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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.
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."
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.
Your room is meticulous but lived-in. Two monitors glow faintly from sleep mode, an extra large whiteboard near your desk is crowded with flowcharts, revenue models, and predictive analytics sketches. Sticky notes line the edge of your bookshelf like a battalion awaiting for your orders.
Most people your age wake up thinking about the next party to get shittered at. You wake up thinking about market share. As boring as it sounds, it’s defined your life.
You pad across the floor, brushing your hair back from the tangled nest it turned into overnight. You open your phone, already checking overnight reports.
User growth: +2.3%
Server latency: stable
Investor inquiry: flagged
You allow yourself a small smile and nod. If your father was here, he’d call this steady, then he’d continue to make a terribly unfunny pun about snowbanks or fringe benefits.
You call this progress promising.
—
6:30 a.m. — Butler Library
You’re first in line when the doors open. On most days your top ten. Number one always means a good day.
You scan around the plaza looking for the cranky old lady that’s been working here since the dawn of time. She caught you eating lunch once, she stalked you for the rest of the month. It still gets you mad thinking about it.
The security guard, Mr. Halpern, gives you a knowing look.
“Morning, future Ms. Billionaire.” He says, tipping his hat that has ‘staff’ embroidered on it.
“Morning,” you reply dryly. “And that’s current Ms. Billionaire to you.”
You hear him chuckle, his voice fading as you quickly walk past him.
You take your usual corner table in Butler Library. Headphones on, and laptop open. The screens synced to your family's company development environment.
Your family’s tech firm, founded by your parents, didn’t really take off until after your mother died, it was supposed to stay small, it was supposed to be stable.
Instead, it became disruptive, something dangerous.
Becoming a growing giant in its own right, threatening companies that have been constant in the market since forever. Especially to firms like the Targaryen Capital.
You run diagnostics on your latest algorithm update, fingers flying over the keys. You built this subsystem yourself, predictive infrastructure modeling designed to outmaneuver legacy logistics firms. Taught by the very best, your mother.
The irony isn’t lost on you.
The largest legacy firm in Manhattan?
Owned by the Targaryens.
—
8:45 a.m. — Corporate scheming
The lecture hall fills with the polished ambition of the masses.
Here in these halls, old money mingles with the new.
You take your seat beside Rohanne Webber, fashionably sharp, razor-minded, and heir to an agricultural biotech empire that pretends it isn’t the monopoly beast that it is.
She leans over, taking her pencils out.
“Are you ready for Langley’s case study?”
“I rewrote it last night, a case study isn’t gonna get the best of me” you reply.
She smirks. “Of course you did, nerd.”
Behind you, a chair scrapes on the polished floor.
You don’t need to turn your head to know who sits behind you everyday of class.
Valarr Targaryen.
Dark chest in hair, with his distinct silver-blond lock. His hair is always slightly loose, his wrist always iced with the latest models of watches. Black polos that he makes look so tempting paired with his toned and defined biceps. Dress pants fitted within an inch of perfection. He moves like someone raised to expect space to clear for him, very…Targaryen.
And in his Defense it does.
Two rows over, Daeron Targaryen, his cousin, laughs loudly at something Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen says. Both men, heir to a venture capital firm known for hostile takeovers. Founded by their father, Maekar Targaryen.
Although they look like opposites, the two brothers are trouble dressed in a very large trust fund.
“Try not to eviscerate anyone today hm,” Rohanne murmurs.
You fight the urge to roll your eyes, “No promises.”
Professor Langley begins. “I hope you all had a light breakfast today, if not, try not to regurgitate it all over my clean floors. We’re covering something new, the topic, Strategic Acquisition vs Strategic Alliance. Someone tell me anything they know about this.”
Your pulse sharpens, you hate being the one to open discussions, because most of the time it is you. So you settle and wait for a possible chance that someone else raises their hand.
Valarr’s gaze is on the board, and so is everyone else’s.
It was quiet.
“Don’t all shout at once.” Professor Langley jokes.
You sigh and raise your hand first.
“Hostile acquisition creates instability in innovation sectors,” you say evenly. “Partnership allows growth without erasure.”
Aerion scoffs audibly. “Everyone knows that’s what small firms say before they get swallowed.”
You don’t look at him. “That’s what outdated firms say before they collapse.”
A low murmur spreads.Then—
“She’s correct.” The voice is calm. Valarr, the young heir himself.
He doesn’t look at you. He addresses the professor.
“Hostile absorption works when legacy firms hold leverage. But in tech sectors with adaptive leadership? It accelerates rebellion.”
Aerion rolls his eyes. “You sound like a bore cousin, defending a small company for what?”
Valarr’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m defending efficiency, and you should know about this already.”
But his gaze flickers to you for half a second. Lucky you don’t catch it.
—
11:00 a.m. — Walk Across Campus
You’re halfway down the stone steps when someone matches your stride.
The shadow looming over you making it obvious who it is, either Duncan or—
“Adaptive leadership?” Valarr says, running his hands through his hair.
‘How does it always fall so perfectly?’
“You disagreed?” You look his way.
“No.”
“You rarely speak in class y’know.”
“I for one find it more effective when I speak when it matters.”
You stop at the iron gates, turning your body to face his. “And today mattered?”
He studies you for a moment, assessing you like the beautiful man he is.
He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck with his hand, eyes looking at anything but you.“Well, you matter.”
His words land heavier than they should.
Before you can respond, Dunk joins you, Duncan “Dunk” the tall, towering rugby build, kinesiology major, soft-spoken, and incredibly stupid. It’s one of the schools seven wonders how he got accepted in, some floating rumours say his adopted father had connections in high places.
“Are you two arguing economics again?” Dunk asks.
“Always,” you reply.
Valarr’s tone is mild. “It keeps things interesting.”
Dunk grins. “You’re both so weird.”
You and Valarr answer at the same time. “I know.”
You glance at each other.
And for a split second, something almost warm flickers there.
Dunk continues to talk about how he had to get his ACL checked out, last night's game must’ve done a solid on him.
His carefree chatter almost makes you forget about Valarr’s words earlier. Almost.
—
2:00 p.m. — Call with Father Dearest
You sit on the steps outside Low Library. The cold stone material, mixed with the cool breeze give you goosebumps.
“Hi Dad.”
“Hey sweetie, how’s my princess doing? How’s campus?”
“Competitive.”
A faint chuckle. “The campus or you?”
“Haha Dad, kinda both but I’m doing fine, the same as always.” You say sarcastically, fidgeting with the laces of your shoes.
“I saw that the Targaryens are moving again,” you say quietly.
“Yeah, you saw huh?”
“Are we okay?”
A pause.
“We’re stable.”
You know your dad, he’s a serious man when it comes to the efforts you and your mom have put in, this wasn’t reassurance, he always sounded like this when he was planning.
“You don’t have to carry this, your mom and I—,”
“I want to.” You always have.
You can hear the sigh he lets out over the phone, “You’ll always be our clever girl, your mom would be so proud.” He says gently.
“I know Dad.”
—
6:00 p.m. — Study Session
You’re in a private study room with Rohanne and Dunk.
Aerion leans against the doorway, obviously uninvited.
“Did you see the market dip?” he asks casually, chewing on a couple of walnuts from his open palm.
“It’s temporary,” you respond without looking up.
“For you,” he clarifies.
Rohanne closes her laptop sharply. “Do you ever get bored of being insufferable?”
Aerion smirks, and shrugs. “Not particularly no.”
A shadow falls across the doorway, Valar again. You pan your eyes to his, and raise your eye brow.
‘This boy and his annoyingly gorgeous face.’
He doesn’t raise his voice. “Aerion.”
Just his name.
Aerion straightens slightly, irritation flickering, but he leaves. “Fine, whatever you say, cousin.”
Dunk whistles softly. “What’re you trying to do? Assert your dominance over us?”
Valarr shrugs, cracking a small smile. “He thrives on reaction, best not give in to his whims.”
“And you don’t?” you ask.
His gaze slides to you, his smile still on his face “Only selectively.”
—
11:47 p.m. — Your Dorm Room
The campus is quiet now.
Your roommate is away for the rest of the week and the weekend.
Quickly changing into a comfortable pajama set, something light and breathable to get you through the hot night. A lace camisole and matching lace shorts.
You sit cross-legged on your bed, laptop open, the glow of the Manhattan night life bleeding through the linen curtains.
You’re reviewing investor projections when a soft knock hits your window.
You freeze.
‘It’s the third floor. There's no way—’
Another tap.
You rise slowly, heart pounding, and pull the curtain aside.
You let out a relieved sigh.
It’s fucking Valarr, standing on the narrow exterior ledge with a dopey look on his face, acting like this is completely reasonable and normal.
You unlock the window immediately.
“Are you insane?” you whisper as he slips inside.
“Probably.” He grunts, hauling himself inside and out of the night air.
Once inside he leans close to you and covers your hand that’s on the window latch, and pushes it, closing the window softly.
He’s not wearing a jacket, just a cream coloured undershirt and a dark sweater with the Targaryen crest on his chest. His hair slightly wind-touched.
“You couldn’t text?” you ask.
He leaned on your desk, arms crossed, “I did.”
You glance at your phone.
Three missed notifications. You were too deep in code to hear them.
“Oh shoot, okay then, what are you doing here?” you ask quietly.
He ignores your question and studies your room, the whiteboard, the charts, the glowing monitors.
“You never stop do you?”
“That’s not an answer, Valarr.”
He steps closer.
Close enough that you can see the faint tension in his jaw.
“My father is meeting yours tomorrow.”
Your stomach drops, and your mind rushes to the worst thoughts.
“For what.”
“An agreement.”
The word feels sharp.
“What kind of agreement?”
His voice lowers.
“One that could possibly bind our families.”
Silence stretches.
“Okay then, I don’t know what you're trying to do with this riddle me this crap, but I won’t press further if you can’t tell me.”
Your pulse is loud in your ears.
“So, back to my question, what do you want?” you ask carefully.
For once, Valarr Targaryen doesn’t look composed.
He reaches out slowly, fingers brushing your wrist.
“I just wanted to see you, and I need to tell you that lots of things will be changing in the following weeks. I don’t want to decide knowing that…”
“Knowing what?”
“That if this, whatever it is between us becomes…strategic—”
His thumb presses lightly over your pulse.
“—it won’t be because I didn’t fight it.”
The air between you shifts.
“You climbed three floors just to tell me that?” you whisper.
“Yes.”
You search his face.
“For the company?” you ask softly.
A beat.
“For you.”
Your breath catches, and he steps closer. Close enough that he forces your back to hit the edge of your bed.
The city hums outside while the Valarr Targaryen, heir to a large legacy, raised in marble halls and boardrooms, presses his forehead lightly to yours.
“You work too hard, gets me so worried sometimes,” he murmurs.
“So do you.”
A faint exhale of almost-laughter. “Probably.”
His hand slides to your waist, and his fingers climb under your loose camisole.
His actions are slow, and deliberate. Just like everything else he does.
And when he finally presses those lips of his against yours, kissing you, it isn’t rushed.
It isn’t careless, and it feels, oh so inevitable.
Outside your window, Manhattan never stops moving. But inside your dorm room, time does.
—
Valarr kisses like he debates, measured, and passionate. His hand at your waist wanders, scaling your whole body.
You’re the one who shifts first.
Your hands slide from his chest to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his sweater. It’s soft, warm. He feels solid under your touch, steady in a way that makes your pulse race harder.
“You’re so reckless,” you murmur against his mouth.
“For climbing the building?” he asks quietly.
“For coming here at all.”
His lips brush yours again, slower this time. “I calculated the risk.”
“You calculated it,” you echo, breath catching when his hand moves higher along your back, itching to free you from your clothes. “That’s worse.”
A faint, almost-smile ghosts across his mouth.
“Probably.”
He kisses you again, deeper now.
Your computer screen dims and eventually turns off, plunging half the room into shadow. The only light source is the fairy lights in your room, and the city light spilling through the curtains, painting warm silver against his hair.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“Your father’s meeting mine tomorrow,” you remind him.
“I know.”
“And you’re here instead of preparing for whatever that means.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “I’ve been preparing my entire life.”
“And what if this becomes…strategic?” you ask softly.
His gaze sharpens. “It won’t feel like that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
The confidence in his voice makes your stomach flip.
Your hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the cool line of his hair. He inhales sharply, barely noticeable, but you feel it.
That tiny loss of composure.
“You don’t lose control,” you whisper.
His eyes darken slightly. “I’m not losing it.”
“Then what is this?”
He leans forward more, laying you down on your bed as he grabs his sweater from behind, taking it off in one solid motion. His shirt is plain, no designs.
You don’t have enough time to study him further because he repeats the same action that he did with his sweater to his shirt. Leaving a very shirtless Valarr looming over you.
“This,” he says quietly, “is me choosing.”
Your heart stutters, and you try not to just drool over his toned body. But you give yourself some leeway and let your gaze fall down his body.
“Choosing what?” You gulp.
“You.”
The word settles between you, heavy and warm.
You try to keep your composure. You really do.
The air feels thinner now.
Charged.
You take the first step this time, wrapping your hands around his neck, and pulling him down to kiss you.
His restraint is fraying at the edges. His hands under your camisole tug the fabric away from your skin and over your head, leaving your chest bare.
“Careful,” he murmurs, though his voice is lower now, rougher at the edges.
“Why?” you challenge softly.
He pauses.
Then, near your ear: “Because I’m already having a difficult time behaving.”
The admission sends warmth rushing straight to your face.
You tilt your head slightly, lips brushing his jaw. “You climbed three floors. I think that ship sailed, besides it’s not like we haven’t done this before.”
A quiet exhale, almost a laugh, leaves him.
He lifts your legs and places them on the bed, making you fully lay down. He climbs onto your bed, over you. He starts lightly kissing the valley of your breasts, hands cupping the mounds, his fingers occasionally teasing the buds, which drag a whine out of your mouth.
He starts to migrate downwards, kissing your skin along the way, eliciting more sounds from you.
“Still so sensitive aren’t you? So much sound already and I haven’t done anything yet.”
If the redness of your face hadn’t engulfed you completely, it has now. “Just take off your pants already, it’s not fair.”
He chuckles and pulls back just enough to look at you in all your wantone glory.
There’s something different in his expression now.
Less of the polished heir, and more of him.
He leans back down to kiss you. “My sweet girl, as much as I’d love to have my way with you right now, you should sleep,” he says quietly.
You blink. “You break into my dorm room, give me the female equivalent of blue balls, and now you’re being responsible?”
“Yes…besides you have a—”
“God Valarr! You can’t leave me like this!” You huff and pull your underwear back on. So much for being a gentleman.
You flail your arms trying to grab the rest of your clothes when Valarr crashes down on you and grabs your waist, trapping you to his chest.
You try to free yourself, but he doesn't budge.
“We have a test tomorrow, and it’s already past midnight. It'll be Friday anyways, come hangout with me over the weekend and then I'll show you what I can really do.”
You groan, you forgot all about that test. Maybe he did have a point, Valarr had a habit of finishing something till the very end once he got too deep in. You’d know.
You snuggle closer to his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin surrounding you.
His hand lingers at your waist, thumb brushing lightly against your side. It's almost absentminded, except it isn’t. He’s very aware of what he’s doing.
“You’re thinking too much,” you say softly.
“I always am.”
“About…?”
“About you.”
That catches you off guard.
He leans down, pressing a slower kiss to your lips this time. So tender It steals your ability to form a witty response.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again.
“Stay,” you say before you can stop yourself.
“Funny you think I was gonna leave,” he says.
—
The executive floor of Targaryen Capital is quieter than the rest of the building. A stark contrast from the bustling halls filled with fresh interns, and accustomed employees.
Assistants move like clockwork, they work swiftly and in sync to open the doors, closing it softly after the group of men walk into the private office. They don't linger any further.
Your father is led not to the standard boardroom, but to the legacy office. It belongs to Daeron II Targaryen, current CEO and patriarch of the Targaryen family.
The man isn’t the biggest fan of the financial press, or any type of press for that matter. Little is known about him, and unlike his grandchildren he prefers to stay discreet, he controls the family from afar.
Inside, the office feels less corporate and more dynastic, dark wood shelves, and leather-bound ledgers.
A portrait wall is the most noticeable thing in the room, generations of silver-haired predecessors staring down like silent jurors.
Daeron II stands near the window when your father enters.
He turns slowly. He looks less like a CEO and more akin to a king.
“Sir,” he greets your father evenly.
“Mr. Targaryen.”
Baelor Targaryen stands to the side of the desk, his usual role being a primary negotiator for his father in his absence. But not today it seemed. The matter with your father urged for a more special appearance.
Daeron gestures to the chairs.
“Please, sit.” Your father obliges, making himself comfortable in the leather chair.
Daeron folds his hands atop a thin leather portfolio.
“Your expansion into municipal AI infrastructure has increased 18% this quarter.”
Your father nods once. “Yes, it has.”
Daeron nods, “very impressive indeed. You’ve secured contracts previously considered stable under our management.”
“Competitive bids,” your father corrects.
Daeron inclines his head slightly. “Competitive, yes.”
The tone of his voice is neutral, but not approving.
Baelor speaks next. “You’re moving faster than projected.”
Your father doesn’t deny it. “We don’t intend to plateau.”
Daeron studies him. “And do you intend to survive this pace you find yourself in?”
There it is. This wasn't concern from a fellow company competitor, this was a test.
Your father’s voice remains calm. “We didn’t build this to collapse under pressure.”
“No,” Daeron agrees quietly. “You built it to disrupt.”
Silence settles, and Baelor breaks it by sliding a folder across the desk.
Inside lay a proposed collaboration framework, data-sharing agreements, minority stake investments, and territorial limitations, among other things.
“We’re prepared to offer controlled partnerships in select markets. A very good deal on your part,” Baelor says.
Daeron lists them evenly. They are, coincidentally, the most profitable regions.
Your father closes the folder gently, he had no intention of becoming a simple lamb to the slaughter, not the kind of example he’d like to set for his daughter. “You’re asking us to cap our growth.”
“We’re asking you to ensure your longevity.”
“That sounds more like containment to me.”
Baelor’s jaw tightens slightly, if Daeron is displeased he doesn't show it, his expression staying settled like stone. “It is a balance.”
Your father leans back slightly, crossing his arms. “With all due respect,” he says calmly, “your company has enjoyed dominance for decades. We’re offering something innovative, efficient, and adaptable.”
“And volatility,” Baelor counters.
“Innovation always appears volatile to those invested in tradition.”
Daeron’s gaze sharpens faintly. “You speak as though we are obsolete.”
“I speak as though markets evolve, which we all know is true. The only consistent thing in this market is change gentlemen.” your father embellished his words with his arms, ending in a clasped state over his legs.
Daeron stands slowly and walks toward the window. “When my grandfather led this firm,” he says quietly, “he was told modern banking would render our methods outdated.”
He turns slightly. “We adapted.”
Baelor watches your father carefully. “You mistake us for rigid,” Baelor says. “We are not.”
“Then compete, and prove so with numbers,” your father replies.
“We have been,” Daeron says.
Baelor opens another document from behind his back. “Litigation review,” he says. “Regulatory compliance audits, potential patent disputes.”
Your father doesn’t blink. “We’ve anticipated that.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“You think we’re unprepared.”
“We think you’re becoming too ambitious.”
Your father sighs, shaking his head, “and ambition seems to concern everyone these days.”
“Unchecked ambition destabilizes markets.”
“Or it reshapes them,” your father retaliates.
Silence again, a little longer this time. None of the partnership proposals have landed, every offer has been deflected, and every concession reframed as weakness.
Despite the temperature in the room not rising, the three men in the room can feel the sweat of tension.
Daeron returns to his seat.
His voice softens, not kindly, but strategically. Your father proved to be a harder hurdle to jump over. They’d have to use another sense of leverage.
“You have one child.” It’s not a question.
Your father narrows his eyes. “Yes.”
“A daughter?”
“Yes.” Your father twists his wedding band under the table, away from the prying eyes of the two bloodthirsty dragons in front of him. He can't afford to show any signs of weakness. ‘Bastard already knows I have a daughter.’
“She attends Columbia.”
“Yes.” He’s starting to sound like a broken record.
Baelor speaks carefully now. “My son does as well.” If they were placed in a different setting, his words might’ve seemed like they held warmth.
“They’re in the same program I hear,” Baelor continues. “The same environment, competing in the same simulations.”
“And?” your father asks.
Daeron studies him. “We do believe that the next generation shapes perception.”
“Of what?”
“Of stability.”
Your father says nothing.
Daeron folds his hands. “Markets react not only to numbers,” he says calmly. “But to optics, signals, and of course alliances.”
Alliances.
The word lingers.
Baelor continues the thought. “A public demonstration of cooperative intent between our families would immediately stabilize investor confidence. Perhaps even boost our many ambitions”
Your father meets his gaze directly, and he speaks. “You’ve exhausted structural agreements.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve threatened regulatory action.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re concerned about perception.”
Daeron doesn’t deny it. “Perception shapes valuation after all.”
“And valuation shapes power I suppose,” your father replies.
“Exactly.”
Your father stands slowly. “So what is it you’re actually proposing?”
Baelor glances briefly at his father, and Daeron answers carefully. “How about a more permanent signal of unity.”
Your father’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “My daughter is not fodder for business.”
Baelor speaks quickly. “Nor is my son.”
“Then don’t frame them as leverage.” Your fathers voice itching to reach a higher octave.
Daeron holds your father’s gaze. “We are discussing futures. Survival” he says.
Your father doesn’t sit back down. “We built our company without your backing, and we will continue to do so.”
Baelor stands now as well. “And if escalation becomes inevitable between us?”
Your father’s answer is immediate. “Then we escalate, as is business.”
Every business path has failed. Only one strategic avenue remains.
They shake hands again. This time, the grip is deadly firm.
—
When your father leaves, Baelor remains standing beside Daeron’s desk. “He won’t concede,” Baelor says quietly.
Daeron nods. “No he wont.”
“And direct competition will damage both sides.”
“It will.”
Baelor exhales slowly. “Then we’re left with-”
Daeron raises a hand slightly. “Not yet.”
Baelor studies him. “You’re considering it.”
“I’m considering all viable solutions.”
“And you believe-”
“I believe,” Daeron says calmly, “that legacy survives through adaptation. Just like our ancestors have always done, we will adapt. As is the way of the dragon.”
—
The letter arrived just before dusk.
Not by email, and not by assistant, but by courier.
Your father knew it mattered the moment he saw the envelope. It was heavy, thick cream stock, unadorned except for a faint silver embossing in the corner. A three-headed dragon, subtle enough to be mistaken for decorative filigree by anyone who didn’t understand what it meant.
He dismissed his assistant with a quiet thank you and closed the office door himself. He did not open the envelope immediately.
Instead, he set it on his desk and walked to the window.
Three days earlier, he had sat across from Daeron II Targaryen, and his son Baelor in a room lined with portraits of dead men who had built wealth like fortresses. They had negotiated cleanly to no avail.
Every offer had failed.
He returned to his desk and broke the seal. The paper inside was heavier than necessary.
He unfolded it once, and began to read.
—
The letter acknowledged the rise of his company.
It stated plainly what none of them had wanted to concede in person, that prolonged competition would erode confidence in both parties.
Then, halfway down the page, the letter shifted.
Conventional agreements have proven insufficient, it said.
Direct rivalry threatens generational stability. Therefore, a permanent alliance is proposed.
His gaze slowed.
A formal union between our eldest son, Valarr Targaryen, and your eldest daughter.
He could feel his hands tremble. He read the sentence again, then the paragraph below it.
The union would signal stability. Consolidate legacy and innovation. Protect valuation. Prevent regulatory opportunism.
They just had to disguise it as business. He set the paper down.
The office suddenly felt smaller.
He had anticipated many kinds of escalation. Lawsuits, market manipulation disguised as compliance review.
He had not expected this. No, that wasn’t true. He had expected it.
He had just hoped they would not move that piece.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
When his wife had died, he had promised himself one thing: that their daughter would inherit power, not dependency.
They had built the company for that reason. So she would never be cornered, never reduced to bargaining collateral.
And yet here it was.
God, his wife would’ve killed him if she was still here.
He picked up the letter again. It didn’t say what would happen if he refused.
It didn’t need to.
Markets were fragile, and regulators were fickle.
And the Targaryens were patient.
His company could survive the coming war. But survival was not the same as thriving.
And the casualties would not be counted only in numbers.
He turned to the final page. Two signatures.
Daeron II Targaryen. Chief Executive Officer.
And beneath it, Baelor Targaryen. Executive Director.
The father and the heir.
He imagined his daughter’s face if he showed her this. He could imagine the sharp lift of her chin, and the wrinkle of her nose that she definitely inherited from her mother.
The anger.
Because she was his child.
He exhaled slowly. Then pulled a blank sheet toward him.
If they wanted permanence, they would not get it cheaply.
He wrote carefully.
He made it clear, without writing the words, that his daughter would not disappear inside a dragon’s shadow.
The response came the next morning.
Not by courier this time, but by private line.
He read it alone.
Every condition he had placed to protect his daughter had been agreed to.
He set the document down and stared at it for a long time.
Then he reached for the phone. The call connected almost immediately.
“Baelor,” he said.
A pause on the other end. “Yes.”
There were a dozen ways to begin.
“We accept.”
“It will be handled discreetly,” Baelor replied. “Until a formal announcement benefits both parties.”
“See that it is.”
“It will be.”
Then the line went dead.
Your father remained seated, the phone still in his hand. Outside, traffic moved in steady lines of red and white.
Somewhere in Manhattan, you were likely bent over your laptop, unaware that your future had just been drafted in ink.
He looked down at the letter once more.
A marriage.
He closed the folder and locked it in his desk drawer.
Then he stood, because he still had to tell you. His darling girl. He could picture it now, you’d berate him for bartering your life with a boy you most likely hate. But then you’d agree that the plan was ingenious and you you’d see that you wouldn’t be attached to the Targaryen heir for long, you could divorce once the marriage had been settled, and earn yourself enough coin to hurt your husband's pockets while doing so.
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can you write a drabble for loser!aerion? maybe him being all pathetic and begging for sex with his gf
ugh you guys spoil me with loser!aerion he’s just my type
he would be begging you all day, clutching your side like a lovesick puppy. when you sat poolside in the tiniest bikini he’d ever seen, trying to catch a tan. but he stood blocking the sun with his arms folded, eyes unable to fix upon yours when you looked like a glazed donut.
“let me fuck you.” his tone would be dominant, like he was trying to force himself into victory.
“later.”
“come on, baby. please.” he would whine, quickly becoming putty in your hands. “you look so good.”
usually playing into your looks got you into bed, he knew exactly how to make you feel good. but you were adamant on making him wait, loving the way he whined in your ear all day. begging to let him fuck you, to use your body to make himself feel good. and make you finish until you were both on the verge of collapse.
“hm. convince me.” you folded your arms.
he was on his knees beside you within seconds, hands cradling your cheeks to crane your head to look at him.
“i’ll make you feel so good, like i always do.” he whispered, his lips swollen as they quivered in desperation. “i’ll eat you out until you push my head away. promise i’ll be so good.”
modern!aerion who has a reputation for being a party boy, a troublemaker, and a stain on his father's pristine business reputation.
modern!aerion who is captured leaving the club with a new woman each week, never ever the same one.
modern!aerion who goes radio silent for close to a year, and people can only assume that he's been punished and hidden for his poor behaviour finally. then, a year later, he resurfaces on the streets with no explanation for where he's been.
papparazzi who capture pictures of modern!aerion in his home through his floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a tiny, silver-haired baby.
modern!aerion who breaks the internet with the public statement he puts out: yes, that's his daughter. no, he won't say who the mother is. no, he won't be sharing any more details.
modern!aerion, who starts going out for walks in the town, pushing his daughter's pram in front of him, ignoring the gaping mouths of the people seeing the scene once thought impossible.
modern!aerion who, after a month or so, appears to have hired a nanny. you appear with him on outings, holding his daughter in your arms, snuggling her into your chest as you walk side-by-side, engaging in casual conversation.
the speculation goes crazy, and soon articles are appearing about you across the web, looking into your background, your education, your career.
but people don't believe there's anything between you two. you look nothing like the type modern!aerion usually goes for, and while you both seem friendly, there's nothing overly flirtatious or romatic coming across.
modern!aerion who seems unbothered by the speculation, and has begun bringing you on family trips away. you and modern!aerion are spotted at tourist sights, his daughter being passed between the two of you throughout the day.
modern!aerion who is rumoured to have lunch with his daughter and her nanny multiple times a week. people spot you in the Targaryen business building regularly, his growing daughter in your arms as you bring her to see her father.
modern!aerion who waves goodbye to you before heading back to work, you keeping his daughter entertained in the public park as you play with her on the picnic mat.
modern!maekar who constantly affirms in his business speeches the benefit of having good employees, and people naturally assume that refers to you too.
you, modern!aerion's nanny, who is even seen dropping egg off at school one morning. people speculate that your duties have been expanded.
modern!aerion and his nanny who are spotted kissing one night, his daughter nowhere to be seen, his hands on your waist and lips on yours. the news breaks the internet, and people are losing their minds. you and modern!aerion???
modern!aerion who simply puts out a statement to quell the rumours, only to invite 100 more in. he only told them the truth – that you had been his girlfriend this whole time, and that his daughter was also yours too. why were people so stunned, modern!aerion muttered.
people start revisiting old photos, realising what they'd missed the whole time. you and modern!aerion don't act like a flirtatious new couple, rather an old, married one – a secure couple with a giggling, charming baby girl that loved to snuggle in her mother's arms so much that she tends to keep you occupied, so much so that you forget to show any affection to your boyfriend in public.
modern!aerion who takes to trying to hold your hand in public more now, and who tries to show his love for you more clearly to avoid any more confusion.
modern!aerion who didn't want to share your details with the world because he didn't want you to face any scrutiny for being with someone like him, but grew surprised when you didn't mind being shown as someone in his orbit.
modern!maekar who happily announces his second son's engagement only a few months later, modern!aerion beaming down at you as his now fiancée and your growing daughter in tucked comfortably in her father's arms. he's got everything he always secretly wanted and he couldn't be happier.
