Hi! I had a kind of silly request - Maekar Targaryen spanking his 2nd, younger wife and Dunk hears it/sees it and thinks that he's hurting her, storming in, when in fact... well, it's sexy times. Would love to see what you do with that!
a (k)night to remember
Maekar x Second Wife!Reader, feat. an oblivious Dunk
Note: I wasn't sure whether to make it smutty but this time I chose to stay on the silly side of things. Also, my first time really writing from Dunk's POV! Hope I've done well.
Tags/Warnings: Age Gap, Older Man/Younger Woman, Spanking, Dunk being a goof, Suggestive Themes (so I'm saying 18+ to be safe), Post Ashford, Baelor Lives AU
Words: 2k
One sennight had passed since theyād arrived at Summerhall, and Dunk had finally been assigned duties ā real, actual guard duties.Ā
He was to stand at the end of the corridor for the first shift of the night ā hardly a glamorous task, but he vowed to give it his all just the same. Prince Baelor had trusted him enough to take him under his employ following the Trial of Seven ā Dunk would not do anything to jeopardise that trust now that the maester had finally declared him recovered enough from his injuries.Ā
Wine, not oil. Oil will kill him.
The Crown Prince had saved Dunk twice over, thinking of the well-being of a simple hedge-knight even before his own ā his brotherās mace had given the prince a serious concussion, though they had not known it then. It had been only when Steely Pate had lifted Prince Baelorās helm that the man collapsed, falling unconscious.Ā
Dunk had caught him before his body could even touch the ground, and for a single horrible moment his stomach had plummeted, certain Prince Baelor was dead.Ā
He had not been, thank the Gods. Though he had given everyone an awfully big fright. Later, Dunk had been told that he had whispered Up, up, ser, rise with the prince in his arms, though he could not remember.Ā
Prince Baelor had not risen then. It had, in fact, taken three days for the Crown Prince to awaken, and three more for him to be steady enough to depart Ashford.
As part of the princeās household, Dunk had followed, and Aegon ā who insisted on staying on as his squire ā in turn followed him.
Summerhall was to be a stop on their path to Kingās Landing ā they would stay for a fortnight, let the horses rest and stock up on food and rations for the Kingsroad.Ā
Prince Maekar, Egg had mentioned, would join them instead of staying in Summerhall as had been originally planned ā the King had summoned them all to explain why a Trial of Seven had taken place at a girlās nameday tourney.
It was daunting to think that in a moonās turn, Dunk might be standing in front of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Dunk just hoped he would not embarrass himself.Ā
He shifted on his feet, trying not to think too hard on it ā there was no sense, Ser Arlan had always said, in worrying about things you could not change.
Stillā¦Dunk had put his foot in his mouth already ā at least once that he knew for certain.Ā
It had been upon their arrival in Summerhall, where he had discovered that the keep ā contrary to what heād believed ā did have a Lady.
When Aegon had told him his mother was dead, he had just assumedā¦well, that Prince Maekar was unwed. He was not.Ā
In Dunkās defense, he had only remarried recently, barely six moons ago.Ā
Though nothing could have saved him from his blunder.
When Aegon had spoken of having two sisters, he had always just mentioned that one of them was older than him, the other younger. Never their ages.
Daeron was a man grown, and he was Aegonās brother. When heād seen a young, noble woman in a black and red dress, Dunk had naturally assumed her to be the elder of Aegonās sisters. Had assumed you to be another Targaryen.
Of an age with Daeron, his twin perhaps. Dunk knew that twins need not always look much alike.
Youād greeted the silver-haired prince with affection, a lingering kiss on his cheek. Dunk had not thought anything of it ā you had surely only dearly missed your father.
He had mentioned as such ā how nice it was for a daughter to be so concerned ā only to be faced with Aegonās laughter, a small, bemused smile on Prince Baelorās face and a glare that had been so venomous that Dunk still awoke during some nights, sweating, remembering Prince Maekarās hatred.Ā
Confusing Prince Maekarās young wife for his daughter ā it hadnāt done much to endear himself to the gruff man. In fact, Dunk rather thought Prince Maekar despised him, blaming him for the whole mess in Ashford and now feeling insulted by his innocent remark.
Dunk wished he knew how to convince the prince that his older brother had not made a mistake taking him on as a knight.
He sighed, hoping Egg would know of something, when suddenly a noise broke through the silence.Ā
It was quiet and muffled, but Dunk had a keen ear and Flea Bottom had taught him to pay attention to even the slightest of sounds.
For a moment, he hesitated. Investigating the noise meant leaving his post ā though surely he would be forgiven, should it turn out that someone was in need of aid.Ā
He heard it again, and this time he identified it as a womanās voice. Calling out, though Dunk could not make out the words.
As he tracked the noise, striding further into the corridor, his countenance darkened. Dunk clutched his sword scabbard nervously, praying to the Gods that his grip would not slip.
Whatever it was, it sounded likeā
Like a woman in pain. He had not been able to make out words because they were none, only gasps and whimpers. Then, he heard something else.
A sound that made him cringe, an instinctive flinch overtaking his body. It was the sound of a palm hitting flesh.
Someone is hurting this woman, Dunk thought, first in a panic and then with growing determination as he remembered that he was no longer a boy, helpless Dunk from Flea Bottom. He was Ser Duncan the Tall.
Upon his honour as a knight, he knew he had to intervene.
He knew that the castellan had told him who each of the chambers in this corridor belonged to, but Dunk, for the life of him, could not recall it clearly. It was not important. He could get names later ā first, he needed to assist whatever lady was in distress.Ā
He was proud to say he did not hesitate as he threw open the door, his sword in hand, raised and ready. āUnhand the lady at once!ā he roared, putting all his strength into his voice, relieved that it did not shake.
But the accomplishment quickly soured. Everything curdled in his stomach as he beheld the scene he had stumbled into.
There was no maiden in distress ā only a lady. A princess by marriage. Prince Maekarās wife, a lady around Dunkās age. You.
And you were not in distress, even Dunk could see it. Your head was thrown back in pleasure, your bottom bare and reddened by your husbandās hand. He had been spanking you, Dunk thought, and you were enjoying it.Ā
A furious, dark blush spread from the tips of his ears to the tip of his toes as two pairs of eyes found him, one widened in alarm, the other alight with anger.
His sword dropped to the floor with a clatter, and he quickly averted his eyes from the sight of your nude body. āIāā he started, āI thoughtāā
The princeās voice cut through his stutter. āFucking imbecile!ā
There was movement, though Dunk did not see it. The ceiling was his refuge; he was afraid to look down again.
āI should have you flogged,ā Prince Maekar continued, sounding closer than before. Just once, Dunkās eyes flicked down again, and he saw the princeās form striding over to him, a pair of breeches hastily covering his lower body. Beyond his shoulder, you had sat up, the sheets wrapped around you. You looked alarmed.Ā
āMy loveāā you began.Ā
Prince Maekar shushed you. āDo not,ā he interrupted flatly, ādefend him.ā
Softer, he added, āHe saw you.ā
I wish I didnāt, Dunk thought, then wavered, because that sounded like the sight of you had been unpleasant and it had certainly not been, you were quite comely, beautiful even, andā
He cleared his throat. Ser Arlan was right. Iām an idiot.
When the prince was almost upon him, Dunk realised he ought to do something. Not knowing what else to do, he dropped to a knee, his head bowed. āForgive me,ā he pleaded, not sure if he made any sense, āI meant no harm. I merely heardā¦ I thoughtāāĀ
āThat I was mistreating my wife?ā the Targaryen prince asked, brows raised.Ā
āNo!ā Dunk yelled all too quickly, fear coursing through him at the thought of what Prince Maekar might do to him, āI couldnāt recall that these were the Ladyās chambers, I swear. I merelyā I am a knight,ā he said, as though it was an explanation.Ā
āA fool is what you are,ā Prince Baelorās brother countered, his expression stern. Dunk wished the floor would just swallow him up. He was glad that at least he had not been struck yet. A clout in the ear, Ser Arlan had always called it.
āMaekar,ā you said softly, āhe did not know any better. He heard a woman cry out behind a closed door. He did what he thought a knight ought to do.āĀ
Dunk was astonished that your words seemed to be working, placating the dragon that seemed only moments from spewing fire. The princeās shoulders lost some of their tension, your husband swaying towards you as though drawn by a siren song.Ā
āHe ought have better discernment,ā Prince Maekar grumbled, his jaw clenched.
āI am sure he will learn.ā Your eyes brushed past the princeās, locking with Dunkās. āWonāt you?ā
He nodded so fast he was almost dizzy with it. āYes, of course, mālady, I will, I wonāt make this mistake again, I swear it upon my lifeāā
āI believe you,ā you interrupted him with a giggle. āSee, my love? He is as earnest as they come. Baelor chose well.ā
Prince Maekar did not look impressed. āHe still saw you naked.ā
You sighed, drawing the sheets tighter around yourself and stepping up to them. Dunk tried not to look at the shape of your legs. He was still kneeling, his line of sight rather unfortunate ā for his well-being at least.
āHe did not do it on purpose,ā you told your husband, one hand curling around his bicep.Ā
For a moment Dunk thought Prince Maekar might shake it off, but he did not deny you.
Instead, the harsh prince allowed you to all but wrap yourself around him, and Dunk felt as though you were a wall, protecting him from the Anvilās wrath.
But the Prince of Summerhall was not quite ready to give up. āThat does not change anything,ā he snapped. āHe had no rights to your body.ā
āThe maester has seen me naked, are you going to punish him?ā you asked with a small smile.Ā
āThat is different.āĀ
You chuckled, your right hand cradling your husbandās cheek, turning his head your way.Ā
āI fail to see how,ā you commented. āI am not married to Maester Creyle.ā
āDo not test me, wife.ā It was phrased as a warning, but Dunk could see the princeās mouth twitching, and he could detect no venom in the older manās tone.
āBut I do so love testing you,ā you lilted. You traipsed back towards the bed, sitting down. Even Dunk could notice how charged the air had become ā differently than before. Not with anger.
Prince Maekar immediately began following you like a hound on a leash, following its master. Halfway there, he remembered Dunk.
āLeave,ā he ordered, not even bothering to look back at the kneeling knight. It was but one word.Ā
Dunk had never gotten up faster in his life. He scrambled for his sword, sheathing it with clammy hands as he stumbled through the door, quickly closing it behind himself. He pretended he had not heard your squeal, the creak of the mattress.Ā
By the time he retook his post, his face burned anew. He did not want to listen. Truly, he did not. But without beeswax to plug his ears, it was impossible to ignore what he now knew were the sounds your husband drew from your body.Ā
When it was time for a change of guards, he did not say a word. He did not need to. Your pleasure was still clear for all to hear.Ā
Dunkās eyes met the other knightās. āYou just learn to disregard it,ā the man said, a pained grimace on his face. āBut it is astonishing, is it not?ā Upon seeing Dunkās puzzled face, he elaborated. āA man his age with a wife that young?ā He whistled quietly.
āDragon blood sure burns hot. Be glad you werenāt here for their honeymoon.ā
What would Modern!Maekar or Modern!Baelor do if their gf came home with a henna tattoo (wasn't sure if a real one would be appreciated) with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen and 'property of the dragon' underneath it?
This was an amazing idea that I regret not having answered early (so sorry!)
Pairing: modern!BFF's dad!Baelor x f!reader // modern!BFF's dad!Maekar x f!reader
Warning(s): modernAU, established relationship, age gap, AFAB reader (no use of y/n), henna tattoo (reader has it), suggestive content.
You hadn't planned to show Baelor.
It had been a spontaneous thing ā a Saturday market, a stall with a woman doing henna under a striped awning, a friend who'd grabbed your wrist and said come on before you'd had time to construct an objection. You'd sat on a folding stool for twenty minutes with your shirt rucked up while she traced the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens across your ribs in dark paste, careful and unhurried, the script beneath it forming letter by letter.
property of the dragon
You'd paid her. You'd laughed about it on the bus. And you'd thought about Baelor's face the entire way home and decided, somewhere around the third stop, that you weren't going to tell him.
You were going to let him find out.
It took two days.
An ordinary Tuesday evening, his flat, the two of you on his sofa with a book abandoned somewhere and his hands moving over you with the unhurried attention they always had. He worked your shirt up and over your head, his mouth already at your collarbone ā
And stopped.
You felt the stillness before you saw his face. The particular full-system pause of a man whose brain had encountered something it needed a moment to process.
"That," he said, very quietly, "is my familyās crest."
"It is," you nodded.
He sat back slightly. His fingers found the edge of it ā feather-light, the specific reverence he brought to primary sources, following the outline of the first dragon head with his thumb.
"It's very well done," he said. "The proportion of the necks to the body is correct, which people get wrong constantly. Most reproductions elongate them into something more serpentine, which is a nineteenth-century affectation, actually, there's no textual basis forā"
"Baelor."
"āand the triquetra arrangement is significant," he continued, entirely absorbed now, his fingers tracing the second head, "because the three-headed configuration predates the dynasty's own use of it by a considerable margin. There are Byzantine precedents. Thracian, arguably, if you accept theā"
He stopped when his eyes had reached the lettering. You watched the entire apparatus of Byzantine historiography leave him at once. Completely evaporated.
property of the dragon
He looked at it for a long moment. Just looked ā at the dark lines against your skin, at the words, at what they meant in the specific context of his hands on your ribs and his name in your mouth most nights and everything that had somehow accumulated behind you both without either of you quite noticing it happening.
"You did this voluntarily?" Not quite a question.
"Market stall," you explained. "Completely spontaneous."
"Property of the dragon," he read aloud, his thumb moving along the script now, tracing each word with the same care he'd given the sigil.
"It's henna," you said. "It'll fade in a few weeks."
"A few weeks," he repeated.
"Give or take."
He looked up at you then, and the expression on his face was the completely undone one that lived underneath all the composed ones and only surfaced when he'd stopped managing it entirely.
"You came home," he said, "with my family's sigil on your ribs."
"Seemed an accurate depiction," there was mirth in your voice, and he loved it. "I think I did a pretty decent design."
"It is accurate," he agreed, very quietly, and something in the way he said it ā the plainness of it, the absolute lack of hedging from a man who hedged professionally ā landed somewhere warm and total in your chest.
Then he leaned down and pressed his mouth to the henna.
To the dragon first ā one head, then the next, then the third, unhurried, his hands spread wide against your ribcage to hold you still. Then lower, to the lettering, kissing each word separately: property, his lips against the p and the r and the o; of, barely a breath; the; and then dragon, slower than the rest, his mouth lingering there.
You not only felt the slight tickle of his beard on across your skin; you felt it everywhere. Not just the physical fact of it ā the whole shape of what he was doing, the deliberateness, a man kissing a claim he hadn't asked for and had clearly wanted more than he'd known how to say.
"Baelor," you breathed, your hand finding his hair and threading through it.
"Give me a moment," he asked, against your ribs. "I'm having a feeling."
"Take your time, love."
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were dark through his glasses, and the smile was still there, warm and slightly wrecked, and his hands were still spread over the your skin like he was holding something that might otherwise get away.
"I want to say something," he said, "and I want you to understand that I have thought about how to say it and arrived at nothing better."
"Okay," you supressed a laugh that was forming in your throat.
"I don't own you," he said. "I want to be clear about that. That's not what thisā" he gestured, faintly, at the lettering. "That's not what I feel."
"I know," you nodded, waiting for him to get to the point you knew he was trying to make despite the fog in his brain.
"But you chose to wear that," he continued. "You chose it, and had it drawn on your body, and came here and let me find it, and I find I am not able to construct a single sentence about how that makes me feel." A pause. "So I'm going to stop trying."
"Please do," you almost chuckled.
"I think the Byzantine precedents can wait," he said, moving his hands lower across your back.
"They really can."
He kissed you, and the historiography of Targaryen sigillography remained entirely unaddressed for the rest of the evening, which you suspected it could definitely survive.
You'd been in Maekar's house for twenty minutes before he noticed.
He'd been in the garden ā some structural crisis involving the tomato beds again that had apparently required an hour and a half of his attention and had left his t-shirt filthy and his patience run thin ā and came in through the back door with the particular focused irritation of a man who had solved a problem but resented having to.
He found you in the kitchen, stretching to reach one of the last mugs in the cupboard, your favourite. Maekar stopped in the doorway, removing his gardening gloves, and didn't come any further into the room.
"What's that?" He asked.
You followed his line of sight to your hip, where your shirt had ridden up and your waistband had slipped just enough ā the three-headed dragon, dark and detailed, curving with the line of your body. The script clear beneath it.
property of the dragon
"Henna," you said, matter-of-factly.
He crossed the room in three steps, which was considerably faster than the situation warranted, and crouched down in front of you to look at it properly.
His eyes moved over it. The dragon. The lettering. The placement.
"Property of the dragon," he read. Flat.
"You remember your letters," you teased him.
He looked up at you. His jaw was doing the thing. His eyes had gone somewhere very dark very quickly, which you had anticipated and which had been, if you were being honest with yourself, approximately eighty percent of the reason you'd reached for that mug in the first place.
"You walked around all day," he said, "with that on you."
"Just this afternoon."
"Under your clothes."
"Thatās just where my skin is," you chuckled.
He didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked at it. His hand came up and his thumb pressed against the lettering ā not tracing it, just pressing, testing whether it would smudge, whether it was real.
It didn't smudge.
"Property of the dragon," he said again, slower.
"It'll fade," you said. "In like a few weeks."
"Few weeks?"
"Depending on how much it is touched." His hands moved to the button of your jeans. "Maekarā"
"I want to see all of it," he said, already working it open, the flat purposeful energy of a man who had decided something and was implementing it without further consultation.
You let him peel the denim down, and the henna extended further than he'd been able to see ā the dragon's tail curling down toward your upper thigh, the whole design sitting dark against your skin, considerably larger than the glimpse above your waistband had suggested.
He knelt all the way down and went very still looking at it.
"You planned this," he sounded sure of his words. This damned man knew you like the palm of his hand.
"Little bit," you acknowledged.
"Knew exactly what it would do, right?"
"I had a working theory," you smiled deviously. "Did it work?"
He made a low sound that wasn't quite a word, and then his mouth was on your hip ā hard, not gentle, no reverence in it at all.
He kissed the lettering first, open-mouthed, his hands gripping your ass to pull you to his mouth. There was nothing careful about any of it, nothing exploratory. This was a man who had read property of on your skin and had gone somewhere that no longer had room for finesse.
"Mine," he all but growled against your hip, which was entirely redundant given the text and entirely necessary for him regardless.
"Yours," you said through a chuckled moan, your hands reaching to the nape of his neck. "Has been for a while."
He lifted his head to look at you and the expression on his face was one you'd seen exactly a handful of times, the look of a man who had encountered something that had rewritten a significant part of his brain and was still catching up to what he'd become because of it.
"Whose idea?" He asked, face tilting downward again and tongue lapping against the softness of your lower belly. There was a bit of teeth in his kisses now, which had you squirming slightly.
"A friend dragged me to the stall," you managed through a huffed laugh.
"And you picked it?"
"I designed it," you corrected. "I sat there for thirty minutes and could only think about your face after finding it."
He closed his eyes briefly. Opened them. "Don't let it fade," he said.
"Maekar, it's henna, it's chemically going toā"
"Then we get another one," he almost sounded commanding, with total flat certainty, like this concluded the discussion. "Or a real one. Whichever, I donāt give a fuck."
You laughed ā you couldn't help it ā and he did not laugh, which somehow made it better, because he'd meant it entirely and was already looking up at you from your hip with the focused intent of a man knowing exactly that this specific word carried real intent.
"You're serious," you breathed, looking at the darkness of his eyes, which had almost swallowed his near-lilac hue.
"I'm always serious," he said, and put his mouth back on the lettering and moved it progressively downward.
The tomato beds and the garden and the entire rest of the evening ceased to have any bearing on anything at all after that.
I'm trying to catch up with some older requests! It might take some time tho <3
A silly little headcanon that I had while listening to the songs from the 2004 The Phantom of the Opera movie. A version slightly adapted:
A version in which the scars Maekar was left with after his bout of pox were far worse ā truly marking his face ā leaving him with a far more reclusive nature than in canon: one in which he rarely left the privacy of his chambers, scarcely even attending the court's official functions.
A version in which you were raised in the Red Keep as the youngest daughter of a minor lord who held a permanent place at Daeron II's court, and in which you spent the best years of your life in the castle alongside the other daughters of the realm's nobility ā even striking up a friendship with the Crown Prince, Baelor Targaryen, who was slightly older than you.
A version in which you cannot recall a single moment in which Maekar, Baelor's younger brother, made any public appearance ā one in which the other children of the court mocked him, claiming the prince had been left disfigured after an illness in which the Stranger very nearly claimed him. A version in which you remember, nonetheless, feeling sorry for the prince and defended him against the rest of the children, even though you never properly knew him.
A version in which, when your mother died, your father decided you would return home and leave the capital behind.
A version in which you mourned the loss of your friendship with Baelor bitterly.
A version in which, years later, you received an invitation from the Prince of Summerhall, Maekar Targaryen, to serve as caretaker for his youngest children after his wife Dyanna died.
A version in which you arrive at Summerhall and, after a few months, settle into life at the palace ā quieter than you remember King's Landing being, and more beautiful. A truly idyllic place, were it not for the fact that, ever since your arrival, you've sensed the near-constant presence of something moving among the shadows; something that watches you but which, against all reason, doesn't unsettle you ā instead, strangely, it makes you feel shelteredā¦
A version in which you find it strange that the lord of the castle, Prince Maekar, is never present ā one in which the castle's servants tell you he's out hunting, or visiting the castles of lesser lords, but never in his own home.
A version in which a strange figure begins speaking to you through the corridors, from the dark corners of Summerhall ā a male figure that, as the moons pass, you grow accustomed to, and come to miss whenever he's not there, whenever he doesn't speak to you, whenever he doesn't tell you that you're the sharpest-minded young woman he has ever beheld.
A version in which you feel, strangely, an pull to that mysterious figure.
A version in which, after a few months, word arrives of a visit from the Crown Prince, Baelor ā whom you remember so fondly that your chest fills with warmth. But so many years have passedā¦
A version in which the Prince, now a widower, recognizes you after overhearing you speak to his nephews and nieces in the very same manner you once spoke to him, back when you lived at court.
A version in which that presence in the shadows ā the one the other serving girls know as the Phantom of Summerhall, fervently believing the castle to be cursed ā begins to grow possessive of you and aggressive with the inhabitants of the castle, right as Prince Baelor also begins spending more and more time in your company.
A version in which, following a small accident in the woods surrounding the castle, you wake in a strange place and discover you are not alone: the presence you had been hearing for months is there. He is a tall, powerfully built man, his hair and beard so pale they seem almost white, his face half-hidden behind a mask. As you draw closer, you discover faint scars across his face ā light marks that trace the exposed part of his skin and spread down toward his neck, down across the rest of his body, youād guess. A man whose eyes, a pale violet, draw you in almost as powerfully as his voice ā deep and commanding.
A version in which your brief stay in that strange place ā where you forget almost entirely about the outside world and everything it entails ā culminates in a kiss, in which that man, whom you can easily place now as the Phantom of Summerhall, confesses that he has been in love with you for a long, long time.
A version in which your curiosity makes you frown at that admission, and in which, in a moment when the Phantom's guard is down, you try to briefly lift the mask covering his face; to see the man behind it. A version in which he reacts as though betrayed and, after a moment of vulnerability, returns you to the palace, to the others ā who had been searching for you this whole time, fearing the worst.
A version in which, when you return, Baelor tells you that he regrets all the time he's lost without you and confesses that he has always kept your memory close to his heart. A version in which Baelor begins to court you.
A version in which a feast is held at Summerhall to celebrate your betrothal to Baelor. A celebration attended by the great lords of Westeros. A celebration at which you can finally show, openly, the affection that you and Baelor feel for one another. A celebration that very nearly makes you forget that mysterious, dark presence hiding in the shadows of Summerhallā¦
A version in which, in the middle of that celebration, the imposing, menacing figure of the Phantom of Summerhall makes himself known, and urges Baelor to leave the palace at once and abandon any intention of courting you. A version in which, even though everyone present is terrified by the figure, neither you nor Baelor are.
A version in which, despite your betrothal to Baelor, your attraction to the Phantom does not go unnoticed by the Prince of Dragonstone, who takes matters into his own hands and vows to take you away from Summerhall, back with him to the Red Keep.
A version in which the Phantom, shortly before you're to leave for the capital with Baelor, appears in your chambers and urges you to remain with him in the palace ā to not abandon him as you did when you were children, back when you were the only one who ever defended him. A version in which that very same thread ā one that had already struck you as strange the night you kissed ā resurfaces with renewed force, and finally leads you to unmask the Phantom, revealing beneath it the face of Maekar Targaryen: that boy you had only ever seen in a couple of childhood portraits, and whom you had never actually met in person.
A version in which, after this revelation, Maekar carries you off with him into the depths of Summerhall, to that same place where you woke after the accident in the woods, while Baelor, desperate, tries to force his way into your chambers after overhearing part of the conversation ā and part of what was happening inside.
A version in which Baelor Targaryen, ever the proper Prince of Dragonstone, goes searching for you ā to confront, as you now understand, his own blood.
A version in which, after a heart-wrenching confrontation in which Maekar wounds Baelor, you are made to choose between the two of them.
A version in which, after making Maekar understand that it is precisely his obsessive, possessive, reclusive nature what drives you away from him, you kiss him ā because you cannot help loving him; loving the monster.
A version in which Maekar comes to understand that keeping you would be the end of your happiness ā and of you. A version in which he chooses to let you finally go with his brother.
A version in which you come to understand that your heart will remain divided between the Prince and the Phantom for the rest of your days.
can i have a link to where we learned how jena died or is that still to be revealed. iām worried i missed it somehow (better go reread the whole series ;)))
Hi there!
I haven't properly discussed the circumstances of Jena's passing in this AU as of yet, but it has been mentioned mainly in this thought piece.
Thank you for your message and for enjoying my work!!
full disclosure I dropped the horny x3 off of my ask about Baelor and his fears surrounding lost because of his experience with Jena. Thought it was bad for the horny brandingš. But apparently we are all complex creatures because the pendulum is always swinging between emotionally honest questions and disgustingly depraved wants.
Love all your stuff especially the modern BFFs dad. thank you for including so much of it
Lol hiya Horny Thrice! Love the honesty and yes, we are very much complex creatures: one moment we are sobbing because Baelor canāt catch a break and the next one weāre discussing fisting with the boys (which I havenāt forgotten, I see you sister-wife!AU stans)
I just love the wide angle of my moots so much šāāļøš§”
speaking of Baelor and griefā¦do you think that some overprotectiveness or tendency to worry and catastrophes things every come up between him and reader in BFFs dad AU?
Like god forbid sheās in a fender bender or gets sick around the same time of year that he lost Jena?!
Anon is speaking about this other ask.
Yes. Yes, absolutely, and thank you for this ask because it's one of the more emotionally honest things anyone has sent me about him and I have thought about it at length.
Here's the thing about Baelor that I think gets underplayed when people talk about him as the composed one: composure is not the absence of fear. Composure is a strategy for managing it. And a man who has already lost a wife ā who has already had the experience of an ordinary week becoming the week, of a phone call that reorganised his entire life ā does not come out the other side of that with less fear. He comes out with a much better system for not showing it.
So the answer to your question is yes. And it doesn't look like what people expect.
Most of the time it's invisible, because he's careful about it. He's aware that his fear is disproportionate and he refuses to make it her problem. So it comes out sideways, in small logistical ways he can justify to himself as simply being practical.
He texts let me know when you're home and doesn't elaborate on why. He knows the route she takes. He notices, without commenting, when her car is making a noise it wasn't making last month, and mentions it two days later as an offhand observation about tyre pressure (he'd tell Maekar to fix it for her, probably, because if there's anyone he trusts it's his brother).
All those details may look like controlling from the point of view of an untrained eye; from someone that doesn't know Baelor. But control couldn't be further from what it really is: anxiety.
And if she called him on it he'd say something reasonable and true ā I'd rather know ā and change the subject, because the actual sentence underneath is one he's not going to say on a Wednesday afternoon over tea.
When she's ill it's when everything stops being subtle.
A normal illness ā a bad flu, something that puts her in bed for four days ā and Baelor becomes a slightly different man. Not panicked. Never panicked, not visibly. But present in a way that's almost too much: cancelling things he doesn't mention cancelling, appearing with things she didn't ask for, sitting in the chair by the bed with a book he isn't reading a single word of.
And he asks questions. Too many, slightly too specific. How long has the fever been at that. Have you kept fluids down today. What did they say exactly, at the walk-in ā what were the words they used. He's not fussing. He's gathering data, because data is the only thing that has ever helped him feel less afraid, and if he knows the exact numbers then some part of his brain can pretend the situation is legible and therefore controllable.
She'd have to be quite firm with him about sleeping. He wouldn't, otherwise.
And the whole time, he'd be composed. Genuinely composed, not performing it ā warm, steady, dry about it even. It's only afterward, once she's better, that she'd catch it: him standing in the kitchen at 6am on the first properly normal morning, both hands braced on the counter, having a very quiet moment about something that turned out fine.
And then there's the thing you actually asked about, which is the two overlapping.
Jena died in let's say February. A wet, grey, unremarkable month, which is somehow worse than if it had been something dramatic. And every February since, Baelor has been slightly not himself in ways that Valarr clocked years ago and never mentions, because the family has a whole unspoken protocol around it: Baelor gets quieter, works later, reads more and retains less, and everyone lets him.
Now put her in that February with a fever.
What happens is that the composure holds. It holds because he makes it hold, because he knows exactly what's happening in his own head and refuses to make her responsible for it while she's the one who's ill. He'd be attentive and steady and would not say a single word about the date.
But she'd notice. Because he wouldn't leave the flat. Because he'd check on her in the night more than once. Because at some point she'd wake at 3am and find him sitting on the edge of the bed with his hand resting very lightly against her forehead, checking a temperature that had already broken hours ago, and when she said his name he'd say sorry, go back to sleep in a voice that had something in it she'd never heard from him before.
And the thing is ā he'd know. That's what makes it him rather than just any anxious man. He'd know exactly what he was doing and why. He'd be able to articulate it precisely if asked: this is not about you, this is my brain making an association between two entirely unrelated events because it is February and I am afraid, and I am aware that it is irrational, and being aware of it has not made it stop.
What fixes it is not reassurance, exactly. You can't logic a man out of grief-adjacent fear, and he'd hate being handled like that; it'd make him feel slightly misunderstood.
What actually helps is being direct about it. Asking him, plainly, is this about Jena. Letting him say yes. Letting the thing be named in the room rather than sitting under everything unspoken ā because Baelor's entire pattern (the thing that caused the whole gala mess, for example) is holding something quietly rather than saying it, and the fix has always been the same: someone reaching in and asking him the actual question.
And then just ā being there. Visibly. Letting him check the fever one more time if he needs to. Going back to sleep with his hand on her forehead and not making it strange.
Because what he's afraid of isn't illness. It's the specific, historically-supported possibility that a person can be here and then not be. And the only real answer to that fear is the boring, repetitive, daily evidence of her continuing to be here.
Which he gets every morning (because remember, no one dies in this one). But that's the whole treatment. That's everything he truly needs.
Thank you so much for answering my ask about Maekar/Baelor's jealousy!!! I loved your take so much and I agree on everything! I think in the Priest!Baelor you can sort of trace that feeling of having lost something/someone that haunts him in every single AU
That is so right, anon!
At the risk of being repetitive, there's a common fact in my writing, and that is that I love portraying Baelor as someone who knows grief from a very close point of view. I find it very satisfying to explore his mind and how he reacts to the feeling of loss in different AUs (my Adam Dalgliesh fic, I think, is the one that develops this idea best, but priest!Baelor comes in a close second).
There's something that traces directly to Bertie's interpretation of grief and pain that fuels me, and it is one of the main axes in which I build my AUs.
Thank you so much for noticing, really. I love getting feedback on the small details of my works.
love reader showering those hot men with praise and love. so sweet. as always iām a firm make those old men BLUSH enjoyer 10/10/10. and maekar is so pookie.
I love making them all flustered and red, they're so cute. And especially cutie patootie, munchable Maekar. He's just so bae it's actually comical
The only issue with BFF's dad Baelor is the BFF is Valarr my dreamy boi
Listen, I get it, he's such a cutie patootie, but he's terribly happy his BFF is making his dad happy again after all the shit the poor man has been through!
Aside from a few times he almost saw something he never wished to see, that is š«£
I have such a huge chaos with my taglist, so I am going to try to manage it with this post... I saw this idea on @/julez-5 blog and I thought it was magnificent, so I am reproducing the same system.
š§” General taglist
š”ļø AKOTSK - all works
š„ Baelor Targaryen
š„ Maekar Targaryen
š° Only AKOTSK A Court of Dragons AU (lady in waiting!reader)
š Only AKOTSK The Three Heads of the Dragon AU (sister-wife!reader)
šļø Only AKOTSK The Dragons Next Door AU (modern!BFF's dad)
āļø HOTD - all works
Please, leave in the comments the emoji that belongs to the taglist you'd want to join!
Tagging all my current moots in my taglist so that they can specify if there needs to be a change!
Pairing: modern!BFF's dad!Baelor x f!reader // modern!BFF's dad!Maekar x f!reader
Warning(s): modernAU, established relationship, age gap, drunk reader, AFAB reader (no use of y/n). Overall fluff, let me know if I missed anything
Baelor got the call at 1:47Ā AM.
He was awake ā he was usually always awake at this hour, some book open on his chest, glasses slipping down his nose ā but the sound of the phone still went through him faster than a book ever could, the specific jolt of a call at that hour before he'd even seen your name on the screen.
"Baelor," you said, entirely too loud, "Baelor,Ā I need you to come get me, I think I might be aĀ littleĀ bit drunkā"
Relief first. Always relief first, before anything else had a chance to register ā the voice on the other end was yours, was laughing, wasĀ fine, whatever else it was.
"How little?" he asked, already reaching for his shoes, his heart still catching up with itself.
"Like aĀ lotĀ little," you tried, which made no grammatical sense and made you laugh so hard he had to hold the phone away from his ear.
"Text me the address," he said, keeping his voice level, keeping the worry out of it. "I'm leaving now. Are you somewhere safe?"
"I'm on theĀ pavement," you said, like this answered the question.
"Are you alone?"
"Valarr was here," you said, voice a little further because you were sending him ā or trying to ā the address while speaking, "but he left early, Kiera wanted to go, they're very cute together, did you know that, they areĀ very cuteā"
"I did know that," he said, pulling his coat on, something in his chest loosening slightly at the sound of you being simply, ordinarily silly rather than anything worse. "Stay where you are. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
"You're theĀ best," you said, with the enormous sincerity of the extremely intoxicated. "Has anyone told you that?"
"I only care if youāre the one that tells me," he said, and the fifteen minutes it took to reach the club were the longest of his week regardless, his mind running the same short list it always ran when you were somewhere he couldn't see you for a long period of time.
He found you exactly where you'd said, propped against the wall with your shoes in one hand, and the sight of you ā upright, laughing, entirely yourself ā untied something in him so completely he had to stand still a second before trusting his voice.
"ThereĀ he is," you announced to the small queue nearby. "That'sĀ myĀ Baelor. Everyone, this is my Baelor."
"Yes," he said, warmth surprising even him, smiling something close to shyly to the strangers around you. He took your shoes and got an arm around your waist. "Let's get you to the car, sweetheart."
"I told everyone about you tonight," you said, letting him steer you across the car park. "Everyone.Ā I told them you're the most intelligent man I've ever met. And the most caring. I told Tansy you make tea for people without being asked and she said that was, and I quote, 'disgustingly wholesome,' and I saidĀ I know, isn't he perfectā"
"I'm not perfect," he said, though something in his chest had gone very warm.
"YouĀ are," you fought back, with total conviction, stopping walking entirely to make the point, which meant he stopped too. "You're my perfect boyfriend. I told everyone. I was very loud about it."
"I gathered," he said, gently getting you moving again, smile plastered on his face.
He got you into the passenger seat, leaned across to do your seatbelt when the buckle defeated you, and you kept going, apparently not finished.
"Valarr was so happy for us," you said. "Did I say that? He was really happy."
Something crossed Baelor's face, a faint colour rising at his cheeks, there and gone, the specific self-consciousness of a man who was, in point of fact, dating his son's best friend, and who had mostly made his peace with that fact in private, composed moments, and found it landed rather differently hearing it said aloud, drunk and delighted, in a car park at two in the morning.
"He's very fond of you," Baelor said, carefully.
"HeĀ lovesĀ me," you said. "He told me tonight. He said I make you lighter. He said you used to forget to eat lunch and now you don't, and that's apparently my doing."
"That is your doing, my love," Baelor admitted, the colour at his cheeks not fully fading, and pulled out of the car park before you could see it clearly.
You didn't stop talking. You were, if anything, gathering momentum.
"Baelor," you said, with sudden urgency, as though you'd just remembered something critical. "The mosaic!"
"Which mosaic?"
"The one at the exhibition. The Ravenna one, the ā the fish, and the ā you know the one, theĀ sixth centuryĀ one, I sent you the link, you have to come with me, youĀ haveĀ to, it closes in three weeks and I want to go with you specifically because you'll actually know what I'm looking at and everyone else just saysĀ oh that's niceĀ and I don't wantĀ nice, I wantĀ youā"
"I'll come," he said through your banter.
"āand you can tell me about theĀ tesseraeĀ and the ā wait." You stopped. "You said yes?"
"I said yes," he repeated, not really managing to entirely remove the smile from his lips.
"You didn't even let me finish drunk-begging," you said, sounding faintly betrayed by this efficiency.
"I didn't need you to," he said, and found, absurdly, that he was smiling harder ā the composure entirely undone by the sheer earnestness of you, drunk and rambling and so plainly, uncomplicatedly happy, telling perfect strangers about him in a queue outside a club.
By the time he got you up the stairs you'd moved on to a lengthy, deeply sincere assessment of his reading glasses, and he steered you to the sofa ā glasses off, shoes off, water glass filled and placed in your hand, more out of habit than any real worry now.
"Drink that," he indicated, "and then you can tell me more about your mosaic."
"Deal," you said, drinking half in one go, and then, quieter, the momentum finally slowing: "Baelor."
"Yes."
"I really love you," sudden, overwhelming sincerity, all the yapping dropping away at once. "Like, aĀ lot."
Something in his face went entirely soft.
"I really love you too, sweetheart," he said, sitting beside you, pulling you gently against his chest. He held you there a moment, quiet, and found himself saying, before he'd fully decided to: "Next time you go out ā let me come with you."
"Mm?" already half asleep.
"Not to hover," he said, mostly to himself now, working it out as he spoke. "Just ā I'd like to be there. Somewhere in the room. So you don't have to call me from a pavement."
"You'd hate it," you mumbled. "Too loud. Too many people. Too little brains."
"Probably," he admitted with a huffed laugh. "But I'd manage."
You didn't answer ā already gone, your weight settling fully against him, the water glass listing until he rescued it from your hand.
He sat there a while longer, turning the evening over ā the mosaic, Valarr, the specific, undignified warmth of being calledĀ perfectĀ by someone too drunk to know better and meaning it entirely anyway ā and pressed his mouth to the top of your head.
"Sleep," he said, to no one now, and meant it for both of you.
Maekar was watching some silly nonsense on the TV by 1:52 when you called him.
He was awake, some instinct honed over twenty-five years of teenagers with curfews he no longer had jurisdiction over, and the phone lighting up did something specific to his stomach every single time it happened at this hour ā a drop, fast and total, before he'd even seen the name.
"Heeeeeey," you said, extremely loud. "Hey, Maekar, so, funny storyā"
The drop didn't fully leave. Not yet. Not until he had eyes on you.
"Where," he said, already pulling jeans on, the phone wedged against his shoulder.
"I might be a little drunk," you said, stretching the little a bit more than necessary.
"Where."
"The one with the blue sign," you tried. "Near the ā the place. You know the place."
"I don't know the place." Flat, controlled, the specific calm he used when something needed handling and panicking wouldn't help. "Text me a pin. Now."
"Fine," you said, put-upon, and then, immediately cheerful: "you're coming to get me? You're soooo nice."
"You alone?" he said, keys already in hand.
"There's a lady here with a very cute dog," you said. "We are friends now!"
"Stay with her," he all but commanded. "Don't move. I'll be there in ten."
He hung up and was in the car within ninety seconds, and the drive there was the kind of quiet that had nothing peaceful in it ā his jaw tight the whole way, his mind doing the same math it always did, too fast, too many outcomes, until the only thing that would fix it was actually seeing you.
He found you sitting on the curb, shoes off, deep in conversation with a stranger about her dog, and the second he was close enough to be sure ā really sure, eyes on you, upright, laughing ā something in his chest unclenched so hard it was almost painful.
"There he is," you announced to the stranger, standing too fast and grabbing his arm for balance. "That's him. That's my pookie Maekar!"
"Get in the car," he said mildly embarrassed at the pet name, and pulled you in against his front for one long moment before he let himself do anything else, his hand splayed flat against your back, checking without checking, making sure you were solid and warm and actually there.
"You're squeezing me," you laughed, muffled against his chest.
"Yeah, I know," he said. You pressed your face against his sternum, between his thick pec muscles, and screamed into the wall of his chest for a moment before stepping back slightly and smiling dumbly at him.
You could see the faint redness starting at the tip of his ears and traveling down to his face, so he rushed a bit to get you into the passenger seat. He did your seatbelt when your hands proved uncoordinated, and produced a water bottle from the door pocket ā he'd started keeping one there weeks ago and had never mentioned why.
"Drink," he told you.
"You brought water!" you almost yelled, like this was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to anyone. "You're the best."
"Drink it," he said, and the gruffness didn't quite cover how flushed he still was.
He turned on the engine and started driving. You drank a third, set it down, reached for his shirt buttons instead.
"What do you think youāre doing?" flat, not stopping the car, though the corner of his mouth had already moved despite himself.
"Taking your shirt off," like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"We're in a car."
"That's fine," you protested. "You know I can multitask."
He caught your hand, gently, redirected it to the water. "Drink."
You pouted, actual bottom lip and everything, and he had to look at the road very hard to keep from laughing at you. You drank in apparent protest and then tried to go for his belt instead.
"No," catching your wrist, his jaw working ā the specific fond exasperation he used to get with Daeron at fourteen, except warmer; except entirely, hopelessly yours. "You need water."
"You're no fun," you whined, and he huffed something that was almost a laugh, low and involuntary.
By the time he pulled up outside his place you'd migrated to his hair, turned to the side completely and both hands buried in it, informing him with great seriousness that it was so soft, actually, nobody talks about how soft it is, and he'd given up keeping you off him entirely and settled for just not letting you undo buttons.
"Get inside," arm firm around your waist. "Then you can talk about my hair all you want."
"Deal," and then, hand flat against his chest, eventually squeezing, as he walked you up the path: "your chest is so ā solid."
"Yeah, I know," he said, and something about the plain sincerity of it, drunk and unguarded, hit somewhere soft in him he didn't examine too closely.
He got you to the sofa, fresh water in your hands, stood over you arms crossed until you'd drunk half, maintaining unblinking eye contact with him the whole time like it was a competition he intended to win.
"There," setting the glass down. "Happy?"
"Definitely getting there," he said, and sat, and you curled into his side immediately, the chaos of the last twenty minutes softening into something quieter.
"Maekar."
"Yes?"
"You came and got me."
"āCourse I did, silly," like it was self-evident, because to him it was ā there was no version of tonight where he didn't.
"I love you," sudden, sincere, the teasing gone, your face tilted upward to look at him. "A lot. Like, a lot a lot."
Something in his chest did the thing again, harder, and he allowed himself a chuckle.
"Yeah," low, smiling somewhat dumbly at you, "same." He pulled you closer, pressed his mouth briefly to your forehead, and held it there a beat longer than usual. "You scared me tonight. A little bit."
"Sorry," you mumbled, already going heavy against his chest.
"Don't be sorry," he said. "Just ā call sooner next time. Before it's a whole thing."
"Mm," not really hearing him anymore, and he reached over and finished the water himself when it was clear you weren't going to.
He sat there awake for a moment longer, just feeling the warm weight of your body against him, and squeezed you slightly to him. He huffed a laugh. āMy pookie,ā he repeated the pet name youād used while slightly shaking his head, and got comfortable against the plush of the sofa to sleep as well.
āŖļøwant more modern!BFF's dad!AU? check out this masterlist!
Do you ever tell yourself a little story to go to sleep? Last night, I drifted off imagining how Modern!BFF's Baelor and Maekar would react to a very late night, very drunk call from Reader asking if they would pick her up from the club. She is safe - no angst here! - but very intoxicated, very cute, and very handsy.
Much fun imagining Maekar trying to get her to drink a glass of water while dodging her attempts to undress him.
Thank you so much for all your writing, the care you put into your characters, and how lovely you are to all your readers/asks! It's so nice having you on my dashboard.
this might be the most cute, fluffy modern!BFF's Dad I have ever done and I want to thank you for it š§” you are such a ray of sunshine
