content warning: 18+, MDNI. petnames (sweetheart), age gap (reader is mid 20’s), reader is naive, dubcon (??) pussy inspection, smut - fingering, edging, i think that’s it..
a/n: based on a request from anon! i feel like i’ve read something like this before.. i’m really sorry if this is similar to another fic, and if it is, i’d love for someone to tell me which! also i lowk don’t even like this but it’s fine.. not proofread!
word count: 798
masterlist | jack abbot masterlist
you had found yourself sitting on a doctor’s examination table in an uncomfortable gown after some embarrassing deliberation.
something you had always been ashamed to admit was that you were still a virgin despite being in your mid twenties. you had never even put your own fingers inside of you before.
you had ended up in the doctors office after realising you were finding it hard to get wet or anything inside of you.
the bed creaked beneath you every time you shifted. you were nervous to have to discuss this with someone, especially a doctor. it wasn’t exactly an emergency, but more of a personal worry.
you were snapped out of your thoughts when the door opened and a man walked in. he was tall and quite big, his eyes were kind and determined as he looked at you, lathering hand sanitiser on his hands.
“hello, i’m dr. abbot. i’ll be working with you today. what’s your name?” he introduced himself, dragging a metal stool over so he could sit in front of you.
you nervously told him your name, meeting his steady eyes with a shy look.
jack quickly picked up on how innocent you looked. he had seen countless nervous people in his years of being a doctor, but you had something else about you.
he nodded and reached for the chart that the nurse had taken previously. “it says here you’re having problems with.. penetration?” jack raised an eyebrow as he read the chart. that certainly wasn’t what he was expecting.
your face flushed as he read it aloud. your problem sounded stupid coming from his mouth. you nodded as if to confirm what he had just read. “y- yeah. i haven’t- i’ve never..” you mumbled before trailing off, the words dying on your tongue from the embarrassment.
“nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetheart.” jack immediately interrupted, catching onto your nervousness. he felt a perverted rush go straight to his dick when he realised he was going to have to help fix your problem.
the position jack had insisted you be in felt inappropriate, but he was the doctor after all.
jack slipped on some latex gloves as he watched you lie back and spread your legs, trying to avoid eye contact as much as possible.
“good job, sweetheart. that’s good.” he nodded as he moved to be standing over you. “i’m going to check how you react to penetration that isn’t from yourself.” he told you, carefully moving the gown you had on so that he could see your pussy.
a small gasp escaped your lips as he pressed the tip of his middle finger into your folds. the feeling grew more overwhelming the more he pushed in.
you whimpered as you felt how big his finger was. this was the first time you’d ever had anything inside of you, and his fingers were way thicker than your own.
“how does that feel?” jack asked when he pushed his finger into all the way. you felt unbelievably tight around him.
“o- okay, dr. abbot. it feels.. you feel big.” you sheepishly admitted. could you even say something like that to a doctor?
jack had to bite back a groan at the way you spoke. you really were as innocent as you looked.
“could you do some more? i just have to check inside. make sure everything is okay.” he told you carefully.
you nodded in submission. “okay, dr. abbot. whatever you need me to do.” you told him.
a few minutes later, you were soaked on three of jack’s fingers. the stretch had given you an uncomfortable burn for awhile, but the persistent pumping of his fingers faded into a pleasure you’d never felt before.
jack absorbed every whimper that came from you, the sounds only spurring him on further. he knew you were still under the impression this was still just an examination.
your hands reached out to grasp onto jack’s wrist as soon as you felt yourself growing overwhelmed. your brain was beginning to shut off from the feeling of it all.
“dr. abbot! i feel- it feels like a lot-“ you gasped, meeting his dark eyes. right before you fell over the edge, jack pulled his fingers out abruptly, the latex soaking wet with your arousal.
“you seem healthy. i think the problem was you needed someone who understood your body better than yourself.” jack said, sounding matter of fact in his diagnosis.
you felt confused and edged from what had just happened, but you were ultimately relieved to hear that there was nothing wrong with you.
you gathered your clothes as you got up from the bed. “thank you, dr. abbot.” you said quietly, watching as he walked out of the room with a smug smile on his face.
in which jack gives you unsolicited advice on vibrators and how to use them.
genre: smut!! 18+ mdni!!!
(a/n: can't sleep, feeling weird. deciding to write to get my mind off things. sorry it's kinda filthy lol what can i say.)
You were running on four hours of sleep and weeks of agonizing physical frustration. So yes, technically, sitting in the breakroom with a tab open to a high rated silicone toy review page wasn't ideal workplace decorum. But you were on your break. Off the clock, tired, frustrated, and researching every available avenue to make something happen.
"That one’s no good."
You froze, every muscle locking up. You slowly turned around to see Jack leaning over, eyeing your phone screen.
Before you could scramble to lock your phone or throw it across the room, Jack gave a casual, unbothered shrug and walked right out the door.
The rest of the night was psychological torture. Back on the floor, Jack acting like he said nothing. Not a smirk. Not a lingering look. Nothing. By the time you clocked out, you were convinced you’d hallucinated the entire breakroom encounter.
…
Two glasses of wine later back at your apartment, unwinding on the couch and feeling comfortably tipsy, your phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Jack: I can make some good recommendations for you.
You snorted into your glass, staring at the screen. The wine gave you a reckless surge of courage, and your thumbs moved before your brain could filter them.
You: you gonna show me how to use it?
His reply came back within seconds.
Jack: Yeah. My place tomorrow?
…
So that’s how you were here. On Jack Abbot’s lap, writhing as his thumb guided a small, buzzy, impossibly effective vibrating bullet directly against your center. His hand was around your hip, holding you steady while his hard length pressed hot against you through the fabric of his sweatpants.
"Told you the other one was overrated." he murmured against your neck, his voice raspy.
You let out a breath, hands clutching his shoulders as you rolled your hips into his palm.
"That good?" Jack said into your skin, tightening his grip on your hip as you squirmed against him. "Need you to come all over my lap, sweetheart."
casually sexting jack abbot while you’re on the couch eating snacks with a face mask on, barely paying attention but still amused by how excited he was getting. lazily lifting your shirt and snapping a pic of your tits from a low angle, smirking, quite satisfied with yourself. and quickly returning your attention to the tv.
and he’s at work, hunched over in the bathroom and trying not to whine your name while he jerks his cock at a frantic pace. his other hand braced against the wall while he grips his phone, trying not to drop it. alternating between that and sloppily typing out the dirtiest things with his chubby thumb. it takes a while for him to type what he wants — some versions of “need that little pussy so bad” “so fucking hard right now” “please send another pic baby” you ignore the typos.
he’s imagining you touching yourself too, back arching, body glistening with sweat, moaning like a whore for him. he grits his teeth and closes his eyes, imagining his cock enveloped by your drooling pussy instead of his rough hand. in reality you’re fully clothed, immersed in your newest reality tv obsession.
another message from you. he scrambles to read it, his orgasm approaching.
“can you pick up food on the way home”
and he cums all over his fist anyway, the thought of taking care of his sweet, sexy girl pushing him over the edge.
just saw a tiktok that said “girls be like ‘i hate this man so much’ and then have sex with him later” and immediately thought of tt!aerion and delicious hate-fucking 🤤 i just know its goes nasty af, degrading dirty talk with praise accidentally slipping through “shut your fucking mouth, so fucking bratty—god, you’re so fucking warm.”
you hate aerion. genuinely.
he's mean, he's crude and he looks at you like you're a joke he's the only one laughing at, and his mouth is filthy and his trailer is a shithole and he's got this way of leaning against things with his whole body like the world owes him a favour.
you want to hit him so badly your palms itch.
he calls you princess like it's a slur. he makes fun of your car, your clothes, your voice, the way you hold your drink. he says you don't belong here, stark with those pale eyes and that sharp grin and you think: i'm going to destroy this man.
and aerion hates you right back. hates your composure, your money, your refusal to react when he's trying so hard to get under your skin. hates that you look at him like you're judging him for breathing the same air you do.
he hates that you smell expensive and clean and that your hands are soft. that you walked into his world like you had a right to it and you do, somehow.
you carry the authority of belonging everywhere you go and he's never belonged anywhere, and he wants to tear you apart and fuck you into his matress in equal measure.
so you fuck. obviously.
not because you like each other, but because the hatred needs somewhere to go and your bodies figured it out before their brains caught up. it's a pressure valve. that's it. you piss each other off with intent, with delight even, and then you crash into each other because the alternative is actually killing someone.
and the hatefucking is feral.
early days, it's all teeth and zero tenderness.
you give him head and it's not for his pleasure, it's a punishment.
your teeth graze the shaft and aerion hisses, grabbing your hair and you look up at him with those cold eyes and dare him to pull you off.
he doesn't. he can't. and you know it. so you take him deeper and let your teeth catch again, just enough, just the edge of danger, and his hips jerk at the sensation. he calls you a bitch and you hum around him, smirking slightly, the vibration making his thighs shake.
he's fisting your hair hard enough to hurt and you don't pull off. no matter what he does, tugs, swears, tries to fuck your throat, grabs the back of your neck, you stay. you set the pace, nails sunk into his thighs, his ass, whatever you can grab of him. because you decide when it ends.
aerion comes with your name in his mouth like it tastes like battery acid. you swallow every drop and wipe your lips with the back of your hand and glance at him like was that all?
he retaliates. because it's aerion, and he'll never leave matter of pride alone.
you're at some party with some date. a nice guy, safe guy, the kind of man your father would approve of, and aerion materialises like he was summoned by the scent of you pretending to be interested in someone else.
he doesn't introduce himself. doesn't acknowledge the date. just catches your elbow, leans in close enough that his lips drag against the shell of your ear, and says: “you're wearing the dress I fucked you in last weekend. you think I can't tell? I can smell myself on you, princess. bet you didn't even wash it. bet you couldn't.”
your whole body goes rigid and hot. your thighs press together and you hate him so much your vision whites out at the edges.
he pulls back just enough to look at your face. reads it like a book, his mouth twitching.
“you're wet right now,” he murmurs, quieter, just for you, his thumb pressing into the inside of your elbow where your pulse is hammering. “I can tell by the way you're sitting. you cross your legs like that when you're trying not to squirm." his eyes flick to your date and back to you. bored. dismissive. “he's not gonna do anything about it. you know that. I know that. so you can sit here and smile at him for another hour and go home and think about me when you touch yourself, or you can come with me right now and i'll make you come so hard you forget his name.” he lets go of your elbow. steps back. “your call, stark.”
your date asks if everything's okay. you say fine. your voice comes out steady because you're a wolf and wolves don't shake in front of prey. but your hands are fisted in your lap and your pulse is in your throat. aerion is already walking away because he doesn't need to wait for your answer. he already knows.
you excuse yourself ninety seconds later. you tell your date you need the bathroom. you follow aerion down the hallway like you're being pulled on a wire and you hate yourself, and you hate him, and you're so turned on you can barely walk straight.
he's leaning against the bathroom door waiting for you with that lazy, mean, knowing grin, hands in his pockets, and he says, “ninety seconds, huh? getting slow, princess”, and you grab him by the shirt and drag him inside and lock the door with your other hand.
he fucks you against the sink. your dress shoved up, his jeans barely pulled down, one hand braced on the mirror behind you and the other gripping your thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints. it's fast and mean and so good you bite through your own lip keeping quiet because anyone could walk in. anyone could hear. and aerion grins against your throat. that sharp, satisfied, terrible grin, and whispers: go back to your date, princess. tell him you had a real nice time.
you do. you go back with your hair fixed and your lipstick reapplied and aerion's handprint bruising into your thigh under the dress. you stand across from this nice, safe man and smile and make conversation and think about nothing except the ache between your legs and the taste of aerion still on your tongue.
he watches you from across the room. smirking. you want to kill him. you'll fuck him again by thursday.
and then he starts fucking other girls.
not because he wants them. because he wants to stop wanting you. because whatever this is, this thing between you, it's getting under his skin in a way that makes him vicious with panic.
you're a stark. you're rich. you're everything he isn't and everything he resents and his body keeps reaching for you like a reflex he can't train out and it's pissing him off.
so he tries to replace you. drags some girl home from a bar, fucks her in his trailer, in his bed, face down so he doesn’t have to look at her, in the same sheets you've been in, and the whole time he's thinking about how she doesn't bite hard enough. how she doesn't pull his hair the right way, doesn't look at him with that cold wolf stare that makes his blood so hot he feels like he could actually breathe fire.
she moans too easily. gives in too fast. there's no fight in it. there's no teeth. he finishes and feels nothing and lies there in the dark with his jaw clenched, and his fists clenched, and thinks what the fuck have you done to me, stark.
it doesn't work. none of them work. he cycles through three, four, five girls trying to scratch the itch, and every single one just makes it worse because now he has proof that nobody else feels like you. nobody else makes his hands shake. nobody else makes him want to tear something apart and crawl inside it at the same time.
and you find out.
you hear about it, or you see it, or you smell her perfume on his shirt when he shows up at your door like nothing's changed, and you go cold. wolf-cold. the kind of freezing calm that makes grown men step back without knowing why. your eyes go flat and your voice goes even and you close yourself off from him so completely it's like watching a castle gate drop.
“don't touch me.”
“what's your problem?”
“I don't want someone's sloppy seconds.”
and you turn to walk away from him. actually walk away, actually leave.
and that's the thing aerion can't stomach, not now, not ever. because you can hate him, you can insult him, you can claw his face open, but you can't fucking leave.
he grabs your arm and you spin on him, shoving him and he grabs you harder and you're snarling at each other. your nails in his chest through his shirt, his hands bruising your arms, teeth bared like animals, and you're calling him every name you know and he's throwing them right back and you shove him again and he catches your wrists. so you bite his hand, and he slams you into the wall and kisses you so hard your skull makes a thud against the plaster.
and you kiss him back. you hate yourself for it. your teeth sink into his bottom lip and you taste blood, aerion groans into your mouth and his hands are in your hair and your nails are raking down his neck, leaving welts and it's violent. it's ugly. it's everything wrong with what you are together.
except.
except your fingers are in his hair and they stop pulling and start holding. except his grip on your hip goes from bruising to bracing. except somewhere between the fourth bite and the fifth your mouths slow down and the kissing turns from punishment into something deeper, hungrier but less angry.
his forehead drops against yours and you're both breathing so hard your chests heave together and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your cheekbone and neither of you says a word but the temperature of the room shifts.
he fucks you right there against the wall and it starts rough, starts vicious, one leg around his waist and your teeth in his shoulder while his hand fists in your hair. and then it changes. again. the way it always changes with you.
the fury burns through itself and what's underneath is worse because what's underneath is need. aerion buries his face in your neck and his hips slow and you cling to him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, face pressed into his hair, and you're holding each other so tight it's hard to breathe but neither of you lets go.
it's insane. it's maddening. the power of it, the all-consuming gravity of what happens when you stop fighting long enough to feel each other. like being caught in an undertow. like being swallowed whole. and the more you give into it, the more terrifying it gets. because the passion isn't separate from the tenderness. it's the same thing. it's always been the same thing. the biting and the clinging are the same gesture when it's you two.
and that's when the degradation starts breaking apart.
“you're such a fucking nightmare, stark. you're... you ruin everything. you ruin every other girl for me. I can't stop, you're so...”
and his voice catches. and what comes next isn't an insult.
“you're so warm. fuck. you're so warm, I can't...”
“shut up.”
“you feel like...”
“maybe learn how to fuck me better so I can't think like you do.”
and your voice cracks on it too. because it was supposed to be mean and it came out desperate, and he heard the difference. he always hears the difference.
it builds like this. over weeks. over months. the degradation that was your common language starts getting holes in it.
places where the cruelty breaks apart and the real thing bleeds through. he calls you a brat and then whispers good girl into your throat before he can catch himself and goes rigid like he's been electrocuted. you tell him he's worthless and then come so hard you say his name, his actual name, not targaryen not asshole not you, but aerion, soft, hungry, and his whole body shudders like you've stabbed him.
“Don't,” he says afterwards, barely audible. “don't say my name like that.”
“like what?”
he doesn't answer. you press your forehead against his. breathe his air. let your fingers trace the line of his jaw where the tension lives. and when you both finish it's quiet. no biting, no cursing. all that's left is aerion's forehead on yours, your breath mixing in the small space between and both of you shaking but neither of you pulling away.
he ruins it, after. says something mean, picks a fight, slams out of whatever room you're in. because aerion would rather blow it up than sit with the evidence that he just made love to you and called you warm and meant it. and you let him go. you sit in the wreckage and touch your own swollen mouth where his was and think: oh. oh, this is a problem.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
When the maester accidentally gives Prince Maekar Targaryen something that most certainly does not ease his headache, Maekar finds himself instead with one other problem. He burns.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒; sexual content, possessive behaviour, rough sex, maekar goes absolutely feral on you, explicit sexual content, p in v, fingering, maekar absolutely dominates you, this is pure filth, minors dni.
The maester had pressed the small vial into Prince Maekar’s hand early that morning with a respectful bow and a few murmured words about easing the headache that had lingered since the previous night’s long council. Maekar had taken it without thought, swallowed the bitter liquid in one go, and headed straight for the training yard.
The sun was already climbing and the clash of steel felt good in his hands and at first the draught seemed to do its work.
The dull pressure behind his eyes faded. He moved through his drills with sharp precision, sweat soaking his tunic, muscles warming in that familiar, satisfying way.
But as the morning wore on, a different kind of heat began to build.
It started low in his gut, a restless warmth that spread through his veins like slow fire. By the time he sheathed his sword and made his way back to his chambers to wash and change, the warmth had turned into something far more insistent.
His cock thickened without warning, swelling and lengthening until it pressed heavily against the front of his breeches. He frowned and adjusted himself, but the touch only made it worse.
The ache settled deep in his balls, heavy and tight. By the time he stripped for a quick wash, he was fully hard, the shaft flushed and already leaking at the tip. He tried to ignore it while he dressed, choosing the supple leather breeches he favored for court.
It was a mistake.
The material hugged every inch of him, and as his cock strained harder, the confinement became exquisite torment.
The broad head caught against the lacing with every step. Precum beaded steadily and soaked into the fabric until a damp patch formed against his thigh. He gritted his teeth and forced himself toward his solar, telling himself it would pass.
It did not.
By midday the need had grown unbearable. Maekar dismissed his squire with a curt word and locked the door of his private solar behind him. He stood there for a long moment, one hand braced against the heavy oak, breathing hard.
This was beneath him.
He was a prince of the blood, a warrior who had led men into battle, not some green boy who could not control his own body. Yet his cock throbbed insistently, the leather of his breeches now visibly damp where the head pressed against it.
Every beat of his heart sent another pulse of heat through the thick length. He could not go to the feast like this. He could not sit beside you, his wife, and pretend composure while his mind supplied image after filthy image of what he wanted to do to you.
With a low curse he unlaced his breeches and freed himself. His cock sprang out heavy and flushed, the head dark and shiny with precum that dripped in a steady string onto the floor.
Veins stood out thick along the shaft. His balls were drawn up tight and aching. He wrapped his hand around the base, squeezing once, and hissed at the sensation.
The touch was almost painful in its intensity.
He stroked upward in one rough pull, thumb dragging over the leaking slit, spreading the slickness down the length. A groan tore from his throat.
He tried to keep his mind on duty, on the letters that still needed answering, on the training schedule for the new recruits. But every stroke pulled his thoughts back to you. Your voice, soft and even as you spoke to him at meals. The way your hips moved when you walked.
The soft sounds you made when he was inside you. He imagined bending you over the desk in this very solar, rucking up your skirts, and driving into your cunt in hard, punishing thrusts while you clutched at the wood and cried out his name.
He imagined filling you so full of his seed that it leaked down your thighs for hours afterward, marking you as his in the most primal way.
His hand moved faster, rougher. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the quiet room. He braced his other hand on the desk, hips jerking forward to meet each stroke. Precum flowed freely now, making everything slick and hot. He could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter at the base of his spine. His balls drew up even further. He was close, so close, and the need was overwhelming.
“Fuck,” he growled under his breath. His strokes grew erratic, almost desperate. “Wife. My wife.”
The orgasm hit him hard. His cock jerked in his fist and thick ropes of seed spilled across the wooden floor in heavy pulses. He kept stroking through it, milking every drop, your name still on his lips in a rough, broken groan. For one brief moment relief flickered through him, warm and sharp.
It lasted only seconds.
The heat did not fade. If anything it roared back stronger, hotter, more insistent than before. His cock remained thick and heavy in his hand, only half softened, still twitching with aftershocks.
The ache in his balls doubled.
Fresh need surged through him so fiercely that his knees nearly buckled. He stared down at himself in disbelief, at the mess on the floor and the way his shaft was already filling again, hardening once more as if he had not just spent.
The potion, whatever the maester had given him by mistake, had turned a simple release into fuel for the fire.
His mind flooded with even more vivid images of you. Of taking you. Of ruining you. Of claiming you so thoroughly that you would feel him for days.
Maekar let out a low, frustrated snarl and cleaned himself with a cloth from the basin. His hands shook slightly as he laced himself back into the confining leather.
The pressure was worse now.
Every step would be torment, his cock felt enormous, trapped and leaking again almost immediately. He was riled beyond reason, restless, on edge in a way he had never experienced.
Discipline had always been his strength. Today it felt like a fraying thread.
He forced himself through the afternoon duties anyway. He reviewed reports. He spoke with his captains. He tried to focus on anything but the constant, throbbing ache between his legs and the way his thoughts kept circling back to you.
By the time he bathed and dressed for the feast, the need had grown into something almost feral.
His cock strained against the leather with every movement, the head catching and rubbing until he was gritting his teeth against the sensation.
He was leaking steadily now, the front of his smallclothes soaked.
The failed attempt at relief had only made him more desperate, more possessive, more determined to get you alone and take what his body was screaming for.
The great hall was bright with candlelight and alive with sound when he arrived. Roasted meats and spiced wine scented the air.
Music drifted from the gallery above. Nobles filled the lower tables, laughing and calling to one another. You were already seated at the high table, and when he took his place beside you, you turned with that calm, lovely expression and spoke in your quiet voice.
“The roast swan is particularly good tonight. The cook used those spices from the Summer Isles you favor.”
Maekar managed a short nod. His cock was now a thick, throbbing bar trapped along his thigh, the leather stretched so tight across the swollen flesh that every small shift sent sparks of sensation through him.
He could feel the steady leak of fluid making everything slick inside his smallclothes. Under the table he reached for you, but instead of taking your hand his palm settled on your thigh, fingers spreading wide and gripping hard. The silk of your gown was warm from your skin. He squeezed, feeling the soft give of flesh beneath, and did not let go.
You continued speaking in that same even tone, as if the world were perfectly ordinary. You mentioned a letter that had arrived from Dorne, the new tapestry being hung in the queen’s solar, the way the Pentoshi singer’s voice carried so clearly through the hall.
Your words were soft and pleasant, meant only for him.
Each one sent another pulse of need straight to his groin.
He imagined silencing that sweet voice with his cock, pushing between your lips until your eyes watered, or better still, flipping up your skirts right there and driving into your cunt while the court dined on unaware.
The failed release in his solar had left him even more riled, the images in his head sharper, more urgent. He wanted to ruin you. He wanted to make you take every inch and every drop until you were shaking and marked and his.
He leaned close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Keep using that voice and I will not answer for what I do to you before the night is done.”
Your eyes flicked to him, a flicker of awareness there now, but you kept your tone steady as you reached for your goblet. “The singer is quite talented. Do you think the queen will request another song before the dancing begins?”
Maekar’s fingers dug deeper into your thigh. His cock jerked hard in its prison, another thick bead of precum soaking through the leather. He was riled beyond reason, restless, shifting constantly in his seat as he tried to find relief that would not come.
The head of his shaft felt raw from the constant friction. His balls ached with the need to empty again, even though he had already spent once that day.
He could smell you beside him, that warm skin and faint floral oil you used, and it made his mouth water and his cock throb harder. He wanted to drop to his knees under the table, push your thighs apart, and lick you until you shook and came on his tongue.
Then he wanted to flip you over and take you from behind, hard and deep, while you were still fluttering from your release.
The courses came and went. Servants moved around them with platters and pitchers.
Maekar ate almost nothing.
He drank more wine than was wise, hoping it might blunt the relentless throb between his legs, but the alcohol only made the heat spread faster through his blood. His cock felt enormous, straining so fiercely that the laces bit into the swollen flesh. He shifted again and again, trying to ease the pressure, but nothing helped.
Every time you spoke, every time your shoulder brushed his or your hand moved near his, he imagined those hands wrapped around his shaft, stroking him, or your mouth stretched wide while he held your head and fucked your throat in steady thrusts.
The memory of cumming earlier with your name on his lips only made the current need sharper. It had not helped. It had made everything worse.
When a servant leaned in too close to refill his cup and accidentally brushed his arm, Maekar snapped a sharp word that made the man flinch and nearly spill the wine.
He regretted it at once and pulled you closer with the hand still gripping your thigh, as if your nearness could somehow anchor the fire raging inside him.
You glanced at him again, that same quiet concern in your eyes.
“You seem very tense tonight, my prince. Shall I send for the maester to have another look at your head?”
He turned toward you, voice a low, rough growl meant for your ears alone. “The maester can rot. Whatever he gave me has my cock hard as iron and leaking like I am some desperate boy. I tried to find relief with my own hand earlier and it only made the need worse. All I can think about is getting you alone, bending you over the nearest surface, and ruining this sweet cunt until you cannot walk without feeling me. Until my seed is running down your thighs and you smell of nothing but me for days.”
Your breath caught, just slightly, but you recovered and took a sip of wine as though he had merely agreed with your earlier remark about the singer. Your hand, however, slid over his under the table and pressed down firmly, a silent answer that sent another bolt of raw lust through him.
He lasted through the start of the dancing. Barely. When the musicians struck up a lively tune and couples began moving to the floor, Maekar stood. His cock was a constant, painful throb, the front of his breeches now visibly darkened if anyone cared to look. He took your hand without asking and led you from the hall with long, purposeful strides. Several lords called after him. He ignored them all.
In the corridor he moved quickly, pulling you along until he found a shadowed alcove behind a heavy curtain. The moment you were hidden he was on you. His mouth crashed down on yours, rough and demanding, tongue pushing deep as his hands tore at your gown with impatient fingers.
Fabric ripped, the sound was loud in the small space as your breasts spilled free and he palmed them hard, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching your nipples between thumb and forefinger until they tightened and you gasped into his mouth.
He broke the kiss only to drag his lips down your throat, biting hard enough to leave dark marks, sucking until blood rose to the surface beneath your skin.
“Could not wait another fucking minute,” he snarled against your neck. One hand dropped to his laces, freeing his cock with rough tugs. It sprang out heavy and flushed, the head dark and shiny with precum that dripped steadily onto the stone.
Veins stood out thick along the shaft. His balls were drawn up tight and aching.
He hiked your skirts roughly, bunching the silk high at your waist, and shoved two thick fingers between your legs. You were already wet and hot. He groaned at the slick feel of you coating his fingers and pushed them deeper, curling them once before pulling them free.
“Good. Already soaked for your husband’s cock.” He did not waste time with more preparation. He lined the broad, leaking head of his cock up with your entrance and thrust in hard, burying himself to the root in one powerful stroke.
The stretch was intense.
He felt your walls clench around his thick girth, struggling to take him after the long hours of denial. He gave you no time to adjust as he pulled back and drove in again, setting a brutal, relentless pace from the first thrust. The wet sound of his cock slamming into your cunt filled the alcove. His hips snapped forward again and again, skin slapping against skin, each deep stroke jarring your body against the stone wall.
“Fuck, yes. Take it. Take every inch of me.” His voice was ragged with lust and hours of pent-up need. One hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise while the other fisted in your hair, pulling your head back sharply so he could bite at the junction of your neck and shoulder.
“This is what you do to me. Tried to take the edge off with my own hand and it only made me want you more. Now you are going to take my cock until I decide you have had enough.”
He fucked you without mercy, the potion and the long day of torment making him almost savage.
Each thrust was deep and punishing, the broad head dragging over that sensitive spot inside you on every withdrawal before slamming back in to the hilt.
His free hand came down on your ass in a sharp slap, the crack of it loud in the small space. He did it again on the other cheek, harder, watching the skin bloom red beneath his palm.
“Mine. This cunt belongs to me. Mine to use. Mine to fill until it overflows.” Another slap, then another, the sting making your walls tighten around him. He felt you flutter and clench and grinned against your throat, feral and satisfied. “You like that. Like when I take what is mine. Like when I ruin you.”
Your body responded, walls pulsing around his thick cock as the first orgasm crashed through you.
He did not slow.
He fucked you straight through it, hips driving harder, the wet sounds growing louder as your release coated his shaft and dripped down your thighs.
When he finally came it was with a guttural roar, slamming deep and holding there as his cock jerked and pulsed, flooding you with thick, hot ropes of seed.
He kept thrusting through it, short, hard jerks of his hips, pushing his cum deeper inside you, making sure it stayed. It leaked out around his shaft anyway, running down your thighs in warm, messy rivulets that soaked into the bunched silk of your gown.
He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cock twitched with aftershocks, still half hard thanks to whatever the maester had given him.
Slowly he pulled out, watching with dark satisfaction as his seed spilled from your well-fucked cunt in a steady stream.
He turned you around, lifted you easily into his arms, and carried you the rest of the way to your chambers without bothering to right your torn clothing.
Once inside, with the heavy door barred behind them, he laid you on the bed and stripped away what remained of your gown with impatient hands. His own clothes followed in quick movements. His cock, still slick with your combined fluids, stood ready again, flushed and heavy.
He climbed over you, spreading your legs wide with his knees, and thrust back in without preamble. This time he took you slower but no less roughly, each stroke measured and deep, grinding the base of his cock against your swollen pearl on every downstroke. He pinned your wrists above your head with one strong hand, the other gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his burning violet eyes.
“Look at me while I ruin you properly, wife.” His voice was lower now, rough with spent lust and lingering fire. “I tried to find relief earlier and it only made this need worse. I am going to fill you again. And again. Until you cannot take any more. Until you smell like my seed and everyone who comes near you tomorrow knows exactly who you belong to.”
He released your wrists only to hook your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half so he could drive even deeper. The new angle made every thrust hit that spot inside you with devastating accuracy.
He pounded into you with steady, powerful strokes, the bed creaking beneath the force of it. His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your swollen pearl and rubbing tight, relentless circles while he fucked you. “Come for me again. Now. I want to feel this cunt milk me while I fill you.”
When you came, clenching and fluttering hard around his thick cock, he followed quickly, burying himself as deep as he could go and pumping another heavy load into you.
This time he stayed inside afterward, rolling to his side and pulling you with him so your back was to his chest, his cock still nestled in your warmth.
One hand stroked down your side, over the marks and red prints he had left, soothing even as he remained possessive. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, softer now.
“The maester is going to explain himself at first light,” he muttered against your hair, though there was no real anger left in him. Only deep satisfaction and the fierce, abiding devotion he felt for the woman in his arms. “Whatever he gave me tonight, it has made me want you more fiercely than I have in years. But I would have wanted you anyway.”
His hand slid down to cup your ass, squeezing gently over the heated skin where he had spanked you. “Rest while you can. I am not finished with you yet.”
The night stretched long and heated. The fire the remedy had lit in his blood burned hot for hours more. He took you again sometime in the deep hours, slower but still intense, your bodies moving together in the dark with quiet, desperate sounds.
You had both drifted into uneasy sleep afterward, tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist.
It was near dawn when he stirred again.
You felt him wake behind you, his body pressing closer along your back. His skin was clammy against yours, hot and damp with sweat, and he was trembling.
A low, shaky breath left him as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck. One of his hands slid down your hip, then between your legs, fingers finding where you were still slick and sensitive from earlier. He made a broken sound, half groan and half apology.
“I am sorry,” he murmured against your shoulder, voice rough and thick with sleep and lingering need. “Wife… forgive me. I cannot stop. The fire… it will not let me rest.”
You felt the thick, hard length of him press against your entrance from behind. He was shaking as he pushed in, slow at first, then deeper, burying himself inside you with a trembling thrust. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you back against him as he began to move. The strokes were not gentle. They were deep and urgent, his hips rocking forward with a desperation that made the bed creak softly. His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you open for him.
His skin burned and chilled at the same time against your back. You could feel the fine tremors running through his muscles, the way his breath hitched with every thrust. He pressed his face into your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there before he bit down, not hard enough to break the skin but firm enough to leave another mark, a sharp sting that made you tighten around him. A muffled groan vibrated against your flesh.
“I want to hurt you,” he said, the words slipping out raw and unfiltered between shaky breaths. “I want to mark you. Make you feel this for days. I want to ruin you until you cannot think of anything but me inside you.” His voice cracked on the last word. He thrust harder, the apology coming again even as his body betrayed how much he meant it. “I am sorry. Gods, I am sorry. But I need… I need to hurt you like this. Need to feel you take it.”
His teeth sank into your shoulder once more as his hips snapped forward, the bite grounding him even as he lost control. One hand slid up to cup your breast, squeezing almost too tightly, while the other held your hip in a bruising grip. He fucked into you with short, powerful strokes from behind, his cock dragging along every sensitive inch inside you. The trembling in his body grew worse. He was shaking against you, clammy skin sliding over yours, his breath hot and uneven on your neck.
The sound of his teeth scraping against your skin was drowned out by the wet, rhythmic slap of his pelvis crashing against your ass. He wasn't just fucking you; he was trying to merge with you, his movements frantic and devoid of any gentleness. Every time his cock bottomed out, it felt like a physical assault on your insides, a blunt force that left you breathless and reeling.
“Tell me you want it,” he growled, his voice a guttural rasp. He shifted his grip, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of your hip, leaving white marks that would surely turn purple by morning. He pulled back almost entirely, teasing the entrance of your pussy for a fraction of a second before slamming back in with a violent, bone-jarring thrust.
You let out a choked scream, your fingers clawing at the sheets, but he didn't let up. He leaned forward, his chest crushing you into the mattress, his weight pinning you down as he continued to hammer into you. The friction was intense, the heat between your bodies becoming suffocating. He reached around, his hand leaving your breast to wrap firmly around your throat, not enough to choke you, but enough to let you feel the absolute power he held over you in this moment.
“Look at me,” he commanded, though you were facedown. He forced your head to the side, his violet eyes dark and blown out with lust and a desperate, starving kind of need. “I'm ruining you, aren't I? I'm breaking you open.”
He accelerated the pace, the short, powerful strokes turning into a blur of raw motion. His cock felt thicker, harder, stretching your walls to their absolute limit. He began to bite again, not just your shoulder, but the nape of your neck and the slope of your shoulder blade, marking you with a territorial hunger.
The apology was gone now, replaced by a low, animalistic moan that vibrated through his chest and into your back. He was close, his muscles locking up, his entire frame vibrating with the effort of holding back just a few seconds longer to savor the feeling of you tightening around him.
“I'm going to fill you... I'm going to leave it all inside you,” he hissed, his grip on your throat tightening slightly, tongue licking at the sweat that accumulated on your neck.
“Take it,” he growled softly, the words half apology and half command. “Take what I give you. Even when I am like this. Especially when I am like this.”
Another bite, this one lower on your shoulder, followed by the wet heat of his tongue soothing the mark. His thrusts grew rougher, more erratic, the potion’s last embers driving him to claim you one final time before it released its hold.
You felt him reach his peak with a broken moan against your skin, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled another heavy load, hips jerking through the release.
Maekar didn't give you a second to recover. The moment the last pulse of his orgasm faded, he gripped your hips and violently flipped you over, manhandling you onto your back with a force that knocked the wind out of you. You hit the mattress hard, your legs splayed wide, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable beneath him.
He didn't wait for you to catch your breath, your eyes wide with desire. He surged forward, his hand snapping up to wrap firmly around your throat.
He didn't squeeze enough to cut off your air entirely, but the pressure was constant, a heavy reminder of his dominance that forced your chin up and your chest out. His eyes were still dark, blown out and predatory, his teeth bared in a feral snarl as he looked down at you.
“I told you I wanted to ruin you,” he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “I'm not fucking finished.”
He positioned the head of his cock, still slick and swollen from his first release, against your soaking entrance and with one brutal, uncompromising shove, he slammed back inside you. The impact was jarring, his cock sliding through the pool of his own cum to bottom out deep against your cervix. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, but his grip on your throat tightened, pinning you down and forcing you to take every inch of him.
He began to fuck you with a renewed, aggressive energy, his hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm. Each thrust was a heavy, wet thud, the sound of his pelvis crashing against yours echoing in the room. He wasn't looking for pleasure now; he was claiming you, driving himself into you as if he wanted to leave a permanent mark on your insides.
“Take it,” he commanded, his voice guttural. ”Take all of it.”
He shifted his weight, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other remained locked around your neck.
The position left you completely open, your pussy stretching and gripping him with every violent plunge. He began to pick up the pace, his movements becoming frantic and raw.
He leaned down, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of your collarbone, biting hard enough to draw a whimper of pain and pleasure from your lips.
The friction was agonizingly intense, the mixture of his cum and your own lubrication creating a loud, squelching sound with every stroke. He was hammering into you now, his cock hitting your depths with a force that made your entire body shake. He watched your face, savoring the way your eyes rolled back and your breath came in ragged, broken sobs, his expression one of pure, unadulterated hunger.
He stayed buried there afterward, still trembling, still holding you tight as if afraid you would slip away. The apologies came softer now, murmured into your hair between shaky kisses to the bite marks he had left.
“I am sorry, wife. For the bite. For the words. For needing you so fiercely it feels like it will tear me apart.” His hand stroked down your side, gentler now, though the tremor had not fully left him. “The maester will answer for this. But you… you are everything. Even when I lose myself like this.”
The worst of the fire finally began to fade as the first pale light of dawn crept through the shutters.
Maekar’s eyes flew wide, the reverent haze shattering in an instant. Violet irises, still dark with the remnants of lust, locked onto the marks he had left, deep, angry crescents of teeth sunk into the curve of your shoulder, the mottled purple and red where his fingers had clamped like iron vices during the peak of his release. A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat.
“Gods, woman, look at what I have done to you?”
The words were barely finished before he ripped himself from your body with violent suddenness.
The thick drag of his cock withdrawing punched a broken gasp from your lips, the sudden emptiness was jarring, followed by a hot, messy spill of his spend that leaked thickly down your thighs and onto the ruined sheets. He recoiled as though scalded, shoving himself upright and backward in one brutal motion, his broad, sweat-slicked chest heaving.
He stared down at you like a man who had just woken to find blood on his hands. One hand hovered in the air between you, fingers trembling, before he yanked it back and clenched it into a white-knuckled fist against his thigh.
The protective cage of his body was gone, now he knelt above you, silver-gold hair wild, the pale dawn light carving harsh lines across the sharp planes of his face and the corded muscle of his arms.
“Fuck,” he rasped, voice hoarse and cracking. “I— I used you like a beast. Like some half-mad dragon that doesn’t know its own strength.” His gaze raked over every mark, every bruise, every place his mouth and hands and teeth had claimed you through the long, brutal hours of the night. Shame and something darker, possessive, almost feral, warred openly in his expression.
He swallowed hard, throat working. For a heartbeat he looked like he might reach for you again, but he stopped himself short, muscles locked tight with the effort of restraint. The bed creaked under his shifting weight as he put another deliberate inch of distance between you.
“Tell me,” he demanded, low and rough, eyes still wide and frantic. “Tell me I didn’t break you. That I didn’t take more than you could give.” His voice dropped even further, almost pleading beneath the growl.
“Because if I have… if these marks are more than passion’s price…” He trailed off, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped, and for the first time since he’d dragged you into this bed, Maekar Targaryen looked truly afraid of what his own hunger had wrought. “I am going to fucking kill that fucking fool, oh Gods, my love.”
His hand lifted again, hovering over the worst of the bites on your shoulder without quite touching. The tremor in his fingers was visible. “Speak, little one. Now. Before I lose what little control I have left.”
You were still breathless, lungs burning, body trembling from the sudden, brutal emptiness he’d left behind. His spend was leaking hot and thick down your thighs, your cunt still fluttering around nothing, sore and slick and used. The marks on your shoulder throbbed in time with your heartbeat, but the ache between your legs was deeper, sweeter.
You reached for him with one shaky hand, fingers brushing the tense muscle of his forearm before he could pull farther away.
“Maekar,” you rasped, voice hoarse from screaming his name through the night. “Look at me.”
His eyes were still wide, wild with guilt, but you held his gaze and gave him the truth, raw and unashamed.
“I liked it,” you whispered fiercely. “I liked it. Every mark. Every time you bit down and fucked me harder because you couldn’t stop yourself. Whatever that maester gave you…” A shaky, breathless laugh escaped you. “It made you so fucking sexy. Like you were burning from the inside out and the only thing that could put the fire out was me.”
You shifted on the ruined sheets, letting him see the mess he’d made of you, the glistening streaks on your inner thighs, the way your body still trembled with aftershocks, the vivid proof of his hunger painted across your skin.
“I wanted it,” you continued, softer now but no less certain. “I wanted you like that. Rough. Desperate. Like you’d die if you didn’t get deeper inside me. The way you growled my name when you came… Gods, Maekar, I’ve never felt so wanted in my life.”
His breath hitched. The horror in his violet eyes cracked, something darker and hotter flooding in to replace it. His cock, still half-hard and glistening with your combined release, twitched visibly against his thigh.
You saw the moment the fear lost its battle with need. His hand finally closed the distance, fingers trembling as they traced the bite mark on your shoulder with something that was no longer just shame and guilt, but that it was possession, renewed and burning.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and rough, almost broken. His thumb pressed into the deepest tooth mark, making you hiss. “Tell me you wanted the beast. That you still want him.”
He leaned over you again, caging you in, but this time the tension in his body was different, coiled, hungry, barely leashed. The pale dawn light caught on the sweat still clinging to his chest, the faint tremor in his arms as he held himself above you.
“Because if you keep talking like that, little one…” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, to the way his spend continued to drip from your well-used cunt. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep myself from taking you again. Harder. Until every mark on you is fresh and you can’t walk without remembering exactly who put them there.”
His eyes were wide again, but not with fear this time, but with hunger and he was waiting for your answer like a man starving.
You reached up with trembling fingers and brushed a strand of silver-gold hair from his forehead, your voice soft and breathless in the quiet dawn.
“Maekar… can you go slow for me?”
For a heartbeat he simply stared at you, violet eyes wide and searching, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were still asking for him after everything. Then something in his expression cracked open, raw relief, aching tenderness, and a love so fierce it looked almost painful.
He nodded once, jaw tight. “Anything,” he rasped. “Anything you want, my heart.”
He lowered himself over you with deliberate care, one hand sliding beneath your head to cradle it while the other stroked gently down your side, avoiding the worst of the bruises. His cock, still slick with the evidence of his earlier frenzy, nudged against your entrance. He paused there, forehead resting against yours, breathing you in.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your lips. “Just feel me.”
The first slow push was almost reverent. He sank into you inch by careful inch, letting you feel every thick ridge, every pulse of him as your body stretched around him again. The mess he’d left behind made the glide obscenely wet, but he moved like he was afraid to hurt you, deep, steady, and so achingly gentle that your eyes stung.
Maekar kissed you like a man worshipping at an altar. Soft at first, then deeper, his tongue stroking yours in time with the slow roll of his hips. Each thrust was measured, loving, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt, grinding there so you felt every inch of him claiming you anew.
“So good for me,” he praised against your mouth, voice rough with emotion. “My brave girl. Taking everything I gave you and still wanting me like this.” He kissed the bite mark on your shoulder with exquisite tenderness, tongue soothing over the indents his teeth had left. “These marks… they’re mine now. Because you wanted them. Because you wanted me.”
Another slow, deep thrust. He groaned quietly into your neck, the sound half-reverence, half-restraint. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together beside your head, squeezing gently as he rocked into you.
“I love you,” he breathed, the words slipping out raw and unguarded between kisses. “Even when the fire takes me. Even when I lose myself in you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you feel how much.”
He kissed you again, slow, deep, and devastating, while his hips continued their unhurried rhythm, each thrust a promise, each roll of his body against yours an apology and a devotion all at once. The morning light painted both of you in soft gold as he loved you with everything he had left.
He felt it the moment your body began to tighten around him.
Maekar’s rhythm never quickened, but it deepened, each slow, deliberate thrust grinding against that perfect spot inside you with devastating precision. He watched your face the entire time, violet eyes dark and intent, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every soft sound that escaped you.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and rough with love. “Let go for me, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”
His free hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit with gentle, circling pressure that matched the unhurried roll of his hips. He kissed you through it, deep, lingering kisses that stole your breath, then moved to the marks on your shoulder, pressing his lips there like a vow.
“You’re so perfect like this,” he praised, the words hot against your skin. “Taking me so sweetly. Letting me love you the way you deserve.” Another slow, grinding thrust. “Come for me. I want to feel you fall apart around my cock. I want to feel how much you still want me.”
The combination unraveled you.
Your orgasm built like a slow, inevitable tide, deeper and more overwhelming than the frantic ones from before. Your back arched, thighs trembling around his waist as the pleasure crested. You clenched hard around him, pulsing in long, rhythmic waves that dragged a broken groan from his chest. He held you through it, never stopping the steady, loving rhythm, fucking you gently through every crest and aftershock while whispering your name like a prayer.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours as you shook beneath him. “So fucking beautiful when you come for me. That’s my girl. My brave, perfect girl.”
He kept moving through the last tremors, slow and deep, letting you ride out every last ripple while his arms cradled you close. Only when your body finally went soft and pliant beneath him did he allow himself to bury his face in your neck, hips stuttering once, twice, then stilling as he followed you over the edge with a low, reverent groan of your name.
Even in the afterglow, he didn’t pull away. He stayed buried inside you, kissing the tears of pleasure from your lashes, stroking your hair, murmuring soft praises against your skin while the first true light of morning crept across the bed.
He pulled you closer, wrapping himself around you protectively, his lips brushing the marks on your shoulder with something close to reverence.
“Sleep,” he whispered, voice hoarse but steadier. “I have you. I will always have you.”
And for the first time since the remedy had taken hold, Prince Maekar Targaryen let the tension drain from his body, holding his wife close as the unnatural heat finally cooled, leaving only the deep, steady truth of what he felt for you beneath the stern and possessive surface.
Hey Kat, what does Maekar think in the trailer trash AU? I mean he's busy with work, but at one point he has to start noticing a few things
I actually wrote him in originally in this piece but it was already running too long so I removed it, but I'm so glad you asked! Lots of little moments/thoughts, pure rawdogging this, basically a bunch of vignettes and not proofread or even an attempt to be good, just had a bunch of thoughts I wanted to share but hope it gives some insight into you and Papa Maekar in this verse.
Maekar came home at 11 PM from a double shift and found you in his kitchen, and the look on his face was pure calculation. You'd been there before, but always when he was at work or already asleep. Now he was conscious and present, and you could see him taking inventory: your clothes (expensive), your posture (finishing school perfect), your hand in his son's (possessive on both sides).
He got a beer. Sat down. The chair creaked under construction-hardened muscle and bone-deep exhaustion.
"Stark," he said finally and it wasn't a question.
"Yes, sir."
"That Stark family. Old money Stark. The wolves."
"Yes, sir."
He took a long pull of his beer. "Funny. Used to know people who knew your grandfather. The Old Wolf. Back when a Targaryen could get in those rooms." His smile had an edge to it. "Now I fix the buildings your family owns. Small world."
Aerion's hand tightened on your hip—warning or claiming, it was hard to tell.
You met Maekar's eyes steady. "I'm not my family."
"No? Because from where I'm sitting, you look exactly like your family. Designer clothes. Perfect manners. That particular way of holding yourself that says you've never worried about anything real in your life." He wasn't cruel about it. Just blunt. Observational. Cutting right to the bone of it.
"You're right," you said, which surprised him, you could tell. "I've been incredibly privileged. I've never worried about rent or food or keeping the lights on. That doesn't change why I'm here."
"And why are you here, girl?"
You could have deflected. Instead: "Why do you think I'm here?"
"I think you're a smart girl from a powerful family who's going to wake up one day and realise slumming it with trailer trash was fun for a while but not sustainable long-term." He said it matter-of-fact, like he was describing weather, like it's already happened and you're just playing pretend. "I think you'll break my son's heart and he'll use it as evidence that trusting people is for idiots. I think you're a live grenade with a pretty pin."
Aerion jerked up to his feet. "That's enough—"
"Sit down, boy." Maekar's voice was flat. "I'm allowed to assess who's in my house around my kids."
You put your hand on Aerion's arm. Gentle pressure. He sat, jaw tight with fury. It struck you, then, how alike they looked.
You gazed at Maekar, letting him see the steady conviction. "You're wrong about me. But I understand why you'd think that. Your wife left when things got hard. Why would I be different?" You kept your voice even, your words polite. "I can't prove myself with words. So I won't try. You'll see what I am by what I do. That enough?"
Maekar studied you for a long moment. "We'll see." He stood, headed for his room, paused without turning around. "You hurt him, you and I will have a problem, girl. Don't care how much money your family has."
"Understood, sir."
After he left, Aerion pulled you into his lap, shaking with adrenaline, nipping at your thumb when it stroked across his jaw to soothe him. "You didn't have to—"
"Yeah, I did." You touched his face, the corner of his mouth. "He's your father. He's allowed to be protective."
"He's an asshole."
"He's scared," you corrected gently, and leaned down to kiss him. "There's a difference."
—
You discovered Maekar played chess completely by accident. The busted board set up on the kitchen table, you were working through a problem while waiting for Aerion to get home from work. Maekar came home early (rare) and stood watching you for maybe thirty seconds. Then reached over and moved a single piece.
"There." Gruff, almost awkward.
You stared. He'd solved it. Position you'd been analysing for twenty minutes, solved in one move.
you lifted your head, curious. "You play?"
"Used to." He got a beer from the fridge. "Before."
Before everything fell apart. Before the business collapsed. Before his life became just survival and exhaustion. You understood the weight of that single word.
"Want to play a game?"
Maekar looked at you, then at the board, then back at you. Something shifted in his expression—interest, maybe, or hunger for something that wasn't just grinding through another day. "You any good, girl?"
"I'm told I'm decent, sir."
"Let's see then."
He sat down in his work clothes, still covered in dust, and demolished you in twelve moves. It was beautiful—brutal efficiency, seeing patterns you'd missed, setting traps five moves in advance. You'd played good players before. Maekar was better than good. He was exceptional.
"Again," you demanded.
He almost smiled, just a twitch, and it made him look decades younger. "You're a glutton for punishment."
"I'm a glutton for learning. Again."
You played until early morning hours. He won every game but the margins got smaller. And during those hours, you watched him transform. The exhaustion lifted. His eyes sharpened. He sat straighter. This was who Maekar used to be—brilliant, strategic, fully present and engaged. The man he might have been if the Targaryen legacy hadn't collapsed and buried him in the rubble.
When you finally called it, he said: "You're better than I expected."
You couldn't keep the sharp honesty out of your voice. "You're better than anyone I've ever played."
"My father taught me. His father taught him." Maekar studied the board. "Used to be a Targaryen tradition. Family tournaments during holidays. Stakes were bragging rights for the year." His voice went distant. "My grandfather was a master. Could see fifteen moves ahead. He said chess was training for business—anticipate your opponent, plan for contingencies, adapt when plans fail."
"Did it work? For business?"
Maekar's laugh was hollow, mean. "Clearly fucking not. Turns out being good at theoretical strategy doesn't help when the market crashes and your father's leveraged everything on speculation." He started putting pieces away. "But it's still a good game."
"We should play more often."
"You come around enough, sure."
It became routine after that. Once, sometimes twice a week when schedules aligned, you'd play. You've played him ten times since. He's won nine. The one time you won, he looked at the board for a long moment and then said, with first hint of genuine approval, "Good. You're learning."
—
The Targaryens weren't just comfortable, that's the thing—they were someone. Three generations back, they had their fingers in everything: import/export that became real estate that became strategic investments across half the state. The kind of family where a Targaryen name on a business card opened doors. Where politicians returned calls. Where "old money" didn't just mean wealth, it meant influence.
Maekar's grandfather still had it. Not the empire at its height, but enough. The summer house in the mountains. The proper Georgian colonial with the circular driveway. Private schools as default, not aspiration. Maekar remembers being eight years old at family dinners where his grandfather discussed state contracts over wine that cost more than most people's cars. Remembers his father in tailored suits, confident and commanding. Remembers thinking the Targaryen name was armour, something that would protect him forever.
The fall came slowly, then all at once. Succession fights, greed, madness, deaths. Bad investments in the '90s that his grandfather was too proud to cut losses on. His father taking over the business with more ambition than sense, leveraging everything to expand. Then 2008 hit like a wrecking ball. The real estate holdings became anchors. The investments became poison. The business that had survived generations collapsed in eighteen months.
Maekar was twenty-eight with two kids and a third on the way when his father had the stroke. By the time the funeral was over, the accountants had delivered the verdict: not just bankrupt, but drowning. Debt that would take decades to climb out from under. The house went to creditors. The summer property. The cars. Everything with the Targaryen name attached became evidence of failure.
Maekar inherited everything else. The debt. The shame. The knowledge that the name that used to open doors now got them slammed in his face. And six kids who'd grow up knowing the Targaryen legacy only as the reason they lived in a trailer park.
He told you pieces of this during your third cyvasse game, moving pieces with steady hands while his voice stayed flat and factual. "My grandfather used to say the Targaryen name was our greatest asset. Turned out it was our greatest liability. Can't declare bankruptcy on a reputation."
You'd captured his dragon with a knight he hadn't seen coming. "Do you miss it? That life?"
Maekar studied the board. "I miss what it represented. Stability. Security. The feeling that my kids would have chances I had." He moved his heavy horse into position. "Now they've got nothing but my back breaking to keep lights on. Check."
You'd gotten out of check, but barely. "They have more than that."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"They have each other. They have you showing up every day. That's not nothing."
Maekar's laugh was bitter. "Tell that to Daeron when he's drunk before noon. Tell it to Aerion when he's high enough he can't see straight. I'm sure they'll appreciate the sentiment." He'd taken your rook. "Checkmate in three moves. You see it, girl?"
You'd seen it. But you'd also seen something else—the way his hands shook slightly when he talked about his kids. The way his voice went rough. He loved them desperately and hated that his love couldn't protect them from the consequences of his family's failure.
—
Maekar sees what you do for his family. He's not stupid. He notices when Daeron's legal troubles disappear. When Aemon suddenly has a better job he's "mysteriously qualified for." When Daella's college application fees are covered. When the power bill that was three months overdue gets mysteriously paid.
He corners you about it during a game, four months in, ruthless and blunt. "You're funding things."
You could deny it. "Some things."
"How much?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. It does." He moved his dragon aggressively. "I don't take charity."
"It's not charity. It's—"
"It's what? Investment? Tax write-off? Rich girl playing saviour?"
The words hit like slaps, one after another. You'd been trying to help, trying to make things easier for people you'd come to care about. And he was reducing it to—what? Performance? Ego?
You moved your heavy horse, taking his dragon. "It's me giving a shit. That simple enough for you?"
Maekar's jaw tightened. "I've spent fifteen years keeping them fed and housed on my own. Don't need some—"
"Some what?" You looked at him directly. "Some rich bitch coming in and showing you up? Is that what bothers you? That I can fix things you can't?"
The honesty of it deflated your anger. Because you understood, really understood. He'd worked himself to the bone for fifteen years and could barely keep their heads above water. You showed up with your family's money and solved problems in a week that he'd been drowning in for years. Of course he resented you. Your ease was evidence of his failure.
"I'm sorry," you said quietly. "I'm not trying to make you feel inadequate. I'm just—they're good kids. They deserve chances. And I can give them those chances, so I do."
"Because you're fucking my son."
"Because I care about them. All of them. Including you."
Maekar looked at you sharply. "Don't do that, girl."
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you give a shit about me. Help the kids if you want—I won't stop you even if it kills my pride—but don't pretend we're friends."
You moved your light horse. "I don't pretend anything. I'm here playing chess with you twice a week because I want to be. Because you're brilliant at this and it's the only time I see you actually alive instead of just surviving. Because I think you've been dealt a shit hand and you're still showing up for your kids every single day, and that matters." You met his eyes. "So yeah. I give a shit. Whether you want me to or not."
Maekar stared at you, then back at the board. "Checkmate in four moves, girl," he said finally. "You see it?"
You saw it. Again. "Yeah, I see it."
"Good." He started resetting the board. "Again."
You played until dawn. Neither of you mentioned the conversation. But something had shifted—acknowledged, if not resolved. He resented you and was grateful for you and couldn't quite reconcile the two things. You understood and didn't push, just kept showing up. Kept playing. Kept caring despite his prickly rejection of it.
—
There's a specific moment when his resentment crystallised. You'd mentioned something casual—some gala your family was hosting, how you'd have to go for appearances but you'd rather be literally anywhere else. Maekar had looked at you with something cold and sharp.
"Must be hard. Having to attend fancy parties in designer dresses."
The tone made you pause. "I know it's not actual hardship—"
"No. It's not." He took a swing of his beer with more force than necessary. "You know what's hard? Working sixty-hour weeks and still coming up short on rent. Choosing between Rhae's school supplies and food. Watching your kids grow up in a fucking trailer park because you couldn't keep your family's legacy from turning to shit."
"I know—"
"You don't know. You can't know." His voice was hard, the type of edge that would make lesser people cry. "You're playing at poverty by dating my son. You'll go back to your world when you're done. We're stuck here."
It should have made you angry because you've been trying to prove you're not like that. Instead it just made you sad. Because he was right—you had an escape route he'd never have. Your family's money was a safety net that would catch you no matter how far you fell. His family's legacy was just weight pulling him down.
"You're right," you said quietly. "I can't know what it's like. But I can see it. And I can help where I'm able. Is that so terrible?"
Maekar was quiet for a long time. "No. It's not terrible." He clenched his first, rough hands, worn down from hard labour. "It's just hard. Accepting help from someone who represents everything we lost. Everything we used to be and can't be anymore."
"I'm not trying to represent anything. I'm just me."
"You're a Stark. Old money that stayed old money. You're everything the Targaryens were supposed to be and failed at." He looked at you directly. "Every time I see you I'm reminded of what I couldn't keep. What I couldn't give my kids. That's not your fault but it's still true."
You understood then. You weren't just Aerion's girl, or the girl he sometimes plays with, or the outsider looking after his kids. You were a mirror reflecting Maekar's failure. Every expensive thing you wore, every casual mention of your family's continued success, every problem you solved with money—it was evidence that the Targaryen fall was complete and irreversible.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"Don't be. Just be aware of it." He stood up, hesitated, then added, "And keep helping them anyway. They need it more than I need my damn pride intact."
—
Maekar isn't good at expressing gratitude. But you see it in small things. How he stopped challenging you when you showed up with groceries. How he started telling you when things broke in the trailer, tacit permission to help fix them. How he actually answered when you called instead of letting it go to voicemail.
The first time he said thank you directly was after Rhae's emergency room visit. You'd driven five hours in the middle of the night, stayed with her through tests and fever and fear. When Maekar showed up at 6 AM straight from an overnight shift, he found you in the hospital room with Aerion passed out beside you, Rhae asleep holding your hand. Daeron was too drunk too drive, Aemon stayed back to look after others.
He stopped in the doorway. Just stared at you.
"She's okay," you said quietly. "Fever broke. Just a bad flu but they're keeping her for observation."
Maekar came in, touched Rhae's forehead with rough-gentle hands. Then looked at you—really looked, seeing you clearly maybe for the first time. "You drove nearly six hours."
"She needed someone here."
"Aerion's her brother. I'm her father. You're—" He stopped because he couldn't categorise you anymore. Girlfriend wasn't enough for someone who showed up like this.
"I'm someone who cares about her," you reminded simply.
Maekar's throat worked. "Thank you." The words came out rough, like he wasn't used to saying them. "For being here. For—" He gestured vaguely. "Everything. The help with the kids. The things you fix. I know I've been—I haven't been gracious about it. But I'm grateful. Even if I'm shit at showing it."
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
"You're good for them," Maekar continued, and his eyes flicked to Aerion coiled tight even in his sleep. "For him especially. He's different with you. Less—" He searched for words. "Less like he's trying to burn himself down before the world does it for him."
"I don't know if I'm good for him. We're pretty destructive together."
"Yeah. I've noticed." Maekar almost smiled. "But you're still here. You keep showing up. That's more than most people do." He squeezed your shoulder once—brief, awkward, sincere. "So. Thank you."
It was the most vulnerable you'd ever seen him. This man who'd spent fifteen years holding everything together alone, admitting he needed help. Admitting you'd provided it. Admitting it mattered.
"You're welcome," you said.
He left to find coffee, but something had fundamentally shifted. You'd been tested and found worthy. Not just of Aerion—of the family. Of Maekar's grudging, complicated respect.
—
The chess games became the place you were most honest with each other. Something about the structured competition, the focused attention, the fact that you were both doing something instead of just talking—it lowered guards.
During one game, Maekar said: "Aerion thinks he's going to end up like me."
You'd been studying the board, looked up. "He's said that?"
"Doesn't have to. I see it in how he looks at me. Like I'm a warning label for his future." Maekar moved his heavy horse. "And the hell of it is, he's probably right. Same self-destructive streak. Same pride. Same inability to get out of his own way."
"You're not a cautionary tale," you said. "You're a man who stayed when he could have left. Who raised six kids alone. Who works himself to death to keep them housed and fed. That's not failure."
"Isn't it? I had every advantage growing up. Education. Connections. The Targaryen name when it still meant something. And I still ended up here." He gestured at the trailer around you. "If that's not failure, what is?"
You captured his dragon. "Failure is running, giving up. Success is you—still here, still trying, still loving them even when it's hard. Even when you're exhausted. Even when they fight you every step."
Maekar studied the board. "You're going to lose in three moves. You see it?"
"I see it." You made your move anyway. "Doesn't mean I give up."
He looked at you then with something like understanding. "Yeah. That's the thing, isn't it? Seeing the losing position and playing it out anyway because giving up isn't an option." He made his move. "Checkmate."
"Again," you said.
"I was joking that first time but you really are a glutton for punishment."
"I'm a glutton for worthy opponents." You started resetting the board.
Maekar snorted, but settled in for another round.
You'd play and talk in circuitous ways about things too hard to address directly. About Aerion's addiction, about your family's expectations and his family's collapse. About love and duty and the weight of names that meant something once upon a time.
Once, after you'd finally beaten him again in a genuinely hard-fought game, Maekar said: "You're good at this. Really good. Who taught you?"
"My father, initially. Then I practiced obsessively because I hated losing."
"Sounds familiar." He was studying the board like he was trying to figure out where he'd miscalculated. "Your father still play?"
"Sometimes. When he has time between managing the family business and grooming me to take it over."
Maekar looked up sharply. "You're set to inherit?"
"The responsibility of it, yeah. Not the ownership outright. There are cousins, uncles, various stakeholders. But the legacy. The weight of it." You started putting pieces away. "Sometimes I think about how much easier it would be if it had all just collapsed. No expectations. No predetermined future. Just... freedom to fuck up on my own terms."
"Careful what you wish for," Maekar said, his voice hard. "Freedom to fuck up just means failing alone instead of failing publicly. Trust me, girl, it doesn't feel better."
You were quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry. That was thoughtless."
"No. It was honest." He stood, joints cracking. "I'd rather have honest to whatever flowery bullshit they say in those boardrooms." He headed for his room, paused. "Same time Thursday?"
"Yeah. Same time."
"Good." He almost smiled. "Maybe I'll actually have to try that game."
"You always have to try, old man."
"Yeah. But you're getting better. Soon I might have to actually work for it."
It was as close to a compliment as Maekar got. You took it as the gift it was.
—
The reality is that Maekar needs you desperately and resents needing you and is grateful you're there and wishes you weren't all at the same time. You represent everything he lost: the ease of money, the power of an intact legacy, the ability to fix problems instead of just survive them. But you also represent hope. Proof that his kids can have access to worlds he can't give them, that the Targaryen fall doesn't have to be their ceiling.
He told you once, very late during a game that had gone past any decent hour: "I used to hate you, you know. When my boy first brought you around."
"I know."
"You did?"
You quirked an eyebrow. "It was pretty obvious."
Maekar huffed a laugh. "Yeah. I guess it was." He moved his light horse. "I hated what you represented. Old money that stayed old money. Success where we'd failed. The casual way you solved problems that had been drowning me for years." He paused. "I hated that you could give them things I couldn't. That they'd look at you and see what I should have been able to provide."
"And now?"
He was quiet for a long time. "Now I'm just grateful you're here. Even if it still hurts my pride. Even if I still resent you sometimes for making my inadequacy so obvious." He met your eyes. "You're good for them. And I'm man enough to admit I need the help even if I'm not gracious about accepting it."
"You don't have to be gracious."
"I'll do honest then." He captured your knight. "Check."
just saw a tiktok that said “girls be like ‘i hate this man so much’ and then have sex with him later” and immediately thought of tt!aerion and delicious hate-fucking 🤤 i just know its goes nasty af, degrading dirty talk with praise accidentally slipping through “shut your fucking mouth, so fucking bratty—god, you’re so fucking warm.”
you hate aerion. genuinely.
he's mean, he's crude and he looks at you like you're a joke he's the only one laughing at, and his mouth is filthy and his trailer is a shithole and he's got this way of leaning against things with his whole body like the world owes him a favour.
you want to hit him so badly your palms itch.
he calls you princess like it's a slur. he makes fun of your car, your clothes, your voice, the way you hold your drink. he says you don't belong here, stark with those pale eyes and that sharp grin and you think: i'm going to destroy this man.
and aerion hates you right back. hates your composure, your money, your refusal to react when he's trying so hard to get under your skin. hates that you look at him like you're judging him for breathing the same air you do.
he hates that you smell expensive and clean and that your hands are soft. that you walked into his world like you had a right to it and you do, somehow.
you carry the authority of belonging everywhere you go and he's never belonged anywhere, and he wants to tear you apart and fuck you into his matress in equal measure.
so you fuck. obviously.
not because you like each other, but because the hatred needs somewhere to go and your bodies figured it out before their brains caught up. it's a pressure valve. that's it. you piss each other off with intent, with delight even, and then you crash into each other because the alternative is actually killing someone.
and the hatefucking is feral.
early days, it's all teeth and zero tenderness.
you give him head and it's not for his pleasure, it's a punishment.
your teeth graze the shaft and aerion hisses, grabbing your hair and you look up at him with those cold eyes and dare him to pull you off.
he doesn't. he can't. and you know it. so you take him deeper and let your teeth catch again, just enough, just the edge of danger, and his hips jerk at the sensation. he calls you a bitch and you hum around him, smirking slightly, the vibration making his thighs shake.
he's fisting your hair hard enough to hurt and you don't pull off. no matter what he does, tugs, swears, tries to fuck your throat, grabs the back of your neck, you stay. you set the pace, nails sunk into his thighs, his ass, whatever you can grab of him. because you decide when it ends.
aerion comes with your name in his mouth like it tastes like battery acid. you swallow every drop and wipe your lips with the back of your hand and glance at him like was that all?
he retaliates. because it's aerion, and he'll never leave matter of pride alone.
you're at some party with some date. a nice guy, safe guy, the kind of man your father would approve of, and aerion materialises like he was summoned by the scent of you pretending to be interested in someone else.
he doesn't introduce himself. doesn't acknowledge the date. just catches your elbow, leans in close enough that his lips drag against the shell of your ear, and says: “you're wearing the dress I fucked you in last weekend. you think I can't tell? I can smell myself on you, princess. bet you didn't even wash it. bet you couldn't.”
your whole body goes rigid and hot. your thighs press together and you hate him so much your vision whites out at the edges.
he pulls back just enough to look at your face. reads it like a book, his mouth twitching.
“you're wet right now,” he murmurs, quieter, just for you, his thumb pressing into the inside of your elbow where your pulse is hammering. “I can tell by the way you're sitting. you cross your legs like that when you're trying not to squirm." his eyes flick to your date and back to you. bored. dismissive. “he's not gonna do anything about it. you know that. I know that. so you can sit here and smile at him for another hour and go home and think about me when you touch yourself, or you can come with me right now and i'll make you come so hard you forget his name.” he lets go of your elbow. steps back. “your call, stark.”
your date asks if everything's okay. you say fine. your voice comes out steady because you're a wolf and wolves don't shake in front of prey. but your hands are fisted in your lap and your pulse is in your throat. aerion is already walking away because he doesn't need to wait for your answer. he already knows.
you excuse yourself ninety seconds later. you tell your date you need the bathroom. you follow aerion down the hallway like you're being pulled on a wire and you hate yourself, and you hate him, and you're so turned on you can barely walk straight.
he's leaning against the bathroom door waiting for you with that lazy, mean, knowing grin, hands in his pockets, and he says, “ninety seconds, huh? getting slow, princess”, and you grab him by the shirt and drag him inside and lock the door with your other hand.
he fucks you against the sink. your dress shoved up, his jeans barely pulled down, one hand braced on the mirror behind you and the other gripping your thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints. it's fast and mean and so good you bite through your own lip keeping quiet because anyone could walk in. anyone could hear. and aerion grins against your throat. that sharp, satisfied, terrible grin, and whispers: go back to your date, princess. tell him you had a real nice time.
you do. you go back with your hair fixed and your lipstick reapplied and aerion's handprint bruising into your thigh under the dress. you stand across from this nice, safe man and smile and make conversation and think about nothing except the ache between your legs and the taste of aerion still on your tongue.
he watches you from across the room. smirking. you want to kill him. you'll fuck him again by thursday.
and then he starts fucking other girls.
not because he wants them. because he wants to stop wanting you. because whatever this is, this thing between you, it's getting under his skin in a way that makes him vicious with panic.
you're a stark. you're rich. you're everything he isn't and everything he resents and his body keeps reaching for you like a reflex he can't train out and it's pissing him off.
so he tries to replace you. drags some girl home from a bar, fucks her in his trailer, in his bed, face down so he doesn’t have to look at her, in the same sheets you've been in, and the whole time he's thinking about how she doesn't bite hard enough. how she doesn't pull his hair the right way, doesn't look at him with that cold wolf stare that makes his blood so hot he feels like he could actually breathe fire.
she moans too easily. gives in too fast. there's no fight in it. there's no teeth. he finishes and feels nothing and lies there in the dark with his jaw clenched, and his fists clenched, and thinks what the fuck have you done to me, stark.
it doesn't work. none of them work. he cycles through three, four, five girls trying to scratch the itch, and every single one just makes it worse because now he has proof that nobody else feels like you. nobody else makes his hands shake. nobody else makes him want to tear something apart and crawl inside it at the same time.
and you find out.
you hear about it, or you see it, or you smell her perfume on his shirt when he shows up at your door like nothing's changed, and you go cold. wolf-cold. the kind of freezing calm that makes grown men step back without knowing why. your eyes go flat and your voice goes even and you close yourself off from him so completely it's like watching a castle gate drop.
“don't touch me.”
“what's your problem?”
“I don't want someone's sloppy seconds.”
and you turn to walk away from him. actually walk away, actually leave.
and that's the thing aerion can't stomach, not now, not ever. because you can hate him, you can insult him, you can claw his face open, but you can't fucking leave.
he grabs your arm and you spin on him, shoving him and he grabs you harder and you're snarling at each other. your nails in his chest through his shirt, his hands bruising your arms, teeth bared like animals, and you're calling him every name you know and he's throwing them right back and you shove him again and he catches your wrists. so you bite his hand, and he slams you into the wall and kisses you so hard your skull makes a thud against the plaster.
and you kiss him back. you hate yourself for it. your teeth sink into his bottom lip and you taste blood, aerion groans into your mouth and his hands are in your hair and your nails are raking down his neck, leaving welts and it's violent. it's ugly. it's everything wrong with what you are together.
except.
except your fingers are in his hair and they stop pulling and start holding. except his grip on your hip goes from bruising to bracing. except somewhere between the fourth bite and the fifth your mouths slow down and the kissing turns from punishment into something deeper, hungrier but less angry.
his forehead drops against yours and you're both breathing so hard your chests heave together and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your cheekbone and neither of you says a word but the temperature of the room shifts.
he fucks you right there against the wall and it starts rough, starts vicious, one leg around his waist and your teeth in his shoulder while his hand fists in your hair. and then it changes. again. the way it always changes with you.
the fury burns through itself and what's underneath is worse because what's underneath is need. aerion buries his face in your neck and his hips slow and you cling to him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, face pressed into his hair, and you're holding each other so tight it's hard to breathe but neither of you lets go.
it's insane. it's maddening. the power of it, the all-consuming gravity of what happens when you stop fighting long enough to feel each other. like being caught in an undertow. like being swallowed whole. and the more you give into it, the more terrifying it gets. because the passion isn't separate from the tenderness. it's the same thing. it's always been the same thing. the biting and the clinging are the same gesture when it's you two.
and that's when the degradation starts breaking apart.
“you're such a fucking nightmare, stark. you're... you ruin everything. you ruin every other girl for me. I can't stop, you're so...”
and his voice catches. and what comes next isn't an insult.
“you're so warm. fuck. you're so warm, I can't...”
“shut up.”
“you feel like...”
“maybe learn how to fuck me better so I can't think like you do.”
and your voice cracks on it too. because it was supposed to be mean and it came out desperate, and he heard the difference. he always hears the difference.
it builds like this. over weeks. over months. the degradation that was your common language starts getting holes in it.
places where the cruelty breaks apart and the real thing bleeds through. he calls you a brat and then whispers good girl into your throat before he can catch himself and goes rigid like he's been electrocuted. you tell him he's worthless and then come so hard you say his name, his actual name, not targaryen not asshole not you, but aerion, soft, hungry, and his whole body shudders like you've stabbed him.
“Don't,” he says afterwards, barely audible. “don't say my name like that.”
“like what?”
he doesn't answer. you press your forehead against his. breathe his air. let your fingers trace the line of his jaw where the tension lives. and when you both finish it's quiet. no biting, no cursing. all that's left is aerion's forehead on yours, your breath mixing in the small space between and both of you shaking but neither of you pulling away.
he ruins it, after. says something mean, picks a fight, slams out of whatever room you're in. because aerion would rather blow it up than sit with the evidence that he just made love to you and called you warm and meant it. and you let him go. you sit in the wreckage and touch your own swollen mouth where his was and think: oh. oh, this is a problem.
had a very vivid dream of resident!jack abbot being sugar babied by ceo!reader after he treats your injury. at first, he’s thrown off by your unforgiving bluntness. hesitates, scoffs at, refuses your presumptuous offer.
eventually, a contract is established: 12 week trial, then reevaluate the relationship. you take care of his student debt, cater meals for him and the ED, anonymously settle medical bills.
in return, jack is a breath of fresh air from the cut-throat environment you’re used to. he accompanies you to stuffy dinners and events, slowly discovers the prejudice and expectations placed upon a woman of your caliber in the social ladder. caring to a fault, he defends you in front your professional rivals, despite having no weight in your world. they’re all just amused by your new boy toy, until he puts them in their place.
you’d barely made any physical contact for weeks. but that night, you take jack home and allow him to watch, stroke his cock and please himself as your hands wander your own body. and that’s only the beginning.
dbf!jack abbot who fucks you at your engagement party and makes a sex tape out of it
tags/warning: mdni!!, cucking, sex tape, implied age gap, breeding kink if u squint
a/n: i smirked at my phone when i got this ask so i hope i did it justice !!!
m.list
jack has you in your parents’ bed; your face is smushed into the pillow, a desperate attempt to muffle your moans. face down, ass up, as he thrusts into you from behind.
he wasn't supposed to be here, at your engagement party. you told him sweetly over the phone that he wasn’t invited, mumbling some bullshit about how your fiancé wanted to invite some friends overseas.
jack knew you were lying. he wasn’t stupid. that’s why, when he saw you slip past the party, feigning an excuse about a headache, he followed you upstairs, pushing you down on the bed face down, naked, phone camera pointed at you as he fucked you roughly into the mattress.
“who’s pussy is this?” jack taunts, punctuating each word with a thrust of his hips.
“my fianc–”
he tsks softly, his free hand removing briefly from your hip to slap your ass. “try again.”
“yo-fuck-you do,” you moan out, hands scrambling the sheets for purchase as he reaches around to rub your clit.
“got to be quiet for me, kiddo. don’t you worry that flashy guy of yours might learn his fiancee is a whore for her dad’s friend?”
as soon as the words leave his lips, a whimper is pulled out of you, and jack raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “or maybe you want that, huh?” jack mocks. “maybe you want him to walk in on us fucking. oh, baby, then you’ll be mine forever, huh?”
he chuckles at the weak nod you try to give him, head turned slightly so he can see your face – jaw slack as drool collects on the corner of your mouth, eyes glassed over as you try to look at him.
prettiest bride-to-be he’s ever seen.
“are you going to cum for the camera?” he zooms the camera in on the sight of your face contorting in pleasure. “smile for the camera, baby. you’re going to hollywood.”
jack fucks you hard and rough through your release, his thrusts not relenting as he braces a hand on the headboard as his cock hits your g-spot over and over again. you looked so pretty below – squirming on his cock, fighting the urge to run away, and just accepted what he was giving you over and over again.
he cums inside you with a grunt, hips stuttering as he momentarily loses balance. when he pulls out with a groan, he grabs your wrist as you try to reach for the tissues on the nightstand.
“no, no leave it in,” he rasps, leaning back slightly. his eyes glint as he sees the trail of cum pool on the bed. “i look the same to him anyways.”
“seriously?” you croak out, body going limp in his hold. he hums in return, gently releasing your wrist.
when you finally face him, a faint smirk plays on his lips as he tosses his phone onto the nightstand. a beat passes as he watches with faint amusement as your eyes keep darting between him and the phone.
“don’t worry, darling; that’s for my eyes only.” he leans in to give a kiss on your forehead, hands brushing your damp hair behind your ear. “all you've got to do is look pretty on your big day, hm?”
robby rats you out for calling jack a "daddy figure" during a father's day joke
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING jack abbot x reader
WARNINGS implied age-gap, sexual innuendo / 'daddy' kink language, public teasing and humiliation, flirty jack, caffeine levels that qualify as a controlled substance, threatening elders with sub-par retirement homes
WC 0.8k
REQUEST here!
Jack manages to intercept you before you’ve even made it to your third iced coffee.
You’re standing at the desk with a chart half-open in your hands, whispering to yourself as you read, because sometimes the information only becomes real if you say it under your breath in a running little stream of nonsense commentary.
To be fair, this is not remotely out of the ordinary for you.
At hour thirteen of a double, very little about you resembles a person operating under regulated conditions. Your ponytail is in the late stages of collapse, your notes look like they were taken mid-exorcism, and your whole body has that bright, fried, over-caffeinated buzzing to it, like if someone touched your shoulder right now you might either diagnose a patient or burst into glitter.
What is out of the ordinary is the shit-eating grin Jack is wearing when he steps up beside you and drops his forearms into the space to your left.
“Y’know,” he says, entirely too pleased, eyes skimming your face while his spoon clinks a slow waltz through the mug, “I had a really interesting handoff this evening.”
Your pulse skips a beat, already bracing for impact. “Did you?”
“Mm.” He takes an appreciative sip. “Robby’s a great storyteller.”
You had known, in the aftermath, that what you had said in a moment of fun might come back to bite you. You just hadn’t expected it to boomerang back this quickly. Or with Jack looking downright delighted to wield it.
Slowly, like it’s made of nitro, you lower the chart to the counter. “It was a joke.”
It’s not a good excuse, but it’s all you have on such time constraints.
“Was it?”
You lift your gaze to find him already studying you, lip curved in that infuriating almost-smirk, just enough teeth to say jackpot. Luxuriating in your discomfort. Wallowing in it, even.
“It was funny in context,” you insist, defensive squeak slipping out.
“Then by all means,” he says, lifting one hand. “Give me context.”
You skewer him with a glare. He merely idles, waiting like he has all night.
And yes you technically have the entire shift to burn, but unlike him you’ll be spending it duck-and-covering through live psychological artillery if the story’s made it to any of your other co-workers.
It started near the end of your first twelve, right as the ER tends to slide into a carnival of cranky zombies.
Espresso counts climb, call lights chorus, and every resident sprints on whatever’s left in their IV of vending-machine sugar and unfiltered determination.
Robby was hunched at the nurses’ station, glasses slid halfway down his nose, peering over Santos’s shoulder with that chronically jet-lagged look he wears like a spare ID. You shambled past, juggling a granola bar and a dog-eared chart, when the date finally flicked.
So you paused, gave the counter a jaunty little tap, and chirped, “Happy Father’s Day, Robby!”
He glanced up, weariness sharpening to confusion. “I’m… not a father.”
“Right, but you still do the whole dad-energy thing, so… honorary title.”
Santos snorted from behind the monitors. “Wouldn’t Abbot make more sense as your father figure substitute? He enforces nights like a walking curfew.”
You flicked her away with a granola-crumbed hand.
“Jack is… a daddy figure. Totally different classification. No offense, Robby.” Robby only blinked, owlish and exhausted. So, naturally, you plunged the shovel deeper, aiming a finger right at him. “And before you tell him, remember I’m technically one of the few people in this hospital who’d be willing to choose your nursing home.”
“I’m not that old.”
“You are to me.”
And then you had floated away thinking, stupidly, naively, beautifully, that maybe the moment had passed.
It had not passed.
It had apparently been preserved in amber and delivered word-for-word at handoff to the one man on earth who would enjoy it most.
Now Jack parks his coffee, arms cinching across his freakishly broad chest.
“So,” he deadpans, “daddy figure?”
You make a mental note to reserve Robby a retirement home where ‘recreation’ is a single dusty puzzle and reach for anything coherent you can muster, ignoring the impeding lump in your throat.
“Strictly taxonomy, Jack. Think kingdom-phylum-class. Father figure is, like, sensible minivan and Roth IRA energy. Daddy figure is an entirely different genus — high-performance emotional support with optional leather interior. Totally complimentary, I swear.” His eyebrow arcs; your hands start semaphore-panicking. “Not, like, kink compliments — just, you know, admiration for your, uh, management style.”
He’s silent for a second, eyes making slow work from your mouth to your nose to your own eyes. He leans in closer.
You try to dampen the fiery feeling prodding at the tips of your ears until his intense gaze. It’s hard to do.
“For the record, kingdom-phylum-class is an incomplete taxonomic ranking. You skipped order, family, genus, species. If I’m your daddy genus, what does that make you? Under the same umbrella, or something considerably more… subordinate?”
You sputter. Suddenly it’s a hundred degrees and you’re a busted radiator.
“That’s, um, well… I think we’re, uh, past my flash-card set.” You laugh-hiccup, cheeks on fire.
You wonder if he can feel the heat emitting from them.
Jack’s smile unfurls into full smirk. One finger hooks under your chin, tilting until panic meets espresso-dark amusement.
“Thought so,” he murmurs, stepping back. “Now run along, kid — Daddy’s got rounds to patrol.”
MARIA NOTE happy father's day to any who celebrate and especially mr dr jack abbot... clock out and come home, babe; the kids miss u ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋🌼🧺˚˖𓍢ִ🌿˚.
I figure you're already sleeping with both of them. its not serious, you dont know they know each other. they dont mention your name to each other.
now, you work in a little bar they both pass on the way home. you meet robby first, serving him a drink after a particularly rough shift. taking pity on him and offering to drive him home. probably a stupid idea, but 911 is ready to go in your phone.
youd just have to press call.
its not that night you end up in his bed, but you give him your number before he gets out of your car.
he stops by the bar again, this time just to get a water and talk.
it's after the third time that when you finally sleep with him. bouncing on his cock in the backseat of his car when he picks you up from the bar.
your meeting jack is more... well it's quicker. two people making eyes at each other in the bar. two people who end up fucking in the bathroom.
both of them are a regular thing after that. they have different schedules so it's easy to keep them separate.
but then pittfest happens. robby figures they can both use a drink. so they do, heading to your bar.
turns out both your boys need comfort. what better way than to comfort hem together? taking jack into your mouth while robby fucks you from behind. a long night on every surface of your apartment.
honestly, you don't expect to wake up with either of them. you expect them to be gone, you expect your bed to be empty, but they're there. they're beside you, jacks arm around you as he sleeps, robby staring up at the ceiling.
"breakfast?" you offer, climbing from between them.
and jack and robby think you're the most beautiful thing going as you walk out of your bedroom, hips swaying from side to side.
ellievsbear
stormborns
origamiaround
izzy806
discoholicmusic
