[mayloma]

Where You Are - Series Masterlist

Pairing: AU Viking!Geralt x female reader

Series Summary: Your husband goes into a battle that will fundamentally change your life and his. Will you find your way back to each other?

Warnings: This series will contain angst, smut and fluff. Probably inaccuracies concerning historical details. Detailed warnings will be added to the single chapters.

Pictures: from Canva and Pinterest. Full credit to the owners.

Divider: by saradika

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 (coming soon)

[sug4rlicous]

Gwayne Hightower Fic Recommendations

୨୧ His Cousin's Wife | @danysdaughter

୨୧ my love, mine. all mine. | @sergwaynez

୨୧ filth and squalor | @just-some-random-blogger

୨୧ The Green Knight (series) | @anti-heroesanonymous

୨୧ to court a princess | @chuluoyi

୨୧ to be alone with you | @brightflamer

୨୧ In Body and Mind | @escapic-mezzanine

୨୧ Burnt Bread and Broken Hearts | @stardustrider

୨୧ Try A Little Tenderness | @lovebugism

୨୧ A Fair Exchange | @lovebugism

[midniqhtt]

GWAYNE HIGHTOWER RECS .ᐟ

꒰ MASTERLIST I HOTD I 08/12/26 ꒱

a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot! read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ

A: angst F: fluff S: smut C: comfort H/C: hurt comfort

try a little tenderness I @lovebugism I H/C + F + S I you nurse gwayne back to life again when the war leaves him for dead, and he finds himself in no hurry to be rescued from you.

there will be blood pt2 I @/lovebugism I A + S I you're wed to ser gwayne hightower in one last desperate attempt to unite the realm; but when the war tears the two of you apart, you're taken prisoner by his cousin, lord ormund hightower, where the line between duty and desire begins to blur.

idle hands I @/lovebugism I A + S I gwayne visits the honey inn when he returns home from the war, where he pays for your company by the hour, and where ormund finds something he'd much rather keep. and with the city about to fall or hold to the black army, every hightower intends to find a use for you before it does.

a fair exchange I @/lovebugism I H/C I gwayne comes to daemon before the battle at tumbleton to barter for the life of his nephew and gets you in return, the last daughter of an unremarkable house fighting for the black army, who's in want of a wealthy husband.

love language I @cosmictheo I H/C + F I when you are forced to wed gwayne hightower to secure peace in the realm, you expect a monster—definitely not the gentlest, most patient and loving man in all of westeros.

till forever falls apart I @sergwaynez I A + F I after an attempted assassination on daeron's life is successfully avoided by you accidentally drinking the poison meant for him, gwayne hightower loses his mind. he must first play knight and avenge house hightower against house baratheon and then as doctor to nurse you back to health, though no role is harder than playing the husband who almost lost his wife.

here’s my paper heart, won’t you hold it? I @/sergwaynez I A + F I ormund is awaiting important news and with each raven sent to tumbleton, he finally thinks this is it. however, it's just you. always you, sending your husband even the most simplest of things about your day and how often you think of him. ormund has given up, he knows you won't stop but luckily, daeron decides to hatch a secret plan. he claims that you are ailed with a great sickness to reunite you and gwayne together back in oldtown.

to court a princess I @chuluoyi I H/C + F I a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?

in my dreams pt2 I @user481 I H/C I Haunted by dragon dreams that foretell a future she cannot bear, Viserys' second daughter decides to flee her betrothal before it can begin. Her plan falls apart when the very man she's trying to escape finds her climbing over the Red Keep's garden wall.

the line between love & hate I @iydiamartinx I A + F + ~S I Forced into a political marriage, you and Ser Gwayne Hightower can’t stand each other. What begins as a war of sharp tongues and spiteful jealousy slowly unravels into an all-consuming obsession, proving there’s a very fine line between hatred and desire.

you, me, and my ego I @gwaynes-sweetling I S I You were a Targaryen princess who married a Hightower, the people will whisper, of course, and especially undermine your marriage; however, you were raised under prim and poise. But who knew that all it took was a few flirtatious moves on your husband to ignite such an egoistical wife? 

[gwaynes-sweetling]

LOVE DROUGHT, Gwayne Hightower (18+)

Pairing(s): Gwayne Hightower x Niece!Reader 

Description: Your uncle had arrived from Oldtown, hell ensues as an old spark yearns to become a flame.

WC: 6.6k 

CW: SMUT AND FILTH AND A LOT OF YEARNING. No physical descriptions of sweetling. Lots of inaccuracies in the details. A little self-degradation for plot. Aegon is already a warning himself. TargTowercest. Porn with plot. Gwayne loves to go down on you, he will stay there forever if he could! PinV. Breeding if you squint a little. 

Note: I am so rusty guys, I’m so sorry, based this on SO many songs, I’d loveeeeee to make an entire mood board for sweetling hehehe

It had only been a few days since your uncle had arrived from Oldtown for your brother’s nameday, a gathering that had gained traction from all of the Realm, smallfolk, and brothels—but it was not of importance to keep him away from his knightly duties, which worried you.

You soon learned of his arrival through word-of-mouth from the servants through the familiar halls, the same ones that felt like closing in on you the second you see him. 

Moons had turned since you last had seen him, it was a spectacle to see you survive mere seconds under his observant gaze and righteous gait, if it were possible you would have melted like steel under fire—softened and malleable. Almost as if you had forgotten your prayers and promises to the Gods to apostate yourself and build a religion in his body and his ribs your sanctum. 

Everything had burst at the seams and everything burned in your limbs, the ever righteous princess finally became a slave to the very root of her house’s customs and the blood of the dragon was meant to withstand the fire. The fertile soil of an illicit kind encourages the growth of something verboten in your loins, it is only futile to abandon such scorching notions—especially for a princess brought up with dignity and … morals.

But your mother knew to keep at least one child away from it … right? 

You had kept to yourself the entire day, the preparation of the nameday feast on the morrow was the least of your worries. Your only worry was to make a fool of yourself and expose yourself to everyone else. A simpering fool who lets her heart desire beyond the tangible. A point of inflection, a bend, a weakness.

The dress you had been wearing had felt increasingly tight, the bodice squeezing the conscience out of you and convincing you to snap out of it. Exasperated, you unknowingly reach for the window overlooking the training yard for some fresh air, only to see Gwayne engaging with other knights and visiting lords down below.

Your heart leapt out of its place. You could not breathe, the sheer intensity of it all was right at your fingertips, so close yet so far away, Gods help you live. 

Before doing anything else, you hear a knock on your door. It was a timid Helaena seeking comfort in your chambers, which was not an unfamiliar occurrence due to the increasing amount of stress the Keep has caused, a beetle in her hand and rigid little Jaehaera holding her other one.

“Sister,” you clumsily stammered, forcing a smile on your face, cursing under your breath for being too taut, improper. You made your way to seek Jaehaera’s embrace and carried her. Helaena sat down on the settle, mumbling words as she blankly stared at you both and then the bug, you cooed at the child in your arms to lessen her fussiness, rocking her gently, calming her down.

“He … he wants to see you,” Helaena murmured, her soft gaze now on the green beetle that is crawling on her fingers.

“And who would that miserable lordling be?” 

“ … he wept for you in the dark. Now the prayer has skin. It breathes.” She repeated it once more in a softer whisper, unintelligible at that.

Your brows furrowed, a deep-seated hum in your heart began to perpetuate itself, “you must be mistaken, sister. If it were to be that Lannister lord that has had a stick up his arse then I refuse to believe he has the ability to weep so you say,” you mused, recalling an earlier memory of you humiliating numerous lords who prided themselves on their ego and their riches during a tourney. That night you had much to drink and may have superseded your sense of propriety and lashed out to your heart’s desire. Rejecting betrothals left and right, further causing rust between your house and the others, the look of disappointment on Alicent’s face was forever etched into your memory.

Your sister shakes her head and takes your free arm to caress it. 

“He wept in the dark for you. Now the prayer has skin. It breathes life … a wish that was wrapped in your bones before your birth standing right there. Do you not feel the skin of it?”

Laughs erupted from below had kept you from clarifying what Helaena had meant, like divine synchronicity, you only heard Gwayne’s voice before Jaehaera stirred from her lulled sleep and had begun to reach for Helaena. She took her daughter from your arms and quickly walked out of your chambers, it was like you had only dreamt of what happened, a hazy vision that erases itself when you finally gain sentience. 

It breathes life … a wish that was wrapped in your bones before your birth standing right there. What could she possibly have meant by that? 

You mulled it over, along with the gravitas and baritone of Gwayne’s voice that could be heard from your window. If only you had the ability to ignore everything, then you would have visited the Gods and asked for it yourself. 

A knock on your door startled you, expecting your sister once more, it was your lady-in-waiting, Marei, who had bought you your silks for this evening’s supper. 

“Princess, the Dowager Queen had ordered you to wear these silks for tonight,” she explained to you, it had not occurred to you about this evening’s sumptuous repast, it completely slipped away from your mind. Marei placed the dark green dress on your bed as she scurried to find your coveted jewels, seeing to it that she presents you exceptional options.

Taking notice of that, you corrected her, “I … the necklace with the emerald pendant will be my only choice, Marei.”

She nodded as she stopped scouring your drawers for your jewels and trinkets as she already had found the necklace you were referring to, its fine chain was in gold and the beautiful pendant had completed it, a gift Gwayne gave you for your nameday, the last nameday you saw him physically, before he faded into letters and hopeless wishes. Marei assisted you in your state of undress, changing into the new dress and wearing the necklace which complimented your complexion. You looked in the mirror, you looked more a Hightower than a Targaryen. 

“Should we keep your hair down, princess?” she asked, brushing your hair.

“If it were possible, yes, I would like that.”

You answered without thinking, you were too deep in thought, you could not bear to go through supper. Marei noticed your discomfort, her handiwork transitioned into a gentler one as she untangled the knots in your hair, she stopped as she felt content with your looks. 

“We are finished,” she whispered, a small encouraging smile on her face as she looked at you, tucking away loose strands of your hair. You peeked at the mirror, a small smile crept on your lips, “thank you, Marei, this is enough.”

Marei tidied up with a watchful eye as she urged you to leave before you did anything, like skip the dinner and walk through the gardens instead. You quietly scoffed as you took your leave and made your way outside your quarters.

The Keep was buzzing around you, it was until only now that it felt … full, complete. You slowly walked to the small hall, your hands were shaking, a few attempts to miss the dinner were definitely made but a headstrong Marei would have stopped you before you threatened to melt into your bed and sleep until sun up. Along with a few servants, you entered the room, it was well lit up with more torches and the atmosphere more welcoming than before. Your mother was at the head of the table, Aegon and Helaena, along with their children followed along with Aemond and then … Gwayne, the seat facing him was unoccupied, unfortunately, you sat there and instead, took solace beside Helaena’s children who were squabbling about which toy was which. 

Everyone at the table were engrossed in different conversations, it only left both you and Gwayne alone with your thoughts, you on the other hand, snuck a few grapes to sweet little Jaehaera’s plate as Helaena was too busy feeding Jaehaerys his meal. 

You could feel Gwayne’s stare burn into your press, but you were mulish enough to dedicate your attention somewhere else. The food was served, you attempted to savour the food but you didn’t have the stomach to eat as the nervousness enveloped you the more time you spent in the same place as him.

Aegon, ever the drunkard, had already too much to drink before the food was served, nitpicking at every little thing possible and slurred his words which was not an uncommon happening in this household—he is either drunk or passed out drunk, you preferred the latter, less of the talking the better. 

But Aegon had other plans.

“Sister, sister, … did you know that the Lannister’s cock was hard as a rock when he fawned over you, it was a repulsive sight but I think he would be a perfect match for you sister … in bed! Both cowards too!” Aegon laughed nearly maniacally as he played with his food and ordered  a servant nearby him to pour some more wine.

“Aegon, enough,” Alicent warned, her gaze placed on you as the entire room fell silent, except for Aegon, making a spectacle of your misery. 

“No! No! Mother, I was only jesting, however the only jest is that my sister would rather wed a tree than an actual man,” he bellowed, spewing out nonsense between laughs. You looked around the table, Gwayne had grown tense, an apologetic expression had shadowed his face. You immediately tore your gaze from him and expected nothing less, there was no one else to protect you but yourself and it had pained you that none of them had the spine to speak against him, the lesser heir, the mindless man, the useless husband to your sister. 

There was a weight on your chest before standing up, your chair scraping the floor, “you are right, brother, a tree would have more morals than a ‘man’ such as yourself,” you sneered, turning away to leave the room before you heard any of Alicent’s protests. 

You briskly walked through the corridors of the Keep, tears had threatened to spill from your eyes, a coward, a cowardly princess, you scorned to yourself. Sobs wracked at your chest and lungs, the cries were already at your throat. Composure was one thing you prided yourself for, but unraveling discomposure was something you were ashamed of.

You barely noticed the sound of another set of steps following behind you as you entered your chambers.

“Sweetling.”

You froze in place. No one else had called you that in years. Only by your name, princess, sister, never sweetling. You’ve long for this for what felt like ages.

“Aegon has been escorted by the guards to his chambers, please, let us come back now,” he gently said. 

“The night is ruined, do not let this ruin yours as well.”

“Nonsense, we have much to discuss, you and I, is your heart open to it, sweetling?”

Your eyes met his, weighing his intent, you gave a single, decisive nod and swept the chamber door open.

“I see you have not changed a thing here,” Gwayne commented, closing the door behind him.

“Nothing worth changing if no one notices,” you replied coolly.

“I notice the little things.”

“It does not count if you are leagues away from me.”

A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, an arrogant one, “but you forget that I know the fire in your blood than you know yourself.”

“I believe you.”

“Of course you do.”

You mused at that, attempting to look unimpressed at the back and forth, the dancing around, the hesitancy of asking what this really is. This … tension? Strain? You quickly shut those thoughts down as you looked at him, really looked him in the eyes. 

“ … I missed you, uncle,” your sugary tone was sickly sweet to the ears, but most of all, an invitation, an opening.

“As have I,” he tersely replied, somewhat close to a rejection but you had to take your chances.

“The ride here must have been tiring,” you commented, “you cleaned up well, I suppose?”

“I have, the journey was long and dreadful but I am here now.” 

You haven’t taken your eyes off of him, taking his presence all in, savouring it with fervour and longing. 

“I wasn’t well acquainted earlier but … how … have things been in the Keep while I was away?” Gwayne asked suddenly.

“Aegon is always at the Fleabottom, Aemond as well, no matter how discreet he thinks he is, word gets around fast in the Keep. And Helaena … she is busy with her kids, Aegon barely pays any mind at all, to his family and the Realm it seems.”

Gwayne should have known Alicent would not be able to control him, at least Aemond had the decency to attempt at being discreet, however, as soon as you mentioned Helaena, his demeanor softened. 

“How … how is she? The kids?”

You smiled, it softened up the nervousness that settled down your stomach, “they are well, noisy and playful at times, Helaena says I am quite good at taking care of children, I think the latter.”

Gwayne’s mind started to wander, he could imagine children that had inherited your beautiful looks and strong personality. Though the thought of you, his sweetling having children of her own … it made his heart clench, your uncle kept his eyes ahead somewhere else but tried to ask as casually as possible: “is that something you really want? Children of your own?”

“I do, someday, why?” You replied cautiously, you had refused to give everything away just yet, yet. If you only knew his heart behaving exactly the same as yours then you wouldn’t have been blind simpering fools right now. 

If you had looked up, you would have caught the flash of sorrow and … almost despair in his eyes as he had to face the fact that one day you will have children of your own, with someone from another house, further away from you, Oldtown and King’s Landing were already far enough, what more if that lord takes you some place else? He swallowed thickly once more, a nervous habit of his, trying to mask his emotions behind his suave and casual tone. 

“Just out of sheer curiosity. Nothing of importance.” He lied through the grit of his teeth, by that point he’s having a hard time maintaining his composure. 

Your eyes zeroed into his soul, nearly, and scoffed, “I know you like the back of my hand, Gwayne, do you seriously think I do not know when you are lying?” 

‘Gwayne.’  Sounded so absurd coming from you, it’s like you owned him, he tenses up from even a whisper of his name from you but it was different this time around. 

“I have a looming fear of losing you, sweetling,” his voice was hoarse and quiet. “I will miss you, truly. Once that you are wed and happy, having children of your own,” he added, hesitantly.

You heard the reluctance in his raspy whisper, right then and there you could not control the words that came out of you next:

“And you think I would choose another, when my heart demands it be you?”

Gwayne’s heart sank. 

“Sweetling, you know it is not practised in our house, it is forbidden by law, by the eyes of many,” your uncle warned, he was serious and that tone was not one you could challenge without a fight.

“And what of my half-sister Rhaenyra and Daemon?” You asked, using them as an example, the words leaving out of your mouth like it was the easiest thing to bear, the easiest thing for the realm—it had affected Gwayne, the casualness of your voice, the ease, he particularly envied that. 

“That is different and you know it,” Gwayne scolded hastily, perhaps too hastily than he’d liked. 

“Mother and Father made Helaena and Aegon wed, are they not Hightowers by blood?” 

“That was for the sake of keeping your bloodlines pure,” he said, not daring to look at you, Gwayne knew that if he did, he would lose what remains were left of his will-power. A Hightower could only bend so far before they break.

“Almost everyone in my life sees to it that I have no prospects to my name, no use in any of the politics … and I … I willingly want you,” you, his sweetling, challenged him, and it was no fair fight.

“Gods.”

He nearly choked on his own breath at the words you had just spoken, you were already fueled by the adrenaline and spite from the events earlier and he must make sure you were not acting on your emotions and clouded judgement. His mind raced with what you had just said, Gwayne was trying his damndest to hold himself back, to pretend that he did not want, need, what you were giving him so willingly. 

“We are no use for each other, sweetling, love is a privilege and a scarcity, especially for people of our standing.”

“I have not mentioned the word love,” you cornered, backing his courage up against a wall.

He was stronger than that, your uncle squeezed his eyes shut to force away the temptation, to slightly erase you from him, “do not speak to me like that, niece.”

It is like your world crumbled at that word, that scathing tone of his, the spark and incessant hope died along with you, trampled by his foot, that was how easily pliable you are to him. For so long you were starved of his attention, love, and acceptance, the one person who knew who you are, what you liked and disliked, what you needed even without speaking your mind—a settled feeling in your bones that you wanted to keep all to yourself.

“Then let us both forget this conversation ever took place, uncle.” 

You retaliated, the cowardly princess, as other nobles say, reining in the blood of the dragon that flows through her veins. 

Gwayne could not stop the snort of disbelief from coming out of him. Forget? He repeated inside his mind incredulously. He could never forget this. He could never forget you, and how could he when you had just offered yourself to him? Your uncle shook his head, still refusing to look at you, like you were forbidden, yet he couldn’t resist because of the small fear that you may disappear from his life, for good. 

“As if I could,” he replied back, his voice still low, his gaze now on you. 

“You turned me down.”

“I have to.”

He replied immediately, his mind going into panic, he was starting to be unable to think straight. You were offering him the one thing he wanted most and yet he had to reject you. He feared that if you openly spoke of your feelings then he would lose you forever but losing you now would hurt just the same. The feeling was closer to denial than of shame.

“Gods grant me mercy, sweetling—do not weigh this burden heavier than it already stands,” Gwayne pleaded once more, in hopes that you give up but he knows that his attempts were futile, you were stubborn like him.

“You are young. You will find someone else, I am sure of it,” Gwayne reasoned with you, but also himself as well.

“You cannot even speak those words and intend them true, have at least the grace to dull the blade before you strike.” 

Gwayne gritted his teeth, knowing that he could not deny the facts to you without lying to you and himself. His fingers ran into his disheveled hair, at this rate he was practically pulling at his hair at the overwhelming mixture of his emotions—it complicated everything in him. Gwayne was not built for situations like these, he always knew that his life would end in serving his house until his very last breath, that was it … or so he thought.

“Please, sweetling. Have mercy on me. You do not know what you are doing to me.”

“It deals me a mortal blow nonetheless, I pray that you are aware of that. You are the tyrant of my heart.” 

That broke his heart, he took a deep shuddering breath as his entire body went rigid at your words, he refused to become yet another villain in your life, he knew what it felt to be like that, unwanted. 

“You don’t—“ his voice cracked so he stopped himself, trying to regain his voice. 

“You do not know what you are asking of me.”

“I understand, you cannot grant what my soul truly desires,” you spat back, the tears seemingly making the words stuck in your throat as if they betrayed you, “ … it is fine, it seems that no one does.”

Gwayne could very well provide whatever you wanted with all his heart, riches were a second, material things were not of much use, and love held multitudes yet the irresponsibility weighed down on him, betraying what he had known his entire life. It was not a matter of what he was able to do but what he could not do for you. He wanted to protect you from the horrors, the stigma, the suffering—even if it meant twisting the dagger on him.

“Gods damnit!”

He hissed, suddenly losing his patience, it was new, it felt new. 

“Stop this nonsense, sweetling! You’ve no idea what you are doing to me,” Gwayne pleaded, he barely knew how to but for you he would try.

“I do not want a life without you!”

“You cannot have me, it is improper!” He roared back, there were two voices in his head, one that refuses and one that insists, his body was completely trembling from the overwhelming emotion that he felt. 

Gods, he needed you. He craved you. But that just made this whole situation even worse. He wept many nights for you, shamelessly begging the Gods to hear his pleas just for you. His face was hot and his chest hurt, his body ached for you, Gods the ache, his soul ached immensely for you. 

You were not helping this situation by being here, your pout, your stubbornness, your tears. You were his prayer, so alive and so beautiful. Oh, how he wanted your pain to vanish, to make you whole once more, but that door lets in more horrors and he fears nothing but the possibility of you suffering because of giving into selfishness and greed.

All the while you thought to yourself, he was pushing you away, he didn’t want you. 

Something within you reared its ugly head.

Your chest heaved, tears glossed your eyes as you looked at him, betrayed, anguished, who do you run to now? The sound of you trying to bite back your tears struck something within him, it nearly deafened him, he was at a loss for words, and for the first time, Gwayne Hightower did not know what he should do. 

His ‘anger’ melted away instantly, but it was replaced with guilt, sadness, and something so close to longing, you were so close yet so far away, Gwayne thought to himself. 

His shoulder sagged, his walls crumbling down around him, your chambers felt colder than the night. 

“Sweetling … do not cry, please.” 

Gwayne’s voice was soft, hoarse once more, the Gwayne you had known and loved fell through the cracks of his imperfect disguise, desperation lacing his tone.

You shook your head.

“I understand, I apologise for acting so … so childish for not getting what I … for not considering what you feel—” you sighed as you sat down on the edge of your bed, feeling defeated, you distanced yourself from him.

You were so understanding, so perfect, his sweetling but Gods, you had no idea, did you? Rightfully so, he hid them very well.

Unfortunately for Gwayne: it was torture, to hear those words come out of your mouth, like you were undeserving of it, it sounded so wrong, especially coming from you. 

“You are not being childish …”

Gwayne tried to speak to you reassuringly, but failed considering how his own voice quivered, but in the Faith, he must be strong, for you. 

“I just … Gods, sweetling … ”

Gwayne could not focus and could only see you, in front of him, upset and crying. Everything in him retaliated as he refrained from giving it his all,  Gods, he was aching all over. His blood was boiling beneath his skin, his prayer was alive, and it was breathing. He needed to touch you, to hold you, to never let go—his life was chaos without you grounding him. 

Gwayne’s eyes darted to your face, taking in your tear stricken cheek, slowly, he sank down to his knees before you, his legs giving in beneath him—like he was praying in the Sept and you were his god, and him your only devotee. 

Over your skirts, his hands found their way to your thighs, his hot fingers splaying over your skin. His breathing was uneven as his hands trembled against you, he lost his composure, his vulnerability laid bare for the taking. He wept. He prayed for forgiveness. He had asked for mercy, if you could at least lessen the torment beyond the flesh and the Seven. To seek repentance in between your legs while your wanton whispers and sighs were the first scriptures of his religion. 

He wept in the dark. 

His eyes met yours, wet, staring up to you from where he was slumped, all that could be seen in his eyes was desperation, luckily, it matched yours. It surprised you, to see that expression on his face, the hope that, thankfully, lingered, is fully back. 

Gwayne’s fingers dug into your skin as if he was trying to keep himself from passing out, his thumbs rubbed along the soft skin of your skirts as his hands moved up and down, almost shakily. 

His grip on you was tight and nearly bruising, he closed his eyes, his head tilting up towards the ceiling as if he were praying to the Seven above.

His hands were sliding up your legs again, and his face followed your movements. He moved closer to you, inch by painstakingly inch. 

You gathered the courage to speak your mind, this was your chance before he does anything else to sever the connection, to rub more salt into your wounds, to excommunicate you from letting you worship him any further. 

“I can’t—I do not want to live the rest of my life wedded to another and … lie to myself, I cannot do it, I cannot do it Gwayne, not to you,” you confessed, your voice, raw and genuine. You wiped your tears as they fell, your gaze down on your lap as you waited for the final blow.

Your heart in your throat as you waited for his response. Anything. Anything.

Gwayne was so desperately trying to keep himself from falling forward, to have him completely in your arms. His head hung forward, forehead now resting in your lap. He leaned his entire upper body against you, his hands still clutching at your legs. His entire form was shaking, every inch of him was trembling.

“The mere thought of losing you kills me, it angers me that I could not have you sweetling,” Gwayne admitted immediately. 

His face then pressed itself against your stomach, hands clenching the fabric so tightly his fingers were turning white, almost as if it was getting in the way. 

His shoulders heaved as he whispered low against you, almost prayer-like and full of adoration. Gwayne wanted more. His greed was bred by desire, its jaws stay clenched to his throat, waiting for the warm blood to trickle down—to mull over his want and reassure him that his faith in the Seven will salvage him. 

“You have me, Gwayne,” you took his face in your hands, your touch soft and welcoming.

Now the prayer has skin.

And finally, he gave in, the thin thread of self-control he had left eventually snapped.

His grip on your dress, the other hand quickly unlacing the bodice that you hadn’t noticed your dress loosening from your body, Gwayne had to see you.

You went pliant under his touch, your body ran hot to the touch, your hands reached for his doublet and helped him take it off. Once your dress had eventually left your body, you were left in your smallclothes, Gwayne groaned at the beautiful sight presented to him, he couldn’t help himself but kiss your stomach to your thighs, worshipping you the way he wanted to during the cold nights he spent alone thinking about you.

His mouth is wet against your clothed slit, pressing open-mouthed kisses right to above your clit. He was oh so careful not to lick, not without your permission, not yet. His hands pull at your thighs, lifting you a little off the bed with his battle-worn hands, pulling you closer to him.

“Sweetling, please,” he pleaded, a pathetic pout on his lips, a rare sight that invigorated something in you as you nodded, an eager and breathless ‘yes’ was the one that did it for him.

A breathless moan escaped Gwayne at that, feeling the fabric between his fingers. His nose was still pressed to the insides of your thighs as he slid your smallclothes down your legs, with slight difficulty due to your position, but he managed, tossing them somewhere in your chambers. His hands found your legs again, holding them open as his mouth met your exposed core, finally letting himself lick a slow stripe up your clit. 

Victory has never tasted so sweet to Gwayne before.

He groaned against you at the feeling of warmth between your legs against his face. His hands gripped your legs, fingers digging into your skin. He couldn’t think straight, it was pure instinct, it felt so right, that it had him grinding his face against your wetness, pressing his mouth against your slit. Something so feral took over him and the animalistic urge to have more of you consumed every thought and action he had. 

Gwayne groaned again, the noise muffled against your skin. This time, he pushed his tongue in you and let himself taste you, this action earned him a wanton whine from you, your hand gripping his hair as he licked and licked. 

His hands moved up to gripped your ass roughly and pushed you more against his face. His tongue pressed against your clit and then to your weeping hole, in alternate strokes to not neglect you, he made sure that your pleasure mattered more above all else.

“Gwayne!”

It sounded melodic, it was music to his ears as he moaned at the sound of his name coming out of your lips, and his grip on your legs tightened. 

There was this distant feeling coiled in your belly, you could not help but close your thighs, squeezing them around Gwayne’s head as the feeling became unbearable to control. He was careful and careless, nothing in between, as he pleasured you with reverence.

Your moans nearly made him lose his patience and mind, his hands kept your legs spread wide enough and your back arched a bit with the way he held you. Gwayne hummed, sending vibrations to your core as he continued to lick at your clit, tongue swirling in a way that made your hips twitch as moaned and panted out his name. A muffled sweetling could be heard from him, his tongue relentless at the taste of you, he wanted to be here forever. 

“G-Gods—” you stammered, you could feel it, it was so close. 

Gwayne doubled his efforts, his eyes were on you as you whimpered unintelligibly before tensing up, crying out to him once more. 

You could not control the salacious whine that had escaped your lips as you reached your peak, you ground your hips against his face, earning a small whimper from him as he doubled his efforts.

It had felt degrading, humiliating, debasing, Gods, you could not help yourself but offer more of yourself to Gwayne—you’ve given so much that there is almost none left for the Seven. Instead of offering prayers on your knees, you look up and see his debauched face staring back at you, and you have never seen something so sacred before.

The sounds that were emitted from Gwayne’s hunger mixed with your arousal were both lewd and sloppy as he helped you come down from your high, carefully placing kisses on your inner thighs, devoting himself to you. 

“I need you,” you choked out, feeling slightly overstimulated from what had occurred prior, in bated breaths you attempt to ground yourself to this moment, to the present, to him—he was yours, finally.

“Are you … you are certain, sweetling?” 

“I choose you, wholly, no one else.”  

Your words ignited a flame within him, lighting the way towards ecstasy and bliss. Gwayne guided you to the pile of pillows that sat perfectly on your bed as he stripped the rest of the clothes that clung onto his skin until he was left with his smallclothes, he then drops them, cock springing free, which was thick and flushed with heavy balls.

There was a certain energy to him that completely changed, he was unashamed and fully yours.

He climbed onto the bed, his body slotting between your legs, your body was trembling, still sensitive.

Gwayne’s hands are everywhere again, palming your thighs, sliding up your hips, gripping your waist to pull you down toward him. You let out a soft gasp, hands scrambling to hold onto him. Gwayne is careful as he lines himself up with your slick core, letting the head of his cock drag through your folds before just barely nudging your clit, deliberately teasing you. You whined at that, nails scratching his arms as he chuckles right before aligning himself to you.

With one deep, slow thrust that feels like splitting you open, Gwayne sinks into you, he was home, complete, fulfilled. Gwayne bottoms out, his hips press flush against yours and he feels your cunt fluttering around him. He pressed himself even closer to you, he needs to be closer, to feel you more, his groans and pants went straight to your ears as he praised you for taking him so well, “you are doing so well, sweetling, so good for me.”

As soon as he felt you go lax, he started to rut into you with long and deeper strokes, to let you feel him inch by inch, helping you adjust to his size and let your body get acquainted with his own. Gwayne is precise as he rolls his hips, his eyes locked on yours in every thrust, his pelvis rolling against your clit. 

Your moans were wanton and genuine, deliciously mixing with his own, your hands gripped Gwayne, holding him closer to you, your vision spotty from the sparks of pleasure coming from between your bodies. You were in a daze as he fucked you with fevour, your cunt devouring his cock, your arousal welcoming him further into your womb as he moved methodically against you.

Gwayne was in bliss, his groans mixing well with your own, he was unable to help himself as he placed kisses on your neck and parts of your face. You could not stop the whines that spilled from your soft lips as he shoves himself deep inside you, stroked harder and rough enough to make your tits bounce in each movement. Gwayne panted as he thrust into you, eyes closed shut at the way your walls clamp down on his cock.

You could not stop the pleas that left you, whole was an understatement, you needed more of Gwayne, needed him like you’ve never done before, needed him like you did all your life. He does something again with his movements, you keen, pussy creaming around him even more as your nails dig into his biceps to try and keep yourself upright on your bed, undoubtedly struggling to keep your gaze focused on Gwayne’s eager ones. 

Gwayne keeps you interlocked with himself, he could tell you were a whisper away from your peak, he is so deep inside of you, and his balls slapping against your swollen clit is starting to make your head swirl even more, his movements gaining more purpose, surprising you with a cacophony of sensations. 

“Gwayne!” You cry out, your sheets shift beneath you both as he drives forward, Gwayne throbs inside you, watching the way your cunt sucks him back in every time he tries to pull back. Your walls are closing in on him, like he was made for you to complete, the mere thought makes him feel elated at the notion of having more with you, his sweetling, his only sweetling.

Gwayne kept fucking his cock against that soft spot inside you that certainly had felt like seeing the Gods almost immediately, he was so attentive, so afraid of seeing you in discomfort. But when his rhythm changed and angled his thrusts at a certain angle, he saw you livid, within seconds you came around him, your reflexes pulled him closer to you, a loud whine leaving your lips as your arousal coat his thighs and cock.

Gwayne loses it as he thrusts a little more to reach his own, his breathing faint as he moves methodically against you, he reaches for that spot once more, wishing to gain yet another peak from his sweet sweetling. 

“One more sweetling, please sweetling, just one more.” 

He notices your reflexes once more, he pounds into you, encouraging your peak again, and it does. Your walls clamped down on him and that triggered his own, Gwayne’s cock filling your pussy, hitting the barrier of your womb with every other thrust, the overstimulation was affecting you in more ways than one. You cry out and peaked again, and he groans and finishes inside of you, filling you up to the brim. He fucks both of your mixed essences into you after stuffing you full, breeding you, slowly. 

Gwayne leans down to press open mouthed kisses against your cheek, then kisses you on the lips with a subtle smile, a pompous one you could feel it. He pulls away to admire your wanton state, adores it wholly and fully.

“I love you, sweetling, you are so good to me,” he whispers.

You smiled softly at that, pressing a sweet and soft kiss on his lips, “I love you too, Gwayne.”

His prayers and cries in the dark were finally heard. The prayer has skin.

It breathes life … and the breath yours. 

© 2026 𝙂𝙒𝘼𝙔𝙉𝙀𝙎-𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂! i condemn plagiarism of any kind and feeding my work to ai, NO AI here! my writing may be shit but it is my shit.

[drag0ndre4ms]

devotion wore her name

summary: In an AU where Viserys dies peacefully and Rhaenyra takes the throne, Princess Alysanne Targaryen grows up under the steady shadow of Ser Gwayne Hightower: her sworn protector, her childhood hero, and the knight she has adored since she was small.

genre/warnings:18+ — minors do not interact! — slow burn (like... really slow burn), forbidden romance, age gap (10 years), arranged marriage, mutual pining, yearning, hurt/comfort, emotional infidelity, eventual adultery, knight × princess, sworn protector, friends to lovers, childhood crush, devotion as a love language, religious guilt, lots of angst with plenty of fluff, war (Stepstones campaign), battle injuries, grief and mourning, court politics, targaryen!OC(rhaenyra's sister, daughter to Aemma and Viserys), protective!Gwayne, soft!OC, pious!Gwayne, emotionally constipated!Gwayne, emotionally intelligent!OC, Daemon begrudgingly respecting a Hightower, Aegon is just... there, happy ending.

part1 here

part2 here

part3 here

part4 here

part5 here

[rottenbites]

CHAINS OF LOVE

pairing: sworn protector!gwayne hightower x fem!targtower reader

summary: after the death of your sworn protector, your mother queen alicent appoints her brother, gwayne hightower, as your new one. tensions run high, and it doesn’t make it better that your uncle gwayne is dashingly handsome, and even more forbidden.

content warnings: age gap ( reader is twenty, gwayne is in his thirties ), uncle/niece incest, forbidden romance, canon typical violence and gore, pre dance of the dragons, aegon is a creep, criston cole’s public enemy number one, eventual smut, allusions of assault

word count: to be added

authors note: as many of my ideas, this came to me when i couldn’t sleep, and i am so happy for that fucked up schedule bc i am so excited for this!!! gwayne is so dada and him being your sworn protector??? oh i’m sat. this is also my first time dabbling in asoiaf incest, and i’d just like to say i don’t condone it ( obviously ), and this is just for writing purposes. i hope you guys like this story, and don’t be shy to leave comments along the way!!!

CHAPTER ONE: ser mark mullendore

CHAPTER TWO: the art of teasing the pious

CHAPTER THREE: altars

CHAPTER FOUR: moonfyre

CHAPTER FIVE: in the woods somewhere

CHAPTER SIX: aegon the cruel

CHAPTER SEVEN: hazed smoke

CHAPTER EIGHT: in the name of the seven

divider by @dollywons

taglist: @silkaurum @pinkdoeweirdo @lustedbby @userhotd @carmysdoll @valarrsgirl @fluttervoid @vlarrtrgryn @starr-jazz @faesspace @starsandstars @erraticqueendestiny @hwaofdreams @fancyvoidtragedy @athenaaaxo1 @siriusthebright @theprophaecy @exhibit--f @redstappen @motelmorado @lanabanana12711 @sweetestgrace @lin-djarin @stillinraccooncity @5tuck-on-y0u @ctrl-alt-delulu @fluorescentadolescent1 @starcrossedtrek @pickledturnips @daydreamerbunny @undeeesthoughts @edenofnazareth @stwrlghts @berrikun @mbltmm @or-was-it-just-a-dream @fakeplastiqtree @gwayneism @w1nchesterfiles @fiiorii @writer-jamie @hadesnumber1daughter @andherewego-again @pixel-pixie-xo @oliviaohanessian1 @rando-leigh @catmom7

comment if you want to be added to the taglist!!!

[targlocket]

SWEET TASTE OF PRAYER

gwayne hightower x wife!reader

cw: (mdni +18), oral (f!receiving), praise, face humping, fluff fluff fluff, unplanned voyerism (cole watches them lol), dirty talk, hair pulling, sub!gwayne if you squint really hard, scent kink, pussy drunk gwayne, dry humping, (1.7kw).

synopsis: It is said Ser Gwayne knows not how to please a woman. Is it truth or lie?

Ser Criston taunts Gwayne about his supposed inexperience with women, even if he has a lady wife, betrothed to him for a few fortnights already.

Surely he doesn't know how to please you, right?

Too pious, too knightly to even know where to put his cock, most likely. Oldtown's teachings must've left him bereft of any talk about a lady's cunt or other erogenous places.

He's sure all those letters the knight keeps sending back to Oldtown are full of prayers and flowery words meant to soothe his lady, and nothing sort of salacious, like the other knights oftentimes scribble on the parchment meant for home.

A man like Gwayne has no knack for such things, Cole is sure of it.

"Your lady longs for you so much that you're sending a second letter this fortnight, Ser Gwayne?"

And the Hightower heir can sense the slight dissatisfaction beneath Ser Criston's tone, but he does not dwell upon it. Only smiles, nodding. "Yes, Ser. My lady worries, for her heart is pure and sensible. I must do what I can to quell her doubt of any mishaps that might've befallen me."

"Ah, of course. A most dutiful husband you are, Ser."

It isn't until their troops inevitably need to fall back to Oldtown two moons later that Gwayne gets to see his sweet lady wife again.

You've been waiting for this moment for so long, your heart hammering into your chest like a bird's wings as you see your husband's horse trot through the gates.

No one and nothing matters when you finally are cradled in Gwayne's arms, pressed to his steel-clad chest, sweet nothings whispered against your temple as your man peppers your warm skin with kisses of tenderness and longing.

Ser Criston looks away from the sight, scoffing. He knew the acclaimed Hightower heir was good for nothing but sweet presses of lips and warm embraces. Not even a kiss on the lips when greeting his lady wife? He should be ashamed to not bestow such gifts upon a gorgeous creature such as you.

Later, when the crowd had thinned and most knights were off to their sleeping arrangements, the Commander had to do one last search of their horses and supplies before calling it a night as well.

What Cole didn't think to find in the stables was Gwayne, on his knees, head squeezed between your thighs as he feasted on your cunt, moaning like a man starved, the sound muffled by the folds of your pussy.

The sight stopped Ser Criston dead in his tracks.

Ser Gwayne. Pious, dutiful, ever devoted to the faith, now sitting in the same position one would for prayer, but using his mouth not to plead to the Gods, but to bring his lady pleasure.

And what immense pleasure he did bring, for your hands were fisted in his auburn hair, tugging with intent, the demand for more crystal clear. You wanted more, smushing the knight into your heat, hips grinding against his face with abandon as you whined, trying to quiet the volume of your wantonness with your hand pressed to your mouth, but it was in vain. Nothing felt as good as your husband's tongue between your legs, only second to the feeling of his cock splitting you open.

"Yes, yes, my love, yes," fell from your ruddy lips, eyes glistening with unshed tears from how good Gwayne was making you feel. "I missed your mouth greatly," you lilted, fingers unrelenting as they weaved through your husband's hair, offering him respite from your rough insistence, petting him as you would an obedient hound as he continued to circle his tongue against your hole, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit. "Couldn't wait until we were together anew, husband."

All you got in return was another moan, unbashed and wet from the slick of your cunt against Gwayne's mouth, your words spurring him on, broad palms smoothing up your thighs to lift your skirts higher, bunching them at the waist, held in his fists. "My sweet wife," he babbled, flattening his tongue from hole to clit, parting your folds on the ascent. "The moons without your cunt have been dreadful," your knight says, words woven around a whine, lapping at the peeking nub between every word, kindling the heat in your lower belly. "Not being able to taste you each morrow left me wanting, even in times of battle and bloodshed."

Oh, what a debauched picture that was. Your dutiful husband, ever present when called to arms, thinking about worshipping between your legs as he swung his sword, falling enemies and stealing breath after breath from steel-clad men. The thought made you shiver, brushing auburn hair from Gwayne's temples to get a good look at those baby blues you so cherished, a dopey smile onto your lips as you whispered. "You must be cautious, my love," you chastised, albeit tenderly, running your fingers through his hair to soothe, hoping the ache for you had dwindled, if only a little. "Such thoughts might distract you, and then you might not come back to me."

Gwayne shook his head swiftly upon hearing your reprimand, leaning into your touch as a flower moves towards the sun, soaking up all its warmth down to the marrow. "Never," he protested, eyes widening, ever eager to prove his devotion to you. "I shall never fall to another man's sword, if it meant not seeing you again, sweetling," and he turns his face towards one of your palms, pressing a searing kiss upon the skin as he whispers. "That is my solemn vow."

You feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest and splatter at your husband's feet from the earnestness of his promise, weaving warmth along your body, from your head down to your toes, a full-body gratefulness at having such allegiance offered to you.

"A vow you had upheld valiantly, my love," you praise, your hand shifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing against the plump of his bottom lip as you slowly tug him down, back towards your cunt, to which he allows without resistance. "One for which you shall have the prize you so dreamt of, even in bloodshed."

Gwayne's tongue lolls out as you guide his head, eager to have you on his palate again, eyes fluttering shut as the sweet musk of your pussy becomes more potent. It coaxed him to dip his chin so he could press his nose in damp curls and inhale deeply, exhaling a punched-out groan, as if he had forgotten the smell of you in the mere moments that had passed since he'd been tongue deep between your thighs.

"This cunt is a gift from the Gods, sweetling," he praises, mouth open and panting against your folds, just breathing you in lungful by lungful. "I wish I could have it with me on campaign," Gwayne continues, white-knuckling the skirts bunched at your waist, as if the imagery of such a thing wounds him. "Feast on it from morrow to dawn. Allow you to have my tongue whenever you please, my love."

You cannot help but moan at such a confession, fingers returning to his auburn strands to grip and tug, eliciting a muffled whine from your husband, whose tongue dipped between your folds anew, flicking at your clit on the upstroke, knowing how much you favoured it. "You're so good to me, husband," you coo, lips curling into a loving smile, holding your knight still by his hair as your hips resume their grinding, humping against Gwayne's awaiting tongue, using him for your pleasure.

And he loves it. Gods, does he love it. Blue eyes half-lidded, heated with love and lust as he only gives you more of it, poking his tongue as far as it would go for you to rub your clit against, moaning with each movement of your hips, bringing you even closer by the grip on your skirts.

"Oh, my sweet husband," you moan, feeling the heat tingling up your spine and pooling low in your belly with each wet swipe against your clit. "I can't wait to have your cock as well." The words are the opposite of pious, not at all what a lady wife should offer her betrothed, but you are past caring. "For your mouth feels heavenly, and still, I cannot wait to feel you inside me again."

The words melt and light Gwayne in equal measure, feeling his cock strain even harder against his breeches, hips kicking, rubbing himself along the seam of his pants in anticipation of what's to come. He nods, the motion making his tongue rub in rapid succession along your clit, the stimulation so delicious it makes you cry out, wanton and unbashed. Words fail him, the only thing that matters now being making you cum so he can sheathe himself into your pussy and have you milk him for all he's worth, like a prized stallion made for breeding.

It doesn't take long for your back to arch off of the hay bale you are lounging upon, Gwayne's name on your lips, your juices flowing down his tongue and chin, which your husband laps greedily. He has to stop the grind of his hips to not cum into his breeches like an untrained squire, even if the friction of his hard cock against the material of his pants feels heavenly.

He knows your pussy surpasses that by the thousands, which is why he forces himself to still the pathetic humping of his hips. It's only moments now until he'll be inside you, letting you catch your breath, pressing sweet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs and behind your knees as he massages the muscle there, willing you pliant and lax for what's to come. "Thank you, sweetling. Gods, so pretty for me," he whispers against warm skin, reverent and grateful, mouth still wet with your slick. "Missed you so much. Never want to be away from you again. Never, never—"

Perhaps it's safe to assume that Ser Criston Cole will not utter a word about Gwayne and his lack of prowess anytime soon, after what he witnessed tonight.

[brightflamer]

scantily clad

- sworn protector!gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader

synopsis. You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or you’ll die. Luckily, your sister—the queen—can be quite the matchmaker.

contents. SMUT, no war au (rhaenyra is queen), reader is a targaryen princess and rhaenyra's younger sister, gwayne is her sworn protector, reader has fem anatomy and is addressed as a princess, sex pollen/fuck or die, mentions of suicide, oral (f!recieving), loss of virginity, unprotected sex, p in v, finger sucking, slight praise kink, not proofread

Your body burns.

No, it feels more like if your body was actually truly burning in a fire, perhaps from that of your dragon, as if you’d told it to rain flames upon you. You may consider that option if it comes down to it. If someone didn’t touch you soon, you were going to explode.

Instead you were writhing and squirming on your bed in front of your own sister—the queen—and you would much rather be dead. She looks at you with that callous smirk, as if she thinks she knows something. Something you don’t want to tell the maesters.

“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.

He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”

“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.

Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.

The windows are open.

“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.

“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.

“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”

Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.

“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”

“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.

Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”

She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”

“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.

She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.

“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.

You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t, Your Grace.”

She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”

You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.

And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.

You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.

You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”

Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”

“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”

“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.

You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.

“What did you say?” she asks softly.

“I had a potion brewed.”

Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“

“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”

“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”

“No…” you mumble.

“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”

You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.

The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.

“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.

You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.

You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.

The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.

Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.

The door swings open again.

Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.

The person unveils themself from the shadows.

It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.

Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.

“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.

The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.

You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.

“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”

“Help with what?” you breathe.

He remains silent.

“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.

Silence.

“Tell me. I command it.”

His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”

“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”

He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”

“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.

“How it can be cured,” he adds.

Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.

When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.

You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.

“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”

Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.

“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.

“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.

Not only is he able, he is willing.

He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.

You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.

Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—

You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.

“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”

You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?

But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.

Why must you tell him?

You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.

He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.

You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.

Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”

And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.

It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.

You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.

He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.

Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.

An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.

Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.

Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.

Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.

It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.

But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.

He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.

“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.

“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.

“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”

“My what?” he pants.

“I need you inside,” you mutter.

Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.

He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.

Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.

You nod lazily.

He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.

They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.

He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.

You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.

Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.

Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.

His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.

Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.

Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.

His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.

Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.

He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.

His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.

“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.

You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.

He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.

His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.

“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.

“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.

“Kiss me.”

As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.

Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.

“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.

It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.

You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.

“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.

“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”

You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”

“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.

You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.

Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.

“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.

He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”

You chuckle breathily.

“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.

“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.

Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.

In less than a minute, you’re beneath him again, his fingers pumping in and out of you.

[chuluoyi]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 — gallery

a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale... but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. in a dance of dragons and throes of fire and blood, where will each of you stand when your sisters are pitted against each other for the iron throne?

genre: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, romance and fluff, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), pregnancy, childbirth, spoilers! from house of the dragon and fire & blood

:: MASTERLIST ::

001 — to court a princess a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?

002 — light the hightower ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before

003 — bundle of joy pious, devout and charming, your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...

004 — the princess and the knight (synopsis coming soon...)

:: DRAMATIS PERSONAE ::

you — princess of the realm. younger daughter of king viserys i targaryen and the late queen aemma arryn, sister to princess rhaenyra, and a dragonrider bonded to grey ghost. strict and reserved, you mostly keep to yourself. as a young girl, you harbored feelings for the dashing ser gwayne hightower—the brother of your and your sister’s childhood companion, lady alicent. but the moment your father took her as his second wife, you buried those feelings deep, well-aware that it’s the design of the power-seeking lord hand. however, in an attempt to tie the blacks and greens together, a betrothal binds you to the knight you have long admired, dooming you both as the house of the dragon fractures

gwayne hightower — noble knight of house hightower. the son of the hand of the king, and brother to queen alicent hightower. gwayne was left and raised in oldtown, and despite his estrangement with his father and sister, he has deep familial love for them. honorable, noble, yet possessing a touch of highborn arrogance, he has quietly carried a flame for the younger princess of the seven kingdoms ever since you offered him grace following his defeat by your uncle in the heir’s tourney, but was hesitant to act on his affections until his betrothal to you. his love for you is pure and genuine, but conflicts against his duty towards his house

© CHULUOYI. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any platforms

[leclercsainzz]

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 — 𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑

𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

⟡ 𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗦𝗜𝗡’𝗦 𝗪𝗜𝗙𝗘 || @danysdaughter

⟡ 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗞𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 (𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦) || @chuluoyi

⟡ 𝗜 𝗦𝗛𝗨𝗧 𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗗, 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗗 𝗘𝗬𝗘𝗦 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗦 𝗙𝗢𝗨𝗥 || @milkvetch114

⟡ 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗕𝗘 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 | 𝟮 || @lovebugism

⟡ ↳ 𝗧𝗥𝗬 𝗔 𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗦

⟡ 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗧𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗡 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 & 𝗛𝗔𝗧𝗘 || @iydiamartinx

⟡ 𝗧𝗢 𝗕𝗘 𝗔𝗟𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗬𝗢𝗨 | 𝗧𝗢 𝗕𝗘 𝗚𝗢𝗡𝗘 || @brightflamer

⟡ 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗨𝗔𝗚𝗘 || @cosmictheo

⟡ 𝗦𝗜𝗡 𝗢𝗙 𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗘𝗢𝗨𝗦 || @sylasthegrim

⟡ ↳ 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗣𝗔𝗧𝗛𝗦 𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗥𝗨𝗜𝗡

⟡ ↳ 𝗢𝗔𝗧𝗛 𝗢𝗙 𝗗𝗘𝗩𝗢𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

⟡ 𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞 𝗧𝗢 𝗬𝗢𝗨 || @jxerv

⟡ 𝗛𝗜𝗥𝗔𝗘𝗧𝗛 | 𝗡𝗘𝗣𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗘 | 𝗔𝗚𝗔𝗣𝗘 || @quasyzygy

⟡ 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗟𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡 𝗙𝗔𝗟𝗟 || @wonderlanderings

⟡ 𝗘𝗖𝗛𝗢𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗔 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗘 || @novaursa

⟡ 𝗜 𝗥𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗘𝗥, 𝗦𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗧 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘, 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗟𝗢𝗡𝗚 || @ghostlybfgf

⟡ 𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗖𝗜𝗧 𝗔𝗙𝗙𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗦 || @dearlizzies-rip

[mariasont]

failure of imagination

you approach everything clinically, including poorly constructed sex scenes in books. dr langdon decides to take that as an invitation to give you a proper sex ed lesson.

pairings: nerd!reader x frank langdon

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, reader reading smut, virgin!reader (kind of implied more than outright stated), innocence kink, corruption kink, langdon supplying reader with an sex book?, literally so freaked out and for what, female masturbation, phone sex, langdon talking you thru it!!!

wc: 6.2k

You’ve always had a somewhat fraught relationship with imagination. People say you lack it, to put it plainly. They say you’re too literal. As if being literal isn’t the reason airplanes stay in the air and bridges remain standing. 

But you just happen to find reality plenty beautiful. More than beautiful, actually. Reassuring. There is dignity in a thing that can be tested, reproduced, and counted on.

Newton’s law. The sodium-potassium pump. Entropy. Even the grimmer systems at least are consistent if nothing else.

So naturally, medicine was what you pursued in college. Everything means something. Everything is attached to something else. Symptoms are not random; bodies are not whimsical.

Even if an answer is hidden, it exists, and if you are willing to stay with a problem long enough, turn it over enough times, peel it apart layer by layer and build it back from the inside out, eventually it reveals itself.

Fiction does not afford you that courtesy. Fiction wants you to tolerate blank spaces and gaps. You hate gaps. You love knowing.

Fiction gives you half a scene and waits expectantly, like congratulations, now you do the labor.

Build the room. Place the bodies. Infer the angles. Ignore, apparently, that the human body is not an abstract concept but a heavily regulated system of hinges and limits and gravity and very obvious spatial constraints. 

You are experiencing one of those gaps now, staring so hard at the page your eyes begin to sting a little, focus tightening to a punitive little point. You think if you look at it severely enough the scene might resolve into something you can understand.

The book says the woman is “on top,” which should be clear enough on its own, except the next sentence immediately ruins that clarity by describing angles that do not, as far as you can tell, exist in three-dimensional space. 

And you have so many questions.

Is there a bed involved here? A couch? A floor? Any surface at all?

You reread the line. Maybe you overlooked a prepositional phrase hiding in plain sight. A detail that will clarify whose leg is bent and why it apparently now has the range of motion of a paper clip.

Nothing. No luck. Still opaque.

Possibly more vague now, because repetition has begun to dissolve whatever confidence you had in your own reading abilities.

It is difficult to overstate how humiliating it is to be bested by mediocre smut. 

You sigh and look to your watch. 9:18 p.m. Late. The bus is always late. That’s why you have this book in your hand in the first place, wanting to turn dead time into something educational. Unfortunately that’s not how it’s going.

You blow out a breath as another gust of wind snakes over the exposed strip of skin between your socks and the hem of your jeans.

They used to hit lower on your ankle, but courtesy of your building’s shitty communal dryer, they don’t do that anymore.

“Interesting reading choice.”

It is not a voice you prepared yourself to hear. You weren’t prepared to hear a voice at all, really.

So when you hear the familiar pitch of Landon, your body overcorrects, sending you backward like a startled deer losing traction on ice.

You see the next ten seconds in a flash: the hollow thunk of your head on the pole behind you, the stuttering apologies delivered as your vision tunnels, the concussion protocols that will surely haunt you for weeks, months, possibly forever.

But those ten seconds never actually happens.

Instead, you cautiously peer up into the flat, coolly appraising expression of Langdon, whose hand is placed behind your head, taking the brunt of the impact.

“Oh. Hi. Dr. Langdon. I, um, this isn’t — I’m not —” You’re already floundering, trying to assemble something defensible out of a situation that is not defensible. “It was recommended,” you say at last, which is true, though not in a way that sounds remotely exculpatory once spoken aloud. “By Javadi. She said it was good, which I assumed meant, like, well-written, not — this. Which I know sounds — I hear it, I hear how it sounds, but I didn’t just, like, seek this out independently. I was curious from a clinical standpoint.”

Shit.

You just lobbed Victoria under the bus didn’t you? And unlike the literal bus, this metaphorical one arrived enthusiastically on time, probably even honked.

You add it to the growing ledger of things you owe her. Coffee, at the very least. Something artisanal, thoughtful, handcrafted.

A note, handwritten in apology, because email would be cowardly and texting would feel insufficient, and really — after what you’ve just done, you’re not sure anything short of ink, paper, and a tangible record of shame could suffice.

He removes his hand, the pressure at the back of your head disappearing as he shifts to rest it along the bench behind you instead.

“Clinical,” he repeats. His eyes flick briefly to the book in your hands, then back to you, unimpressed. “And what have you concluded so far, doctor?”

“Not a doctor yet,” you point out. Not sure why you do. “But, um, just that it’s just not very clear? Like, the scenes move really fast, and I feel like I’m missing steps in between, so I keep trying to visualize what’s happening and I just end up getting stuck on, like… where everything is supposed to go and —” You stop, frowning now. “You — you probably didn’t actually want an answer to that, did you?”

His mouth pulls just enough to suggest he’s entertained despite himself. “Not initially.”

You nod. “Okay, good, because I definitely wasn’t planning to provide detail. Just, you know — general plausibility stuff. Realism concerns.”

“Let me see,” he says, and before your frazzled brain can form an adequate objection, he's already reaching forward, extracting the paperback from your suddenly slackened grasp.

You stand abruptly, the bench scraping in a terrible sound against concrete as you reach for the book.

“You really don’t have to do that.”

A correct statement. Useless, however, as he lifts the novel out of reach without even looking at you, arm extending just enough to make it clear that this is not a negotiation, and also, somewhat insultingly, not even difficult.

You briefly consider climbing him. Scaling him like a distressed, socially compromised marsupial and retrieving the book by force.

It feels like a viable solution. You dismiss it only on the grounds that in the last five minutes alone, accumulated enough embarrassment to sustain a normal person for at least two lifetimes.

And theoretically there should be a cap.

There is not, apparently.

Because after a brief glance at the page, he starts reading aloud: “She sank down on him with an aching slowness, savoring the stretch of it, the sweet friction that made her pulse flutter faster with every roll of her body. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her, keeping her there while the pleasure mounted in teasing waves until she was shaking with it, desperate and almost there.”

You feel the heat spark up your spine and towards you neck before saturating your face. The intensity momentarily blurs your vision.

Your hands tighten uselessly at your sides, a strange, unfamiliar tightness coiling low in your stomach.

You try your very hardest not to let your mind start making substitutions. You try not to let the faceless bodies on that page acquire identifiable features. A chin dimple, for instance. You try not to let the voice in front of you fuse itself any further to the text than it already has.

You wrench your gaze upward, fixing it somewhere behind his left ear, hoping that physical distance might somehow dilute your newfound imagination that just five minutes ago you were bashing.

He closes the book with a snap, eyebrow arched. “Sounds perfectly reasonable.”

“I mean, maybe,” you respond, a little too quickly. “If there were just… more specifics? Like, about the positioning. The angle, or where —” You take a quick breath. “Never mind.”

“And exactly how would you clarify it?”

“I’d probably just… add another line,” you say. “Like, specify that her hips are lower, or that her weight is shifted forward so her center of gravity is closer to his. Just so it’s clear what’s actually happening.”

He doesn’t say anything right away and when his eyes flick forward again, they look a little different beneath the dark of the sky, the blue of them deepened into something richer. A little less straightforward, you think. Lapis held in low light, saturated in silver strips and a little too pretty.

You watch as his tongue drags across his lower lip, the briefest glimpse of moisture highlighting the subtle contours and fine, shallow ridges of texture there.

“If you’re that concerned with accuracy,” he murmurs, “I’m sure there’s ways to run a practical demonstration.”

You have a hard time understanding what he means by that and when your mind does attempt to furnish the words with imagery, you have to recoil from your own thoughts.

Does he mean with him?

No, surely not, that is not where he wanted this conversation to go, and besides, that interpretation feels reckless, egotistical even, considering he is almost certainly saying it in the most neutral, solution-driven sense possible.

If that’s what he’s saying at all. He might not be. You can’t tell.

He is offering a suggestion for you.

You are the one making it weird.

“Oh. Well, it’d probably end up being more complicated than it’s worth. I’d need a controlled setup, probably multiple attempts, and at that point it’s less a demonstration and more a full reconstruction.”

A muscle feathers along his jaw as he tips his face towards the moon-lit sky. He seems to do that a lot. Like he’s appealing to some higher power for fortitude to deal with you. Or maybe not you specifically, which would be preferable, expect it does feel rather like you are the central to the current crisis, you just aren’t sure how.

Then he exhales a small laugh, thin with disbelief, and shakes his head once. 

“You’re right,” he says, voice deadpan. “Clearly I wasn’t thinking this through. Practicality first.” He glances pointedly at his watch. “It’s late. I’ll give you a ride home.”

You accept his offer without arguing, you’d be a fool not to, and trail him out toward the parking lot. A step behind, then a half step, then back again. You can’t quite decide on the appropriate proximity.

When you reach the row of cars, you realize you’ve never seen his before.

It’s nice. Grey, practical, a four-door SUV that screams fiscal responsibility and weather-appropriate footwear, a vehicle with divorced-dad energy so specific you can practically invent the rest of the man around it: patient at youth soccer, quietly resentful in a grocery store parking lot, pretending not to be wounded by logistical disappointments. 

The interior only deepens the impression. It is clean, but not in a forbidding way, not scrubbed of personality.

There is a toy in the cupholder, a crumpled napkin tucked into the side compartment, a few fast-food receipts scattered near the floor like the residue of a life conducted at speed.

It feels lived in, which is somehow more intimate than if it had been spotless.

It is, disconcertingly, human. More human than you expected from a man who often carries himself like a sealed document. 

Nice, you think again, and then, unhelpfully, him, the two notions beginning to blur together before you can stop them.

It’s a relatively quiet drive to start. The radio tuned to some Catholic station it must have picked up nearby, murky and hard to decipher, while streetlights drift past in bands of orange and green, staining the inside of the car with color and then taking it back.

“Javadi really recommended that?” Frank asks suddenly, piercing the silence.

“Yeah,” you admit, then wince almost immediately. “Well, sort of. I mean, I probably should not make it sound like she shoved it into my hands in some kind of corrupting-the-youth campaign. She mentioned it, but I was already curious. It was not not my idea.” You glance down, suddenly very interested in your own hands. “I’ve just been trying to do a little research, I guess.”

His fingers tap once against the steering wheel.

“And what, specifically, are you hoping to learn?”

Your mouth presses thin for a second. You’re not sure if you should continue.

“I was mostly just trying to get a better sense of... how certain things work in real life,” you say, picking each word carefully. “As opposed to in theory. Or in whatever version of reality people usually pretend is self-explanatory.”

He says nothing at first. Then through grit teeth: “You mean because no one’s explained it to you?”

You glance over, caught a little off guard by the question. “Well, not in any useful sense.”

His jaw flexes. 

“And the alternative,” he says slowly, “was assigned reading.”

You wince. “When you phrase it like that, it does sound bleak.”

“When I phrase it like that, it sounds like you’re trying to teach yourself something most people learn by experience.”

“Well,” you mumble, “yes. More or less.”

The light changes and he brakes, the red wash from the signal pouring through the windshield and across his face, tinting his skin rose-gold.

He screws his eyes shut for a brief second, hands drawing tighter on the wheel before he exhales.

“In that case,” he says, opening his eyes again, “I’m not entirely convinced that’s the most reliable educational resource.”

“Why?” you ask, with enough sincere confusion to make it clear you are not arguing so much as requesting clarification. 

The light turns green.

“Because it’s not source material. It’s entertainment.” His tone stays level, but only just. “It takes whatever is most dramatic, most flattering, most appealing, and presents it like it’s standard. It leaves out the parts that are inconvenient or unsexy, which means if you treat it as educational, you’re going to come away with a very distorted sense of how any of it actually works.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “There were definitely sections where I kept thinking, surely that cannot be how that happens. Or at least not without significantly more preparation, flexibility, or orthopedic intervention than the text was willing to acknowledge.”

“So I gathered.”

You fall quiet after that, though not for lack of further questions. In fact the opposite is true, because now he has accidentally positioned himself as a person with knowledge of how sex works.

But that would be inappropriate on at least six different levels. 

He is driving you home as a favor, not volunteering to become some kind of after-hours consultant on the mechanics of sex, and there is no universe in which asking for elaboration would make you seem anything other than catastrophically unwell.

You almost ask him anyway. 

But before you can make what would almost certainly be the worst possible decision available to you tonight, the car slows, turns, and then stops. 

You stare at the windshield, disoriented by the fact that you are suddenly at your apartment.

“Right,” you say, gathering your bag with the abrupt, clumsy movements of someone trying to recover from her own thoughts. “Thank you. For the ride.”

He gives a brief nod, one hand still resting on the wheel. “It was no trouble.”

You do not believe that for even a second. Still, you murmur goodnight and let yourself out, hurrying inside with as much dignity as can be salvaged after a conversation like that.

A couple days later, you’re sitting in the breakroom with your head propped in your palm, devoting a frankly heroic amount of effort to not drop face-first into the laminate.

You are exhausted, which is surely unrelated to the fact that you stayed up too late conducting what can only be described as independent research.

There is, it turns out, an astonishing amount of positions.

More than seems necessary, honestly. Far too many names. Far too many diagrams. So many that appear to require either exceptional upper body strength or a level of mutual coordination that feels statistically unlikely in the average civilian population. 

Some are perfectly straightforward. Many are not. Several seem just down-right wrong.

The door opens and you glance up, prepared to offer some vague nod of recognition to whoever has come to interrupt your private collapse. 

Langdon.

“Oh,” you say, straightening a little too quickly. “Hi, Dr. Langdon.”

That seems to be your automatic response to his presence.

His eyes narrow. “Rough morning?”

You give a small shrug. “M’fine.”

“You’ll have to excuse my skepticism.” He drags the chair across from you and sits.

“Just stayed up too late.” 

You hope that doesn’t inspire follow-ups.

He slides something across the table toward you. A book. You stare at the cover. Then at him. 

“This,” he says, tapping two fingers once against the cover, “is at least designed to explain things.”

Slowly, as if touching it too fast might make this more real, you pick it up and turn it over.

The back is dense with tidy paragraphs about desire, arousal, and the science of how women’s bodies actually work, all written in the reassuring language of expertise, which would be comforting if your pulse were not currently behaving like it had something to hide.

“That’s… unexpectedly thoughtful,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make too much of it.”

“I won’t,” you say, which is a lie so poorly constructed it barely qualifies as one.

You are, in fact, almost certain to make too much of it later, probably in bed, probably while staring at the ceiling. 

Then the door opens again. You nearly jump. You pull the book against your chest like you are protecting classified material. Langdon’s eyes narrow a fraction.

Garcia steps inside a second later, pauses, and looks between the two of you.

“...Am I interrupting something weird?” she asks.

You stand so quickly the chair legs scrape against the floor.

“Nope,” you say. “Not at all. Nothing weird. Not even slightly.” You clutch the book tighter. “I do, however, suddenly need to go be elsewhere. For work-related reasons. Very legitimate ones.” You nod once. “Okay. Bye.”

It’s late when you finally start to read the book Langdon gave you. Your first mistake, really. You have to be up in four hours. Four.

But the book turns out to be more useful than expected. It has information. Real information. Terminology and diagrams and explanations that move in a sequence a human brain can follow, one thing leading intelligibly to the next instead of that gauzy, vague, everyone-just-knows-what-to-do, magical event nonsense.

And this all should, theoretically, be enough to satisfy you.

Except every answer you get splits open into three more questions, hydra-style, the whole thing multiplying the second you think you have a grip on it.

And yes, sometimes Google is enough. But sometimes it is not.

Too broad, too contradictory, too many tabs open at once, too many Reddit posts written by men with misplaced confidence.

So now you are sitting on your bed staring at your phone, typing a message, deleting it, retyping it, deleting it again. Because this is weird. It is weird to text him.

But then again, he did hand you the book.

He did, in a very real sense, amplify this situation. And maybe giving you additional reading material counts as tacit approval for further questions. A follow-up. Continuing education.

You hit send.

hi dr. langdon. sorry. i have a question about the book!

It takes only a couple seconds for him to answer.

Go ahead.

You sit up so fast the book slides off your leg and drops onto the bedspread with a soft thump.

You stare at the screen.

You expected eventuality, a response tomorrow morning maybe, sometime after sunrise, sometime under the polite cover of daylight when everybody involved could collude in pretending this was a normal academic exchange and not you texting a senior resident after dark about sex-adjacent material like you were requesting clarification on electrolyte imbalance.

You glance at the clock and frown.

What is he even doing up?

Surely you didn’t wake him. You cannot imagine he sleeps with his ringer turned up loud enough for that. No, he feels like a phone-on-silent, notifications-curated, emergency-contacts-only kind of man.

You spend four minutes composing the question. You send six words.

what does “building sensation” actually mean?

Need more context than that.

You photograph the page. You send it. You put your phone face down on the quilt and do not look at it for a full minute.

When you finally make yourself turn the phone over, he’s answered.

It’s the physiological buildup to orgasm. Increased blood flow, heightened sensitivity, pelvic muscle tension. Sustained and constant stimulation. The sensation compounds on itself.

Your thumb catches idly on the hem of your pajama shorts, worrying the fabric back and forth while you stare at the screen. It takes a long amount of time to realize you’re doing it. You stop. Then start again without meaning to, fingertips slipping under the edge to press against your thigh. 

is consistency about location or pressure or both? the book implies they're interchangeable.  

Both. Generally location first, then pressure. If you keep changing where you’re touching, it’s harder to build anything. If the location is consistent but the pressure is erratic, same problem. They’re related, but not interchangeable.

Your free hand has drifted north to the waistband of your shorts, thumb pressing little crescent moons into overheated skin. Almost feverish.

Location first. 

An unfortunate instruction to receive while being aware of the exact location in question, muted now by two thin layers of cotton.

You should stop there. Obviously.

You should set the phone down, turn off the lamp, go to sleep, and revisit all of this in the morning when you are less suggestible. 

Instead your hand keeps moving, slow enough that you can perhaps pretend you have not consciously decided anything, slipping lower until it hovers over your underwear, where your clit presses back against the fabric. Swollen. And then lower than that, wet.

That startles you more than anything. From what, exactly? A sex manual? A few texts? Him?

No. That last one is inadmissible. Wildly inappropriate.

So you drag your mind back to the book instead, using it as a kind of corrective, something technical to blunt that he is, however indirectly, implicated in this. 

Start with indirect stimulation. Let the body acclimate. Don’t rush the thing. Let the thing, apparently, arrive on its own like a skittish woodland creature you are trying not to scare off.

Fine. Whatever. 

You press your thumb down and make a circular motion, sucking in a breath so sharply it almost hurts, mostly because the sensation is immediate and strange and good. You wouldn’t say overwhelming. Though maybe you would. You can’t think straight. Surprising, then. Concentrated.

Like pressing a bruise, except the complete inverse of that, if they lit up instead of aching. It makes you want to do it again.

So you do.

Small circles. Experimental. Testing the waters.

And it’s not like this is technically new. You have tried before.

But before was rushed and graceless and was the sort of thing done half-curiously and abandoned quickly, with no patience for your own body.

You were raised sheltered, and beyond that, serious. Preoccupied with things that seemed more pressing, more worthy of your attention, as though this part of yourself could be indefinitely postponed without consequence. 

You pick the phone back up with your unoccupied hand.

okay. that makes sense.

You stare at it, dissatisfied. Too final. Too capable of ending the conversation. You add another line before you can overthink yourself out of it.

and if the sensation is building, when are u supposed to switch? like to inner stimulation, i mean. or are you not supposed to unless what you’re already doing stops working?

The typing bubble appears instantly.

You don’t have to switch. That’s the first thing.

External stimulation is usually more important, especially early on. Inner stimulation is optional, not a required next step.

Little gasps keep escaping you as you refine the motion, not changing much, just enough pressure to sharpen it, back arching into the mattress.

It feels good. You don’t remember it ever feeling this good.

Maybe because before did not involve a very attractive doctor explaining your own body back to you in real time.

It is getting harder to text. Harder to think in complete sentences. Still, you manage, so if it’s working, is it better to not change anything? even if it starts feeling a lot more sensitive?

Your phone starts ringing.

You freeze when Frank's name flashes across the screen.

For a moment you can only stare. Your pulse jumps in your throat, fluttering there like something trapped, and then you are yanking your hand from your shorts and grabbing for the phone with fingers that suddenly seem to belong to someone much less coordinated than you.

“Hi —,”

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, though your voice already sounds guilty, chest rising and falling unevenly. “I’m — nothing. I’m just reading.”

“You’re not a very good liar.”

You frown at the dark ceiling. “I hate the confidence with which you say things.”

“It’s usually earned.”

You make a face at that, even though he cannot see it.

“I wasn’t prepared for a pop quiz,” you mutter. “You called out of nowhere.”

“A call seemed appropriate,” he says through the soft buzz of static.

“Why?”

Your whole body feels keyed up now, strung too tight, humming with a surplus of energy like you have been plugged into the wall and simply left there to glow.

It's hard to keep still under the blankets. Harder with his voice in your ear, that low grain of it roughened by the hour, touched with that tired edge that makes him feel closer than he is. He sounds warm. He sounds half-undone.

You can picture him without trying. In bed. Hair rumpled from sleep or from his hand shoved through it one too many times, one stray piece fallen near his eyes. Maybe in pajamas. Maybe not. Either option is equally disruptive. You brain offers a shirt pushes up a little, one arm behind his head, a strip of stomach, a line of hair disappearing into plaid boxers.

You shift on the mattress. Your hand trails back down your front, fingers resuming their place on your underwear.

“Because your last text didn’t read like a theoretical question,” he says. “I wanted to hear whether I was right.”

The words move through you, like he has reached through the phone and pressed a hand flat to your lower stomach.

“And were you?”

Your hips shift on the mattress again, angling into your own touch.

You bite your lip around the small throb of pleasure that follows.

“Yeah. I was.” His voice comes through coarser now, the line fuzzing around it, but not enough to hide the change. “And if I’m hearing you correctly, you haven’t stopped.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“...maybe.”

There's a brief pause on the line. You hear the rustle of him moving, before he speaks again. “Tell me exactly what you're doing.”

“I’m, uh…” You mouth goes dry. “I mean, you know.”

“I can’t tell you what to do if you won’t tell me what you’re doing,” he says. “You need to be specific.” 

You swallow.

“I’m touching over my underwear,” you admit finally, the words coming out hushed and a little uneven. “Just with my thumb. I’m not really… doing anything more than that.”

A soft exhale crackles through the phone.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it feels good.”

Your lashes flutter at the words. Your thumb keeps tracing the same spot, a little more rhythmically now, and every so often your hand falters when the sensation catches unexpectedly bright, a live wire under your skin.

Flashing hotter and hotter and hotter until you can barely stand it.

Your thighs draw in on instinct, then ease apart again, restless, unable to decide whether they are trying to hold the feeling or escape it.

“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage. 

You start to picture him again. Existing in real time in the dark on the other end of the line now.

It sends the throbbing in your cunt up tenfold, sharp little bursts of color flying behind your eyelids, green and orange and something almost gold.

You use your imagination to conjure up the image of him doing the same. Him with the phone in one hand and the other moving in lazy unhurried strokes around his cock, like this is no great strain for him, like he is as controlled in private as he is everywhere else.

You wonder what it looks like. His cock. Probably big and pink and veiny.

You know, rationally, that he is probably not doing that at all. He is probably just lying there in the dark, listening, talking, being composed for both of you.

But it is a nice thought anyway. More than nice, really. Your body answers it before you can caution it otherwise, your clit going heavier and more swollen, as you move to touch yourself without the barrier of your panties. It’s more sensitive that way. And your whole lower half seems to lean vainly into your own hand, practically preening toward the touch.

“Now I’m, um, touching myself directly.”

“Alright. Want you to try something. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. A little too eager. “I can.”

“Good girl.” The praise makes your stomach tighten. “Want you to slide two fingers into yourself a little. Not all the way, just enough to get them wet, okay? Then bring them back to your clit and keep using your thumb, or your fingers if that feels easier. Same pace as before.”

You nod even though you know he can’t see it and slip two fingers down, enough to feel the sticky warmth of yourself, coating your digits.

You bring it back up, smearing it over your nub.

“Oh,” you mumble breathily.

“Yeah?” he teases quietly. “That better?”

“A lot.”

“Good. It’s easier like that. Less friction. If you’re getting more sensitive, too much drag starts working against you.”

He’s right. He’s always right. You feel a little strange and floaty now, like your whole body has narrowed down to one incandescent point.

“How do you know all this?” you prod.

A pause. Then, “Experience.”

“Right. That.” Another circle, another spark of pleasure down your spine. “I don’t exactly have that.”

“I gathered.”

Something in his tone makes you go a little still. Not enough to stop, but your hand falters, tightening around a thought before you can even identify it.

He notices immediately. He has some terrifying sonar for you specifically, some private frequency calibrated to every tiny shift in your breathing, every dropped beat, every half-second hesitation.

“Hey,” he says pointedly. “Don’t get in your head now. Never said it was a bad thing. Keep going. Think about something else.”

“Such as?” you whisper.

There’s the sound of breathing from the phone before he answers, “that’s up for you to decide.”

You suck in a sharp breath, squirming as you adjust phone closer to your ear

“Can you just… keep talking to me?”

There’s a huff on the other end, almost a laugh. “That’s not very specific.”

“I know.” You’re sure you’re not making much sense right now. “I just — don’t stop. Please. Just wanna hear you say anything.”

He’s quiet for a second, like he’s trying to decide what, exactly, you’re asking for. The problem is, you’re not entirely sure either.

You only know there’s a strange, tightening warmth low in your stomach, something gathering there, and his voice seems to nurture it instead of breaking it apart.

You hear something clang on the other end of the phone.

“Fuck. Okay. First need you to breathe, okay? You're tensing up, I can hear it. Relax your legs.”

You try to do as you're told.

In. Out. In. Out.

Each breath feeding the whole thing oxygen, driving you nearer and nearer to the vanishing point until your eyes threaten to roll back and your body feels like on extended nerve.

“I —” A breath. “Sorry, I just —” Another one. “Frank I think I'm — I'm close, I think, I don't — It's really intense and I don't know what I'm —” You lose the thought entirely. “I just don't know what I'm supposed to do when it starts feeling like this. Do I stop, or —”

“Shit baby, you've never gotten there before? Not even —”

“No,” you manage.

“Oh, poor thing.”Quiet. Almost to himself. “Okay. ‘S okay. Don't stop. I need you to stay with me and just let it happen, can you do that?”

“I think —”

“Don't think,” he cuts you off. “For once in your life, don't think. Just feel it.”

Something in you finally gives.

You feel all of it at once.

Your orgasm peaks so fast it almost feels like losing power everywhere at the same time, every room going dark together, and your back comes off the pillows and your hand presses harder before you even mean for it to and a gasp tears out of you, high and helpless and so unlike anything you have ever heard from yourself that for a second it barely sounds like yours.

“That’s it,” Frank says, low in your ear.

It rolls. That's the only word for it.

It rolls outward from your pussy in a slow, stunned series of tremors moving through your thighs, your spine, your chest, each wave its own distinct thing and yet not distinct at all, each one its own event, its own brief undoing.

You cannot do anything except lie there and take it, receive it as it passes through you, because there is nothing else available to you now, no other function left online, no thought, no dignity, no language, only this long bright aftershock and your body answering it whether you understand it or not.

Your breathing takes a while to come back to anything recognizable.

At first it is just air dragged in and let back out. Sweat has glued a few strands of hair to your forehead. Your hand has gone slack.

“You still with me?”

That is when your brain comes back. All at once. Hard. Fast.

Because now you are not just a body coming down from an orgasm.

Now you are yourself again. And Frank Langdon just talked you through getting off.

Frank Langdon, your coworker. Frank Langdon, your superior. Frank Langdon, whom you have just used as a combined anatomy instructor, practical demonstration guide, and live sex education resource.

“Yes, yeah, sorry.” You swallow, wipe at your forehead with the heel of your hand. “I'm here.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Your sensitivity's going to be elevated for a minute, so just let your muscles relax and let your breathing even out. If you feel shaky, that's normal. If you heart's racing, also normal. Get some water when you can. Sit up slowly if you're going to move.”

“Okay,” you murmur, because he sounds so certain that for a second it is easy to borrow some of it. You try to unclench by degrees, thighs, stomach, shoulders, one thing at a time. “I am a little shaky, which is good to know is normal and not, like, a sign that I’ve accidentally broken something."

“No,” he says, and there is that low note of dry amusement under it now, just enough to catch. “You didn’t break anything. If you had, trust me, we’d be having a very different conversation.”

“Right, no, I know. Though sex-related injuries are not exactly unheard of. Do you remember that girl in the ER who had a condom stuck in her for over two months and didn't realize it? That would suck."

"Mm. It would," he agrees. "Protection is important. Equally important to make sure it actually comes back out with you."

You let out a small giggle at that and shift on the bed, drawing yourself up a little slower this time, careful like he told you to bed. The quilt bunches under your legs.

A quiet opens up. And it might be comfortable if it with anyone else. But it is not with anyone else.

You break first.

“So what happens now?” you ask, trying for light and missing by a little. “Do we pretend this was a totally normal educational exchange and never speak of it again?”

“I don’t think you’re capable of pretending that,” he says.

You flush hot all over.

“And you are?”

A pause.

“No.” The room goes still around you. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, but he does say: “You should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Probably.”

You have to be up in three hours now. Have to see him in four.

Another beat. Neither of you hangs up.

Then, very quiet, very even, he says, “Next time, ask sooner.”

“Next time?”

“If you’re going to use me as a reference source,” he says, all dry composure again, though now it feels a little put on, “I’d prefer a more reasonable hour.”

Your cheeks heat with the power of a thousand suns.

“Oh, well, Dr. Langdon, I think —”

“Goodnight.”

The line clicks dead.

You lie there staring into the dark, phone still pressed to your ear, and understand with awful, perfect clarity that this has not ended anything at all.

More gaps in your knowledge.

And you really hate gaps.

A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts 4 ten thousand yrs!!!!!!!! thinking about writing a part two but we shall see. anyway thanks for reading!! love ya always

YOU CAN FIND MY FRANK LANGDON MASTERLIST HERE

[flowersforjude]

─ ❛𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞❜

➳ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Frank Langdon x Fem!Reader

➳ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | Fighting feelings for your coworker wouldn’t be so hard if loving them wasn’t so easy.

➳ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 10,470(I couldn’t stop yapping)

➳ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Power imbalance, Workplace romance, Slow burn, Mutual pining, Idiots in love, Divorced!Frank Langdon, Unresolved sexual tension, VERY brief mention of past emotional infidelity, Internalized conflict, Dual point of view, Soft/Girly!Reader, Excessive yearning, First kiss.

➳ 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Langdon and the Reader are giving Derek and Meredith vibes. Completely unintentional btw. I think I blacked out while writing most of Frank’s point of view, tbh. I just love it inside that man’s head. Also have like four other fic ideas for him, one of which will be a two parter.

masterlist | currently playing: my moon my man─feist

IT HAD TAKEN SEVERAL MONTHS FOR FRANK TO REALIZE HE WAS AN IDIOT. Not the garden variety kind either, the kind that should’ve known better. He should have known better. Maybe it was the drugs; maybe he’d fried his brain with all the medication he took, and that was why he thought flirting with a coworker he was meant to be teaching was a good idea.

News flash: it wasn’t. It was actually, in hindsight, pretty stupid.

It started as harmless banter between you when he realized you seemed to preen slightly at his approval. It piqued his interest and gave him something to look forward to during shifts. The professional compliments gave way to teasing, though, quicker than he could stop it. He swore he had only the most innocent intentions with his flirtations. But like a carotid artery injury, his friendly objective bled out into something far more complicated.

It came as a surprise to most in the ER that Frank effectively took you under his wing. He was a bit stunned by it himself. Especially after the first shift you worked together, that had turned out to be one of the worst days of his life. Yours too by any account.

He’d known you were a good doctor; there was no denying your talents. What came as a shock was how well you worked together. You didn’t strike him as the type of person he’d get along with so amazingly. Everything about you screamed delicate right down to your Birkenstock sneakers that you switched the shoelaces out of to actual lace.

He overheard you talking to Mckay later on, saying it added ‘whimsy’. He had to assume the sparkly claw clip in your hair was for the same purpose. Along with the horrendous amount of charms on your bag, the endless collection of beaded pens, and the pink thermos cup you always brought your coffee in. 

Despite all of that, Frank found you growing on him.

You were thoughtful, bright, and lively. During that shift from hell he tried to ignore the fact that he was seeking you out again and again. But looking back on it now, it was painfully obvious that he was a moth drawn to the warmth of your flame. And even after he had no real reason to, he frequently directed the conversation to that day while he was in counseling. Nevermind that it was the day all his lies and misdeeds came back to haunt him. No, he brought you up more often than not. He thought about you way too much for being a married man back then still.

But he was clean now, divorced, and back to work like he’d longed to be during those ten months. You and he fell back into that easy rhythm from before. He wasn’t sure you’d act the same around him, but you had bounced up to him his first day back with a huge grin on your face, gushing about how happy you were that he returned.

It was during that first shift back that he noticed your particular reactions to his praise. You were only a second year, so there was nothing strange about him complimenting you when you got something right. But you lit up like fireflies caught in a mason jar when he so much as told you, “Good job.”

Maybe it was wrong of him to play with it, but you didn’t seem to mind his flirting, and seeing that smile on your face always made his day feel a bit better. This little game became his new addiction, which was ironic considering how hard he’d worked to get rid of the last one. But he prided himself on the extensive catalog of different reactions he’d gotten out of you.

There was your smile, obviously, one of his favorites. But you would also fidget with your hair, twisting the ends around your fingers. Then there was the small, almost silent, giggle that managed to slip past your lips no matter how hard you tried to stop it. And of course there was the sharp intake of breath you did when Frank said something especially sweet.

It always puts you in a good mood afterwards too, so no harm, no foul. Right? That’s what he thought at least. That it was harmless because it didn’t really mean anything. It wasn’t… anything.

He wasn’t entirely sure when that line of thinking stopped holding up under scrutiny. If he had to guess, it was somewhere between noticing he could pick you out in a room with barely even looking and realizing he was timing his breaks around yours.

If the three-second-long intervals where he could rest his feet could be counted as breaks, but still, it wasn’t normal.

It was just the familiarity of it all. You worked the same shifts, ran most of the same cases, and fell into step with each other like it was second nature. You worked well together. Of course he’d know where you were, and he was bound to notice when you weren’t there. That didn’t mean anything.

It definitely didn’t mean anything when he started keeping track of whether or not you’d eaten. That one was easy to justify, actually, because you were terrible at it. Frank had lost count of the number of times he’d seen you survive on nothing but your coffee in that pink thermos and a concerning amount of energy drinks even by his standards. It was irresponsible really, sloppy. The kind of thing that led to mistakes and mistakes got people hurt. Which, technically, made it his problem.

So the first time he dropped a sandwich in front of you without a word, it wasn’t some grand gesture. It wasn’t thoughtful or anything other than him doing his job.

“Eat,” he’d urged, already turning away before you could argue because he was afraid of what he might say if you looked at him with those pretty eyes of yours.

You blinked after him, surprised. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did,” he cut you off. “I like my coworkers conscious.” He didn’t mention the detail where he was praying to a god he didn’t even believe in that you would just eat.

So yeah, that was it. It didn’t mean anything that he checked back ten minutes later to make sure you’d actually listened. He was just doing his due diligence when it became a habit after that.

It was just easier to grab something extra when he got his own food. He sat it down next to you like it was an afterthought. You never expected it—which made him go down this rabbit hole of worry that no one had ever tried to care for you before—so you were always consistent with your reactions. You got a little flustered, a soft, pleased hum directed at him in a way that made something in his chest constrict. He’d made the very smart choice not to examine that too closely.

The touching was nothing, too; hell he didn’t even question it at first. The ER was a crowded and chaotic place. People moved fast, space was limited, and sometimes the quickest way to get someone’s attention was physical. A hand on your hip to guide you out of the way of a gurney. A brush of his fingers against your wrist when you were blindly searching for one of your ridiculous pens. He stood close sometimes because it was loud and he needed you to hear him.

All of it was completely normal and justifiable. If he ignored the way his hands lingered too long. The way you stilled every time he touched you like that. If he could ignore the fact that he’d started finding reasons to do it more often, he could pretend his feelings weren’t there.

“You need to put your hair back,” he’d murmured once while you waited for an incoming trauma, gathering your hair to tie back himself instead of letting you do it.

Your cheeks had gone warm, eyes flickering up to his for a half second before you nodded, a quiet, “Right, thanks,” falling from your lips.

He reasoned with himself that it was because you didn’t need it in the way. He told himself it had nothing to do with how good it felt to brush his hands along the skin of your neck. It didn’t mean anything that he thought about it later.

The rides were, objectively, practical. You both stayed late often, and he’d watched you leave exhausted half the time, barely functioning by the end of a shift. The hospital parking situation was a nightmare on a good day, and since his divorce, he lived close enough that it just made sense.

“You want a ride?” he’d asked the first time, pretending like he forgot you’d mentioned walking to work since the weather had been nice that morning. And ignoring the anxiety he felt about the idea of you walking home in the dark.

You had hesitated for exactly two seconds before agreeing, already skipping over to him with that smile brightening up your tired features. A soft, “Okay,” whispering between you.

Frank had a harder time rationalizing the way he started looking for you at the end of every shift, waiting to see if you’d need a ride before offering it. So it became one of those things that he didn’t think too much about. Just like the way he memorized the route to your place after only doing it once. And how easy the conversations that filled the car felt, or the way neither of you ever seemed in a rush to end it.

The nicknames just slipped out; those were truly an accident.

“What did I tell you about making sure you have lunch, sweetheart?” he’d softly chastised you during one of your car rides home. He got busy with a trauma patient, unable to step away until well after lunch, and you “forgot” to eat. Now you had a headache as you slumped in his passenger seat with your fingers rubbing at your temples.

You were so distracted by the dull pain that he doubted you caught the pet name. So like everything else, he decided to lock the slip up away in his growing assembly. You hadn’t reacted to it, so it didn’t count.

“They only had ham and egg sandwiches in the bin today,” you whined, eyes screwed shut against the incoming headlights. “I like the turkey ones you bring me with the swiss cheese.” You’re quiet for a minute before you perk back up, “Besides,” you argue, “you didn’t have lunch either.”

Frank has to chuckle at that and the stupidly adorable revelation that you prefer the food he gives you over anything else available. “I’m not the one with a headache right now, silly girl,” he points out.

Another slip up, but you just give a low hum in response so he plays it cool. He still had control over it; there hadn’t been any lines crossed that couldn’t be uncrossed. He could stop this whole thing whenever he wanted.

He just didn’t want to.

He realized how screwed he was, finally, in the most inconvenient way possible.

You weren’t scheduled together that day, and when he walked into the ER, scanning the department on instinct, he felt his heart drop slightly in his chest when he didn’t see you.

The shift in him was subtle, but it was there. And to make matters worse, he kept looking for you. Like you might appear if he just checked again, maybe he’d somehow missed you the first time. That was when it clicked inside his thick skull. It wasn’t some dramatic, life-altering realization. Just a sinking certainty that settled somewhere deep in his gut and refused to budge.

What was going on between you wasn’t harmless, and it hadn't been for a while. So, yeah, Frank was an idiot.

Unfortunately for him, he wasn't the only one who had come to that conclusion.

It might have been easier if the realization had remained contained in his own head, something he could compartmentalize and ignore. That option disappeared the moment other people began to notice, because once it was dragged into the open, it became significantly harder to pretend there was nothing there. 

It honestly wasn’t surprising that Dana was the first to call him out on it. She had a way of clocking changes in the department with unnerving accuracy, particularly the ones that had the potential to turn into problems if left unchecked. Frank had always respected that about her, even when it worked directly against him.

He was leaning over the nurse’s station, halfway through reviewing a chart, when you stepped in beside him to look over the patient board. You give him a small shove with your hip, quickly glancing back up once he looks at you like you hadn’t initiated anything in the first place.

Well, if that was how you wanted to play it.

He lets a beat pass, just long enough to make it seem like he returned to his chart, before his hand moves with the precision of a dad with two young kids. His fingers hook lightly around the pink and green beaded bracelet on your wrist, pulling it back just enough to let it snap softly against your skin.

You jerk slightly at the sensation, more startled than hurt, your head spinning toward him with a look that lands somewhere between affronted and amused. 

“Hey,” you gasp.

Your hand lifts, ready to retaliate, but you're uncoordinated like always when you act on blind instinct. Frank sidesteps it easily without even fully looking at you, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his better judgment.

He was aware that it was childish, but he’s also aware of how pretty you look when annoyed.

“Knock it off, you two,” Dana’s voice cuts through the moment from behind the nurse’s station, dry and unimpressed. “Couple of kids, swear to God,” she muttered, shaking her head.

 Frank straightens slightly; you, on the other hand, don’t seem nearly as affected. A light laugh slips out of you, and it hits him square in the chest with an unfair intensity. There’s something about the sound, the ease of your voice around it, that makes his breath catch in a way he can’t account for without thinking too hard about everything between you.

“Sorry,” you say, glancing at Dana with a sheepish sort of sincerity that endears the apology into something way more disarming than it has any right to be.

The charge nurse’s gaze flicks between the two of you, lingering just a second too long to be comfortable before she shakes her head again and returns her attention to the monitors in front of her.

You're about to saddle back up next to him, but Mohan calls your name across the department floor. “I could use your help with the patient in South Four.”

“Be right there,” you promised. You start to walk off, but stop after a few steps, eyes locking on him once again. 

“We’re still getting takeout for the movie tonight, right?”

For a moment Frank is acutely aware of Dana’s presence behind the desk and the feeling of her eyes burning a hole into the side of his head. He’s also aware of how the question sounds from an outside perspective, stripped of all the context and justification he’s oh so carefully made for himself.

“Yeah,” he answers evenly, like there was nothing remotely questionable about the arrangement you’ve just referenced in the middle of the ER. “Yeah, we are.”

The smile you give him in response is immediate and bright, lighting up your entire face in a way that makes him never want to look at anything else. “Okay, good,” you reply, satisfied, before hurrying off to South Four.

He watches as you go, blue eyes following your form until you disappear into the exam room.

Dana gives him about five seconds before laying into him. “You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing?”

He exhales through his nose before looking at her. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Dana’s expression remains edged, making it clear she has neither the time or the patience for his deflection. “Don’t play dumb with me, kid.”

“It’s nothing,” he sighs, shrugging. 

She lowered her glasses to glare at him over the rims. “You just stared after her with your mouth half-open.”

Frank’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at that, irritation flaring up quick and sharp despite the fact that she isn’t wrong. 

“I did not,” he mutters. “You’re reading too much into it.”

She leans back into her chair, crossing her arms over her chest as she studies him with this all too knowing look. “Am I,” she asks smoothly, one brow arching just enough to make the question come across as rhetorical.

He wants to say yes, but the problem is that nothing he had to say would hold up in the argument. He knew it, and Dana knew it.

“It’s not like that,” he insists instead, which is vague enough to sound defensive without actually admitting to anything.

“Okay,” she said slowly, like she’s humoring him. “Tell me what it is then.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again just as quickly, jaw working slightly as he searches for something that sounds even remotely reasonable. “She’s a good resident,” he settles on finally. “I’m helping her. This is a teaching hospital, isn’t it?”

Dana stares at him for what feels like forever before letting out a short disbelieving laugh. “You’re a bad liar, kid.”

Another pause stretches between them while Frank scrambles for something to say. Truthfully, it’s no use; she’s already got everything figured out.

“She’s your subordinate.”

“I’m aware,” he replies, a little sharper than he intends. He didn’t like the thought of people thinking he was abusing his position over you. It left a bad taste in his mouth and an uncomfortable twist in his stomach.

“Are you?” Dana presses, not raising her voice because she simply didn’t need to. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve blurred that line so far it might as well not exist anymore.”

He exhales slowly, looking away from her for a second, his gaze drifting back out onto the ER floor like it might offer him some kind of escape route. It doesn’t; all it does is land him right back on you, leaving South Four with that same focus, that same easy competence that had drawn him in the first place. 

Dana follows his line of sight, her eyes settling on you for a brief moment before returning to him with something that looks a little too much like concern for his comfort. “Look,” she says, “I’m not gonna tell you what to do, but just be careful. Don’t be an idiot.”

A little late for that.

Frank didn’t say that out loud, though. He just nodded and gave a noncommittal hum as he turned to go check on some of his patients.

He thought that was the end of it, but the next interruption came with all the subtlety of a brick flying at your head. Robby had always been good at that, so he shouldn’t have been surprised when his former friend and mentor pulled him aside later.

“You got a minute,” he asked, although it wasn’t a question so much as a statement.

Frank stopped short, his expression flattening as he looked at him. “I’ve got patients.”

“This won’t take long,” he assured.

He considered, for a moment, just walking away. But he was still trying to get back on Robby’s good side, so maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. “What’s up, man?” he asked eventually, an alertness threading through his tone that always seemed to show up when they talked. Here lately Robby only spoke to him when he’d seemingly done something wrong.

“Do you wanna explain what’s going on with you and Dr. Y/L/N?”

He suppressed a groan when it became clear what this was about. Since he’d come back from rehab and Robby back from his sabbatical, Frank had been fighting tooth and nail to win his trust back. It was slow going, and over the last few months he had defended himself and his decisions so many times that he just didn’t feel like doing it this time around.

“There’s nothing going on,” he said, a frown etching on his features. “We’re just friends.”

“Right,” he said, folding his arms with his hands clasping his elbows. “Because it looks like you’re making unwanted sexual advances towards her and setting yourself up for a real interesting conversation with HR.”

He stepped back like he’d been shot, his jaw tightening as the accusation echoed around them in the hall. “Jeez, Robby, you’re blowing this way out of proportion.” 

“No,” he shook his head. “No, Frank, I don’t think I am.”

“Did she tell you that?” He barked, his patience starting to wear thin. “Did she come to you herself and say I was making unwanted sexual advances?”

“She didn’t need to,” Robby shot back. “I have eyes.”

He let out a humorless huff of a laugh. “Nothing inappropriate is happening.” He was done with this conversation. He could deal with the distrust, the way Robby watched him now with skepticism. He could deal with their friendship being on the rocks, but he wasn’t going to stand here and be accused of something like this.

“God, man, what is it gonna take for you to remember that I’m not a bad person?”

He didn’t wait for Robby to respond before he walked off. The words hung in the air behind him, clinging in the irritating way things tended to when he didn’t want to deal with them. Frank could feel it at his back, the weight of the conversation, the accusation buried inside it. The implication that he was the type of person that would ever try to make you feel uncomfortable like that.

He pushed through it the same way he pushed through everything else. By moving, by focusing on the next patient, the next chart, the next thing that required his attention in a way that didn’t leave room for anything else. But like you had gotten so good at doing, you showed up and filled all those empty places inside him.

The light was somewhat muted in the break lounge, the fluorescent buzz of the ER floor not quite reaching in here. He was leaning against the counter by the coffee pot that only worked half of the time when you walked in.

“Hey,” you greeted gently, a smile blooming on your face. You brightened the dull space enough to pull him out of his own head, like a hook under his ribs tugging him to you.

“You okay?” you asked, already stepping up beside him, your brows knitting together as your eyes dragged over his face. He liked when you looked at him like that, with soft concern like you cared enough to make sure he was alright. He’d forgotten what that felt like for a while after he finished rehab. “You look extra stressed.”

Like an idiot, like a complete, absolute idiot, he felt the tension in his chest settle. Just like that, all the strain from the day, from Dana, from Robby, from every voice of reason that tried to shove him back into line, dulled at the edges the second you looked at him like that.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, the response coming from pure habit more than anything else.

You didn’t look convinced as you leaned closer, resting your hip lightly against the counter. He could feel the warmth of you without you actually touching him. It was such a small thing, but it grounded him in the same way the memory of you did when he was in the throes of his recovery.

“You sure?” you pressed peering up at him through your lashes, not knowing how utterly tempting you were. “Because if there’s something I can do…”

You were always so open, so easy, and genuine. Frank let out a breath, his gaze dropping for a second to your lips before it flicked back up. He should have assured you he was fine, brushed it off, and put some space between you.

“You already do,” he said instead, voice lower than it had been a second ago.

Your expression changed, something sanguine beaming from your eyes as you looked up at him, your head tilting a little like you were trying to understand what he meant without asking him to explain it outright.

“Yeah?” you asked quietly, a shy smile making an appearance.

He nodded once, slow, like he was committing to something without fully thinking it through. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you said softly, like that was enough for you. Like he was enough, just like this.

He swallowed, using every ounce of self-control not to lean down to your height and kiss you. That would be irreversible, something he couldn’t come back from, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to find out whether or not you felt the same as he did. He thought you might, especially during moments like this, but he didn’t have a clue on how to even approach that conversation.

Garcia had told him one night over drinks that he should just man up and get it over with. But Frank thought that maybe she was just saying that because she found the ‘romcom shit,’ her words not his, gross, and she hated seeing it when she came down to the ER.

“Either ask her out, Langdon, or stop drooling after her,” Garcia had grumbled.

He had to admit she had a point, and he knew exactly what it looked like from the outside. He knew how it could be twisted and interpreted. He knew one day, sooner rather than later, he was going to have to do something about it. It wasn’t fair to you to keep acting the way he did. You deserved better than that, and he wanted to give it to you. Because for all the warnings, for all the very real reasons he should shut this down before it went any further, he already knew he wasn’t going to.

He was going to go home with you tonight. He was going to sit too close on his couch; let your knee knock into his like it was accidental, like it didn’t mean anything. He was going to order whatever takeout you wanted, and he was going to pretend it was all normal. Tomorrow, he was going to come back in and do it all over again.

And then, when he finally managed to round up enough courage, he was going to ask you out on a real date. Even though it could get messy and complicated, and there would be a million HR hoops to jump through. Because knowing better had never once been enough to make him do better. And if that made him an idiot… Well, that wasn’t exactly new, was it?

IT TAKES AN EMBARRASSINGLY LONG TIME FOR YOU TO COME TO TERMS WITH THE FACT THAT YOU WERE IN LOVE WITH FRANK LANGDON.

You were never very good at lying to yourself or lying in general. So it’s a bit surprising you were able to convince yourself those feelings weren’t real for so long. Maybe convince wasn’t the right word, though. Maybe it was more like dancing around your feelings. Skipping over it, dressing it up in softer, safer language until it didn’t seem like something that could ruin you.

Because that’s what this could do, what he could do. He could ruin you. Frank was one of those guys that could take a single look at you and have you melting from the inside out. He was a bit older, more experienced in your field of work, and had so many reasons why you should’ve run the other way when you first met.

Him having a wife being one of them.

They’re divorced now, though.

The little voice in your head likes to bring up when your conscience touches on the tidbit. That still doesn’t remove the fact that he’s your superior and basically your mentor. That was how this whole mess got started in the first place.

It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than that. A senior resident taking interest in a new resident just starting out. Offering a little guidance, a little encouragement, a bit of well-placed praise when you got something right. It’s happened before, a mentorship with coworkers who worked well together. It wasn’t unusual; it wasn’t even noteworthy.

When you met on your first ER shift, which had ended up feeling like the floor was about to fall out from under you, you were worried about him not liking you. You’re not even sure why; he was just so intimidating, and yes, maybe you thought he was cute. But that got shut down as soon as his ring glimmered from his left hand. It seemed like you worked every case together that day, though, and you were just trying not to make a fool of yourself in front of him. It wasn’t a secret that a lot of people saw you as a sensitive person. You were well aware of that, but he, surprisingly, didn’t seem to mind.

Frank was patient with you and more kind than you originally thought he would be. Maybe that should’ve been your first warning, because then he was gone. For ten months you didn’t see him anywhere but inside your mind. And when he returned, god, you really did make a fool of yourself that time.

Dashing up to him with an uncontrollable smile on your face, you’d rambled on about how happy you were that he was there. It felt like no time had passed as soon as you caught sight of his floppy brown hair and saw his blue eyes staring down at you with a stunned shine to them. The last ten months disappeared as you picked up right where you left off.

The first few cases that day had been with him, and the universe was truly testing you with how many times he complimented you. You couldn’t stop the blaze of delight dancing over your face anymore than you could push away the thrill his voice sent down your spine.

You shouldn’t have let it develop past anything more than that, though. You should’ve starved the little flower of your feelings, but instead it thrived under your care.

It would have been so much easier to yank it out, roots and stem, back then. Back when it was just him gently correcting you as he stepped in closer, his hands guiding yours. Back when it was just him tossing out the occasional “good job” that you carried around with you for the rest of the day. Back when it was still manageable, before it turned into something that followed you home.

Because that was the thing no one warned you about. Not in med school, not during rotations, not in any of the cautionary tales about professionalism and boundaries and keeping a clear head in high-stress environments. No one told you what to do when the lines didn’t blur all at once but instead softened slowly at the edges until you couldn’t tell where they used to be. No one told you what to do when it didn’t feel wrong.

It should’ve set off alarms in your head, should’ve made you take a step back, and put distance between you before it got any further. There were more than enough reasons for it to. He was your mentor, for God’s sake, someone who was supposed to teach you, not whatever it had turned into.

And that was the worst part, because it didn’t feel wrong when it should’ve. It was easy, easier than anything you had ever done.

It felt natural in a way that made you think, just for a second, that maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked from the outside. That maybe the rules didn’t apply the same way here, because you weren’t being pressured, weren’t being taken advantage of. If anything, you were the one leaning in, the one choosing to stay exactly where you were instead of stepping back and letting common sense win.

You told yourself that it made all the difference. You told yourself a lot of things.

Like not to read too much into it when he started bringing you lunch. It was practical given the fact that you were never very kind to your body, often forgetting to eat and just plying yourself with caffeine. Frank was incredibly observant; that much was obvious, so it wasn’t a shock when he remembered what you liked. It didn’t have to be some big thing that he brought you the sandwich you favored instead of just tossing you one from the food cart. He’d always sit it down in front of you without making a big deal out of it. You’d have to calm the swirl of emotions inside you because you couldn’t remember the last time someone had bothered with something like that for you.

You tried not to start expecting it all the time, but he didn’t make that very easy. On the rare days he didn’t, you found yourself just a bit more irritable, a little more off-balance in a way you couldn’t explain.

It was so effortless, letting him care for you. Until you realized you weren’t just grateful, you were attached. And that was dangerous and messy because attachments could be taken away. This thing between you and Frank, whatever it was, was one of the best things to happen to you in a long time. Even if it never became anything else than that tentative friendship, you didn’t want to lose that.

So you didn’t push when he didn’t pull, but damn, did he pull sometimes.

The first time his hand landed on your hip to guide you out of the way, heavy and insistent, you thought you were going to go into cardiac arrest. And even though you told yourself he was just making sure you didn’t get run down by a gurney while you were so busy gushing about the new coffee mug you got, it was hard to ignore when he kept it there all the way until you got to North Two.

Every higher power out there heard you praying the first night he offered you a ride home. The thought of getting in his car, with him, had your brain going sort of fuzzy. He batted your hand away from the door handle before you could open it yourself, and the shiver that zipped down your spine felt like a full-body chill.

It took self control you didn’t know you had to keep yourself from right out sighing when he called you sweetheart the first time. Paired with the fact that he was scolding you for not eating in that low tone he took when he was worried for you. You were pretty sure between the copious amounts of caffeine and the presence of Frank Langdon, you were not going to make it past your second year as a resident.

You should’ve been ashamed, because for every moment that should’ve scared you, every instance where a clearer head might have stepped in and told you to knock it off, there were ten more where it just felt… good. Right in that dangerous addictive way that made it hard to remember why you were supposed to be resisting in the first place.

It wasn’t just the obvious things, either. The lunch, the rides, the touches, or the way his voice gentled when it was directed at you. It was everything else, all the smaller, almost imperceptible ways he pulled you in without ever making it feel like he was doing it on purpose. The way he always found you in a crowded room as if it were instinct, like his attention had a mind of its own, and it always landed on you. 

It was the way he listened, like what you had to say mattered, even when you were rambling about something insignificant, like the new set of fruit themed claw clips you ordered or how you were excited to try this new iced coffee recipe you found. He never brushed you off, never gave you the distracted responses you’d grown used to from other people. He paid attention in a way that made you feel important.

And that made it impossible to pretend this was something happening to you, something you had no control over, because you did. You had every opportunity to stop it, to take a step back and reestablish the boundaries that should’ve been there from the start. 

You just… didn’t.

Because somewhere along the way, the risk of losing it started to feel worse than the risk of letting it continue. Even knowing how it could end, the repercussions you could face, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because you had this; you had him.

As much as you tried to frame it in a pretty, friendly picture, you knew exactly what this was turning into. You just choose to keep dressing it up as something else. So yeah, it took you an embarrassingly long time to own up to it.

And of course, the second you finally did, the universe decided to make it impossible for you to keep pretending he didn’t feel the same way.

You were standing in the break room with him, your legs nearly touching, able to feel the warmth of him even through your scrubs. Your heart did an unsteady little jump in your chest as his words echoed back at you.

You already do.

Because why would he say something like that if he didn’t feel something? Frank didn’t come across as the type of man to play with a woman’s emotions.

Those three words made it hard to remember the reason you were checking in on him in the first place. They settled deep inside all the warm idealistic caverns of your heart, heavier than anything he’s said before, heavier than the teasing and the praise and the careful way he’s always handled you.

You knew he wouldn’t want you to worry about him, but it’s become a habit now. One you picked up somewhere between finding out the truth about why he was gone and realizing whatever he went through during those ten months changed him. For the better in most ways, thank God. But you knew; everyone did, eventually. 

The drugs he stole from the hospital, rehab, and his divorce. It was a lot for one person to carry alone, all those mistakes still clinging to him. You couldn’t imagine the kind of pain he had to be in if it drove him to that. Didn’t want to imagine him in that much pain.

You were just grateful he got help, and if you could offer even the tiniest bit of comfort to him when he needed it to keep him doing good, then you would.

“Yeah?” you asked, voice hushed with a timidness born from the impossible notion of it all.

You hadn’t meant for it to sound like that, soft and wishful. But after everything you wanted to cling to the hope that maybe this could work. So you handed him something fragile and trusted him not to break it. It lay there bare between you in the open.

He nodded slowly, almost like he was in a trance, like the part of his brain that kept him holding things back wasn’t in operation anymore. “Yeah.”

Something warm and terrifying all at once settled snuggly in your chest. It made it hard to think straight because there was no teasing in it. There was no easy way to brush it off or pretend it meant something other than what it did.

It was simple, and certain, and real.

“Good,” you breathed. 

You wanted him to know that you meant it, that it went deeper than anything you had ever felt before. So much so that it made every logical thought you tried to convince yourself with feel flimsy in comparison. You wanted him to know what he meant to you, how every careful act he did for you made it impossible not to love him. That every evil and ugly part of himself he was ashamed of made you want to crack open your own chest just to show him you were the same. That he wasn’t alone in feeling less than because of his shortcomings.

But you didn’t give voice to any of it. You let it sit there instead, tucked away inside of you where it had been living for months now. It was too big, too delicate to risk exposing all at once. You let a single word carry the weight of it even though it was entirely insufficient for everything you felt.

It seemed like he could see right through you, though. With the way he looked at you being just a little too penetrating, like he was trying desperately to figure something out.

He moves closer then, pushing himself off the counter, the air thinning around you. The warmth of him bleeds through the fabric of your scrubs, your flesh and muscles, right down into your bones, so intense it’s all you can focus on. The ghost of his breath, the scent of him, and the lingering stupor his words put you in all wrap around you so tightly it makes your head spin.

Your breath stutters as his hand comes up to hover over the side of your neck before letting the tips of his fingers graze your skin. You become painfully aware of everything as your pulse climbs, fast and uneven. Like it’s trying to process all the stimuli your body hasn’t caught up to yet.

It’s too much and not enough all at once. Overwhelming, like the way something is when you’ve wanted it for so long and then it finally happens. You don’t know what to do with it now that it’s here.

His touch is light, almost cautious, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. The pads of his fingers press just a bit more firmly against your neck, like he’s testing the water, like he needs to see what you’ll do. That was always a part of your dynamic, wasn’t it? Frank pulls, and in return, you push.

Your lips part around a silent inhale, but you don’t move; the thought doesn’t even cross your mind. This is what you’ve been circling around for months now, what every look, touch, and lingering moment has been building toward. There’s no confusion left in it, no need to pretend it was something that it’s not.

Your eyes flicker to his mouth before the idea even fully forms, and that barely there admission is what seems to get him. Something changes in his expression, subtle but unmistakable. The restraint he’s been holding onto cracks under the weight of everything, the strain spiderwebbing through his control. His thumb slides just slightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head up, guiding you without forcing anything.

The distance between you disappears so slowly that you feel every second of it. The heat of his breath ghosts over your lips, close enough now that it makes your chest tauten with something sharp and needful. You can feel his lips shuddering against yours, but he doesn’t kiss you yet.

“Frank,” you whisper, hoping that would be enough of an invitation for him.

You’d never once felt desire this strong, like you needed another person so much you couldn’t breathe. But that’s exactly what you felt right now. The world narrowed down to just you and him, and all other outside forces didn’t exist.

Which is probably why you didn’t hear the door open right away.

It takes the knob thudding on the wall behind it to get through the haze in your brain. Your eyes snap over to the door, your body jolting back like you’ve been shocked by a defibrillator. The moment shatters instantly, the knowledge of where you were rushing back in all at once.

Santos steps inside, her gaze landing on the two of you. Your stomach drops under her stare because it’s obvious what was going on before she walked in. You’d have to be an idiot not to pick up on it, and Santos was no idiot. Frank had dropped his hand from your face, but you still stood too close, and your breathing hadn’t evened out yet.

He’s the first to step away, the space between you widening. Whatever had been simmering there gets tucked away again, hidden under something more appropriate.

“I’ve got a patient to check on,” he says, voice clipped, already turning toward the door before you can gather yourself enough to think of something to say. He doesn’t look at you as the door swings shut behind him with a muted click.

Nothing feels right as you stand exactly where you had been. Your skin was tingling where he touched you, and your thoughts lagged a few steps behind as you tried to piece together what just happened.

You can feel Santos watching you even though she’s decent enough to try and be discreet.

“Did I interrupt something?” she asks after a second, her tone digging.

Your head snaps over to her. “No,” you answer quickly, the word spilling out too fast. “No, we were just—” You stop yourself before you can dig the hole any deeper.

“What’s going on with you two?” she asks, brows drawn together like she’s trying to understand something way out of the realm of possibilities.

A million explanations pass through your head, none seeming good enough or even believable. “Nothing, we’re just friends,” you settle on, even though that’s about as convincing as saying the sky was purple. 

“Wow,” she mutters, laughing slightly around the word. “Well, you guys are the most romantic pair of ‘friends’ I’ve ever seen.”

Your brows knit slightly. “It’s not like that,” you insist, even though the argument feels weaker now more than ever.

Santos doesn’t bother arguing back; she just looks at you. Really looks at you in that sharp, assessing way she has, like she’s already put all the pieces together and doesn’t even need you to confirm them.

“It’s honestly kind of gag-worthy,” she continues, completely unfazed. “You could do so much better than Langdon.”

Irritation pricks up inside of you, becoming defensive easily with all your emotions open and raw. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You liked Santos even if she could be a bit abrasive sometimes, but you didn’t like the insinuation that Frank was beneath you somehow.

She shrugs, like it’s obvious and doesn’t need explaining. “It means he’s Langdon.” Which, to her, is clearly enough of a reason. Her eyes linger on you for another second. “You’re smart,” she adds. “You really wanna get mixed up in that?”

The realization prickles in your heart, the weight of what this could be and what it could turn into. Something you’d get mixed up in. It doesn’t feel like the misfortune that she’s picturing it as.

“I can take care of myself,” you say finally, your tone taking on more confidence. You know what she’s getting at, you’re not nearly that oblivious. You’re also not blind to Frank’s past or the obvious issues she has with him.

Santos looks at you for another minute before she gives a small dismissive huff. She turns away, reaching for something on the counter like the conversation has already run its course in her mind.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “Okay.”

You nod more to yourself since she isn’t paying attention anymore and push off the counter to leave. Once back on the floor, you throw yourself into work the only way you know how. Letting muscle memory and training take over where your thoughts keep slipping. You don’t know how many patients you see or how many charts you update. The controlled chaos of the ER wrapping around you.

Your focus drifts at the worst times, your mind pulling you back to the break room whether you wanted it to or not. The feeling of his hand on your neck, his lips ghosting over yours, how close—

You shake it off where you can, forcing yourself back into the present. You smile when you need to, soften your voice for patients who need a gentler approach, keep your hands busy so hopefully your thoughts will stay that way too. If any of your coworkers notice they don’t embarrass you by bringing it up.

Frank is nowhere to be seen, and that bothers you more than it should. You try to tell yourself it’s not that he’s avoiding you. He has different assignments and different patients; it's just the way shifts go sometimes. The ER is big enough to lose someone in if you’re not actively looking for them. But you are looking for him.

The longer it goes on, the more that restless feeling twists into something that’s harder to ignore. Because you need to talk about it. There’s too much left hanging between you now, too much that almost happened to just leave it where it was. You couldn’t go back to how it was before even if you tried.

By the time your shift finally winds down, the exhaustion has settled into your bones like always, but not enough to dull the edge of everything else. If anything, it makes it harder to push away now that you don’t have anything to distract yourself with.

You barely remember clocking out, your mind already somewhere else. Frank isn’t at the lockers when you get your stuff, and you don’t find him lingering around the nurse’s station either. You ask Dana, who of course hasn’t left yet, if she’d seen him, but no luck there.

Your stomach sinks a bit more with each passing second. He couldn’t have just left; you had plans together tonight. Pulling out your phone, you headed toward the ambulance bay to check there. You press his contact and listen to the line ring as the doors slide open with a soft mechanical hum. Stepping outside, you hear another phone ringing, and it takes you a second to realize it’s not yours.

The sound is faint at first, half swallowed by the deep rumble of an idling ambulance. But it has you whipping your head around to find it. Your phone hangs down by your side, still ringing.

You catch sight of him standing a few feet away, leaning on the brick side of the building. It seemed like he’d come out here and just stopped. His phone was lit up in his hand, the glow shining in his face, and you can imagine the ridiculous contact picture he has for you as if you could see the screen.

The ringing cuts back through your senses, and you hang up as you lock eyes for a minute. There’s a determination in the way he’s looking at you. Like he’s made a decision in the time you weren’t with him, and he’s sticking to it. It makes your pulse kick up again, that same uneven rhythm from before creeping back in.

Your shoes scuff against the pavement as you walk over to him. He presses off the wall when you stop in front of him, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

“Were you gonna leave?” You ask, your voice not as strong as you wanted it to be.

“No,” he says, and it comes out just as quiet. “I was waiting for you.”

Your throat feels a little tight, your thoughts stumbling over themselves for a second before you manage to grab hold of them again. “Oh,” you breathe.

Of course he was. Where else would he go when things were so jumbled between you? You don’t know what to say or how to act around him right now. The lump in your throat making you think speaking might not be a good idea.

“We should—” you start, but the words falter and die on your tongue before they can fully form.

“Yeah,” he agrees anyway, “we should.

Your chest feels too tight to be comfortable. The words sit heavy at the back of your throat, pressing and pressing until it feels like you're going to choke on them if you don’t let them out. 

So you do.

“Did you mean for that to happen?” you ask, the question coming out quicker than you expected. Your voice wavers despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Were you going to kiss me?”

He wanted to say something, you could see it with the way his shoulders pulled forward and his mouth parting just slightly. But you couldn’t stop the ramble of words now that you’ve started.

“Because if not,” you continue, and there’s a small break in your voice that you can’t quite smooth over, “I’ll go home, and we never have to talk about it again.”

It sounds simple when you say it like that, clean and contained, like you could just pack all of this up and lock it away somewhere it won’t touch you anymore. But you both know it wouldn’t be that easy.

“But I just—” You swallow, your throat tight, your eyes stinging before you can stop it. “I just need to know what this is.”

It’s out there now, and you can’t take it back. Everything you’ve been avoiding, everything you’ve been softening and dressing up as something easier, it all sits out in the open now.

Your vision blurs slightly, the sting behind your eyes building until it spills over despite the way you try to blink it back. It’s frustrating more than anything, the way your emotions always seem to betray you at the worst possible times.

“Because I can’t keep pretending it’s nothing,” you admit, the words pulling straight from somewhere deep in your chest. “I can’t—”

The whoosh of the bay doors cut straight through you, loud and jarring enough that the both of you flinch. Your head turns as two nurses step out, their conversation carrying just enough to make your skin prickle. The moment shrinks in on itself immediately, something private suddenly not so private anymore.

Frank exhales, a low, frustrated sound, like he’s been interrupted one too many times today. His jaw clenches and his hand comes up to drag briefly over his mouth, like he’s trying to collect himself.

“Come on,” he mutters.

Before you can react, his hand wraps around yours. His hold leaves no room for hesitation as he pulls you with him across the lot. You stumble half a step before falling into pace beside him, your mind scrambling to catch up with your body.

“Frank…” you try, but he doesn’t answer. He just keeps going, leading you further across the pavement, away from the doors, away from the noise and the people.

He doesn’t stop until you reach his car and you're tucked up beside it. He lets go of your hand only to turn toward you fully, hand coming back up to cup around the side of your neck again. His palm is warm and firm against you, his pinky swiping over your cheek to wipe away the tear tracks.

“If you’d let me get a word in,” he starts, his voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I’d tell you yes, I was gonna kiss you.”

Your breath catches as the world seems to tilt on its axis, everything narrowing down to just that, just him.

“And that you drive me crazy every goddamn day,” he continues, the words coming easier now, like they’ve been sitting there waiting just as long as yours have. His grip on you tightens just enough to keep you right there with him. “But since I came back, you’ve been one of the only things that makes me feel like I’m still worth something.”

You can see it in his eyes that this isn’t something he says lightly. Frank isn’t the type to fall to his knees and dramatically confess his love and devotion, especially not in the ER parking lot. What he said, though, comes pretty close to it.

“Don’t offer me an out,” he murmurs, his voice gentling, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips. “Cause I don’t want it. I want you.”

You can’t suck air into your lungs fast enough, your body not knowing how to react to any of this yet. Because this is what you’ve been waiting for and avoiding for months, and it was staring you dead in the eyes.

“You want me?” you ask, voice all breathy and light.

There’s no hesitation before he answers. “Yes.”

Something in your chest gives in, cracking open as a warmth spills into you like honey. It’s overwhelming in a completely different way now, less sharp and more sweet. Your eyes drop to his mouth, that yearning for him coming back over you now.

“Do you still wanna kiss me?” you ask, like you’re offering it to him and just hoping he’ll take it this time.

“Yes,” he says, not letting even a beat pass.

You tilt your head up, your gaze locking onto his, close enough now that you can see the way his eyes have darkened. “Kiss me then.” It comes out downy soft, but there’s no uncertainty left in you, no room to second guess anything.

And that’s all it takes for him to finally give in. His hand tightens at your jaw, the other coming up quick to your waist as he closes the distance between you in one go. Your back hits the side of the car with a dull thud, the impact barely registering before his mouth is on yours.

You melt into him, breath getting knocked out of you for a second. Your hands reach up to grab onto him, clutching at the front of his scrub top. You can’t get over the way it feels to have his lips on yours. It’s like waking up on a lazy morning, the sun streaming in through a window, and everything is warm and perfect for the time being. Nothing else matters in the moment except him and you; the world can’t touch you.

His grip on your waist coils tighter, pulling you into him like he’s trying to meld your bodies together. The hand at your jaw shifts, thumb pressing lightly beneath it to tilt your head the way he wants, deepening the kiss without a second thought.

Nothing about the way he’s handling you is guarded. There’s no testing and waiting to see what you’ll do or how you’ll react. It’s just him taking, and you letting him.

Your thoughts scattered the second his mouth came over yours. Flying away like dandelion seeds in a spring breeze until the only thing left in your mind was him. His warmth, his scent, his touch. You couldn’t think past where he ended and you began.

Neither of you are in a rush to separate; time lingers and stretches as your mouths move together. Your grip on his shirt loosens, your hands sliding up and resting in his hair. The brown strands are soft between your fingers, and you gently tug on them. His responding groan sliding down your throat, making your skin feel tingly.

The kiss deepens, softens, and then deepens again. The push and pull between you is something you can’t control anymore as he keeps taking all that you give him. A dizzy sort of swirl settles low in your stomach and seeps into every other part of you until you feel like you're reeling after one too many drinks.

Eventually, though, the need to breathe gets the better of you.

You break away slowly, his lips drawing yours in for one then two more quick pecks before he pulls back. Your noses brush as your breath mingles in the small space between you. It’s quiet for a second, and you just exist there with him, your hands still tangled in his hair and his splayed across your waist. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to do that,” you admit, your voice more than a little breathless.

He sighs, the sound fond and apologetic. “Sorry for being such an idiot,” he says, the words rough around the edges but not lacking any sincerity. 

You laugh, your joy making you feel a bit giddy. Your emotions are still running high, but it’s different now. They aren’t as heavy as before; you feel uplifted by them rather than weighed down.

You lean further into him, your hands coming down to rest on his chest where you can feel his heart hammering still. Your body fits into his like it’s found the place it was meant to be. “You can always make it up to me,” you quip. “You still owe me takeout and a movie.”

There’s a flicker of a grin on his face before he lets it fully form. “Done.”

It’s immediate, and he says it so easily that you're suddenly thinking about how you could have this now. You and Frank and that effortless affection you have for each other. 

He gives you one last kiss on your forehead this time before he slips his hand into yours. He tugs lightly, guiding you around to the passenger side of the car and opening the door for you. You let him usher you in with a wide smile on your face.

Your joined hands sit on the middle console as Pittsburgh blurs past the windows. The lights smear into streaks of gold and white against the glass, blending together in a way that makes everything feel hazy. It all feels a little unreal, and you don’t think it’s dawned on you fully. But you can still feel him everywhere, on your lips and under your hands. 

Your head tips back on the seat, your gaze cutting from the widow to him, catching the way his attention flickers toward your movement like it always does instinctively. You don’t feel the need to look away or cover up your intention like before. You admire him shamelessly now because let’s face it, you were never very good at lying to yourself.

I listened to My Moon My Man by Feist religiously while writing this. I need to make a playlist for this man soon.

[redd-blushing-roses]

Suck It Up Buttercup

word count: 6.1k

pairing: Frank Langdon x reader

summary: every month, you suck up the pain of being a woman and ignore your pain to help patients with theirs. every month, Frank tries to tell you to take it easy, to stop and listen to your body and stop pushing yourself. but it's hard when your whole life you've lived with a "take it like a man" mindset. until one day you can't take it anymore and your body forces you to listen to it. and to Frank.

warnings: wife!reader, brief talk about periods and uti's, misogyny, Robby being... Robby, blood and vomiting, pain, pittlings!, reader being kind of an idiot (we love a stubborn woman who fights the pain but girl... know when to quit!), idk let me know if I missed anything else.

notes: this was supposed to be a quick vent drabble but somehow it got away from me and over 6k words later we've got... this. semi- based on my very real and very painful experience with my period this past weekend (minus a hot doctor husband there to take care of me)

anyhoo, enjoy reading :)

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From the moment you rolled over in bed, blearily staring out into the early morning sun, you knew it was not going to be your day. The second you opened your eyes, awoken from a deep slumber and crazy dream, the pain instantly hit you.

Muscles tightening. Belly aching.

The intense pull and stretch of your uterus, the feeling of your insides literally shedding.

Your period had hit you like a train.

You spent a good thirty minutes shifting around, Frank - bless his heart - snoring softly beside you all the while. He still slept blissfully unaware of the fact the fetal position you were now holding was doing nothing to soothe the aching cramps like it usually would.

It would piss you off if you weren't so preoccupied with the fact it felt like someone had tried to gut your uterus out.

When you finally gain the courage to get up and use the bathroom, it takes all your strength to walk the five feet from your bed to the toilet without groaning. All of your mental energy to focus on the task at hand and not curl up into a ball on the floor.

Not today. Of all the days...

You hated working on your start day.

Generally the worst day of your period; a full morning of cramping and nausea. An afternoon of mood swings snd headaches. To say the least, it was definitely not a day you wanted to spend twelve hours on your feet, listening to other people complain about indigestion and bruised toes.

But you did it anyway. You had to. It had been ingrained into you since you were a young girl.

"Suck it up buttercup. That's just womanhood."

Bills don't pay themselves. Food doesn't magically appear on the table. Dirty dishes and unfolded laundry don't just disappear.

Life didn't stop just because you were in a little pain.

"Honey."

Frank's voice cuts through the quiet of the bathroom. You blink, peering between your fingers to register the sight of his bare feet padding towards you. You were sitting at the edge of the tub, your head held in your hand, the position doing little to relieve you of the pain.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," you whisper.

Very convincing.

Frank crouches in front of you, one hand coming to rub your back while the other gently massaged your calf. You hum, closing your eyes again as another wave of pain washes over you.

A harsh tightening of your abdomen, leaving you breathing shakily through your nose.

Frank whispers your name, a string of "oh baby"s following. You feel him kiss your forehead before the feel of his hands disappears. The sound of his quiet footsteps and the medicine cabinet opening follows. You hear a rattling pill bottle being shaken, Frank quietly grunting before padding back over to you.

"Here," he says softly, pressing the pill into your hand. "I'll get you some water to take it."

You look up, squinting to take in the messy bed head and tired lines of Frank's face.

"Without eating anything?"

"Normally I'd say no. But it might work faster if you take it now." You nod, Frank already off to get you water.

The pill kicks in twenty minutes later, easing the stabbing pain to a dull and uncomfortable tightness in your belly. Just enough to slip into your scrubs and pull yourself into a semi presentable state.

Frank just eyes you as you get ready, blue eyes boring into you as he ties the string of his scrub pants from across your shared bedroom. You glance back at him from the connected bathroom, pausing your brushing.

"I'm fine Frank," you say through a mouth of toothpaste. He sighs, bending down and throwing the kicked off comforter back onto the bed.

"You don't look fine."

You glance back in the mirror, the mascara and blush you'd quickly applied doing little to cover the greenish pale pallor of your skin. You shake your head, ignoring the slight tremble of your hand as you twist the faucet on, water rushing as you rinse out your mouth.

Frank finishes making the bed, coming to lean against the doorframe of the bathroom.

"I really don't like when you work like this. It won't kill you to take the day off."

You shake your head, drying your mouth. "I can't just take the day because I've got cramps. I'm not a quitter."

"I didn't say you were."

"No. But you're giving me that look." Frank frowns.

"What look?"

"The one all men give when a woman complains about cramps."

"There is no look," Frank crosses his arms. You roll your eyes, pushing past him to get to your purse. "There is no look, honey," he doubles down, following you out of the bedroom as you storm into the kitchen.

"There is Frank. It's the same look I've gotten for twenty years. The 'it's her time of the month' look." You huff, pulling out your container of overnight oats from the fridge.

You dig through the kitchen drawer for a spoon more aggressively than you intend to. Your hand moving about without much of your usual control, the ache of your uterus becoming a more potent sting again.

Frank watches, concern drawn in the small crease between his brows, his mouth pulled into a deep frown. He leans over the island counter of your kitchen, keeping his distance as you dip your spoon into the container, your nostrils flaring. You shove a spoonful into your mouth, glaring up at Frank.

He finally sighs, shaking his head and mumbling something about stubborn wives.

"Fine. I'll finish getting ready and then we can drive over together."

"I can drive myself. You're only working a half shift-"

"Not everything is because I'm some misogynistic jerk, okay. Can't I just care about my wife?" Frank throws out, anger flashing for a moment. He takes a breath, hands coming to rest on his hips. "Just, let me drive. Please," he says quietly. Pleading almost.

You close your eyes, riding a sharp wave of pain in your abdomen, your stomach churning at the feeling. When you blink them open, Frank is by your side, a hand reaching out to rub your lower back. You take a deep shuddering breath, mumbling a half hearted apology.

"I'm sorry."

"I know," he says, pulling you into his side.

"I'm not really mad at you. I just-"

"I know," Frank repeats. "I get it. I just don't like seeing you hurting. That's all."

You nod into his chest, stomach churning again with a dull twist you didn't like. Frank kisses the top of your head, leaving you to go finish getting ready. You get in a couple more bites of your oats before the dull twist in your stomach turns into something more.

You swallow dryly, spit clinging to the wall of your mouth. An unsettling sense of dread washing over you. You eye the trash can across the kitchen, speed walking over-

You heave, water and oats leaving with a spill of stomach acid. You vomit quietly, silently praying Frank doesn't hear you. You grip the counter, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling no relief at the dispelling of your stomach.

You wince as you stand upright, putting your food back into the fridge, the little appetite you had managed to muster gone. You wouldn't be able to eat anyway. Your stomach still churns, abdomen clenching again as another wave of cramps hits you.

This was a nightmare.

And it only got worse.

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You tried to ignore the way Frank kept glancing over at you on the drive over to PTMC.

You knew he noticed.

The way you kept squeezing his hand as he rested it on your thigh, the way you kept shifting in the passenger seat. Crossing and uncrossing your legs. Lifting your hips in a desperate attempt to find relief.

Any relief.

But there was none. Just the same constant ache. The same feeling of your insides tearing away, muscles flexing and spasming unceasingly.

Frank is right behind you when you begin the trek through the hospital's parking lot. His hand hovering just beside yours.

An offering.

Not pressing. Not absent.

Just there.

You appreciated the gesture, but didn't take it. Just walked towards the hospital's building like it was your only mission.

Get through the door. Just get through the door.

It's already crowded for seven in the morning, the waiting room buzzing with conversation and complaints. You try to ignore it, the noise filling your mind like a cloud. It was too loud. Too hot in the room.

You let out a heavy breath as a headache forms, pulling at the neckline of your scrub. A thin layer of sweat is already glimmering along your collarbone, soaking into the fabric of your undershirt.

You ignore it, just applying an extra swab of deodorant when you reach your locker. The cap to your deodorant falls when you try to put it back, your hands shaking so much it was hard to focus. You mumble an apology, feeling bad when Frank bends over to pick it up.

"Are you sure you-"

"I'm fine Frank," you shake your head, looking up at him. "I can do this."

Frank frowns. Pouts really. You sigh, plastering a smile on your face. It comes off as more of a grimace, but you don't have it in yourself to pretend to be any better.

"You don't have to hover. I'll take it easy today, okay."

"I don't hover." You glance over at Frank, giving him a disbelieving side eye. He looks at you innocently, setting his bag carefully into his locker.

"Yes you do."

"I don't. I can't help it if I'm more astute in my observations than most." You snort.

"Oh really?"

He hums in agreement, shutting his locker closed. You watch him, your hands tightening around the opening of your locker as another wave of cramps ramps up. Your breath hitches and you close your eyes, leaning your forehead against the cool metal.

"Want me to tell you what I'm observing now?" Frank asks in that 'know it all tone' you usually found amusing.

When he used it with patients. Not you.

"I don't know, do I," you mutter, annoyance slipping in your tone.

Frank's hands come to rest on your waist, his thumbs rubbing comforting circles into your hips. You huff slightly, his touch doing little to reprieve the pain. But it made you feel slightly better knowing that he was there with you.

"I'm observing a medical practitioner who is doing anything but listening to a doctor's advice."

"You're not my doctor Frank," you turn around slowly, glaring at him as you press your back against the locker.

"Okay, against your husband's advice. Your husband who's getting a recommendation letter sent to some of Pittsburgh's finest hospital's mind you. And who was sent a very kindly worded letter by admin over Christmas."

You laugh, wincing as your abdomen clenches at the movement.

"Don't make me laugh," you smile, hand squeezing against your belly.

"Sorry," Frank smiles guiltily. "I'm serious though."

"I know."

"Doctors really make the worst patients."

"Just living up to the saying." You try to be funny but the words fall flat. Frank just frowns.

You look down at your hands, a little overwhelmed as the thought of the day ahead hits you. Frank takes your hands into his, big palms covering yours. He leans down to your eye level, forcing you to look at him. You oblige, eyes flickering over the concern written on his face.

"Please don't push yourself too hard. Listen to your body. Take breaks. Maybe see if Dana will let you hang out in triage for most of the day."

"Okay," you mumble, squeezing his hand. "Anything to keep you off my back." Frank shakes his head before pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Stubborn wife."

"Helicopter husband." He raises an eyebrow.

"That's a new one."

You blink, your response lost as another cramp takes over.

Oh this was hell.

Frank just sighs, reaching into your locker beside you and grabbing your water bottle. He places it into your hands gently, giving you a serious look.

"Drink some water before you make your way in. It's gonna be busy from the looks of it. Gotta keep you hydrated, okay?"

You nod, waving as Frank makes his way to the pitt. He glances back twice as he disappears down the hall, mouth screwed up in worry. You really did appreciate how much he cared for you.

Even if he could be a little overbearing.

You glance down at your water bottle, taking a breath before popping the lid. The water is cool against your dry mouth, steadily flowing as you take a couple of drags from the straw. You stand there for a minute. Waiting.

And then your stomach churns.

"No, no no." You groan, putting your water bottle back into the locker, pacing in a circle. You hunch, taking shallow breaths. You knew what was coming. Could feel the lurch of stomach acid, the dread of anticipation washing over you.

The hallways trash echoes as you retch, your fingers clinging tightly to it's rim. You vomit the water, throat constricting as your system tries to bring up more. There's nothing though. You're all empty.

When you finally stop, every muscle in you is shaking. Trembling fingers close your locker and smooth out your scrubs. With a pale face, only made worse by the harsh hospital lights, you enter the pitt.

You enter a nightmare.

------------------------------------------------------

The first hour goes by in a blur. You barely trudge up to the nurses station before Dana is shooing you away, pressing a patient chart into your hand and telling you to 'turn that frown upside down.' She doesn't even get a chance to let you mention triage.

Frank looks up from across the station, lab work and scans already tucked under his arm, his brows raised in question.

"Are you sure?"

You shake your head.

"I got this."

You're running between patients- more sluggish than your usual pep, slightly hunched. Your hand feels like it's permanently glued to your abdomen, pressing firmly against the muscle there each time your uterus contracts.

Turns out there was no such thing as 'taking it easy' when it came to the Pitt.

It takes all your effort to listen as the mom of a four year old explains how she got a staple lodged in her lip,

"She just wanted a lip ring like her older sister. Ay, my sweet girl-"

And to follow along as Princess explains her latest situationship to you,

"I really don't think he's that good looking. Well, who am I kidding. He's good enough with all those 0's in his paycheck-"

And to pay attention to Dennis when he presented a case on an elderly couple who both had caught a serious case of pneumonia.

"I'm not too worries about the wife. She seems to have strong enough lungs. But the husband was a smoker and his oxygen levels are already so low-"

"Hmm."

It was exhausting. And to top it off, you had the urge to pee every five minutes. As if bleeding out and cramping wasn't enough.

"Hey, are you okay?" Dennis asks when you try to stifle a groan, shifting as you type a note into the couple's chart. "You look kinda-"

"I'm fine. Finish up the IV and then go see your next patient," you snap. You feel a little bad when Dennis flinches, surprise written on his face. You take a breath, reaching a hand out in apology."Sorry Dennis. It's not you. I'm just- I'm having a rough morning. That's all."

His eyes widen, face shifting into something sympathetic.

"Oh. Okay. Let me know if I can do anything for you." You chuckle, trying to hide a wince.

"Thanks Huckleberry."

------------------------------------------------------

By the second hour, you've improved slightly.

Just slightly.

The cramps lesson, just a dull ache you notice more every time you sit down. But you're moving from patient to patient so quickly, there's hardly time to feel anything. Multiple incoming traumas, Mel in need of assistance with a combative teen, Trinity talking your head off about a rude patient.

There was a pair of teens who'd gotten serious burns who didn't know how to put out a grease fire, a mother who'd displaced her kneecap running after her three year old, a firefighter who cut a portion of his hand trying to use a saw blade.

You're perspiring again as you leave your latest patient's room, glancing over at the nurses station. Frank is watching you- or at least you know he is in spite of the way his eyes are glued to his computer screen. You try to ignore him, heading to the bathroom again.

When you come out, shaking the last bits of water off your hand, he's no longer at the station. He's standing right by the door, nonchalantly rummaging through a supply cart stationed there. Frank glances over at you, checking over you in the clinical manner he always adopted when observing a patient.

You huff, hands on your hips.

"You checking me out Dr. Langdon?" It was another attempt to be humorous. To pretend like it was fine.

It was fine- the words didn't even mean anything to you anymore.

Frank just quirks his mouth to the side, eyes flitting down to your hands.

"You're hands are shaking." You look down, flexing your fingers in an attempt to quell the slight tremble.

"I-"

"You're really pushing it you know. I saw you with that last patient. You could barely stand straight."

"But I did."

"Yeah you did. But what happens if it becomes so bad you double over during a high risk case. What then?" You narrow your eyes.

"What- I'm not going to hurt anyone Frank. I can manage the pain." He gives you a look.

"You think grimacing and clutching your belly like it's a stress ball is managing?" You huff.

"Frank, you worked shifts after your back thing-"

"And look at me now," he gestures to himself, eyes wide. "Just because you can doesn't mean you should."

"It's just my period. The pain usually subsides after a couple hours. I only have to ride it out for a little bit longer."

"Are you sure it's just your period."

"Of course-"

"Positive?"

"I- what else could it be?" Your period was always miserable. Frank should know, he'd spent 36 weeks out of your whole marriage watching you fight off cramps and nausea. He knew how bad it could get. But something about the way he was looking at you said he saw something different. "What Frank?"

He looks away.

"You never throw up." You frown. He continues, "Even when the pain is really bad. I've never seen you throw up during your period."

"How did you-"

"I could smell the stomach acid in the kitchen trash."

You rub your forehead, looking out into the ED. Dana was giving the two of you a hair raising look. One that said 'get a move on.'

"Frank, it's just my period. Women have bad symptoms all the time."

"But you don't."

"I- I guess I do this time. I don't know." He doesn't look convinced. "Look, it's going to get better. The cramps have subsided a bit already-"

"Hey, you two," Robby's voice cuts in. You turn around, like a child caught doing something wrong, watching as he slows. He stops by Frank, hands shoved into the pocket of his scrubs. Robby looks between the two of you, taking in the way you stand slightly hunched. The way Frank's shoulders tense, jaw ticking with something unspoken. "Everything okay here?"

You nod, swallowing thickly. "Peachy."

Frank looks away and mumbles a 'yeah'.

Robby frowns, eyes still flitting between the both of you. His piercing stare lands on you, looking you up and down with clinical precision.

"You sure? You're a little green around the gills."

You force a smile. "Just a little under the weather today."

Robby nods slowly. He's not quite convinced. Especially not when Frank's jaw ticks again, teeth grinding together in the annoyed way he gets when he doesn't agree with a diagnosis.

Robby doesn't say anything else though, just tells the two of you to make sure you get back to work. You're about to walk off towards your patient's room, trying to escape but Frank catches you. His hand squeezes yours, eyes pleading.

"Please. Switch with someone in triage. I think Javadi's been stuck there all morning. She'd happily switch."

You shake your head, pushing down the sick feeling that was rising.

It was just your period. Just. Your. Period.

"I can do this Frank. I just have to push through."

I'm fine.

But the more you say it, the more you sound like you're trying to convince yourself as much as everyone else.

------------------------------------------------------

The third hour hits.

Like a freaking bullet train.

If you thought that morning had been bad, this was truly a new low. The cramps subside, just like you knew they would. Only they're replaced by a fiery, stinging ache that blazes along your pelvic wall.

Your head aches dully as you walk down the hall, the ED's bright lights and constant noise only adding to the overwhelmed feeling rising in your chest. You rub your temples, trying to focus and ease the throbbing. A brain fog was rolling in, settling over you like a thick mist. It was hard to focus, the usual overwhelming chaos of the ED worsening tenfold.

You try to listen as Samira talks beside you, hands moving about animatedly as she explained her dilemma.

What was she talking about? You'd lost track a long time ago.

It was getting hard to focus on anything but breathing and keeping yourself upright. In addition to the stinging pain of your pelvic region, you were beginning to feel very very sick.

Your stomach gurgled. An angry and empty sound. Nausea plagued you, the smell of hand sanitizer becoming more and more sickening, the saccharinely smelling donuts Abbot had left sitting in the break room doing little to ease your headache.

You were running on fumes, each passing minute ticking slower. You glance at the clock, the time still reading single digits. You hadn't even made it to 10 O' clock yet.

You swallow dryly.

Maybe you should tell Robby you were feeling worse and go home-

No! You mentally slap yourself. You have to do this. The ED was short staffed as it was. They needed you-

"Hey." You stop short, looking around in a daze. Samira reaches out to clasp your shoulder, helping to steady yourself as you wobble. "Are you alright? You look terrible."

You hum, sweat dripping down your back. You pull at the neck of your scrubs, suddenly feeling a wave of heat.

"Is it hot in here to you?" You ask. Samira frowns, concern crossing her face.

"No. Are you feeling okay? You're burning up," she reaches out, the back of her hand pressed against your forehead. You push her hand away, shaking your head.

"I'm alright. I just need... I just need..."

What did you need?

"I-"

"Mohan," Robby's voice calls out. Your name follows, the two of you turning to face the Chief Attending as he gestures for you to come. "We've got two incoming traumas. No time for standing around."

"I don't think-" Samira starts.

"Samira it's fine," you glare, already grabbing a fresh pair of gloves and following Robby.

She doesn't look convinced and you miss the way she meets Frank's eyes across the ED. He looks equally concerned watching you, your frame hunched over as you rush to the incoming gurney.

Everything about your movements are sluggish. Jerky hands inspect flesh, eyes glazed over as you make the examination. You don't notice as Samira enters the trauma room, her eyes darting between you and Robby.

You glance up briefly, regretting the moment you try and stand straighter. Black spots prickle at your vision and you shake your head, trying to focus. Robby must notice the way you suddenly tip sideways, his voice cutting harshly through beeping monitors and nurses' voices.

"Hey. You still here with us?"

"I'm here," you mumble, blinking. Your fingers tighten over the ultrasound wand you hold, eyes glazed over as you watch the monitor.

"What are you seeing?"

You don't register the question, your vision spotting again. Robby calls your name, alarm written on in his face as he catches you staring at the monitor. Samira nudges you, and you snap back to reality.

"Yes, sorry I'm here."

"Are you?"

"Yes." Fear began to claw it's way up your chest. This wasn't right. There was something seriously wrong with you. With shaky hands, you step back, the ultrasound wand still clutched in your hand. "I-"

Samira frowns, glancing between you and Robby with anxious readiness. Robby shakes his head in disbelief as you stand there, telling Samira to take over.

She does, using the ultrasound wand to find where the patient was bleeding out. You back away from the patient, back hitting the wall as you shake. Frank was right.

There was something seriously wrong with you.

When Robby finally gets the patient to stabilize, he gives you a withering look, telling you to follow him. You do, feet trudging slowly into the hallway, away from the main area of the Pitt.

He shakes his head, hands rubbing over his face. "Okay, I'm only gonna ask this once. And you better be honest with me."

You blink, breathing heavy.

"What the hell was that?"

"I-"

"I've never seen you off your game like that. You've been off all day today, standing around. Holding yourself weird. Is your head in the clouds or are you just piddling about-"

"I'm trying my best Robby," you hiss, trying to stay focused in spite of the vertigo that was hitting you. Your abdomen tenses, body on fire as it works overtime to keep you upright. "I'm sorry if I'm a little slow. It's not my fault I have to go through this every month-"

Robby glances up in disbelief, chuckling without any amusement.

"Wait, this is because of a few cramps? You almost cost us a patient's life because of a few cramps?" You swallow thickly, a lump forming in your throat. "Are you kidding me."

"I'm trying my hardest here Robby, but there's something wrong-"

"Yeah there is. You do not get to stop in the middle of a trauma patient because you're experiencing menstruation pains. Okay? You've got to take your own pain and push it to the side. Forget about it. The patients come first. Always-"

You stare, your breath shaking as you grip the fabric of your scrubs, trying to focus on what Robby was saying. But with each passing second of standing there, you felt yourself slipping further and further away, the haze in your mind taking over.

Everything is on fire. You're whole body.

You're sweating profusely now, the neck of your scrubs drenched. From the corner of your eye, you spot Dana rounding the hallway, her mouth pulled down in a serious frown when she spots you.

"Hey, what the heck is going on," she asks, Robby pressing his lips into a thin line as Dana reaches out for your shoulder. "What's going on, are you okay honey?"

"I-" you start, the words disappearing. Your mouth feels like cotton, a tight, tense feeling weighing over your chest. You have about six more seconds of clear thoughts before it all goes to mush.

You were going to be sick.

"Robby she-"

"Oh shi-"

You collapse before either of them can catch you.

In the vague blurry dizziness that follows, you feel yourself hit the floor. Hands wrap around your shoulders, Dana and Robby's voices cluseting over each other unintelligibly. You manage to catch pieces, the words sounding strange.

"She said she was on her period?"

"I thought she just had a few cramps."

"Robby, this isn't just a period. She's seriously burning up-"

"I know."

You feel a strange sensation rising up your chest, a sudden urge to cough and gag.

Were you vomiting?

You weren't sure. But the smell of stomach acid was beginning to pervade your cloudy mind, mixing with the smell of Robby's musky cologne and Dana's sanitized hands. And another smell.

Frank's shampoo.

"Hey, come on baby-"

You blearily look around, the feeling of a hospital bed coming beneath you, the fuzzy outline of Dana by your side and Frank's hand coming to brush your face. You try to say his name, but your mouth feels like cotton. Tongue thick, eyes drooping lower.

It was getting darker.

So dark.

And you were so tired. You just wanted the pain to be over with.

So dark...

------------------------------------------------------

You wake up slowly. Consciousness bleeding back into your person like trickling sand.

The first thing you notice is the fact it's quiet. A gentle stillness that never belonged in the ER. The soft sound of rain pattering against the window, the familiar hum of an air purifier running.

You don't open your eyes yet, moaning softly as you flex you fingers against the sheets beneath you. Soft cotton. A pillow that seemed to remember the way you lay.

But the most important thing you notice is the fact the pain is gone. Well mostly gone. There's nothing but a hollow emptiness in your belly, a stinging pain in your arm and a slight ache behind your sinuses.

You finally open your eyes, blinking as you take in the softly lit walls of your bedroom. The lamp on Frank's side of the bed glows softly, a soft bulb he insisted keeping on 24/7 painting everything in a peaceful orange.

You sit up slowly, taking in the fresh pair of pajamas you were in, the soft and messy bun your hair had been swept up in. In the crook of your arm is a tightly wrapped bandage, another bandaid wrapped against the top of your hand. You must have had an IV.

You can't remember it though. As hard as you try, the memories between Dana and Robby helping you off the floor and waking up in your own bed were blurry and mixed.

It was all a vague puzzle.

A bright light shining in your eyes.

Frank's hand on yours, the feel of his lips across your temple.

The smell of his car, the seat pressing into your back.

Voices clustered. Arguing. Your own sluggish voice thrown in the mix.

The house is quiet as you pad out into the hall. Slowly, taking cautious steps as your hand slides along the wall for support. The living room is lit softly, lamps and candles casting gentle light onto the furniture. Frank knew you had an aversion to overhead lighting.

You move further into the living room, the shag rug soft beneath your bare feet, the couch plush against your thigh as you lean over it. You catch a glimpse of Frank's long torso on the other side, legs stretched as he lays splayed out on the floor.

His computer is humming softly, a medical podcast droning on in one tab, another tab pulled up with a long article from the history channel, something about old oil mines and rigging complexes. Frank types away at his phone, fingers working quickly as he composes a text.

The window is cracked open slightly, the purple indigo of Pittsburgh's night sky peeking through. You frown.

"It's night?"

Frank startles at the sound of your raspy voice, eyes quickly snapping to your figure, darting up and down as he assesses you.

"You're awake."

He pushes himself off the floor with a tired grunt, offering you the glass of iced tea he'd been sipping on. You take it, realizing how thirsty you were, and sip slowly.

Slightly dazed, you look around, like you didn't quite understand what was going on. Frank's hand rests over your elbow, trying to keep you grounded.

"You were out for a while. I was gonna wake you up in a bit. Make sure you were doing alright."

You nod, blinking slowly as your brain tries to catch up. Frank tugs you closer, guiding you around the couch so you can sit.

"Are you feeling better?" Frank asks, brows raising high with hope. You nod again, slumping against the couch cushion, the iced tea clutched in your hands.

"I- did I pass out?"

"You did." You frown, looking down at your lap.

"I've never had that happen during my period before."

Frank scratches the back of his head. "Well, I'm pretty sure you've never had a UTI before either." You look up at him, surprised.

"I do?"

"A mild one." Frank licks his lips, pulling the fabric of his sweats up as he squats in front of you. He stares up at you, watching your face carefully, trying to gauge what you were thinking.

He continues when you don't say anything, "it uh, explains the throwing up. And why your period pain was so much worse. Dana says it happens to some women. Goes unnoticed by most because they can't tell the difference between regular cramps and infection pain."

You blink, trying to wrap your head around this new information.

"I passed out?" Is all you ask again.

"You were severely dehydrated. Between not drinking anything and frequently urinating. Plus you had a fever which wasn't making anything better."

"Oh," you frown, looking down. "I thought I was just... I thought maybe I had been making a big deal-"

"Hey, you weren't. You weren't making a big deal," Frank moves to sit next to you, knees pressed close as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. "If anything, I'm surprised you were able to make it for as long as you did." You hum, swirling the straw of his tea idly.

"I don't remember much after I collapsed." You look up at Frank. He lets out a breath.

"It wasn't pretty. Dana came and got me. Told me you collapsed while arguing with Robby. Found out what he said... I had some pretty choice words with him."

"You did?"

"Yeah," he looks down at his feet. "Might have to work a couple night shifts before he's ready to see me again."

You give him a small smile. The first real smile you've had all day really.

"I'm guessing they pumped me full of antibiotics?" Frank snorts, snapped out of his memory.

"Oh yeah. You were coasting on IV fluid for a while. They had you sleeping in a bed until I finished my shift. You were pretty out of it when I took you home."

Frank looks up at you, an emotion crossing his face you rarely see. Fear.

"You really scared me, you know. When Dana ran to come get me I-" He swallows thickly, not finishing. You reach out and hold his hand, eyes softening.

"I'm sorry Frank," you whisper, eyes glassy. "I didn't mean to-

"You don't have to be. You didn't know. But you've got to take it easy when you're hurting like that."

You chuckle dryly.

"But Robby-"

"Who cares what Robby thinks," Frank throws back. "You shouldn't be scared to take care of yourself just because you're scared he'll think you're weak."

"I'm not scared of Robby."

"Okay. Maybe not scared of him, but of others right? Scared you won't meet your own expectations?" You're silent.

"Frank-"

"Admitting you can't do something isn't a failure. It's a strength. A pretty brave one at that. Pushing yourself to the brink isn't going to make you a better doctor." You give him a look.

"Says the guy who hurt his back because he insisted moving a couch was light work." Frank scoffs, smiling amusedly. His shoulders flex as he adjusts his stance, shaking his head with disbelief.

"Well, you know I'm telling you this cause I've got experience. What's the saying- do as I say, not as I do?"

You laugh. "I think it's something like that."

Frank smiles, reaching out to push a lock of hair out of your face.

"I'm really glad you're okay. But please. For the love of God- don't scare me like that again."

"Okay doc," you lean in cautiously, giving him a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Scouts honor."

He smiles. You lean back, relieved to be feeling somewhat better after the crazy day.

"Frank."

"Yeah?"

"Does pizza and 'Back to the Future' sound good for dinner?" Frank grins.

"There's my girl."

------------------------------------------------------

thank you for reading! if you're interested in reading more of my works for the pitt, here is a link to my masterlist

[write-yearn-love]

redamancy [Frank Langdon]

Frank had a wife, you have a boyfriend. Did it stop either of you from falling in love?

warnings: emotional and literal infidelity, few medical terms, depictions of assault and chronic pain, the reader is nicknamed Rudy, the reader is said to be Samira's bestfriend and speaks tamil.

a/n: reader and frank are already yearners. And because I suck at creating original characters the reader's boyfriend is basically Dean Winchester.

s1/intervita/ to be loved, love.

part¹: tempus edax rerum

part²: sed ipsum est edax sui

part³: dura veritas,sed veritas

part⁴: quae totum, vult totum perdit

Interlude.

s2/retrouvaille/ one autumn and the next day.

part¹: mortuis vivo docent

[harringtonshoe]

I Kind of Think We Could Make it

masterlist

summary: what had started out as a temporary agreement to get you through your intern year had turned into a chain reaction that you never could have imagined. one, you actually enjoyed living with frank langdon. two, you both wound up at the same emergency room. three, you both signed the lease for another year. and after that? you signed it again. it seemed like neither of you had any interest in moving out anytime soon. and three, you think he might be your best friend and the love of your life. chain reaction or chemical imbalance?

warnings: f!reader. bffs to lovers, roommates to lovers, eventual smut. tension tension tension. jealous langdon at one point. also jealous reader cuz abby will have a guest star appearance. no use of yn

01. 02. 03. 04. 05.

[souliebird]

[[Dance of the Little Swans Masterlist]]

Daredevil || Benjamin Poindexter x Fem! Reader || 18+

Summary:

After he misses your opening night, you go from Matt Murdock's Swan Princess to Benjamin Poindexter's Angel.

Tags: dead dove do not eat, suicidal ideation, multiple metal illnesses, canon typical themes

1. You're A Little Late

2. Dance of the Little Swans

3. And I Will Never Let You Down

4. Lately, You've Been Trying Real Hard

5. Always Forever

6. Kitty Cat Claws 🌶️🌶️🌶️

7. a hymn called faith and misery

[ladybirdswritings]

HER ⌖ BEN POINDEXTER

⊹ synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dex’s bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.

⊹ warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.

⊹ next chap | lmk if you’d like to be tagged | ♫

it’s silly how random life is. when you were younger you used to think it was all one big game. like, god or whoever the fuck was looking down at you and changing the colors in the sky was manning some big joystick 24/7.

it made sense then. but now?

the blood spilling from your stomach onto the scuffed, dilapidated floors of your unfurnished hell’s kitchen apartment was as red as the tomato sauce still boiling in the pot you’d been stirring four seconds prior.

glug. glug. glug.

your free time was sacred. and that tomato sauce was supposed to go over frozen gnocchi, devoured on the couch with NCIS on and a seltzer sweating in your hand. you never found it realistic; the way actors bled on screen. too much, too dramatic.

but now, here, with your own trembling hands pressed against your midsection, you realized something.

you had been so terribly wrong.

droplets became spills. and as it always did, the sight of blood made your head swim. the copper smell hit the back of your throat and your knees buckled before you could stabilize yourself on the newly red countertop. your head met the floor with a crack that you felt more than heard.

three versions of your ceiling swam above you. all of them blurry.

and a ways away, in a place you couldn’t see, the man responsible was still squinting through his scope. still trained on the peephole of what was supposed to be karen’s door.

but you were not karen.

oh no no no.

at surface level, similar enough. a pretty blonde thing, wide-eyed. and now, gorgeously complemented by the crimson blooming across that frilly white top of yours. he stayed a beat longer than necessary, watching the spiderweb of red spread against the fabric.

his work. tidy, even when it was wrong.

then his stomach growled.

fries, he thought. and a banana milkshake. definitely a banana milkshake.

he was already turning on his heel when he heard it. faint. muffled by the door between you.

“father forgive them…” a wet, rattling inhale. ”…for they know not what they do.”

ben stopped.

were you… praying? for him?

a long pause settled behind his mask. his head tilted a fraction, the way it did when something didn’t compute. he’d just put a bullet in you. and you were down there, trembling on the other side of that door, bleeding out, spending what might be your last breaths on forgiveness.

he didn’t deserve that. he knew it plainly, the same way he knew he was hungry, the same way he knew the door in front of him was unlocked when it shouldn’t have been. facts. simple ones.

his hand closed around the knob anyway.

the click of the latch was barely a sound. the draft from the hallway kissed your face before you registered the shape crouching over you. masked, still, radiating something you couldn’t name but recognized in your gut as wrong.

“door’s unlocked.” his voice was even, almost conversational. almost amused. “that’s not very smart.”

you blinked up at him. or tried to. the tears were making it difficult.

he reached down with ease and tucked a dirty blonde ringlet away from your clammy face. clinical. unhurried. like he had all the time in the world and you weren’t actively dying beneath him.

“hello.” voice soft.

a beat.

“you’re not karen page…”