Riley:)

Despite your extensive education on ladylike comportment, you could not seem to soothe your nerves as the evening of your wedding went on, your fright taking over your body like a fever. 

Valarr had seen you grow more and more preoccupied as the evening had progressed, and even the coming darkness and the forgiving lights of the torches and candles had not been enough to hide your sunken eyes and downturned mouth. It perplexed him rather, as he had believed the match to be a happy one. 

You were a lady of noble birth and proper education, and upon setting eyes on you for the first time, he had been perfectly satisfied with your appearance. His father had made it clear that in his duty, marriage was of the utmost importance, and that the quality of a man could be found in the way he treated those gentler than him, and ladies were among those who necessitated more delicate treatment.

He was not the most gentle of young men—he did not fear to joust with his cousin Aerion, and never backed down from a challenge in the courtyard. He stood his ground and knew how to navigate difficult arguments much like his father. At times when it was needed, he knew how to be firm and asserting, but in his marriage, he aspired to be attentive and soft, if a softer touch was what his wife required.

Walking from the hall of Dragonstone towards Valarr’s chambers after the feast felt like walking to the gallows, your throat growing tighter until you knew you would not be able to speak a word to your husband. The door was barely closed behind you and Valarr before he cleared his throat and it startled you into action. 

Valarr watched, increasingly worried, as you immediately stepped towards the bed, reaching for the laces of your gown—gone were the glimpses of your true character that he had seen during your courtship or earlier in the night. Instead you had become cold and silent, and dread settled in his stomach.

Taking a deep breath in, he attempted to remember what his father had told him of the wedding night. While he was no stranger to the touch of a woman, his bride certainly was pure and untouched, and it was his role as husband to guide her unto those new territories. If he played his cards well, this night could be the start of a most satisfying harmony in the marriage bed.

“I am aware we do not know each other, and it must not be a comfort to you to welcome a stranger into your chambers,” he tried, wincing at his own hesitance. “But I would not have you afraid of me.” 

“I am not afraid of you, my prince,” you were quick to reply, unwilling to look at him over your shoulder, keeping your hands busy with your intricate gown.

“What of, then, if not of me?” he inquired, taking a few steps towards you.

When you did not answer, he decided upon offering patience instead of placating words. Instead, he came up behind you and assisted you in pulling the laces. You were shaking, your breathing growing even shallower under his hands, and his distress grew with it—he would take no pleasure in consummating with an unwilling bride, and yet it had to be done for security.

“Does the prospect of consummation frighten you so?” he asked softly, perhaps too bluntly.

Still, you did not look at him. He heard you swallow and take a shaky breath through your mouth. If his words could not appease you, then perhaps his touch would, he thought. As your gown loosened around your frame, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss at the back of your neck gently. He placed his hands on either side of your shoulders, hoping to ground you, but his endeavor failed, and your trembles turned into shudders.

“I will not mistreat you,” he assured, and to his horror, a silent sob wracked your trembling frame.

Valarr came to face you, his gentle hands settling on your waist, but you could not meet his eye nor acknowledge his kind words—every second that passed, you feared to unleash his frustration by your tears, but your instincts had taken over, and you could not calm yourself. 

“You have nothing to fear from me. It might be uncomfortable, at first, but only for a moment,” he promised, carefully taking the hand that had been hiding your mouth in his grasp. “What have you been taught, to frighten you so?”

At that, you finally shook your head and your eyes rose to meet his worried gaze—his eyes were different colors, you had noticed upon your first meeting, one a dark brown and the other a striking blue, and there was warmth in them both. “Not so much what I was taught, my prince, but what I was told, about…” you started, but stopped yourself. “I do not wish to cause offense.”

Valarr pressed a firm kiss to the back of your hand, and it loosened some of the tension in the pit of your belly. “You may be honest with me. What sort of marriage would this be if we could not speak our mind to one another?”

His thumb drew circles on the back of your hand, settling your nerves long enough for the words to come out. “My cousin met your own cousin, Prince Aerion, at a tourney and—” but in the end, you could not bring yourself to say it.

Still, understanding spread over Valarr’s handsome face, along with a sad smile. “His reputation is a grim one indeed,” Valarr said. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I vow to you, I am nothing like my cousin.”

Relieved that he had not taken offense, you gave your husband a small smile, and his answer nearly took your breath away—he dipped forward slowly but resolvedly, letting his nose slide alongside yours until his mouth was pressed to yours, firm and confident. 

“Allow me to prove myself,” he said against your lips. “To show you the sort of husband I intend to be.”

Without a word, he hooked his fingers at the shoulders of your gown and brought it down, smoothly sliding to his knees to catch the fabric before it could pool at your feet. This time, your breathlessness was not due to nerves, but the caring and honorable gesture—for a second he remained there, a knee to the cold floor and his piercing eyes looking up at you with confidence.

Once you had stepped out of your gown and he had placed it on the back of a chair, he guided you, gently but firmly, with the sort of touch a husband should use while leading, to lay down on the bed. His eyes remained on you, warm and trusting, and he undressed. Warmth pooled in the pit of your stomach, shy and tentative, but present nonetheless.

Valarr cleared his throat, licking his lips before asking. “Do I please you?” he asked—and pleasing was perhaps not strong enough a word, in truth. Freed from his usual calf-length doublet, miles of creamy skin stretching over firm muscle were open for you to gaze at. Moles dotted his complexion here and there, from his broad shoulders down to his slimmer waist.

A breathless chuckle left your mouth. “Am I allowed to say?” you inquired. “Or to even think it?”

“I would like my wife to find me handsome, yes,” he replied, his hands finally reaching for the laces of his breeches, but after a second of hesitation, he decided on leaving them on for now. “Later,” he informed you, sounding rather embarrassed. “This moment is for you, first.”

The white strand fell into his face as he crawled up the bed, as gracefully as he had sunk to his knees before you, and it amazed you how a man could look so regal while doing it. 

Eyes fluttering close, your hands curled into fists at your hips, you awaited the weight of your husband’s body atop yours, but it did not come. Instead, Valarr’s lips found the inside of your ankle, pressing a reverent kiss to it.

You looked down and watched, breathless, as he made his way between your parted legs, his mouth tracing a path from your ankle bone to the inside of your knee, making you shiver. His mouth lingered there, his hands paving the way—his palms were warm and a bit rough, confident as they pressed your thighs further apart.

The white strand of hair at the front of Valarr’s head fell into his eyes and he smiled, wide and honest. Your lingering fears melted away, replaced by a warm wave of trust and excitement. 

“Lay back,” he said, a suggestion more than an order, a ripple of heat coursing through him when you complied. There were not many things headier in this world than the trust of a beautiful woman, and it filled him with determination. 

Valarr pushed your cotton shift out of the way, pressing a grounding kiss to your hipbone. His smile grew when his lips grazed your most intimate place and you gasped, then arched your back under the gentle press of his mouth. One of your hands uncurled from your side only to tentatively find the crown of his hair, and a sigh that could have been his name left your mouth.

Slowly, he traced the seam between your folds with his tongue, trying a soft, then firmer pressure, curling the tip of it at your core. Your moans were shy at first, then breathier and loudier, and it got to his head faster than any strong wine. With each pass of his tongue your hips rocked back against his touch, and when he kissed your pearl you gasped aloud, the sound breaking whenever he followed it with a gentle suckle.

His jaw ached after a while, but he pushed through the discomfort for your sake, enjoying the reward that were your moans of pleasure, and your arching body under his hands.

Eventually, his tongue wandered lower, in search of the entrance into your body, and his thumb took over, drawing circles at your numb, spreading your wetness. He kissed the inside of your thighs again, gently nudging them apart so he could fit his shoulders more comfortably between them. He groaned when you hook your heel at his back, and he guided you to hook your knee over his shoulder. 

Inside of his breeches, his own arousal was pulsing, hot and impatient, and he ground his hips into the mattress, hoping for some relief, but it only served to incense him further.

His tongue prodded past your wet folds, and finally found what he was most wanting for—the dip leading inside your body. The tip of his tongue pressed into it and you arched your back higher than before, his answering moan vibrating against your sensitive skin.

“Gods be good—” you cursed, your voice broken, and it spurred him on. 

Your hand tightened in his hair, the sharp ache a necessary distraction from his restless hips. The friction of his cock on the hard bed through his breeches and the sheets was torture and ecstacy at the same time, and he yearned to get a hand around himself.

However he was determined to see through the task at hand—to have you find your please before he did.

Ignoring his own pulsing need, he pushed his tongue harder into the dip of your body, bringing it up between your folds until it met his thumb, still tracing regular, tight circles. Like he would practice the flit of a sword in the yard, he repeated the movement at the same pace, even when your back did not come back from its arch and your hips quivered in his grasp. 

“Valarr, please keep—” came your ragged plea, and for a moment he feared you would bring him over the edge alongside you.

A pleasure, sharp and hot like you had never known, pierced through you—wave after wave crashing through your limbs, from your core to your toes, shivering up your back, with the force of a mast cracking under the pressure of the wind. After the intense peak had abated, a simmering satisfaction spread along your skin, and you wanted to laugh at the beauty of it, especially when you glanced down again and saw your husband looking up at you.

Between your parted thighs, he looked more alive than you had seen him so far, his eyes blown wide and dark. He made quick work of his breeches, but as he uncovered his length, wrapping a hand around it, you were not so afraid of it.

His eyes did not leave your face as he gave himself a few slow strokes, his hips quivering, before pushing to his knees and crawling over you, his mouth dipping into your neck to press a comforting kiss. “Trust me,” he murmured. “It will be over in a moment.”

There was no time for you to fear the pain, and your limbs felt so loose you even doubted it would come. Valarr guided the head of his cock between your folds, the sensation unfamiliar but not unpleasant. You felt him take a steadying breath, and curled a hand at the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair gently. The strands were thick between your fingers, cropped shorter at the back but long enough for you to enjoy.

Forehead to forehead, he pushed into you in one, smooth stroke, taking your breath away with it—the burn was intense, and the stretch rather uncomfortable, and yet you felt safe, caged in by his strong arms. Your quiet moan of pain was quickly swallowed by a kiss, deep and slow. In time, you would come to enjoy it, you thought. For now, holding him and resting easy in the pleasure he had already given you was enough. 

Valarr took you, slow but firm—a hint of a claim, if he was honest with himself—and it was the sweetest release he could have imagined. Still riding the high of your peak, it did not take long for his own pleasure to crest. You held him as he started shaking and he found refuge in the crook of your neck, biting back his moans, his cock pulsing inside of you. 

You welcomed his kiss again, lips warm on yours, when the shuddering stopped and he was instead left with a gentle quiver. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, breathless.

“No, you were lovely,” you replied, your heart thundering in your chest, but he knew the full truth of it.

Valarr rose again on his elbows, his eyes seeking yours. “We shall have many more nights, and I will make sure you find your pleasure in this as well,” he vowed, making heat erupt in your cheeks. 

None of the fears that had plagued your day were to be found—instead, there was only trust mirrored in your husband’s eyes and in his warm smile, and you knew yourself to be lucky, to have been given to a man who would treat you as a prince should. 

Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Not beta read. Requests are open for this character.

PLEASE REBLOG AND/OR COMMENT TO SHOW SUPPORT ♡

Valarr taglist: @thenameswinter99 @targaryen-dynasty @aneurins-barnard @multyfangirl @phia004

you’d always known your husband to be a dutiful prince, even before you wed; still, valarr’s devotion to siring an heir takes you by surprise. for the second time since morning, he’s sought to have you, seeking you out between his other less…titillating commitments.

he’d given you time enough only to disrobe before he laid you on your marital bed, his lips pressed against yours in a hungry kiss. his palms roam your skin freely, tracing a path down your body to where you truly need him.

“but, my prince, the small council meeting—” you’re silenced by your own gasp as his hand slips between your legs, circling your most sensitive spot. you feel the length of his hard cock pressed against your thigh; his urgency clear.

“they’ll wait,” he mumbles, trailing his lips down your neck.

his finger slides into you with ease, and he works you open gently, until a second digit is met with no resistance. you moan quietly, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling lightly at his silver streak. the prince smiles against your skin, grazing your throat with his teeth as he braces himself on either side of your body with his strong arms.

he aligns himself at your entrance and sinks into you in one graceful motion, his muscles rippling with strain. almost instantly, his head drops into your shoulder, his eyes screwing shut as your warmth envelops him.

“gods, you feel good,” he groans, rocking his hips steadily. your breathing is shallow, hampered by the fullness inside you. the prince quickens his pace as your walls relax around him, biting back another moan when he sees you reach between your bodies to touch yourself.

“i’ve been told it can…help the pregnancy take,” you tell him cautiously, your cheeks hot.

valarr’s mismatched eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide with lust as he watches your self-pleasure. fuck. careful to stay sheathed inside you, he hooks his hands under your thighs and pushes your legs back until you’re completely exposed to him. you whine at the newfound depth, feeling your cunt pulse around him rhythmically.

the new position sets fire coursing through the prince, whose thrusts become harder, unrestrained. your fingers move faster and your soft whines of his name melt into pleas as your belly tightens, your release building dangerously fast. valarr can’t help the smugness that tugs at him at the sight of you trembling at your own touch, so visibly overwhelmed by the size of him and his strong hands holding your legs open.

“wait—valarr, i’m—”

you cry out abruptly, unable to finish your thought as an orgasm tears through you fast and hot, burning you up from within. your cunt squeezes around him with abandon, the haste of the moment only adding to your arousal.

“fuck,” he rasps, his voice raw and his skin sheened with sweat. he’s fighting his own climax, but the feeling of your walls clamping around him, milking him, is almost too much to bear. yet, you give him no respite; you have a duty to him, after all.

you lock your ankles around his waist and pull him closer to you by the nape of his neck, your fingers coiling through his soft hair. “please,” you breathe, “come inside me, my prince. make me yours.”

those words are all it takes; with a deep groan, valarr throws his head back, spilling his seed into you in hot, thick spurts. you feel him twitch inside you as his sensitivity mounts, and when his hips finally stagger to a halt, his body drops onto yours.

his limbs feel molten and his heart rattles in his chest; the temptation to stay like this—buried inside you, with his face tucked into the crook of your neck and your hands running through his hair—is almost too strong to deny. still, a foggy memory of the small council meeting, to which he was now inexcusably late, drags him out of his bliss.

he sighs heavily and presses a loving kiss to your neck, lifting himself off you with care. you whimper when he slides out of you, the sudden emptiness unfamiliar. tucking your knees to your chest to keep his release inside you, you follow valarr with your eyes as he dresses himself with haste.

“do you think it worked?” you ask after a moment.

“time will tell,” he says, fastening his belt. he conceals it, but a smirk pulls at his lips.

the prince makes his way to you again, peering at your exposed cunt and the small droplet of his seed that seeps out of you. there’s a hint of pride on his face—something he oft tries to suppress, though you know it simmers just beneath the surface.

“until then, we will try again. and again. and again. as many times as it takes.” his voice is gentle, but you see fire behind his eyes.

“You’re so sneaky.” You whisper, giggling with the boy when you ‘sneak’ your own strawberry of your husbands plate. You’re interrupted by Daeron’s best friend, Alyssa running over to show Daeron her new dress. The girl being flower girl and very proud of herself. Before both run off to play. “Gwayne where have all your strawberries gone.”

“I have no idea.” He responds sarcastically, adding more to his plate as he knows his little prince will want more when he comes back. “I must of eaten them without realising.”

“How odd.” You laugh, Gwayne not even liking strawberry’s that much but your son loving them. “You really must see a maester about that.”

“He’s having fun.” Gwayne says noticing the boy playing with his best friend. Daeron pretending to fly while Alyssa ‘sneaks’ around some of the tables.

“What are they doing?” Alyssa’s mother asks having joined you while you watch the children.

“Playing dragon princess.” You explain, her mother understanding immediately. It being their favourite game.

“Pardon?” The girls father asks, having planned on speaking with Gwayne about some but getting distracted by you and his wife.

“He’s a dragon who’s trying to rescue the princess who’s also trying to escape.” Gwayne explains, having had to play with them multiple times over the moons.

“Children can be so creative.” Her mother ,Maria, says smiling at the sight of the children. Her noting that Gwayne is looking at the dance floor every so often, knowing you love to dance. “Go mingle, we can keep an eye on the children.”

“Are you sure?” You check, knowing the kids have had quite a bit of sugar.

“Yes, go have fun.” She says squeezing your hand. “Dance, mingle, make Daeron a sibling. I don’t care but have fun.”

“Maria!” You whisper shout in shock, her just shooing you in response.

“Will you dance with me princess?” Gwayne asks you after mounting ‘thank you’ the Maria. Grateful for some time with you.

“I’d love too Ser.” You say smiling while you take his hand.

-

“Muuñaa.” You hear Daeron whine, having ‘snuck’ into your chambers a few moments ago. Him tapping your arm wanting your attention.

“Daaeron.” You mock back, picking the boy up so he can be between you and Gwayne in bed. Your husband pretending to sleep, you having been kissing before getting interrupted by a three year old. “What are you doing out of bed my little dragon?”

“Can’t sleep.” The little boy pouts, him still not liking sleeping on his own.

“That’s not good.” You say, letting the boy snuggle into you. Used to having a three year old in bed with you by now.

“No it not.” He agrees nodding, holding his toy dragon close to his chest. “Need Tessie.”

“Well Tessie is sleeping with her muña, but you can see each other tomorrow.” You say, knowing that Tessarion will be cuddling up with your dragon. Silverwing having a clutch of eggs at the same time Daeron was born, Tessarion hatching and flying in through his window when both were only a few hours old.

“But-.”

“But nothing my little dragon.” Gwayne says brushing the boys messy hair out of his face, the man wanting to sleep. “It’s sleep time.”

“Sleep here.” Daeron says clearly tired but not wanting to admit it. “Scales need muña and kepa.”

“Ok.” You reply not surprised he’s using his toy as an excuse to sleep with you both.

“Love you.” He mumbles sleep catching up on him.

⤷ but who could blame cregan, really? you always looked so ripe, like a freshly plucked peach, from the day you arrived at winterfell’s doors, snappy and demanding of warmth, jewels, and a dozen servants to attend to your whims. he was not ashamed to say his eyes had been glued to every single inch of soft flesh since that day, trailing over you like a caress, wanting nothing more but to let his hands follow suit next. to all the northern gods, but you looked like a feast ready for him to sink his teeth into and never cease gnawing at like a wolf with meat between his jaws.

⤷ if you happened to pass by him in the halls, to rise from the table first, or if cregan had to rush towards his solar for courtly duties early in the morning, one of those big, broad paws was sure to smack against your ass as a departing gift. either one, greedy slap, or a couple of soft, repetitive love pats that made your buttocks jiggle. he liked the latter more, since it made you scoff, but not pull away, only bringing forth one of those soft, indignant pouts he loved to kiss away with lingering, deep kisses and laps of his tongue, leaving you breathless behind him.

⤷ that was the thing. you never truly pulled away from his groping, no matter how much you snapped and hissed and fussed at him to stop, to cease these indecencies, to “use his hands for something useful for once!” which he always gave a bared-teeth, wolfish smirk at. you and him both knew that his hands were useful in many, many ways. ways that made you moan and writhe and wail so loud that the whole winterfell heard you, playing you like a fiddle until all that remained of you were pliant limbs and drowsy eyes. and a very, very puffy cunt, so full of his seed it dripped down onto the sheets under you.

⤷ that pretty mouth of yours always had something to say, no matter the occasion or time of day. always pouting, scowling, whining, or hissing at him. your husband knew it was all a farce, that you liked riling him up, getting on his last nerve so that he would crowd you against any surface or press you under his hulking bulk and turn all those incessant noises into cries and mewls. “don’t fuss, wife,” he would growl against your cheek, biting at the plush curve before he manuevered you onto his lap, draped over his thighs, ass up and face into the furs on the bed, rough fingers already hiking up your skirts to your waist so he can get a better view of that plump flesh. “gods, look at all this,” cregan groaned, palm smoothing over the ripe flesh, dimpling it as he grabbed, kneading greedily, the feel of your fullness in his grip making his cock twitch and harden in his breeches. “still a lil’ sensitive from yesterday,” he rumbled, remembering how he had punished you in a deserted stall where they kept the horses because you just wouldn’t stop whining in his ear about how you didn’t wish for him to leave for his hunt, for you were bored and lonely without him. he left you wailing and squirming against a pile of hay, sprawled onto one of his furred coats, ass hot to the touch from his rough handling and pussy fluttering and wet.

⤷ cregan is never rough enough to have it hurt for long. but it aches. it burns a little. and you feel it for days to come, which he knows you prefer. the hitch in your breath when you sit down next to him at the supper table after he has spanked you well and through, grey eyes zeroing in on how your plush thighs press together, no doubt your cunt throbbing at the feeling of the soreness spiking again just so. you’re such a delightful creature, and cregan wants nothing more than to give you anything you want, forever and always, even if it means having to pretend he doesn’t know each game you’re playing to get the pleasure that you seek, no matter how debauched it might be.

⤷ but that is not to say he minds. on the contrary. a man like him, who needs to be tough as nails and cold as ice most times, keeping up a front as impenetrable as the grand wall, has to have ways to unwind, to let go and let that prowling beast in his chest come out to play. the one who wants nothing more than to see you flushed and spent, all because of him. cregan can be nasty, to your utter mortification and secret delight. having your husband succumb to his most primal of whims makes you preen, having you wetter than ever between your legs, feeling the way his rough fingers spreads your ass cheeks open, inspecting the puckered rim hidden between. “such a tight little hole, wife,” he growls, thumb brushing over the taut skin, making you squirm and fuss under him, snapping incessantly, demanding he stop degenerate act right this instant. but cregan ignores you, as he always does when he knows you’re bluffing, pressing against the hole, keeping his thumb there and rubbing lightly, watching in delight as the opening tightens and opens beneath his touch, as if wanting to suck him in. just like your pussy always does.

⤷ “should i put my tongue here, wife?” he rumbles, continuing to prod and stimulate, watching as your hissing turns to soft little moans, hips pushing backwards against his thumb, letting it dip into the puckered rim just enough to have you gasping and clutching at the cheeks. “yeah? feels good, sweetling? feels as good as when i play with that sweet cunt o’ yours?” your only response is to writhe and lean more into the pleasure, eliciting a punched-out groan from your husband. “so greedy. wanting me in both o’ your holes. can’t get enough of what i give you already, hm? do i need to put my cock in here, too, wife?” at that, you shiver, shaking your head, clawing at the furs beneath you, whining out soft “no, no, you brute. curse you-” but cregan is aware of what you truly want, for if you really minded his crass promises, you would’ve let it be known instantly, through both body and word. but you aren’t. that tight little hole he keeps thumbing only sucks him in to the first knuckle, and he’s being as gentle as he can be. he knows this takes more work than a cunt would. knows he can hurt you if he’s not being careful. and he would never hurt you, neither for his pleasure nor yours, attuning himself to your every twitch and sound, making sure you’re enjoying yourself; enjoying him and what he’s doing to you.

⤷ in case the position doesn’t allow the juices of your cunt to trail down to your ass, helping to lubricate further, cregan had no qualms leaning in to spit onto your puckered rim, spreading the wetness around until you’re slick enough for his liking. at times, the quivering of your hole beckons him, and he cannot help but dip down to lick between the fat, lush globes of your ass until you squirm away from how dirty it feels. his big, broad palms grip the ass cheeks tightly, kneading at them as cregan feasts at your rim like it’s his last meal on earth, growling and rumbling, smothered by the ripe flesh, slurping and licking messily. he’s shameless and relentless, only wanting to coax more and more of those sweet, flustered whines and mewls out of you, weaving in one or two smacks to your ass before gropping the flesh again, lost in the feel and warmth of you.

⤷ “tastes almost as good as your cunt, wife,” he would rumble, laving a broad lick over the puckered rim, before letting a glob of saliva slowly trail down his tongue, dripping onto the quivering hole, where he spreads it around with his thumb, groaning at the sight of you greedily clenching, as if asking for him inside. “wonder if it’ll feel as good,” cregan rumbles, dipping his thumb in just so, making you wail and squeeze around him tight enough to make his cock twitch in his breeches. “think i can leave my seed here, too? breed this hole like i do your cunt, my love?” he smirks, all fang and teeth and wolfish intent. “should we make it take? i’ll push it in until it does.”

⤷ cregan hates to see you cry, for it brings forth an ache in his chest that does not abade until those tears stop falling and you’re pliant and soft in his arms. but there is one instance where he craves it. craves your tears like air, especially when they’re because the pleasure you’re receiving is so encompassing that your pretty eyes cannot help but shed big, glittery tears down your warm cheeks as another smack of his broad palm comes down onto the fat of one plush buttock. “shh, shh, my love,” he croons, leaning down to nuzzled at your tear-streaked cheek, pressing soft, lingering pecks there, catching the salty wetness onto his lips. he licks them greedily after, tasting your pleasure onto his tongue. “you asked for this,” cregan whispers against your temple, his palm gently smoothing over the hot, pulsing skin of one buttock, caressing the flesh with a tenderness that bellied the rough smack from moments ago. “when you fussed and hissed at me all morning, snapping those pretty lips at me in front of my advisor,” his thumb was feather light against your skin, no longer wishing to punish, but to soothe, to ease the ache he left behind. you made the sweetest, softest whines after spankings, hitched and breathy, wet from tears and sobbing quietly into the furs as your husband taught you a lesson you were sure to forget in less than a fortnight or less again. “my sweet girl,” he crooned, kissing your temple, nuzzling there tenderly. “my beautiful wife. always so good for me. taking everything i give you so bravely.”

⤷ at times when you two were lounging on your shared bed, tangled in furs and blankets, cregan liked to rest his cheek against your ample rear, sturdy arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you pressed to him as you sprawled lazily onto your tummy, speaking with him in hushed tones. it might’ve been one of his favourite pastimes, feeling the plushness of you against his face, nuzzling into the fat of your ass, even letting his jaws part, taking soft, gentle nibbles of the clothed flesh, making you squeak and fuss at him. but he was aware you didn’t mind, for you pushed those soft hips backwards, coaxing him to do it again, which he always did. teeth sinking into the plump of your cheeks, kneading the flesh between his canines, probably leaving marks behind that’ll heal in a few days. he felt more like a beast than a man in these times, akin to a direwolf nipping at his mate to show affection.

⤷ “love this,” cregan would rumble as he held you close under the furs, burrowed into his chest, his broad, rough hands framing the two perfect globes of your ass, kneading the flesh at his leisure as you sleepily fussed against him. “so ripe an’ plump, wife,” he praised, digging his fingers in and groping to his liking, obssesed with the feel of your fullness in his palms. he would do this every time before bed, and after waking up in the morning, like a ritual of sorts. pawing and feeling you up, getting his feel of you like a man starved, hands wandering and touching, smoothing down your soft skin until you were pliant and lax in his grasp, only grumbling when he got too handsy. which… always happened. cregan couldn’t help himself. his wife was too irresistible, too ripe for the touch, needing to be plucked and loved on as often as he could spare the time.