The Maekar Stannis comparisons are very valid but one key difference is that Maekar would absolutely never in a million years sacrifice a single one of his children. He would rather fight every single Other on his own than kill any of his chaos demons.
Can I please have King Maekar Targaryen + heavy degradation/praise with prompt 33? ❤️🔥
𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 | 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.
When King Maekar Targaryen overhears you defending him when a very ladies wish to know whether he can still perform as any young man ought to, Maekar has no trouble in showing you exactly what he can do.
Requested: King Maekar Targaryen.
69 ENTWINED SHADOWS:
Heavy Degradation + Praise.
Prompt: 33. “I’ll be your devoted monster — let me fuck you slow and deep.”
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: high degradation, high praise, gentle sex, headlock position, explicit sexual content, possessive behaviour, age gap (reader is in her late twenties, maekar is most definitely in his late fifties, I said what I said because he and Baelor are aged up in the TV series), minors dni.
I cannot always write what anyone has in mind, so hopefully this leans towards what you wanted, cause I might have gotten carried away a bit here, emphasis on monster and emphasis on Maekar reminding you just what a good little whore you I mean we are.
The solar smelled of beeswax candles, myrrh incense, and the faint floral sweetness of the ladies’ perfumes, rosewater, lavender, and crushed violets. Soft laughter floated on the air like silk.
You sat among them, your young body draped in a gown of deep crimson silk that clung to your curves, the fabric whispering against your skin with every shift. The hearth crackled warmly, casting flickering golden light across the Myrish rugs and tapestries.
Lady Merryweather’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur, her fan snapping shut. “Tell us truly, Your Grace… the king is a man of certain years. Does his age ever give him trouble in the marriage bed? Can he still perform as a younger lord might?”
Heat bloomed across your cheeks, a flush that prickled down your neck. The other women leaned in, silk rustling, eyes bright with curiosity. You stammered, voice soft yet defiant, the words tasting like loyalty on your tongue. “N-no, it doesn’t trouble him at all. The king is… vigorous. More than any man half his age could dream of. He leaves me trembling and sated every night.”
You didn’t see him at first, the tall, broad shadow just beyond the half-open oak door, the faint gleam of torchlight on black iron and red gold. Maekar had come for you after the council, his heavy boots unusually quiet on the rugs.
The scent of him reached you later, polished steel, aged leather, woodsmoke, and the sharp, distant promise of untamed dragonfire. He heard every word.
The doubt.
Your stammering defense.
His jaw clenched, violet eyes darkening like storm clouds over the Narrow Sea.
That night, the chamber doors thudded shut behind him with finality, the iron latch clicking like a judgment. The room was dim, lit only by a few candles and the low fire in the massive hearth. Shadows danced across the tapestries of ancient Targaryen victories.
The air was thick with the scent of beeswax, warm furs, and the faint metallic tang of the king’s presence.
Maekar filled the doorway, tall, powerfully built, the years only adding to the heavy, unyielding strength in his shoulders and chest. His warlike crown was set aside, but the authority clung to him like a second skin.
He crossed to you in measured strides, boots thudding softly. One large, calloused hand, rough from decades of sword and mace, cupped your jaw firmly, thumb pressing against your plush lower lip, tasting faintly of salt and ink from the day’s letters.
“I heard you today, little wife,” he growled, voice a low rumble that vibrated through your bones, rough as grinding millstones. “Defending my cock to those twittering hens like a loyal little bird. Stammering so prettily while they questioned whether your old husband can still fuck you properly.”
Your breath caught, heart hammering. The heat of his body radiated against you, solid muscle, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin from the day’s labors. He yanked your gown up with impatient strength, the silk tearing slightly at the seams with a sharp rip, his rough palm sliding up the smooth, sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. Goosebumps erupted in the wake of his touch.
“I am no green boy,” he continued, lips brushing your ear, hot breath sending shivers cascading down your spine. His scent enveloped you, leather, smoke, clean sweat, and that dark, intoxicating growl that accompanied his words. “But you… gods, you’re so fucking young. Soft. Sweet. This tight little cunt still flutters like a virgin’s every time I claim it.”
He backed you toward the great canopied bed, the furs thick and luxurious against the backs of your knees. With a firm push, you fell back into them, the pelts cool and silky at first, then warming rapidly beneath your heated skin. Maekar loomed over you, stripping his black tunic away.
The firelight gilded the hard planes of his scarred chest, the corded muscle of his arms, the silver hairs that trailed down his abdomen. His breeches followed, freeing his thick, heavy cock, already rigid, flushed dark, the head glistening with a bead of precum that caught the light.
He descended on you like a conquering army. His mouth claimed yours in a bruising kiss, tasting of spiced wine and dominance, tongue stroking deep, teeth nipping your lower lip until it throbbed.
He tore the rest of your gown open, the fabric whispering apart, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His calloused palms cupped them roughly, thumbs circling your hardened nipples, pinching just hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from your throat.
“Listen to those pretty sounds,” he murmured against your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, the sting blooming into heat. One thick finger dragged through your slick folds, the obscene wet sound filling the chamber as he teased your entrance. “Already soaked for me. Dripping like a desperate whore for your king’s old cock. So eager to prove them wrong, aren’t you?”
He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, stretching, curling, stroking that sensitive spot with ruthless precision. The wet, rhythmic sounds of his hand working you mingled with your moans and the crackle of the fire. His thumb pressed firm circles on your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core. The scent of your arousal thickened the air between you.
Maekar withdrew his fingers, bringing them to your lips. “Taste how much you want this monster,” he commanded. You obeyed, tongue swirling around his digits, tasting yourself, tangy and sweet. He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest.
Positioning himself, he rubbed the thick head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your slickness, the friction delicious and torturous. His violet eyes bored into yours, dark with lust and possession. “I’ll be your devoted monster,” he rasped, the words heavy with promise and filth. “Let me fuck you slow and deep.”
Then he pushed in, inch by thick, veined inch. The stretch burned sweetly, your walls fluttering and yielding around his girth. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat as he sank to the hilt, hips flush against yours, heavy balls pressed tight to your skin. You felt full, overwhelmed by the heat of him, the way he throbbed deep inside, the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickling your sensitive flesh.
He held there, letting you adjust, his breath hot and ragged against your collarbone. Then he began to move, slow, rolling thrusts that dragged every ridge and vein along your inner walls, hitting that perfect spot with devastating accuracy. The heavy slap of skin on skin was muted by the deep pace, replaced by wet, filthy sounds and the creak of the ancient bedframe. His weight pinned you deliciously, chest hair rasping against your nipples, sweat-slick skin sliding together.
“Seven hells, you’re still so fucking tight,” he praised, voice hoarse with pleasure, laced with degradation. “This perfect royal cunt clenching around an old man’s cock like it was made for me. Younger lords would spill the moment they felt this heat. But I… I will ruin you for hours.”
His hand pinned your wrists above your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into soft flesh. He hooked one of your legs higher, changing the angle so he drove even deeper.
The new depth made you cry out, the pressure intense, bordering on overwhelming. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto your breasts as he moved, slow, deep, relentless.
“Such a good girl,” he growled, nipping your earlobe, breath hot and damp. “Taking every inch so beautifully. My loyal little wife, defending my cock by day and milking it by night. But you’re also my filthy secret, dripping and moaning for a man old enough to be your father.”
The praise and degradation wove together, pushing you higher. The scent of sex, musky, salty, primal, filled the room. Your moans grew louder, unrestrained, echoing off the stone walls. Maekar’s rhythm faltered only slightly as his own pleasure mounted, but he mastered it, grinding deep and slow, hips circling to press against your clit with every thrust.
“Come for me,” he commanded, voice rough as gravel. “Let me feel this tight cunt squeeze my cock. Show your king how well he performs.”
Pleasure crashed over you like dragonfire, your body arching, walls pulsing rhythmically around him, a gush of wetness coating his length. The sensation tipped him over and with a deep, animalistic groan that reverberated through your joined bodies, Maekar buried himself to the hilt and spilled. Hot, thick ropes of his seed flooded you, pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his cock, trickling down your thighs in warm, sticky trails.
He stayed buried deep, rocking gently through the aftershocks, the wet sounds obscene and intimate. His weight was comforting now, heavy and protective as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to your sweat-damp skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness of your perfume. One large hand stroked down your side, soothing the marks he’d left.
“Never doubt it again,” he whispered, voice softening with rare tenderness beneath the dominance, his breath warm against your ear. “Age be damned. This devoted monster will always fuck his young queen slow and deep… until the only sound in the Red Keep is you screaming my name.”
The fire crackled low as he held you close, the mingled scents of sweat, sex, and spent candles wrapping around you both like a claim.
The fire had burned lower, casting long, flickering shadows across the furs and your sweat-slicked bodies.
Maekar’s cock was still buried deep inside you, softening only slightly, his thick spend leaking warmly around him with every tiny shift of your hips. His large frame blanketed yours, chest heaving against your back, the coarse hair there damp and rasping deliciously over your skin. The heavy, musky scent of sex hung thick in the air, salt, slick, and the faint metallic edge of his skin.
But the king was far from finished.
A low, rumbling growl vibrated through his chest as he stirred. Strong arms shifted you with effortless power, pulling your back flush against his front.
One thick, corded arm slid around you, locking you in place with unyielding control, his bicep and forearm caging the side of your neck and shoulder, holding you exactly where he wanted while his other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to bruise.
You were utterly enveloped by him: the scorching heat of his body, the relentless strength in every muscle, the way his breath, hot, ragged, scented with wine and dominance, ghosted over your ear and the sensitive skin of your throat.
“Still so full of me,” he murmured, voice a deep, gravelly rasp that sent fresh shivers racing down your spine. He rolled his hips forward, sinking back into you with that same devastatingly slow, deep thrust. The stretch reignited instantly, your walls fluttering around his thickening length as he dragged every thick inch along your sensitive inner walls. “Greedy little cunt won’t let me go, will it? Even after I’ve flooded you like a claimed broodmare.”
The wet, obscene sound of his cock sliding through the mess he’d already made filled the chamber, filthy, slick, rhythmic with every unhurried grind. He kept the pace torturously deliberate, pulling back until only the fat head remained inside you, then pressing forward until his heavy balls nestled tight against your soaked folds.
Each deep stroke pressed you harder into the cage of his arm and body, the coarse hair on his thighs rubbing against the backs of yours, his sweat-slick chest sliding against your spine.
“Fuck… listen to that,” he groaned, the praise rough and filthy. “Such a perfect, sloppy little wife. Taking your this old cock so beautifully, milking every inch like you were born for it. Younger men couldn’t last a minute in this heavenly cunt—tight, hot, and dripping like a common whore for an old monster twice their age. But you are my good little whore, aren't you?”
His arm flexed subtly around you, pulling you even closer, the powerful muscle pressing firmly against your neck and shoulder as he drove deeper.
The position left you completely at his mercy, arched back against his solid chest, unable to do anything but feel every slow, grinding thrust that rubbed relentlessly against that sweet spot inside you. His free hand roamed, palming your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple until it throbbed, then sliding down to circle your swollen clit with calloused fingers.
The dual sensation, his thick cock stretching you open and those precise, firm strokes on your clit, made your moans rise uncontrollably, breathy and desperate against the heavy weight of his arm.
“You hear that, my sweet slut?” he growled, lips brushing the shell of your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “The way your cunt squelches around me? Soaking my balls because your old husband still fucks you better than any boy ever could. Defending my vigor to those court bitches by day… and creaming on my cock like a devoted cock sleeve by night. That’s my good girl. My perfect, filthy queen.”
He kept the rhythm slow and devastatingly deep, hips rolling in powerful, controlled waves that made the bed creak softly beneath you both.
Every thrust pushed a fresh gush of his earlier seed out around his shaft, trickling hot and sticky down your thighs. The friction was exquisite, burning pleasure bordering on overwhelming, the drag of his veined length against your fluttering walls sending sparks through your entire body.
His scent surrounded you completely: sweat, leather, and raw masculinity, growing stronger with every flex of his powerful frame.
“Gods, you’re exquisite,” he praised, voice dropping into a reverent growl as your walls clenched tighter around him. “So young, so tight, so fucking mine. This body was made to be ruined by me...stretched wide on a battle-hardened cock, marked and filled until you can’t walk without feeling where I’ve been.”
His fingers on your clit sped up just slightly, matching the deep grind of his hips. “Come for me again, little one. Let me feel this royal pussy worship its king. Show me how well this old anvil still hammers you into the furs.”
The combination of his degrading filth and soaring praise, the relentless slow-deep thrusts, the unyielding cage of his arm holding you helpless against his body, and the skilled torment of his fingers pushed you over the edge once more.
Pleasure crashed through you like wildfire, your body seizing, walls pulsing and fluttering wildly around his thick length as you cried out, the sound muffled against his sweat-slick skin. Fresh slick gushed around him, coating his cock and thighs.
Maekar groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back. He fucked you through it, slow, deep, possessive strokes that prolonged your orgasm until you were trembling and whimpering in his unbreakable hold.
Only then did his own control fracture once more and with a guttural snarl, he buried himself to the hilt one final time, hips grinding tight as he spilled again, hot, thick pulses flooding your already full cunt, so much that it overflowed immediately, dripping messily between your joined bodies.
He held you there, locked against him, both of you panting in the heavy, sex-scented air. His arm remained firm around you, not releasing you from the intimate cage, lips pressing heated, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and the side of your neck.
“My devoted little monster-fucker,” he whispered, voice hoarse with satisfaction and dark affection. “Never doubt what this king can do to you.”
This has always bothered me too and it didn't make sense until someone older told me that when they were growing up "scare quotes" were used the way we used *asterisks* or ALL CAPS for emphasis
