantic, sometimes… borderline improper. gwayne is never shy of being attracted to you and appreciating your presence. always shows his desire openly, so you never even question how he feels about you. no one questions it. though, despite all the lustful glances and seducing touches, he always ensures you are comfortable first, never making you feel awkward or nervous because of his words or gestures
✦ he genuinely sees you as the prettiest and the most interesting woman in every room. loves when other people compliment you or praise you, it strokes his ego just right. he is the type to just look at you dreamily and ask “isn’t she magnificent?” in front of everyone. totally smitten
✦ gwayne is passionate and expressive by nature, very teasing and playful, there is always this boyish mischief in him. loves flustering you. says outrageous things out loud on purpose just to receive a swat on his chest from you. he lives for your reactions and annoyance is one of them
✦ loves going on walks with you, holding your hand, talking. lots of talking. this man never shuts up, he could spend hours getting lost in the scenery of old town with you by his side and your laugh
✦ gwayne is the type to cherish presence more than anything. he brings you along with him wherever he can. he values your opinion because you know him better than himself. but if he is being completely honest, he just feels better when you are around, when he can tangle his fingers with yours or to whisper a teasing comment to your ear
✦ he is a yapper, yes, but he also listens. it might seem that he is not serious enough but his brain tracks every comment or new information about you he might stumble upon. gwayne knows which flowers you love and which hate, knows your favourite maids and the servants that talk coldly with you, knows where you liked to be kissed and that you pout when he doesn’t give you enough attention during the day
✦ gwayne knows how to make your heart beat faster with a glance and a word. he is a natural flirt and reads you like a book, always using his ability to feel your body against you. his hands will tease your thighs under the table while he pretends to be engrossed in a conversation. he will whisper obscene things, that are in fact promises, to you before parting, leaving you giggling and irritated
✦ always says he find feasts especially boring and draining, but secretly loves the opportunity to show you off. his eyes always find you first in a crowded room. he will be talking with guests and his gaze is fixed on your figure on the other side of the room. he is possessive in a soft way, follows you like a cat, trying to catch your attention just to be clingy with you afterwards
✦ it is some sort of tradition, for you to patch him up after the trainings. he simply refuses anyone else touching his face or treating his cuts except you. gwayne will sit there shirtless, with the biggest grin, looking up at your concerned expression as you bandage his forearm and just enjoy the soft moment of intimacy, answering to your scolding of him being reckless with a playful “is it bad I love when my wife has another reason for touching me?”
✦ gwayne is never shy about kissing you in public. in fact, he prefers it when there are witnesses of your passion. doesn’t matter where he is or who is watching, he will kiss your cheek or forehead for a quick goodbye and will pull you in by the waist and give you the kiss and makes your knees buckle if he is leaving for longer
✦ despite his teasings and light improperness, he is very chivalrous and attentive in a soft secure masculine way. he always stands up when you enter the room, not out of obligation, simply because you are his wife and you deserve respect. offers you his arm wherever you go together, it’s automatic, he never has a second thought about it, just like with waking on the outside of the road and having a hand on the small of your back in the crowds
✦ insists on helping you mount your horse himself, every single time. of course, always using an additional opportunity to grope you playfully, but mostly just because he views it as one of the many things he, as your husband, should help you with
✦ if he was away for several days, the first few hours after coming back home, he will spend just following you around. hugging, kissing, nuzzling. if you are walking the gardens, he is pulling you in a secluded corner to remind you how much he missed you. if you are reading or answering letters or simply busy, he will sit silently beside you, with his hand on your thigh or his head on your shoulder
✦ gwayne might be a little flashy but when it matters he is quite. he never brags about the things he did for you and most of the time you don’t even know it was him, who arranged for your favourite wine and fruits to appear at supper, that it was him who ensured your rooms are always the temperature you prefer, that it was him who ordered servants to feed stray cats that lived behind kitchens when he saw you doing so
hey Lu what do you think eddies reaction would be if his shy gf asked him for a hug??
(Bc I had a very vivid eddie dream last night and all I want is an eddie hug 😢)
foreword: you've momentarily brought my writing back to life with this anon ty ever so much. here's shy!Reader and Eddie once again, I'm thinkin' earlier in the relationship when they're still sort of figuring it out. love you!!
cw: shy!Reader, overstimulation + introversion, can be read as autistic!R too, they pronouns used for R, Eddie is an understanding sweetheart, also... Tennessee accent makes an appearance, physical affection, the healing power of a well-timed hug <3
wc: <1k
shy!Reader x Eddie masterlist | no smut but mdni as ALWAYS!
Fuzzybrain, you’d called it.
Once upon a time when you were searching for the right word to describe how it felt in your head after a big event, after a day like today of a summer picnic on the river with all the kids- you’d made up your own word for it.
Like the space between my ears just goes fuzzy and I can’t make myself feel anything, anymore. Fuzzybrain.
As if Eddie could’ve loved you any more than he possibly did already (max capacity, four-alarm fire type of love even then) you had to go and invent new words for your beautiful, perfect mind that didn’t need any explaining but fuck was he glad to have a reference.
A younger, earlier version of Eddie might’ve thought you were mad at him on the van ride home.
Forehead leant against the passenger window, hands folded in your lap, not humming along to the radio like you usually do.
But Eddie knows you. Knows what this is.
Fuzzybrain. That’s all. A bad case, it seems.
Eddie can’t blame you at all. You both spent five whole hours talking and laughing and splashing around with the small army of teenagers today, made sure they were fed and hydrated and properly covered in a layer of suncream so no parents would complain during dropoff.
He doesn’t offer his hand to hold. Turns the knob of the music down until it’s less than background noise, and notices when the tight line of stress in your shoulders begins to ease the closer to home you get with nothing but the purr of the van.
Eddie acts as normal- if a bit quieter, gentler in his demeanor, like he’s opening the front door of his trailer for a world-renowned racehorse that’s run magnificently today and needs their rest.
You slip off your shoes next to his boots and start towards the kitchen with a mild, blank expression (three sheets to the winds of overstimulation, as he once called this state of yours), until Eddie catches you by the back belt loop.
“Hold on a sec, sugar. You ain’t gettin’ in the kitchen all sun-drunk like you are- sit your rear end on that couch and pick up a book ‘r two.”
Eddie thrills when the joke of his thick-as-molasses country teasing earns him a dreamy, half-curve of smile before you obey. Tucking your feet up underneath yourself against the far corner of the couch and drawing a bookmarked library hardback into the comfort of your lap.
Eddie doesn’t think too much of it when you don’t talk for the next twenty minutes.
He’s content to putter around in the kitchen, starting up a batch of Melvald’s finest boxed mac and cheese, chopping some veggies into sticks and arranging them in a bug-like fashion onto one large plate for you both to eat from (Who the hell said nutrition was for uncreative losers? No one in this house!)
The pasta is boiling and Eddie is standing in place, staring at the bubbling pot, rehearsing song lyrics in his head.
The day has been so full of noise. He’s enjoying the quiet, too.
There’s a low whirring from the overhead fan which is why he doesn’t hear you the first time, but when you say his name again- “Eddie-” he turns immediately, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, hey, sunshine. Food should be ready in five. Want me to get your other book from the van?”
You shake your head. Back and forth, slow, eyes trained on the tile flooring. “No. It’s… Can I have…?”
Your voice trails upwards like the question was asked in full but Eddie still doesn’t know what you want, guessing instead of asking, making a show of bringing the stick-bug-veggie plate into your sight.
“Hungry? His name’s Gerald. But don’t worry, he was made to be eaten. We can even say a prayer beforehand if it makes you feel better.”
There’s that quick, sweet smile again as your eyes lift from the plate back to his face, then somewhere past his ear as if it’s hard to look him in the eye while you talk.
So softly it barely registers over the drone of the fan, your voice again. “Can I- can I have a hug?”
“Oh, shit.” The shock of the request makes Eddie fumble a bit, tilting Gerald at a dangerous angle until he has the good sense to replace the plate back to countertop. “Jesus. Of course you can. C’mere-”
Eddie was already opening his arms before his sentence was over, just as you were already stepping forwards into them.
Your arms loop around his waist, while his engulf the entirety of your upper back. Warm palms spreading across your shoulders on either side. Your ear to his chest, his cheek to the crown of your head.
It’s quiet again. Save for the fan.
Eddie breathes deeply and feels you do the same. You smell like sunscreen and pine trees and somehow, inexplicably, like the wind around the lake itself.
You’ve always been magic like that.
Eddie drops a kiss to your head. Rocks you ever so gently from side to side, feeling the rhythms of your heart and letting you guide the movement as you need.
you look like the kinda girl who'd open up ms paint back in the day select the spray paint tool and click and hold to watch it slowly turn into a perfect circle
