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therogueflame · 22 days ago

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Hi my little boobahs,

my feelings were hurt (over literally nothing) so i'm posting this one early. this one is based on a comment + response from this post. I did write a little drabble, but it deserved more (bc cregan is baby daddy #3 and im actually in love w brunette tom taylor). I'm giving all the credit and honoring this one to @ginarely-blog. thanks so much for supporting me!

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Summary: You’re brave in every sense, steady through storm and steel, but when he sees you, truly sees you, that courage slips. Beneath his gaze, something softer stirs, and for once, you don’t know where to put your hands.

WC: 4.3k

Warnings: 18+, angst, smuff, sex (p in v), fingering, creampie, no use of y/n or description of reader

Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader

MDNI!

The wind off the battlements has teeth, but you welcome the bite of it. The feast has long since faded into warmth and laughter behind you, tucked into the belly of Winterfell where wine and firelight keep company with those who know how to chase the cold away. You’ve always preferred the open air. Even when it hurts. Even when it cuts.

You lean forward on the stone ledge, hands bare, watching your breath curl into the night like smoke. The snow is light tonight, falling soft and steady, and you close your eyes for a moment just to feel it gather against your lashes. You don’t turn when you hear the footsteps behind you. You already know who it is.

Cregan doesn’t speak right away. He never does. It’s one of the things you’ve come to expect from him, that watchful quiet, like he’s measuring every word before it’s born. There’s no sound but the wind and the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots until he comes to stand beside you, not close enough to touch, not even brushing your sleeve. Just near enough to be known.

“Escaping?” he asks finally.

Your lips twitch. “The wine. The songs. The lord who tried to guess how many men I’ve killed.”

“And?”

“I didn’t correct him.”

He makes a soft sound. It might be a laugh. It might be something else. You don’t look over to check. There’s a steadiness to him that unsettles you, and tonight, with the snow catching in his hair and the sharp cut of his jaw barely visible in the moonlight, you feel it more than usual.

He’s watching you. You know that too. You feel it in the same way you feel the cold, slow and certain, creeping under your skin even when you try not to flinch.

“You don’t like the noise,” he says.

“I don’t like pretending.”

“You didn’t pretend in there.”

“No,” you murmur. “But they did.”

He doesn’t answer, and you let the silence stretch between you. It isn’t uncomfortable. You’ve never minded silence with him. There’s something about the way he holds it, makes room for it, that doesn’t feel like distance.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he says quietly.

You let that sit for a beat. “You’ve met strong women before.”

“Yes.”

“Sharp ones.”

“Yes.”

You glance at him then, catching the edge of his profile. “So?”

His eyes flick to yours. Calm. Steady. “None who looked at me like they expected me to flinch.”

Your smile is faint, but it reaches your eyes. “Maybe I wanted to see if you would.”

He doesn’t smile back. Not exactly. But something in his expression softens. “You’re used to men who want to prove something.”

“I’m used to men who can’t hold their own without asking what it makes them.”

“And me?”

“You haven’t asked once.”

He nods, just once, like that’s enough. And maybe it is. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The wind rises again, tugging at your hair, slipping beneath your cloak like it wants to remind you of the cost of being still too long.

You tilt your head. “Why haven’t you?”

His brow furrows. “Haven’t I what?”

“Made a move. Asked. Taken.”

He doesn’t look away, and neither do you. There’s something unspoken between you that’s no longer content to stay unnamed. His gaze drops to your mouth, just briefly, before he lifts it again.

“Because it’s not what you deserve.”

Your breath catches, just slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

You swallow hard. “And if I wanted more than silence? If I wanted something real?”

His eyes search yours. You feel like he’s looking into the part of you that doesn’t speak often. The part you guard even when you don’t mean to.

“Then I’d give it to you,” he says, “like Northerners do.”

The words land deeper than you expect. Not loud, not sharp, but solid. Meant. You don’t need to ask what he means by them. You hear it in the way he says them. With purpose. With weight. Not for a moment. Not for sport.

You don’t say anything after that. You just nod. He watches you a moment longer, then steps back. Leaves without a sound.

You stay there long after the snow has soaked into your cloak and your fingers have gone stiff at the knuckles. You stare out into the dark where nothing moves, where the storm hasn’t touched yet, and you let the words settle into your chest like something you weren’t ready for but needed all the same.

Like Northerners.

You say it once, under your breath. It doesn’t sound the same in your voice. Softer. Warmer. Almost like a promise.

You don’t lock the door that night.

You don’t leave it wide open either—just enough that the latch doesn’t catch, that if someone tried, they wouldn’t have to knock. You sit by the fire longer than usual, legs tucked beneath you, the crackle of the wood the only sound in the room. It’s nothing. It means nothing. That’s what you tell yourself. But you leave the candle burning lower than normal. You don’t dress for bed right away. You don’t sleep.

When morning comes, there’s no knock. No shift in the hall. No sign that the door ever mattered.

But everything else feels different.

You see him in the yard just after breakfast, sleeves rolled to the elbow, arms dusted with frost from handling a saddle still damp with melt. He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he does, it’s slow. Measured. Your breath hitches, only slightly. Enough to feel it. Not enough to show.

He holds your gaze a little longer than usual. Doesn’t speak.

You say something dry about the weather just to fill the air. He only nods. That’s when you feel it—he’s letting you reach. Letting you fill the space, see if you’ll close it. You hate how much you want to. You hate how much he knows it.

At midday, he passes you a wrapped bundle of cloth from a steward’s tray. Warm bread. You recognize the smell before you look down. His fingers brush yours when you take it, and your pulse kicks against your wrist like a warning.

“You’re not eating enough,” he says simply. Not unkind.

You lift a brow. “Is that your observation or the kitchens’?”

“Mine.”

You tear off a corner of the bread. He watches you chew. Doesn’t flinch. You’re the one who breaks eye contact.

The horse ride comes later. You haven’t ridden far, just a short loop along the outer edge of the walls, and when you return, the wind’s picked up and the path down into the yard is slick. He reaches up without asking. One hand to the reins, the other to your waist. He doesn’t pull, not really. Just steadies you. Guides you down as if he’s done it a hundred times, as if your weight is familiar, expected.

When your boots hit the ground, you don’t step back right away. His hand lingers. Your breath fogs in the space between you.

You try to laugh. “Should I thank you for that?”

He doesn’t smile. Just tilts his head slightly. “Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

You walk past him without looking back. You feel his eyes on you the whole way across the yard.

You spend the afternoon trying to ignore it. The way your skin still remembers the shape of his hand. The way your name sounded in his voice this morning—like it didn’t need to be said any louder than that. You try to keep your mind on the letters you’re meant to send, the reports you’re meant to check, the frost creeping up the panes of your window. None of it works.

He hasn’t come to you. Not really. But he’s left you nowhere to hide.

By nightfall, the sky has darkened to a heavy gray, and the fire in your chambers crackles louder than usual. You change out of your riding clothes slowly, brushing snow from the hem of your cloak, setting your belt aside like it might delay the moment you can’t stop circling.

You hear footsteps once. Think you do. But nothing follows. No knock.

It’s nearly midnight when you step out into the hall.

You find him near the great hearth on the first floor, past the main stair, half in shadow. Alone. His cloak hangs loose around his shoulders, hair damp with melt, jaw set like he’s been standing there longer than he meant to.

You stop. Not close. Just near enough.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak.

“I don’t usually leave it unlocked.”

It slips out quieter than you intended, but you don’t take it back.

He looks at you then. Long enough that it starts to ache. Long enough that you think he might say something.

He just nods. Once.

You breathe in. “Then you know where to find me.”

You don’t wait for anything else. You turn and walk the same path back through the stone corridor, heart in your throat, steps careful. You don’t look over your shoulder. You don’t let yourself hope.

But you don’t lock the door.

You don't light every candle. Just a few. Enough to cast the room in a warm sort of haze. The storm outside presses against the walls like something alive, wind moaning low against the stones. The fire in the hearth crackles steadily, and you sit in front of it with your legs tucked beneath you, pretending not to be waiting.

You’ve done this before. Waited. Wanted. None of it ever felt like this.

The door stays closed.

You drag your fingers along the seam of your sleeve. Try to focus on the heat of the fire, the rhythm of the snow hitting the windowpanes, the ache in your spine from a day spent holding yourself too tightly. You don’t look at the door. You tell yourself you won’t look. Not until—

A knock.

Just once. Firm. Quiet.

Your breath slips out all at once.

You rise before you can talk yourself out of it.

When you open the door, he’s already looking at you. Not guarded. Not uncertain. Just there. Like the storm didn’t touch him. Like he knew you’d open it. His eyes search yours once. No question in them. No hurry either.

He doesn’t ask to come in. He waits.

You step back.

He crosses the threshold slowly, eyes still on you, and closes the door behind him with the same care he does everything. When he turns back to face you, the silence between you carries something heavier than it did before.

He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t speak.

You look at him for a long time. His hair’s still damp. Snow melts in tiny beads along the edge of his collar. You want to say something but nothing comes. There’s nothing to say. You already said it.

He watches you like you’ve never been looked at. Not as a challenge. Not as a reward. Like he’s seeing you for exactly who you are, and has no intention of looking away.

You don’t mean to look away, but you do. His hands are on your hips, firm and steady, the kind of touch that makes you feel like nothing outside this room matters. And when his mouth brushes over your shoulder, slow and reverent, you feel your breath catch in your throat. You’ve never been shy, not with him, not with anyone—but something about this quiet, deliberate closeness leaves you undone.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you. You can feel it even when your eyes drop to the space between you, to the way his thumbs stroke idle circles against your skin. It’s too much. Not in the way you want to pull away, but in the way you want to lean in without thinking, without guarding a thing.

“You stand your ground like nothing could shake you,” he says after a moment, voice soft. “But here with me, you look like you’re afraid to breathe.”

You let out a quiet sound, half a laugh, half something unsure. “Maybe I am.”

He tilts your chin up with one hand, his touch gentle, patient. “Don’t be.”

You meet his eyes again, and it’s hard to look away. Not because of how intense they are, but because there’s something softer behind them. Something open.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says. “When it’s just us. When you let go.”

Your throat feels too tight to speak.

He kisses you once, carefully. It’s not hesitant. It’s steady, like he already knows what you taste like, like he’s been waiting for this and refuses to rush it. You lean into it before you mean to, hands fisting gently in the fabric of his shirt. The heat between you builds slowly. No rush. No grab. Just the sure slide of his fingers beneath the edge of your tunic, the press of his palm over your ribs.

When he pulls back enough to look at you, your face is already warm. You glance away again, but his hand lifts, fingertips brushing the edge of your jaw like he’s coaxing your gaze back to his.

“You’ve never backed down from anything,” he murmurs. “Why now?”

“Maybe I’ve never had reason to be nervous before.”

His expression softens. That faint curve of his mouth that never quite becomes a smile, but almost does.

“You don’t have to be.”

His voice is low, steady, full of something that steadies you too.

You nod once. It’s all you can manage.

He moves slowly, peeling your tunic over your head with a reverence you weren’t prepared for. His hands don’t rush. He doesn’t reach for more than you’re ready to give. And when you step out of your boots, your pants, everything else—when you’re bare in front of him for the first time—he just looks at you like he’s memorizing every part.

You move to cover your chest out of instinct. He stops you gently.

“Don’t,” he says. “Let me see you.”

You do.

He steps closer again, hands warm against your waist, and presses a kiss just below your collarbone. You shiver. Not from cold.

“You feel it too,” he says softly.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He kisses you again, and this time you meet him fully. You kiss him like you want him to feel it in every inch of him, and he answers like he already does.

His hands explore every part of you with an attentiveness that makes you ache. You've known men before—quick, fumbling, eager to claim—but he touches you like he's learning you, like each sigh and shiver is something to remember. When his fingers trace the scar along your ribs, he doesn't ask where it came from. He just lowers his mouth to it, warm and careful, and you feel something unravel in your chest.

You reach for his clothes, impatient now where he is measured. He lets you undress him, watching your face as each new expanse of skin is revealed. The firelight catches on old wounds—a jagged line across his shoulder, the mark of an arrowhead near his collarbone. You touch each one without speaking, and he watches you do it, unashamed of what his body tells you about the life he's lived.

When he's finally as bare as you are, standing tall and unguarded in the dim light, you can't help but stare. There's a lean strength to him that speaks of purpose rather than show. Nothing excessive. Nothing wasted. Just like his words.

He steps closer, and the heat of his body meets yours like a promise. You tilt your head back to look at him, and for once, you don't try to hide what's in your eyes.

"You're beautiful," he says simply.

You've heard those words before, from men who wanted something from you. But never like this—like he's stating a truth he's known for longer than tonight.

"So are you," you whisper back, and his eyes darken.

He leads you to the bed without hurry, his hand warm against the small of your back. When you lie down, he follows, his weight settling over you like something you've been waiting for without knowing it. His forearms bracket your head, careful not to crush you, and when he kisses you again, it's deeper than before. More certain.

You arch into him without meaning to, your body seeking his like it already knows the shape of him. His hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, the outside of your thigh, and back up again. Mapping you. Learning you. You feel like you're burning up from the inside out, and when his mouth trails down your neck, you can't help the soft sound that escapes you.

He lifts his head to look at you, eyes dark with want but still so clear. So focused.

"It's all right," he murmurs against your skin. "You don't have to hold back. Not with me."

You swallow hard, pulse fluttering against his palm as he cups your face. "I'm not used to this."

"To what?" His thumb traces your lower lip, gentle but insistent.

"To feeling... seen."

Something shifts in his expression then, a softening around his eyes that makes your chest ache. He doesn't smile, not fully, but there's a warmth in his gaze that feels more intimate than any touch.

"I've seen you since the first day," he says quietly. "Even when you didn't want me to."

You close your eyes at that, overwhelmed by the truth of it. You close them against the sudden, undeniable rush of feeling that his words have unlocked. Against the relief of it. The honesty. But you don’t close yourself to him, and when his lips find yours again, you kiss him with a kind of fierce need that surprises you. It’s different than before—driven, desperate, almost insistent—and you can feel him answering with the same intensity. It’s as though his confession has stripped away the last of your defenses, leaving you open and wanting and his in a way you couldn’t have anticipated.

This time when he touches you, there’s a deliberate purpose to his movements. Like he's memorized every arch and sigh and knows what you need before you do. His hand slides between your bodies, confident and sure, and finds the heat between your thighs with unerring confidence. You gasp against his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders as he strokes you with steady, knowing touches. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t fumble. He’s so present, so unbelievably in tune with you that it’s almost too much.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. “Show me how to please you.” There’s urgency there, but it’s not hurried. Not impatient. Just intense. It’s more than you’ve ever had. More than you knew to want. You’ve never had a man ask before. Never had a man who seemed to care about the answer. Your breath catches as his fingers circle and press, finding rhythms that make you tremble. That make you forget to breathe and forget everything but his touch.

“Just like that,” you whisper, and he watches your face as he follows your guidance, learning the patterns that make your breath hitch, that make your hips rise to meet his hand. Your heart is in your throat, hammering against his chest as he bends his head to kiss a line of fire across your jaw, your neck, the fragile hollow at your throat. You feel like you’re unraveling beneath him, like he’s pulling you apart and putting you back together with only his hands and his mouth and the feel of his skin against yours.

When he slides a finger inside you, then another, your back arches off the bed. You’re not used to this. To feeling like you’ll come apart at the seams. But here with him, you do. You feel exposed in ways that have nothing to do with being naked. It’s in the way he sees through you, the way he reads every flutter of your lashes, every catch in your throat. Every stutter of your pulse as he moves with deliberate care, curling his fingers just so, watching every reaction like it’s something precious. Something to remember.

“You’re close,” he says, his voice low, and it’s not a question. He knows. He can feel it in the way your body tightens around his fingers, in the quickening of your breath.

You nod, unable to find words, and he lowers his head to press his mouth against your throat, teeth grazing lightly over your pulse. The dual sensation—his fingers working steadily inside you, his mouth hot against your skin—pushes you over the edge. You come with a broken sound, something between a gasp and his name, your body arching into his touch.

He works you through it, gentle but relentless, until you're trembling. Only then does he withdraw his hand, pressing a kiss to your temple as you catch your breath. You feel vulnerable in ways you never have before—not unprotected, but exposed. Seen in ways that matter.

"Come here," you whisper, tugging him closer. You need to feel his weight, need the solid press of him against you.

He shifts above you, settling between your thighs, his control still evident in the taut line of his shoulders, the careful way he braces himself. You reach between you to guide him, and the first press of him inside you draws a sound from both of you. It's not rushed. Not hurried. Just the slow, inexorable joining of your bodies, and he watches your face the entire time, gauging every reaction, every flutter of your eyelids.

When he's fully seated within you, he pauses. Holds perfectly still. His forehead drops to yours, and for a moment, you just breathe together.

"This," he whispers, voice roughened with restraint, "is what I wanted."

You can't speak. Can't find words for the fullness you feel—not just physical, but something deeper. Something that's taken root in your chest and threatens to bloom into something dangerous. Something real.

He moves then, a slow withdraw and careful return that makes your breath catch. His rhythm is deliberate, unhurried, like he's savoring every sensation. Every inch of you. His eyes never leave yours, and in them you see everything he doesn't say. The want. The need. The certainty.

You lift your hips to meet him, and the angle changes, deepens. The sound he makes—low and strained—sends heat flooding through you. His control is slipping, just slightly, and you feel a fierce satisfaction at being the one to break it.

"Don't hold back," you murmur, hands sliding up his back to feel the shift of muscle beneath his skin. "I want all of you."

His eyes darken at that, something primal flashing in their depths. His next thrust is harder, deeper, and you can't hold back the moan that escapes you. He watches you with an intensity that should frighten you but instead makes you feel powerful. Wanted. Real.

"You have it," he says, voice rough with need. "You've had it longer than you know."

The admission cuts through you, sharp and sweet. You pull him down to kiss him, desperate suddenly to taste him, to feel the ragged edge of his breathing against your lips. His control begins to fray as your bodies move together, his pace quickening, his restraint giving way to something rawer. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, and he groans against your neck.

"Stay with me," he whispers, and you're not sure if he means right now or something more lasting. Either way, you have no intention of being anywhere else.

You feel yourself building toward another peak, an intensity gathering strength inside you, coiling tighter and tighter with each movement. This time it's more than pleasure. More than heat. It's something deeper, wider, terrifying in its scope. You can feel it consuming you, the promise of it making you shudder, and you know he’s right there with you, chasing it. His movements grow more frantic, more desperate, the steady rhythm beginning to falter as his own release draws near. You feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles strain against the effort of holding back, barely restrained against the onslaught of sensation and need. It's almost painful to watch him unravel, but there's beauty in it, too. Beauty in knowing you could do this to him, be the one to break him open.

"Let go," you breathe against his ear. "I've got you."

Something breaks in him then—that final thread of control snapping loose—and he loses himself to the moment. His thrusts become harder, deeper, more erratic as he gives in to the need that stretches between you. You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, your bodies moving in a wild, almost frantic tandem. When he reaches between you with shaking hands and touches you where you’re joined, the pleasure is instantaneous and all-consuming. You shatter around him, the force of it making you cry out his name, your body clenching and tightening until you think you might break.

He follows you a moment later, a hoarse sound tearing from his throat as he spills into you. It's not quite a word, but you know what it means. You know it's the only thing he couldn’t give voice to before. He collapses against your chest, his weight heavy and real and so damn solid that you think it might tether you to the earth forever. You want that. You want the impossible promise of it. You want what he's given you.

You lie there just breathing together, your hands in his hair, his skin damp against yours. The air is still, quiet, and you wouldn’t change a thing.

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