CREGAN CAN'T KEEP HIS HANDS OFF HIS WIFE'S PLUSH CHEEKS
cregan stark x chubby spoiled wife!reader
cw: (mdni +18), cregan loves his wife, heavy petting, bratty!wife, spanking, manhandling, bickering, dirty talking, anal play, biting, marking, slight ass eating, cregan knows what he likes, fluff, brat taming, overstimulation, spitting, mentions of breeding, praise, (2.3kw).
a/n: you know what cheeks im referring to. eat up! i'm not even that much into ass stuff, and look at me writing it. it's all cregan's fault. i consider this the dirtiest thing ive written so far. maybe. not proofread yet!!
⤷ he was a brute, your northern husband. a callous, greedy man without an ounce of decorum, even when in company. how did he think it was proper to let his hands paw and grope at your ass in plain sight when you were walking side by side? while also discussing matters of court with one of his advisors? the absolute nerve and insolence of him, to do such a depraved thing where anyone could take a peek and see his big, rough hand glued to one fat buttock, squeezing and kneading at his leisure, fingers dimpling the plush flesh, leaving behind wrinkles in the silken material of your gown. gods, what a nuisance.
⤷ and worse, no matter how many times you glared daggers at him, subtly moved away from his questing touches, or even swatted at his hands when he was being too forward, fingers grabbing a handful and holding tight as you walked together. even then, nothing deterred him. it only seemed to fuel this debauched obsession of his, the need to feel you under his grip, like a show of ownership or whatever notions northern men had in those thick skulls of theirs.
⤷ 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.
audiophile, deep south sweetheart, college student (i have no idea what i’m doing tbh), dog mom, esdeekid’s #totally real gf, wannabe world traveler, dreamer, rockstar in another lifetime
likes: the arts, pasta, tennis, learning, disco, reading, candles, jewelry, braids, shopping, outdoors, earth tones, andrey rublev, deftones, too much other stuff
today is the one-year anniversary of Brian Thompson's shooting, so this is a friendly reminder that Luigi Mangione is innocent until proven guilty and that, hot as he may be, he's still Just Some Guy who's life has been ruined over the last year in a high-publicized trial for a crime that he pleaded innocent to
