The only love Cregan Stark knows is an all consuming one…
None of this is sfw someone sedate me. Content tags are mild smut, cannibalism and grossness, finger sucking, scent kink thank you for reading <3
You stand next to your husband, attending a minor Northern houses’ wedding ceremony. Cregan’s massive paw rests on your low back, but only for a brief moment. It steadily lowers to the meat of your backside- muscle and fat that create an irresistible shape in the fabric of your dress. A solid grip holds your arse, the digits digging in so deeply you wonder if he is trying to tear the meat right off your bones. It’s a tender area already. Only an hour earlier you paced in front if him, fussing over the ribbons that had come loose from your hair, and he delivered a firm swat to your arse simply for the satisfaction of feeling fat ripple underneath his touch. He had delivered the same look that he does now. Eyebrows raised, half smile tugging at his lips, a look of mock innocence. “What?”
He presses his nose into your mound. It drives you to the point of insanity. One forearm lays heavy across your stomach, to keep you still. He inhales deeply, the unique scent of you, then quick exhales out his nose send shudders up your entire spine. “Husband” you wheeze “What are you doing?” He hasn’t used his mouth, which somehow torments you more, just pressing his face into your sensitive cunt.
“Hold still” he warns against your squirming. “I’d hate to bite ya here”
Your fingers thread even tighter in their hold on his long, brown hair. Hair? Fur? You’ve lost track.
Cregan encourages you to be rough. You are not a predator by nature, but now find yourself married to one, and have developed a peculiar appetite for him. You gnaw at his neck (under the collar - the skin bruises easily there), bicep (when you haven’t eaten breakfast yet and your stomach growls) but most often you chew his hands. Taking his index finger into your mouth, sucking, coating it in saliva. Cregan studies you, gaze never wavering from your consumption of him. He slides a second finger past your lips. “Teeth” he mutters, a simple instruction, but you know what he wants. You shift the fingers to your back molars, just enough to fill your mouth but not enough to gag you, and graze his digits against the ivory again and again.