maekar targaryen being secretly needy once he gets a taste of the affection and warmth you, his wife, willingly offer him.
he is a controlled man, with a restraint of iron, but most of it goes out the window the moment he feels how good your fingers feel running through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp and behind his ears.
sometimes down his nape, slow and leisured, making him shiver from head to toe.
your husband tries to keep a firm façade, but you know him better than anyone — especially how easy it is to melt him into low grumbles and satisfied groans with just a few well-placed touches.
"you're too good at that," he'll bite out, as if it inconveniences him, trying to cling onto the last remnants of the stern prince everyone knows him to be before he succumbs to the heavenly feeling of your fingers pressing into the bare skin of his back, unfurling the knots and kinks along his muscles.
"would you rather i be unskilled at relaxing my husband?" you quip back, a small smile curling along your lips from your place astride of his hips, sitting comfortably, like a queen onto her throne.
the room is warm from the hearth, the bed piled with furs and pelts, and your husband is having the time of his life laid out under you.
face onto the mattress, the entire expanse of his broad, muscled back at your fingertips. an entire feast for your eyes that you drink greedily as your palms move from the small of his back up towards those broad shoulders you love clinging to.
maekar doesn't seem to appreciate the lip you're giving him, his head turning to rest onto his folded forearms just to peer at you, violet eyes sharp with reprimand but still shining with something warmer beneath — contentment, even pleasure.
"if you were unskilled, i would've risen long ago, woman," comes a gruff grumble, but you can sense the underlying praise woven through the words. it makes your chest expand with warmth — even more so when you feel him shift under you, arching his back just so, as if pressing impatiently into your fingers, urging you for more.
and you always give in to his requests, fingertips easily finding tight bundles of strain and stress under bare, scarred skin, easing them into softness one by one, watching in delight how your husband becomes a puddle of pleased sighs and appreciative profanities under your skilled touches.
it makes you preen, knowing that this strong, hardened man trusts you enough to place his respite into the palm of your hands and allow you to do anything your heart desires with it as long as you're touching him, as long as he feels you near.
by the end of it, you've taken him apart and melted him into the bed.
you slowly lean forward, a self-gratified hum falling from your lips, brushing against his ear as your front presses against the length of his bare back, your chest squished against the hardened muscles.
the reaction is immediate.
his breath catches noisily as he feels the warmth of you draped over his back, closing his eyes tightly for a few moments to rein in all the impulses that suddenly swarm him, jaw clenched so tightly he swears it pops alongside the burning logs in the hearth.
"was that adequate, my love?" comes your whisper against the nape of his neck, which you nuzzle sweetly, the tip of your nose brushing against the fine hairs there, the gesture almost feline in nature.
his chest aches at how easily you give him affection, how leisurely you offer him your love, as if it were second nature and not the most treasured gift he had ever been blessed to receive and keep, for many moons now.
your husband could respond with a half-hearted grouch, like he often does; could try to not let the immense amount of tenderness he feels for you overwhelm him; could mask it all up as best as he can — still too scared to show how much this all means to him, how much you mean to him.
but this time, he doesn't.
this time, he only sighs, long and almost relieved, head tipping to the side to catch your eye, chin lifting enough for his lips to press against the softness of your cheek, lingering and so achingly fond, remaining there for a few moments before pulling back enough to whisper.
"mhm, thank you, sweetheart," he presses the words into your skin, warm and hushed, a low rumble that makes your heart flutter in your chest, rapid and loud — which he can feel pressed against his back, thumping a rhythm that he's fortunate enough to be familiar with.
a rhythm that he wants to hear and feel for as many moons as the gods grant him on this godforsaken earth — one he would never tire of — his wife's unspoken confession of love.
a/n: maekar blurb that took over my brain at 4am in the morning. i have very tender feelings about this man.
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