𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 | 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.
⤷ During a feast, boredom emboldens you to tease your husband, Maekar, because he's not paying attention to you; you escalate things by smiling at another lord and Maekar has no other choice but to put you in your place.
⤷ 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 × 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑.
⤷ explicit sexual content, minors do not engage with this, rough sex, breeding kink, smut, porn with plot.
Eh, what can I say? I am a whore for this man.
The great hall of the Red Keep sweltered under the weight of autumn's last feast, the fire pit roaring at the center of the long room while torches guttered in iron sconces along the stone walls.
The air was thick with everything at once—roasting mutton, dark ale, sweat from a hundred bodies packed onto rough-hewn benches, the smoke that curled lazy and grey toward the high rafters where banners hung in the dim.
You sat pressed against your husband's side, your amber silk gown warm against your thighs where it pooled across the bench, and you were not listening to Lord Harren Blackwood.
You had stopped listening approximately seven minutes ago, somewhere between "barley yield" and "and if you consider the oat rotation, my lord, the true cost is—" and you had not been missed.
Lord Blackwood's attention was fixed entirely on Maekar's face, his ruddy cheeks flushed from wine and earnest desperation, his hands gesturing with the ink-stained cuff of his wool tunic as he charted numbers in the air like a septon casting prayers.
He did not see you.
He did not see how your fingers had begun to trace slow circles on your own knee beneath the table, or how your gaze had drifted from his tedious mouth to your husband's jaw.
Maekar's jaw.
That hard line of it, the close-cropped beard that did nothing to soften the cut of his bone, the muscle that worked beneath his temple as Lord Blackwood droned on.
He was being patient.
You could feel it in the way his hand had gone still around his cup of wine, the way his shoulders had settled into a posture of strained courtesy. He was letting the man finish.
And you were very, very bored.
“My lord, as I was saying,” the elderly lord continued, oblivious, “the western granaries produced nearly twenty percent less grain than expected.”
Prince Maekar nodded once. “Then import from the Reach before winter drives the prices higher. Waiting will only worsen the matter.”
You sat beside him, slowly dying of boredom.
Grain.
More grain.
An astonishing amount of grain.
“My prince is wise,” the lord agreed. “Though transportation costs remain a concern—”
You leaned toward your husband. You shifted closer to him, letting your shoulder press against his arm, the silk of your gown whispering softly against his sleeve. He did not react—not visibly—but you felt the slight hitch in his breathing, the way his chest paused for half a heartbeat before continuing its steady rise and fall.He knew you were there.
He always knew.
“Maekar.”
His violet eyes flicked toward you briefly. “Not now.”
Lord Blackwood continued. “If we could negotiate lower tariffs—”
A rather pleasant thought crossed your mind at that moment, humming beneath your breath as you took a sip of your wine and then smiled sweetly.
“Did you know,” you murmured into Maekar's ear, “that I've spent the last ten minutes imagining how quickly you'd drag me out of this hall if I interrupted your very important discussion about wheat?”
The moment the words slipped from your mouth, Maekar froze, a brief moment long enough for him to send you a scalding glare, “Tariffs,” he said evenly to the lord, staring straight ahead, “can be renegotiated.”
The lord nodded eagerly. “Yes, exactly, Your Grace.”
Your lips brushed the shell of your husband's ear, close enough that your breath was warm against his skin, and you let your voice drop to a low, honeyed purr that only he would hear.
“My lord husband,“ you murmured, your tongue tracing the ridge of his ear just once, featherlight, “I have been sitting here for the better part of an hour, listening to a man describe the moisture content of barley, and I have come to a decision.”
The muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes did not leave Lord Blackwood's face, but you felt the shift in the air between them—the way his attention, that vast and careful attention he was giving the grain lord, fractured.
“Is that so,” he said, his voice flat, pitched for the conversation he was still technically having. Lord Blackwood, blessedly oblivious, continued talking about soil acidity.
“It is,” you breathed. You hand slid from your knee to his thigh beneath the table, palm flat, pressing through the wool of his breeches. “I've decided that you are paying too much attention to oats and not nearly enough to me.”
The muscle beneath your hand tensed. Hard. His thigh was solid, all dense strength from years of riding and sword work, and you traced the edge of it with your fingertips, a slow exploration that stopped just short of where he would feel it most.
“And I've further decided,” you continued, your lips still brushing his ear, “that if you do not find a way to end this conversation in the next minute, I will slide my hand higher. And I will find out exactly how much of your attention I can claim while Lord Blackwood explains the difference between spring wheat and winter wheat.”
Maekar's hand moved.
It dropped below the table and closed around your wrist—firm, his calloused fingers a band of heat around your delicate bones. He did not squeeze hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to stop you.
“Wife,” he said, and his voice had dropped. Lower now. A growl that vibrated through his chest and into your shoulder where you leaned against him. “That is not a game for this table.”
“I'm not playing a game,” you said, and you let your teeth graze his earlobe. Just once. Just enough to feel him shiver. “I'm making a point.”
Lord Blackwood took a breath. “—so you see, my lord, the adjustment would only be a few silver stags per bushel, and I assure you the yield increase would—”
Maekar turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough that his mouth was against your temple, his breath hot against your skin, and his voice was a low, rough warning that only you could hear.
“If you do not stop,” he said, “I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of this hall like a sack of flour. In front of every lord here. In front of your Dornish friend, who has been watching you since you sat down.”
Your heart stuttered.
A flash of heat, sharp and bright, that traveled from your chest straight down to your core.
You knew that tone.
You knew the weight in it, the promise that was not a threat but a statement of intent. He would do it. He absolutely would do it.
You drew back.
Just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes catching the firelight, and you let your mouth curve into a slow, deliberate smile.
“You wouldn't,” you said, and your voice was a challenge now, a dare wrapped in silk.
His violet eyes held yours.
“Try me.”
You should have stopped there. You knew you should have stopped there. The line was drawn, the warning delivered, and any sensible woman would have pressed her knees together, taken a sip of wine, and waited for the conversation to end with her dignity intact.
But you had never been sensible. And you were not done.
You let your smile widen—just a fraction, just enough to show you knew exactly what you were doing—and then you turned your head.
Across the table, Lord Anders Dustin sat lounging in his seat with the easy grace of a man who had no particular business at this feast and no particular care for who knew it. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, the silver scar on his brow catching the torchlight, and his sharp brown eyes had been watching you for some time.
You had felt his gaze on your skin like a whisper, like a question. And now you answered it.
You smiled at him. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of smile that meant something—or at least, the kind of smile that could be mistaken for meaning something.
Anders's mouth curved in response, a lazy, knowing tilt that acknowledged the game you were playing. He raised his cup to you, just slightly, a salute that said I see you, and I see him, and I am very curious how this ends.
Lord Blackwood was still talking. He had moved on to drainage. Nonsense words, water and silt and percentages that you did not hear because you were still smiling at the Dornishman, and because Maekar's hand had tightened around your wrist.
“That,” Maekar said, his voice so low it was barely a vibration, “was a mistake.”
And then you squeezed his thigh, palmed the visible evidence of his straining cock and grinned.
Hard.
The lord blinked. “Are you unwell, Prince Maekar?”
“No.”
You squeezed once more and feeling quite emboldened by the wine and the fact that your husband hadn't paid you much attention since the feast began, moved your hand higher and slipped beneath his legs, fluttering your eyelashes when your husband quietly groaned beneath his breath.
“You appear tense.”
“I am listening.”
“You do not seem to be listening.”
“I assure you,” Maekar replied through clenched teeth, “I hear every word.”
You rested your chin on your hand. “How impressive. A prince capable of discussing grain and tariffs while wondering whether his wife is about to behave herself.”
Maekar inhaled, slowly, dangerously and you smirked behind your cup, taking another sip as you tried to appear as innocent without making it obvious that you were now rubbing the evidence of his hardening cock beneath—as you promptly deemed it at that moment—too much clothing.
The lord frowned. “Your Grace?”
“The harvest,” Maekar said, voice strained, “was lower than expected.” a hiss tore from his lips as he rolled his shoulders, your fingers squeezing once more over the fabric of his breeches, grinning innocently at him, though he paid you now attention.
“Yes.”
“And the grain must be moved before winter.”
“Yes.”
“And if my wife says another word, I may personally carry her from this hall.”
Lord Blackwood blinked.
You grinned. “Carry me?”
Maekar finally looked at you. The stare promised consequences.
“Be quiet.”
You rose an eyebrow in challenge. “Make me.” The silence that followed was deafening. Across the table, one knight abruptly became fascinated by his wine. Another choked on his drink.
The lord looked between the two of you and wisely decided that perhaps grain could wait until tomorrow. “On second thought,” he said, standing quickly, “I believe we have discussed the matter sufficiently.”
The moment he was gone, Maekar seized your wrist beneath the table.
“Seven hells,” he muttered as his head tilted back, violet eyes darkening as you looked entirely too pleased with yourself.
“At least you're paying attention to me now.”
His jaw tightened.
“Keep smiling.”
“Why?”
“Because in five minutes,” Maekar said, rising from his seat, “you are going to regret reminding me that I have been ignoring you all evening.”
For the first time during the feast, you were no longer bored. “Is that a threat, Your Grace?”
He leaned towards you, lips pulling back and then he did not unexpected—your husband's lips wrapped around your earlobe and then he nipped, “No, sweet wife, it's a fucking promise. Now behave, or else I'll bend you over this fucking table and shove my cock so deep in your cunt that you'll be screaming my name,” and then he leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself at the flustered look on your face, “and I am seconds away from doing so.”
You cleared your throat, but his fingers wrapped around your wrist before you could pull your hand away, “I do not think I gave you permission to stop,” and then your lips parted, his violet gaze clashing against your own and then he grunted, “fuck it, we're leaving.”
You laughed.
It was a bright, ringing sound, the laugh you used when you knew you were being wicked and wanted everyone to know you knew it. It cut through Lord Blackwood's monologue like a blade, drawing his attention for the first time in minutes, drawing the eyes of the nearest tables, drawing Anders Dustin's amused gaze and the tilt of his scarred brow.
The lord, who knew better than most than to utter a word, glanced away and took careful interest in the plate of untouched food in front of him, “We will continue this discussion on the morrow, I find that I must tend to far more important matters.”
You did not see the hear the scrape of Maekar's chair. You only felt the air shift, the sudden absence of his warmth at your side, and then his hands were on you—one gripping your arm, the other sliding around your waist as he pulled you up from your seat with a strength that left no room for resistance—
and then threw you over his shoulder, ignoring the several gasps that tumbled from the ladies huddled somewhere in the corner of the hall, gossiping most like, your husband paid them no mind and turned to face his brother, Prince Baelor Targaryen who looked far more amused at the lack of decorum than he had any right to be.
“Maekar,” Baelor murmured beneath his breath, “this is not a fitting image of a prince of the realm to act,” Maekar grunted.
“Fuck off, I've had enough of this fucking feast and talks of grain, now please excuse me, I have to teach my wife some manners,” and then Maekar did indeed keep promise to his words when he carried you the hall.
The world swung upside down, stone and torchlight and gasping faces tumbling past your vision as Maekar's shoulder drove into your stomach hard enough to steal your breath.
His arm locked across the backs of your thighs like iron, your crimson gown pooling around your ears, the silk of your skirts sliding against your face as the hall spun to a stop.
“Maekar,” you gasped, the word punched out of you by the impact, but your husband was already walking, boots striking the flagstones with the unhurried rhythm of a man who had nowhere else to be and no one to answer to.
Behind you, the hall erupted. A lady's shriek, cut short. The scrape of a chair pushed back too fast. And beneath it all, Baelor's laughter—low, silken, utterly delighted—following you past the doors like a ribbon of sound.Your hands found Maekar's back, gripping the leather of his doublet as you tried to right yourself, but the angle was wrong, your weight balanced on his shoulder with nothing to brace against but the broad span of his spine.
Your hair swung forward, strands catching in your mouth, and you spat them out with an undignified huff.
“Put me down.” His hand slid up the back of your calf, callused fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.
“No.”
The corridor swallowed the torchlight. Damp granite chilled the bare skin of your arm where your sleeve had ridden up, and the echo of Maekar's boots flattened against the narrow walls, footsteps chasing each other into the dark ahead.
You heard the whisper of a servant pressing themselves against the wall to let the prince pass, heard the sharp intake of breath, heard the scurry of retreating feet.
“Everyone is staring,” you said, your voice muffled by the angle, by the fabric of his doublet pressing against your cheek.
“Let them.” His hand was still on your calf, thumb tracing the seam of your stocking, and the touch was deliberate—not absent, not accidental. He was touching you like he owned you, like the corridor was his chamber and your leg was his to map in the dark.
Your face burned. “You made a scene.”
His laugh was a grunt, barely a sound at all, but you felt it move through his shoulder, through the meat of his back where your hands still clung. “I haven't even started.”
The corridor turned. The air changed—cooler, damper, the smell of old stone and something earthier. The tower stairs. You heard them before you saw them, the hollow echo of a space that opened upward into darkness.
Maekar's hand left your calf. You felt the absence like a loss, the ghost of his fingers still warm on your skin. Then his palm landed flat on your arse, squeezing once, hard, and you yelped.
“That's for smiling at the Dornish lord.”
“I didn't—”
“You did.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Three times. Once when he complimented the wine, once when he said your gown suited you, and once when he leaned close enough to touch your hand.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. “He was being polite.”
“He was being a cunt. You thought I didn't pay attention to you? You grabbed my cock, teased me and now you want to complain? Fuck that.”
The stairs began. Each step jolted through you, his shoulder driving into your stomach with every downward stride—no, upward. He was carrying you up, not down. The tower. The royal apartments. Your chambers.
His thumb hooked the top of your stocking and pulled. The silk snapped against your skin, sharp and stinging, and you gasped.
“You should have thought twice before wearing red,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “Makes me want to tear it off you.”
Your pulse hammered. “It's the Targaryen color.”
“It's my color. On you. In this light.” His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the bare skin of your inner thigh, and you felt the heat of his palm like a brand. “Makes me want to put my mouth on every inch you've covered.”
You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The stairs kept turning, the walls close and dark, and his hand was still moving, fingers tracing the edge of your smallclothes through the silk of your stocking, and you were wet—you could feel it, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, the shameful, aching want that bloomed every time he touched you.
“Maekar.” His name came out wrong, too breathy, too desperate. “I was bored and you were talking about grain.”
He stopped walking.
The sudden stillness was worse than the movement. You hung over his shoulder, your blood rushing in your ears, your cunt clenching around nothing, waiting.
His hand left your thigh. “And you thought smiling at another man, teasing me like you didn't expect this outcome? Oh, no, no. You'll fucking learn, sweet wife.”
You heard the click of a latch. The groan of a door swinging open. Warmth washed over you—candlelight, the smell of beeswax and dried lavender, the familiar scent of your chambers.
He stepped inside. Kicked the door shut behind him. The sound of the lock turning was louder than you expected.
He crossed the room in three strides, and then you were falling, the world righting itself as he dumped you onto the bed, the mattress catching your weight with a creak of ropes and feathers. You bounced once, your gown tangling around your legs, your hair wild across your face, and before you could push yourself upright, he was there—one knee on the bed, his hands gripping your ankles, pulling you flat.
“Stay.”
The word was a command, not a request, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up, your legs stilling, your hands falling to your sides.
He looked down at you. The candlelight caught the silver of his hair, turned his violet eyes to molten amethyst, and his jaw was set, his stubbled cheek shadowed, his chest rising and falling with the breath of a man who had carried his wife through the Red Keep and was not finished with her.
“You're going to learn,” he said, “what happens when you smile at other men.”
So perhaps this wasn't because you had teased him, but rather assumed that he hadn't paid attention to you
Your throat tightened.
“I—”
“Shut up.” He said it without heat, the way he said everything, and then he leaned down, his hands finding the neckline of your gown, and he pulled.
The fabric tore.
Not the careful unlacing of a maid's hands, not the patient work of a husband undressing his wife—a rip, a surrender, the sound of silk giving way to force. Cool air hit your chest, your stomach, the tops of your thighs as he rent the gown down the middle, baring you to the candlelight in your shift and stockings and nothing else.
You gasped. Your hands flew up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinned them to the mattress above your head, and held you there with one hand while the other traced the line of your collarbone, the swell of your breast through the thin linen of your shift.
“Pretty,” he said, and the word was rough, almost reverent. “So fucking pretty like this. Spread out for me. Waiting.”
Your breath came in short, sharp pulls. “Maekar—”
“I'm going to fuck you," he said, his voice dropping, his thumb finding your nipple through the linen and pressing, circling, watching your face as you bit your lip. “I'm going to fuck you until you forget every man in that hall exists. Until the only name you remember is mine.”
He released your wrists. Stepped back. His hands went to his belt, working the buckle with the practiced ease of a man who undressed in the dark more often than the light, and you watched him—watched the leather fall away, watched his fingers find the laces of his breeches, watched him free his cock.
It was thick.
Heavy.
The head flushed dark, already slick with something that caught the candlelight, and your mouth went dry.
“On your knees.”
You moved before the words finished leaving his mouth, rolling off the bed, your bare feet finding the cold stone floor, your knees pressing into the rug at his feet. The torn gown pooled around your hips, your shift rucked up to your waist, and you looked up at him from the floor, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
His hand found your hair.
Wrapped around the tumbling waves, twisted, pulled until your head tilted back, your throat bared, your lips parted.
“Open.”
You opened your mouth. He guided his cock to your lips, the head pressing against the soft heat of your tongue, and you tasted him—salt and skin and the musk of his arousal, clean and sharp and wholly him. Your lips closed around him, and his hand tightened in your hair, and he pushed deeper.
Not rough.
Not gentle.
The weight of him filling your mouth, stretching your lips, sliding across your tongue until the head pressed against the back of your throat and you gagged, your hands flying up to grip his thighs.
“Breathe through your nose,” he said, his voice steady, his hips rocking forward once, twice, seating himself deeper. “You can take it.”
You tried. Your nose burned, your eyes watered, and his cock was thick in your throat, pulsing against your tongue, and you wanted—gods, you wanted—to please him, to take all of him, to feel him lose control in your mouth.
Your hands found the backs of his thighs, nails digging into the leather of his boots, and you relaxed your throat the way you'd learned, the way you'd practiced in the dark when you were alone and thinking of him, and he slid deeper, his cock filling you completely, your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base.
He groaned.
The sound was low, guttural, punched out of him, and his hand in your hair tightened, holding you there, holding you still while his cock twitched on your tongue.
“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fucking good girl.”
He pulled back, slow, letting you breathe, letting you gasp against his skin before he pushed in again, setting a rhythm—deep and slow, each thrust pressing you open, each withdrawal leaving you empty and aching for more.
Your jaw ached.
Your throat burned.
Your cunt was dripping, slick and desperate, clenching around nothing as you knelt at his feet and let him fuck your mouth, let him use you the way he needed, the way you needed him to.
His breathing changed. Shortened. His hips stuttered, once, and he pulled out, his cock sliding across your lips, leaving a trail of spit and the taste of him on your tongue.
“Maekar...” you whined in protest.
“On the bed.” His voice was rough, frayed at the edges. “Face down.”
You scrambled up, your knees weak, your shift clinging to your sweat-slicked skin, and you threw yourself onto the bed, face-down, your cheek pressed to the furs, your arse in the air.
You heard him behind you—the creak of the bed frame, the rustle of fabric, the low, rough sound of his breathing.His hands found your hips. Gripped. Pulled you back until you were on your knees, your face buried in the pillows, your cunt bare and wet and waiting.
“Look at you.” His voice was almost wondering. “Soaking, just for me.”
You couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. Your whole body was a prayer, a plea, a desperate, wordless begging for him to fill you, to take you, to claim you until you couldn't remember your own name.
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear. “You want my cock?”
“Yes.” The word was a sob.
“Say it.”
“I want your cock.” Your voice broke. “Please, Maekar, please—”
He pulled back. His hand left your hip. And then he was there, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slick and hot and thick, and he pushed.
The stretch was everything. The burn, the fullness, the way your body opened for him, swallowed him, gripped him like it had been waiting for this since the moment you met.
He seated himself to the hilt in one long, slow thrust, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the furs, your back arching, your cunt clenching around him.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, you're tight.”
He didn't move.
Just stayed there, buried inside you, his cock throbbing, his breath ragged, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
“You feel that?” His voice was low, almost tender. “That's me. Inside you. Where I belong.”
You nodded, your face pressed to the pillows, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.
“Say it.”
“You're inside me.” Your voice was muffled, broken. “You belong inside me.”
He pulled out.
Slow.
Almost all the way, until only the head remained, stretching your entrance, and then he thrust back in, harder this time, the slap of his hips against your arse loud in the quiet room.
You moaned.
Lost.
Shameless.
He set a rhythm. “This is what you wanted, isn't it? To fucking tease me, to test my fucking patience? Now fucking take the punishment.”
Hard and fast, each thrust driving you forward into the mattress, your body rocking with the force of him, his balls slapping against your clit with every stroke.
The sound of it—wet and obscene and perfect—filled the room, filled your ears, filled your head until there was nothing but him, his cock, his hands, his breath, his voice.
“Whose wife are you?”
“Yours.”
“Whose cunt is this?”
“Yours.”
“Who do you belong to?”
You couldn't answer.
The pleasure was building too fast, coiling in your belly, spreading through your limbs like fire, and you were close, so close, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust, your body begging for the release it couldn't name.
His hand found your hair. Pulled. Forced your head back, your spine arching, your throat bared to the ceiling. “I asked you a question, woman.”
“You,” you gasped. “I belong to you.”
“Good girl.” His hand released your hair, slid down your spine, gripped your hip. “Now come for me.”
Your orgasm hit like a wave, like a fall, like the world ending and beginning in the same breath. Your cunt clenched around him, gripping him in waves, and you cried out—his name, a sound, a sob—as the pleasure tore through you, leaving you shaking, gasping, boneless beneath him.
He didn't stop. Kept fucking you through it, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.
And then he stilled, his cock buried to the hilt, his body shuddering, and you felt it—the hot pulse of his release, filling you, marking you, claiming you from the inside.
He stayed there.
Breathing.
His forehead pressed to the back of your neck, his weight heavy and warm, his cock still twitching inside you.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
You couldn't tell.
Finally, he pulled out. You felt the loss like a wound, the emptiness where he'd been, the trickle of his seed sliding down your thigh as you collapsed onto the mattress, your body spent, your mind blank.
The bed creaked. The candle flickered. And then his hand was on your hip, warm and heavy, and his voice was low in the dark. “Next time you smile at a Dornish lord, I'll make you suck my cock in front of him.”
You laughed, a broken, breathless sound. “You wouldn't.”
His teeth found your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to sting. “Try me.”
His teeth stayed sunk in your shoulder, the sting of his bite a living brand, and you felt the low rumble of his approval vibrate through his chest against your back. Then his hand moved—slid down your hip, across the curve of your belly, and slipped between your thighs from behind.
You gasped as his fingers found the wet heat of your cunt, slick with your combined release, his seed already cooling on your skin. He didn't pause. Two fingers pushed inside you, gathering the proof of what he'd done, and you felt the stretch, the intrusion, the obscene wet sound of his touch.
“Still dripping,” he murmured against your shoulder, his lips brushing the mark his teeth had left. “Still hungry. I can feel it. The way you clench around my fingers like you're begging for more.”
You couldn't deny it. Your body was already responding, your hips pressing back against his hand, seeking more friction, more depth, more of him. The aftershocks of your orgasm still trembled through your thighs, and yet—gods—you wanted him inside you again. Wanted to feel him stretch you, fill you, claim you all over again.
His fingers curled, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur, and you moaned, your face pressed to the furs, your hands fisting the bedding.
“That's it,” he said, his voice rough, approving. “That's my wife. Always ready for me. Always wanting.”
He withdrew his fingers, and you felt the absence like a loss, felt the cool air against your wet skin. Then his hand landed flat on your arse—a sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the quiet room, and you cried out, more surprise than pain, your hips jerking forward.
“That," he said, his hand rubbing the reddening skin, "is for teasing me at that feast. For making me watch you smile at that Dornish cunt while I sat there with my cock hard under the table, imagining bending you over the dais and fucking you in front of the whole hall.”
Your breath caught. The image bloomed in your mind—the cold stone of the throne room, the gasps of the court, Maekar's hands on your hips, taking you in front of everyone—and your cunt clenched around nothing, desperate and aching.
“You liked that.” His voice was flat, knowing. “You liked the thought of everyone watching while I took what's mine.”
Another slap, harder this time, and you sobbed—a broken, shameless sound. His hand soothed the sting, his palm warm against your heated skin, fingers tracing the curve of your arse before dipping lower, finding the slick evidence of your arousal smeared across your thighs.
“Look at you,” he breathed. “Wetter now than when I had my cock inside you. You're a wanton thing, aren't you? My wanton little wife.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “Yours.”
His hand left your skin. You heard the wet sound of him slicking his cock, and then the head was pressing against your entrance again, and you held your breath, waiting, aching.
He pushed in.
The stretch was sharper this time—your body still sensitive from the first fucking, still raw and open, and the sensation bordered on pain before it blurred into something deeper, something that made your toes curl and your back arch.
He seated himself slowly, deliberately, his cock filling you inch by inch until his hips pressed flush against your arse.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a prayer. “You feel that? The way your cunt grips me? Like it knows where it belongs.”
You couldn't answer. Couldn't think. His cock was throbbing inside you, and you felt stretched, full, claimed in a way that went beyond the body. He was inside you, and you wanted to stay like this forever—his, filled, possessed.
He pulled out.
Slammed back in.
The sound of skin meeting skin was obscene and perfect, and you moaned, your fingers clawing at the furs, your body rocking with the force of his thrusts.
“You want to know what happens when you tease me?” His voice was low, dangerous, each word punctuated by a thrust. “I fuck you. I fill you. I put my seed so deep inside you that it takes root.”
Your heart stuttered.
“I want to see you swell with it.”
His hand found your belly, pressed flat against the soft curve of your stomach, and you felt his cock moving inside you through the pressure of his palm. “I want to watch your body change. Watch your tits grow heavy. Watch you round with my child.”
A sound escaped you—something between a sob and a moan, your throat tight, your eyes burning. The thought of it, of his child growing inside you, of being so completely his that you carried his legacy in your body—it undid something in you, loosened a knot you didn't know you'd been holding, because gods you understand now why the man had six children.
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” His thrusts slowed, deepened, each one pressing against your cervix, pushing deeper than before. “Being filled with my seed. Carrying my children. Walking through the Keep with my child in your belly, and everyone knowing exactly who put it there.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, Maekar, please—”
“Please what?”
“Please fill me. Please put your child in me.”
The words tumbled out, broken and desperate, and you meant them, meant every syllable, meant the want that burned through your veins like wildfire. “I want to carry your children. I want everyone to see. I want to be yours in every way.”
Gods, had you imagined this would happen because you had teased him, well, you knew for certainty that you would have done so sooner.
He groaned—a guttural, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into your back—and his hand left your belly, found your hip, gripped hard enough to leave bruises as he fucked you harder, faster, each thrust driving you deeper into the mattress.
“I'm going to fill you,” he said, his voice ragged, frayed. “I'm going to fuck you until my seed takes, until you're so full of me you can't walk straight. And then I'm going to fuck you again and again,” his teeth sunk into your shoulder once more, every word muttered answered with a harsh, brutal thrust, “every night until you are pregnant.”
Your orgasm was building again, coiling low and tight in your belly, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. The sensation was overwhelming—the fullness, the rhythm, the sting of his hand still warm on your reddened skin, the weight of his words sinking into your bones.
“You're close,” he said, “I can feel it. The way you grip me. The way your breath catches.”
His hand slid between your thighs, found your clit, pressed and circled in time with his thrusts, and the pleasure spiked, sharp and blinding, tearing a scream from your throat.
“That's it,” he said, his voice a growl. “Come for me. Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart around me.”
You shattered. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave breaking against stone, your body arching, your cunt clenching in violent pulses around his cock, and you cried out—his name, a prayer, a surrender—as the pleasure tore through every nerve, left you trembling and gasping and utterly his.
He didn't stop.
Maekar fucked you through it, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. And then he stilled, buried to the hilt, and you felt it—the first hot pulse of his release, flooding you, filling you, spilling into the deepest part of you.
He kept coming, his hips pressing against you, his cock twitching as he emptied himself inside you, and you felt the warmth spread, felt the excess leak around his shaft and run down your thighs.
He stayed there, buried, refusing to let a drop escape, his hand pressing against your belly as if he could hold it in by will alone.
“Breathe, sweet wife. I am not done. Do not move, no drop is to be wasted. You wanted this, you knew exactly what you were doing.”
Maekar Targaryen was not a man that wasted words.
.✦ ݁˖ — sintaera, 2026.
