ngl you’re doe x vegan has revived me in a way that i didn’t know i needed 😭 butttt how would cregan be around doe! reader that’s with child (finally) and nesting?
angel, i had this drafted, u mindreader 🫶 inbox open for cregan!
.* semi-resolved angst hurt/comfort; emeto mention; reader is pregant; cregan is alicent level of self punishing in this; tldr cregan is anxious when ur pregnant; doe!verse but standalone
he’s had your maids dismissed. steam curls into the air of the bathing chamber, trapped in by the closed door windows and doors. your eyes focus on the tall stained glass panel as cregan’s hands skate up and down your back.
he’s close enough that his breath hits the back of your neck, warm and even and grounding. there’s a wooden stool that you use to lotion your legs — hes dragged it to the edge of the bathtub, sitting close enough that his chest brushes your back where you sit submerged in the water.
no one would think cregan stark to be so gentle. one hand rests on your shoulder, the other running a tallow soap lathered cloth down your spine. he isn’t like this for anyone else.
“do you still feel unwell?” he asks, voice soft and steady. up and down the cloth goes, dornish jasmine seeping into the air.
he sees the way your head bobs a little yes from where it rests between your knees, drawn to your chest. he doesn’t sigh, not quite — it’s a clipped breath outwards, worried, not exasperated.
the cloth retracts, he hangs it over the edge of the tub. both hands come to your shoulders, thumbs digging into your traps. it hurts; it feels wonderful. “the maester said it would be like this,” he reasons.
“it’s torture,” you grumble, gazing into the murky water. it’s opaque with yak’s milk; a septa had offered some wives tale about soothing properties, cregan had clung to it desperately.
“i’m sure,” he replies genuinely. his hands slide down, hooking under your armpits to ease you back. you let him, boneless, head falling against his sternum. you had refused to let him in the bath with you, but the thought of him in another room was detestable. he can’t find it in himself to care as he scoops soaking hair over one of your shoulders, leaning down to kiss the crown of your damp head. bathwater soaks down the front of his linen tunic, the memory of your head and shoulders meeting his chest. “you’re handling it all so well,” he murmurs, “you’ve done so good.” his voice is low, soft, sweet.
he breaths in the jasmine-sweet scent of your freshly washed hair, knuckles meeting your sternum and rubbing carefully up and down. something that he’d told you once, pressure on the sternum lifting heaviness from the chest; it always worked to alleviate your anxiety, or maybe that was just his hands on your skin.
“my girl.” he breaths it like a prayer, turning his head to chest his cheek on your head. he swallows, and the bob of his throat against the back of your scalp is strangely intimate. such closeness is akin to sharing a body — you can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the way the breath enters and leaves his nose, the tick of his jaw. “i’m sorry this is happening now.”
you turn your head, dislodging his contemplative position. confused doe eyes meet his, cold grey piercing your disposition. “why are you sorry?”
you watch his face change — he isn’t expressive, but you’ve learning to watch for little things. his eyes squint, his brows pulls in a bit, and he bits the inside of his bottom lip. concern, anxiety, guilt. “we haven’t been married long enough for this.” he shakes his head, nose twitching in what seems to be disgust. “i didn’t mean for this to happen.”
the uncharacteristic potency of self loathing is shocking. you gaze back at him, trying to piece together how to respond; cregan’s fingers comb through your wet hair.
he sighs, stroking the pad of his thumb over your cheekbone. “i’m sorry,” he backtracks. “i’m not ungrateful for this, for you, i just-” he stops, shaking his head. his fingers catch a knot, and he apologizes again when you wince. “i wish you’d had more time to settle in,” he reasons, working through the tangle. “you’ve not been here for three of the moon’s turns. you should have time to…” he shakes his head. “you should have had more time.”
“oh, cregan,” you murmur, reaching up for him.
he catches your wrist, bringing your palm to his lips. “don’t have sympathy for me,” he breaths into your skin. “my worry is for you, dear.”
dear. you shudder under the weight of the affection.
until recently, he'd only extended his endearment to 'sweet girl.' now you were subject to 'dear,' 'my love' on the rarest occasion.
he'd whispered all of them into the back of your neck the first night that you'd been sick into the hour of the nightingale, like a physical expression of his love might fix you. he'd prayed to the same gods that he'd sworn not to believe in as the cold northern sun rose on your boneless body, finally asleep on the stone floor. all natural, his mother assured him later, all ladies are sick when they're with child. that did little to ease him.
cregan had always struggled to articulate what he felt. if he let himself be as gentle as he wanted, perhaps it would all translate. if you understood that 'sweet girl' meant 'i love you,' then his soft 'darling' while he washed vomit from your hair was to say 'i'm sorry.'
he draws his hand through the mirky water, you watch as it moves, the ripples that it stirs up. "it's cooled," he states, "you should get out."
you nod; had you wanted to stay in the safety of the once-steamy, jasmine scented bathing chamber, there would be no point in fighting with him. you hadn't the energy.
cregan hauls you up, curling his fingers around your bicep and bracing your waist with his other hand. he's cognizant of how little fight there is in your body, how completely sapped you are of energy — too drained to even consider being ashamed that its he who drys you off. rich cotton against your sensitive skin, and cregan draws you in when you start to shiver. he's warm through his clothes, wrapping the towel around your shoulders and cradling your body to his.
its silent for a while, only interrupted by the occasional chatter of your teeth. he supports most of your weight so that you don't have to worry about standing on wobbly legs, one hand anchored to the back of your neck like he might radiate warmth through your whole body like that. you clutch at his biceps to keep yourself upright, and his heart clutches in his chest. it's just in his nature to worry.
he helps you dress in a cotton chemise, drapes his abandoned cloak over your shoulders, and hooks one arm under your knees to scoop you up.
you try to protest being carried, he intercepts before you can speak. "let me," he urges. "please. it makes me feel better."
you can't argue, so you drop your head against his shoulder complacently. he smells like pine and vetiver and something warm, like the incense that he burns in his solar. the crackle of the fire, the thick quilt on the bed, the smell of cregan's skin. you're asleep in his arms before he can settle you into the bed. your warm, even breaths against his pulse, and for the first time in days the tension in his chest gives.
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
𖦹 please don't feed my writing to any ai chatbot as source material. i will find you.
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Can wolf cregan smell when reader is ovulating? The potential is endless dare I say
your brain 🙌 u the real thinker, anon.
in my head creagn isn't like ACTUALLY wolfboy, he's just... kinda wold coded. u know how rhaenyra and aerion are really dragonlike — like aerion freak ahh tounge and the way that rhaenyra does that draconic head tilt thing when shes talking to mysaria? i think it's like that, he just really exhibits canine coded behavior!!
all this to say, he can't smell when ur ovulating, but he knows... oh trust, he knows.
he knows when you're on your period, because what a sweet, attentive husband he is aw how cute, and he also knows how to track the days between period end and oculation beginning. dare i say he has some sort of medieval period tracking system — not written down, just in his head.
he's also an expert at tracking your behavior patterns, and what behavior corresponds to what part of your cycle. when doe, who is usally so rigid and skittish around him is a little more open and needy... oh he knows. and he caters to it! ☝️
ur unusally squirmy in bed, and too nervous to do or say anything, but he just knows. he just knows to slip his arm around your waist you pull you back against him, pressing your hips to his and nosing into your hair. HE JUST KNOWS!! he knows whats wrong and how to fix it, without you saying anything.
the possibilities are so endless... lmk more anon...
we been knew but unfortunately for doe!reader cregan loves to bite… i think he goes to kiss your hand and gives it a little nip to see how your nose scrunches up
cregan is a biter and it FREAKS doe!reader out!! but he doesn't mean to ☹️ he feels bad ☹️
doe!reader who isn't used to the way that cregan like to touch her, how he's drawn to it. when he holds her waist or rubs her back, thats fine, but it's the casually intimate touches that drive her nuts.
smoothing a hand over her hair in front of his bannermen, or tracing his fingers over her arm in council meetings. when he backs her up against the cold stone in the hallway, or presses her body to his, just to smooch her cheek and tell her that she looks pretty. kissing her on the mouth in public — thats the worst.
kissing her hand is tame, and well within the bounds of what she's comfortable with — he abuses that privilege.
the little nips bother her more than anything at first, when he kisses her knuckles so sweetly only to clip the soft skin with his teeth. he's a worshiper, so kissing across her fingers and down her arms is the natural progression as she grows comfortable with him.
he'll kiss from the back of her wrist, up her fingers, and back down into the dip of her palm. he's passionate about it, dedicated to it; he curls his fingers around her wrist to hold her hand to his mouth. doe!reader starts to get a little unsettled when his mouth moves up her thumb, and the tip of the didgit scrapes against the smooth edge of his incisor. his tongue darts out for a second, wetting a strip of her soft skin. before she can wiggle her hand from his grasp, he moves it for her; his canine drags the inside of her thumb. font and back teeth meet on either side of the thin muscle that makes the curve of webbing — pressure, not pain. she jerks a little, but he holds her hand still, taking his teeth away to press gentle kisses to the front of her hand.
i bet doe!reader gets soooo so skittish around wolf!cregan. the predator smell, his size and the physicality, how attracted she is to him when she knows she probably shouldn’t be…… he’s def the type to hush her (“shhh, settle down now, pet”), to try and overwhelm her senses to get her to settle down, be it by squeezing her sides, scenting her, kissing her throat, and eventually biting. he calls her pet/little one/little doe/sweet thing, always in that deep, raspy, slightly dangerous voice of his.
#needthat
i love u nonny ur in my hall of fame 💗 i didn't even have time to write doe!reader hcs (got logged out of tumblr, thank u computer) !! and u read my mind!!
i imagine doe!reader and cregan to be married — arranged, or at least political union. shes afraid of him, because of everything shes been told about big, scary, brutish, northern men. she's also... she's also really into him. yeah...
not at first! hes fit, but its muddled by the apprehension and discomfort in the cold, drafty castle. the intensity of her attraction comes with his gentleness. the gowns and furs that he has made just for her, to keep her warm; her bath oils that he sends for from dorne; how he guides her through crowded halls with one hand on the curve of her waist to keep her close to him.
it's overwhelming, even when she warms up to him. cregan is big — tall and broad, his sharp features and long hair harden him more. some of the largeness comes not from his physicality, but from his aura. he's intimiating — he's the wolf of the north.
cregan has one set demeanor in public: stoic, straight faced, unflinching and unaffected by anything. he commands a room by how unsettling his presence is. his voice is always even and smooth, he never yells, rarely snaps at any of his bannermen.
i don't take cregan to be big on pet names (but we could discuss this...) his lady has a name, he likes it, he thinks its the respectful thing to refer to her by that given name. lady star sometimes, or my lady — thats reserved mostly for company. "dear" is his go to: my dear, dear girl, or just dear. its a little awkward coming out of his mouth, a little unnatural at first. but he's trying to make his lady more comfortable around him, and lord cerwyn told him that terms of endearment will help her warm up.
doe!reader is so freaked when cregan's careful facade breaks apart in private. he's unnervingly gentle with her when she's brought to winterfell the first time, dropping his voice to a soft lull when he speaks with her, refraining from touch until he can tell that she's comfortable with him. he shields her through the crowd at their wedding, gathers the train of her gown so she won't trip. he refuses a bedding ceremony, and assures her in the private of his chambers that they need not consumate.
he's freakishly attuned to her. she stays guarded months into their marriage, keeping him at arms length. he doesn't fight it, he works with her, lets himself be present when he's needed and doesn't force it when he isn't. if he's there when she needs him, she'll want to come to him more — this is his thinking.
because he's the only person she knows in winterfell, he's who she seeks out when she's nervous or overwhelmed or frightened. he's good at regualting her. holding her against his body and pressing little kisses down the side of her face; rubbing her back while she sits in his lap.
he can manage it when she won't tell him, too. he knows what to look for, the signs she displays when something is eating at her. the go-to is to slip his hand beneath her hair and rub the back of her neck with his thumb, soothing little semi-circles into her hairline. he finds that slipping an arm around her waist and pressing his palm against her stomach works too: i can feel you breathing, it tell her, slow down.
i could talk about this all day. predator x prey, wolf x deer, but he'd never imagine hurting her. sinking his teethn into the soft skin of her neck is just for fun.
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My only big thought here is just whenever Sam and Dean get in a fight, their antlers hit each other and clank around an doe!reader is scared but also trying to suppress a laugh just a lil bc this shit is fucking funny.
