You scowled, stepping closer, your gait more akin to a mother duck than anything else, making warmth bloom in Cregan’s chest, letting his eyes sweep over you from the soles of your feet to the top of your head, taking you in, gorging on the sight of his pretty wife, all plump and heavy with his babe. He will never cease to pray to all the Northern Gods for this blessing, dropping to his knees in front of the weirwood tree, forehead pressed to the cold ground as he thanked them profusely for letting him cast his gaze upon such divinity.

“You have done plenty,” you scoffed, scrunching your nose in his direction. The closer you got to his desk, the more the resemblance between you and a disgruntled kitten became more and more apparent, making him hum. “My feet ache, my belly is too big, I’ve eaten a dozen lemon cakes in one sitting, and I can barely walk.”

Cregan pressed his lips together to suppress a splitting grin, way too amused and enamored with his crimes that he had apparently had a hand in, unbeknownst to him. How can a man like him even dare to stand there and not be swiftly punished for such wrongdoings? Other men were beheaded for less.

“Are all those ailments my doing?” He asked, feigning innocence as he waited for you to approach, letting you decide whether you wanted him near or not right now. “How could I have been such a cruel husband, hm?” Cregan continued, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to pull, to hold, but he relented, knowing the wrong move could earn him an even grumpier wife, and that is not what he wished for at the moment.

“Utterly cruel,” you affirmed, lip curling, baring your teeth at him as you stopped next to his chair, your pregnant belly brushing his arm, making his breath hitch, the wonder of such a miracle never quite ceasing. “You brought this upon me.” Your lips pursed into a pout, indignant and fussy as you continued. “If you weren’t so relentless in giving me your seed, I would’ve never resembled a thousand-pound duckling right now.”

Thousand-pound duckling.

Cregan couldn’t stop the huff of amusement that slipped past his lips even if he tried.

Smack.

“You dare laugh?” You gasped, affronted and utterly offended that your husband was finding your grievances even remotely entertaining, hand making contact with his broad shoulder again and again.

It truly only served to heighten his grin even more, eyes crinkling at the edges for a few moments as he let you hit him to your heart’s content, the slaps no more than a kitten batting its paws at a great wolf, Cregan cataloguing them more as pets than anything that could bring any harm.

“I laugh,” he started, tone woven with amusement, but achingly fond now as he watched you, lifting one hand to clasp yours, bringing it to his mouth to press a soft kiss onto the back of it, halting your fussing. “Because my wife is being ridiculous,” and he could already sense the protest on your tongue at his words, so he was quick to preempt that by continuing, turning your palm to press his lips to the inside of it now. “And she does not look like a thousand-pound duckling, but the most beautiful woman I, and the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen.”

You huffed, your scowl lessening.

Watching you melt gradually from his words was always one of Cregan’s joys in life, chest puffing with pride in being able to will his irritable wife into mellowness, that pretty face of yours warming whenever he “had the nerve,” as you often say, to be tender to you.

“You’re only saying that to appease me,” you protested, but moved closer, nudging him with your knee, indicating that you wished to be closer, to be tended to. A silent demand that your husband knew as well as breathing.

Cregan’s chair screeched quietly onto the hard floor as he made space for you in front of him, broad thighs parting to coax you near. He patted one meaty leg with his palm, head tilting as he watched you, lips softening at the corners, amusement bleeding into fondness. “Come here, to your husband, sweetling.”

“Are you certain you can hold the weight of me, husband?” You challenged, even as you stepped into his space. “Perhaps I am too hefty, even for you.”

Utter nonsense, Cregan thought. He knew you knew how strong he was. How easy it would be for him to hold you and not break a sweat while doing so. As if he doesn’t train and work himself to the bone whenever he is allowed a moment from the droning of courtiers to hone the muscles you secretly favour. Cregan could carry you in his arms through Winterfell’s walls for a handful of hours, he wagers, before the need to stop and take a breather would catch up to him.

“Hm, you reckon?” He rumbled, his hands finding purchase on your hips, smoothing over the flowy material of your dress. Gods, he loved the garments you’ve been adorning as of late—warm colors, soft fabrics, all cascading in rivulets down your soft, lush body. He had given word for more of such dresses to the seamstresses, without your knowledge. You didn’t have to know of his plans yet. Nor were you aware of how he made sure the hearths were lit periodically in every room you frequented, so the need for more than a cloak over your soft silks, satins, and linens was not necessary. It would’ve obstructed his view of you.

You squirmed just a bit, just enough to show resistance, even when he could feel you melting like honey in his grasp as he slowly turned you around, your back to his chest, seating you right onto his lap with a pleased, content groan. The solid weight of you, of the babe you were carrying, leaning back against him, trusting him to hold it all, made something pleased and animal bloom into his chest. If he were any more wolf in anything but sigil and tradition, he was sure he would’ve purred like a content beast right now.

“There you go,” Cregan said, broad palms using their grip onto your soft hips to hike you up higher until you were flush against him from hips to shoulders. “My pretty wife,” he murmured, leaning in to nose at your throat with a satisfied sigh, inhaling the scent of your bath oils, milk and you. “Smelling like a treat here on my lap.”

Cregan knows you would taste even better, but the time for that is not now. He loves to savour you most later in the night, when he has you all pliant and drowsy next to him, bundled up in the furs and pelts from his latest hunts, huffing and whining about all the pains and aches that plague you. And it is your husband’s duty to mend them with his tongue, hands and cock, in any way his lovely wife sees fit.

“I do not feel like a treat,” comes your response, leaning your head back against his shoulder as you grumble. “And it is your doing.”

Ah, of course. Anything that ails you is always Cregan’s demerit, be it truth or fib.

“Apologies, sweet wife,” he whispers against the warm skin of your neck, nuzzling there as a hound would its owner for clemency after being scolded. “How shall I repent for my wrongs at present, pray tell? I am yours to command, as always.”

Truth be told, Cregan could provoke you, could throw your whining and complaining back at you, as he often did, but he had found himself powerless to do such a thing in the moons since you have been with child. How could he muster even a modicum of bravado against the woman who now carried their babe? His heir. His little pup, as Cregan often called them, to your dismay, even tho he knew you did not mind the moniker in the slightest, especially when he was kissing all over the taut skin of your belly in the soft light of mornings, whispering sweet nothings to your stomach, as if the babe could hear him.

"Let me, my love." His broad palms smooth up from your hips, just enough to cradle the bottom of your pregnant, heavy belly and lift, supporting some of the weight himself, holding steady and firm. “There you go.”

The relief is instant.

You melt back into him with a soft sigh, as if a great burden has been taken from you, being gifted a moment of relaxation, where your husband was bearing the heavy load of your unborn babe. He had done this countless times since the nearing of your term, only more than a moon away until you were to be surrounded by midwives and maesters.

“It is a boulder,” you fuss, but your eyes flutter in delight, the ache in your back easing the more Cregan bears the brunt of your belly. “One I shall never have to haul around again, Gods be good.”

He hums at your words, knowing them not to be entirely founded, for he knows you are quite fond of the idea of having more than one set of little legs running around Winterfell in the years to come, but he keeps the quip to himself, mindful of your repose.

“I cannot abide by having to change my garments every few hours because I’m dripping milk like cattle.”

Dripping milk.

Cregan freezes for a moment before tipping his chin onto your shoulder to peer down your chest, and truth be told, there they were, your words sounding truthful.

Pebbled nipples peeking through damp material, where milk had stained the fabric, your heavy breasts full of milk, ready to nurture the future babe.

Your husband’s breath caught at the sight, tongue unconsciously poking out to wet his lips, as if wanting to taste the patches of wet silk and suck them into his mouth so he could relish the flavour of your nourishment.

“My poor, sweet wife,” Cregan crooned, one palm still supporting your pregnant belly, while the other slowly travelled upwards, caressing the soft fabric of your dress, until he could cup one full breast, making you huff. “So full of milk already,” he continued, thumb brushing over the damp peak of your nipple through the silk, eliciting a breathier sound this time, which made him hum. “Ready to feed our babe.”

He expected you to squirm, to fuss again at him, but you arched into his touch, limbs melting onto his lap, as if his touches were the flame to melt wax onto paper, willing you pliant and malleable.

“They ache,” you complained, pushing your chest into his palm, urging him to aid you in your grievance, as any husband should. “They’re too full.”

“Too full?” came your husband’s voice, lower, more gruff, as if your words had affected him more than he wished to admit. “And no one to suckle on these pretty tits yet, isn’t it?” He said, palm shifting, covering your breast fully, fingers dimpling the clothes’ softness as he squeezed gently, fondling the lushness slowly.

Again and again and again.

You didn’t mind the rhythmic press of his palm; on the contrary, you relished it, each one accompanied by one of those sweet sighs of content that Cregan drank in like the finest Arbour gold.

With each squeeze, the material of your dress dampened, your husband drawing out more and more milk, wetting both your dress and his palm. He groaned at the feeling, fingers dimpling the flesh harder, but never enough to hurt. “Gods, sweetling, you’re leaking everywhere,” he rumbled, pupils blown wide as he watched the way the silk darkened as more and more sweetness dripped from your pebbled nipples. “Makin’ me want to suckle at it like a babe.”

You gasped, one of your hands lifting to swat at the one he had around your breast, which only made him squeeze more. “Don’t be dissolute!” You reprimanded, but did nothing else to stop his fondling, weaving your fingers through his against your heaving tit, aiding him as you continued. “Just keep going.”

Cregan groaned, tilting his head to the side to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, the scent of sweet, warm milk already permeating the air around you, making him dizzy with the need to dip his head low and mouth at you until you couldn’t resist any more. “You’re a cruel woman,” he rasped, mouth parting, tongue poking out, as if tasting the air would suffice, as if that would even come close to having your milk on his palate. “All lush and ripe like a summer peach, sitting on my lap, dripping all over me,” he growled, feeling his palm dampen more with each squeeze. “And not letting me put my mouth on you.”

It was torture to sit there and not take what he wanted, but he knew that you’d give in soon. Only a matter of time until Cregan would crawl over you, tugging down at your neckline to slobber and mouth at your milk-heavy tits until he was drunk on the taste and you were pliant and lax under him, mewling and squirming.

And probably offering him your other breast to suckle at as well, if you were in good spirits, and he prayed dutifully to the Gods that day.

tags: @pinkdoeweirdo @silkaurum @through-the-looking--glass @pearlessance @chaotichereticcavern @mademoisellepetite @creganed @ship-slut @kyscamel @boojaynaqueen @roxxmo @bisexualforestfire @samthegreenapologist @vlarrtrgryn @sedonasummer @goldenhoneyedwine

Two months. You had been gone for two months, and Cregan was beside himself. You had sent a raven when you arrived, and one when you were leaving. That was it—two measly letters. You were obviously still angry with him despite his asking for forgiveness.

He grew irritable, restless, short-tempered, and bone-tired. Never before had he felt so tethered to another’s presence, and it wore him down. As your return drew near, his nerves frayed further. He fumbled through ledgers, spilt wine across his desk, rewrote letters, and nearly donned his tunic inside out. Madness, truly.

Even his children had noticed, Rickon side-eyeing him at dinner and little Sarra patting him on the shoulder with a soft “I miss her too, papa.”

The instant his men glimpsed your party, he nearly vibrated with anticipation. His wife was finally returning, and he longed to spirit you away for the rest of your days together. If he had any sense left, he might have been embarrassed by how quickly he rushed to the gates.

The horses halted, whinnying and snorting clouds of fog into the summer chill. Cregan held his breath as the carriage door swung open, nearly choking when you emerged. After so long apart, your beauty unravelled him, and he exhaled in pure relief.

You step down with care, mindful of the treacherous summer ground. A hand appears before you, steady and familiar, and you follow it up to meet your husband’s gaze.

“My lady wife,” he breathes out. “Welcome home.” You could easily read the telltale signs of exhaustion on his face: tense lines on his forehead, and his voice gentler than usual. You take his hand, and he brings it to his lips, pressing a long kiss to your knuckles.

Gods, the ache of missing you had nearly undone him.

“Mm, my lord husband, it has been a long while.” Your voice is gentle, chin tipped up like a proper lady.

Oh dear. Clearly, your anger lingered. You reserved such formal words for moments of mischief or genuine ire.

“Mother!” “Mama!” Two figures broke from either side of Cregan, both dark-haired and grey-eyed.

Rickon lingers close to his father, while Sarra barrels into your legs with all the exuberance of a six-year-old. “How was it! How was it! I want to go to a wedding!” she wails, clutching at your dress with impatient hands.

Their arrival melts your composure, a genuine smile breaking free. You pet Sarra’s head and beckon Rickon closer. He flushes, caught between childhood and pride, but still wraps his arms around your waist.

“Oh my,” you murmur, fingers combing gently through his hair. “Did you sprout up while I was away? I hardly recognise this tall young man.” Your teasing coaxes a deeper blush and a bashful nod. “Who knows, you might just outgrow your father.”

Cregan huffs out a laugh, scooping Sarra up before she can tear your gown. “Don’t give him hope.”

“What of me, mama?” Sarra pouts from her father’s arms. “Did I grow?”

You offer her a soft smile, smoothing her unruly hair behind her ear. “You grow lovelier every day, my sweet girl.” 

Cregan clears his throat and places your hand on his arm when Sarra wiggles away from him. “Let us get you to a bath, wife. Your journey must have been long.”

Tension simmered between you as you walked through the keep. Two months without your husband’s touch had stretched into eternity, your anger melting beneath the heavy ache of longing. He was your home, your heart, and you missed him fiercely.

You felt the warmth of his arm through his sleeve beneath your fingers, swallowing against the heat that curled in your stomach.

Cregan fared no better, exhaling sharply at your nearness. It was surreal, how deeply you affected each other; the distance and unresolved feelings only magnified every emotion.

The corridor to your shared room had never seemed so endless. Each step dragged, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

He opened the door for you, releasing your hand. You crossed the room, unhooked your cloak, and draped it over the settee in the corner. The hairs on your neck prickled beneath the heat of his gaze. As soon as the fur fell from your fingers, he was on you, chest pinned to your back, lips pressed to the sensitive skin under your ear, with a hand sliding up from your stomach to your neck, a gentle hold to remind you who he was.

“Two months,” Cregan breathes out, already sounding on edge. “Two letters. Do you have fun torturing me, wife?” You have to swallow a moan, body already wanting to melt into him. “Hm? Do I have to fuck obedience back into you?” His fingers dig into the flesh of your neck, teeth baring against the shell of your ear. “I can feel you trembling, pet. All this torment was felt by you tenfold, was it? I bet if I touched you, right here…” The hand on your stomach slides down to cup the peak of your thighs through your dress. “I’d find you soaking through your smallclothes, what do you think?”

You whine his name in that tone that sends a shiver down his spine, his arousal pressing against your backside, insistent even through the layers between you. He guides you smoothly over the back of the settee, his mouth hot against your neck as he grinds into you.

“Ah, I missed this…” Cregan breathes out, half a moan, your skirt bunched up over your hips. His foot nudges yours farther apart, letting him rub you through your smallclothes. You arch back into him, feverish heat burning between you.

“Please,” you whisper, reaching behind to find the cool steel of his belt, slipping your fingers beneath it. The motion draws him closer, a hiss escaping him as he indulges you, tugging your underwear down so he can press against you directly.

He laughs lowly, watching as your wetness drenches him. “I knew it.” His mouth is at your ear again, nibbling. “You’re fucking soaked, love. Fuck. Stay there.” He pulls back, squeezing your waist with both hands.

You hear your husband move first, then feel the heat of his body a moment before his tongue is dragging through your folds. It takes everything in you not to crumble immediately at the way he moans at your taste. He’s everywhere, sucking your clit, teething your folds, biting your thighs and ass, tongue slurping wherever he can with the greed of a starved man. 

His fingers are next, two filling your cunt so deliciously in ways you had never been able to replicate. You almost came right there, muffling a desperate sob with your palm.

“None of that,” Cregan growls as a sharp smack finds your behind, sending you forward a few inches. “You have denied me your presence for the past two months, so you’ll take everything I give you, won't you? My sweet girl. I’ll make you feel so good, I promise.” He presses a kiss to where you’re stretched around his fingers.

You’re left without air in your lungs when his mouth finds your other hole. “Husband, ah! That’s- that’s dirty–”

“I don’t fucking care,” he snarls, muffled, letting the tip of his tongue dip inside. Cregan eating you like this was nothing new, but you had been on the road for the past week, so it felt filthy. Of course, that didn’t stop him. He was determined to have you, and though he could not bring himself to bury his cock in your cunt, he knew your arse would do just as well.

Cregan is harder than he had ever been before beneath his own smallclothes, throbbing every time you clenched around his tongue. He has to fight his own body to not thrust against the air, denying himself such pleasures.

He feasted on you like that for what felt like hours, your legs giving out at some point, having to kneel on the couch. Fingers joined his tongue, leaving your cunt empty and craving, which his free hand solved by rubbing at your clit. Cregan’s mouth alternated between biting at whatever flesh he could find and gently licking your stretched rim. 

You came just like that, your husband three fingers deep in the wrong hole while he bruised your thighs with his teeth.

First, your vision blurs, a haze seeping into the edges of your sight as his name escapes you in a strangled gasp. Then comes the rush of warmth, unfurling from your core and flooding every inch of you, leaving you boneless against the settee, hole impossibly tight around his fingers.

Your body threatens to give out, trembling as you cling to the last shreds of control. Cregan guides you through the storm, his lips tracing over his marks, anchoring you to the moment. He utters one word against your skin, breathe, and you realise you had been holding your breath. Your chest heaves as the rush of oxygen makes you dizzy, Cregan having to catch you before you collapse.

He steadies you, fingers deftly loosening the laces of your dress until the fabric pools at your feet. His touch roams, anchoring you as he savours rediscovering your body. It has been ages since he last traced your skin with his hands.

Cregan draws you near, sweeping you into his arms and settling you gently onto your marriage bed. Between your trembling thighs, he strips off his shirt, eager to feel every inch of you against him. “How do you feel?” he whispers against your chest, his lips following the soft line of your breast. His teeth aren’t far behind, grazing against your nipple.

A half-whine escapes you before you can stop it, coaxed out by his teeth, while your fingers clutch desperately at his flesh and tangle in his hair. “I’m-” you choke, whole body shaking. “Please.”

Cregan isn’t a particularly cruel man, especially not to his wife, not when she asks so sweetly. He wouldn’t make you beg like this, not when he himself was just as desperate. He pushes up, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. “I know, pet. So good for me. Can you turn over?”

He guides you gently, his fingers firm around your waist. From behind, you are breathtaking, and he lets his hand glide slowly down your spine, drinking in the view.  Like this, he is free to admire his work; he had littered your behind with bites and bruises, the upper half of your thighs having not been spared the same fate.

Your breath comes in uneven bursts, face pressed deep into the softness of his feather pillow. Cregan. Your husband. Every part of him surrounds you. His scent is intoxicating. He presses his face into your neck, breathing you in. Even if he were worlds away, the memory of your scent—citrus layered over something uniquely yours—would unravel him.

You were woven into each other's lives so completely that the thought of separation felt impossible. The lingering warmth you left in the morning, the glint of his belt resting atop the chest, the mingling of your scents- these small details became the very fabric of your world.

Cregan trails kisses across your shoulder, his warmth and weight pressing into your back. The first thing you notice is the wetness, something smooth gliding over your holes. Oil, the same he used when you once complained about his roughness against your thighs. Yet here, it feels entirely new.

The familiar feeling of his blunt tip is next, between your cheeks. He lifts your hips until you are kneeling, his slick hands gliding over your skin, every touch sending a shiver as he presses against you.

“It’ll feel strange,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss to your spine before straightening. “Just for a little while, I promise.”

For a heartbeat, heat flares white and sharp. The sting draws a gasp from your lips, his soothing words lost in the rush of sensation. The pain flickers out, but the warmth lingers, more intense than anything Cregan has ever made you feel, even at your limits. He lets you relax around him before moving further. This repeats a few more times before his hips meet flush against the skin of your ass, a keen falling from your lips at the full stretch.

Every sensation seemed to echo through the room. Each subtle twitch, every small movement he made in his silent longing, was measured and tender, always mindful not to disturb or hurt you. His breaths matched yours, his hands tightening around your hips in slow, deliberate pulses.

“How do you feel?” The strain in your husband’s voice doesn’t escape you. “Does it hurt?”

You lift your head from the pillow and draw a steady breath. “Full,” you whisper, the word quivering in the hush. “It’s… strange.” You shift slightly, and Cregan’s moan shatters the silence, raw and unfiltered, chased by a swallowed gasp.

“Mm, good. That’s… good.” His voice trembles, thin with restraint. “I’m- I’m going to move, okay?”

A nod and a trembling breath are all you can manage as he slowly pulls back. He moves within you again, urging you further into the bedding. The pillow muffles your unfamiliar cries, each one raw and thrilling to his ears. He aches to see your face, but he knows staying like this will make everything gentler for you. Your body feels supercharged, every nerve ending sparking to life, each squeeze of his fingers searing through you, leaving a deep, unforgettable imprint.

As your body loosens and yields, he quickens his rhythm, the gentle sound of skin meeting skin echoing softly between you.

“G-gods,” Cregan stutters out, eyes unable to tear away from where his cock is sliding in and out of you. Each thrust is pinpointed somewhere deep in you, so far forward you swore you could feel it in your cunt. It was a peculiar sensation, being hollow and overflowing all at once, a feeling that defied words yet carried a quiet comfort.

The heat from before surged even stronger, coiling in the pit of your stomach and racing out to ignite every fingertip.

With each breath you let out, your voice grew more daring, unravelling Cregan’s composure piece by piece. Time seemed to dissolve as you buried your face in his scent, his hand steady on your back, anchoring you while the other claimed your hip.

You sensed his growing unsteadiness before he did, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder. “Cregan,” your voice came out rough, still trembling from your cries of pleasure. “My love.”

He slowed at once, his hand leaving your back to rest beside your head, letting him lean closer. He grunted, hips still moving but with less urgency. “My wife,” he rasped, his voice as ragged and raw as yours. “You… Do you feel it too?”

You understood him instantly. The heat, the desperate longing that had simmered between you for two months, was finally reaching its breaking point. “I do.” You whimper, pressing back into his hips. 

He mouths at your jaw, a ragged moan so raw escaping his lips. “You… you are so tight,” you can hear the tension in his jaw, “feels… gods, I can’t.” He’s wearing himself down, his hip speed faltering. “I’ll spill—“ Cregan cuts himself off with a choked moan, grinding his tip impossibly deep. 

Your moan wobbles when one of Cregan’s hands creeps between you and the furs below you, finding your clit and rubbing. 

He was everywhere. Teeth bruising the junction of your neck and shoulder, body pressing you down onto the bedding, cock deep inside of you. You struggled to find where he ended and you started, feeling like you were being swallowed whole by his body.

It was all that was needed for you to find your peak, a rush of sensation so immense that you had never experienced such a thing before. Your bones melted, your voice uncontrollable, your skin tingling and prickling as you sob into the bed. 

Cregan isn’t far behind, the tightening and increasing warmth of your hole enough to make him black out. Warmth spreads inside of you, courtesy of his thick seed spilling within. He stays pressed balls deep the duration of his orgasm, cheek pressed to your hair, before pulling out.

“Okay, I’ve got you, love.” Spent and trembling from the intensity of your release, you feel Cregan’s gentle but shaky hands roll you and wipe away your tears. He leans close, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he exhales, “you were incredible for me.” You can barely muster the energy to reply, offering only a faint sound, which makes him smile. “So sweet. I’ll have someone run a bath for you, okay?” You nod, sniffing and leaning into his touch. “Go to sleep, pet. I think I wore you out enough.”

“Don’t leave,” you whisper, voice entirely worn out. “Please.”

Cregan pulls you into his chest, wrapping himself around you. “Never, pet. I have you. I promise.”

Cregan wakes alone, bed still a little warm from where you had been just recently. He finds you soaking in the bath in the room adjacent.

Your weariness is a reflection of his own after so many weeks apart, and even though he's home now, it lingered. His fingers brush yours along the rim of the tub, drawing a gentle sigh from your lips. “Still tired?”

You shake your head, sinking a little further into the water. “Sore from the journey.” There’s a peaceful quietness that takes over the room for a moment.

“You didn’t write much.”

“No,” you hum. “Did you miss me?”

He scoffs, fingers circling your wrist. “Is it cold in the north?”

Your laughter bubbles up as you open your eyes. “Alright, sassy.”

Cregan huffs, thumb finding your pulse. “You were mean to me.”

“And you me.” You remind him of his words before you had left for your family’s hold, and he winces. He kneels, then kisses your forehead, free hand coming up to brush your hair back.

He leans in to kiss your forehead again, staying there. “I apologised in my letters, did you not read them?” his words are murmured against your skin.

“I did, but I wanted to hear it from your lips.” A sly smile tugs at your mouth, and he scoffs, clearly entertained by your boldness.

“You could’ve told me that, you know.”

You turn to him with a mischievous smile. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Cregan laughs softly, the tension between you dissolving. “You’re a ridiculous woman, did you know that? You also left me alone in bed.”

You cannot help but huff, rolling your eyes. “It was barely any time at all, you know.” 

“It was enough. I missed you. And for the record, I am sorry for my words, you know I am. I think my actions have proved that.”

It softens you. Cregan wasn’t a man who often apologised. “I know,” you say gently, “I am sorry too. For not writing more.” All he gives you is a hum, but you can tell he is fighting a smile. “I love you.”

“Move. I’m getting in.”

“Say it back first.”

“I love you, my beautiful and stubborn wife. Now move forward. I think I’ll have you show me how sorry you are for torturing your husband.”

“well…a bit of both I suppose my prince-“

Baelor, he had told you to not bother with the title any longer. He’d feel like a fool if his wife called him my prince all throughout the day. You needed to become comfortable with just saying Baelor…or at least My husband. He’d be happy with anything other than his official title across the realm.

“I do prefer blues. Are there ones of a similar design in blue Baelor?” You attempted honesty and casualness at the same time. Which made the man smile, he was pleased, his canines flashing made that indisputable in your nervous mind.

“blue, that is a calming color.” He flipped through some of the pages quickly. “Is that how you wish to feel in our chambers?”

You went red in the face. He seemed a bit startled by the reaction which made you even more unsure if he’d intentionally been trying to draw it out of you.

Your fingers nervously fiddled with your skirt. “I must admit, I know not how to feel in our chambers.” You were nervous, you hoped he did not take offense to the admission but he seemed reasonable and level headed enough that he would not find your worries and uncertainty insulting.

“You’ll still have a separate room, one that is solely yours if you feel called to rest there after we wed, I will not invade the space.” You were young, far too young for him if he was being truthful but there was also something about your innocence that he felt drawn to. You were honest, more honest that woman closer to his age would be if they found themselves in your position. Baelor found a blue design and he sat back a bit so you could see the tapestry illustration better.

You leaned over to look at it closer, finger coming out along the page to trace it. “This one is pretty.” You were glad to think about decor rather than room arrangements for a moment. The prospect of sharing a bed with Prince Baelor has been taking up much of your daily thinking!

“sit,” his hand touches your side, you were already so close to him but he finally broke the touch barrier. He’d held your hand in the gardens, kissed your cheek when the courtship was agreed upon but outside of that he has been the perfect gentlemen.

You glance to the door where a guard stood, worry all over your face.

“you will be my wife within the fortnight, we can share a seat my lady.” He assured. Though you were hardly sharing a seat…truly you were just sitting atop his lap.

“there we are,” his hand smoothed down your skirts and his palm rested over your outer thigh to keep you sat security against him. “Now we can both look.” It was a kind explanation to give for your current positioning.

You nodded and leaned forward just a bit to flip one of the pages. Baelors eyes glided from your fingers against the parchment up your arm, to your round shoulder and down your back to where he could feel your bottom against his left thigh.

You fit perfectly against him. He missed being this close to somebody. It had been so long since Jena was alive, and even longer since she would have done something like sit in his lap and just let him look at her.

Observing was his favorite pastime, he had to do it all day long for political matters, he missed getting to do it for pleasure.

“Your hand is half the size of the book.”

“sorry?” You then, and the small hand that he’d been fixated on was suddenly pressed to his other leg because you were shifting to look back at him.

“your hand,” his long fingers trailed over it and he wrapped around your wrist pulling it up so it waivers din the air between you both. “Is so small.” He exhaled, mismatched eyes burning into your own. your fingers twitched as you attempted to find something reasonable to say, but all your could think about was about his fingers were currently devouring your wrist.

“hold yours out.” You smiled slightly when he complied and his hand let go of you, his hand laying knuckle down against his thigh. You held the table to shift back to face forward before laying your hand over his.

“so large.” You swallowed snd Baelors fingers curled until they eventually touched the tips of yours. “Will there be a desk in our bedchambers?”

Baelor had to fight the urge to chuckle at the question. He wasn’t sure where exactly you were going with it but he did find it charming that you even considered that there was possibly of him not having a desk in his bedchambers.

“aye, unless that is distasteful to you?” His hand that has remained on your lap shifted, slightly, and when you seemed to not stir be wrapped that arm fully around your midsection.

“No, I wish for there to be one.” You admitted and leaned back against him until your head rests against his shoulder. “I like sitting with you.” The pretty flush was back. Eyes still locked on his hand and how you barely reached beyond his palm no matter how much you stretched your fingers out.

“Then our marriage will be quite joyous…for I like when you are sat here with me.” He said finally curling your hand up with his. “I think there will be a great deal more that I enjoy about you m’lady.” He said pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Baelor Targaryen Masterlist, tags list: @zai-targaryen, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @mimisa2000, @mariaxxxxx, @ghostlybfgf, @faelinda, @clumsycopy, @arkadiaphilosopher

You don't greet each other when you pass by. The corner of Aemond's lips twitches upward and he lets out a quiet hum when he sees you lift your chin. You would bump his shoulder if you could, but you hold back. It's shameful how you lose your composure around that damn lawyer.

You wanted to be ruthless as always, but as soon as you learned that your case was also his case, you fell into something close to despair. Aemond kept score, as cynical as that sounds. He clicked his tongue, making a sharp sound. Small wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes from pleasure. The Targaryen stepped so close, brazenly invading your space. He always leaned on something, as if he didn't know what to do with his hands. His palm would end up dangerously close to your body. "I won again, sweetheart," he almost sang with smugness. It would cost you nothing to grab the edge of his tie and wrap it around his throat. Or better yet, stand on his toes with your sharp lacquered stilettos. You did none of those things, because if you lost control, you would need a lawyer yourself.

You hated him with an inhuman intensity because he made you look like a fool in front of everyone. You wondered if he was like this with everyone or if he only tried to crush you in the most merciless way. Only to you he said, "this will be easy," with an expression as if you were nothing.

But worse was when Aemond tried to be kind to you. On your birthday, he said your dress was cute. You thought you were dreaming, but the Targaryen looked so friendly. You almost died of embarrassment because your colleagues heard it and later teased you about it. What irritated you most was that this scoundrel needed to be in your life so much, constantly reminding you of his existence.

One day he saw you at a bar. It was a difficult case, with little evidence, but every fiber of your being told you that the defendant was guilty. Almost a hopeless case. That guy was a notorious liar and had already won over the jury. Even the judge dismissed your objections with skepticism. A lost case wasn't a tragedy for you when you knew the person behind bars wasn't innocent. But when the opposite happened, you lost all peace of mind. Your sense of justice wouldn't let you just move on and forget that a criminal was walking free.

Aemond wasn't handling that case. He seemed to have his own complicated and tangled case at the time. You tensed when you saw him sit down next to you. It wasn't the best bar, some forgotten dive, and you came there because you wanted silence and solitude. Aemond didn't say hello. He looked unusually cautious, only occasionally throwing you random glances. The soft light fell on his silhouette, making him painfully beautiful. His lips, finely outlined, didn't spit out venomous words.

"Enjoy it while you can, or why are you here?" you took a defensive stance, shifting awkwardly on the bar stool.

"I came for a drink."

"It doesn't seem like you like places like this."

"The places I like tend to attract people I don't want to see right now."

You chuckled quietly. "I don't think I'm on that list. Looks like you picked a pretty bad spot."

The alcohol in your veins was making itself known. You grew bolder, and all your irritation poured out onto Aemond.

"You'd do better to work as hard as you attack me. Lose another case and what? You should be used to it by now." The Targaryen snapped back, and you kicked his leg with yours. Your eyes burned with indignation. There was nothing you needed less right now than his company. It was so outrageously unfair.

"How primitive. You can't come up with anything better than kicking me with your foot, hmm?" Aemond perked up, turning into the most typical version of himself. You wanted to jump off the stool and leave, but he held you back, wrapping his arm around your waist lightly. What affected you much more was the way his hand gently circled your body. He had never allowed himself that before.

"Stay. You were here first. I can leave." You placed your hand over his without knowing why and shook your head. "Stay. Just shut up for once."

Your head was splitting with pain. The alcohol you had consumed in generous amounts wasn't the best quality. It took you a few minutes to realize you were lying in someone else's bed. You never had silk sheets on your own bed. But the man lying on your chest, hugging your waist stickily and insistently, seemed to have them. Aemond's silver hair was loose and spread across the bed. He usually kept it in a ponytail, so the sight left you with a strange, tender feeling. He held you tightly, so you couldn't just escape, throw on your clothes, and pretend you hadn't drunkenly fucked the person you would gladly send to hell.

Worse still, you remembered everything. How you sat in awkward silence at that damn bar, and then he started complaining about his case. He relaxed and became a little more expressive. You joined the conversation. The heat grew, and you both shared things that people in your positions normally wouldn't. You were still keeping secrets that shouldn't leave the boundaries set by you and your client. Perhaps exhaustion overwhelmed you. When you finished your tirade, Aemond could think of nothing better than to press his lips to yours roughly.

Already in the taxi, Aemond pulled off your panties, and you think they stayed on the back seat. He kissed you wildly, leaving pink marks on your skin. He bit your fingers when you tried to cover his mouth with your hand. Despite the alcohol, you still felt terribly awkward in front of the driver, who had become an unwilling witness to your passion.

But once you were in Aemond's apartment, you held nothing back. You were afraid that if you backed down, you would never get another chance to bring that bastard down. Literally, because you ended up on top of him in the hallway, on the doormat if you remembered correctly. Clothes lay in an indistinguishable heap around you, and your moans, fueled by alcohol, were unrestrained and loud. You lowered yourself onto him with force, as if each time you were driving the word "hate" into him. You came first and decided he didn't deserve his orgasm at all. You rolled off him, but couldn't get up. Your legs wouldn't hold you. Aemond cursed quietly, and for some reason, it made you so amused to see him so pathetic that you laughed out loud. Then you disappeared again as soon as you caught your breath. The bed creaked under your bodies as if begging you to end this torture. How many times he fucked you or you fucked him, it was hard to say. He fell asleep with his cheek pressed to your chest like a damn kitten. Neither of you had any strength left. You fell asleep as soon as you closed your eyes.

You sighed loudly. You still hated him, and now perhaps even more.

taglist: @lustedbby @pinkdoeweirdo @userhotd @rottenbites @ghostlybfgf @risingraisin @sedonasummer @icebearcucumber @baskettis @sinarainbows @believeyourgalaxy if you want to be tagged, let me know .ᐟ

Your parents have always been close friends, and it forces you to spend time together again and again. You steal his breath every time, appearing in teasing outfits. He convinces himself he's a gentleman, but he can't stop his wandering gaze. Valarr genuinely wants to shake you, grab you by the shoulders and rattle some sense into you, appealing to your reason.You seep into his thoughts slowly, like poison.

That your parents were friends never made the two of you friends, but you had your own opinion on the matter. You cooed sweetly that you needed his friendly verdict. Your fingers clung to Valarr's wrist, so you could feel the wild rhythm of his pulse. Excitement enveloped you both, but you wanted more. You wanted to stoke the fire between you. You playfully pushed him, making him fall into the velvet armchair in your room. "I can't choose a dress, will you help?" Your voice was deep, sensual. Valarr exhaled loudly, with a groan. Your silhouette was visible through the paper screen. You took your time, pretending the clasp of your dress had treacherously jammed. Your lips stretched into the widest, almost wicked smile. The light fell directly on your figure, and you bent down deeply as you let a piece of luxurious fabric fall with a feigned sigh. His fingers gripped the armrests of the chair, seeming as if the bones would crack under the pressure. Valarr stood up impulsively, but stopped halfway. He left without saying a single word.

You sat in the car patiently, with an air of complete superiority, knowing he would rush to open your door like a madman. You jumped out of the car, grabbing Valarr's tense shoulders. Your voice was weak, like the wings of a wounded bird. Something protective awakened in the Targaryen. He wrapped his arm around your waist for a few moments. His palm pressed against your lower back, forcing you to press closer to Valarr. You both took perverse pleasure in stolen closeness. One of his eyes seemed completely black, his pupils feverishly dilated. You hastily hoped that this big fish was already on the hook, but Valarr was already gallantly apologizing and asking if you were alright. He glanced at your shoes. Elegant pumps with a low heel. You couldn't have tripped on flat ground.

Valarr felt a burning shame for how undisciplined you made him. More than anything, he wanted to say to your face that you were a spoiled little daddy's girl. You don't care about anyone's feelings. You live for your own pleasure, and your pleasure costs a lot. You shamelessly complained to him about your ex-boyfriends, harshly listing all their faults. Valarr listened impassively, trying to concentrate on work, shuffling papers, but you wouldn't stop. You crossed every conceivable boundary. The Targaryen rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. His upbringing wouldn't allow him to throw you out. But it wasn't just about upbringing. Your annoying persona was addictive. His mismatched eyes tore away from the monotonous text and slid to the curve of your lips. Shutting you up would be perfect. Valarr hastily dismissed the thought. He was sure he would just become another checkmark on your list.

Valarr started smoking more often, and you were the reason. His fingers instinctively reached into his jacket pocket for that ill-fated pack of cigarettes, already crumpled from all the accumulated frustration. He inhaled the acrid smoke with wild greed. Nicotine couldn't banish your image from his thoughts. You tormented him, you made him feel like a dirty hypocrite. You called him a gentleman with a tender smile as you casually adjusted his tie. Valarr could no longer call himself that, not anymore, not next to you. He wrote you a message in the dead of night but never sent it. His phone buzzed with a new text he typed hastily, but the letters disappeared from the glowing screen just as quickly. The bed creaked as Valarr collapsed onto it hopelessly. His imagination painted you beside him, your hair on his white pillow, your body driving him mad beneath him. He smoked in the bedroom. He used to consider that vulgar. He used to consider your smiles vulgar, but why was he now waiting for you to drop some trifle right in front of him? Valarr bit his lips painfully, remembering the edge of your panties peeking out from under your trousers when you were looking for a lost earring. The fabric clung to your backside in the most tempting way. Your search ended in nothing good. The golden trinket remained abandoned, and the poor Targaryen was forced to hide his arousal for a long time, crossing his legs.

You were the devil incarnate, and Valarr dreamed of you whimpering beneath him, your eyes filling with tears, you pitifully begging him to stop, but he wouldn't. He wanted you to experience the same torture he felt in your presence. He wanted to fuck you so badly, to watch your legs tremble, to watch the pretense disappear from your pretty face. In his fantasies, you moaned his name hoarsely, as if none of those bastards you meowed about between sips of coffee existed. Valarr wanted to be your only one, not a victim, not someone you would ruthlessly cross off the list, shaking your head and saying "not the one."

He left you a velvet box with a mysterious expression. "You lost your earring." Valarr shrugged. Your eyes lit up greedily, and what you saw stunned you to your core. You squealed in amazement, no longer remembering if you were invoking God or Valarr's name. On the cushion sparkled diamond earrings, shimmering like morning dew, nothing like the ones you were looking for. The shock of such a fabulously and indecently expensive gift didn't fade. You thought about throwing yourself at him, covering his cheek with grateful kisses, but you felt frozen. He smirked, looking at you from under his brow, the corner of his lips lifted in a feline smile. He had done what you'd been after. So why were you so confused? Valarr said it was nothing and waved it off. Your bewilderment was enough for him. He seemed to have reached the real you, unraveling all the pearl threads.

That night, he would write to you. "One more accident of yours and I'll go crazy. It cost me a lot not to write you that I've wanted you for a thousand nights. So I'll ask you something else. Let's have dinner?"

You sighed with a smile, and in your thoughts you said, "of all the boys, he was a gentleman."

taglist: @lustedbby @pinkdoeweirdo @userhotd @ghostlybfgf @rottenbites @risingraisin @icebearcucumber @baskettis @darylandbethfanforever9 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sinarainbows @believeyourgalaxy if you want to be tagged, let me know .ᐟ

He corresponded with you via raven weeks before your wedding day. In your letters, he found you were friendly, a little erratic in your sentence structure, but prompt in your replies. He wrote to assure you that he intended to give you a good life as Lady Hightower. You would be well cared for in Oldtown; the Reach would offer a climate that you would find very enjoyable. He promised that he would not rush you into marriage consummation, or sharing a marital bed, since you were only meeting for the first time on your wedding day. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable in your new life, as he could hardly imagine being in your shoes. He hoped you were pretty, or at least kind, but did not let himself hope for much. Marriage was duty, nothing more.

Standing at the alter in the Starry Sept, Gwayne mentally cursed and kicked himself a thousand times over. When he lifted your veil, he was met with the most dazzling girl he'd ever seen. Your bright eyes shone under the candlelight, the air around you seemed to sparkle, aided by the twinkling jewels pinned in your hair. Your mouth quipped into a half, nervous smile, that made is knees turn to jelly. He could tell you were accessing him back, brow furrowed in concentration. The crinkle that formed between your eyebrows was downright adorable. And with your wide eyes blinking up at him, you reminded him of a deer wandering a forest. When the Septon asked Gwayne to repeat the sacred words And I take you for my lady and wife, his mouth felt impossibly dry and disconnected from his body. He tore his eyes away from you, to look at the Septon instead, so he could concentrate. "And I t-take you for my lady and w-wife" Maybe he had been wrong about marriage before.

Honor? Duty? Where did it get him? Now, it seemed like those things, once upheld in his family's name, had doomed him. Gwayne had already put you at an arm's length by telling you that he did not expect you to share his bed. So all he could do was be a kind, doting husband, hoping that eventually you would feel comfortable enough to desire him the way he already did.

Gwayne observed you and helped you as you settled into life at the Oldtown. You were acclimating well, greeting everyone you met with a warm smile. You made an effort to learn each servant's name, offering genuine compliments on their work. Gwayne decided that he adored your smile, and you were as beautiful as the Mother, herself. Before he met you, he had faintly hoped that you were beautiful. But now, he wasn't sure if your beauty was a blessing to his eyes, or a curse that he had suffer to look upon you at a respectful distance. You were practically skipping through the corridors. Gwyane noticed you always moved so quickly, never simply walking, always seeming to be in a hurry to get to the next place. Suddenly, the ribbon tying your hair back slipped free and onto the floor. You bent down to pick up the ribbon, the fabric of your dress straining against the swell of your breasts. He’d always thought that a woman’s thighs were the asset he favored the most. But when he noticed the curve of your breasts, he wanted nothing more than to squeeze them, knead them, commit the softness to memory. Your nimble fingers twirled the ribbon, hands so petite and pretty. Perhaps one day they would intertwine with his? He could hold your hand and guide it along his cock, showing you how to stroke it and-

Then you were gone. Scurrying away and out of sight. Only the aroma of your rose scented soap was left for him to bask in, and replay over and over the time he had written that you were not expected to share his bed, and hate himself for it.

The day you came into his solar to show him your new dress, a part of him died inside. He was scribbling a letter to his father when you entered. When he looked up at the disturbance and saw it was you, he stood up so fast he almost sent his chair falling backwards. "My dear wife. What do I owe this pleasure?"

"So formal" you tease, your twinkling laugh lighting up the dim room "I just came to show you this!" You hold out your arms to display your attire, causing Gwayne's breath to hitch in his throat. You were wearing a rich green gown, with gold beading and embroidery all down the length. The design curled around your hips and torso, clinging to all your curves. The candlelight reflected off the gold shimmer, making you look like an angel dripping in Hightower colors.

"Do you like it?" You step closer to Gwayne, always on tip toe, and quickly, like a graceful doe. “Do I look comely?”

Your husband chokes on the words, watching you move closer to him- closer to his grasp. You are so near, he can count each if your eyelashes. “Come-? Comely?” Gwayne’s ears burn red at his misunderstanding. A feeble cough, then he manages to speak. “Yes. Very.”

"The seamstresses fastened the dress itself, but I did most of the embroidery work. See?"

Tentatively, he reaches out to graze his fingers over your hard work. He brushes the gold embroidery at your hip. You're babbling about the time that it look, and the technique you practiced, but Gwayne is zoning out. Only focusing on the warmth of your skin he can feel under the velvet. Your backside, that he had admittedly gawked at whenever you walked in front of him, was under his hand, splayed over your hip.

Your voice fades into the background as his hand, on it's own accord, moves up to your elbow, your shoulder, then brushes against the ends of your hair ever so slightly. It was so much softer than he thought possible. And when he brushes the tips of your hair, the smell of your rose soap wafts up to his nostrils. He watches in anticipation as his hand, seemingly pulled by an invisible force, moves to rest on the small of your back. You do not falter or pull away. In fact, you don't react at all. You just continue smiling, talking about your dress. Then you hold up the fabric of your skirt.

"Here, feel." You instruct, and Gwayne tentatively runs his hand over the gold beads. "I stayed up half the night to finish it. But I think it's worth the trouble." You laugh softly. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful." He swallows, and meets your eye. "Like you."

Playfully, you roll your huge, doe eyes and there it is again - that laugh that makes his heart flip inside his chest cavity. Your lips brush his cheek so quickly, he thought he might have imagined it. But it was real. You kissed him. The dampness of your lips leave the irrefutable proof on his skin. Just as soon as you entered, you are moving away, towards the door, and out of his reach. "I think I will lay down to rest now. I am weary after staying up so late."

Gwayne must be unwell. He must see a maester. He feels unsteady on his feet and his heartbeat pounds mercilessly in his ears. Because after you leave his solar, his legs jerkily pull his body towards the door. You're fast. Much more agile than a young lady should be. Because you're leagues ahead of him, already out of sight down the castle corridors. He walks in a trance, following the trail of rose, stumbling after you. His cock jerks in his pants, half hard simply from touching you and the green fabric of your damned dress. Feverishly, his skin burns hot under his clothes. You're ill, you're reverting back to being a green boy, he tells himself. He wills himself to gain some sense, and stop following you like a lunatic, but his legs still carry him the way to your bed chambers.

When he arrives at your chambers, he enters without ceremony. He falls against the door and stumbles inside. It looks like you are getting ready to leave, having changed into a simple grey dress, and clutching your prayer book with a startled look on your face.

“Gwayne? Are you alright?” You ask, concerned for your husband’s current state- looking dazed in the middle of your bedchambers.

He does not answer your question. “I thought you were going to lie down and rest.” He blurts.

You were supposed to be getting ready to rest, he thinks, wearing your soft nightgown that I know you own because I've seen the servants filling your closet with clothes before you moved here. And you're supposed to be rubbing your eyes, sleepy and soft. I know you get like that when you're tired because once we dined together early in the morning. And I adored how you looked, one foot still in slumber, the other in wakefulness.

You smile, helpful, but so infuriatingly oblivious to his torment. “I was, yes, but then I remembered I am meeting the Septons this afternoon. We are discussing aid for the poor.” A pause. “Are you alright?” you ask again.

A broken sound emanates from your husband. A mixture of a groan and whine. He falls to his knees in front of you, hands clambering, pulling at your skirt. Gwayne knows he is a knight of the realm, but in this moment he does not care. He is a beggar at your feet. “Sweet girl. My sweet wife, please. Please do not leave.” His fingers fist tighter on your skirt.

Oof. You grunt, tugged off balance by your imploring husband. “I must go. I am new to my duties as Lady Hightower. And I can’t be seen shirking them so soon.” You rake your fingers through his auburn hair, as he presses his face firmly into the junction of your thighs. Gwayne’s hands have lost all restraint, pawing at your arse, tugging your cunt even closer into his face. With every trace of your fingers through his hair, his cock grows stiffer, straining uncomfortably into his pants. This surprises him, the reaction to your touch in his hair. All these new discoveries, particularly the unlimited bounds of his yearning, has his mind reeling.

You sigh. "By the seven, I really am late." You thread your fingers at the top of his head, and pull his gaze up to meet yours. "Oh Gwayne, what am I going to do with you?"

He strains, gazing up at you with watery eyes, "Oh dove, I-"