Maekar Targaryen’s Very Reasonable Safety Measures
Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
Word cont: 2.4k
Summary:
The floors are dangerous. The terrace is dangerous. The wind is dangerous. The servants are incompetent. The children are too loud.
According to Maekar Targaryen, the only safe place for his pregnant wife is buried under a mountain of pillows.
English is not my first language!
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
The council chamber of Summerhall was cool, but the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a sword. Maekar Targaryen stood at the table, both hands braced against the surface, fixing his steward with a stare sharp enough to make it seem as though the man had just confessed to treason. His stern face, framed by pale Targaryen hair, revealed no emotion beyond a deep, nearly permanent irritation.
“Repeat that,” Maekar demanded, his voice like two stones grinding together.
“My prince… I only noted that purchasing another twenty soft featherbeds from Myr and summoning yet another maester from the Citadel might be… a slight excess,” the steward stammered, nervously adjusting his collar. “With all due respect, the princess has already given birth six times. Your elder children are healthy. The princess knows perfectly well how to care for herself in this condition, and the household-
Maekar straightened slowly, and the knights present in the chamber suddenly became very interested in the tips of their boots. When the prince took on that posture, a wise man looked for the nearest shield. He was not his brother. He did not soften situations with a smile or a diplomatic word.
“The household,” Maekar began, taking one step closer, each footfall striking the stone floor like a warning, “is made up of a band of careless idiots. My wife carries our seventh child beneath her heart. The fact that the previous six times did not end in tragedy is not due to chance, the whim of the Seven, or, gods forbid, your competence.”
The steward swallowed audibly, not daring to interrupt.
“It is due to this,” Maekar continued, slamming his fist into the table hard enough to make the heavy brass inkwells jump, “that I personally eliminate every potential danger. If I say the stone floors in the family wing are to be covered with three layers of thick carpeting by dusk, then they will be. If there is still so much traffic and noise in the corridors that my wife cannot have a moment of peace, I will personally see to it that you and your men seek new employment at the Wall. No one there will complain of too many luxuries. Have I made myself clear enough?”
A chorus of panicked nods was the only answer given in the chamber.
Maekar did not dignify them with another glance. He pushed back the heavy chair, adjusted the collar of his outer robes, and strode toward the door with quick, decisive steps.
Officially, the council was over.
Unofficially, the clock in his mind had already counted far too many minutes since he had last seen you sitting safely in your chair. The entire castle, with its drafts, sharp-edged furniture, and clumsy servants, seemed to him in that moment like one vast field of hidden traps.
When you finally managed to rise from bed, you found your chambers in the midst of a revolution-one Maekar would, without blinking, have called “the implementation of safety measures.” Every rug runner, even the smallest, had vanished from the floors so you could not so much as think about slipping on one. The heavy carved chair you loved so much had been moved away from the window and buried beneath so many cushions it resembled the nest of some enormous bird.
The room was unbearably stuffy. The heavy, stagnant air of Summerhall made every breath feel like a challenge. You sighed, resting a hand atop your very advanced belly, and started toward the terrace doors to get even a mouthful of fresh air.
You did not even manage to touch the handle.
The door flew open with force, and Maekar himself appeared in the doorway. His severe face hardened instantly at the sight of you. In a few swift steps, he blocked your path like the walls of the Red Keep.
“Where are you going?” he growled, his deep voice vibrating through the stifling room. “The air outside is too damp. Sit.”
“Maekar, for the love of the gods, it feels like a forge in here,” you answered, setting your free hand on your hip and looking at him with a mixture of irritation and amusement. “I only want to step out onto the terrace. Get some air. I’ll be fine.”
“No,” he cut in shortly, crossing his arms over his chest and not moving an inch. “The wind from the hills is treacherous at this hour. You will not risk it.”
You took one step forward, lifting your chin high to meet those ever-stern violet eyes.
“My dear husband,” you began softly, but with emphasis, patting your belly pointedly. “This is our seventh child. Nothing went wrong the previous six times. You truly need to rest and let me breathe.”
Maekar did not even blink. His face remained deathly serious as he leaned slightly toward you, radiating that unshakable, stern certainty of his.
“My love,” he said, his voice carrying absolute, almost immovable gravity, “there is a direct correlation between my actions when you are with child and the fact that we have six healthy children. Do not question success.”
You froze for a moment.
Then a loud, helpless laugh burst from your lips.
“Are you serious?” you laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Are you truly trying to convince me that all of this paranoia is simply a well-considered plan?”
“It is not paranoia. It is caution,” he muttered, but in that same moment his gaze softened by the smallest degree. Before you could protest, his strong hands settled on your shoulders, and with remarkable care for him, he began steering you back toward the safe nest of pillows. “Now sit.”
Once Maekar had made certain you were seated comfortably and had no immediate plans to storm the terrace doors, he stepped out into the corridor, closing the heavy door quietly behind him. He had not taken even three steps when he heard hurried, muffled little footsteps and a distinctive shuffling sound.
Daella appeared around the corner, holding the hand of one-year-old Rhae, who was still taking rather unsteady, wobbling steps. Just behind them walked five-year-old Aegon. At the sight of his father, little Aegon immediately slowed, though his large violet eyes still shone with curiosity. In his hand, he clutched a hastily gathered bouquet of slightly crushed marigolds from the garden.
Maekar stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at them with his traditional stern expression. The children, however, did not flinch. They knew that look too well. To them, their father was not a monster, but rather an exceedingly grumpy commander whose moods simply had to be endured.
“Where are you going?” Maekar asked, his voice quiet but carrying like an order.
“To Mother,” Daella replied matter-of-factly. “I brought her fresh figs from the kitchens so she won’t be hungry.”
“And flowers!” Aegon leaned forward, waving the crushed stems. “Rhae wanted to come too!”
Maekar looked at the bouquet, then at the figs, and finally at little Rhae, who had just let go of her sister’s hand and, with a soft, delighted squeal, toddled straight toward his legs, grabbing the hem of his robes. He frowned so deeply his brows nearly became one line, but he immediately crouched so the little girl would not lose her balance.
“Your shoes.” he observed grimly, though his large hand guarded the one-year-old with incredible gentleness. “They click against the stone. And you, Rhae, stomp louder than all of them. I told the steward clearly that this corridor was to be quiet. Your mother must rest. If you wish to go in, you will walk on your toes. Like scouts. Not a single sound.”
Daella gave her father a faint, amused look, then obediently lifted her heels.
“Yes, Father.” she whispered.
Maekar turned his stern gaze on his son.
“And you, young man.” he muttered to Aegon. “You watch your sister. No running around the chamber. No jumping on the bed. You give her the flowers, sit on the stool, and behave as befits a prince. Understood?”
The boy nodded vigorously, almost saluting with his little hand.
Maekar lifted one-year-old Rhae onto one arm-making sure her small hands did not dirty his robes-and opened the door for the little troop with his other hand. He let them in, then entered right behind them, shutting the room away from the rest of the world.
As soon as the heavy door closed behind Maekar, the room immediately felt brighter. Daella, faithful to the promise she had made her father, walked on her toes, though her ear-to-ear grin entirely ruined her “scout-like” seriousness. Aegon hurried straight toward your chaise, holding the crushed marigolds as if they were the greatest treasure in the world, while little Rhae, still carried on Maekar’s arm, reached her chubby hands toward you.
“Did he terrorize you in the corridor again?” you asked with a smile, opening your arms as Maekar, with extraordinary care, set the one-year-old girl on the bed beside you.
“He told us to walk like scouts,” Aegon whispered conspiratorially, climbing onto the stool and placing the flowers in your lap. “Mommy, are you really going to burst because of the seventh baby? Because Father looks like he’s about to burst himself.”
Daella snorted with laughter, setting the bowl of fresh figs on the bedside table.
“Aegon, stop talking nonsense.” his older sister scolded, then came closer and kissed your cheek gently. “Father is just in one of his moods again. The castle steward nearly fainted when he ordered the floors torn up so thicker carpets could be laid down.”
You laughed softly, tucking little Rhae against your side. She immediately became fascinated by the tassels on your coverlet, babbling happily under her breath. You adjusted the crumpled marigold stems Aegon had brought and glanced toward the wall, where Maekar stood near the window. He watched all of you in silence, arms crossed over his chest, but there was the slightest softening at the corners of his eyes.
“Your father simply… cares about us very much” you said gently, stroking Aegon’s white hair. “But I promise, my darling, everything is all right. Nothing is going to happen to me.”
“That’s good,” Aegon muttered, reaching for one of the figs, which Daella immediately swatted his fingers away from. “Because when Father gets nervous, even the knights in the castle are afraid to breathe too loudly.”
You spent the next hour with them, listening to Daella talk about her lessons and Aegon complain that one-year-old Rhae had ruined his favorite toy. In that warm, safe nest of pillows, surrounded by your children, you could almost forget for a while about the fear that paralyzed your husband so completely.
When the sun finally began to set, Daella-as befitted an elder sister-gathered her siblings. She led sleepy Aegon away and lifted half-asleep Rhae into her arms, promising they would bring you more flowers in the morning. They slipped out quietly, leaving you and Maekar alone in the chamber.
The silence that followed slowly thickened with the approaching night, and your stern guardian finally pushed away from the wall and came closer to the bed.
Late night brought Summerhall the relief it had been waiting for. The heat had finally eased, giving way to a cooler breeze that gently stirred the heavy curtains in the bedchamber. The candles burned low, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls.
You sat on the bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, listening to Maekar’s steady breathing as he moved around the room. He had already removed his heavy outer garments, setting aside his belt and family signet. He wore only a simple, loose linen tunic now. Without all the layers of expensive fabric and harsh tailoring, he seemed strangely… human. Though still powerful and broad-shouldered, in the half-dark he looked simply like a man who was deathly tired.
He approached the bed with astonishing quiet. Despite his size, he could move soundlessly when he wished to. He sat on the edge of the mattress, which dipped beneath his weight.
For a long while, he said nothing.
He simply looked at you, the faint glow of the last candle reflected in his violet eyes. At last, he reached out one great, scarred hand and, with hesitation-almost reverence-laid it on your belly. Beneath his warmth, you felt the seventh child move faintly, as though answering its father’s touch.
Maekar flinched slightly, and that rare, almost painful grimace of tenderness appeared on his stern face-the one he never showed anyone else.
“You’re still awake.” he murmured, and his voice carried none of the rough command he had used in the corridor. It was low, raspy, and filled with exhaustion.
“I was waiting for you.” you answered softly, placing your hand over his fingers. “You spent the entire day running through the castle and terrorizing the servants. I thought you might at least stop at night.”
Maekar exhaled loudly through his nose, which was probably his version of a sigh. He moved his hand higher, stroking the taut skin of your belly with his thumb. Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder as if he had finally allowed himself to set down the weight he had been carrying all day.
“I cannot.” he whispered against the fabric of your nightgown. “When I lead men into battle, every movement has purpose. I know the strength of my arms. I know how long a shield wall will hold and when the enemy will break. Everything depends on my command. But here?”
He lifted his head to look into your eyes, and in his gaze was such deep, grim fear that it stole the breath from your chest.
“Here, my anger is useless. I could take the head of anyone who looked at you wrongly, but I cannot stop a fever or ill fate. Even if I placed guards at every step and covered all of Westeros in carpets, in the end my orders mean nothing against nature.”
His hand left your belly and moved to your cheek, his rough fingers impossibly gentle.
“You have survived six births, and every time, I feel as though I stand alone before an entire army without a sword in my hand. You are the one thing holding me together, (Y/N). If anything went wrong this seventh time… if you were gone… there would be nothing left to gather. Only ashes. So yes, I will be a tyrant to the servants. I will growl at every lord in this castle. But you and this child will live.”
You smiled faintly, drawing his head closer and threading your fingers through his pale hair. Maekar muttered something unintelligible, but in the end, he lay down beside you, one hand still resting on your belly like a guard unwilling to leave his post before dawn.
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
Thank you so much for reading 🤍
I had so much fun writing Maekar’s version of “being calm.”
Apparently, for him, that means threatening to send people to the Wall, treating terraces like enemy territory, and making sure his pregnant wife is surrounded by enough pillows to survive a siege.
But beneath all of that, I really wanted this story to be about fear — the kind Maekar cannot command away, fight away, or frighten into obedience. He is a man who knows what to do on a battlefield, but when it comes to the woman he loves, all that strength suddenly has nowhere to go.
So he becomes impossible. Overbearing. Terrifying. Ridiculous.
And completely, hopelessly devoted.
Thank you for reading this little piece of Maekar domestic chaos 🤍
I had to redraw this as Maekar for obvious reasons. I'll let you decide why he's using a hello kitty phone case but I think we can all agree either Rhae or Daella had something to do with it
3 times the pittlings suspect Robby is married and the 1 time it’s confirmed
cw: married!robby, robby and reader have a kid, godfather!jack abbot, medical inaccuracies (trying my best), age gap (unspecified)
wc: 4.7k
a/n: i couldn’t decide a name for their daughter so i just used a nickname ‘bug’ for her!
Doctor Michael “Robby” Robinavitch was not a married man.
Or so his residents thought.
The Chief Attending Physician never mentioned being married, kids, or any other indicators that typically pointed to a relationship.
Besides, while Robby was brilliant, he was also incredibly cynical. They weren’t quite sure that trait screamed husband material.
That was until one by one the ‘pittlings’ as they were called slowly uncovered aspects of Robby’s life that were more than meets the eye.
1. The Rings
Robby didn’t wear a ring.
His left hand was left completely barren during the duration of his shift.
He dodged questions about his love life left and right, especially from the older patients who learned of his last name origins and wanted his whole life story.
Never denied having a wife, just danced around the topic.
Even Abbot who was widowed still wore his wedding ring
Naturally, those who saw his left hand (including those who worked at PMTC), all assumed he was unmarried.
The Emergency Room today is scarily quiet. Not quiet necessarily, just not the typical rush of screaming patients and understaffing issues.
Robby stands by Dana at the central hub, typing away at the tablet to update charting information. Dana works by him silently, clearly savoring the moment of calm before the inevitable storm.
And then the peace is broken by two paramedics bursting through the ambulance bay doors.
Robby discards his tablet immediately and slings his stethoscope back around his neck.
“What do we got?”
“42 year old male. Experiencing chest pains and shortness of breath. Likely a stemi. EKG has been applied.”
“Whitaker! Jesse! You’re with me,” Robby demands.
The two men follow him right into Trauma 2, gloving up immediately and awaiting further instructions.
They know the procedure at this point. Stabilize the patient, call surgery, don’t lose the heartbeat.
Of course that last one is a lot harder to ensure.
But when they lose the heartbeat, Robby immediately springs into action. He rambles off something about the proper number of compressions.
Robby places his hands on the patient’s chest and began the familiar rhythm of CPR.
Whitaker takes over securing the airway while Jesse preps the defibrillator.
They’ve seen many stemi’s in Trauma 1 and 2 but each time it’s a stressful race against the clock.
Robby pauses his compressions, waiting on his internal clock before he starts again.
Still no pulse.
He places his hands once more, applying slightly more pressure as he begins his second wave.
Whitaker stands on deck, fully ready for Robby’s next set of instructions. The endotracheal tube was successfully inserted into the trachea. All he could do now was wait.
And even something catches his attention.
A shiny piece of gold slips out of Robby’s shirt, hitting his chest as it’s stopped by the chain it’s connected to.
Whitaker probably wouldn’t have noticed if the ring hadn’t caught the fluorescent emergency room lights. And then it hits him. Robby has a wedding ring around his neck.
“Whitaker!”
The resident doesn’t respond immediately. He’s too focused on the newest gossip point he may have just uncovered.
“Whitaker!” Robby yells again.
“Right! Sorry!” He rushes out before rambling off the patient’s vitals.
And then…..
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Robby removes his hands, a sigh escaping his lips as he allows the others to take over with the proper procedures.
Whitaker watches as he reaches for his exposed necklace. The attending runs his finger around the band before tucking it securely under his scrubs.
Like wearing a wedding band was nothing at all.
Whitaker doesn’t wanna ask. It isn’t the time, place, or status to question if Robby was married. Just morbid curiosity.
He’ll have to mention it to Santos if he remembers.
Robby shoots two thumbs up as the stemi patient is moved out by surgery.
“Good work everyone,” he announces before slipping out to see where he’s needed.
Huh.
Maybe Dr. Robby is secretly married.
2. Stitches
You don’t expect to end up at the Pitt, truthfully you never had.
Frankly, if you had a choice you would rather head to Westbridge. Okay, maybe that was a stretch but something about going to the Pitt felt like teetering in your husband's territory.
But now your hand is bleeding bad and if you were able to look past the blood, you swear you could see bone. You cursed yourself out for causing such a disastrous scene from simply trying to cook dinner.
You were incredibly grateful your daughter was being watched by your parents for the night.
You drive to PTMC in a haze. Your hand is throbbing and the blood has already started seeping through the thick towel you wrapped around. Should you be driving? Maybe not. But calling an ambulance for a deep wound wasn’t realistic.
In your dazed state, you don’t even think about texting Robby.
It must be your lucky day when you walk into the emergency department and there’s actually empty chairs available. Robby had come home many nights complaining of being understaffed and overrun.
Check-in went smoothly and when the triage nurse saw your hand, she called right for a nurse to bring you back.
You didn’t see Dana at the nurses station and you knew Jack wasn’t due in for another hour or so. Robby also seemed MIA, probably back with a patient.
Instead, a nurse named Sam shows you to your room. “You can have a seat on the bed. Someone should be with you momentarily.”
The pain in your hand continued to increase. Maybe it was the blood loss or the adrenaline fading but you let your eyes shut until there’s a knock on the door and the curtain slides open.
You're greeted shortly after being shown to North 14 by a dark haired doctor.
You squint your eyes to read her badge. Doctor Trinity Santos.
Ah. So that was Santos.
Robby subtly talked about almost all of his coworkers at home. You knew Whitaker was resilient, Javadi was young but highly gifted, Mel was brilliant, and lastly you knew that Santos, begrudgingly, was a lot like Robby.
“I’m Doctor Santos and I’ll be taking care of you today,” she starts. “What’s going on?”
You lift your band up weakly to show the blood stained towel. Despite all, you manage to force out a laugh.
“Kitchen accident. Knife slipped right down my palm.”
Santos sits in a stool and slides over to the edge of the bed.
“Mind if I take a look?”
You nod, only wincing slightly as she unwraps the towel.
“Yeah you got a nasty cut here. I’ll clean it up and we’ll probably need to do a few stitches. How’s the pain?”
“Not great.”
Santos stands up. “I’ll get you something to numb your hand. You should be in and out.”
You give her a warm smile. “Thank you Dr. Santos.”
She’s gone for another few moments before entering the room with the proper supplies. You swing your legs over the bed and rest your hand on the table and bring it over.
Robby is taking a lap around the floor when he double takes at one of the hospital's newest admitants.
Santos is at your bedside, saline flush in hand as she works to clean out the blood from your wound.
“Doctor Santos? What do we have here?” An all familiar voice enters the room.
Your eyes shoot up. Busted.
“Uh,” Santos starts. “Just a deep hand laceration. Kitchen accident. I gave a low dosage to numb the area. Should be good after I finish cleaning and stitch it up.”
The young doctor doesn’t seem to notice the intense eye contact between you and Robby. There’s a silent conversation between you and him. Something between an are you okay? and a why didn’t you ask for me?
“I’d like to take over here if you don’t mind Dr. Santos.”
There’s a long pause of silence in the room.
“Are you sure?” Trinity draws out each word.
“Yeah, I got it,” Robby starts. “Haven’t done some stitching in awhile. Need the practice.”
“I watched you stitch up someone this morning.”
You stifle a laugh, though clearly not well enough for Robby and Santos to not hear.
Santos stands. “But she is all yours. I’ll be back to discharge her when she’s ready.”
Once Santos leaves, you finally have the courage to look your husband in the eye.
“Michael-“ you start.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine. I was just being stupid in the kitchen.”
Robby sighs. “Accidents happen. I just wish you called me. Or texted.”
The saline continues to clean your hand as silence overtakes you.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble after a moment.
“Bother me?” Robby quietly laughs. “Honey, I'm your husband. You’re allowed to bother me when you're hurt. I’d actually prefer it if you did.”
It feels stupid to you now. You were married with a child for god's sake and you still felt guilty asking for help when you had a huge gash down your hand.
“I was trying to make you dinner,” you winced as Robby began his stitches. “Since my parents are watching Bug I wanted us to have a romantic night.”
Robby laughs. Not in a mean way but simply at your kindness.
“We can still have a romantic night. Just gotta be careful of these stitches.”
“Yeah without dinner I guess.”
“I’ll grab something on my way home,” Robby responds to your quip without missing a beat.
He says it so casually too that you can’t help but smile.
“I like seeing you in your scrubs.”
“Oh yeah?”
You loll your head to the side so it’s resting on your arm. “Sorry, I just find my husband looks too good taking care of me.”
“Careful,” he warns.
“Always am.”
Robby’s mind is still in doctor mode. You managing to flirt with him despite your hand was a good sign.
You grimace one final time as Robby makes the final knot.
Your hand already looks miles better.
“Once I wrap it up for you you’ll be all set.”
Robby turns your hand over and wraps his fingers gently around yours. Still careful of your pulsing wound, he brings your hand up to his lips and places a gentle kiss.
His lips linger for a moment, just long enough for Santos to go wide-eyed as she walks past the room. Despite Robby taking over your stitching, you were still technically her patient.
Now, instead of entering your room, she turned on her heel and made a mad dash for where Whitaker sat charting.
“Huckleberry,” Santos sharply whispers.
The boy looks up at her. “What’s up?”
Santos looks behind her back, clearly afraid that her attending could sneak up and hear her gossiping about his personal life.
“My patient in North 14, the one that Robby hijacked?”
Whitaker’s brows furrow in confusion. “Yeah?”
“I swear Robby just kissed her.”
This immediately grabbed Whitaker’s attention. Chart now forgotten, he peers over Santos’ shoulder to see if he can catch a glimpse of the room. No luck.
“What? There’s no way.”
Santos pushes her stray hairs back. “I am so beyond serious you have no idea.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
They’re both silent for a moment before Whitaker speaks up. “You know maybe that’s just his girlfriend?”
“No,” Santos shakes her head. “She had wedding rings on. A massive one too.”
Whitaker finally scoffs. “Huh. Maybe Robby does have a secret double life. You know he wears a necklace with a ring on it?”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t think it mattered until now!” He defends himself.
“So you’re saying I may have just taken Robby’s wife as my patient,” Santos starts.
“Yup.”
“Oh wow. Huh.”
Silence once more. Santos stays deep in thought as Whitaker goes back to charting. She can’t help it, she’s behind nosy.
“Do you think I should just ask?”
“Absolutely not,” Whitaker replies immediately.
Santos rolls her eyes. Curse her roommate for always being the voice of reason.
After checking up on her kid with severe road burn and an older man with chest pains, Santos decides it’s time to check in on you. That is until she sees Robby by the hand sanitizer station.
“Hey Dr. Robby!” Santos calls after her attending.
Robby promptly stops in his tracks and spins around.
“I’m about to go discharge North 14 and then I’ll need a consult in South 6,” Santos explains.
“No need, I already took care of discharge.”
Oh. Robby discharged her patient. Her patient. While Santos was getting better, she still struggled with when to stand up for herself or step down.
“You discharged my patient?”
“Is there a problem Dr. Santos?” Robby inquires.
Oh shit. Santos knows immediately that’s his tone of voice saying are you questioning my authority?
She backtracks immediately. “No, not at all. You are the boss.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at South 6 in a few.”
Santos stays glued to her spot for a moment after Robby walks away.
“Huh,” she thinks to herself. “Maybe I did just stitch up Mrs. Robinavitch.”
3. Little Bug
Jack Abbot walking in the E.R. is an immediate sign that shift change had begun and day shift was finally off the hook.
Jack Abbot walking in with a child on his hip, however, was a totally different story.
Plus, the Paw Patrol backpack he had strung across his shoulder.
Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi sit around their desks. All three are frantically typing away at their charts, desperate to get out of the hospital at a seemingly normal time.
It’s Javadi that spots the scene first.
“Holy shit,” she starts. “Is Abbot holding a kid?”
It felt like the entire E.R. at that moment noticed the attending.
It’s a silent game of if anyone needs to react or not. On one hand, a child in an emergency room is a clear red flag. On the other hand, that kid was with Dr. Jack Abbot.
Jack is unbothered by the wandering eyes.
He heads right to the central hub. Dana spotted them minutes ago and already circled around to greet the pair.
“Day-Nuh!” Bug annunciates both syllables in the nurse's name when she spots the charge nurse.
“Hi Jellybean,” Dana beams, accepting the transfer from Jack and fixing the girl to sit on her hip.
Bug’s hands grasp at Dana’s stethoscope.
For your daughter's birthday, you and Robby had gifted her a play doctor set. She was familiar with the basics and was clearly interested in the real-life thing.
“You have fun with Uncle Jack today? Dana asks.
The girl nods.
“Pirate Jack,” Bug corrects as she points down.
“Pirate huh?” Dana chuckles.
“She learned about my leg a few weeks ago. Started calling me a pirate once she stopped crying,” Jack spoke.
Dana boops the girl on her nose. “Well aren’t you the cutest.”
The attending and charge nurse chat for a few minutes as Bug grabs at everything in her reach: Dana’s badge, her cross necklace, and even the pen that’s clipped to her pocket. Dana, of course, doesn’t mind in the slightest.
Bug quickly gets distracted and wiggles out of Dana’s arms the second she spots Robby in her sightline.
“Da-da!” Bug exclaims. It takes Robby only two quick strides to get to her.
God knows he doesn’t want his daughter running around this place.
Robby, as if he had already sensed his daughter's presence in the E.R., had gathered his things from his locker.
“Oof. Hi Bug,” Robby grunts as he’s hit full force in the legs by the toddler.
The second he picks her up, it’s like his entire demeanor changes. The tension in his shoulders eases and for the first time all day, he doesn’t look steps away from a breakdown.
Robby takes note of his daughter’s outfit that was certainly not the one he dressed her in this morning.
A jersey meant only one thing.
“You took her to a Pirates game?” Robby questions his friend.
Jack nods. “Yeah. They won.”
Robby slides a hand down his face. “So let me get this straight. You took my daughter to a 1:35 start game and are now here to work a 12 hour shift.”
Jack nods again like this isn’t difficult to comprehend. “I’m a shoe-in for uncle of the year.”
That gains a laugh from Robby.
“You’re insane,” he begins. “I’m assuming the jersey was a new addition.”
“Of course. Her cleaned ice cream helmet and hat are in her backpack.”
Javadi turns to their little group who has long abandoned their charting to watch the two men interact.
“You think that’s Robby and Abbot’s love child?’ Javadi inquiries.
That elicits a laugh. The new sound causes Bug to immediately lose her attention on her dad and look over towards the three doctors. Her little hands grasp at the hems of Robby’s scrubs as she focuses mostly on Javadi.
“Looks like she chose you,” Santos says quietly.
Javadi raises her hand tentatively to wave, clearly not wanting to overstep any boundaries with the dynamic most of the emergency department just learned about.
Bug shows a toothy grin as she waves back.
Robby feels Bug shifting around and turns to face the group who suddenly look like deer in headlights. Like Bug when she gets caught pulling puppy dog eyes on Dana for another cookie.
To the pittlings shock, Robby laughs.
“You guys are allowed to say hi.”
Robby points to Santos first. “That’s Trinity.”
“Trin-ty!” Bug repeats.
“Dennis.”
“Dennis!”
“And Victoria.”
Bug’s face scrunches up in concentration. More than two syllables were rough. “Vic-tora!”
Robby shrugs. “Eh close enough, Bug.” He then turns his attention away from the girl. “We’re working on phonics right now.”
Santos holds her hands up. “Alright I’ll bite. You have a kid? And it’s not yours and Abbot’s?”
Dana bumps Jack with her shoulder. “Told ya people would say something.”
Robby glares at the two before turning back to Santos.
“Yes, I have a kid. Yes, I am married. Yes, Jack has been helping me while my wife is out of town. Any other questions?”
Whitaker clocks Santos’ look immediately. So their suspicions were correct.
“Was your wife my patient that you stitched up?” Santos bursts out. She can’t help it. The curiosity has been eating her up.
“Yes it was. She didn’t want to bother me for help.”
“Aw. No wonder you two get along.”
Bug is growing not just tired, but restless too. A bad combination for a toddler.
“When does the missus get back?” Dana asks.
“Tomorrow night,” Robby starts. “Can’t thank you guys enough for everything.”
To everyone in the room, this made perfect sense. Two of Robbie’s close support systems helping him out with his daughter.
“But this little one seems pretty tired from romping around with Uncle Jack. Can you say thank you, Bug?”
Bug turns her head to her uncle. “Thank you pirate Jack!”
Dana squeezes the young girls cheek and with a final wave goodbye, Robby is out the door. Probably the earliest he has ever left PTMC.
Safe to say he left the Pittlings in shock.
+1. Meeting
Your hand takes a bit to heal. Given how deep the cut was, you were fully expecting a long road to recovery.
Robby checked over the wound almost daily. He explained in simple terms to Bug that “mommy’s left hand was hurt right now” and that “she needed to be extra careful.”
Of course Bug was determined to kiss it better. Just like her dad had done to you.
Robby insists that you set up a 3-week checkup.
He told you that the surface skin should be healed by three weeks (sometimes longer with it being such a utilized area), but there would be a road ahead for deep tissue recovery.
Your phone pings as you’re packing your purse.
What time are you coming in?
About to leave! Need anything?
All good. I let the triage nurses know you’re coming so you should be able to come right back. See you soon. Love you
Love you too!
After your initial incident, PTMC didn’t feel as scary. Also probably given the fact that you and your husband had a long conversation about it being okay to ask for help.
The irony was there best believe it.
You’re waved through once you enter the waiting room. This time, thankfully, you spotted Dana immediately at the central hub.
“Well look who’s back!” Dana exclaims.
You hold your wrapped hand up. “Michael insisted I come for a checkup.”
Dana rounds the hub and wraps you in a greeting hug. “Sounds like him.”
She pauses to notice there is no toddler trotting in with you. “No Bug?”
You roll your eyes playfully. “You know I do have a life outside of my daughter.”
“Eh. Debatable.”
You glance around the bustling emergency room. No signs of Robby. “Is my husband around?”
“Let me page him.”
Robby appears just moments after being paged. He looks tired and worn. You can’t imagine what the day has already thrown at him.
But when he sees you, he slaps on a tired smile and walks like the day hasn’t beat him down.
“Hi honey,” Robby greets you, shocking even you as he places a soft kiss to your forehead.
You know he prefers private displays of affection. Can’t live without it actually. In public, however, holding your hand suffices for both of you.
“I can get you set up in a room so we can look at that hand. In and out promise.”
You wave him off. “Take your time. I know you’re busy.”
Dana scoffs and laughs. “When is he not.”
“Tell me about it.”
Robby shoots both of his hands up in the air as an ‘i’m innocent!’
“South 10’s open.”
You’re so close to stealing your husband away to do your checkup when the phone rings and Dana’s face falls.
“Car pileup on 376. Incoming in 5 minutes.”
Robby slides a hand down his face. You squeeze his arm.
“It’s okay Mike. I can wait.”
Robby shakes his head as his eyes dart around the emergency room.
“Santos!” Robby calls. The young resident’s head snaps up, eyes immediately locking on you. “You free?”
She stands up. “I can be.”
“Mind doing a three week checkup? Since I hijacked it last time.”
You chuckle. “Don’t worry, I chewed him out for it.”
You and Robby can both tell Santos is treading in uncharted waters.
“I’m assuming this is your wife?” Santos asks.
You stick your uninjured hand out for her to shake. “Yes I am and Y/N is fine.”
Oh she can’t wait to tell Whitaker.
“Sorry about last time,” you apologize.
Santos shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. Nice to meet you.”
Dana looks at the group and repeats. “South 10.”
“Right,” Santos presses her lips together.
You can sense that Robby is on edge about the incoming trauma. “I’ll be okay Mike. It’s just a checkup. Besides, based on what you’ve told me I’m in good hands.”
Santos tries not to glow with pride.
“Okay okay. I’ll swing by when I can.”
Santos guides you to South 10. You take a seat in the chair before she slowly unwraps your bandage. While Robby’s stitches were flawless, it was still a nasty injury to heal from.
“I’m gonna do another cleaning and then test your movement,” Santos explains. “Just gotta grab the stuff and I’ll be back.”
True to her word, Santos is back but this time she’s accompanied by Robby.
“Thought you had an incoming trauma?” you inquire.
“Got re-routed to Westbridge.”
You nod, winching only slightly as Santos begins poking the area for tenderness. Safe to say she found it!
“Do you want to remove your rings?” Santos asks
You nod before sliding the two bands off. “Don’t want them in the way for either of us.”
Robby steps forward and opens his palm. You drop them down as he unclips his necklace chain and slides them on. They hit his respective wedding band with a satisfying clink.
“Want me to stay?” Robby offers.
“Not if you’re going to terrorize Santos,” you fire back.
Santos is enjoying this a bit too much.
“I will go see if someone else needs help then. Please call if you need anything.”
The young resident works in silence. Despite Robby not being in the room, his presence lingers over. If she fucked up working on his wife, she was screwed.
But surprisingly, you’re the one to break the silence.
“Robby told me you’re interested in general surgery,” you speak.
Once again, Santos is taken aback. Robby doesn’t just talk about her outside of work but he talks highly of her outside of work.
“Yeah I think so. I’m still figuring it out.”
“Eh you have time. Don’t tell him I told you this but he thinks you’ll be a great fit.”
Santos smiles. “I think I’m just in shock to be treating you now that I know who you are. And your daughter too.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have no problems telling Robby off,” You laugh. “Just didn’t want to make a big deal last time.”
“I get it. How long have you to been together?” Santos asks and then immediately freezes. “Oh I’m so sorry I don’t mean to interrogate.”
What has Robby been doing to these poor residents to make them so scared?
“We’ve known each other for 10, married for 8, and we’ve had Bug for three years now.”
“She’s adorable. She waved to us when Dr. Abbot brought her in.”
“Yeah she likes Jack more than me sometimes,” you grin.
Your checkup doesn’t take much longer after that. Santos wraps your hand up once more and goes through aftercare instructions. “But I’ll let Dr. Robby know as well,” she finishes out.
You walk back to the central hub as you make small talk with Santos. She tells you about how she used to be an athlete and how she’s fluent in Tagalog. You, in turn, tell her about your own work and all the details that come with that.
Robby strategically positioned himself to be waiting with Dana when you’re done.
“Dr. Santos is fantastic,” you praise when you find him. “Everything looks a-okay.”
Santos slides past you to sit down at her desk with Whitaker and Javadi.
“Just treated Mrs. Robinavitch,” she whispers. The other resident and student doctor lean in close. “She’s so nice. Like scary nice. And smart too.”
And just like the pittlings feared, Robby appears behind them to interrupt their gossip session.
“Well I’m glad you find my wife nice and smart,” Robby muses.
Then you’re popping up right behind them. “Cut them some slack, Mike. They’re just curious.”
It’s like you have him under a spell with the way he relaxes at your touch.
“Wanna walk me out?” you offer.
Robby points at the group of three. “Any of you need anything?”
It’s amusing so see how quickly they shake their heads no.
“Alright, I’ll be back soon.”
As Robby turns to leave, you grab his arm to stop him.
“It was nice to meet you guys! Thank you again Dr. Santos for all your help.”
Dana laughs loudly at their shocked expression. It was definitely weird to see their strict attending doctor be so relaxed around his wife.
“So you do have a wedding ring,” Whitaker points out.
Robby reaches under his scrub top to pull out the chain. “Eight years.”
“And a child together,” Javadi jumps in.
“Three years,” Robby adds.
“I’ll have to bring her back sometime. She’s been asking about you guys non-stop,” You laugh.
Your phone pings. It’s daycare sending you and Robby Bug’s report of what she did today.
“Well duty calls. See you guys!”
Robby wraps his arm around your shoulder as he steers you out of the emergency room.
Santos, ready as ever to pounce on an opportunity to hype herself up, looks at Whitaker.
“Y/N told me that Robby thinks I’d thrive in surgery.”
She pushes away from her desk, laughing loudly and ready to go check up on her next.
Whitaker and Havadi follow immediately, a chorus of “What!” and “Did she say anything about me!” fall from their lips.
Santos gloats.
“You’ll just have to find her next time.”
And just like that she escapes, still riding on the high of Robby’s praise.
And above all, the emergency room feels a little lighter.
hiya, not sure if you are taking request but I was reading your Maekar fics and they are so good! Was wondering if you might be able to write something about his wife taking up a separate bed from him because her moon bloods come for the first time since they wed and she assumes he doesn’t want to see her or be intimate during that time.
Going out on a limb here but I don’t imagine a bit of blood is enough to make the anvil turn away!
Thank you, anon! I really liked this idea, and Maekar doesn't strike me as someone to be bothered by a monthly cycle either. Hope you enjoy!
Maekar Targaryen x Tyrell!reader
WC: 955
Intended as a standalone, but can be viewed as a companion piece to this story.
TW: Hurt/comfort, blood, period sex, pain/cramps, cuddling, apparently menstrual cloths were called "clouts", no use of Y/n, no physical description of reader given
"Is there a reason you are hiding from me?" Maekar asked gruffly as he entered through the doors to your chambers, cloak billowing behind him.
You glanced up at him, snuggled up on the bench with warm stones wrapped in a sturdy cloth pressed against your belly to help soothe the cramps.
"I mean no offense, my good husband," you murmured.
"What ails you?" he demanded, and you ducked your head. A soft smile tugged on your lips. This was his nature, and it no longer troubled you. Not since the night he had protected you from two nefarious lords who wished to take advantage of you during the wedding feast. You had grown to love it. You had grown to love him.
"'Tis nothing, truly."
"Then it should be easy to explain."
You sighed. "My moonblood arrived. I did not…my mother said women should confine themselves from their husbands when it comes."
"I've never heard such fucking nonsense," he huffed.
"It does not…perturb you?" you asked.
"Why in the Seven Hells would a bit of blood bother me?"
"It is more than just a bit of blood at times. There are moments I feel rather like a stuck pig," you admitted.
Maekar gave you an incredulous look before laughing and sitting next to you on the bench. "I am no stranger to it. You needn't hide away."
Your cheeks turned warm. "I suppose that is naivety shining through once more."
He shook his head, patting your knee. "Your mother was raised with more old-fashioned beliefs; she taught you what she knew. 'Tis not your fault, but I enjoy you warming my bed. I hope you will sleep beside me tonight."
"I would like that. I also feared you might be disappointed," you admitted softly, gazing down at your fingers.
"That your moonblood arrived?" He gave you a curious look before the realization dawned on him. "Ah. There is no hurry. I do not lack for children."
This time, he could not ignore the look on your face, realizing his reply came out harsher than intended. He had only meant to lift your spirits and assure you that you were more than a broodmare to him. He cleared his throat and shifted closer to you, pulling you into his arms and guiding your head against his chest. "What I mean…the time will come. Usually, when it is least expected, we will have many opportunities to try."
"Thank you, husband," you whispered. One large hand settled on the small of your back.
"Are you in much pain, my little flower?"
"Nothing I cannot manage, the heat helps," you whispered, snuggling in close to you. "You feel rather nice."
"I suppose I will be attached to this bench the rest of the day," he teased.
"Your good lady wife demands it," you pouted.
"Ah, a man cannot refuse his wife's demands."
He called out for the handmaidens to bring in refreshments later. The cream cakes melted against your tongue as you consumed four and washed them down with a cinnamon tea. Maekar stoked the fire, pushing out a few coals and waiting for them to cool a bit before replenishing your heating cloth.
"I have to survey the lands this afternoon, but tonight I will find you in our bed, yes?"
"Yes, husband," you smiled, and his hand wrapped around your chin, pressing a deep kiss to your mouth.
After supper with the children, you climbed into the bed you shared with him with a clean cloth pressed between your thighs. He tucked you against him, spooning you from behind while his hand rubbed soothing circles over your stomach.
"Are you still in pain?"
"A little," you admitted.
"Might I try to alleviate it for you?" he whispered, inching your shift up around your waist.
"I…are you certain? It will not disgust you?"
"Do you believe the Anvil pales at blood? Do you think a dragon runs from a bit of red?" The swell of his cock pressed against your bare arse.
You nibbled on your lower lip. "No, I am foolish to think so."
He gently swatted your backside, making you yelp. "Enough disparaging yourself, little flower."
"Apologies. Please, I wish for you to do this." A sudden heat lapped in your lower belly. His tenderness earlier had stirred such desire in you.
He removed the tightly folded cloth from between your thighs before slowly slipping his cock into you from behind, keeping you tucked against him. It was gentle, and you took him with ease. He stayed like that for a while before slowly rolling his hips. It created a pleasant pressure building inside you. His hand remained on your stomach, feeling his cock swell inside you, the soft bulge it created.
"Oh," you whimpered, trembling as your toes curved over his calf tucked between your legs.
"Shhh, just feel it and let go when you are ready. Do not force it." His voice was like velvet in your ears, sending shivers through your body while he continued the slow, deep thrusts.
Your lashes fluttered, your fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist from the hand still pressed agaisnt your belly. The pressure snapped like a tight band, sending you toppling into a sweet release. The cramps subsided, and all you felt was euphoria as the high swam through your body. The tenderness continued as he gently wiped between your legs with the damp cloth and tucked the clout back into place before fixing your nightgown. Your moonblood clung to his cock like a scarlet sheath, reminding you of your wedding night when he took your maidenhead.
"Sleep, my little flower," he whispered in your ear, holding you tightly in his arms.
Am I greedy if I ask for that squirting Maekar blurb....? Yes I am I apologize
the way i knew someone would request a continuation *rubs hands with delight* and the way i RAN to write it. not exactly within the grateful prompt list requests, but directly connected to this one work from it, so i highly recommend reading it first
"Why wait for a next time when we have all night?"
You laughed, startled, the sound catching somewhere between disbelief and the specific thrill of watching this man pivot from sleepy and sated to fully focused in under three seconds.
"Maekar, I was joking—"
"Didn't sound like a joke," he said, already moving, already settling between your thighs with the same focused intent he brought to a stuck engine or a stubborn spreadsheet. "Sounded like a dare."
"It's the middle of the night."
"I've got time," he said, and the certainty in it — the same flat, unbothered certainty sent a fresh pulse of want through you even as your thoroughly used body tried, half-heartedly, to protest.
"You're insufferable when you've got a project between hands."
"I'd have this particular project between hands for the rest of my living days," he said, without an ounce of remorse and without thinking of the effect it had on you, and kissed the inside of your knee, working steadily upward with no apparent urgency at all. "Lie back."
He started slow.
That was the thing about Maekar that people who only knew the blunt, four-word version of him never expected — when he decided something was worth doing properly, the patience he brought to it was almost unsettling.
His fingers traced light, exploratory patterns first, reacquainting himself with what was already sensitive and swollen from everything that had come before, watching your face with a particular kind of intensity.
"Still with me?" he asked, teasing.
"Cocky," you managed.
"Confident," he corrected, and pushed two fingers inside you, slow and deliberate, curling them immediately to find the spot he already knew — had mapped, over months, with the same thoroughness he applied to everything — and the sound that left you was immediate and unguarded.
"There," he said. Satisfied. Filing the reaction away.
He worked you with steady, unhurried pressure, his fingers curling against that spot with a consistency that built fast — not rushing toward the goal but building a foundation, the engineer in him understanding that this required structure before results. His thumb found your clit, circling slow, and the doubled sensation had you gasping within minutes, your hips already rocking against his hand.
"Maekar—"
"Not yet," he said. "Just getting started."
He kept the pressure inside you constant, his fingers never quite leaving that spot, the rhythm steady and relentless in a way that built something different from his usual overstimulation — not the scattered, overwhelming chaos of being pushed past one orgasm into another, but something concentrated, specific, building in one precise location with increasing pressure.
"You feel that?" he said, low, watching your face. "Building right here."
"Yes—"
"Good," he said, and didn't change anything. Just kept going. Steady. Relentless. The same focused patience he brought to anything that presented as stubborn, knowing the solution existed and was simply a matter of sustained, correct application.
Your thighs began to shake. The sensation building inside you was different from anything you'd felt before — fuller, more specific, a pressure that felt like it needed somewhere to go and didn't have anywhere yet, building and building without quite tipping over.
"I don't—" you gasped, grabbing his forearm with both of your hands, hard, not to remove him, but to ground yourself. "I don't think I can—"
"You can," he said, with total certainty. "Stop fighting it."
"I'm not—"
"You are," he said. "I can feel you holding back. Stop." His fingers curled harder, the pressure increasing, his thumb never leaving your clit. "Let go. I've got you."
Something about the absolute certainty in his voice — the same certainty he used for everything. The certainty that had driven you mad with desire since the first time you met him and that had made you go feral ever since and said yes to a hundred things you wouldn't have done for anyone else. That certainty now made something in you finally, fully release.
"Oh—" The sound that left you was nothing like your usual ones, higher and more startled, your whole body tensing around his hand. "Maekar—"
"There it is," he said, low and intent, not stopping, not slowing, his fingers maintaining the exact pressure and rhythm that had gotten you here. "Don't hold it. Let go."
The pressure built past the point you thought you could contain it, your back arching off the bed, your hands gripping his forearm as a vice, and when it finally broke it broke completely — a rush of sensation entirely unlike your usual orgasms, your whole body shaking, a cry torn out of you that had no composure left in it whatsoever, and you felt yourself release around his hand with a force that startled you as much as it apparently delighted him.
He made a sound low in his throat — pure satisfaction, pure male pride, the sound of a hypothesis spectacularly confirmed.
"Fuck," he said, watching, his fingers still moving, gentler now but not stopping, working you through every aftershock with the same focused attention he'd applied to building toward it. "Look at that."
"Maekar—" Your voice was wrecked, barely yours.
"Yeah," he said, low and pleased, easing his fingers slower as the waves subsided, watching your whole body shake through the last of it with an expression of deep, almost reverent satisfaction. "That's what I thought."
He didn't withdraw his hand immediately — kept it there, gentle pressure, watching you come down from something that had clearly rewritten several of your previous assumptions about your own body.
"You're insufferable," you managed, when you could speak again.
"You dared me," he said, finally withdrawing his hand and looking at it, and then at you, and moving his hand to his mouth to lick at your release from his fingers with the specific satisfaction of a man surveying completed work.
"I was half asleep."
"Doesn't count," he said, smiling after releasing his digits. "A dare's a dare. And I never lose."
You laughed, breathless and still shaking slightly, and he settled beside you, pulling you against his chest with an arm that had gone notably gentler than five minutes ago.
"How do you feel," he said.
"Destroyed," you said honestly.
"Good destroyed?"
"There's a difference?"
"There is with me," he said, with total confidence, and you laughed again, weaker this time, and felt him press a kiss to the top of your head with something that was almost tender underneath all the smugness.
"You're going to be impossible about this," you said, into his chest.
"Yeah," he agreed. "I'm going to need to confirm it wasn't contextual."
"Maekar, I genuinely cannot—"
"Not tonight," he said, and you felt the almost-smile against your hair. "Give it a minute. We've got all the time in the world."
↪︎want more modern!BFF's dad!Maekar? check out this masterlist!
Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x fem!reader
Authors note: June Jukebox Scribbles event.
June 20th - All Shook Up - Elvis Presley / “Who do you thank when you have such luck?”
Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, suggestive
Word Count: 300
Summary: when the whispers at the court become too loud, Gwayne reminds you exactly why he married you
Dividers by @/cafekitsune
EVENT MASTERLIST
The door squeaked quietly and you hastily turned away, trying to wipe your face with your sleeve.
Too late.
Familiar footsteps crossed the chamber and stopped beside you.
"You've been crying."
Gwayne always knew when something troubled you.
"I'm fine," you murmured without looking at him. "Just a summer cold."
A small, disbelieving smile touched his lips. "Love... you're such a bad liar."
His fingers slipped beneath your chin, turning your face toward him.
"What happened?"
"It was nothing."
"Those old vipers again?"
"...Perhaps they're right."
His brow furrowed.
"If we asked to dissolve the marriage..." Your voice faltered. "You could find someone who can give you children…"
The words broke apart into a sob before you could finish it.
"Look at me."
He took both your hands in his, but you stubbornly kept your gaze on the gardens beyond the window.
"It's been a whole year," you sniffled.
"It's only been a year," he replied with a smile, brushing away a tear with his thumb.
"Can't you see how happy I am?" he said softly. "I still can't believe my fortune that I found you. Who do you thank when you have such luck?" His eyes held the same quiet wonder they had on your wedding day. "I would never trade you. Not for ten sons. Not for a kingdom."
Your lips trembled into a watery smile.
"Gwayne, you deserve..."
Before you could say another word, your husband’s knees hit the floor, hands sliding up your sides, pushing up the fabric of your dress and parting your legs so he could settle between them.
Gwayne looked up at you from the floor.
“It doesn’t mean I’m ready to stop trying,” he murmured and pressed a slow, open mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another higher up.
Hi Julia! ! How do you think the AKOTSK men (Mainly Maekar and Baelor) would react to their wife being belittled by her family during a visit to them?
Thank you! ❤❤
watch your words with my wife—Baelor & Maekar Targaryen
Baelor x wife!reader, Maekar x wife!reader
content: Maekar and Baelor will not stand for any disrespect toward their wife, even if it is family.
words: 1k
cw: family being disrespectful, protective Baelor & Maekar, none really that I can think of, but these men do not play when it comes to their wives.
Baelor
Your foot tapped anxiously beside your husband, your eyes set on the table as if you were trying to imagine you were anywhere else. It had been his suggestion to stop in and visit your homelands on your back to King's Landing after a tourney, but now he was wondering if that was the right choice.
Your father seemed, fine. Nice enough shoveling the food into his mouth as if it was his last meal. Your mother sat next to him, her nose turned up in disapproval, rolling her eyes every few minutes. He imagined she too wished she was somewhere else.
Your elder sister. Who still remained unmarried, sat next to her. She seemed to be the real issue. Her burning gaze has been boring into you all night. Assessing your every move as if she was waiting for you to slip up so she could point it out.
Your hands, which had been shaking all dinner, had finally given her what she wanted. The silverware fell form your hands with a loud clutter. Your eyes, to which were always filled with happiness broke his heart.
They were wide, scared and you looked more like a timid animal then his wife. Your mouth hung half opened as if you were about to let out a giant sob, "I am sorry. I am so sorry," you began immediately, your entire body shaking like a leaf.
He stared at you a moment going to reach out in an attempt to comfort you, but before he could a shrill voice met the air. Your sister had decided now was time to make her attack, "How are you suppose to be a Queen if you can not handle making it through a dinner without looking pathetic."
Baelor's mismatched eyes widen as he stared at you for a moment, "Excuse me?" he questioned, his eyebrows drawn together as he turned toward her. She went to open her mouth to reply, but stopped as she noticed his face.
The perfect prince was gone and instead in his place was the reminder of just what he is. A dragon. A knight with prowess who had gained his own reputation. His jaw was locked as he looked to her daring her to continue, but she did not.
He nodded seeming pleased, "I suggest you watch the way you talk to my wife. Your future Queen next time," he said, before turning to the head of the table toward your father, "I expect that behavior will be corrected. It will not be tolerated again," he told her.
"As you wish, Your Grace," he said, with a bow of his head. "Apologize to your sister," he then hissed to the elder.
She stared at him in disbelief for a moment before your mother's stern expression met hers causing her to let out a small whine of defeat, "I am sorry—"
"Princess. Call her what she is," Baelor added.
Your sister stared at him for a moment blinking, as you watched the whole scene in bewilderment wondering if you were living in a dream for a moment. He nodded in prompting waiting for her to continue.
She swallowed harshly, "I am sorry for offending you, Princess. It will not happen again."
You said nothing only staring at her slightly before turning to Baelor, clearly not knowing what to do. He said nothing, but shrugged. He would rather you not accept her apology and make her squirm a little longer.
He picked up your silverware handing it to you, "There you are, darling," he said, with a small smile, "Better finish your plate. We have a long trip back home to King's Landing on the morrow."
Maekar
Maekar had not wanted your family to visit in the first place, but you had assured them they would not be staying long.
But as dinner waged on he could tell that you did not seem to want to be here anymore than he did. Your eyes, usually bright a full of life were cast down on your plate as you glanced to your mother every thirty seconds.
Your shoulders were tense as if you were awaiting a striking blow that he could only himself prepare it. His hands moved under the table resting against your covered thigh giving it a firm squeeze.
He watched the tension from your shoulders melt away and you turned toward him giving him a tight lipped smile. Your eyes moved down toward his plate then, without word he slid it over to you knowing that you wanted the potatoes that you had not been granted on your own.
Your name was then called out and you froze, "Mayhaps you should skip the potatoes tongiht. You are looking a bit pudgy as of late," your mother said, off handed, completely normal as if it had been said hundreds of times.
You opened your mouth to reply, but it was not your booming voice that filled the hall first, "What the fuck did you just say?"
"Maekar," you whispered, tired, defeated as if you expected him to sit there and allow them to degrade you like that.
His burning violent gaze turned from you to your parents at the head of the table, both looking to each other mouths open trying to form a coherent thought, "I did not mean to offend," your mother tried, but it did nothing to dim the fire burning through him.
"And yet you did. Your daughter is my wife. A member of House Targaryen and I expect you to talk to her with respect now. Anything less will be seen as treason," he barked, before sliding the plate over to you, "Now get her more fucking potatoes."
Maekar shook his head, as you said nothing picking away at the potatoes. Your mother and father sat still at the head of the table eyeing him. Your father opened his mouth, and your husband caught it from the corner of his eyes.
His head snapped toward him, his scowl deepening, his eyes squinted as if he was trying to burn the man, "Unless you have learned manners within the last few moments I do not wish to hear a word from either of you," he said, his voice low, the edges catching just the way he wanted it too.
The rest of dinner was silent and you left the next morning.
Lord Ashford Fucks His Sheep (Maekar Targaryen x Wife!reader)
Request
A/N: I’m so sorry for taking so long with this. I just felt a bit stumped with writing it because I think I was too focused on it being funny that I just kept putting off writing it because I felt I couldn’t do it justice. But anyway, I finally said fuck it, and here we are. I hope you enjoy it!
NOTE: this is a perfectly happy world where the trial never happens, Dunk wins the tourney and becomes Egg’s knight, and everything goes happily ever after. Why? Because I need this.
Summary: The only person who can truly make Maekar laugh is his beloved. And she loves to employ her talents as often as possible!
Word count: ~2k
Trigger Warnings: 18+/MDNI, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), just some fun and fluff, never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
“Lord Ashford fucks his sheep!” You hurriedly pressed a hand to your mouth, hoping your rather undignified snort did not echo too loudly in the raucous aftermath. You felt Maekar’s hand on your thigh tighten, glanced over to find him smirking, looking over at you from the corner of his eye with the corners of his lips upturned and his eyes sparkling with mirth.
You could see Baelor glance disapprovingly in your two’s direction, but despite his best efforts to remain respectful to your host, you could see the shine of humour on his face as well. You were beaming now, uninterested in hiding your amusement. Though you knew Maekar enjoyed a good tourney, jousts and all, you had no interest in the violence. There were far better things to be doing than flinging lances at each other, you thought, but you must endure.
You gently traced your fingertips up and down the back of his hand, over his knuckles and veins, over the smooth skin and flecked scars. You sighed, sounding rather forlorn, before the idea hit you like a spark. You bit your lip, hiding a smirk, then leaned over to your husband’s chair. He tilted his head just so, ensuring you knew his ear was always open for you. Restraining yourself from kissing the beard at his cheek (like you usually loved to do), you instead whispered, “I wonder then if the horses and cows are safe from his attentions.”
You watched his throat bob with a swallow, his lips twitching and chest going stiff as he held his breath. You knew he was attempting to ward off a laugh, you could see it written all over his face in the newly renewed seriousness he attempted to portray. But his eyes always betrayed him, so expressive, even now, so obviously shining with humour.
“I suppose I understand the sheep,” you continued, shrugging nonchalantly, “he does look rather similar to them, you know. Like calls to like and all,” you added, an air of disinterest in your manner, as if what you were saying was mere parlour talk. Maekar’s hand tightened on your thigh and you saw the sudden movement of his shoulders. “Do you think he prefers a certain type of sheep? A particular breed or just any sheep will do?”
Maekar turned his head to the side, attempting to hide his face against his own shoulder. You could see how harshly he clenched his jaw, how hard he was trying not to let his face split fully into a grin. His eyes screwed shut, his face pinched in his attempt, and you beamed brightly, pressing your hand to your mouth to stifle your own giggles.
Just the sight of him so overcome with laughter filled you with infinite joy. You had often told your dear husband that he did not smile enough, that you worried that he did not find enough joy around him, but he always assured you he was alright, that though he may not be the jolliest man in Westeros, he found enough amusement between you and his children (when they were being good anyway). But even with this, it was nice to have some real assurance.
“Enough with your jests, woman,” he finally broke out, though his voice was a tad out of breath and far too high pitched to be serious. “You will send me to an early grave,” he grumbled. But then he pressed a quick kiss against your cheek, so speedy and so fleeting that no one else would have noticed, over in the blink of an eye, and you could only look up at him with shock and awe. Your Maekar, laving you with affection in front of so many eyes? It was simply unheard of.
You quickly threaded your fingers through his, holding his hand in your lap as your body filled with an indescribable warmth, and when you glanced back at him, happy and unable to resist looking at the man that caused you such joy, you noticed that he was offering you a small smile in return.
You hummed softly along to the lute, chewing on the bit of cake the feast was boasting as its dessert. Your eyes traced over the great hall, the many voices echoing up to the ceiling, the heads moving as they ate or drank or spoke or did any number of things. You took a sip from your cup of wine, humming at the lovely sweetness of it as well, a perfect compliment to the cake, and then felt Maekar’s fingers brush lightly along the top of your hand that rested against the table. You turned your head to him, smiling sweetly, and shifted just slightly in your seat to be that much closer to him. Though the arms of your chair remained the distance between you, your shoulder brushed his arm where the two of you seemed to converge on the space.
“Lord Manderley’s doublet is a punishment to the eyes,” he grumbled by your ear, sipping casually from his wine. “I fear by wearing such a thing he has given grounds for Baelor to have him arrested and sentenced to death.”
You snorted a laugh, shaking your head and dropping it against his arm for a moment before lifting it up and looking around the hall to see if you could spot him. Maekar gave the barest nudge of his chin in the lord’s direction and you caught sight of the ghastly thing instantly.
“Goodness,” you gasped, eyes widening a little. “I did not think such a shade of… is that green? Or rather yellow? Perhaps somewhere in between?” Your brows furrowed in puzzlement and you squinted at the man in the distance.
“I distinctly remember something of that colour coming out of Aegon’s mouth when he was but a babe,” Maekar mumbled, and you fell into hysterics, slapping a hand over your mouth and pressing your face to his arm to hide yourself. Your entire body shook with your laughter as you clung to him, and he looked positively pompous, smirking (slightly but proudly) that he was able to tickle your humour so. Perhaps he would not openly admit it, but he took immense pride in being able to make you laugh, to know he could be your source of joy.
When you finally caught your breath a little, you lifted your head up and said, “I thought something of that colour would come out of the other end of a person.” You raised your eyebrows, glancing down as if to emphasize, and Maekar snorted, a loud and outrageous sound for him.
Baelor, Valarr, even King Daeron, all turned to look down the table towards the two of you, eyebrows raising and mouths turning up at the corners as they saw the laughter on your face and the precarious hold Maekar attempted to keep on his subdued expression. But his enjoyment was obvious, and all their hearts warmed with it.
You leaned your face against Maekar’s arm once more, cheeks warm and almost pained from how much you smiled. You traced the back of his hand once more but traversed all the way up to his forearm this time.
“Do not make me laugh so,” Maekar grumbled down to you, and though his words sounded very serious, you could hear the hidden teasing beneath them. “I cannot have these Lords thinking that I might ever be amused in their company.” But you just giggled and pressed a fleeting kiss to his arm.
“Maekar, you would not believe the way she said it!” You exclaimed, flicking your hair over your shoulder as you turned to look back at him from your seat at the vanity.
Your husband had already clambered into bed, not one for too much ceremony before sleep. He kept only the barest pajama trousers on and that was that, and now he lay sprawled on his side, sunk down into the pillows as he watched you.
“How did she say it, wife?” He asked in return, eyes fluttering a little as the tiredness of the day began to seep into his bones.
“Like this,” and then you cleared your throat, lifted your chin, put on the highest pitch of voice you could and gave it a shrill quality too, and continued, “‘well my dearie! If you want to keep that husband of yours then you must do one of two things! Either bend over or bend him over!’”
Maekar’s eyes widened a little in shock before his chest shook as an unexpected laugh punched out of him. You looked at him with your own expression of shock and amusement, nodding quickly as you waved your hands about.
“I know! I was as shocked as you are! I could not believe she said such a thing, during an embroidery circle no less! Who knew a woman of that age would have such things to say!” You shook your head, still laughing breathily as you applied scent to your neck before getting up and making for the bed.
But Maekar was still laughing, loudly and uproariously, and you felt immensely triumphant as you watched him wipe at the corners of his eyes, shaking his head but unable to control his laughter.
“And, well, having met her husband, I suppose I can say that he rather should bend over for her. She is a force of a woman, you know,” you continued, but then paused to watch Maekar with twinkling eyes once more. He had gone fully red in the face, the flush spreading down to his chest and stomach, colouring him pink.
You leant over and lightly pecked at his chest, at the warm skin there that shook with his uncontrollable laughter. He attempted to catch his breath but any time he looked at you, you put on the same sour expression the lady you spoke of had, and he fell into that deep laughter once more.
“You truly will be the death of me,” he finally wheezed out, reaching out and cupping your cheek lightly, his eyes still wet from his laughter. “I have not known anyone to make me laugh as you do.” You beamed at that, running your fingers over his beard, snuggling down into the bed so you could press a proper kiss to his mouth.
The guards outside Prince Maekar’s chambers, and the maids and servant boys who passed by there at such hours of the night, always stopped to stare at the door in awe. The prince and his wife had retired by this time, though candlelight still flickered just at the edges of the shadows under the door. But it was not this that gave them pause. No, it was the deep guffawing laughter that seemed to echo from within.
They had always known the new princess to be easy to laughter. You were always ready to giggle or chuckle or bowl over in laughter at whatever new humorous thing was brought to you, but the opposite was true of the Prince. The servants could count on one hand how many times they had seen the Prince smile, let alone laugh, and one of those had been when he had gotten rather drunk with his elder brother one fateful evening.
But since the wedding and the fixed presence of the new Lady of Summerhall, this had become a common occurrence. In the evenings you would retire together, and once the maids had been dismissed and a little time had passed, anyone passing by could hear that peculiar mixture of sounds, one higher-pitched giggle, and one deep laugh, mingling, pausing between words, renewing.
The maids and messengerboys oft wondered if you had practiced some magic on their lord. Perhaps you had cast a spell or made a particularly strong prayer. Whatever it may be, they could not deny that they too took immense enjoyment from finally seeing their lord… happy. And if keeping this development a secret was their duty, then so be it. :)
jack abbot, fem(ish? i think this is also gn), short
When you tell Jack you want a real relationship with him after weeks (maybe months) of sleeping together with no commitment, you don’t expect to just hear an “Oh.”
You lean back on your haunches, deflated from where you straddle his lap on his bed. You frown, the rejection and embarrassment not quite settling yet. “That's all you've got to say?”
His fingers squeeze at your thighs. He looks earnest, which makes it worse. “What did you want me to say?”
Shaking your head, you lean in and mumble, “Nothing. It's nothing, let's just kiss, okay?” while stones fill your throat.
So his lips slot between yours, his hands find your neck, grasp at your waist, and his lungs breathe you in. But when he flips you over and tugs your shirt off, your nonchalant façade starts to slip.
“Okay?” Jack asks against your pulse, nipping at the warm skin.
“Yup,” you respond, throat thick and eyes stinging with tears.
Unfortunately, that gets his attention, and he lifts his head to meet your eyes. Damn Jack, so attentive; it's probably what got you. Concern fills the furrow of his brows. “Are you sure? Honey—”
“Jack, I can't,” you whimper, sitting up and ushering him off you. Your hands frantically wipe the tears already running down your cheeks, and you scramble to gather your clothes off the floor. You stumble getting your scrubs on. “I’m going home.”
“What?” He’s scrambling, too, trying to find his crutches that are usually at his bedside, but fell to the floor in your passion. “You can't stay? It's late.”
When you don't answer, he presses, desperate for you to say something. “Was it what I said? I’m sorry. It's just—”
“You don't have to explain yourself,” you warble. “It was—it was a dumb thing to say, Jack. I shouldn't have said anything.”
“That's not…” he starts, but the words get lost in his throat seeing how sad and shaky you are, something he never sees from you. He drags a palm down his face. “Can I at least drive you home?”
You shrug your coat on. “I’ll get an Uber.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Jack. Please.”
You leave his bedroom, and he doesn't move from his spot on the bed until the front door closes. When he manages to sleep, he dreams of your heartbroken expression and your wobbly voice, and Jack can't help feeling like he lost something good.
The days you spent working from home had a way of blurring into one long stretch of screen light and half-finished coffee cups. You’d been locked away in your office since morning, stubbornly wrestling the same project for hours until time stopped feeling real. By the late afternoon glow creeping through the windows, you were finally close to done.
Your hair was a disaster, your oversized pajama shirt wrinkled beyond saving, and exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes. Still, you dragged yourself toward the kitchen for what had to be your fourth cup of coffee today. The machine hummed softly while you stood there rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, letting out a tired sigh as the smell of fresh coffee slowly filled the room.
That was when John wandered in.
He headed straight for the fridge, already dressed for a lazy evening and whatever football match he planned to whisper-yell at for the next two hours. One glance at you, though, and he was already half hard.
“How’s it going?” he asked casually, crouching to grab a beer bottle while subtly adjusting the waistband of his sweats behind the fridge door.
You barely looked at him, too tired to notice the effect you were having. “Nearly done,” you muttered with a huff.
Reaching up toward the cabinet, you stretched slightly to grab the sugar container, and John’s eyes tracked the movement instantly. He leaned against the counter as he twisted open his beer, taking a slow sip while watching you with dangerous focus. Like a hawk circling prey. Every sleepy little movement you made only made things worse for him. The kitchen settled into a warm, quiet silence broken only by the soft clink of your spoon against the mug. You looked exhausted. Barely functional, honestly. Somehow that only seemed to make his dick strain even more against the fabric of his sweats.
“You’re such a tease,” he said finally.
The comment sliced through the stillness. You turned toward him with a confused frown, mug cradled between your hands. “Me?”
That earned a low, breathy chuckle from him. He dropped his head for a second, grinning to himself before looking back up at you. “Love,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges,“It take a hell lot of willpower not to bent you over right now.”
Your eyes widened slightly, thighs rubbing each other instinctively. You looked awful, felt awful, and were one caffeine crash away from falling asleep at your desk. The fact that he was looking at you like that right now felt almost absurd.
“I still have work to do,” you reminded him, stirring sugar into your coffee.
By the time the sentence left your lips, John was already behind you.
His hands slid around your waist, warm and heavy, pulling you back against him as he rested his chin on your shoulder. His breath brushed lazily against your neck, enough to send a shiver crawling down your spine.
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