Chapter Text
There wasn’t much that could hurt men like Cregan Stark. The loss of his first wife, Arra, had pained him, but Rickon filled that void. Then there was Aly and their stillborn daughter, which had cut him especially deep and left an ache low in his chest.
A deep worry haunted him. Cursed seed. Two women, two wives, had died before their children could take a breath.
The thought of condemning you to the same fate felt like winter had been reborn within him. Watching you with Rickon, his beautiful wife and his heir, letting the boy chase you around the courtyard, holding your skirts up in an attempt to keep them from getting dirty—though it was in vain.
Cregan, of course, loved you deeply, perhaps more than he had ever expected to. You were younger, a cousin on his mother's side, a Glover. You were sweet, still full of life despite the tragic death of your mother and two of your brothers.
Madness, your father had told him, following a plea to take you in an effort to extinguish any madness your mother may have passed to you.
A hand finds his arm, stunning him for a moment. He realised he was so swept away in his thoughts that he hadn't seen you approach.
“My love,” you hum, curling into his side. “You are doing that thing.”
He scoffs, hand lying on top of yours. “No, I am not. What ‘thing’?”
“How can you deny it when you do not know what I speak of?” Your lips curl, followed by an arched brow.
He is quick to shush you with a grunt before kissing your temple. “Where did the boy go?”
“Rickon is with the maester, back to his lessons, I can only assume. I am surprised to see you out here so early in the day, husband.”
Cregan turns, reaching to brush your hair out of your face. “A little wolf told me someone was chasin’ my wife around.”
“Ah, your daughter, then?” Your smile makes his chest throb, his thumb lingering to pinch your cheek. He chuckles at your wince, leaning in to soothe it with a peck.
“Do you have much more work to do?” You ask softly, almost hesitantly, like speaking the words would spawn more for him to do.
“I am afraid so, pet. Probably won’t see you ‘til supper.” His words prompt a slight pout from you, a grin appearing on his face. “None of that. You know well that I’ll make it up to you.”
“I know.” Your words are quiet as the wind. “Doesn’t stop me from missing you.”
His next kiss is on the corner of your lips. “Supper, I swear it.” He hopes it’s enough reassurance, giving you a longer kiss to seal his promise.
“Supper.” You repeat, voice softer than snow. He squeezes your hand once before letting go and leaving you in the courtyard.
—
Cregan loved you. So much so that he could never bring himself to risk losing you.
Never once had he pushed anything more than his pinkish tip inside of you, just enough to technically count as consummation before pulling away, his jaw tense. He had buried himself between your thighs that night, drowning away his unpleasant thoughts with the taste of you on his tongue.
He was a keen lover—keeping you pleasured, trying to make up for what he was denying you. You had never given him anything more than a questioning look when such things happened, for you could not truly complain.
You had come to learn there was more to sex beyond childbearing, if you could even call it that.
Was it called sex if there was no penetration? You sometimes thought to yourself.
The way Cregan would fuck you with his fingers, curling upwards inside of you, enough to make you squeal. It was followed with a touch or a lick at your button, then his cock would rub deliciously through your slick lips. His hands on either side of your thighs, squeezing, legs thrown over one shoulder as he fucked the gap, heavy balls slapping at your bottom.
Sometimes he found his fingers buried in your behind, tongue occupying your front. It was the closest he allowed himself to real penetration, preparing a faux cunt for him to press his fat cock into.
The day you let him bottom out there, he believes he may cry.
For all the hardness of a northern man that Cregan had, he was beautiful like this. A pinch between his brows when he felt himself throb, watching your folds part as his cock slid over your clit, unbothered by the hair falling into his face, mesmerised by the sight beneath him.
Sometimes he would straddle your chest, rubbing himself over the flesh of your breasts like an animal, desperate to have every part of you. He would pinch, squeeze, caress—a cycle that drove you to the edge of insanity.
It was pure filth; not unwelcome, but you often found yourself wondering what your father would think if he knew his liege lord was debasing his daughter in such a way.
—
When summer approached the north, the days got long. Evenings were later, the sun setting long after the crows cawed.
These days are Cregan’s favourite. More time with you.
You were sitting in front of the hearth reading some book of old wives’ tales while he was at your feet, head resting against your thigh as he carved into a piece of wood mindlessly.
“My love,” Your voice is as gentle as the hand in his hair. He hums, turning his cheek to press a kiss into your gown-covered thigh. “You have whittled your oak into a mere lump.”
He looks down, swearing. “This was supposed to be for Sarra.” He exhales harshly, throwing it into the fire and brushing his lap of the wood chips.
You close your book, combing through his hair with your fingers and leaning down to kiss his hairline. His relaxation was immediate, a more peaceful exhale departing from his lips. “I am sure there are more cuts for you to choose from, love.”
He reaches up to take your hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing. “The sun is finally starting to set,” he murmurs, standing and pulling you up with him. “We should find ourselves abed soon.”
“Are you tired?” You ask gently after rising with him, reaching up to thumb his cheek.
His response is a gruff noise, air puffing out of his nose as he blinked at you, turning to kiss your palm. “Not tired. I want to lie with my wife. Is such a thing a crime?”
He was ever so sweet like this, pliant, his words always so gentle in the room the two of you shared, away from prying eyes.
“Stop that.” He grumbles, reaching up to press his thumb over your lips. “You are smirking.”
You find yourself laughing, even more so as Cregan tries to hide the way his lips curl, before pressing his to yours.
It’s gentle at first, his hands finding the sides of your neck, tilting your chin up to meet his mouth. His tongue is gentle, soothing over your bottom lip where his teeth nibble.
His fingers find the lace at the back of the thin chemise that covered you, loosening them enough for his fingers to graze your spine, goosebumps following his touch.
He hums against your lips, pulling away to pepper kisses down the delicate skin of your neck, teeth meeting your pulse in a quick brush.
“My beautiful wife,” Kiss. “Southron men would cower before such a woman,” Kiss. “Wouldn’t have a clue how to pleasure you,” Kiss. “My love. My wife. I ought to declare independence for the North so you might have the title you deserve. Queen.”
“Cregan.” His name is exhaled from your lips, a half-laugh at his dramatic words. “To be your wife is plenty.”
“You do not want to be a Queen?” He asks against your neck, and you can feel his lips curled up in amusement.
“I do not want you to wage a war in an effort to do so.” He can feel your laugh in your throat, vibrating against his skin.
He stands tall before you, fingers ghosting up your arms. “Let us rid you of this dress. It is in the way.” He had already unlaced the back, making it easy for him to slip it down over your arms, the thin material falling at your feet. “There you are,” He breathes; his right hand, calloused from Ice, finds the bare skin of your waist.
“Your hands are cold, husband.” You shudder, your hands finding the nape of his neck. Fingers tangle with the hairs you find there, curling them around your knuckles.
Cregan’s touch grazes along your spine, up and down, finding its home on your rump. “You’ll do well to let me warm them, then.” Lips against the shell of your ear, words almost purred.
Your back bows, bare breasts pressed against his leathered chest, nipples hardening as a slight breeze is cast through the room. There is a pinch to the back of your thigh that makes you gasp, lips parting, and before you can express your annoyance, your husband’s tongue finds its home against yours.
It's the type of kiss that you find only in dark corners of brothels, one that would leave any potential voyeur scandalised. Cregan’s kisses were all about swallowing you whole, left hand gripping your jaw to angle you just enough, just right for him to shove his tongue deep enough to lick at the roof of your mouth, swallowing your moans before they even escaped your throat. Drool would gather at the corner of your lips, where he would lick it up, spitting it right back onto your tongue.
“Mine,” Cregan whispers, “say it.”
You swallow. “Mmh- yours, I am yours.” Your voice is raw, your lips red from his biting and sucking.
Cregan hums, thumb rubbing over your bottom lip before tilting your head to the side like he was looking you over. He towered over you like this, over a head taller than you, making you feel powerless to how he manhandles you. “Awfully pretty like this,” he murmurs, stormy eyes unblinking. Cregan’s right hand slides over your arse, over your holes, his mouth twitching at the feeling of your slick. “This is all it takes for you? A kiss?” He whispers into your ear, and the hand at your jaw grips once more.
You open your mouth to deny, no, it's all you, but all that comes out is a sharp gasp as his hand comes down on your bottom with a sharp crack.
“Did I marry a whore?” Cregan’s voice is just as soft as it is when he’s complimenting you and talking sweetly to his children. He turns you to face him again, fingers tightening on your jaw.
Crack. His hand comes down on your unhit cheek, reddening it to match the other.
“I asked you a question, wife.” Cregan whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
When he acts like this, it's as though you’re being pulled in two directions. His words are always so soft, so sweet, and his fingers are the opposite. Tight, gripping you in ways he knows will make your head thrum.
You keen under Cregan’s attention, eyelids flittering, words breathless. “No, no, you did not.”
“No?” His head tilts, eyes picking you apart. “Then explain this for me, love.”
Cregan’s fingers find your cunt again, plunging two inside with a thick squelch. Your head would’ve fallen forward if it weren’t for the grip he had on your jaw, keeping you facing him.
“S’you,” you whine, words slurred. “You made me like this, husband.” You hiccup, eyes rolling as his fingers curl upwards.
“I did, didn’t I?” His lips meet your neck, stubble prickling against your skin. “My beautiful wife.” The hand on your jaw finds its way to your nape, gathering your hair and tugging ever so gently. “So perfect,” Cregan finds himself whispering. “I made you like this.”
He lays you down, hands smoothing down from your face to your neck; a soft squeeze, palms spreading over the span of your sternum, fingers digging into the softness of your tummy.
Cregan has known you and your body for years now, working you with the accuracy only a husband could have. He kneads your flesh as a beloved baker would his dough, thumbs finding all the dips in your curves, teeth grazing your pulse–just enough to make your spine arch off of the bed. He moulds you to his will, thighs pressed against your chest with one broad forearm so that he can palm at your pussy without fighting against your inevitable squeezing.
You whine when his fingers dip back inside of you, trembling under his hold.
“Relax,” Cregan says quietly with a kiss to your shin, though no less commanding than his usual tone.
You inhale deeply, looking into his eyes with a wobbling bottom lip. Cregan hushes you, leaning down to kiss your forehead as his fingers dig deeper. “Shh, pet.” He murmurs against your skin. “Let me take care of you.” He kisses your forehead once more before sitting back up.
Cregan peels his leathers off, his bare chest free. You reach out, running your hands down from his shoulders to the belt of his trousers. There is a slight tent there, his cock thickening in his smallclothes. With a slight tilt of his chin, you unbind his belt, the wolf buckle cold to the touch, letting it slip from your grasp and fall to the floor. He takes care to remove his trousers and small clothes, then climbs back onto the bed in front of you.
There was something gratifying in having a man like Cregan Stark bare before you. He wasn’t someone who trusted easily; in fact, you weren’t even sure if half his vassals had ever seen his hands beneath the thick gloves he oft wore. So, when he rids himself of the clothing he keeps so pristinely neat, warmth bubbles up from your groin.
Cregan kisses you with a thumb across your jawbone, laying you back against the bed. He was a man who knew what he wanted and how he wanted it.
Your knees end up over his shoulder, snug against your chest, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip.
The heat of Cregan’s cock is intense against the back of your thighs. He straightens up, one hand rubbing the side of your knee and hugging them to his torso, spitting into the other and stroking himself.
His tongue flicks out to wet his bottom lip, followed by an exhale as he presses into the tight squeeze of your inner thighs.
A shudder ripples down your body, his thick length parting the folds of your cunt.
“My wife, do you feel how hard I am? You drive me insane.” His cockhead meets your clit as he thrusts forward, chin meeting his chest. “I- I could die a happy man here.” His words are heavy with huffs. “Between your cunt and thighs.”
You cannot form any words, let alone sentences. He could barely touch you, and you would thank him.
Cregan revelled in your state, your flushed cheeks, the muted squeals and moans, the hiccups when he thumbs a nipple.
His sweet girl.
He had made you like this, sensitive to every little touch to your bare skin.
You couldn’t think.
Your skin was on fire, blood boiling. “Cregan…” you whimper weakly. “Please?”
He always knew what you were asking for, leaning down to kiss you. He swallows your noises eagerly, giving you his own in a moment of weakness.
He was so heavy against you, hot and strong, holding you in place as he fucked between your thighs.
Cregan pulls back, stroking your face when you whimper. “Let me, pet.” Your thighs shake as he lets them fall from his shoulder.
He presses his length to the back of your thigh, using his free hand to rub over your pussy.
You can’t help the way your hips shudder and buck up against his hand. “Please, please, husband,” you sniffle. “I feel so…”
“So what?” Cregan exhales, rolling his own hips against your leg. “What is it you want, love?”
“Your fingers,” you choke out, reaching down to circle your fingers around his wrist. “Inside.”
If you had any sense left in you, you may have felt embarrassed; alas, there is none in either of you this moment. You sound downright pathetic, begging for your husband to touch you.
He heeds your request, dipping two inside as he had done earlier. He shouldn’t be surprised at how you crave it when it was the closest he allowed himself to get to sticking his cock inside of you.
No, that was out of the question.
So instead, a third joins, pressing upwards into your softness. They beckon a crude noise from you, your body contorting from your pleasure.
He’s rocking his hips to the rhythm of his fingers, breath catching every time your muscle tenses beneath the sensitive tip of his cock.
Everything around you felt like it was closing in on you, vision darkening at the edges, hearing muffling and your body numbing to everything except the feeling of his fingertips rubbing at the back of your cunt.
You’re not sure when he moved, teeth sharp against the underside of your tit. You can feel the press of his tip against your backside, fingers still curling inside you with a thumb at your clit while he sucked on a nipple.
“Cregan–” You hiccup, a hand finding the back of his head and entwining in his hair. It was overwhelming, almost too much, when your body throws itself over the edge.
For a moment, it’s like you had been swallowed by a storm, flashes of hot and cold coming over you, tossing you around. You feel your body clench impossibly tight, your teeth creaking and your toes curling inward.
Then, you're back, watching your husband arched over you as he cums onto your stomach.
He’s beautiful like this, chest heaving and stomach tensing, painted with a layer of sweat. The fireplace behind him gives him an ethereal glow, like something out of the romance books mothers give to their daughters. You watch as his head falls back, hand stroking himself once more, a drop of sweat rolling down from his chin to his chest.
“Gods.” Cregan whispers, lifting his head to look down at you; the weight of his softening length rests against your mound. He uses a thumb to rub a spattering of his cum into the softness of your stomach.
For just a moment, he looks solemn.
“My wife,” his voice is quiet, “you are so beautiful like this. All mine.”
You hum weakly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You’re doing it again.”
With a roll of his eyes and a downward smile, Cregan is back to his usual self. “Go on, then. Explain what this ‘thing’ is.” He lies atop you, unbothered by the slickness of his seed. He brushes your hair away from your face and presses his lips to the bridge of your nose.
“It is like you go somewhere,” you give him a delicate smile, “you get a crease between your brows, here.” You reach up to stroke your thumb between his eyebrows. “Must be a Stark thing; both Rickon and Sarra do it when they’re thinking.”
A fond expression comes over him. “You have me all figured out, do you?” He murmurs, kissing your cheek.
He is gentle when he rolls the two of you so he is beneath you now, his hands settling on the small of your back.
“I won’t ask.” You whisper, kissing him lightly.
Cregan exhales through his nose. “What did I do to deserve you, hm?” He reaches up to caress your cheek, lips curling.
“Good things come to good men, my lord Stark.”