you've got this sprawling farmhouse he built with his own two hands, a wrap-around porch he designed specifically so you could sit in your rocking chair with a glass of iced tea and watch him work the fields shirtless and sweaty...yum
he’s the backbone of the small town. when old mrs. gable’s fence breaks, he’s there with his tools and a charming, shy grin, refusing any payment!!! when the town needs to raise money for the library, he donates whatever he can and offers some beef cattle and works the grill at the fundraiser all day. all the little ones know you by name and bring you pictures of 'mr. dunk's big tractor'...
he comes in, covered in dust and sweat, his muscles aching from a 12-hour day and smelling like sun, sweat and soil. he finds you in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon and baked apples. you hand him a cold beer, and press a kiss to his stubbled cheek.
AND after he's wrestled your toddler into bed and read them three stories because he's a total pushover, he comes back downstairs.
he finds you clearing the table, doesn't say a word, just walks up behind you, his large hands gripping your hips, and bends you over the dining room table. He pushes your skirt up, pulls your panties aside, and fucks you dumb right there in your little kitchen whispering sweet nothings. the window shades wide open!!!
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Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.
Word Count: 5.5k+
Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, medical inaccuracies, age gap
Note: please don't die of cringe at my very subpar description of inserting an IV line, I beg </3 the medical inaccuracies are inaccurating hard this chapter. Hope you enjoy xx I've basically planned the rest of the story, just need to figure out how many more chapters there will be (kinda think there will be quite a lot soo...) Also updates/posts in general might slow a bit, I unfortunately have exams this month </3 Unedited.
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You could only hear your heart.
The poor thing, just shivering in its cage, rattling unsteadily against its prison of bones. You were certain it was going to pierce itself against the sharp of your ribs, to take you out of your misery. Because that would certainly be the most fortunate thing to happen to you right now.
You had never been the most lucky, but you would never have described yourself as being explicitly unlucky.
You might have never been top of your class, but you had gotten an education further than most in Flea Bottom. You might have not bought a branded piece of clothing in years, but you weren't vain and you knew that money was better spent elsewhere. You might have been in a constant state of anxiety ever since you had inherited the practice, but you had always managed to keep the lights on.
But now, you truly did think you were unlucky.
Because how the actual fuck was this happening?
If there truly were any gods (or god, or whatever the Septas used to rattle on about — 'Seven Who Are One'), they definitely did not look kindly on you. You were stuck in the back of a van, with several Targaryens, and a man you wanted to beat. And you weren't even wearing shoes.
Fuck your fucking life.
You remained seated in your corner, pressed against the wall of the van as you tried to steady your breathing. But it was to no avail, short sharp gasps escaping you as you curled your fingers into fists, your nails piercing half-moons into the soft skin of your palms as you tried to stop your hands from trembling. You were fucked. That was the only explanation.
Why else would you be kidnapped — were you being kidnapped? You might be a little old to be kidnapped, and why the fuck are you so concerned about the correct terminology — abducted! You're being abducted. Whatever it is, it's 100% illegal.
But why would Targaryens care about whether or not they were acting within the law. They were the law. They were a stupid type of rich that you were certain that they definitely controlled the government to some extent. So stupidly rich that the government probably owed them money.
Your head ached, your brain feeling as if it had been disconnected from your spine, as if the brainstem had snapped causing it to float in your skull. The pain seemed to pulse behind your eyes, your hand coming up to press against the skin there, phosphenes dancing across your vision as you focused on trying to get rid of the feeling.
But how could you when you could just hear them. Shuffling on their side of the van, whispering to each other, Aerion groaning whenever the wheels of the van dipped into a particularly deep pothole.
Maekar had been muttering to Dunk the entire time, hissing curses at the tall man. You could pick up on some pieces of the hushed conversation; something about Blackfyre, something about cunts, but truthfully you did not care. You just wanted your head to stop fucking pounding.
You could feel your temporal pulse skip, almost feeling the thin skin shielding the pulse jump each time it raced, and all you wanted to do was drive something sharp into it. To finally silence the unsteady thudding.
You could feel the van begin to slow, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires became louder, stones flicking against the metal as they were driven over. You weren't sure how long they had been driving for. It might have been an hour, maybe more. You couldn't even gauge how much distance was covered, the speed of the van being an undecipherable thing.
All you knew was that the driver — Valarr as you had heard Maekar call him, and you had recognised the name from your late night stalking, the media fondly called him The Young Prince, prodigy son and future COO of The Perzys Group after his father would inherit the company — drove fast and dangerously, swerving where it truly was not needed. Maybe he was given that liberty due to the hour being late, not many cars being on the road.
Or maybe he was given that liberty because he didn't understand the value of the damage he could cause.
You slowly removed your hand, phosphenes lingering as your eyes adjusted to the darkness once more. You could still see the flash of silver in this light, and your gaze immediately was fixed on Aerion.
He was still lying there, half unconscious, half aware, in complete pain. His body writhed slightly, clutching at his abdomen where the pain was the most concentrated, silent tears streaking his face. He was trying not to make a noise, but pain is difficult to hide.
A thought flashed through your mind, and you were unsure if it was pure madness or pure stupidity. A healthy mix of the two, you finally decided, slowly exhaling as you relaxed your fists, nails no longer biting your flesh, red marks rising in their wake.
As soon as the van stilled, you steadied yourself, waiting for the van doors to slide open. Maekar and Dunk were still speaking, having become too comfortable with believing that you were just cowering in the corner. They had not noticed that you had finally risen your head. That you were staring straight at them.
There was a soft groan, sibilant whispering, and finally the sound of metal grinding open.
You bolted up, forcing your body through the sliding doors, the harsh fluorescent lighting of the courtyard blinding you momentarily. But it didn't stop you. Your joints screamed at you, feeling paralysed after being forced in the same position for too long. You could feel the gravel crunch beneath your feet, harshly stabbing into the flesh, pain flaring with each step you took. You were almost certain your feet had began to bleed, but it didn't stop you from running.
You forced yourself to continue, looking towards the void, seeing the outline of trees. You could hear cursing behind you, hushed and sharp, muffled by the sound of your own racing heart and blood rushing through your ears. The light of the manor was behind you, and you were determined to get further away from it.
You could barely breath, mind dizzy from adrenaline, feeling the blood course through your veins.
But all good things don't last long, and your hope quickly began to dwindle as you could hear the patter of shoes against gravel advance towards you. Closer, and closer, until it was right behind you and large arms wrapped around your middle, lifting you off the ground.
Dunk.
You were suddenly much taller than before, the ground feeling so far as you thrashed against the unyielding hold of the man who was hauling you around like an unruly kitten. You scratched at his hands, the arms of the man being shielded by the thick wool-blend of his blazer causing you to try to draw blood at any exposed skin. Yet despite the fact that his skin had begin to tear, gathering beneath your nails, leaving long bloodied trails, he did not even flinch.
He did not even bother wincing when you elbowed him, the bone digging into the hard flesh of his torso. Not even when you harshly headbutted him either, your skull crashing against his nose in one swift snap, the crown beginning to ache. No matter what you did to the Lunk carrying you, it seemed to hurt you more than him.
His grip only tightened, whispering soft apologies into your ear as he dragged you back into the dragon's den.
"You fuckin'—" You hissed out, still struggling as his arms seemed to sear into your middle, resting just below your chest, his fingers curling into your waist as he forced your back firmly into his chest. "Cunt!"
He forced you through the entrance of the ostentatious manor, ('Summerhall' it boasted, the name being chiselled into the stone of the entrance) trudging along as he travelled through the maze of corridors, guided by the blinding array of overhead lights. Clearly they didn't have to worry about the light bill, the manor illuminated by numerous harsh white lights.
Dunk dropped you onto a seat, your gaze darting unsteadily as you noticed that you had arrived into some sort of office, Baelor sitting across from you. This room was almost softer, the lighting warmer. The floor real hardwood panels, an expensive dark oak. All the furniture was wooden, carved by expert carpenters in a manner that flaunted wealth, most of it appearing older than you yet somehow it just made it seem more expensive.
Mismatched gaze observed you lazily, Baelor watched as you struggled once more, trying to flee from your seat, only for Dunk to forcefully grab at your biceps, restricting your movements.
"Stop." Baelor commanded, the single word directed at both you and Dunk. And you both immediately obeyed, your heart dipping unsteadily as you noticed the stern look upon the older man's face, the way he seemed to have been glaring at you for causing such a nuisance. Dunk was no longer touching you, and you could hear the soft heel of his dress shoes slowly click away from you, lingering at the perimeter of the room.
You wanted to shout, to swear, to scream at the man in front of you. Was this how he was repaying your kindness? You had done him a favour, something most people would have never done, and he abducts you? Motherfuck—
Any words you were preparing to spew at the Targaryen immediately died as he pushed a stack of papers infront of you, the A4 sheets fanning across the desk, each of them baring a symbol of a raven in flight in their upper left corner.
Dark wings, dark words.
Each sheet, double-sided, single-spaced, brimming with information. The first stack was your own, the most detailed, listing every single thing you had ever done that might have been recorded on some sort of system — school, university, hospital, everything had been neatly typed in Aptos (Body), organised to aid in the consumption of this intel. Page after page, detailing the flow of your life in cruel simplicity. Your graduation, your father's death, the practice under your management.
There was even a list of social media that you used, and the various email addresses you had ever created.
Everything.
Your heart sunk deeper with each page you flipped through, the next described family members; cousins you had not even talked to in years, aunts twice removed that were distant due to blood and proximity. Then your friends, anyone you had ever considered having a close platonic relationship to, listed paragraph after paragraph. Rowan's was the most detailed out of the records of your loved ones, and it was evident why. She was the closest to you.
You felt sick.
And there was only one thought in your mind.
This was always going to happen.
Regardless of whether or not you had helped Aerion, regardless of whether you had enough consciousness to open your backdoor to let the three Dragons in — this was always going to happen.
Why else would this all be prepared? Stacks of unspoken blackmail just waiting for you to read them in silent horror? They were always going to force you to do something.
Tears pricked at your waterline as you just stared at Baelor, unable to speak.
"Are you ready to converse now?" He murmured, head tilting as he watched defeat slowly settle into your features. He hadn't wished for you to discover it like this, but you were acting unreasonably, refusing to be calm. He had to force your calmness, and unfortunately, this was the cost.
You, afraid and horrified.
You were trying not to show your fear, but Baelor could see it plain as day. Poor darling girl, terrified out of your mind.
Brows pinching as you shakily exhaled, your bottom lip trembling as you tried to resist the temptation of just sobbing right then and there. Your head was aching again, as if someone had just split it open with a fine icepick.
He leaned forward, gently grasping your hands as he guided them to rest on the desk, the detailed profile of MARGOT FLORENT, your closest classmate while you studied Veterinary Medicine at King's Landing University just beneath your joined hands. You didn't draw away, letting him hold your hands as your eyes remained fixed on the sentence that detailed Margot's recent wedding. You had attended, and the professional pictures of you dressed in a silky sapphire slip dress had been stapled onto the page. You swallowed harshly.
He fixed you with a concerned look, brows furrowing in pity as he gently traced over the bones of your knuckles with gentle comfort. You weren't sure if he was mocking you. Whatever it was, it was cruel, and it was unwanted.
"You have to take care of Aerion." Baelor stated, repeating the sentiments he had shared hours prior in your practice. "He's injured, and he's weak, and no one else can do it. Only you."
"That's not true." You whispered, the words getting stuck in your throat as you finally gathered the courage to look at him. He was already watching you, that damned pitying look staining his irises. "You could get someone who can actually help."
His grip tightened slightly.
"I have."
He didn't clarify. He didn't need to.
He wasn't going to move on this, and you didn't want to find out what would happen if you failed.
"And afterwards?" You questioned, the syllables seeming to tremble as you tried your best to remain firm, to not show any sign of weakness. But you had already failed in this; your weakness was flaunted in front of you, insultingly reduced into the fanned sheets splayed across the desk.
Baelor didn't answer, instead his gaze strayed, shooting a look to Dunk behind you, offering him an imperceptible nod. He released your hands, his jaw clenching slightly, the skin rippling in a way that made you dizzy. He didn't like that question, you quickly realised.
He was dismissing you, and although he refused to say it words (his mind still reeling from the question you had just asked) you could just tell that you were allowed to leave. Well, not truly leave, but rather exit. And so you did, your legs feeling weak as they struggled to support you as you walked mindlessly to the door, Dunk guiding you.
This time he didn't touch you, this time he didn't need to. You were going willingly.
Gaze fixed on the marble tiled floor, the chilling coldness seeping into your skin as you followed the tall man through corridors and up winding staircases. You felt numb, mind barely registering the pain that flared with each step you took — you simply couldn't find it within you to care.
How the fuck were you in this situation?
Which would unfortunately remain another unanswered question as you found yourself entering another room. It was larger than the office, and stupidly tacky. It was genuinely an eyesore, the room draped in deep crimson silks and dragon memorabilia on almost every surface.
And in the centre was Aerion, sprawled on his garnet silk sheets, as he struggled to suppress the urge to writhe.
It made sense that he was in pain, you had only given him local anaesthesia. The lidocaine would have been waring off by now, any numbing effect that might have provided him some respite would be dwindling. You couldn't even begin to imagine the pain he would be in, the pain he experienced. The very thought of a bullet piercing through his flesh made you flinch, the image of the skin tearing immediately, the bullet becoming malformed within his abdomen. The blood that must have erupted, flooding the wound, dripping onto the floor.
No wonder Maekar was desperate, having been forced to see his son like that. You couldn't truly find it within you to blame the older man, he must have just been listening to his eldest brother, yet that did not excuse this. Them forcing you from your home, from your life, to do what? Play nurse? It was stupid and they didn't even have the dignity to give you some sort of explanation.
And poor Brightflame was so pale, sweating as he mumbled incoherently at the shadows that danced along his vision, unable to truly see the two figures that had entered. All he knew was that everything hurts. And he could just feel hands on him, unwanted cold hands touching him.
Aerion tried to push at your gloved hands, to prevent you from monitoring his vital signs, but you ignored him. You were used to fussy patients, however they tended to be cuter. It was easier to ignore the frustrations of a pregnant chihuahua, not so much a grown man with a GSW. Your hands travelled to his abdomen, pressing at the skin, thankful to find that it had not become rigid. No internal bleeding — you scribbled a note on the notebook you had found on the desk, which had been accompanied by various other medical instruments intended for your usage, the fountain pen scratching along the thick paper.
You heard Dunk's voice, hesitant, quiet, as if he was unsure of what to say.
He called your name.
You ignored him, instead focusing your efforts on listening to Aerion's heartbeat, the pulse steadily fluttering under your monitoring. Aerion made a noise at the coldness of the stethoscope, half whimper, half complaint, but he no longer struggled. Perhaps in his half-conscious daze he finally was able to recognise that you were helping him.
Dunk called your name again, louder, firmer this time, demanding your attention.
Your head slowly turned, not truly meeting his eyes as you continued scribbling your observations. You were listening, yet somehow that caused the tall man to lose confidence once more, stumbling over his words as he struggled to express himself.
"What is it?" You snapped, your hands quickly busying themselves with cleaning the oral thermometer, sanitising it with an alcohol wipe before gently coaxing it past Aerion's lips, guiding it to rest beneath his tongue for ten seconds.
—Two, three, four…
"Look, I'm sorry, I never—" Dunk began, stammering slightly as he noticed the frown on your face. Wait, why were you frowning? He swallowed harshly, his gaze flickering between you and the injured Targaryen. "What's wrong?"
"Everything." You muttered bitterly, referring to your own situation, removing the thermometer from Aerion's lips, staring at the small digital screen. 38°C. Which could be justified, his body was still reacting to the impromptu, unregulated surgery, it didn't mean he was becoming feverish.
Yet you couldn't shake that feeling, watching his clammy skin, shallow breathing — shit.
"What— What do you mean? Is he alright?" He pestered, coming closer to see what you were scribbling in your little book.
"He's fine." You emphasised, moving around the large obstacle of a man as you began to prepare an IV line, apply a tourniquet to Aerion's arm. You just needed to lower his temperature slightly, and fluids — plenty of fluids, that should prevent his temperature from rising any further. If it continues…
You shook your head slightly, you didn't want to start obsessing over what ifs (but unfortunately your mind had already began to spiral and you began to prepare a ten-step plan for if his fever were to develop), you just had to monitor him throughout the night and think about your own circumstances. They couldn't just keep you here, right?
You cleaned Aerion's inner forearm, finding the vein you wanted to insert the IV needle into as a quiet voice in your head taunted you. They could keep you here, and you could do nothing about it…
Dunk's voice interrupted your thoughts once more.
"Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help? I can—" He continued, voice rushed as he watched your steady hands insert the needle, the thin plastic tube entering Aerion's skin in a way that made him strangely squeamish. He was a Kingsguard, for Seven's Sake, he had witnessed more violent scenes, he could handle watching a few needles pierce skin.
"You could get me out of here." You offered, offering him a sarcastic smile as you finally turned to stare at the man while you disposed of the needle, the cannula properly inserted as blood quickly entered its small chamber. But your faux smile quickly dropped, instead being replaced by frown that deepened at the sight of him, you hadn't truly paid much attention to the man's appearance, more concerned in, what would you call it, fearing for your fucking life?
But now that you had finally taken a moment to breath and ignore the anger festering within you, you saw him. Dunk, with dried blood smeared on his upper lip, evidence of where you had slammed your skull into his nose. You couldn't deny that you were slightly satisfied, at least you hadn't been abducted so easily — you had at least attempted to fight back. But you inwardly swore at the pathetic part of you, the part of you that pitied the man with the big blue eyes who seemed so desperate to help.
He hesitated for a moment, before finally replying. "You know I can't do that."
You began to flush the cannula with the same dose of saline that would soon begin to enter Aerion's vein, before finally closing the port, ensuring that the cannula was completely secured.
"You could." You responded, removing your gloves, your fingers flexing slightly as you grabbed for another wipe. You walked slowly to the tall man, observing how he watched you with wide eyes, retreating slightly as if you were armed. You rolled your eyes at him, using the wipe to gently clean the dried blood. Flakes of crimson began to peel off his skin, the rehydrated blood staining the wipe. "You could just get me out of here, and I'll keep my mouth shut."
He winced slightly under your tender care, your fingers brushing over where the skin was still sensitive from your headbutt. He shook his head slightly.
"I just can't."
"Fucking loser." You swore, balling up the wipe as you turned your back to Dunk, sinking into the seat beside Aerion's bed. You weren't entirely sure who you were swearing at; yourself for being in this situation, or Dunk for just watching. "You probably hurt that kitten on purpose, yeah? Just for surveillance?"
He called out your name, and you were beginning to become sick of hearing him say it.
"C'mon," Dunk tried, his hand brushing over his face slightly. "You know I wouldn't do that."
"Would I? Would I really, Dunk? I don't even know you?"
He went quiet, his lips tightly pressed together as you watched his mind try to come up with a response.
"I wouldn't do that." He repeated pathetically, unable to look you in the eyes. His gaze instead was fixed on Aerion, oblivious to the world, oblivious to the intruders in his room. He almost envied the cunt, he'd rather be unconscious than be on the receiving end of your anger.
"So it's just a coincidence then? That you managed to come to my practice and you just happen to work for the Targaryens?" You interrogated, adjusting once more in your seat as you leaned in his direction, tone harsh as you challenged him.
"Well no— but yeah—" He stammered uncomfortably, muttering a swear under his breath as he sighed deeply, trying to recollect his scattered thoughts. Gods, he couldn't even think straight. "I knew about you, and the boy found an injured kitten and I didn't know what else to do."
You waited a beat, gaze searching his for any trace for a lie. You couldn't find any.
"That's stupid."
"It is." He admitted, his cheeks tinting pink.
You huffed a half laugh at his response, but it sounded more like a scoff, slouching in your chair once more as you just stared at Aerion's face, gaze tracing the small lesions and cuts that peppered his face, marring his pale skin.
"I've been kidnapped by idiots." You muttered, the ache in your head seeming to intensify. Perhaps due to the sheer stupidity of your circumstances, or your own frustration — regardless of the reason, it felt as if your temporal pulse was trying to kill you, thudding heavily to the point it felt as if your actual skull was being chipped at.
Dunk made a noise, lips twitching as he suppressed a frown.
"C'mon. Don't be like that."
Your head immediately snapped towards him, don't be like that? Your teeth gritting as you watched him incredulously.
"I'm sorry, where the fuck did you get the audacity to act like I'm the one being unreasonable here?" You snapped, bristling as you felt resentment claw at your chest, desperate to scream at this oaf of a man.
His face paled slightly, as if truly not expecting you to react so harshly.
"I didn't mean—"
"I really don't care." You interrupted, keeping your gaze fixed on the atrocious dragon head that was mounted on the wall. Money truly could not buy taste, and Aerion was living evidence of this.
You ignored Dunk for the rest of the night, your gaze flickering over him each time a person entered the room.
The first visitor had been Maekar, who lingered for a moment, violet gaze fixed on his injured son. He didn't say a word, just watched as you repeated your monitoring routine: check his pulse, check his temperature, record the values, and try to lower his temperature by replacing the cool towels. He shot Dunk a look, laced with evident threat, as if to warn Dunk to ensure you wouldn't kill his son, before finally leaving.
The next had shocked you to your core.
It happened many hours later, the sun rising, pale rays spilling through the curtains you had draped open. Aerion's temperature had risen despite your best efforts, the small digital screen of the thermometer flashing a mocking 38.5°C.
Your heart dipped at the sight of them, a gaggle of children, ranging from the ages of seven to fourteen, being guided by a man just a few years younger than you. He was pretty, it was hard to not notice. Even with the heavy eyebags, even with his hair being mussed, a sign of running his fingers through it one too many times; he was just pretty.
And you recognised him, because the image of all the Targaryens had been seared into your very psyche after you had done your own midnight online reconnaissance mission. However, unlike his kin, he had the most gossip articles. Daeron Targaryen, The Drunken. The disappointment of the Targaryens, The Anvil's first and only failure — the media were cruel to him, intricately weaving insults that reduced him to his darkest flaws. There wasn't much information about him; he did not seem to have aspirations or ambitions to advance within the Perzys Group, the only articles written about him detailing his loose morals and debauchery, how he drank, how he whored, rumours of his most recent flings and alleged substance abuse.
And with each negative article written about Daeron, there seemed to be ten positive ones written about his cousin, further emphasising the stark difference between the two. The stark difference between their fathers, also.
Valarr was the golden child, the one who would one day inherit the Perzys Group and lead it into glory. And Daeron would be the one to hinder him, to be the nuisance Valarr would have to fix.
Yet before you, you did not see the Daeron that had been detailed within the gossip columns. This was a man softer than that, gentler, guiding the children to see their injured brother as he spoke to them in a hushed voice. He offered you a soft smile, slightly confused by your appearance, but he didn't question it.
Yet despite his gentleness, the children seemed to not care that their brother was injured before them. The youngest boy, who watched you with wide eyes, immediately recognising you as the kind vet he had just seen yesterday, gaped at the sight of you.
"You—" Egg pointed, his jaw wide open as he watched you with unabashed shock. He was, however, quickly interrupted by his older brother, who finally spoke to you, keen eyes quickly noticing the signs of exhaustion that began to betray you. Squinted eyes blinking slowly, the way your hands seem to tremble while you scratched the fountain pen against the page of your notebook, the way you seemed to zone out during the moments of silence. You were tired.
And it was evident that you were not prepared to be there, feet clad in slippers he recognised, dressed in blood-stained mismatched pyjamas; linen shorts that peeked out from beneath your oversized polyester-cotton blend t-shirt. Daeron concluded that you must have been called in the middle of the night, called on the basis of an emergency and that you had rushed here.
He would soon discover that he was incredibly wrong, and the truth was much darker than that, Dunk murmuring the activities of the night prior (yet the tall man's whispers failed as all the children had heard his words, and were now shooting you increasingly worried looks).
And yet despite his greatest sympathies, he could only offer you a pitying frown, and ask you to join them for breakfast.
You stared at him, blinking once, twice, eyelids feeling sticky as sleep began to blur your sensibilities.
"No."
"No?" He repeated, and you were unsure if it was out of embarrassment or shock by your very succinct answer.
"If she's been kidnapped, she won't have an appetite." The middle boy began to rattle on, he looked to be fourteen, and you would later find out that his name was Aemon, like the Dragonknight. "It's normal for it to be reduced, especially since she would be in a state of hyperarousal—"
"Dude what—" Daella interrupted, her jaw dropping at the sudden revelation made by Aemon.
"You were kidnapped." Daeron stated, his voice layering over his siblings. "And now you're horny? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Aemon flushed deeply at his brother's stupidity, feeling embarrassed that they had all misunderstood him as he tried to stammer out a correction, his lilac gaze flickering between your horrified expression and theirs.
"No!" You quickly intervened, your own mind becoming dizzy as you tried. "No. Do you not know what hyperarousal is? You're like thirty—"
"Thirty?" Daeron repeated incredulously, seeming to be more offended at the fact that you had aged him by half a decade than his previous accusation. (You knew his age, you just wanted to be cruel; to insult his alleged vanity slightly). "I do not look—"
"Fight or flight!" Aemon interjected swiftly before his eldest brother could make himself into a bigger fool, the words coming out in a sharp gasp as his cheeks seemed to become impossibly more red, matching the crimson silks of Aerion's bed. "Hyperarousal is the scientific term for the 'Fight-or-Flight' response! Not…what you were saying."
Daeron immediately quietened, his cheeks tinging a soft pink as he pressed his lips together tightly, not trusting himself to speak sanely. Idiot, he cursed himself.
There was a strange silence that had began to settle — the Anvil's children watching you, you reciprocating their attention. They weren't sure what to do, they had never been allowed a captive before, their father usually forbade it. But you must have been special. You were certainly prettier than the other captives, they tended to be middle aged men with receding hairlines and male pattern baldness. You had neither, which immediately put you miles ahead of the rest.
Egg's voice broke the silence.
"If you aren't having breakfast, could you look at Meraxes again?" He questioned, head tilting in a manner that was unquestionably cute, and you immediately knew he was trying to manipulate you.
"I want to see Meraxes too!" The youngest girl exclaimed, Rhae, excitedly turning to Daeron.
"You both can see her after you eat, and then the doctor will help you, okay?" He negotiated, suppressing a grin at their disappointed faces as he began to usher them out of the room, guiding them to the kitchens.
You wanted to correct him, certainly not a doctor, and certainly not qualified to be caring for his younger brother. But that was semantics, and you really didn't want to spend any more time surrounded by dragons, regardless of how small they were.
So again you were stuck with Dunk, who wordlessly watched as you continued your routine faithfully, each step done in swift succession of the last, completed in such a manner that suggested you had done this a hundred times before, your hands no longer trembling as you busied them with the tasks at hand. He wanted to speak, to try to apologise again, but he knew better. You were tired, and you were angry, and he knew he would only irritate you further, only remind you of your circumstances.
But slowly, the Dragon awoke, eyes blinking blearily at you as he narrowed them, trying to focus on the figure that fussed over him. The angel. But once his vision began to clear, and the darkness dissipated, he noticed that you weren't really an angel, just some disgruntled nurse recording his vitals. His lips curled slightly, forming a snarl as he glared at you.
a/n: the pictures are used for aesthetic purposes only! reader does not have a physical description! thank you sm for the request anon!! this was very fun to do again < 3 ! my modern!dunk is a bit of a farm man okay walk with me!
MODERN!DUNK did not bother with social media much before he met you. he was a rather busy man, keeping to himself and minding his own business as much as he could. dunk was not a big fan of being perceived by the people who did not matter to him, of possible judgmental strangers having opinions on the way he lived his life or the state of his appearance. he had made a social media account to maybe get in touch with like-minded people who loved horses and enjoyed nature, not to... flaunt himself. it was once in a blue moon that he shared pictures from his daily life, and even then, they were rather candid and poorly captured. dunk was a little ashamed of his photography skills, but those would have to do. having a farmhouse and livestock to look after took most of his free time. there was little left for much else.
he meets you at the supermarket closest to his farmhouse. dunk had seen you around before, but never had the wits about him to approach or strike a conversation with you. luckily for him, it seemed you were more perceptive than he was. dunk supposes it wasn't not hard for anyone, especially you, to realize how lingering his looks were, having caught him a handful of times, big, wide baby blues trained on you in wonder and trepidation. his cheeks have been red too, dammit. but dunk wouldn't beat himself up too much for his clumsiness, for it had landed him your phone number! he could've sworn his smile was about to split his face when you pressed a slip of paper with the neat handwriting on it, urging him softly to contact you whenever he wished. your name was also scribbled on it. dunk blushed. you had such a pretty name. it was only fair of him to offer his own in response with the eagerness of a child.
he wonders, absentmindedly, if you have any social media. maybe you will be curious and look up his name? you do know what he looks like, but maybe you would be curious for more? dunk feels silly for thinking so ahead when he only now got your number. but the thought lingers.
maybe a few more pictures of him on his page wouldn't hurt. what if the pretty lady is curious, after all?
turns out, you are not fond of posting yourself on social media much, dunk learns in the following weeks he spends with you. that's alright, he thinks. nothing wrong with not wanting to be seen! he agrees, after all, more or less, but does tell you about the account he has, shy and reluctant to show you the pictures he posted, feeling like a fool under your scrutiny.
his blush only deepens when you start cooing over his pictures, praising how handsome he looks and how much you love them! dunk feels like he could combust right then and there under all the compliments. the way you pinch your fingers and zoom on some of the photos to see his face better or ogle his muscles. he almost passes out when you comment how strong he looks when he works on the farm. even offer to take his pictures for him next time he feels like snapping a few.
it'll be a win-win for both, you say. he gets to look handsome and you get to look at him.
dunk swears his ears are fuming from how flushed he is, but he nods eagerly anyway, secretly loving the concept of you being the one behind the camera, smiling so prettily at him, your eyes shining.
taking pictures becomes one of his favorite things to do.
a couple of weeks later, and dunk is fumbling with his words, expressing his feelings for you in the most ardent, clumsy way. it's sweet and lovely and so, so honest. just like him.
you two are inseparable afterwards. dunk is over the moon to have you visit his farmhouse more often, showing you every corner and crevice and getting you acquainted with the place. he loves seeing you walk around, interacting with the horses and livestock, and asking about every flower and plant you see. dunk is so in love that he feels like he could burst. you are the loveliest thing he has ever seen, and he wishes to one day take pictures of you, too, just like you do of him. but for now, he's more than happy to be on the other side of the camera, smiling at you and feeling like the luckiest man on earth.
slowly, traces of you start appearing in the pictures. it makes dunk's heart soar in his chest when he posts them for the first time. now people can see that there is someone precious helping him take such beautiful photography, even if it is mostly of himself.
more and more of you start bleeding into the photography, and dunk gets a rosy tint in his cheeks every time someone comments under his post, asking who the other person is.
dunk wants to tell everyone about you. he's not hiding you. never. he is so proud of being your lover, thanking every god out there for bringing you into his path.
he is just... a little nervous. maybe you do not want to put yourself out there so much for people to see. maybe you wish things to be more private, and dunk understands and respects that. he is happy with how things are now.
maybe in the future, he would ask if he can have one or two pictures of your pretty face on his page so people can see who owns his heart and soul.
one day, you mention offhandedly that you two barely have any pictures together, and should take more.
dunk's heart almost stops in his chest out of pure joy and delight, agreeing so, so earnestly, hands already fumbling for his phone.
he keeps all of those in a separate folder, which he names with a cute, simple heart. but it's a heart in your favorite color. he thinks it's cute and romantic. you agree.
dunk does not flood his social page with all the pictures at once. he does not want to make it too overwhelming for you, just in case.
but he cannot help himself as he drops one or two here and there every time he feels like updating his page. now people can see how beautiful his lover is! he's so happy.
sometimes, he sneaks pictures of you, candid and sweet. those might be his favourites.
you look every bit of yourself, relaxed and pretty. capturing you at your most authentic makes butterflies swarm in his stomach, threatening to choke him from how much tenderness he feels for you.
it feels like he has pieces of you with him. he does post those, but also makes sure to print them out and tuck them somewhere in his car where he can see them at all times. the lonely drives feel better now because he gets to look up and see the person he loves most.
dunk's neighbour, egg, often jokes that you two should get married soon.
"you look like those old married couples, anyway!" he would say, and every time, dunk would get this faraway look in his eyes for a few moments, as if imagining it. you, as his pretty, beautiful wife, living happily in his farmhouse and sharing your life with him.
the blush on his cheeks is so bright and warm when his eyes flit to you, already imagining waking up to you every morning and getting to kiss you silly as he comes back for dinner after a hard day of tending to the farm.
maybe he starts making cute, makeshift rings from plants or grass he picks up around his property. and maybe dodges your soft looks and inquiries as to why he suddenly picked up this cute hobby.
secretly, dunk loves feeling like he can protect you, even if you can take care of yourself. he's so proud when he sees you stand up for yourself, even though he wants nothing more than to do it for you. he respects your autonomy and encourages you to be independent.
but he loves feeling needed and wanted.
loves to see how much stronger he looks beside you. how taller. how bigger.
it's a small, shameful part of him that he keeps hidden, like a dirty little secret.
when he can clearly see the difference between your physiques in pictures, he gets so flustered, red from the tips of his ears to the valley of his pecs.
asking you to start a live together is so nerve-wracking, he feels like all the blood rushed to his face, and he cannot find the right words to express how happy that'll make him.
dunk loves you so much, and even though he is happy with how things are, he can only wish to have you closer. so much closer. much more often.
it's a greedy, selfish feeling, but he cannot help it. you are everything to him. the first rays of sunshine at dawn and all the glittering stars in the sky at dusk.
You scratch your nails through modern!dunks hair, unable to keep your hands off it since its gained a bit of length and frames his face so beautifully, as you lounge on the couch. The tv hums quietly in the back and you dont pay attention to it choosing to watch dunk as he makes notes for his DnD campaign. You lean your head against the back of the couch and gaze up at him, eyes scanning over his gorgeous side profile while your fingers continue to twirl his locks around your fingers.
He shifts uncomfortably. “Dont- dont do that.” He mumbles, brows furrowing as he wills his brain to keep functioning
“What?” You lift your head to look at him properly.
“Your hand, in my hair.” He still doesnt look at you and keeps his eyes scanning over the messy page of notes.
“You love when I play with your hair.” You recall all the nights when he couldnt find sleep and how the only thing that could get him to pass out was your fingers scratching ever so gently at his scalp and playing with his hair even when it was shorter.
“M’tryna concentrate.” He mumbles, shifting in his seat once again when it all clicks in your mind.
“Ooohhhhh,” The blush on his cheeks spreads right up to his ears and makes you grin stupidly. You forgot about the other effect that playing with his hair had on him. “M’sorry baby. Ill let you finish, come and find me when youre done?” You press a kiss to his cheek before standing and heading to your bedroom, but your stopped in your tracks when his large hand wraps around your wrist.
“You dont have to go, just- give me five minutes.”
You smile even wider as you plop back down onto the soft couch cushion, staring at the tv while your mind remains occupied with the giant man next to you (and the giant problem straining against his sweats right now). “No problem honey, take your time.”
inspired by @breakspearz modern!dunk headcanons because yes!!! he totally plays dnd!!! and my mind has been stuck on it for ages :)))
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THE MODERN DUNK TARG FIC WAS EVERYTHING TO ME…imagining their future like Maekar’s first grandchild being half common (gasp the horror) and Dunk being THE perfect father and her struggling to balance overspoiling and giving them a humble upbringing oh and the angst of her watching Dunk be the father she never had…Yes Maekar adores her but Dunk is just so hands on and gentle with their toddler never gets short with them and so patient and AHHH
dunk and princess are wrapped around each others finger, like they would do anything for each other. dunk has enough control of her to be sure she’s not a spoilt brat, and she has enough control of dunk to make sure he’s not so wound tight.
but when baby boy comes along? (because dunk needs to have a father son do-over). she is spoiling him to high heaven, she can’t say no. dunk is forced to be the uncool parent because you can’t just let a kid have whatever they want…
that’s how aerion became aerion, though he would never say that to you. because you and aerion were so close.
