#asoiaf fandom

[chic-beyond-the-wall]

More medieval dyes for y'all!

[simpingthroughcenturies]

A Conquest of Breath

Pairing: Ormund Hightower x pregnant wife!Reader

Synopsis: A clash of wits beneath the canvas frame, his sudden terror turns to protective flame. She meets his roaring anger with her tongue, but melts beneath his weight before it’s done. His heavy, breathless conquest holds total sway, to claim the slight, sweet swell she risked away.

Warnings: SMUT 18+, Fingering, (Early Stage) Pregnancy, Argument, Dubcon, Male Dom, Protective Fury, Size Difference, Breath Control/Prolonged Kissing, Biting/Marking, Overstimulation, Rough Handling, Power Play, Breast Play, Semipublic Sex, Controlling Behavior

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: this fic is based on a request & ideas by @fire-joestar 🫶 (part of the „The Lady of the Hightower“ collection)

The heavy velvet flap of the pavilion did not just close; it violently shattered against the wooden stakes as Ormund kicked it shut, the heavy iron-shod heel of his riding boot punctuating his fury with a sound like a small thunderclap.

The air inside the tent was instantly suffocating. It was a sprawling, multi-roomed traveling structure built for the Lord of the Hightower, but the sheer, volatile volume of Ormund’s temper made the canvas walls feel as though they were closing in.

The atmosphere was thick with the scent of unwashed leather, crushed pine needles from the rugged trails, the smoky residue of tallow candles, and the pure, terrifying heat of a Hightower wrath.

Outside, the temporary war camps of the Reach’s vanguard were settling into a quiet, disciplined evening routine. Inside, Ormund was an absolute storm.

”You have the sense of a newborn calf,“ his voice boomed, deep and scraping from the back of his throat, vibrating the very marrow of her bones.

He had not even unbuttoned his heavy, wool-lined traveling doublet. The dark green velvet was stiff, reinforced with thick boiled leather across the broad span of his shoulders, making him look less like a husband and more like a merciless warlord ready to sentence a treasonous garrison to the gallows.

”The rocky banks of the Honeywine? Outside the perimeter of our scouts? In your condition? Do you take me for a fool, or do you simply hold your own life in utter contempt?“

Lying back against a mountain of rich, plush sable and fox furs on the low traveling cot, she did not even flinch. She was a grown woman, fully settled into the skin of her maturity and the formidable reality of her station. She knew exactly how to handle the legendary Hightower temper—not by shrinking, but by anchoring herself like the foundation of the High Tower itself.

Slowly, deliberately, she began to massage her swollen, aching feet. The pregnancy was still in its earlier stages—her belly bearing only a slight, soft swell that was easily hidden beneath the heavy folds of her fine wool skirts—but the sudden shift in her body’s balance had turned what she intended to be a brief, liberating stroll into a grueling, exhausting ordeal. Her ankles were puffy, her skin felt tight with discomfort, and a dull, throbbing ache radiated up her calves from the unaccustomed strain. She was still adjusting to the early, heavy fatigue of carrying his child, an exhaustion that left her breathless far too quickly.

When her foot had caught on a patch of uneven, loose slate near the riverbank, her breath had hitched. It had not been a fall, just a heavy, clumsy stumble that made her back ache fiercely.

But Ormund, who had been riding nearby inspecting the vanguard, had reacted as if a scorpion had struck her. He had dropped from his stallion, his face white with a stark, blinding terror that immediately solidified into raging fury. Before she could even utter a syllable of protest, he had unceremoniously hauled her over his massive shoulder, ignoring her furious demands for decorum. He marched her straight back through the center of the camp in front of half the Reach’s assembled nobility. She had spent the entire walk back swearing under her breath that she would strangle him in his sleep.

”Daeron, sweetling,“ she said, her voice smooth, cool, and entirely cutting through the heavy, masculine roar that filled the pavilion. She did not look at Ormund. Instead, she looked past the towering bulk of her husband toward the entrance of the tent.

Young Daeron Targaryen hovered there, his once pale, silver-gold hair now in the deep auburn of House Hightower. The boy’s hand was white-knuckled on the hilt of his training sword, his violet eyes wide with a genuine, anxious panic. He was a Prince, but he was also a boy fostered in Oldtown, and he had never seen his uncle’s wrath directed so fiercely at the woman who normally served as the calm, steady center of their world.

He looked ready to step between them, his young shoulders tense with a protective instinct he did not quite know how to execute.

She offered the boy a small, deeply reassuring smile, her gaze steady.

”Go find Ser Gwayne. Tell him your uncle requires a cold pitcher of ale to soothe his scorched throat. And remain at the campfires until the sun sets. The air in here is far too thick for a young Dragon.“

Daeron looked at Ormund’s rigid, towering back, then back to her. The absolute, unbothered maturity in her eyes, the sheer calmness she exuded while standing in the path of a storm, was the only thing that gave the young Dragon the courage to move.

Recognizing that his aunt was entirely in control of the situation, he bowed quickly and scrambled out of the pavilion, the heavy velvet flap falling shut behind him with a soft, final thud.

The moment the boy was gone, the fragile truce of public appearance shattered. She turned her sharp wit directly on the beast remaining.

”If you bellow any louder, Ormund, the High Septon will hear you all the way from the Starry Sept,“ she murmured, her voice dripping with a dry, tired sarcasm that she used as a shield against her own deep-seated anxieties. She unlaced the heavy, dust-covered leather of her walking shoe and let it drop to the floor.

”I went for a stroll. I am a grown woman, not a fragile piece of Myrish glass to be locked away in a cedar chest. I wanted fresh air. I wanted to feel the earth beneath my feet because your Maester’s strictly ordered diet of boiled fowl and bland porridge makes me feel as though I am chewing on old parchment. I am suffocating in this camp, Ormund, and I will not be caged.“

”Your feet are swollen to the bone!“ Ormund roared, taking a massive, heavy step toward the cot that made the floorboards beneath the rugs groan. The sheer size of him filled her entire vision—shoulders like an anvil, a chest broad enough to shield three men in his thick velvet tunic.

”You call it a stroll? You call it fresh air? You are carrying my child—the heir to Oldtown, the future of my house! The child is a fresh, delicate thing in your womb, and yet you think it wise to wander beyond the camp guards where a loose stone could send you crashing down? You could have collapsed. You could have bled. You could have–“

”I did not collapse!“ she countered sharply, her own temper finally igniting. She sat up abruptly, bracing her hands behind her on the thick furs, ignoring the sharp twinge of protest from her lower back. She tilted her chin up, meeting his furious, dark gaze with an unyielding fire of her own.

”I slipped! A minor, clumsy misstep because my body no longer feels entirely like my own. And instead of letting me rest, instead of offering me a hand like a husband, you hauled me over your shoulder like a prized stag and embarrassed me in front of our entire vanguard. You made a spectacle of your wife, Ormund.“

She took a sharp, ragged breath, her voice dropping into a deeper, more biting register.

”But we both know you are not truly furious at my fatigue. You are furious because you cannot command the rocks beneath my feet to bow to House Hightower. You are furious because my body, and the life beginning inside it, is the one thing your armies, your wealth, and your titles cannot completely control or guarantee the safety of.“

Ormund stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw clenched so hard that the heavy muscles in his cheek twitched violently.

Inside his chest, a sickening, agonizing knot of pure terror tightened. Her words cut through his anger like a Valyrian steel blade, striking the raw, bleeding nerve he tried so desperately to hide.

He was not just angry; he was terrified. He knew how fragile these early moons were, how easily a new life could slip away before it ever had a chance to take root truly. The birthing bed was a slaughterhouse for noblewomen, a battlefield where his sword, his shields, and his immense physical strength were entirely useless.

The thought of losing her—of his home turning cold, of the light in his life being extinguished while he stood by, helpless—was a nightmare that haunted his every waking hour. When he had seen her stumble on those rocks, his soul had left his body. His anger was the only armor he had to keep from falling to his knees and begging her to never leave his sight.

And yet, the absolute arrogance of her tongue, the complete lack of fear she displayed while staring down his worst wrath, was the very thing that made him worship her. She was his match in every sense—a formidable woman who refused to break. But right now, combined with that lingering, sickening terror, her defiance made something dangerous snap inside him.

The martial wrath did not fade; it ignited into something entirely different, a dark, possessive, and overwhelming heat.

”You think this is a game of wits?“ he growled, his voice dropping into a low, predatory octave that vibrated straight through the floorboards, losing its booming roar and gaining a quiet, terrifying intensity.

”You think I care about the vanguard? You think I care about titles?“

In three slow, deliberate strides, he crossed the remaining distance between them. The sheer, predatory gravity of his movement made her pulse hitch, a sudden, heavy throb of anticipation blooming deep between her thighs. But as his strong hands reached down to grab her waist, she did not shrink back into the furs. Her own frustration, her own need to push back against the suffocating walls of his hovering protection, boiled over.

Using his forward momentum and her own unyielding leverage, she wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers digging into the thick collar of his doublet, and pulled down with all her might. At the same moment, she shifted her weight with a sudden defiance that caught him entirely off guard.

With a low grunt of genuine surprise, the massive warlord stumbled slightly forward. She twisted her hips, leveraging his bulk against him, and pushed him back against the heavy cushions and furs of the cot. In a flash of stubborn rebellion, she dragged her body up, straddling his muscular thighs, pinning his legs beneath her own.

For a breathless, triumphant second, she was on top. She looked down at the Lord of Oldtown, her face flushed, her eyes blazing with a fierce, intoxicating glare of dominance. She braced her hands flat against his heavy, leather-trimmed doublet, feeling the rapid, powerful thudding of his heart beneath her palms.

”I am the Lady of the Hightower, Ormund,“ she gasped out, her chest heaving as she tried to maintain her authority over him.

”You will not cage me. You will not dictate where I walk, and you will never carry me like a beast of burden through your camp again–“

Ormund lay beneath her for a fraction of a second, his massive chest rising and falling beneath her hands. Then, his dark eyes flashed with a sudden, dangerous amusement that instantly melted into pure, suffocating dominance. A low, gravelly chuckle rumbled deep in his throat, a dark sound that vibrated right through his chest and into her palms.

”An admirable effort, my love,“ he whispered, his voice dripping with a raw, protective heat that made her core ache with sudden wetness.

”Truly. But you forget who commands this army. And you forget exactly who you belong to.“

Before she could even register the shift in his muscles, his calloused hands came up, gripping her hips like iron bands. The sheer, effortless power in his arms was staggering. With a single, terrifyingly easy surge of brute strength, Ormund completely reversed their positions. He did not just push her off; he twisted his heavy torso, lifting her entire body and rolling her over in a single, fluid motion.

The world spun for a breathless instant, and then she was flat on her back beneath him, her breath completely stolen by the sheer speed and weight of his movement.

He followed her down instantly, his broad frame safely but completely trapping her beneath him. The sheer physical contrast of their bodies was on absolute display; he was a mountain of muscle and dark velvet, completely enveloping her smaller, softer form.

Yet, even in his primal need to master her, his instincts ruled his movements. He was hyper-aware of the slight, tender swell of her lower belly. He positioned his thick, heavy thighs to flank hers perfectly, taking the brunt of his own weight, and threw his immense bulk onto his elbows, hovering over her so that he pinned her completely without placing any dangerous pressure on her stomach.

The containment was absolute, flawless, and terrifyingly beautiful. She was completely mastered, her brief rebellion utterly crushed beneath his weight.

Her sharp tongue opened to lash him again, to find some way to reclaim her defense, but Ormund was entirely done listening.

He slammed his mouth down over hers.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was a total conquest—a deep, bruising, utterly possessive claim that completely smothered her breath, cutting off her voice before she could form a single word. His tongue parted her lips with a rough, commanding urgency, drinking in the quiet, helpless gasp of shock she let out.

For a woman who valued the deep, intense intimacy of a kiss above all else, the sheer, crushing force of his mouth was intoxicating. It drove out every coherent thought from her mind, replacing her anger with a desperate, clawing hunger.

She tried to turn her head, an instinctual reaction to find a pocket of air, but Ormund’s large hand moved to her jaw. His thick fingers locked her face in place with unyielding firmness, forcing her to take every single ounce of his desperate, terrified passion. He kissed her as if he were trying to possess her soul, as if he could force his own breath into her lungs to keep her safe forever. He kissed her until the air in her chest burned, until her hands stopped pushing against his broad shoulders and instead tangled frantically into the dark, thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down, begging for the very weight that threatened to consume her.

When he finally pulled his lips away by a fraction of an inch, the silence of the pavilion was broken only by their ragged, desperate breathing. Her lips were dark, flushed, swollen, and slick with their shared saliva, parted in a frantic gasp for air.

”You belong to me,“ Ormund snarled against her damp skin, his hot breath sweeping over her burning face. He shifted his bulk slightly, his hand sliding down the front of her gown to rip open the delicate linen laces of her chemise with a rough, impatient jerk. He dragged the fabric down, exposing the slope of her shoulder and the elegant curve of her neck.

”Every breath in your lungs. Every step your feet take on the earth. You do not risk what is mine, do you hear me? You do not terrify me like that again.“

Before she could form an answer, his mouth dropped down to the sensitive juncture where her neck met her shoulder. He did not merely kiss her skin; his teeth grazed the flushed flesh, biting down with a sharp, possessive pressure that bordered on painful.

She cried out, her voice a sharp, breathy gasp. A direct spike of intense, white-hot pleasure darted from the bite straight down to her core, making her lower stomach tighten with a fierce, throbbing ache. His teeth sunk deeper for a second, leaving a dark, immediate mark on her skin—a visceral, burning brand that would remain for days, a reminder of who owned her.

”Let the camp see it tomorrow,“ Ormund muttered against the fresh wound, his voice a dark, rough purr that vibrated against her collarbone.

”Let my knights and the lords of the Reach see exactly what happens when my wife decides to wander beyond my sight. Let them know you are claimed.“

His large hand slid further lower, moving over the rounded swelling of her breasts. His fingers tightly cupping and squeezing the sensitive, aching flesh through the torn linen, completely overwrought by the lush fullness that came with her early pregnancy.

He bunched the ruined fabric in his fist, pulling it down roughly until her breasts were completely bared to the warm, candlelit air of the tent. They were heavy, their nipples tight and hyper-sensitive from the child growing within her.

Ormund let out a low, guttural groan at the sight, his large, rough thumb dragging heavily across one tight peak. She arched off the furs with a sharp, breathless gasp, her hands gripping his velvet sleeves for anchor.

The sheer overstimulation of his rough hands on her aching chest was dizzying. He pinched the swollen bud between his calloused fingers, rolling it firmly, sending a ruthless wave of heat straight down into the heavy, weeping pulse between her thighs. She whimpered, her hips rolling instinctively against his heavy thigh, completely undone by the harsh friction.

”Ormund… please,“ she whispered, her composure entirely shattered, her voice cracking with raw, trembling need. She was entirely at his mercy, her body screaming for fulfillment.

”You are too heavy… I cannot breathe… please…“

”Good,“ he growled, his dark eyes burning down into hers with a fierce, ungodly devotion as his hand moved back up to grab her jaw, tilting her head back.

”Do not breathe. Do not think of the shore, or the diet, or the camp. Only think of me. Only feel what I give you.“

He locked his mouth over hers a second time, renewing the prolonged, suffocating kiss, sealing her desperate whimpers behind his teeth. He starved her of air deliberately, using the restriction of breath to heighten every single sensation running through her nerve endings.

At the exact same moment, his large hand slid beneath the heavy layers of her skirts, pushing through the fine linen and silk until his fingers found the soaked, burning heat between her thighs.

She was already dripping, her body completely betraying her anger, slick and scalding hot.

Ormund let out a dark, approving rumble deep in his chest against her lips as his fingers sank into her wetness. He drove two fingers deep inside her, the thickness of them stretching her engorged walls, filling her so completely that she let out a muffled sob into his mouth.

But he gave her no time to adjust. His thumb found her hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves, burying itself against the swollen bead. He did not tease her, did not offer a gentle prelude; he ground his thumb against her center with a relentless, heavy, rhythmic friction that perfectly matched the brutal, deep, wet strokes of his tongue inside her mouth.

She was completely, utterly trapped. She was unable to move her head away from his locking grip; she was unable to move her hips away from the brutal pleasure of his hand. The sheer restriction of breath from his unbroken, crushing kiss, combined with the explosive, wet heat of his fingers stretching her inside and his thumb ruthlessly punishing her clitoris, turned the pavilion into a blur of pure sensory madness.

Her mind emptied of everything but the burning friction. Her inner muscles clamped down frantically around his fingers, convulsing in tight, desperate, weeping waves as the relentless overstimulation pushed her to the absolute brink of her sanity. She was flying apart, her controlled mind shattered by the primal force of his mastery.

Her eyes rolled back behind closed lids. Her fingers dug into the thick furs beneath her until the fabric tore, her legs trembling violently where they were pinned wide by the immovable weight of his heavy thighs. She tried to scream his name, tried to beg him to stop or to hurry—she was unsure which—but the sound was swallowed entirely by his bruising lips, muffled into a desperate, choked moan that vibrated deep in his own throat.

The prolonged kiss continued, deep and unbroken, holding her right at the precipice of an unbearable peak. The lack of air, the deep fullness of his fingers, and the heavy, unyielding rhythm of his thumb created a perfect storm of overstimulation. Her body could not hold it back any longer.

The climax hit her like a monstrous wave crashing against the stone cliffs of Oldtown. Her body violently convulsed, her internal walls locking down in a tight, crushing spasm around his fingers. She shattered fiercely beneath his massive weight, entirely undone, her hips bucking helplessly against his hand as a brilliant, blinding release claimed her senses. She came hard, her body weeping against his fingers, her muffled cries of pure ecstasy echoing inside his locked mouth.

Ormund held her through the entire shattering wave. He did not lessen the pressure of his thumb, dragging her through every single throbbing ripple of her orgasm, keeping his lips locked tightly to hers until her violent trembling slowly subsided into soft, ragged breaths.

Slowly, mercifully, he pulled his mouth away. A long, thin silver thread of saliva connected their lips in the dim candlelight. A dark, intensely victorious smirk played on his lips as he looked down at her dazed expression, her chest heaving heavily against his broad, velvet-clad chest, her eyes half-closed and unfocused.

The terror that had gripped his heart all evening was gone, replaced by a profound, worshipful calm. Her body was safe, she was here beneath him, and she was entirely his. His thumb gently wiped a stray tear of pure overstimulation from her flushed cheek, his touch suddenly shifting into the deeply tender, reverent care that always followed his fury. He looked down at the woman who ruled his heart, his chest swelling with an all-consuming devotion.

”Next time,“ Ormund whispered, his voice low, gravelly, and fiercely protective as his massive hand came to rest reverently over the slight, warm swell of her belly, his thumb tracing the new life they had made together, ”I will carry you the entire way. You will not take a single step.“

©simpingthroughcenturies

[dogmotels]

pet owners am I right

[aeralux]

"Fire In His Heart" Baelor Targaryen

summary: Baelor teaches his son's pretty betrothed how to please a man...

warnings: smut; inexperienced!reader; age gap; secretly pervy Baelor; mentions of Valarr, cheating; Baelor is struggling with his morals

words: 3.3k

notes: No physical description of the reader (only that she has hair). If you don't feel comfortable with these warnings/topics, please do not read. I am not responsible for the media YOU choose to consume. Also, English is not my first language.

Baelor let out an almost guttural sound at the feeling of your gentle kiss, a strange mix of pain and relief washing over him all at once. He knew it was wrong. He knew he should keep his distance. But he was weak. Too weak for you. For his own son’s betrothed.

When you murmured that you wanted to help him undress, a wave of heat washed over him. He wanted to feel your hands all over him so bad, and he was too damn weak to deny you.

"Help me, then," he grunted roughly.

You reached for the laces of his tunic with trembling fingers, tugging them loose with slow, clumsy movements. Your breath hitched as you exposed the broad expanse of his chest - the salt-and-pepper hair dusting it, the scars mapping his skin. Your fingertips traced a particularly jagged one near his collarbone. 

"Tell me how you got this one?" You whispered, pressing a feather-light kiss to the mark while your hands continued working downward to unfasten his belt. 

Baelor's breathing turned ragged when your lips touched his scar, his hands tightening where they gripped your waist. "The... the First Blackfyre Rebellion," he managed, voice thick. "Took a lance splinter through my gorget."

You made a soft, sympathetic noise, kissing the scar again before continuing your ministrations. Your fingers brushed against the growing hardness straining against his breeches, making you both gasp. 

"Oh..." you breathed, looking up at him through your lashes. "My Prince, you're..."

Baelor growled—low and rough—at your innocent touch, at the way your fingers brushed against him like you didn’t know what you were doing to him. 

He caught your wrist suddenly, pinning it against his chest—right over his pounding heart. His mismatched eyes burned as they locked onto yours. 

"Yes," he gritted out, breath ragged. "Yes, I am." 

He dragged your hand down, forcing you to feel the full length of him—hot and aching beneath your fingertips. 

"And you did this."

You made a small noise as you felt the full size of him. He was big, hard. His length felt hot under your palm. You squeezed on instinct, grip tightening around him.

A violent shiver went down Baelor's spine at the innocent squeeze of your hand. 

He groaned, his fingers clenching into your hip once more. He was losing his damn mind. 

He was supposed to keep himself in check, he was supposed to let you leave—but then you looked up at him with those damn big eyes like you trusted him…

"Stop," he rasped, his voice low and gravelly. "Stop teasing me, sweet girl. We shouldn't be-"

“Does it hurt?” You asked. “I’ve heard men say it hurts if they stay like… like this, for too long.”

Baelor’s expression darkened instantly at the mention of other men.

The last thing he wanted was to think of other men right now. 

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together for a moment before he forced himself to exhale through his nose. 

"Yes," he admitted roughly, though it pained him to say it aloud. His cock ached, throbbing under your touch, desperate for relief.

"But that doesn't mean you need to-" 

He cut himself off sharply, fingers flexing against your skin. 

"Damn it, girl—you shouldn't be thinking about such things."

“But I don’t want you to hurt.” You pouted. “You helped me with my ache…”

Baelor exhaled sharply—half frustration, half pure torment.

You looked up at him with those big, earnest eyes, pleading with him like this was some selfless act of mercy rather than a sin. 

And gods, he was weak. 

He shook his head, looking almost pained. "That's… that's different," he protested, voice rough and tense. "I'm a grown man. I can handle it. You're just a girl."

"You don't have to," he insisted, even as his hips twitched forward slightly—betraying his own desperation. "I can—ah—take care of it myself." 

His breath hitched when your fingers brushed against the tip—so soft, so damn innocent. 

Fuck.

He was already losing his mind.

“How do you take care of it?” You asked, kissing up his neck. Helping him take off his tunic.

“Can I watch? I want to learn how to please you, my Prince.”

The Seven help him.

He groaned softly when you began peppering his neck with soft kisses, your lips feather-light against his skin. He couldn't help the shivers that ran down his spine, the way his chest heaved as the heat in his belly coiled tighter and tighter. 

And then you were offering to watch while he took care of this?

He almost whimpered, his head tipping back as he exhaled sharply. 

"You... you want to watch?"

You nodded against his neck, leaning closer into him so his bulge pressed against your belly. Sighing as you felt it against your soft skin—hot and thick. “Let me… please.” 

Baelor was doomed. 

He exhaled sharply—half a groan—before finally, finally nodding—slowly, as if fighting himself even now. 

"...fine," he rasped, voice wrecked already. 

He leaned back slightly, just enough to drag his breeches down over his hips—freeing his cock, thick and flushed and aching. 

He took himself in hand with a low groan—eyes flicking to yours—before he gave a slow stroke. 

"Like this," he gritted out, breath already ragged, watching your face closely, gauging your reaction. 

His voice was rough with desperation: "Now learn."

"Watch how I touch myself... think of you while I do." 

His hand moved again, another long, slow drag up his length, eyes burning into yours as he did so. 

You smiled, biting your lip as you watched with hungry eyes. In a moment of confidence, you push him down onto the bed and lie your head on his stomach to watch closely.

Baelor groaned as your soft head came to rest against his stomach, his free hand reaching down to run through your hair affectionately.

You were so close, so damn close to him. He could feel your warm breath on his skin, your soft hair against his stomach, the way you watched his every move in rapt attention.

The way your eyes followed his hand as it moved against his aching length, the way they darkened, your cheeks flushing with a soft pink as he began to stroke himself off more quickly.

"You like watching, don't you?" he panted.

“Mhm,” you hummed, nodding, your hair tickling his stomach. Your hand coming to rest on his lower stomach. Not quite touching his cock, but close enough to tease.

Baelor hissed when your fingers brushed just close enough to tease, close enough that he could feel the ghost of your touch, but not enough to give him any relief.

His stomach muscles clenched beneath your hand as he fought against the urge to beg you to touch him, his breathing already ragged, his cock twitching eagerly in his own grip.

"You're a cruel little thing," he gritted out, halfway between frustration and admiration, before his fingers tightened around his length again, his strokes growing more frantic as he lost himself in the sight of you watching him so intently.

He growled, his thumb passing over the head of his leaking head. He was so damn sensitive.

"Enjoying yourself?" he groaned, voice dripping with sin.

"Enjoying me?

“Yes, my Prince,” you said in a breathy voice. Watching the red tip leak as he touched himself. Finding the sight oddly pretty. The pearly bead making you lick your lips, as if you were a kitten wanting the cream.

Baelor groaned as he heard your breathy voice, saw the way your eyes widened when the tip of his cock twitched against his palm, smearing pre-cum against his skin.

He could feel his own control slipping, his hand moving faster now, his grip tightening as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his gut.

"You—ah—look at you," he gritted out, eyes dark with need. "Staring at my cock like a little whore..."

The words came out before he could stop them, raw and possessive, but gods, he meant them.

You gasped as he called you a whore, eyes widening. “I’m not!” You protested, brows furrowed defiantly. 

Baelor froze, his hand stilling mid-stroke, his entire body going rigid.

The moment the words left his lips, he regretted them.

His breathing was harsh, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked down at you—his expression shifting from heated to horrified in a heartbeat.

"Fuck," he rasped, voice thick with guilt—immediately pulling his hand away from himself entirely, his cock twitching pathetically against his stomach.

"I didn't—" He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear his thoughts.

"Forgive me," he gritted out, his voice rough with self-loathing now. "That was—that was wrong of me."

He sat up suddenly—moving away from you—before running a trembling hand through his hair.

"You're not," he insisted hoarsely. "You're good. You're—" He exhaled sharply, jaw clenching.

"—Too good for this."

His mismatched eyes flickered with conflict—want and guilt warring inside him.

"I told you we should stop."

His voice was thick—halfway between a plea and a growl—before he reached for his breeches, hastily tugging them back up over his hips as if desperate to hide the evidence of his sin.

He needed to pull himself together.

Now.

“No, stop,” you stopped him, gently pulling him back to you. “I… I was only teasing. I wasn't offended by your words.”

Going to pull his breeches down again. Looking at his cock as it jumped up once again. Jutting against his stomach. “Please…” you pleaded in a soft voice.

Baelor groaned, his breath ragged as you tugged his breeches back down, freeing his cock again.

Your soft plea, so goddamn innocent, sent a violent shudder through him.

His cock twitched against his stomach as you freed him again, already leaking at the tip, shamefully eager for your touch, your gaze, you.

He wanted to protest. He should protest. But the moment you touched him, the moment your fingers grazed his heated skin, his resolve crumbled.

"Gods," he gritted out, hand tightening in your hair before he could stop himself, pulling you closer to him.

His cock throbbed against your cheek, leaving a sticky smear against your skin as he groaned, half-mad with want.

"Fine," he growled.

His fingers slid from your hair to cup your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, his mismatched eyes burning into yours with an intensity that made your stomach flutter.

"You want to help?" His voice was rough and low as he guided your hand to his cock, wrapping your fingers around him.

"Then touch me."

There was no hesitation from you, your fingers encircling him obediently, stroking him gently at first—tentatively—as if still unsure of what to do.

But your eyes were still fixed on his. Wide and innocent, yet darkened with an eager curiosity as you watched him, studying every twitch and shiver he made under your touch.

Baelor hissed—his grip tightening in your hair—as your fingers tentatively wrapped around him, your touch so soft and unsure yet so perfect all the same.

He watched you, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he fought to keep his breathing steady.

"Tighter," he growled, his cock twitching eagerly in your grasp.

"Like this."

His hand covered yours, guiding your fingers tighter around his length, before demonstrating a slow, firm stroke.

His hips bucked up into your grip—helplessly—as a bead of pre-cum leaked from the tip.

"Yes," he groaned, halfway between praise and prayer, as he watched you with darkened eyes.

"You learn quickly, sweet girl."

His thumb brushed your bottom lip that was swollen from biting, before murmuring, dangerously soft:

"Now kiss it."

You hesitated for just a fraction of a second, your breath hitching, before obediently leaning forward, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the flushed head of his cock.

It tasted salty, the skin so impossibly hot against your lips, and you heard Baelor gasp above you, his fingers tightening in your hair almost painfully.

Encouraged, you kissed him again—just as sweetly—before daring to flick your tongue against the slit, tasting him properly this time.

Baelor groaned, his entire body tensing as your tongue flicked against the sensitive head of his cock.

He tried desperately to fight the urge to thrust up into your mouth.

"Fuck," he rasped as he watched you with darkened eyes.

Your innocent curiosity was ruining him—the way you licked at him tentatively, like you weren't sure what to do but wanted to learn. It made his cock twitch violently against your lips.

His hips bucked helplessly—just once—before he caught himself, gritting his teeth hard enough to ache.

"More," he growled almost desperately as his thumb brushed your cheekbone, guiding you closer.

"Take me into your mouth—slowly."

His breathing was ragged, his cock throbbing as he watched you, waiting for your next move with feverish anticipation.

You swallowed nervously, never having done something like that. It almost seemed wrong... taking a man's private parts into your mouth? But you couldn't deny him. He was your Prince, your soon-to-be husband's father.

Slowly, hesitantly, you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock. Suckling on it gently. Eyes still big and unsure, your inexperience clearly visible.

Seven Hells.

If Baelor was in any way coherent, he'd feel guilty for taking advantage of an innocent girl's trusting heart.

But as it was, he could no more deny the pleasure you were giving him than he could stop breathing.

He watched you with feverish intensity—as if he was memorising every detail for later, for all those times he would spend alone and desperately thinking of you.

He reached out to gently caress your cheek, fingers lightly tracing the outline of your jaw—before cupping your throat.

His hand was almost large enough to encompass your entire neck, his fingers squeezing slightly around the sides—as if testing, as if thinking of how easily his thumb and forefinger would almost reach around.

"You're lovely, you know that?" he murmured—a hint of a breathless smile on his lips.

"I could watch you like this for hours. Days. But I'm only a man, girl, and I can only take so much."

You mewled around his cock as he wrapped his fingers around your throat, still only sucking shyly on his tip. Unsure if you should go further and take more of him into your mouth. Your hand wrapped around the base of his cock, holding him firmly in your grasp.

Baelor's thoughts were nothing but a blurry, feverish mess, all focused on the feeling of your mouth around him, your soft tongue on his skin.

He wanted more, needed more, but he knew he had to restrain himself—he was already pushing the boundaries of what was proper, what was right.

And he knew he should pull away, now, before he did something he'd regret for the rest of his life.

He was a grown man—a man of honour, of duty, of responsibility. He was the heir to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms.

Yet here he was, in bed with his own son's future bride.

But the guilt was quickly outweighed by how good it felt, silencing his moral compass instantly.

"You can take more," he murmured—rough but encouraging—his hand sliding from your throat to cradle the back of your head, guiding you gently.

"Just a little deeper—ah—just like that."

You keened at the praise, slowly taking more of him into your soft, wet mouth. Tongue pressing on the underside of his cock. Hollowing your cheeks to suck on his cock more properly.

You just wanted to make him feel good, wanting- no, needing his praise. You knew it was wrong, a sin, to be in bed with your beloved's father. But Gods could surely forgive you, right?

"Fuck—" He barely choked the word out, his entire body shuddering as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his gut.

His cock throbbed against your tongue—so close—his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps as he fought to hold back.

"You—ah... you’re going to ruin me, sweet girl," he gritted out, voice wrecked, before his hand wrenched your head back just enough to pull his cock from your lips with a wet pop.

"Where did you learn to—shit—suck cock like this?"

Had someone else touched you? Taught you? Was it Valarr?

The thought made his stomach twist with something dark and ugly.

His chest heaved, his cock dripping against your flushed lips as he stared down at you with darkened, wild eyes.

"Enough," he rasped, though it sounded more like a plea than an order.

"You’ve—fuck—you’ve done enough."

Baelor's heart clenched at the expression on your face, his expression twisting with guilt, then shame, before he shook his head roughly.

"No," he gritted out, breath ragged, as he tried to force the words past his teeth. He wanted to finish, gods knew he wanted to finish. He could still feel your lips on him, warm and soft and tempting.

He looked away, struggling to find his self-discipline, his resolve, before turning back to you with a sharp, commanding voice.

Baelor's entire body trembled with restraint as he cupped your face, his thumb wiping a stray drop of spit from your swollen lips.

"Because I'm this close—" His cock twitched violently against his stomach, still flushed and leaking. "—to forgetting you're my son's bride and fucking this sweet mouth raw."

His voice dropped to a broken whisper: "And that can't happen."

With visible effort, he pushed you back gently and reached for his breeches—his hands shaking as he pulled them up with deliberate slowness.

"Go. Now."

The order came out strangled, part plea, part warning, as he turned away to grip the bedpost until his knuckles turned white.

"Before I do something we'll both regret."

Your brows furrowed, and you immediately thought you must've done something wrong. "No, please," you pleaded, voice almost pathetic. "I can do better, I promise. I-I'll try with Valarr so I can be better for you," I whimpered, tears in my eyes now.

"I'm sorry if I'm not so good yet; I can do better."

Feeling so small and sad, not wanting him to pull away again. You could be better for him. Practice on your husband, Valarr, you're sure he wouldn't mind.

His heart ached as he watched your expression crumple, the sight of you pleading with him, offering yourself for his use was almost too much to bear.

He should've pushed you away, but he just couldn't.

"Shhh, sweetling…" he murmured, voice rough and choked, as he cupped your face with his hands.

"You're so sweet. So lovely."

His hand came up to tenderly stroke your hair—his thumb sweeping across your forehead.

"And far, far too perfect for this messy, old man."

You pouted at his words, shaking your head in his hands.

You looked up at him through your lashes, looking vulnerable as you leaned into his touch. "I don't mind that you're older... I like that." You said in an almost whisper, leaning closer to him. Wanting to feel his lips on yours again.

"You can teach me things I don't know yet..." You said the sweetest things. Any other man would simply break, but he was the king to be. He had to be stronger than this.

Baelor exhaled sharply—his fingers tightening briefly in your hair—before he forced himself to pull back.

His chest ached with want, but his conscience won out.

"You don’t even know what you’re asking for," he murmured, shaking his head slowly, his expression pained but firm.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone tenderly, almost regretfully, before he straightened, putting distance between you once more. Leaving you sad and teary-eyed on the bed.

"And I won’t be the one to teach you."

His voice was softer now, but still edged with finality.

"You deserve better than this, little one."

You were about to interrupt, but the look on his face made you close your mouth. Knowing when to stay quiet like a true princess.

Then—with visible effort—he stepped back, adjusting his tunic before speaking again—this time with the quiet authority of a prince, not just your prince:

"Go find Valarr."

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he forced them out regardless.

"Now."

And then he turned away. He couldn't change his mind on this.

[dearlizzies-rip]

18+

First time with virgin! Jon ꣑ৎ

THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL was a complete mess under you, lips swollen and face flushed. His heart was beating fast in his ribs and his poor neglected cock had been hard for so long it was starting to hurt.

You had been kissing for so long already in his chamber—more like a cell—in Castle Black, and normally you would have already helped him with his problem, but today you didn’t want to just grind against each other. Today you wanted him fully.

“Jon…”

When you pulled back, he looked at you with those dreamy grey eyes, almost dark thanks to his growing desire.

“I want more…don’t you?”

His breath came in short gasps as he looked up at you, he reached up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

"I do... I want everything," he whispered hoarsely. "But I've never... I'm not sure how..."

He gestured vaguely to his body, uncertainty and self-consciousness written across his features. As a bastard, he'd always felt like less than a man. And now, faced with the prospect of making love to you, his inexperience loomed large.

"But with you..." he said softly, conviction creeping into his tone. "I want to try.."

“It’s okay…” you immediately caressed his curls softly, making him follow your touch like a needy puppy. “I’ll talk you through it. Tell me what you want to do”

His hands trembled slightly as he began to undo the laces of your dress, fingers clumsy with anticipation.

"I want to see you" he murmured, peeling the fabric aside to reveal the swell of your breasts encased in delicate lace. His gaze drank in the sight, pupils dilating with arousal.

Slowly, reverently, he trailed a finger along the valley between your breasts, feeling the warmth of your skin. He leaned in to press a tender kiss to the hollow of your throat, inhaling your scent.

"I want to taste you" he said, looking up at you. “Please?” Did that mean he wanted to kiss you all over your body? No one had never asked you before.

“Of course you can Jon”

His eyes widened at your permission, he swallowed hard, nodding fervently. You took his hands and placed them in your thighs, pulling your own dress up your hips.

He breathed, hands gripping your thighs as he guided them apart. The sight of your bare, glistening cunt made his mouth water. Was that a common thing among the high lords? Probably not. Did he want to do it so badly? Yes.

With a shaky hand, he pushed your folds open, exposing your most intimate flesh to his gaze. He leaned, diving his head between your thighs as you layed back in his bed. He inhaled deeply, savoring your heady aroma before leaning in to run his tongue along your slick slit.

“Jon..what are you..?”

"Mmmm..." he groaned, the flavor of your essence exploding on his taste buds. He delved deeper, lapping at your clit and probing your entrance with the tip of his tongue, losing himself in the velvety heat of your cunt. Thanks to Robb and Theon for telling him about the small button that ‘makes the ladies scream’ because so it did.

Encouraged by your moans, Jon increased the pace of his tongue's movements, flicking rapidly against your sensitive clit while thrusting it inside your welcoming depths. He could feel you trembling beneath him, hear your ragged breathing. He started grinding his hips so hard against the bed that he was moaning in your cunt.

Wanting to give you even more pleasure—and being so pussydrunk—he slid a finger alongside his tongue, gently circling your entrance before pushing it inside you. He curled it slightly, again, thank Robb and Theon for that one.

"You’re so beautiful" he urged, nipping lightly at your thigh as he continued his ministrations. His free hand reached up to fondle your breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers as he savored your sweet flavors.

“Gods~ Jon!”

The sound of your climax sent a thrill through him, spurring him on as he devoured your quivering sex. He lapped at your juices greedily, prolonging your pleasure until you finally collapsed back onto the bed, panting and spent.

Still reeling from the intensity of your orgasm, Jon slowly withdrew his tongue and finger, licking them clean of your essence. He crawled up your body, pressing tender kisses along your inner thighs, hips, and stomach.

“Jon where did you learn that”

He chuckled, kissing your tummy softly.

“Just err…some things my brothers told me”

"You're incredible” you whispered, reaching his lips to claim a deep kiss. His hardness throbbed against you, begging for release, but he held back, savoring the moment.

"I want to be inside you, please" he confessed, breaking the kiss to look into your eyes. "please, please can i?"

“Aww Jon… do you think i would’ve let you do these things if i didn’t want you inside me?”

He whimpered at your words and overwhelmed with the emotion, he captured your lips in a passionate kiss again, pouring all his love and longing into it. As you broke apart, he positioned himself between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging your entrance.

"I love you” he whispered fiercely, his eyes searching yours for permission and reassurance. "Please tell me if this is okay."

You nodded, nervous yourself for what was about to happen. But Jon, with the same nervous smile, made you calm.

With a gentle push, he slowly sank into your warmth, savoring each delicious inch as he filled you completely. He paused when he was fully sheathed, waiting for your permission to continue.

"Yer’ s’perfect my lady” he breathed, then began to move, withdrawing until just the tip remained before sliding back in. You felt so good around him. So hot and tight for him, it felt a thousand times better than when he felt you grind on top of him.

You felt the sly burn in your insides, adjusting to his length was harder than you expected.

“Mmm Jon…wait..”

Jon's brow furrowed with concern at your words, fearing he might be hurting you. The last thing he wanted was to hurt his beautiful lady. He stilled his movements, hovering over you with a worried expression.

"Are you alright? Am I hurting you?" he asked softly, his hands coming up to cradle your face tenderly. "M’so sorry my lady. We don't have to continue."

Despite the ache in his loins—and cock—urging him to keep moving, he held back, focusing solely on your wellbeing.

"Please talk to me, m’lady.“

After a few seconds of adjusting to his size, you gently nipped his arm. “You can move now Jon”

Relieved that you were okay, Jon smiled softly at you, his gray eyes were shining with tenderness and barely restrained passion. He began to move again, starting with shallow thrusts to allow your body to accommodate his size.

"You feel so good, m’lady ” he murmured, his sounds coming out like whimpers.

One hand slid under your knee, lifting your leg higher to change the angle of penetration. The new position allowed him to reach even deeper, grazing that sensitive spot inside you with every thrust.

"Gods I can’t…" he breathed, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. His tongue danced with yours sensually as he continued his rhythm, the wet—and obscene—sounds of your coupling filling the room.

“Jon…m’gonna—Gods”

Feeling you tense and quiver beneath him, Jon redoubled his efforts, thrusting deeper and faster as he sensed your impending climax. Your walls were squeezing him so heavenly some tears rolled down his precious eyes.

"M’… m’lady! " he urged, sweat beaded on his brow as he chased his own release, determined to make this moment perfect. Make him believe he deserved it. He deserved you.

Suddenly, he felt your walls clamp down around him, fluttering wildly as your orgasm crashed over you.

He cried out, burying his face in your neck as his own peak hit. He pulled back immediately, jerking himself off in your tummy. His hips jerked erratically as he spilled himself in you.

“M’so sorry…” he breathed hard, cheeks in an intense shade of red. “I’ll clean you my lady..”

You stopped him, wanting to savor the moment with him for a few seconds. He collapsed beside you, pulling you close and tucking your head under his chin. He pressed soft kisses to your hair.

"I can’t believe you let me do that" he murmured, "Thank you, Gods, thank you."

He ran a gentle hand down your side, marveling at the softness of your skin.

“I’m not a religious man, lady Catelyn never let me in the sept… but if there are Gods up there, they definitely blessed me with you”

You let out a shaky breath, smiling.

“Jon….i love you too”

He wrapped his arms around you, kissing your head, your cheeks, your lips. All so tenderly that made you forget the fact he could never be your husband. Not while he was a man of the Night’s Watch.

“Can we…can we do that again?”

[cheryroseart]

⋆⭑”They say she is the fairest woman in the world. Her hair is silver-gold, and her eyes are amethysts.”⭑◦

My beautiful queen Daenerys Targaryen 🌸

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Please don’t repost without credit❕

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[shinydarksister]

Rhaenyra telling Daemon not to do anything insane and then immediately killing the Pope is funny af

Perzō se ānogār arlī kostilus!

[polysocial]

Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons.

more + timelapse under the cut

got carried away coloring a dany doodle from two weeks ago. spent 6 hours locked in on her only to delete the background and go w the classic j.c. penney glamour shot.

felt froggy and wanted to include a short time lapse of the coloring process bc i liked how it turned out. TW for flashing, it’s sped up.