Summary: How would you meet the men of akotsk in modern times?
AN: First off, thank you to the person who asked for this!! Sorry I accidentally deleted the ask 🫥 This was so so fun; when I started reading fanfic this was the kind of stuff that was really popular, so it was cute to remember all the stuff I was into lol. I’ve been gone but I promise I’m back and I’m getting to all of yalls wonderful requests!!<3
You meet Daeron through a friend of a friend and, at first, he seems like a laid back, stoner type who never takes anything too seriously. He's laughing, drink in hand, telling some story about a party that makes little sense on account of the alcohol. Always ordering another round for the group, always putting down his father’s credit card to pay the tab. You don’t remember exactly what tips you off about it, but something tells you most of his “friends” are only around for the free fun. At first, he’s a little unsettled with how perceptive you seem to be; staring too long when you notice the dark circles that permanently ring his lavender eyes, gently pulling a glass out of his hand when he knows he’s one sip away from a meltdown, asking him if he’s alright. No one asks him if he’s alright, they just assume from his easy smile and blasé attitude that nothing's wrong.
Daeron begins to sort of cling to the normalcy you bring, the control, the ability to have fun without taking it over the edge. He’s still guarded when you’re alone, reluctant to bring up anything that might frighten you away, but you coax him into activities that involve daylight and sobriety, and he finds himself actually enjoying them. Laying out in the grass in a park, walking around the aquarium, chatting over breakfast. His hand always seems to find yours, firm grip betraying the lax look on his face. It hurts you, deep down, to see that he is clearly suffering, but refuses to share it with you, refuses to acknowledge the obvious thing happening between the two of you. He can see what he’s doing, see the crestfallen look in your eye when he casually brushes you off, but he can’t seem to stop himself. How could he bring you, so kind and gentle and lovely, into the mess of his mind? What would you even think? He’s certain you wouldn’t want to involve yourself with him, so he resigns to keeping you at arms length, whatever keeps you in his life.
It all comes to a head one night, a thunderstorm rattling outside your apartment. You almost miss it, the rapping on your door, but you get up out of bed to find a shivering, exhausted Daeron, rain-soaked clothes clinging to his frame.
“Please, please sweet girl, I had nowhere else to go.”
You grab his arm, tugging him inside, and he all but collapses against you. Slowly, you tug at his wet clothes, neither of you speaking as you help him towel off. He’s not drunk yet, there’s a crazed look in his eye you only seldom see, when he hasn’t numbed his brain enough. You find your way into your bed, his head tucked against your chest and his arms an iron band around your waist, as if you might leave if he lets go. You run your fingers through his damp, blond hair, nose nuzzled against the crown of his head. You’ve almost drifted off when he starts mumbling, incoherent at first, but eventually you pick up what he’s saying. Dreams he cannot escape, fire, blood, ashes. He fears what you’ll think of him, but he wants, more than anything, for you to know the truth about him. When all you do is hold him tighter, fat tears develop at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t sleep much that night, but you’re warm and soft and there, and he knows things don’t have to be so bad.
Maekar:
You and Maekar have the slow burn of the century. You meet at work, him the gruff, rude younger brother of the head of the company. He’s the one they send to do the dirty work, clever and calculating, he’s strong enough to do the jobs no one else has the heart to do. You’re hardworking, lively, friendly to everyone, and have an edge that makes your work stand out. He notices right away, because Maekar notices everything, but you hardly hear him speak unless to give demands- at first. You don’t seem intimidated by him, though he is intimidating, and you begin to recognize a small, reluctant respect from him. This is where the disconnect happens. To you, he’s your stoic superior, not cruel, but not kind either. To him however, his acceptance of your work, the constructive criticism, his quiet agreement with you in meetings, is a declaration of friendship. It’s not until the two of you happen to stand next to each other (happen meaning he deliberately placed himself at your elbow) during a boring discussion over trade deals, that you realize he may not dislike you as much as you thought. A man from the marketing department is loudly giving his opinion on something when you mumble:
“This could have been an email.”
The snort Maekar lets out at your words has your head whipping around in disbelief. Actually, most of the people around you have similar, shocked faces. Maekar’s face is hard again in moments, back to glowering, but you catch his eyes on you as the meeting continues. It’s not really romantic at first: you invite him to eat lunch with you, and he sits quietly and listens to you talk; he stops men with a glare when they’ve interrupted you; you find the two of you work well together, clever, efficient, your smiles mellowing out his jagged approach. The attraction is certainly there, but he’s older, jaded, and you’re bright and pretty and he doesn’t know how to approach you in a way that doesn’t come off as lecherous.
Maekar overhears a coworker, coincidentally the same guy from the marketing meeting, asking you to go out for drinks after work. He watches, nose flared and eyes cold, from across the office, as the man leans against your desk. He shouldn’t care. You can go out with anyone. You don’t belong to him.
But that’s his spot at your desk, where he leans in to correct your work.
Maekar has to turn away when you smile up at the man, he has no right to feel the way he does. You don’t hear from him for days after; he’s busy in meetings, you’re scheduled for travel, and you find yourself missing his company. The mood of the office is grim, no one is safe from his wrath and more than one person leaves in tears. You finally get the courage to knock on the door to his office, demanding to know why he’s ignoring you. He’s defensive, arms crossed over his broad chest and brows furrowed as you pointedly ask him why he’s so pissy.
He mentions the guy from marketing and you realize what’s happened.
“Maekar, you can’t honestly think I said yes to that guy.”
He lets out a huff, but the tips of his ears have gone red. You smile softly as you walk to him, gently taking his face in your hands to pull his mouth down to yours.
The mood of the office is much calmer after that.
Aerion:
Your relationship with modern Aerion develops through a fierce academic rivalry. This may be an unpopular opinion, but he seems like he really is very smart; or at least, he is willing to work very hard to be the best at something. Anything to give him bragging rights, he’s studious in a way that’s dangerous. When you meet him, it’s in a challenging university course; maybe you’re getting the same degree, maybe you both signed up for a difficult class to look good on a transcript. Immediately, he notices how well you’re doing. Perfect grades, correct answers when called on, working well with other groups of classmates. It infuriates him, because as hard as he works, he’s always one step behind you. He gets a 98 on an exam, you get a 99, you get the picture. It doesn’t help that you’re pretty smug about it. The handsome psycho who sits a row behind you and stares daggers at your back; it’s easy to rile him up.
Aerion even attempts to sabotage your work; accusing you of cheating, loudly arguing against your answers, giving you incorrect notes in an attempt to lead you astray. Obviously, none of this works. He doesn’t have the same charisma you do in class, the ease in which you speak to professors and classmates alike.
He’s pretty cute though, and instead of reporting him to the dean, you offer to help him study. He takes this as a giant offense, but by this point you’re basically all he thinks about anyway, so he reluctantly accepts. Late night study sessions, arguing over notes, gloating over grades, slowly turn into hanging out without talking about class. He asks you to study at a coffee shop and “forgets” his notebook, now he has to lean close, arm slung around the back of your chair, to see your papers. You find yourself inviting him to get drinks with your friends, only it ends up being just the two of you, pressed close together to hear each other speak over the buzz of the bar. It’s not smooth; you argue over who has better penmanship, you race to raise your hands in class first, but eventually, a better grade than him earns you an eye roll and a kiss on the brow.
“You’ve got me this time, baby, but I swear I’ll beat you on the next one.”
It doesn’t sound as intimidating when he says it with his arms around your waist and his mouth on your neck.
Dunk:
Dunk is perfect for a gym meet cute. You’ve just joined a new gym, looking for a comfortable environment to work out in free of creeps. Dunk’s there at odd hours; he works a lot and shows up to the gym in his downtime.You just happen to be there at the same time when he first spots you, later in the night when there’s less people around, and he swears his heart stops momentarily. You’re in a cute set, hair back, still a little shy in a new place but confidently walking to your machine. He can’t help but stare, until he realizes that he’s big and menacing and you’re alone and oh my god what if he scares you?
So he turns back to the weight bench, pushing himself harder than strictly necessary, hoping to impress you without coming off as a douchebag. Of course, the man is hard to miss, and you immediately see his strapping figure from across the room. It almost makes you trip on the stair machine, but you regain your balance quickly and hope he didn’t see you stare.
That’s your dance for a while, not really speaking but watching one another. It’s hard not to eye him while he’s lifting, muscles in his arms and back bulging, once you’re close enough to hear him grunt at the weight, and you have to squeeze your legs together at the sound. He’s constantly got an eye on you, though he tries in vain not to. He knows what he looks like, big man following you, and would never dream of making you uncomfortable. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t pop a boner every time you bend over. He’s so embarrassed too, face scarlet as he tries to subtly adjust himself. But he also knows he can use his size to his advantage. He’s staring daggers at any man who gives you a hard time, blue eyes going dark. Your eyes meet his every time, as the men in question leave you alone, and you can watch Dunk’s face relax.
You’d have to be the one to speak first; Dunk would never think to interrupt your workout, or startle you, or god forbid, frighten you. His self-esteem isn’t what it should be, and he fumbles with his words when he thinks about you, how could he manage actually introducing himself? You shyly idle up to him one evening, finally introducing yourself and asking if he’d help spot you.
“I’ve seen you around here- not that I’m watching you or anything, you just seem so strong.”
He’s blushing and nodding, shaking your hand as he stutters his name out and follows you to the weights. Unbeknownst to him, you’ve spent just as much time planning what to say to him as he’s spent daydreaming about you. You’d worn something you thought suited you, pretending in the mirror before leaving for the gym. Somewhere, deep down, he gets the courage to ask for your number so you can work out together again.
Baelor:
Dad’s best friend.
Wait, who said that?
Baelor is an older man you’ve known a while, not as old as your father but old enough to turn heads when you’re out together. It starts clean, but you both feel the unignorable tension between you. He takes you out to dinner, just to catch up. He pays the bill, because it’s the nice thing to do. He drives you home, because what kind of man would he be if he let you walk home alone late? You know he’s lonely, finding comfort in your conversation, and a relationship begins to form around the margins. Your friends joke that you’re his sugar baby, hanging on his arm and letting him spend his money on a whim. They beg to hear about the sex (who wouldn’t), and don’t quite believe when you say there isn’t any. He’s kind, respectful, gentlemanly in a way you’ve never known. It’s so unlike men your age that for a while you believe he really does only see you as a friend.
The inner turmoil is killing him because on one hand, Baelor knows he’s too old for you; you could find a smart, handsome man your own age, and you’d be far happier. On the other hand, he can barely contain his burning need for you, even just being in your presence scratches an itch he didn’t think he still had.
And what if you did find another man, one more appropriate for you? How would Baelor know he was good to you, took care of you, pleased you the way you deserved? The thought actually makes him a little sick, but he cannot get it out of his head. It gets to the point where Maekar even points out the furrow of his brow that has no place there. The older brother gives a half-assed excuse about work, but he’s well aware Maekar doesn’t believe him for a second. For some reason, he doesn’t want his brother to know, not yet anyway, about your strange relationship. You’re his, and the idea of anyone, even a most beloved brother, talking about you fills him with a hot jealousy.
Instead, he goes out of his way to be there for you; listening to your complaints about work over a very expensive dinner, whisking you away on a weekend to a place you mentioned wanting to see, taking you on what literally anyone else would consider a date, but the two of you insist is just two likeminded people spending time together. He loves how thoughtful you are, how you always have something interesting to say, and finds himself happy to spend hours listening to you, chin in hand, a fond look on his face.
Eventually, it gets too much for you. No knowing how he feels, if you really are just a younger woman he keeps around to chat with. You ask him one night why keeps insisting on spending time with you, and it ends with you on the brink of tears, confessing your own love and feelings of doubt. It takes a moment for him to respond- he’s so shocked you actually feel the same way he’s at a bit of a loss for words. Gently, he takes your face in his hands, softly thumbing away the tears and kissing over the planes of your face. He whispers out his own affections, how he thought you’d want someone your own age, not someone like him, and how he was willing to take whatever he could get if it meant he could be around you.
Needless to say, your friends get a lot more information about Baelor the next time you see them.
Lyonel:
Lyonel gives playboy who never catches feelings until the right person comes along, and then he falls hard. Of course, his salacious reputation has not set him up for success in finding a real relationship. You do NOT vibe with his bullshit at first. He kind of fumbles your first introductions. He’s the type to be traipsing around with models and getting himself into trouble, so when he falls to his knees and dramatically asks to take you out, all he gets is an eye roll and a firm no. Why would you want to make a fool out of yourself by getting wrapped up with a man who changes interests in a moment?
You’ve met at a party, he’s drunk and loud and dancing in a way that would be embarrassing for anyone else, but is mesmerizing when he does it. He doesn’t take your response as a hard stop, more as a challenge. He starts showing up places he knows you’ll be, casually siding up to you to chat. He writes you love letters, disgustingly sappy but sweet nonetheless. It’s not pushy, because the thing is, he really is being sincere. This is just the only way he knows how to show affection. He’s loud and overbearing, dramatic and wild, and can totally read when you’re pretending not to care.
Eventually, you grow close enough that he outright asks you why you’re so against him. You confess that you don’t like the idea of falling for him, only to have your heart broken when he suddenly changes his mind and finds something else to take up his time. You’re well aware he’s never had a long relationship before, why would he want to start now? To Lyonel, this is only another challenge to conquer. He makes it his mission to prove to you that he’s lovestruck.
The gestures are far more personal than before, and more romantic. He brings flowers every time he sees you, expensive ones, and insists on cutting and fixing them in water himself. You mention a new art installation in passing, and the next thing you know he’s rented out the exhibit so that you see it just the two of you. He’s always there when you need him, even if he has no idea how to help. You call him in tears one night because a pipe burst under the sink in your apartment, and he’s there within minutes. He insists on taking a look at it himself, easy smile:
“I’ve got this honey, don’t you worry.”
Lyonel gets down on his hands and knees, sticking his head under the sink, only to get his hair and shirt soaking wet. It’s enough to make you giggle, seeing a man who clearly has no idea how to fix your problem dive headfirst into it anyway. The sound brings a grin to his face, and he rises up to wrap you in his arms. The soaked clothes don’t matter much longer after that.
this was actually inspired by the beautifully hot thoughts of @katiecat446 (bless your brain cells) and by this fanart specifically, which got me all hot and bothered lol
Pairing: modern!BFF's dad!Maekar x f!reader
Warning(s): modernAU, +18 MDNI, boxing, minor injury, blood mention, sweat kink, semi-public sex (baelor deserves hazard pay), explicit sexual content, adrenaline high
It was Baelor who told you, which was almost certainly not intentional.
You'd dropped by his flat to discuss Daeron's birthday party and he had invited you to stay for a quick drink. You had to admit that there was a particular ease in his presence, the particular comfortable ease of an evening that had become regular enough to stop requiring an occasion — and Baelor had mentioned, in passing, in the tone of a man referencing something he assumed you already knew, that he hoped Maekar's match this weekend went well because he'd been training hard for it.
You had kept your face very still.
"Match?" you asked with a quirked brow.
Baelor had looked at you over his wine glass with the specific expression of a man who had just understood something three seconds too late. "He hasn't told you."
"I'm afraid not."
A pause in which Baelor appeared to conduct a rapid assessment of his options and concluded, correctly, that there were none. "He's been boxing again," he said, carefully. "He did it for years when the children were young, stopped for a while after the divorce, recently went back. I believe his reasoning was—"
"Fitness," you tried, already knowing you were right.
"Something like that," Baelor said, in the tone of a man who knew exactly what his brother's reasoning was and found the whole situation faintly, privately amusing. "He has a bout Saturday. A small club event, veteran category."
"Veteran," you tried the word on your lips.
"Over forty," Baelor added. "Seems to be a recognized division."
You had looked at your wine. Then at Baelor. Then you had smiled in a way that apparently concerned him, because he'd added, gently, "Perhaps give him a chance to tell you himself."
"Of course," you said, and had said nothing more about it, and had not told Maekar you knew, and had found the venue online that same evening and noted the time.
You had also, the following morning, texted Baelor: coming to the match. come with me and don't tell him.
Baelor had taken eleven minutes to respond, which meant he'd thought about it. Then: This seems like something that could go several ways.
Yes, you'd sent back.
Another pause. Then: I'll drive.
The gym was not what you'd expected — not a purpose-built arena, just a working boxing club with a ring in the center and folding chairs arranged around it, the smell of sweat and leather and old canvas, strip lighting overhead. You found seats four rows back, close enough to see clearly, far enough that Maekar's corner — the far one, you'd confirmed from the bracket board — faced away from you when he came out.
Baelor sat beside you with the composed neutrality of a man who had agreed to something and was seeing it through, his coat folded over his lap, his eyes on the ring with the mild attention he gave most things that weren't Byzantine history.
"You're not going to tell me this was a bad idea, right?" you asked.
"It may be a bad idea," he answered pleasantly. "I've decided to observe rather than prejudge."
"Very academic of you."
"I thought so," he smiled, the corner of his eyes crinkling.
The first two bouts passed without incident. Then the third was announced and Maekar came out of the far corner and your mouth went dry.
You had seen him without a shirt before, obviously, many times, in many contexts — the garden, the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom... You knew the dragon across his back, the scales at his ribs, the breadth of his shoulders. You knew what he looked like.
You had not seen him like this.
He was wrapped and gloved, moving with the loose economical ease of a man completely at home in his own body, the overhead lights doing something genuinely unfair to the muscle and ink of him. The full back piece was visible when he turned to his corner — the dragon in deep red and black, extraordinary under direct light — and the scales curling around his ribs caught the overhead strip lighting in a way that made your hand grip the seat beneath you of its own accord.
"Be careful," Baelor observed quietly, beside you, "if you grip that plastic any harder you may break it."
"I'm fine," you just said.
"Of course," he looked back at the ring, and you could hear the composure of a man trying not to smile too hard at the situation.
Maekar's opponent was slightly younger, heavier, with the confident set of someone who had done the age calculation and liked his odds. You watched Maekar look at him across the ring with flat assessment — structural problem, tactical solution — and felt something warm and low move through you that had no business occupying a folding chair.
The first round was controlled, economical. Maekar moved with precision, reading the other man's patterns and adjusting, not overcommitting. The second round, his opponent landed a clean hit to the brow — the cut was immediate, small but visible, and the sight of the blood, the way Maekar wiped it without breaking focus or expression and simply moved back in, did something to you that you intended to examine at a later time when you were capable of rational thought.
"That looks like it hurts," Baelor winced and said, very quietly, not looking at you. Clearly unknowing the effect it had on you.
"Kiss it better later," your brain decided to blurt out.
Baelor turned slightly to look at you, brows furrowed but an extremely amused expression dancing in his eyes. "I think I'm beginning to understand why you have my brother in such state."
You added nothing because he had said everything that there was to say.
The corner men worked on the cut between rounds, closure strip applied, and Maekar turned briefly to survey the crowd while they worked — automatic, habitual, the four-minute instinct — and his eyes found you.
You watched it happen in real time. The stillness. The rapid internal recalibration behind his eyes. His face closed back into flat focus almost immediately, but the corner of his mouth had moved first.
The almost-smile. Brief. Gone.
"I think he saw you," Baelor pointed out.
"I know."
"This is about to end rather quickly," Baelor ventured, with the tone of a man who had grown up watching his younger brother and understood certain patterns.
He was right. The third round lasted four minutes.
Maekar came out from the bell with controlled aggression that hadn't been there before — more direct, less patient, the tactical problem fully solved and the solution being forward. His opponent tried to use his reach and Maekar walked through it, inside his guard before the other man had committed, and the combination that followed was short and precise and utterly final. The referee stepped in. The gym made its noise.
Maekar stepped back, gloves lowered, and looked directly at you across the crowd and the three rows of folding chairs between you. You held his gaze and let your face do everything you'd been preventing it from doing for the last twenty minutes.
His expression did the complicated thing. Then he turned back to his corner.
Baelor leaned slightly toward you. "I want it on record," he said, quietly, "that I regret telling you."
"You absolutely don't," you laughed.
A pause. "No," he admitted. "But I'm going to pretend I do for a while." He stood, straightening his coat. "I'll come with you to the back. Someone should probably — manage the situation that is clearly going to happen."
"Manage the situation?" you feigned innocence.
"Ensure the facilities remain available," he said diplomatically, and followed you toward the locker room corridor. "And try not to get you caught."
Maekar came out of the ring room ten minutes later, still in his kit — shorts, no shirt, the wrap still on one hand where the other had already been removed. He was looking for you, and he found you in exactly two minutes, which you had expected.
He didn't say anything when he did. He looked at you — at your face, at the expression on it — and something moved behind his eyes that was complicated and warm and wanting all at once.
"Baelor?" he asked, though you supposed he already knew.
"Baelor," you confirmed.
"Having words with him."
"Mm," you said, because you'd stopped caring about Baelor approximately thirty seconds ago and were currently occupied with the reality of Maekar standing in front of you sweaty and post-fight and looking at you like that, the cut at his brow newly dressed, the dragon visible over his shoulder.
"Locker room's empty," he said. "Everyone else is done."
"Lead the way," you bit your lip.
Baelor, who had been standing at a polite remove, said mildly: "I'll wait here."
Maekar looked at his older brother. Something passed between them that was entirely non-verbal and entirely sufficient. The non-verbal communication between two people who had spent the majority of their lives engaging like that.
"Thank you," Maekar said, which from him was significant.
"Don't thank me. I'm doing this under protest."
"No you're not," Maekar scoffed, and turned and walked toward the locker room, and you followed, and the door closed behind you both.
The room was empty and warm and smelled overwhelmingly of the evening's work — sweat and leather and old canvas and something more immediate, closer, radiating off the man in front of you. He dropped the remaining wrap onto the bench and turned to look at you with his arms loose at his sides and the full weight of his attention.
The overhead lights in here were brighter than the ring, and in them the tattoo was extraordinary — deep red and black spreading across the full breadth of his back, the scales curling around his ribs to the front, the detail of fifteen years of work visible in every line. The cut at his brow. The slight flush of exertion still across his chest and shoulders. The sheer physical reality of him, post-fight, was something that required a moment to simply receive.
You crossed the room and put your hands on him — flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat still elevated underneath your palms and the sticky warmth of his skin — and looked up at him.
"You thought I wouldn't want to see it," you said.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I thought you would find it barbaric."
"You were so wrong."
Something moved in his face. Then his hands found your waist and he kissed you, hard and immediate, no preamble, and you kissed him back with everything that had been building since the moment he'd walked out under the lights.
You pulled back after a moment and turned your face to his throat. He went still.
You pressed your mouth to the line of his neck and licked, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of him — sweat and exertion and the specific animal heat of a man who had been in a ring for three rounds and still had adrenaline running in him — and the sound that came out of him was low and guttural and nothing like his usual register.
"What," not a question. More like a word his body had made without consulting him.
"You taste like—" you pressed your mouth to his throat again, open this time, your tongue tracing the line of his pulse— "I can't explain it reasonably."
"Don't fucking explain it," he said, rough. "Do it again."
You did. Dragged your mouth slow up the column of his throat, breathing him in on every exhale, tasting sweat and warmth and something underneath that was purely him, and felt him shudder under your hands with the full-body involuntary quality of a man encountering something he hadn't known he needed.
"That tongue is going to be the death of me," he said, barely voiced.
"I'm sure it'd be a fucking good way to go," you teased and nipped his neck.
He made a decision. You could feel it in the shift of his hands — from your waist to your hips, lifting you with the same casual ease he'd lifted combinations in the ring, carrying you the three steps to the bench and setting you on it without apparent effort, and then stepping back to look at you.
His hands went to the waistband of his boxing shorts. He stripped them off with the same economical efficiency he brought to everything, no performance in it, just a man removing kit — and then he was standing in front of you entirely, post-fight, in the bright locker room light, and your mouth went dry for the second time that evening.
He was extraordinary and he knew it, but not in the preening way — more in the way of a man who had maintained a working relationship with his own body for forty years and trusted it the way he trusted good tools. The dragon across his back caught the light when he turned to drop the shorts on the bench. The scales at his ribs. The size of his hands, bare without the wraps now, the breadth of his shoulders, the particular physical reality of him that the ring kit had been suggesting and the locker room had now confirmed entirely.
His cock stood hard and proud, tip reddened and crowned by the bead of arousal that, Maekar had once joked, seemed to be there permanently every time you were with him. His face sported that devastating almost-smile, and then he closed the distance between you.
He had you against the lockers within the minute, your back against the cold metal, his hands lifting you with effortless certainty — still warm from the fight, adrenaline still running hot, the elevated state making him sharper rather than sloppier. Your legs wrapped around him on instinct and he held you against the lockers with one forearm braced and looked at you like something he'd won.
Outside, faintly: Baelor's voice. Polite and immovable I'm afraid this facility is temporarily unavailable. There's another corridor to your left. A pause. No, I don't have a time estimate. I'd suggest the other corridor.
Neither of you acknowledged this.
"Third round," breathless, his mouth at your throat. "You ended it faster."
"Wanted to be done," he said, against your skin. "Saw your face."
"What was wrong with my face."
"Nothing wrong with it," he said, pulling back to look at you with dark eyes. "That's the problem." His hands moved, efficient and certain, getting your jeans open one-handed while keeping you pinned with the rest of him, which was its own ongoing exhibition of functional strength. "You sat there for forty-five minutes watching me fight."
"Every second," you nodded.
"Thought I was keeping you from something that would bother you," he said, pulling your jeans down and off with the same economical competence he applied to everything. "Instead you were—"
"Losing my fucking mind," you breathed when your jeans finally came off with your panties.
"Good," he said, flatly, and his hand found your pussy and confirmed it immediately judging by the complete wetness there, two fingers pressing inside you with devastating precision, his thumb finding your clit with the same focused efficiency he'd used in the ring, and you gripped his bare shoulders — skin warm and slightly salt-damp under your hands — and held on.
He worked you against the lockers with his hand, unhurried despite the adrenaline clearly still running in him, his mouth at your throat, your jaw, the cut at his brow — and you turned your face to his neck and licked again, longer this time, tasting him slow while he groaned at the combination of it.
"You're going to explain this to me later," he said, rough, his fingers working ever so deeper.
"The tasting," you mumbled against his skin, tongue lapping at his neck.
"The whole thing," he said. "All of it. Why the blood—"
"Maekar—"
"Yeah," he nodded once. "Later," and his fingers curled and you stopped being able to form words at all.
Outside, a different voice, closer. Baelor, serene and unyielding: Maintenance issue, I'm afraid. Ongoing. I'd give it at minimum thirty minutes. A beat. Perhaps forty.
Maekar, who had heard every word, made a low sound that was almost a laugh.
You came against his hand with your mouth pressed to his shoulder, breathing him in, salt and sweat and fight-heat and him, and felt his chest rumble with satisfaction against you.
He moved again — adjusting you in his arms with casual ease and carried you to the wider wall at the far end, pressed you against it with your legs around his waist and positioned himself and pushed inside in one deep certain stroke that drew a groan from both of you simultaneously.
"Maekar—"
"I've got you," his mouth came to your neck, teeth grazing your skin. "You're so — fuck — warm and tight."
He fucked you against the wall with the full strength of a man who had just won a bout and discovered his girlfriend's reaction to it and had a great deal of adrenaline still requiring somewhere productive to go — hard and deep and utterly certain, his hands gripping your thighs, adjusting the angle twice until he found the one that made you cry out against his shoulder, and then staying there, relentless.
"You're going to come to every match," he said, against your ear. Not a question.
"Every one," you breathed.
"Front row," he said, his rhythm driving deeper. "I want to see you when I come out."
"I'll fucking be in the front row for you," you cried out with a moan.
"Yeah," he nodded, with enormous satisfaction, and his hand found your clit and pressed, and the combination had you shaking within minutes, his name the only word you had left.
You came the second time with your face in his neck and your mouth open against his throat, breathing him in on every inhale — the salt and heat of him, the specific animal warmth of post-fight exertion — and felt him follow you with a low broken groan, his hips pressing flush, shuddering through it with your name pressed into your shoulder, coming deep within you.
He held you there a long moment after, your weight entirely supported without apparent effort, both of you breathing hard in the warm close air of the locker room.
Then, gradually, the world reassembled itself.
He set you down carefully, steadied you when your legs proved temporarily uncooperative, and reached for the bag he'd left on the bench — his actual clothes, brought for after, because Maekar thought about logistics even when planning things he hadn't told you about. He handed you a fresh towel, cleaning you as his release came running down your thighs. He dressed with the same economical efficiency he did everything: jeans, plain dark t-shirt, the dragon disappearing beneath fabric, the cuts and wraps and evidence of the ring replaced by the ordinary appearance of a man who looked exactly like himself and had just comprehensively rearranged your guts and altered your evening.
You reassembled yourself alongside him, found your underwear and jeans, ran a hand through your hair, assessed yourself in the small mirror above the sinks and concluded you looked like exactly what you were.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," you nodded and smiled.
He opened the door. Baelor was leaning against the wall opposite, arms folded, coat still immaculate, with the expression of a man who had spent the better part of forty minutes being a bouncer outside a locker room and had used the time to arrive at a state of complete philosophical acceptance.
He looked at Maekar — fully dressed, composed, the closure strip at his brow the only evidence of the evening. He looked at you — flushed, hair not entirely cooperative, a mark visible at your throat above your collar.
He looked back at Maekar. "All clear?" he asked, mildly.
"All clear," Maekar confirmed.
"Good," Baelor said. "I've redirected approximately six people. One of them was quite insistent."
"I appreciate it," Maekar said.
"I'm sure you do," Baelor said, and then, with the serene composure of a man deploying something he'd been saving, "She was rather loud, incidentally, I hope."
"Baelor," you said, heat rising to your face
"I'm simply noting the acoustics," he said, arms raised in defense. He straightened from the wall, adjusting his coat. "I said the same thing recently about a bathroom at a conference, funnily enough."
You looked at the older man's face and noticed a special kind of warmth on his cheeks.
Maekar's eyes moved to his brother with the flat assessment of a man adding things up. Then, "How is she, by the way."
Baelor's composure didn't break. It simply — paused. Fractionally. "I don't know who you mean."
"The new girlfriend," Maekar said. Flat. Certain. "You'll have to introduce her, eventually."
"I don't see how that's relevant—"
"We've both been redirected lately, it seems," Maekar said. "That conference you came back from looking like you'd had a very specific kind of good time?" He tilted his head very slightly. "Yeah, we both know you're not as academically composed as you want people to think."
Baelor went faintly pink.
It was so unusual, so entirely uncharacteristic of the man, that you actually stared. Baelor — composed, measured, the older brother who had been running gentle commentary on Maekar's situation for months — standing in a boxing gym corridor going faintly pink at the back of his neck because his younger brother had said the quiet part out loud.
Maekar looked at the pink. Looked at you. Looked back at Baelor. The almost-smile appeared. Slow. Devastating.
"Good choice," he said simply, and started walking toward the exit.
Baelor recovered himself in approximately three seconds — remarkable time, honestly — and fell into step beside you both, his composure reassembled, his chin slightly elevated.
"That was ungracious," he pointed out.
"I'm aware," Maekar said, with the smug tone of a younger brother.
"I spent forty minutes in a corridor."
"I know," Maekar said. "And now we're even."
A pause in which Baelor appeared to conduct the relevant calculation and conclude, reluctantly, that this was arithmetically correct.
"Drive home?" you offered to break some tension.
"Please," Baelor said, with great dignity, and walked slightly ahead of both of you into the cool night air, and you fell into step beside Maekar, and his hand found yours and stayed there, warm and certain, the boxing club noise fading behind you.
"He's happy for you," you pointed out, quietly. "Underneath all of that."
"I know," Maekar said.
"And proud. The way he watches you fight—"
"I know," again, softer this time. His hand tightened slightly around yours. "Same way I watch him when he's got something good."
Ahead of you, Baelor had reached the car and was standing beside it with the patience of a man who had decided to be gracious about the entire evening and was succeeding through sheer force of character.
"Next match—" you started.
"Front row," Maekar said. "Already decided."
"You're going to win faster again?"
"Every time," he said, with complete flat certainty, and you believed him entirely.
A.N.: I still have some works from the grateful promt list that I have to finish, i know, i've got that pretty much tied up just to be proofread. this piece was actually written while waiting for my flights (if you're the lady at the pret a manger seated next to me that read pretty much everything while it was being written, no you didn't)
He’s so unfathomably huge i love it. I’ve been through so much in my life i think i deserve a big ass hunk now, please???
btw am i the only one who doesn’t really like full on ripped dudes as much as huge dudes like this but softer and not as much muscle definition?? It just feels both safe and strong while being soft
Tags: pnv sex, daeron’s melodramatic lamentations, pheromones?, vamp bites, blood blood blood, wet and messy, vampire venom, intoxication, kinda fluffy, Daeron moans like he’s getting railed next, subtle man tears
WC: 2.9k
A/N: I just slapped this out no thoughts just vibes. Also I have totally not come up with an entire wwdits au with a mootie
It was a nice find for Vampires. Subtly fixed up, the smell of old wood and iron in the air of the dilapidated manor that sat outside of Charleston. Summerville was nice, unassuming, the southern charm did make your life harder. You had a week's worth of invites and gifts from the neighbors. One was apparently a werewolf according to Maekar, the patriarch loudly complaining about the smell of dog before he went down into his basement to troll internet forums. Mind you, his youngest boy frolicked around with an oversized beast of a werewolf, promoting 'supernatural unity'.
What did you know? You were a familiar, mortal, weak, and semi-useless.
Your 'master' was interesting. Certifiably insane. Tortured by visions. Most definitely struggling with alcohol abuse. Yes. His intake did not wean in the eternal afterlife, merely dulled the years as they passed. The others in the house would lament his drunken melancholy and biting insults.
You didn't mind. Much. Not for two years as his loyal mortal servant. To you, Daeron was drily witty, caring of his family, and had a tender unbeating heart. He meant well despite the vampiric affliction.
You tended to his messes, handwashed his linen blouses, and let him hold you as long as you didn't speak about it, and let Daeron lament the horrors and anguish of his eternal life until you had to go to the 'Blood Dealer' out in the sticks to get him some packs labeled .45 BAC. It was fine. He was supposed to turn you sooner or later. His family wasn't entirely atrocious besides Daeron's little brother Aerion.
Almost the entire Targaryen lineage was turned around the Norman Conquest. You'd finally dug enough in Valarr's library to find out that the family had a small kingdom of about twenty miles, or a thirty-two-kilometer radius. Fearing the loss of their small, remarkably shitty kingdom to the Normans, the Targaryen's weird bastard cousin Brynden made a pact with a creature from the darkest levels of hell and here they were today. 5 members of the family plus their cousin's wife.
Saxon princes who still acted as if they were royalty and lived in a dry-rotted mansion far enough from Charleston to not cause a stir.
You, the resident mortal, resided in your tiny bedroom close to Daeron's room for 'emergencies'. Emergencies weren't emergencies, he was needy and prone to bouts of laziness especially when the vampire was inebriated. Which was often, if not nearly every day. You checked your watch—it was getting dark, and the blonde would be awake soon. With a sigh you got up, sliding on sandals to pad across creaky wood. Portraits and strange art gathered over their overextended lifespans hung on the walls, freshly dusted.
You held a cup of blood and entered Daeron's room. Threadbare besides his extensive collection of tunics and loose blouse-y shirts. They were a pain in the ass to maintain. He had an objectively terrible woodcut of his family as the singular item of decor. On a desk sat stacks of parchment where he'd write out his strange dreams of prophecy— sent off to the council after he had completed retelling his visions. Your fingers tapped on his old coffin, patched together from years of moving across the world.
"Moon's coming out," you said, "Up, master."
He peered out, eyes reflecting as long fingers curled around the edge of the coffin. Daeron grumbled, "Splendid." Glowing eyes flicked up and Daeron's hand shot out to grab your cup, retreating into the gloom to slurp it up. You backed up as the coffin opened and Daeron clambered out. He could float, but didn't. Daeron was odd like that. He waved a hand to you, pale blue eyes refocused as you came into his line of sight. He was unfairly handsome with strong features, good height, and sandy blonde hair that curled loosely around his shoulders.
"I trust you got the new tunic washed?" He inquired, shrugging on the said 'new tunic'. You nodded at the same time he noted it was washed with a little nod. God, the tunic. It was horribly…mustard. Yellow and silken. He slipped over to one of the large wardrobes, slipping on a waistbelt and a long burgundy drape. Coat? You didn't know. Daeron murmured in old English as he pulled dark pants up his long legs.
"I need you to fix my hair," he said, running a hand over the messy waves and tangles.
Daeron did not have the luxury of a reflection. He made it clear he was glad for it. Your master tended to wallow in self-loathing. You could usually cheer him up with a distraction. He liked cat videos.
The undead prince slumped in a chair in front of an old vanity. You grabbed the horsehair brush and a little mister, body close to his as you gently tamed the locks. Daeron hummed and leaned into your form, voice soft, "You're delightfully warm."
"I know," you replied, working on an errant stray curl.
"Are we stocked on blood?" He asked, glancing up to you, the points of his fangs shining under candlelight.
"Went to the blood dealer earlier, you're all stocked. I swear you think I don't finish my lists," you remarked as you stepped back to observe his hair. Daeron let out a disapproving noise, his hand reaching out to pull you closer. You huffed in surprise, brow raised as his eyes studied your face.
"I know you finish your lists," he said lowly, pausing to blink before adding, "Your task is to keep me warm now, so don't step away from me unless I say otherwise." Daeron's large hand settled on your hip, giving it a half-hearted pat and squeeze.
"Yes, master," you said, putting the brush and mister on the vanity. His lips faintly tilted upwards as he hummed in satisfaction.
Daeron stood up abruptly, taking you with him. It was all inhumanly fast. You were on your feet, now the vampire had you scooped like some damsel on the cover of a gothic novel. How ironic. You shivered at the sudden feel of his chilly body.
"Let's sit on the porch, observe the stars. I don't do that nearly enough," he mused. You let him carry you like a ragdoll— Vampires could lift boulders if they wished. You blinked and looked up.
"Egg's werewolf friend is supposed to patch up the hole on the left side. The right side is fine," you explained.
Daeron's dark brows pinched as he rolled his eyes, "Great. The big peasant dog."
Ah. Dunk. He was quite helpful, you thought.
"I don't care, he smells like unwashed mange," Daeron said, lips turning into a fanged sneer. Right. He could read particularly loud thoughts of yours. You frowned but held your tongue, the man was rather stubborn.
He opened one of the doors to the upper-level porch, with old wood and columns, and a few chairs. He turned to the right. There was a worn wicker bench you'd gotten at a junk store with pillows nestled in the corner. A low table with a lone used ashtray sat in front of it. Aerion probably sat up here and plotted his takeover, or Maekar when he was sated after a nice argument on feudal wages online.
The sounds of cicadas and the oaks gently swishing filled the humid air. Daeron plopped down, manhandling you astride his lap. You sighed, tucking your head against his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you as he inhaled your scent before resting his chin on the crown of your head. His eyes strayed to the starry sky, a quiet calm easing over his statuesque features.
"It is strange, the stars have never changed. No matter where I am, the moon waxes and wanes, the constellations shine. I used to stare up when I still could breathe, wondering what was up there. The heavens, cherubim and seraphim."
You traced his silk-covered chest, humming, "There are planets and stars. Nebulas and galaxies. Perhaps the heavens lie elsewhere."
Daeron hummed, "Perhaps. But I am to go below."
He tucked a finger below your chin. You looked up at Daeron, patient as his expression shifted with thought. He was plagued with entirely too much thinking and not enough answers. He exhaled, "You will be there too if I turn you."
"I know."
"Eternity is rather long, especially with me," the prince murmured.
He looked strangely vulnerable, pale blues drifting to the side as his lips twitched. You spoke softly, reassuring, "I've had two years to ponder undeath. I am no longer afraid. Especially by your side."
He huffed, pleasure in his tone, "You say that. You'll watch the world wither, wars, humanity endlessly repeating mistakes. I'll still be me, loathsome, fearful, drunk."
"That's fine, I can put up with your lamentations," you replied, shrugging.
"God. You're infuriating. How am I not to turn you when you're so eager?" He asked, fangs showing as a slight smile graced his earlier gloomy countenance.
He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. He didn't need to breathe, but Daeron mimicked mortal behaviors. He groaned, "You're my undoing, you'll make me step into the sun. A mortal has bewitched me."
Daeron spoke after a beat, mouth moving against your pulsing throat, "Fuck. You smell so good, I can almost taste it. Damn you, mortal."
You sucked in a breath. He'd come close before, but Daeron had never bitten you. He'd usually become very guilty and turn into a bat. Daeron's usual form of escape when he was distressed.
"You can do it," you said, "Bite me, it's fine."
You trusted him not to pull an Aerion and drain you dry as he did with his weekly familiar.
You pet his head, urging him gently. Daeron made a wounded noise. He huffed, "Quit it, you're making my fangs ache." You tightened your fingers into his sandy hair, chest heaving as you felt a low excitement at the prospect of providing for him. Daeron's hands tightened around your waist.
"The venom," he grit out.
Yes, yes, the venom in their saliva made feeding easier. A mild paralytic that induced euphoria. You hissed, "I know that." You wanted it now, the vision blooming in your mind.
The prince picked up on it, a gutted noise leaving his lips. Daeron's fangs scraped against the thin skin of your neck— a promise, a threat. Your blood rushed in your ears. You sighed in pleasure at the feeling of Daeron's teeth against your pulse point.
"Fine. Fine, you witch."
The way he panted and nuzzled your throat contrasted with the insult. You gasped at the feeling of his teeth puncturing your skin. Daeron whined, sucking greedily as you gaped. You moaned as you melted into him. Your limbs were useless, your hand falling from his hair.
The venom coursed through your bloodstream as Daeron swallowed with moans of pleasure. You blinked dumbly as a thick cottony haze swathed your mind. You twitched against him, body alight with sensitivity. He took a final sip and lapped at the wound, sealing the twin punctures.
He licked his lips, lashes fluttering against your skin as he moaned, "Divine, fucking divine." Daeron lapped again before kissing your neck. You whimpered weakly, your pupils pinpoints as your body processed the venom.
You ached now— from your mouth down to your other lips. Daeron grabbed your chin gently, eyes blown black from the feeding. His cock had grown full and thick, pressing against your clothed cunt. You mewled as he took in your venom-addled state.
"Ah, darling, you're in a right state," Daeron stated thinly.
You tried to nod, slurring, "Yesss."
"I can smell it, God, poor thing," he said, cupping your cheek, holding you as your eyes lolled at the intoxicating sound of his voice. You twitched again, your mind sticky sweet and uttering his name over and over and over.
Daeron picked up on that, eyes going unfocused before he blinked. His thumb stroked your cheek as you whined again. He leaned close, lips ghosting against yours as he spoke, "Let me take care of you. It's only right, you are my favorite little mortal."
He sealed his lips against yours, the iron tang of your blood on his tongue. He tilted your head for better access, tongue lazily lapping against yours. You shuddered helplessly, drooling as you kissed back— clumsy with the venom. Daeron's fangs brushed your swollen lips as he moaned indulgently, hips pressing up against you.
"My undoing," he rasped, tongue delving between your spit-slick lips. His large palms slid under your shirt, warmed by your own flesh. You felt fit to burst, arching into him, drooling as he rutted against you slowly. Daeron gasped when you rolled back.
You managed to slur, "Need you s'bad."
"Yes, fuck, I know dear," Daeron breathed.
His hands moved down to your jeans, popping the button and jerking them down your thighs as you rested against his lean frame, panting wetly against his throat. You inhaled at the feeling of your swollen cunt against the air. Daeron outright whined as the sharp smell of your arousal hit him, eyes closing for a moment.
Daeron shifted and untied his pants, shoving them down in jerky movements, one hand keeping you upright as the other freed his straining prick. He moaned and cursed in Saxon before sliding his cock against your slick folds.
You cried out into the night at the sensation, the tip of Daeron's cock rubbing your oversensitive clit. You squirmed in his grip, panting and whimpering as your intoxicated body throbbed with arousal.
"S'good, yes, oh-" you babbled.
"My perfect familiar," Daeron mumbled, "Soaked for me, smelling like a goddamn angel."
He kissed your slack lips again as he lined himself up to your weeping cunt. Daeron audibly swallowed as he eased into the heat, swearing and huffing. Tears pricked at his pretty eyes— sending another bolt of white-hot arousal pooling into your belly.
Daeron's prick eased into you with little resistance, the length stretching your pulsing walls as your fingers weakly brushed against him. He inhaled, head falling back onto the bench as he whimpered nonsense. You were panting as he settled deep within, your tender core clenching down.
Daeron gripped your hips as he blinked a few times. He thrust up into you with a slick noise, a whine high in his throat. You rubbed against him, trying to move, mind lost in his touch. He tightened his hands, voice strained, "Easy, easy, I've got it."
You went slack again— Daeron picking it up as he began to fuck you in quick movements. Each press of his cock sent sparks of pleasure up your spine. The prince was shameless in his ecstasy, moaning and carrying on as he laid haphazard kisses along your jaw and throat.
One of his ringed hands slipped down, thumb rubbing against your clit. You cried out, clenching down in reaction. Daeron's hips stuttered as he groaned, "That's it, fuck, tight, so tight." He thrust harder, friction growing with each strike of his cock deep within.
You trembled in pleasure, thighs twitching as he forced little cries of pleasure out of your lax lips. Your belly tightened, awash with heat as your mind filled with fog. Daeron whimpered against your neck as he fucked your pliant frame.
His lips sucked a tender mark into your throat, thumb swirling as you began to sweat— skin breaking out in damp gooseflesh. You keened in ecstasy, close to the edge.
"That's it, need it, need you love, come now, come on," Daeron begged, eyes wide and wet.
He swallowed back a wounded noise, voice urgent, "Let go love, want to feel you, let go, please." You gasped, pressing your face into Daeron's shoulder as you pleasure reached a breaking point. Your cries were muffled as you came, slick gushing around the prince's cock.
Daeron heaved at the feeling of your cunt pulsing, milking him as you writhed with each shock of pleasure. His thumb stopped moving and he shoved himself deep with a weak mewl of your name, mouth hanging open as he emptied within you.
You were still on a cloud as he tucked you close, whispering something in his old tongue against your hair. His hands trembled slightly as they tenderly slid up your flanks. The sound of the outdoors filled the space between your breaths evening out.
Daeron didn't bother to move, cock softening and slipping out, your mixed fluids dripping out. You shifted in discomfort, beginning to come back from the intense edge of the venom. The prince was like a contented cat, pressing kisses and nuzzling at you.
"That was possibly the best thing I've had in two centuries," he said, smirking.
"What happened two hundred years ago?" You asked, voice partially muffled from being squeezed against one happy vampire.
Daeron shrugged, "Beethoven's best string quartet."
You found yourself snickering, a little delirious and giddy from the whole experience. Daeron's brow furrowed, "String Quartet number 14 is his best work."
"I suppose if having sex with me holds up to that, then I'm doing well."
"Precisely," Daeron said. He stared out into the sky, stroking your hair as the euphoria settled into a quiet hum. You dozed a little, barely catching his sigh.
ugh modern!dunk boyfriendism! modern!dunk who thinks it's mindblowing when you introduce him to some well-seasoned roasted vegetables (he only eats a pound of ground beef and plain white rice every day and sometimes a sweet potato as a treat)! modern!dunk who gets anxiety making phone calls so you have to sit there with him while he schedules his doctor's appointment! modern!dunk who sends you about 500 instagram reels every day because he thought you'd think that one was funny or he thought you'd like to try that recipe or he thought you might want to visit that cafe! modern!dunk who cries when he sees a lost pet flyer because that dog is probably so scared! modern!dunk who doesn't complain when the waiter brings him the wrong order because they were probably really busy and it's fine, this looks good anyways! modern!dunk who gets antsy if he hasn't been up and moving so you make up a side quest for him to go on ("love we're out of brown sugar go run down to the corner store") and he LOVES it! modern!dunk who has a picture of you in his wallet and as his lockscreen and on the dashboard of his shitty truck and if someone gave him a tshirt with your picture on it he'd wear it everywhere! modern!dunk who texts you "saw a squirrel!" "no sausage rolls at the cafe :(" "there's a cloud that looks like you" "what does antithetical mean" because he's always thinking of you! modern!dunk who comes in his pants from eating it! you get it
little drabble inspired by arrangedmarriage!dunk ( @honeyoftheisle the idea has been haunting me ever since you tagged me it that post). wrote this at the gym so it's so stupidly unedited, sorry if it's a bit rambling.
your marriage had been arranged without your knowledge.
this fact did not surprise you, it was the norm of many such engagements, ladies placed into betrothals decided before they had even laid eyes upon the man they were destined to marry. and you certainly weren't one to oppose such a thing as despite being an avid reader of literature and secret enjoyer of romance novels, you had never been possessed by the urge to pursue love. you simply did not care for it because love was simply another fable. fiction, mere entertainment to distract the mind.
what need did you have for love and romance? you already knew your fate, why bother opposing it and leading yourself into inevitable disappointment?
amongst the stories of dragons and noble knights and infatuation, they all seemed to blur into one, revealing one glaring similarity. these concepts may have once reigned westeros, but they were extinct now. the greed of man had killed them.
so when your lord father had informed you your match had been made, the betrothal already having been agreed upon before you had even heard whispers of it, you simply nodded, returning to the book that had engaged your fancy.
only to still when your father revealed who your betrothed was.
ser duncan the tall.
the man did not even seem to have a surname, a family, nothing. nothing to tie him to this world.
you had heard of him, of course you had; whispers seemed to trail him wherever he went. the man who dragons seemed to follow. the man who the gods favoured, allowing a prince to die for him to live. perhaps that was what happened when a knight remembered his vows. you were reluctant to admit it, but he seemed to be a true knight.
but would that mean he would be a good man? you were unsure if the two were synonymous.
ser duncan did not shy away from his baseborn beginnings, with there even being rumours that he may have been born out of sin; a bastard. truthfully, you did not care for such rumours, the nature of his birth did not concern you, yet you could not help but wonder why he was allowing himself to be wed off.
he was a kingsguard, the sworn sword of prince aegon targaryen, employed by king maekar targaryen, restricted by the vows that prevented him to wed, to bare children, to own land while under oath, yet now he was willing to give that all up?
it confused you.
you could not see the logic behind such a decision — why sacrifice a lifetime of honour and glory, to do what exactly?
to wed a lady he had never met before? to continue his duty protecting the royals without the recognition?
you were unsure of what to think.
your confusion only intensified once he had come to visit your ancestral castle, the young prince accompanying him.
your family had known of his intentions to visit for quite some time, your mother dictating the household for everything to be perfect, ordering the maids and servants to scurry about, scrubbing each stone until they glistened. your father had orchestrated hunts so that fresh meat would be available when they would eventually arrive, the kitchens brimming with imported herbs and spices awaiting to be used. yet despite how prepared your family had attempted to be, the sight of prince aegon seemed to throw them into a deeper frenzy.
they had not expected the targaryen to accompany the knight — truthfully they did not expect anyone to accompany the knight apart from a squire. through their preoccupied state, they failed to remember a vital fact. the prince was ser duncan's squire.
the prince himself had been wedded to the lady betha blackwood the year prior, being encouraged by love and all other matters of the heart. the irony was not lost on you — the prince had married for love while his sworn sword was having an arranged marriage.
you were unsure of what to make of your future lord husband. from the moment he had entered your family's land to now, the tall knight refused to even look at you. each conversation held lasted approximately 3 sentences, the dialogue torturously short with prince aegon tending to comandeer the conversation when he noticed his sworn sword unable to continue.
was this to be your future?
to marry a man who was willing to charge into battle yet could not look you in the eyes?
were you truly so displeasing? did he find you unsightly?
you cursed your mind for travelling to such insecure thoughts, yet you could not help but wonder. he had spent the majority of his knighthood surrounded by princesses and ladies, travelling across the seven kingdoms. perhaps you simply could not compare to them in beauty, but you were certain that you were a proficient conversational partner, your mind strengthened by the literature you had consumed. so why could he not even talk to you either?
that simply infuriated you instead.
if he was determined to not provide you any respect, from now on neither were you. if he would not look at you, you would not look at him. if he would not speak to you, you would not speak to him.
you would treat him exactly the same way he treated you.
truthfully his reaction surprised you.
you had not expected it to take such a swift effect on the knight, especially since you were not even provided the opportunity to carry out your entire plan that you had curated the night prior.
you had planned to ignore him throughout the entire day, to interact with the people surrounding him yet not gracing him with your attention. you had planned for it to span late into the evening and to not even look at him despite sitting across from him while you would dine. you had expected that perhaps it would take a few days for him to even notice that you were deliberately avoiding him.
it only took him one morn.
you had not greeted him that morn, did not offer him a gentle smile or a subtle nod — nothing. you simply drifted past him, smiling at prince aegon as you continued towards the sept with your mother, intending to provide your morning prayers.
and by the time you had completed your prayers, whispering thanks to the father and the mother, requesting guidance from the maiden, and had begun to prepare to leave, you stilled. you were shocked to find the knight lingering by the entrance, a bundle of wildflowers clutched in his hands as he waited for you.
you did not expect this.
you had attempted to walk around him, to continue ignoring him, but how could you when he was standing there so sincerely, a bashful look gracing his features, his ears tinged pink as he stumbled over some sort of explanation.
"please." he had began, eyes wide as he noticed that you were searching for a way to avoid him. "please i just need to—"
he sighed deeply, passing a hand over his face as he gathered himself, trying to not stumble over his words.
" 'm not good with my words, milady, not good at..." his hands gestured aimlessly through the air as his gaze finally met your. blue, piercing blue. his eyes were pretty, you tried to ignore that thought. "...this. but i don't want you to think that this is unwilling."
your brows furrowed slightly, head tilting as confusion began to seize you. unwilling?
he noticed your puzzled expression.
"egg suggested — sorry, the prince suggested that you may have believed my behaviour was due to..."
"an unwillingness." you offered.
he nodded.
you mirrored the action slightly, your gaze dipping to the flowers clutched in his hands. you recognised them, they were from the field that was close to the castle. a smile threatened to break across your features. you wondered if prince aegon had offered this hypothesis recently, perhaps while you were still in the sept, allowing the knight to come to his own conclusions.
"and how are you certain that i may not have this unwillingness?" you questioned.
he visibly stalled, any hint of a smile immediately dissipating, his skin paling.
"i—" he swallowed harshly, his grip on the flowers tightening as his gaze flickered between you and them. his lips trembled slightly as he tried to think of a response, but gods, how could this now be happening to him when he had finally gathered the courage to speak to you? were you finally going to confirm his worst fear? the very thought that had plagued him throughout the entire visit. that this betrothal was truly unwilling on your side? "i should have — i apologise, milady, i should have spoken to you—"
you interrupted him. "i have no objection to this match. do you?"
he blinked.
once. twice.
and then it happened, all at once. his heart quickened, his poor pulse fluttering unsteadily against the thin skin like the wings of captive bird; his face warmed, a violent blush spreading across his features as he tried to suppress a giddy grin.
oh.
he did not expect this.
you were willing to marry him. you found no fault in him.
a lady of much higher standing, who's blood was noble and courteous, who he was certain could find much better matches than a knight of dubious beginnings. yet you were still willing to marry him.
"you are not aversed to this?" he repeated, doing a poor job of concealing his unrestrained glee.
"i am not." you confirmed, watching the rouge spread across his face and down his neck. those words seemed to worsen his condition.
you stepped back, slightly dazed by the reaction you had garnered from the once stoic knight.
he who had struggled to even speak to you, he who had struggled to even look at you, was now overwhelmed by such great emotion that he was grinning stupidly at you, trying to conceal the fact by pressing the bouquet to his face.
"and you?" you pressed, despite already having an inkling of what his response might be.
"i would rather die than not wed you." He responded with complete seriousness, finally offering you the flowers he had been gripping like a sword. the stems seemed slightly crumpled, but you did not mind.
you accepted them, along with the arm he offered you, listening as the man finally began to talk to you freely, rambling about the journeys he had taken with the prince.
How would AKOTSK men interact with a reader with RBF who's just terrible at socializing? 👀
It’s Just Your Face?
18+ MDNI
Summary: What do the men of akotsk do when they see a look of displeasure on your face? How do they feel when they realize you don’t actually feel that way?
AN: this is so cutie I love it, thank you!! I have like the opposite of an RBF so this was so fun to write! Anyway I wrote this mostly on my iPad with my thumbs like a giant iPad baby can’t wait to see what that does to the formatting lol I hope you enjoy! <3
2k Words
Daeron:
As a bit of a social reject himself, Daeron is not at all put off by someone staring and glaring. It generally means he can sit beside you and keep on drinking without the hassle of nobles trying to vie for favor. It's sweet, honestly, how he feels safe, knowing you won’t let anything happen to him in his stupor; left alone in your company, he understands you only want to stay out of the general conversation.
The first time he sees you, he’s absolutely drowned in his cups at a feast held for one of his cousins (he honestly cannot remember which). You’re standing in the shadows of the great hall, lovely as a rose but looking utterly displeased with the splendor around you. It makes him laugh out loud, your stern expression, and he stumbles over to talk. You startle when a hand lands on the wall beside your head, distracted thoughts now zeroing in on the fool of a man who you quickly realize is a Prince. He’s grinning, asking you why you look vexed. It takes a moment for you to realize he’s trying to flirt with you, slurring his words as he asks if there's anything he can do to make it better. He gives you what you interpret to be a wink, and you finally open your mouth to stutter out a response.
You really have no idea what to do; a handsome prince is whispering sweet words to you, but he’s also a little grimy, and by the looks of it, a sip away from collapsing into your arms. After the first awkward encounter, Daeron starts to get that you’re not actually angry, there’s nothing wrong with the music or the dancing, or even him, you just happen to make that face when surrounded by people you don’t know. He finds himself gravitating closer to you at every court gathering; sipping wine and speaking low.
Maekar:
Maekar has no problem with an RBF, and will happily sit and sulk around with you. Even if you’re not actually upset, he knows he’ll be left alone, and he knows you’ll be left alone if you’re with him. It seems like, based on the interactions we see, that he is very much not interested in chit chat- especially with randoms. At first, when he realizes you don’t glare at people for your own amusement, he finds himself gravitating towards you at social gatherings. Standing off to the side of a feast near where you’ve found a shadow, sitting beside you at long, boring dinner affairs, marching your hardened glare and crossed arms. He’s pleased the two of you can stand together and not talk to each other. Eventually, he sees cracks in your facade. Raised eyebrows at a whisper of gossip overheard, rolled eyes when a drunken lord spills his drink on a maiden, a tiny laugh, so soft he wouldn’t have heard if not standing so near, when he comments on something someone says at dinner.
The Prince realizes he actually likes spending time with you, the quiet, the murmured conversation, just for the two of you. It makes him feel important, you sharing the small pieces of yourself you keep hidden from prying eyes and ears, a special connection formed by equal amounts of social anxiety. Like his second son, I firmly believe Maekar uses his grumbling, his snide remarks, his apathy, as a way of masking the fact that he is at heart, an awkward youngest brother who has trouble making friends. He just seems like he’s the type to push people away with his attitude because “they won’t like him anyway,” which only solidifies their opinions of him. When it clicks for him that you have trouble talking to people too, he kind of decides that you might be able to understand the things about himself he has trouble explaining. Above all else, it makes him feel like you're his. No other insolent man, ungallant knight, or caddish lord gets the gift of your attention. He’s quietly pleased that his reputation keeps most of them at bay, and your expression does the rest.
Aerion:
Oh Aerion has definitely tried to make himself into a person with a resting bitch face, practicing his scows in the mirror and pulling faces he believes make him look like a dragon (definitely also trying to emulate his father). The problem is, of course, that he’s far too much of a pretty boy to get any reaction other than “awww okay sweetie” when he tries to intimidate people. Think about what the Kingsguard say about him, that the pretty ones are temperamental. It doesn’t sound like they're particularly scared of him, just that he's crazy. Anyway, it makes him so mad how effortlessly you stare people down. It becomes his obsession, trying to out-perform you at something you do naturally. He watches the way your face moves, the way you hold your shoulders and the way you stand, attempting to be the scarier person.
It's not until he tries to say something snide or cutting to you that Aerion realizes what's happening. First, that you really aren’t trying to look menacing, that you’re beating him at his own game without even trying. The second comes when you stutter out an apology for his own cruelty. It immediately confuses him: how could someone who has such a knack for intimidating faces be soft and quiet? He rethinks every meeting you’ve had, all the times he’d thought you were trying to best him; was it possible that you felt as confused and daunted by him? Strangely, instead of pushing you farther, he finds himself standing close to you at social gatherings. He tells himself it's to learn your mannerisms, but he cannot help but feel like a true dragon guarding his somewhat awkward princess.
Dunk:
Sweet Dunk immediately thinks he’s done something wrong, when he sees you pull a pinched sort of face as you walk through the market. You’re weaving through the crowd, face stern and hands clenched in your cloak, and the big man is freaking out because he just immediately assumes you’re displeased. Were the wares not up to your standard? Did the path he chose make the walk difficult? Had he accidentally stepped on your foot? By the time the two of you make it back to camp, he’s falling to a knee, unwinding your hand from the fabric and clutching it to his chest, quietly asking how he can make it up to you. Finally away from the hoards of people, the shouting, the pushing, your face is already gentler. He understands, when you explain it. He’s big and awkward, no stranger to being uncomfortable in front of people. The next time you’re there, you have the added comfort of his large, warm hand on your shoulder, keeping you close.
It ends up working well in both of your favors, especially when it comes to being at court. Whether it’s a tourney, a feast, or just a gathering of nobles, there’s no mistaking Dunk’s obvious disparity in class and upbringing, and he knows it. Lords and knights have a way of smelling the lowborn-ness on him, and we see how easy it is for them to pick on him. If you’re with him, however, he knows he’ll have someone to talk to, someone who hates the crowds and the condescending glances as much as he does. He’s more than happy to sit away from everyone else, leaning in close to whisper to you. Why waste his time with people who don’t see him as a person when he can have someone he cares about all to himself?
Baelor:
Baelor, as usual, is caught between efforts to do what’s best for the crown and his family, and his own feelings. Having someone on his arm who looks like they’d rather be anywhere else is obviously not a great look for a group of people trying to better their reputation with both the other nobles and the small folk. Who could trust a king whose own wife doesn’t want to be around him? However, Baelor actually finds it endlessly charming, the way your face falls into a death stare any time you’re not paying attention to it. Oh, he loves your smile too, and especially loves putting it on your face, but gods help him, something about the draw of your eyebrows and the frown on your lips does something for him.
He’d assumed when you met, that the cute little way you pouted, as if angry with your surroundings, meant you were displeased with his company. As any good heir to the throne would, he immediately goes to make things right with you. The deep, gentle roll of his voice snaps you out of your head, and you try to stutter out an acceptable response to the very handsome and very kind Prince, who has made an effort to comfort you. A slow smile forms on his lips when it comes together in his head: you’re not displeased, you have no one to talk to and can’t seem to make an introduction. It’s no matter, as he is more than happy to occupy your conversation. The calmness to him, the sweet, mismatched glint in his eye, allows you to quietly speak to him as if he was a close confidant. A man of his status so often gets people throwing themselves at him, attempting to boast and draw favor, he finds it refreshing, and romantic, how you seem almost shy when speaking to him. He’s truly smitten by the look of (false) contempt you wear.
Lyonel:
Lyonel thinks your resting bitch face is hilarious. He pretty quickly figures out that you don’t actually feel angry or vicious, it's just your face, and will definitely try to pull a laugh out of you or make you smile. Will even pull the corners of your mouth up with his fingers. He’ll crack jokes, poke your sides, make a complete fool out of himself; he doesn’t care if he’s embarrassed, your laugh is worth it. Lyonel will routinely reenact scenes from his adventures, complete with acting, singing, and falling to the ground, only to stare up at you, doe eyed, when you snort out a giggle. People are used to a little theatrics from him, anyway.
He also loves to tease, but keeps it between the two of you. He’ll press his lips to your ear, whisper something disgustingly sweet or barbarically lewd, and watch as the hard line of your mouth opens in shock. Quickly, he discovered you weren’t one for standing right in the center of attention, so he’s more likely to keep his voice quieter than usual when he’s picking at you. He’ll also try to tickle or bite, flick your braids, tug on your skirt; really annoying until your turn to give him the attention he obviously wants, only for him to pretend it wasn’t him. The massive grin on his face immediately gives himself away of course. He keeps these interactions close, a silly thing between you two. One, because he doesn’t actually want to hurt your feelings or make you feel any more awkward in front of a crowd, he just wants to put a smile on your face; and two, if someone did try to say something, he didn’t think you’d appreciate the added attention of your man breaking someone’s jaw at dinner.
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