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clocked
✸ WELCOME TO THE FAMILY III — modern!targaryen au
synopsis. your first weeks as aegon’s new babysitter unfold and you find yourself being drawn dangerously close to the fire of the dragons.
word count. 9.2k
warnings. daeron living up to his nickame but besides that just the usual emotional immaturity
note. first of all 1k followers is insane what tysm?! for everyone who has been asking will this be a daeron, maekar or aerion fic… all i can say is stay tuned to find out!! hope you enjoy reading🤍
previous part. next part. series masterlist.
“Alright — and exhale now.”
The instructor’s voice floated through the dim studio like incense smoke, soft and curated, the kind of calm that probably cost two hundred dollars a month in rent alone.
:readmore:
The sunlight seeped in through the large floor to ceiling windows , the city beyond was reduced to a tiny smear of colors . Somewhere far below, a tram bell clanged faintly — the sound of a city that never really slept, only shifted moods.
You were currently folded into a position that felt structurally impossible, one leg trembling behind you, arms extended forward as though reaching for divine intervention.
Your hamstrings burned and yur shoulders shook.
You inhaled through your nose like the instructor had drilled into you, then exhaled through your mouth like you were releasing a decade of poor decisions.
To your right, Kiera was the picture perfect of elegance. As she always was. She held the pose as if she’d been born in it, spine straight, chin lifted slightly, pastel hair twisted into a sleek bun that somehow hadn’t moved an inch.
She looked like she belonged in one of those minimalist wellness campaigns — “Balance Your Inner Spirit” or some other nonsense written in beige font.
You, meanwhile, felt like overcooked pasta.
You had convinced her to come. Or more accurately, you had begged.
It had been nearly two weeks since you’d seen each other properly — not just quick campus pass-bys or voice notes sent at 2 a.m. between essay drafts and bedtime stories.
Babysitting Egg Targaryen while juggling a full academic scholarship and a reputation for being “that terrifyingly put-together girl in seminars” did not exactly leave room for social hours.
You liked yoga for one reason: it shut your brain up.
The burn in your muscles drowned out the pit in your stomach. The sweat on your temples distracted you from the constant what-if spiral. When you were here, contorted and aching, you couldn’t overthink Aerion’s snide remarks or whether you’d cited that theory correctly in your political philosophy paper.
You could only survive the next breath.
“Great job, everyone,” the instructor chirped. She was a middle aged woman who somehow looked better than half the girls your age. She was already melting into a graceful seated stretch like she hadn’t just tortured an entire room of trophy wives, young students and finance bros. “We’ll finish with some light stretching.”
Light, she said. You almost laughed.
Kiera grabbed her stainless steel water bottle — matte black, obviously — and took a slow sip, eyes sliding toward you with that familiar calculating look.
There was a question behind her eyes you could tell.
“You’re more stiff than the ice used to build the Wall,” she said flatly.
You shot her a look, cheeks flushed, baby hairs plastered to your forehead. “Kie. I love you. But try balancing a full course load, maintaining a perfect GPA, and babysitting for the Targaryens before you start critiquing my flexibility.”
Kiera’s lips twitched. “I’m starting to think talking you into this job was a catastrophic mistake.”
You shifted into a low lunge, palms pressing into your mat, gaze lifting toward the mirrored wall. The city skyline reflected faintly behind you — high rises, construction cranes, the distant colors of various billboards.
“Well,” you muttered, “I think it’s too late for that.”
She followed your movement with her eyes instead of the instructor’s cues. She always did that — watched you like she was trying to read between your ribs.
“I just didn’t think,” she continued more softly, “that signing you up would mean I’d never see you again. It feels like the Targaryens abducted my best friend.”
You huffed a laugh. “That’s what happens when you throw someone into the dragon pit without warning.”
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “You act like I handed you over to organized crime.”
“You basically did.”
The older woman on the mat in front of you turned slightly, disapproving glare sharp as a dagger. You offered her a tight smile and returned to your stretch.
“Anyway,” you continued, lowering your voice only marginally, “I am being paid an obscene amount of money.”
“Because you’re not a regular nanny,” Kiera cut in smoothly. “You’re supervising Egg Targaryen, for the love of the Seven. The child shaved his own head. In solidarity. With what, no one knows.”
You bit back a laugh. It was still a mystery how he had done it. You presumed with an electric shaver that belonged to Daeron or Aerion.
“Exactly,” you said. “And honestly? He’s sweet. A little dramatic. But sweet.”
"Then what’s the problem?” she asked, though you both knew.
You shifted positions again, sitting back on your heels. The room smelled faintly of eucalyptus and expensive perfume. Outside, sirens wailed briefly — city lullabies.
“Aerion,” you said flatly. Even saying his name soured your mouth and put a permanent scowl on your face. You must resemble Maekar with how much you grimaced when talking about his son.
That man really did have a built in glare.
Kiera’s expression tightened. “He’s…”
You arched a brow. She was clearly trying very hard to locate the correct diplomatic term.
You didn’t bother lowering your voice this time. “He’s a fucking spoiled egomaniac.”
—
“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”
The memory arrived in a flash — sharp and undeniable.
He had been standing at the foot of the entrance, like something carved out of cold marble. His eyes still half disbelieving and half insulted by your presence.
His scowl was not theatrical. It wasn’t the exaggerated irritation of a spoiled rich boy inconvenienced by a stranger. It was sharp, and filled with a genuine hatred.
His gaze dragged down your figure like he was assessing damage.
You swallowed, heart thumping in your ears but you held your chin high regardless.
“I— I work here.”
The words had come out thinner than you intended.
He blinked once, slowly, as though you had just informed him that the Lannisters had relocated to Winterfell and taken up ice fishing.
He did not move for several seconds. Just stood there, head slightly tilted, processing.
Then came the scoff. It was quiet — but surgical.
“Well,” he drawled, adjusting the chain at his neck like some self-appointed monarch about to deliver a verdict, “being a student at KLU has fallen on… sad days.”
It landed exactly as he intended.
You felt the sting pf his words behind your ribs.
He stepped forward, brushing past your shoulder — not accidentally. Not subtly. Deliberately. A physical reminder.
The front door slammed shut moments later, the sound ricocheting in your ears.
You had stood there alone in the pale light, blinking rapidly, willing your composure back into place.
You had dealt with entitled boys before. Campus was full of them. But this was different. You felt it in your bones, in the way his eyes had swept over you like you were a dust of dirt beneath his shoe.
This wasn’t arrogance born of fraternity houses and mediocre trust funds. This was something much worse. This was someone who had never been told no.
You glanced back at the house that evening, illuminated by the lights in the street. It looked far more sinister.
And you felt in your gut that things had just got much more difficult.
You had no idea how right you were.
—
The first incident after that happened two days later.
You were in the kitchen with Egg, helping him with his maths homework while squeezing fresh orange juice. You carefully peeled the oranges placing their skin on a sheet of paper towel. You breathed in the citrusy tang.
“Seven times eight?” you prompted gently. Aegon was slouched over his calculus homework.
Aegon scrunched his nose. “Fifty-six.”
“Good,” you smiled. “See? You’re not hopeless.”
He grinned, pleased with himself.
"The oranges smell nice." He said, grabbing one of the small slices you had peeled and he popped it into his mouth.
That was when you felt it — the subtle shift in atmosphere. Like the temperature had dropped by two degrees.
Aerion appeared in the doorway as though summoned by your moment of peace. And of course ha just had to come in and ruin it.
He was sporting grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He was effortlessly put together in a way that made you irrationally annoyed.
Egg stiffened immediately, gaze dropping to his workbook. You had noticed he always had this reaction around his brother, guarded and quiet.
Aerion rarely entered the kitchen. Staff handled most things here. He certainly never poured his own water.
Yet there he was, moving with deliberate casualness toward the cabinet. You kept squeezing the oranges, the juices suddenly slimy and cold against your fingers.
You would not entertain him. You would not rise. You told yourself, eyes fixed upon the task in front of you.
You were just about to finish peeling the orange when—
Egg jumped at the sudden noise that reverberated in the kitchen.
The shattering sound was unexpected — sharp and violent.
You spun around instinctively, heart leaping into your throat.
The glass Aerion had previously taken out of the cupboard lay destroyed at his feet, glittering shards scattered across dark wooden floorboards.
He looked at you. You. Not at the glass shattered by his feet.
His purple eyes gazed directly towards your rigid posture, as if awaiting some kind of outburst.
“Oops.” He had some nerve.
“My hand slipped.” The word was laced with something ugly.
His hand most certainly hadn't slipped.
You would bet your tuition on that.
He held your gaze a second longer — as if daring you to challenge him. The corners of his mouth quirked up in mild amusement and then he turned and left without another word.
No apology. No offer to clean it. Just gone.
“Is he bloody serious right now?” you muttered, staring at the mess. Clearly he got a twisted kick out of treating you like a maid.
Aegon didn’t look up. “He’s always like this.” There was no drama in his tone. Just tired acceptance.
You swallowed your anger.
“Stay there,” you instructed gently, wiping your hands on a cloth. “Don’t move. We’re not having your feet stitched because your brother has emotional regulation issues.” Egg let out a snort of laughter at that.
You went to fetch the broom from the staff room, returning to carefully sweep the shards into a tray.
Don’t let this get to you.
He wants a reaction.
He wants you unsettled.
You dumped the glass into the bin and forced your shoulders to relax.
But your pulse didn’t steady for another hour.
The second time was on a Saturday.
Maekar was away for the weekend, in the Vale on business. The house felt lighter without the constant pressure he might pop up at any minute and unleash his sour mood on all of you.
You had ordered pizza for dinner — four different kinds — and the kitchen island was cluttered with boxes and laughter. The smell of cheese and dough wafted in the room, it was definitely a stark contrast to the polished interior of the dining space. You guessed it hadn’t been built with the intention of hosting cheap pizza dinners.
“Pineapple belongs on pizza,” Aegon declared confidently, not a single doubt in his voice.
“It’s an abomination,” Rhae shot back, dramatically shielding her slice.
Daella giggled, nipping at her own slice.
You found yourself smiling more than you had all week.
You checked your phone absentmindedly. Still nothing from Daeron. You hadn’t seen him since that strange morning he had waited for you by the gates.
A part of you was hoping your screen would light up with a notification from him. At least a what’s up or how are things back home?
You knew it wasn't your place to worry for him, he was an adult man. But you had grown fond of him and well with his rumored drinking problems you could only hope he was doing fine.
A quiet unease lived in your chest about that. But you said nothing. It wasn’t your place.
Rhae squealed when Aegon squeezed ketchup onto his slice. The squirting noise was followed by a streak of blood like sauce. He licked it off his finger viciously.
"I cannot believe we are related!” She squealed, brows pinched in genuine irritation.
You laughed despite yourself.
And then — like a dark cloud passing over the sun — Aerion entered.
He was in a skin tight under armour shirt and workout shorts. A sheen of sweat glistened on his palw brow.
He held a glass of murky green liquid, eyes scanning the pizza boxes with visible disdain.
“So,” he said coolly, “ is this what my father is paying you for now? To feed them garbage and junk?”
Your jaw tightened.
“At least I feed them,” you replied through gritted teeth. You couldn't stop yourself.
A tense silence fell.
He stepped closer just as you stood to grab a napkin.
His shoulder collided with yours — forceful enough that the green juice sloshed over the rim and splattered down the front of your top.
The murky green liquid was all over your chest, a very obvious stain forming already.
He stepped back instantly.
“Clumsy, are you?”
For a split second, you saw red. You could say something now. You could scorch him. You could—
But Daella jumped in quickly, sensing things would escalate quickly if she didn't intervene.
“Oh it's no big deal! I have a shirt upstairs from Subdued I never wear. You can borrow it!”
Her tone was deliberately bright.
You latched onto it like a lifeline. For the sake of the kids you wouldn't lash out at him. And the sake of keeping your job.
“That would be lovely, thank you.” You glanced at her, your tone clipped, restrained anger pulsing inside of you.
Aerion’s mouth curled sharply inspecting his sister.
“These people work for us, Daella. We don’t share our things with them.”
The words were venomous. But Daella ignored him completely.
Rhae stared at her brother with open disdain.
He lingered another moment, clearly dissatisfied by the lack of chaos, then muttered something under his breath and left.
The front door slammed shut behind him and engine revving was audiable seconds later as his black car tore out of the driveway.
“Sorry about that,” Rhae said quietly.
“He’s a jerk,” Aegon added.
“Sometimes,” Rhae tried.
“All the time,” Aegon corrected.
You gave a tight smile.
“I’ve noticed.”
—
The third time was arguably the worst.
Because it wasn’t in his territory.
It was yours.
It had happened on campus.
KLU’s student networking gala buzzed with polite laughter and overpriced canapés. Fairy lights hung between trees in the courtyard. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for future CEOs of European companirs.
You were speaking with Duncan the Tall — whose nickname was not ironic — Valarr, and Raymun Fossoway about sustainable agriculture initiatives when a familiar presence cut through the group.
Raymun was just talking about how his cousin had made a sketchy deal when the interruption came.
“Ah, cousin.”
Aerion addressed Valarr as though the rest of you were invisible. He was dressed in a dark red polo shirt and black dress pants. The only colors he wore were black and dark red apparently
Duncan’s jaw tightened visibly. It was a well known fact him and Aerion had bad blood from the past.
“Aerion,” Valarr greeted, tone carefully neutral.
Aerion’s gaze drifted lazily across your group.
“I’d say you were networking,” he mused, “but looking at these people…”
His eyes landed on you.
“…there isn’t much to network about, is there?”
He laughed, his joke clearly amusing only to himself.
Duncan did a micro movement and Raymun subtly gripped Duncan’s sleeve to prevent escalation.
Then came the final blow.
“Did you know,” Aerion continued smoothly, eyes fixated on you know, “that Y/N works for us?”
He said it like an accusation. Like it was something to be ashamed about.
Your spine went rigid.
“Yes,” Valarr replied calmly. “I’m aware.”
“And yet you choose to associate?” Aerion pressed, incredulous.
Valarr’s expression didn’t change. “A person’s character is not defined by blood. You'd do well to realize that, cousin.”
Aerion’s eyes flickered. Something dangerous sparked there.
He stepped closer to you now.
“So tell me,” he murmured low enough that only you heard, “does blood really not matter when you're playing house for that impudent little rat of my brother?”
Heat crawled up your neck.
“I’m employed,” you replied evenly. “Not indentured.”
His smile was slow. Predatory. Like a dragon smirking at his prey.
“I suppose we’ll see how long that lasts.”
And then he left, as always — trailing disruption behind him like smoke.
You had stood there afterward, pretending your hands weren’t shaking.
"I'm going to beat him so bloody hard one day." Duncan grumbled from beside you as Raymun sighed.
You told yourself he was irrelevant. You told yourself he was just bored. This was his cruel way of entertaining himself.
You told yourself you would not let him define you.
But whiel you were lying in bed that night, staring at your apartment ceiling, replaying the humiliation — you understood something clearly.
This wasn’t random cruelty.
This wasn’t thoughtless arrogance.
Aerion Targaryen had decided you were something to torment.
To prod and to unsettle. See how far he could push your buttons.
And the worst part? He was enjoying it.
—
You continued, staring at your mat like it had personally offended you. “He treats everything like it’s a game. Like the world exists for his entertainment. He walks into a room and expects it to rearrange itself.”
“Some would say that’s confidence,” Kiera offered cautiously.
“More like narcissism.”
Your heart rate had picked up, but not from the yoga this time. The memory of how Aerion had been persecuting you riled you up to no end.
“He watches me,” you added after a moment, quieter now. “Like I’m… I don’t know. A poor animal he has decided to torture until he drives me away.”
Kiera went still.
“That’s… awful,” she said carefully.
“It is.” You swallowed, not denying the reality of it.
The instructor dimmed the lights, beginning a soft closing meditation. A gentle instrumental track filled the room, something airy and slightly cinematic.
“Lie back, everyone,” she murmured.
You did, staring at the ceiling where faint reflections of city lights shimmered.
“Why don’t you quit?” Kiera whispered.
The answer came too quickly. “Because I can’t.”
She turned her head toward you.
“They pay enough to cover my tuition next year,” you admitted. “And my rent. And my dad’s car repairs.”
Silence stretched between you.
“Also,” you added, staring at the ceiling, “I don’t like the idea of him thinking he’s chased me away."
There it was.
Kiera sighed. “You’re impossible.”
“Big city girl now,” you murmured. “I can handle a dragon.”
She huffed quietly. “That’s not a dragon. That’s a trust fund with a God complex.”
You smiled despite yourself.
The instructor’s voice floated over you again. “Let your thoughts drift away…”
If only it were that simple.
You closed your eyes. For a moment, there was only the hum of her voice, the warmth in your limbs, the faint scent of lavender oil.
No Aerion’s smirk. No academic pressure. No expectations hanging over your head like chandeliers.
Just breath.
After class, you and Kiera stepped out into the evening air. The sky was that deep indigo shade right before full night, skyscraper windows glittering like constellations. The pavement was still warm from the day. Students laughed somewhere down the block, someone blasting music from an open car window.
You felt lighter. Not free — but steadier. You loved yoga because it cleared your mind.
Kiera bumped her shoulder into yours. “Dinner?”
“I have to be at the Targaryens’ by eight,” you groaned.
She made a face. “Of course you do.”
You checked your phone. Three unread messages.
Egg
please come right now my father is going to have an aneurysm if you don’t appear in like fifteen minutes .
How did he even know what that word meant? Being taught by private tutors clearly had it’s perks. Like knowing what the word aneurysm means at ten.
You quickly typed away.
You
Is everything okay???
Egg
Yeah
Typing…
Kind of
Typing…
Not really
Your stomach dipped.
Kiera noticed instantly. “What did the little menace say?”
You locked your screen without answering. “Nothing important.”
She studied you for a long moment, clearly not believing you.
“Don’t let Aerion get into your head,” she said finally.
You lifted your chin, summoning that polished campus persona — the composed, high-achieving girl who never cracked.
“He won’t.”
You bid Kiera goodbye at the corner, her hug lingering for half a second longer than usual, as if she could sense the shift in your mood.
“Text me if the dragons start breathing fire,” she murmured.
“You’ll hear about it on the news,” you replied, forcing a smile.
But the moment you turned toward the bus stop, your stomach dipped.
Egg never texted you first. Not this urgently and not without context.
By the time you reached the glass shelter, your phone was already in your hand. The sky over King’s Landing had begun its slow descent into gold — the kind of sunset that made the Blackwater shimmer like molten coin. The city was loud as ever: traffic crawling, street vendors shouting, distant music bleeding from open windows.
Still no notification.
You opened your messages.
You
Is everything okay?
Delivered.
And nothing else.
Your fingers found the edge of your thumbnail and began picking at it, a nervous habit you hated but couldn’t seem to shake. What if he was hurt? What if something happened? What if—
The bus roared up in a sigh of brakes and you climbed on, taking a seat by the window. The ride felt longer than usual. You watched as the streets shifted from crowded storefronts to manicured avenues, the architecture growing increasingly polished, increasingly expensive.
Sunset spilled over Blackwater Bay in sheets of pink and orange. Normally you would have admired it but tonight it only made your anxiety sharper.
Still nothing from Egg.
By the time the bus stopped at Red Keep Station, you were on your feet before the doors fully opened. You stepped onto the pavement and practically power-walked — then jogged — then nearly sprinted the last stretch toward the gated neighborhood.
The Targaryen house glowed warmly in the twilight. Street lamps flickered on one by one, casting golden halos along the pristine sidewalk. The guard at the front gate recognized you now; he opened it before you even reached it.
“Evening,” he nodded.
You gave a tight smile, too preoccupied to reply properly.
You slowed just enough to compose yourself before approaching the door. You didn’t want to look frantic. You didn’t want to look like you’d run.
You hesitated for half a second — knock or not? You figured you had come here enought times already. Then you pushed the door open.
You were past formalities.
Immediately, something felt off.
The house was messy.
Not chaotic — but careless. Shoes tossed near the entryway. A coat abandoned halfway up the stairs. A long black cashmere overcoat, the Armani logo visible on the tag, MT stitched discreetly inside the lining.
Maekar’s. Of course he would own a personalized Armani jacket.
You recognized the size instantly — none of his sons would fill that frame.
You quieted your breathing and stepped further inside.
Voice carried from the living room.
“Seven bloody hells, Baelor, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”
Maekar’s voice was sharp, frayed at the edges. He stood with his back half-turned to you, phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight.
"You know very well this isn't the first or last time." He all but growled.
You froze.
His eyes snapped to you mid-sentence.
You caught a faint voice through the phone speaker before he exhaled heavily.
“Hold on. I’ll call you back.”
He didn’t wait for a response before ending the call.
Then he turned fully toward you.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You became painfully aware of your outfit — tight black leggings, a soft wrap ballerina top thrown over your sports bra after yoga. Your hair was still pulled back loosely, skin faintly flushed from earlier exertion. You didn't have time to change between your workout and job.
“You told me eight,” you replied carefully, glancing at your phone. “It’s eight.”
For half a second, you thought you saw his gaze drop — assessing, lingering at the curve of your thighs.
You told yourself you imagined it. Pull yourself together.
He pinched the bridge of his nose instead of responding.
“I’ll need you to stay. Indefinitely.” He hesitated, jaw flexing. “There’s something I need to take care of.”
You didn’t bother asking what.You already knew he wouldn’t tell you.
“You may have to stay the night. Rhae and Daella are at a sleepover. Aerion is—” He paused, scowling. “Where the fuck is he?”
He muttered something under his breath.
“Oh, bloody hell. I cannot worry about him as well. If you need anything, check the girls’ room. They have enough clothes and products to supply half of King’s Landing.”
You almost felt relief. At least Aerion wasn’t here. But something was clearly off.
“Alright,” you nodded. “You just… do what you need to, sir.”
You nearly asked about Daeron but you stopped yourself glancing at his stern demanour.
“Very well. Aegon’s in his room.” He turned toward the door, then paused. “And perhaps… you should shower.”
Heat rushed to your face.
Of course.
You probably smelled like sweat and coconut-vanilla body mist.
“Oh— yes. Of course.” You said sheepishly.
He gave a curt nod and left. Moments later, tires crunched against gravel and the sound of his car faded into the night.
You exhaled slowly.
Fantastic. Somehow, you kept managing to embarrass yourself in front of him.
It was like a special talent at this point.
You made your way to Aegon’s room and knocked lightly.
“Come in!” The boy had come to recognize the pattern of your rapping on the door.
He lay sprawled on his bed, book open in his hands. His hair had begun to grow back — pale strands forming a soft buzz. He looked like a tiny white-haired kiwi, and despite everything, it made your heart soften.
“What happened?” you demanded immediately. “Why didn’t you text me back? I thought you were dying.”
He grimaced. “Father took my phone. Said he needed to install a child-tracking app.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I know.”
You rubbed your temples. “What’s got him like this?”
Aegon shifted to face you more fully.
“They found Daeron drunk in a ditch. And then he got arrested.”
You laughed instinctively, thinking he was jesting.
Then you saw his expression. Your laughter died instantly.
“Wait you’re serious?”
“As serious as Aegon the Conqueror.”
Your mind scrambled.
Daeron — kind, gentle-eyed, awkward-smiling Daeron — arrested?
You had worried about him earlier on the bus without even knowing why.
“Don’t worry,” Aegon said lightly. “It happens.”
It happens? What kind of kid says that their brother being found drunk in a ditch and then arrested 'happens'. Aegon Targaryen apparently.
Your shoulders sagged.
You decided not to press him about it. Instead, your gaze fell to the book in his hands.
The script looked unfamiliar — elegant, looping.
Se zaldrīzes iksin rōva se zōbrie.
You could read the letters but the words were completely unfamiliar.
“What’s that?”
He stiffened slightly.
“My… High Valyrian dictionary.”
Your eyes narrowed, suspicion rising.
“And why, pray tell, is it open?”
He hesitated.
“Don’t get mad but… I have an entire text to translate for tomorrow’s lesson with Maellon.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
“What?” You blinked hoping he was joking this time.
“It’s only—”
“Aegon.”
He winced.
If the translation wasn’t immaculate, Maellon would shred both of you alive with disappointed lectures about legacy and intellectual discipline. He'd drone on about how neither of you respected the intellectual importance of nurturing ancient languages and family history and blah blah blah.
But worst of all he would definitely tell Maekar.
You inhaled slowly.
Okay. Calm down.
“We’ll figure it out,” you said finally.
He looked relieved you didn't yell at him. “Thanks.”
He paused.
“But maybe you should shower first. No offense but you smell like gym and coconut oil.”
You groaned. “So I’ve been told.”
You left him giggling and made your way upstairs.
The girls’ bathroom was pristine — marble counters, gold fixtures with tiny dragons, shelves lined with expensive skincare and perfumes. You locked the door behind you and leaned against it for a moment.
Daeron was arrested. Aerion was missing.
Maekar was unraveling in realtime.
You quickly rid of your sweaty clothes and turned the shower on. You stepped under the spray, letting the warm water cascade over your shoulders.
Your mind wandered — unwillingly — to Daeron.
The way he had waited for you that second morning. The softness and sincerity in his voice.
The almost-apology in his eyes for things he hadn’t done.
There was something fragile about him. Something tired.
You tilted your head back, water running through your hair.
And then, uninvited, another thought surfaced. The more urgent one.
High Valyrian. The script in Aegon’s book had looked hauntingly beautiful. Ancient and intimate.
You imagined the same words spoken aloud — low, melodic, curling like smoke in the air.
You wondered how Aerion’s voice would sound speaking it. You squeezed your eyes shut immediately.
Absolutely not.
You did not think about him in any context that involved softness or beauty. He was pure evil.
Yet fragments of earlier encounters replayed anyway — the way he’d leaned close at the campus gala. His shoulder brushing past yours on purpose.
Heat crept up your spine.
You pressed your palm flat against the cool tile wall.
He was cruel. Calculated. Deliberate.
He absolutely despised you.
And yet—
High Valyrian. Ancient dragon-tongue.
You wondered what kind of boy grew up fluent in a language no one else in the city spoke.
You wondered what it must feel like to carry that weight.
You wondered why, despite everything, you kept thinking about the other brother — the one found in a ditch — and the one who made your life miserable in equal measure.
Water streamed down your face. You told yourself it was just stress, exhaustion.
Too much proximity to the dragon house.
You shut the water off and stood there for a moment in the quiet bathroom, steam rising around you.
You wrapped yourself in a towel and stared at your reflection — cheeks flushed, eyes distant.
The steam from the shower still clung to your skin when you stepped into Daella’s closet.
Calling it a closet felt criminally reductive — it was closer to a boutique. Soft recessed lighting glowed along the shelves, illuminating rows of neatly arranged tops in identical shades, trousers organized by fabric, shoes lined like curated art pieces. Everything smelled faintly of rose and expensive pefume.
You ran your fingers over silk and cashmere before settling on something simple: wide-leg grey sweatpants and one of the ten identical white t-shirts folded in perfect stacks.
You changed quickly, grateful for the softness of the cotton against your freshly showered skin. The sweatpants were slightly short; Daella was a touch smaller than you. You adjusted the pants and caught your reflection in the mirror.
You looked younger like this. Softer. Almost like you belonged in the house rather than orbiting it.
Your mind, unfortunately, refused to stay soft.
High Valyrian.
The words felt heavy even in thought. How did one translate an ancient dragon language?
It wasn’t taught in school. No elective brochure had ever offered Introduction to High Valyrian Grammar. If someone truly wanted their child fluent, they hired private tutors — and even then, most parents didn’t bother. Ancient languages were ornamental. Impractical.
Clearly Targaryens weren't most parents.
You’d heard Old Valyrian was offered in specialized university programs for history majors studying Old Valyria before the Doom. Maesters learned it, of course — but you were neither a history student nor studying in Oldtown.
You were a KLU student with a caffeine dependency and a part-time job in a house that functioned like a modern monarchy.
Fantastic. Hopefully google scholar could save you from doom.
You made your way back to Aegon’s room.
He was already seated at his desk, papers spread in chaotic formation. Dictionaries open. Notes scribbled. The air carried the faint scent of pencil shavings and stress.
He looked up when you entered.
“Alright,” you said, cracking your knuckles dramatically. “Let us begin.”
He nodded solemnly, as if you were about to charge into battle.
In a way, you were. Except it wasn't a battle with swords and shields. It was a grammatical war.
You sat beside him and began reviewing everything he knew about High Valyrian.
Which, unfortunately, was not much.
There were lists of vocabulary with translations scrawled beside them. Verb conjugation tables that looked like they’d been designed to personally torment students. Marginal notes from Maellon in precise red ink.
Nothing connected. Nothing flowed.
The sentences in the text refused to resemble anything coherent in the Common Tongue.
You had already tried Google Translate but the text made absolutely no sense.
It had spit out something resembling poetry written by a confused robot.
You were certain if you stared at another declension chart your brain would simply collapse in on itself.
“Tell me again,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose, “why your father thinks this is necessary.” You swallowed the harsher version of that sentence.
Aegon rested his face in his palms, voice muffled. “Because he says it’s vital for all Targaryens to honor their roots and history.”
He droned on as if he had repeated the words a thousand times already.
Of course Maekar believes that.
You nearly scoffed.
It sounded exactly like something Aerion would say — self-important and reverent, as if speaking High Valyrian made you somehow morally superior to everyone else.
You leaned back, stretching out on the carpet among scattered papers.
It was nearly ten pm.
Your brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. And you had only been doing this for an hour.
You stared at the ceiling, thinking. The gears desperately shifted in your head.
“What if,” you said slowly, sitting upright again, “we just had someone translate it for us?”
Aegon blinked.
“Well, as you just witnessed, there is no translator capable of accurately converting High Valyrian to the Common Tongue.”
“No, not an app,” you clarified. “A person. Someone who actually knows it.”
His posture sharpened. “Oh.”
“Your family is basically a walking Valyrian dictionary,” you pressed. “Someone must speak it fluently.”
He considered.
“Father and Baelor do,” he admitted. “But that’s not an option.”
You both silently agreed that Maekar discovering this situation would be catastrophic.
“Daella and Rhae speak it about as well as I speak Dothraki,” he added.
So. Not at all.
“Aerion is out of the question,” Aegon said quickly.
You nodded instantly.
You would rather face Maellon’s wrath than ask Aerion for help.
You didn’t even suggest Daeron.
Considering he had just been found in a ditch and arrested, he was hardly a viable academic resource.
“What about Valarr?” you offered.
“He's at a charity gala. With Aerion.” He added with a roll of his eyes.
Of course he was. You were running out of Targaryens.
Your mind raced.
Could you hire someone online? At ten at night? For an obscure ancient language?Highly unlikely.
“What about your grandfather?” you ventured.
Aegon’s eyes widened. “Daeron?” Daeron the Good as he was called. He had restored peace to the political scene of Westeros and raised more fundraisers than any man in the history of the realm.
You nodded.
“I doubt he would approve of me cheating.”
Fair enough.
Calling the head of the Targaryen family at ten p.m. to outsource homework seemed like a death wish.
“What about your grandmother?” Myriah Martell was an older woman, yet her beauty and elegance was timeless.
“She’s Dornish.”
You blinked. Right.
You groaned, flopping back onto the carpet. “Aegon, we’re doomed. We cannot translate this stupid text. And we've run out of your family members."
You watched the last flicker of hope dim in his expression.
Then— His eyes lit up.
“Wait.”
You sat up immediately, ears perked up.
“I know someone.”
You raised an eyebrow, awaiting his solution.
“Aemon.”
The name clicked instantly. The answer had been so obvious all along.
Aemon Targaryen. Currently studying in Oldtown. Training to be a maester. He was allegedly brilliant. And allegedly more fond of books than human interaction. Which was more of a pro than a con at the moment.
He definitely knew High Valyrian.
The only issue—
“Aegon. Oldtown is on the other half of the country, it's three in the morning in there. There is no way he is going to pick up."
He ignored your protests and reached for his phone anyway.
“Father left it on the counter,” he said. “I checked while you were showering.”
You stared at him. He had initiative. You’d give him that.
“But he won’t answer,” you insisted. “No one answers at three a.m. unless someone’s dying.”
“You doubt my brother?” he challenged.
“I doubt his willingness to destroy his sleep schedule for your grammar crisis. I know I wouldn't." You added under your breath.
He was already pressing the green call icon.
You both leaned closer to the phone as it rang.
Once. Twice. Three times.
You opened your mouth to say I told you so—
The ringing stopped and a face appeared through the screen.
“Egg!” a bright voice greeted. “Gods, you really are bald.”
You blinked.
Aemon Targaryen had the traditional Targaryen look to him. Snow white hair and piercing purple gaze. Yet he had an easygoing studios demeanor.
And Aemon was most certainly not in bed.
He was sitting upright at a wooden table, an enormous book open before him. He looked wide awake. Alert and slightly amused.
Who functioned like this at three in the morning?
“Oh no,” you murmured quietly. “He’s one of those.”
“Those?” Aegon whispered.
“People who thrive at ungodly hours.”
Aemon peered closer to the screen. “How are you?”
"I'm good Oldtown has been treating me exceptionally well."
They exchanged quick pleasantries, but Aegon’s anxiety was visible.
“We need your help,” he blurted.
“We?” Aemon repeated, curious.
“Oh— this is my… my new nanny.”
Aegon flushed faintly.
You waved awkwardly. “Hi.” You had never talked to him before.
Aemon smiled warmly. “Pleasure to meet you.”
He seemed… normal. Relatively.
Though anyone studying at three in the morning might qualify as slightly unhinged.
“What are we working with?” he asked, slipping effortlessly into scholar mode.
You explained the translation assignment while Aegon snapped photos of the text and sent them over to Aemon.
He listened attentively, nodding occasionally.
When you finished, he hummed thoughtfully.
“Alright. That’s manageable. Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes.”
You nearly sagged with relief.
“Unless,” he added, “you’d prefer to go over it together—”
“No!” you and Aegon shouted in perfect unison.
You cleared your throat. “I mean. We would love to. But Aegon also has calculus.”
A blatant lie.
Aemon blinked. “Oh. Do you need help with that too?”
You stared at him.Was he real?
“No, that’s fine,” Aegon assured quickly. “We can handle calculus.”
“Alright then. I’ll send it shortly. Tell Father and the others I’m thinking of them.”
“Will do,” Aegon replied.
You both waved as the call ended. The room fell silent for half a second.
Then Aegon fist-pumped the air and jumped up in victory.
You exhaled deeply, tension melting from your shoulders.
“We are tactical masterminds,” you declared.
Thirty-five minutes later, Aegon’s phone buzzed.
Three attachments. Neatly organized translations. Clean formatting. Notes on grammar structure.
Aemon had even highlighted key verbs. You had never been more grateful that Maekar Targaryen had six children. Which would sound really weird in normal circumstances.
You watched as Aegon rapidly copied everything into his notebook, handwriting slightly frantic but determined.
“We’re geniuses,” you said, leaning over his shoulder.
He giggled. “We are.”
For the first time that night, you felt something close to triumph.
Not elegant. Certainly not noble. But victorious all the same.
After Aegon finished copying the translation in his neat, slightly slanted handwriting, you both leaned back and stared at the notebook like you had just conquered a small nation.
Relief washed over you in waves.
“Add two mistakes,” you instructed suddenly.
He blinked. “What?”
“Two small ones. Nothing catastrophic. Just enough to make it believable.”
His eyes widened with admiration. “You’re evil.”
“I’m trying to not get us discovered.”
He grinned and scratched out a minor ending on one verb and adjusted a tense in another sentence.
“There,” he declared.
You examined it like a general reviewing battle plans.
“The old man will never figure it out.”
“No way,” Egg said cheerfully.
The tension that had sat between your shoulder blades all evening finally loosened.
You clapped your hands once. “Alright. What do you say we celebrate with some ice cream? I think we deserve it after this war.”
His face lit up at the idea. “Sounds like a plan.”
You both padded to the kitchen, the house quiet and dim around you.
The overhead lights cast a warm pool of gold over the marble island. Outside, the world was pitch black — the kind of deep city-night darkness where only the wealthy neighborhoods remained hushed and glowing.
Aegon hopped onto one of the stools as you opened the freezer.
There was, of course, a section of aggressively healthy protein ice creams — flavors like salted almond and zero vanilla whey.
You ignored those immediately.
Behind them, like contraband, were the real ones.
Imported pints with labels in French and Italian. You reached for a familiar one — Häagen-Dazs.
“What flavor?” you asked, scanning the options.
“Chocolate chip!” he chirped.
You grabbed it and selected your own — cookies and cream — then shut the freezer with your hip and grabbed two spoons.
You slid one toward him across the island like you were conducting a secret exchange.
He peeled the lid off dramatically.
You both dug in at the same time.
Cold sweetness flooded your mouth. It was sugary and creamy. Absolute perfection.
You hadn’t realized how tense you’d been until this moment — freshly showered, wrapped in soft borrowed clothes, high off academic deception and childhood-level indulgence.
It felt strangely perfect.
Just you and Egg, 11 p.m., tubs of ice cream under soft overhead lighting.
“So,” he said between bites, “you were at yoga before you came here?”
“Yes,” you replied cautiously. “Why is that funny?”
He snorted. “I don’t understand how stretching your muscles like medieval torture is enjoyable.”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s the mental part. It clears your head.”
“Mhm,” he said, unconvinced.
"What's the worst ice cream flavor?" He suddenly wondered aloud.
You pondered for a moment. "Mint, definitely."
"Tastes like toothpaste, yuck." He made a face and you both giggled.
You continued eating the ice cream until suddenly his voice rose.
“My mom would kill me if she knew I was eating ice cream right now,” he added casually.
The spoon paused halfway to your mouth. He had never mentioned his mother before. Not once. Dyanna was practically a taboo topic in this house.
The sweetness turned heavy on your tongue.
He must’ve been four. Maybe five. When she died. He couldn't have many memories of her.
His small face softened, smile fading.
“I don’t know why I said that,” he muttered quickly, as if apologizing. You could detect the shame in his eyes and the quiver in his voice.
“No, Egg, don’t apologize,” you said gently. “You don’t have to.”
Silence lingered.
You chose your next words carefully. “What was she like?”
His eyes flicked up to yours — surprised.
“I don’t remember much,” he admitted. “But she was kind. She had black hair. It always smelled… fresh. Like oranges or something.” He swallowed.
“She’d sing me lullabies in Dornish. Tell me stories.”
He stared down at the melting ice cream.
“I think she loved me.”
Your chest tightened at his words.
“I know she did,” you said softly. “She does.”
His eyes glossed over.
Suddenly the overhead lights felt too bright and the silence cavernous.
“Father was happier when she was here,” he whispered. “We all were.”
You opened your mouth to say something but the sound of a car pulling into the driveway cut through the quiet.
Headlights flashed briefly against the kitchen wall.
Egg slid off the stool almost immediately.
“I should shower,” he said quickly, wiping the tears that had threatened to fall. “Goodnight.”
He turned in a flash and he didn’t meet your eyes as he walked away.
You weren’t sure if he felt exposed. Or embarrassed. Or simply overwhelmed.
You moved quietly, sealing the ice cream lids and returning them to the freezer just as the front door opened.
You debated going after Aegon but the sight in front of you stopped you.
“Get inside.”
Maekar’s voice was rough, edged with restrained fury.
You froze.
He practically shoved Daeron through the doorway.
Your breath caught at the sight.
He looked utterly wrecked.
Pale as paper. Shirt stained — dark patches you couldn’t quite identify from this distance. His dirty blonde hair was disheveled, eyes hollow.
He looked smaller somehow.
Maekar muttered something low and harsh, gripping his arm as he dragged him toward the stairs.
For one fleeting second, Daeron’s gaze met yours.
There was no shy smile this time. Just exhaustion. And something else.
Shame, maybe.
Then they disappeared upstairs. Their footsteps growing quieter as they retreated upstairs.
You exhaled slowly.
You took that as your cue to leave before things got out of hand.
You grabbed your backpack from where you’d dropped it earlier and slung it over your shoulder.
Just as you were reaching for the door handle it opened again before you could stop it.
Your eyes glanced up. The man standing there was unfamiliar.
Tall — taller even than Maekar. Broad shoulders. Dark hair trimmed short. A neatly kept beard threaded with faint silver. His nose looked like it had been broken at least once. Despite it all he was handsome.
But his eyes were what caught you.
Mismatched.
One darker the other lighter.
“Oh," his voice was tinted with surprised as if he wasn't expecting to see you. "hello,” he greeted warmly.
His voice was calm and steady. Nothing like Maekar’s clipped authority.
Baelor. Valarr’s father.
You recognized him instantly. From his eyes
“Good evening,” you replied, suddenly aware again that you were in grey sweatpants and a borrowed t-shirt.
You needed to start dressing more carefully around these people.
He observed you carefully, a curious glint in his eyes.
“I take it you’re the young lady looking after Aegon,” he said straightening to full height.
“Yes. That would be me.”
For the first time in weeks, standing in front of a Targaryen, you did not feel evaluated.
You just felt… strangely seen.
“I’m Baelor,” he said, extending his hand. “Maekar’s brother.”
You shook it.
His grip was firm, calloused, warm.
The contrast between the size of your hands was almost comical.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the staircase where his brother had previously been.
“Well,” you said, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, “I should probably be going. It’s quite late.”
“It was nice meeting you,” he replied. “And please, just call me Baelor.”
You nodded. “Baelor.”
In all the weeks you had been working for Maekar he had never once offered you to call him by his first name. Which you didn't find strange. But obviously his brother was the polar opposite of him.
You stepped toward the door.
“Is someone coming to collect you?” he asked gently.
“Oh — no. I take the bus.”
You waited for the flicker of judgment from his gaze. It didn’t come.
“It’s late,” he said instead. “Allow me to drive you. It wouldn’t be wise for a young lady to wander alone at such hours.”
You immediately shook your head. “I appreciate it but that's really not necessary—”
He raised a hand lightly. Not dismissive. Reassuring, as if urging you not to argue with him about this.
“I’m heading that way regardless. I only stopped to ensure my brother handled Daeron properly.”
You hesitated. Another hour on public transport suddenly sounded exhausting.
“Alright,” you relented.
He did not bid Maekar goodbye instead he held the door open for you. You stepped into the cool air and your eyes fell upon the vehicle in front of the house.
The car parked outside nearly made you stop breathing.
Vintage Aston Martin.
Polished to a mirror finish. It was impossibly sleek. It looked like something out of a james bond film.
You tried to be as graceful as possible while walking towards the car and carefully opening the passenger door.
You slid into the passenger seat carefully, trying not to gape. The interior smelled faintly of leather and something woody.
Baelor fell into the drivers seat and put the keys into ignition.
As the engine purred to life, you folded your hands in your lap. What were you supposed to say?
Silence stretched briefly. You cleared your throat but before you could speak Baelor started.
“I hope my brother doesn’t give you too much trouble,” Baelor said gently. “I know he can be… intense.”
You were leaving the Targaryen house behind as you drove through some of the nicest streets in King's Landing.
You chose your words carefully.
“They’re… all very passionate.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
“That’s one way to describe us.”
The city lights blurred past as he drove smoothly through the sleeping streets.
“You handled Aegon’s lesson tonight?” he asked.
“Yes.” You replied tentatively.
You had a feeling he sensed something. How, you had no clue.
“And?”
You hesitated.
“We managed.”
He smiled faintly. “I imagine you did.”
There was something observant in the way he looked at you — not invasive. Just thoughtful.
“You’re studying at KLU, aren’t you?” he continued.
“Yes.” You told him your major and the fact you were studying abroad.
“A difficult path.”
“So I’ve been told.” You huffed.
He nodded once. “You carry yourself like someone who knows exactly where she’s headed.”
The comment caught you off guard.
“Thank you,” you murmured.
He glanced at you briefly.
“Not many people do at your age.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
The car slowed as you approached your neighborhood — noticeably less polished than the one you’d left behind.
He parked carefully near your building.
“Thank you,” you said sincerely, unbuckling.
“It was no trouble.” He smiled gently.
You opened the door but paused.
"Baelor?”
“Yes?”
“You’re… different from your brother.”
A small, knowing smile touched his lips.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am.”
You stepped out into the cool night air, watching as the Aston Martin disappeared down the street.
For the first time that evening, you felt something other than anxiety.
Something steadier.
And as you climbed the stairs to your apartment, one thought lingered:
Not all dragons burned the same.
—
You went into your apartment building sighing as you walked up the narrow stairwell to your floor. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming faintly.
There was always something happening at the Targaryen household.
Always some undercurrent. Some crisis. Some unspoken grief lurking behind polished marble countertops and expensive chandeliers.
You thought about Aegon.
About the way his voice had softened when he spoke about Dyanna.
About the way his spoon had stilled in the ice cream. The way his eyes had turned glassy but determined not to spill.
That hadn’t been a small gesture.
That had been raw, unfiltered trust.
A serious and fragile step in whatever strange thing the two of you were building.
Even if you were technically just his nanny.
You unlocked your apartment and stepped inside, the familiar scent of laundry detergent and old radiator heat greeting you like an anchor. Small and modest. But yours.
No ridiculously expensive furniture and ceiling high windows.
You dropped your bag onto the chair and leaned against the closed door for a moment.
He might start to look at you as a mother figure.
The thought made your stomach twist.
That was… a strange thought.
You could never replace his mother. You didn’t want to. You would never try to replicate something sacred like that.
A boy only has one mother. One lullaby voice in Dornish. One memory of black hair that smelled like oranges.
You weren’t her. You would never be here.
And you didn’t want to become some diluted substitute.
Still… he had looked at you like he needed someone.
And you had been there when no one else was.
You pushed the thought away.
Enough.
You changed into pajamas, washed your face, and crawled into bed telling yourself that for the next eight hours you would forget about dragons and their disasters.
No Maekar. No Daeron. And this time no Aegon.
No family tensions.
Somehow drifting off to sleep that evening felt uneasy and incredibly unsteady.
—
Your alarm didn’t wake you as it usually would have.
It was the vibration of your phone.
You groaned and blindly reached for the device on the nightstand, eyes still half glued shut with sleep.
You squinted at the brightness of the screen.
And your stomach dropped.
10 missed calls.
You blinked.
No. That couldn’t be right. You were either still sleeping or hallucinating.
You rubbed your eyes and looked again.
Two from Maekar. Three from Daeron. One from Aerion. Strangest of all. How did he even have your phone number?
Two from Rhae. Two from Daella. And two from Kiera.
Your heartbeat spiked instantly, slamming into your ribs like it was trying to escape.
What the hell. You shot upright in bed.
Your hands suddenly felt cold and sweaty. You opened your messages.
The first name at the top:
Daeron Targaryen
5+ unread messages.
Your pulse pounded in your ears as you tapped the thread open.
The messages came in frantic clusters.
Daeron
Hey.
Sorry about yesterday evening.
Are you awake?
Please answer.
Do you by any chance know where Aegon is?
Your vision tunneled.
Daeron
We can’t find him.
The words blurred for a second as dread settled into your chest like a stone.
You remembered clearly, he had gone upstairs to shower. He had said goodnight but he hadn't looked at you.
And you hadn’t followed him.
You hadn’t checked.
The guilt settled in your gut like a stone. God you were responsible for all of this.
He was clearly unregulated after yesterdays conversation.
Your breathing grew shallow
We can’t find him. The words floated around in your head.
Your thumb hovered uselessly over the screen as another notification buzzed in.
Daeron calling.
You stared at it ringing.
Your heart hammered harder.
Well shit.
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©padmespetal 2025 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION
sensitive boxer!choso kamo may your back muscles save me.
boxer!choso kamo tanked hits in the ring. indifferent as flesh met flesh in a messy collision, pushing through whatever cheap shot his opponent threw. whether they landed or not, choso stood solid. pushing forwards to drive his fist towards their skull.
boxer!choso had to be wrangled down for proper evaluation. bloody bruising lips parted as a low string of whimpers and whines left him whenever you glided disinfectant over torn wounds. the nurse on board left to supervising your medical work. like hell choso would let them 'heal' him when all he needed was you.
boxer!choso always walked out shirtless. heavy muscles sculpted by the lights of the stadium. shadows of his body creating sharp ridges that promised unforgiving precision. a coiled legality admired in the community.
boxer!choso flushing a pretty shade of red everytime you caught him without a top. heart rewiring when hed walk from the locker room showers, grey sweats lose around his hips and hair dripping rapidly chilling water. rigid when your fingers skimmed his abdomen, smearing water into his gradually burning skin. how did you always catch him at the worst of times?
boxer!choso known to be on the.. rougher side of the fighter spectrum. slamming the other man around then kneeing him straight in the diaphragm. hold on the guy so sure ugly yellow splotches bloomed beneath his fingers.
boxer!choso kept his hands delicate outside of fights. softly caressing your hip whilst you looked over his damaged skin, fingers thumming against your back shoulder when you two waited for the press confrence to commence.
boxer!choso needed to be told to actually notice the bombard of press and frantic fangirls. somehow the echoing squeals from girls of all ages and rapid fire questions shouted into microphones didnt quite reach his ears. nor his brain.
boxer!choso turned giddy when youd coo compliments at him. well, about him. somehow overhearing you gush about him to his management team — from the other side of the ring, in the midst of a screaming crowd. twitter captioned it, 'boner kamo'. most emotion theyd ever seen from him.
goldenboy!valarr hcs .𖥔 ݁ ˖
he loves seeing you all dolled up looking like a literal princess. he'll be the perfect gentleman all night, holding your hand, kissing your knuckles, but his eyes are promising filth. the second you're home, he's on his knees, lifting your skirt to press his face to your silk-covered cunt, breathing you in like he's starving. he could spend hours between your thighs, just looking at you, his fingers tracing your folds, his tongue flicking out to taste you.
he hates it when other men look at you. he'll wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his smile charming but his eyes cold. later, he'll be extra gentle, almost apologetic, as he fucks you slow and deep, his hands gripping your hips, his murmured praises a desperate attempt to remind himself that you're his. "you're mine, aren't you, baby?" he'll whisper, his voice thick with emotion. "all mine."
he loves to watch you. he loves the way you squirm, the way you beg, the way you fall apart for him. he's not just fucking you; he's worshiping you, and he needs to see every second of it. he'll hold your hand while you come, his thumb stroking your knuckles, his eyes locked on yours, a silent, intimate communion that's more possessive than any rough handling could ever be.
he's a doting control freak. he buys you anything you want, but it's always what he thinks you should have. he'll have your appointments scheduled, your life planned out to the last detail. he loves anticipating your needs. it makes him feel indispensable. before you can say you’re cold, there’s a shawl around your shoulders. before you can admit you’re tired, he’s canceling plans on your behalf. before you can decide you’re unhappy, he’s explaining why you’re not.
he hates surprises unless he planned them. he tracks your moods like weather patterns. if you’re quieter than usual, he notices immediately. if someone looks at you too long, he remembers their face. he adores you. he memorizes how you take your tea. he knows which side you sleep on. he keeps the first note you ever wrote him tucked in his wallet.
if you push back, he doesn’t explode. his voice stays soft. his hands stay gentle. but his jaw locks, and he starts using words like sensible and best for you. he’ll listen to you argue, truly listen, and then calmly dismantle every point until you’re the unreasonable one. "i’m not controlling you," he’ll murmur. "i’m taking care of you. there’s a difference."
⋆˙⟡ tagged: @capri-cuntz, @ughdontbeboring, @heavengirls111, @phia004
🤎 how would the other characters react to your relationship with aerion ⸺ modern!
⋆ a/n : for this request. it is a part of "can you play ken?" series, but you can read it as a standalone. this was so fun to write ^^ pic is for the aesthetic purposes only, there is no physical description of reader .
Tanselle literally sat there with her mouth slightly open while you were on that “double” date. (She already wished she’d never called it that, but oh well.)
The first time you suggested it — saying it might smooth things over on both sides, even though neither side wanted it but agreed just for you — she had two options.
a) Say she’d rather sell her mother’s entire vintage Chanel collection than ever sit at the same table with him.
b) Look you in the face and laugh, pointing out that Aerion would never agree to something like that, especially with her and Dunk there.
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝’𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐄𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 ┅ 𝖬𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇! 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋 𝖳𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗒𝖾𝗇 & 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵, 𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘩. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵.
﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚
one: ✶ two: ✶ three: ✶
EXTRAS: one: ✶ two: ✶ three: ✶ four: ✶
NOTE: This first chapter’s a little bit of a boring one, but I really wanted to get some of the world building out of the way, so I can really get into all the juicy stuff. This is ofc going to be a series, I can’t do it justice with just one chapter lol I still think this one’s an interesting read either way but please do let me know if it’s missing anything! Enjoy! 😉
You wake at 6:00 a.m.
Not because you have to, it’s become a habit really. It might also be because control of yourself is the one thing in this life that you can regulate.
The sky outside your dorm window at Columbia University is a washed-out, misty blue, Manhattan is still quiet, the city just waking up from its night time slumber. A slumber which you did not seem to have, considering the terrible case of dark under eyes you’ve started to develop.
You lie still for exactly thirty seconds. Surrounded in your white and blue seashell bedspread, a unique pick your roommate said. It just reminded you of your summer home is all.
Then you sit up.
