#the north remembers her
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The North Remembers Her (the wolf's teeth)
- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.
- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for Ramsay being himself, death scene)
- Previous part: the bride
- Next part: duty
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround
The air in the kennels is suffocating. It stinks of filth, wet fur, and death. The walls are lined with iron cages, each one housing a beast that could barely be called a dog. Ramsay’s hounds are massive, their eyes gleaming with hunger and cruelty. Their snarls echo through the stone chamber, reverberating in your ears like the prelude to a nightmare.
You stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by Ramsay’s monstrosities, your fists clenched so tightly your nails dig into your palms. Ramsay is beside you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder, a gesture that feels more like a vice.
Reek stands off to the side, hunched over and trembling. He doesn’t meet your eyes—he still never does—but his nervous shuffling and shallow breaths betray his discomfort.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” Ramsay’s voice cuts through the cacophony of snarls and growls, soft and lilting. He gestures to the hounds with a wide grin. “My beauties. The best of the North. Loyal, fierce, and so very hungry.”
You don’t respond. Your eyes remain fixed on the far corner of the room, where a man is being dragged forward by two guards. He’s filthy, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, his eyes wide with terror. He struggles against his captors, but it’s useless; they haul him forward like a sack of grain and throw him to his knees before Ramsay.
“Please,” the man stammers, his voice cracking. “Please, my lord. I didn’t mean—”
Ramsay’s boot slams into his chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. The guards step back, leaving the man to scramble on the floor like a rat.
“You didn’t mean what?” Ramsay asks, his voice almost playful. He crouches beside the man, tilting his head like a curious predator. “Didn’t mean to fail me? Didn’t mean to lose my supplies to a band of savages in the woods?”
The man whimpers, clutching his hands together in a desperate plea. “It wasn’t my fault, my lord. They came out of nowhere. We tried to—”
“Shh.” Ramsay presses a finger to his lips, cutting him off. He rises to his feet, brushing invisible dust from his leathers before turning to you.
“Do you see, wife?” he says, his grin spreading. “This is what happens when people disappoint me. When they fail me.”
You don’t speak, but your jaw tightens.
Ramsay steps closer to you, his pale eyes gleaming with delight. “You won’t fail me, will you, little wolf?”
“No,” you say flatly, your voice void of emotion.
His grin widens. “Good. Then you’ll learn something today.”
He gestures to the guards, who haul the trembling man to his feet and shove him toward one of the cages. The hound inside snarls, its massive body pressed against the iron bars as it senses its prey.
“Please!” the man screams, his voice breaking. “Please, my lord, I’ll do anything. Anything! Just don’t—”
“Don’t?” Ramsay interrupts, his tone mocking. He steps forward, grabbing the man by the back of the neck and shoving his face toward the hound. “Don’t what? This is mercy, you fool. My beauties get to eat, and you…” Ramsay leans closer, his grin almost tender. “You get to be useful one last time.”
The man’s scream is cut short as Ramsay shoves him toward the cage, unlocking the door with a flourish. The hound lunges forward, its jaws snapping shut on the man’s arm with a sickening crunch.
Blood sprays across the stone floor, pooling at your feet. The man shrieks, his voice high and ragged, but you don’t look away. You force yourself to watch as the hound drags him to the ground, its powerful jaws tearing into flesh and bone.
“Don’t look away,” Ramsay murmurs beside you, his voice soft but commanding.
“I wasn’t going to,” you reply coldly, your gaze unwavering.
For a moment, there’s silence between you, broken only by the wet, guttural sounds of the hound feasting.
“You’re a strong one,” Ramsay says, almost approvingly. “Most would’ve turned their heads by now. Even Reek can’t stomach it, can you, Reek?”
You glance toward Reek. He’s pressed against the wall, his face pale, his trembling hands clutching at the hem of his tunic. He doesn’t look at you or Ramsay or the carnage on the floor.
“Pathetic,” Ramsay mutters, rolling his eyes before turning back to you. “But you… you’re different. You’re stronger than him. Stronger than most. I like that.”
“I don’t care what you like,” you say, your voice steady despite the bile rising in your throat.
Ramsay’s grin sharpens. “Oh, but you should. Because, wife, you and I are going to be together for a long time. And if you think I’ll ever let you escape me…” He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “…you’re wrong.”
You turn to him, your expression cold and unyielding. “And if you think you’ll ever be safe under the same roof as me,” you say softly, your voice laced with venom, “you’re wrong.”
Ramsay’s laughter fills the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. “Perfect,” he says, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re perfect.”
You tear your gaze away from him, your eyes drifting back to the bloody scene before you. The hound growls low as it drags the man’s mangled body deeper into its cage, its jaws dripping with crimson.
Ramsay claps his hands together, the sound startlingly cheerful. “Well! I think that’s enough excitement for one evening.” He glances back at you, his grin never fading. “Shall we, wife?”
You don’t answer. You don’t move.
But as you follow him out of the kennels, your thoughts are clear, your resolve unshaken.
He’s wrong.
He’ll never be safe.
The Dreadfort’s hall is quiet tonight, its cold walls echoing only the crackle of the fire in the hearth. The long table is laid with a modest supper—bread, roasted meat, and a pitcher of wine—but the atmosphere is anything but warm. You sit across from Ramsay, his pale blue eyes fixed on you like a hawk studying its prey.
Reek hovers near the far wall, his shoulders hunched and head bowed, his presence more like a shadow than a man. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look up as Ramsay carves into the meat on his plate with slow, deliberate movements.
“You’ve been quiet today,” Ramsay says, his tone almost conversational, though his grin betrays the danger beneath. “Planning something, little wolf?”
You tear a piece of bread from the loaf before you, taking your time before answering. “Not everything requires planning, Ramsay. Some things happen naturally.”
His grin widens, his knife pausing mid-cut. “Naturally? That doesn’t sound like you. You’ve always been so… intentional.”
You meet his gaze steadily, refusing to look away. “Some things don’t need effort. Like watching you.”
Ramsay’s expression flickers, just for a heartbeat, before his grin returns. “Watching me? Should I be flattered, wife?”
“Not flattered,” you reply, tilting your head slightly. “Curious. You’re fascinating in a way.”
He leans forward slightly, his grin sharpening. “Do tell. What about me fascinates you, wife?”
You set the bread down and fold your hands, your voice calm and deliberate. “I’ve been trying to figure you out. You’re cruel, but it’s not just cruelty. It’s… desperation.”
Ramsay’s knife stills on his plate. His grin falters, though it doesn’t disappear entirely. “Desperation?”
“Yes,” you continue, your voice steady. “You’re always trying to prove something. To your father, to your men, even to me. Everything you do—every act of violence, every twisted game—it’s all to make people afraid. To make them see you as more than a bastard.”
The room feels colder now, the air thick with dread. Reek shifts uncomfortably in the corner, but you don’t look at him. Your focus remains on Ramsay, who is now completely still, his grin frozen in place.
“You think you can see me?” he says softly, his voice low and dangerous.
“I don’t think,” you reply, leaning forward slightly. “I know. You’re afraid, Ramsay. Afraid that no matter what you do, no matter how much blood you spill, you’ll always be what you were born as: a bastard. And that terrifies you, doesn’t it?”
The knife in his hand tightens, his knuckles whitening as his grin disappears completely. For the first time, there’s something in his eyes that isn’t amusement or cruelty. It’s faint, but it’s there: unease.
“Careful, wife,” he murmurs, his voice soft but laced with menace. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
You lean back in your chair, your expression unyielding. “No more dangerous than the ones you play every day.”
The silence stretches between you like a taut wire, the only sound the crackle of the fire. Ramsay’s hand flexes around the knife, his pale eyes locked on yours. For the first time, you feel as though you’ve cracked the veneer he wears so easily, exposing something raw and vulnerable beneath.
“You’re bold,” he says finally, his voice low and measured. “I’ll give you that. But boldness doesn’t guarantee survival.”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” you reply, your tone icy. “And you’re still trying to figure out how to break me. That must bother you.”
His lips curl into a tight, humorless smile, and he sets the knife down carefully on the plate. He rises from his seat, moving around the table with slow, deliberate steps until he’s standing beside you.
He leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You think you’ve seen me, little wolf. You think you know what I’m afraid of.”
You don’t flinch. “I don’t think. I know.”
His smile tightens further, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll strike you. But instead, he straightens, stepping back and looking down at you with an expression you can’t quite place.
“You’re… different,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “No one’s ever looked at me like that.”
“Like what?” you ask, your voice steady.
“Like they’re not afraid.”
The words hang in the air, and for a fleeting moment, you think you see something almost human in his gaze. But then it’s gone, replaced by his usual smirk.
“Enjoy your meal, wife,” he says lightly, turning on his heel. “You’ll need your strength.”
He strides out of the room without another word, leaving you alone with Reek and the quiet hum of the fire.
For the first time, you feel a flicker of triumph.
You’ve unsettled him.
And you’ll do it again.
The kennels are damp and rank with the stench of wet fur and rotting meat. The dim lanterns cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, and the low growls of Ramsay’s hounds echo in the enclosed space. You hadn’t wanted to be here, but you’ve come to expect Ramsay’s whims. When a servant had arrived to fetch you, claiming that “my lord” wanted you in the kennels, you hadn’t hesitated. It wasn’t as though you could refuse.
But when you step inside, Ramsay is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a girl stands waiting near the largest cage, her arms crossed and her lips curled into a smirk.
She’s young, perhaps only a year or two older than you, with long dark hair that falls in loose waves over her shoulders. Her dress is simple, but her posture is confident, almost brazen. Her eyes shine with something cruel and unfriendly as she watches you approach.
You recognize her instantly. This is Myranda, the kennelmaster’s daughter—and Ramsay’s lover.
“Well, well,” she says, her voice dripping with mockery. “The little wolf herself. You must feel so important now, being Lady Bolton and all.”
You stop a few paces away, your expression calm and unreadable. “What do you want?”
Myranda’s smirk widens. “I wanted to get a look at you. See what all the fuss is about.” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as she steps closer. “You don’t look like much.”
You hold her gaze, refusing to rise to her bait. “And you don’t look like someone who should be wasting my time.”
Her smile falters for a moment, but she recovers quickly, her tone turning sharp. “You think you’re better than me? Just because you’re wearing his name?” She steps closer still, her voice dropping to a hiss. “Let me tell you something, little wolf. You’re nothing. Ramsay doesn’t love you. He never will. He’ll use you, break you, and throw you away when he’s bored.”
“I’m well aware of what Ramsay is,” you reply coolly. “Are you?”
Her eyes narrow further, and you can see the anger starting to surface beneath her smug exterior. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? You think you can stand up to him, to me. But you don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
You take a step forward, closing the distance between you, and lower your voice to a dangerous whisper. “And you think you can scare me? You think your little threats mean anything to me?”
For the first time, you see a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
“You’re not the first person to try,” you continue, your tone icy. “And you won’t be the last. But let me make one thing very clear: I’ve faced worse than you. Worse than Ramsay. I’ve lost everything—my family, my home, my wolf. Do you really think you can hurt me?”
Myranda takes a half-step back, her confidence faltering. “You don’t scare me,” she snaps, though her voice wavers slightly.
You tilt your head, your expression darkening as you take another step closer. “Maybe not. But you should ask yourself: what happens if you’re wrong?”
The hounds growl low in their cages, as though sensing the tension. The sound reverberates through the air, but you don’t flinch. You hold her gaze, letting the weight of your words hang between you.
Myranda’s breath quickens, and you can see her hands clenching at her sides. She glances toward the door, as though considering leaving, but pride keeps her rooted in place.
“You’re just a Stark,” she spits, though her bravado has all but vanished. “You think you’re untouchable, but you’re nothing without him keeping you alive.”
You laugh softly, the sound cold and humorless. “Ramsay doesn’t keep me alive. He keeps me dangerous. And if you think I’m going to sit back and let you play your little games…” You step even closer, forcing her to back against the wall. “…then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
She stares at you, her chest heaving, and for a moment, you see genuine fear in her eyes.
The door to the kennels creaks open, and both of you turn to see Ramsay striding in, his usual grin plastered across his face.
“What’s this?” he asks, his voice light with amusement. “A little chat between friends?”
Myranda straightens immediately, her face flushing as she steps away from you. “I was just welcoming your… wife, my lord.”
“Is that so?” Ramsay’s eyes flick between you, his grin widening. “And how did she welcome you, my dear?”
Myranda glances at you, her jaw tightening. “We were just talking.”
Ramsay chuckles, stepping closer to you. “Oh, I’m sure you were.” He places a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm. “What a pair you make—my little wolf and my sweet hound.”
You say nothing, your gaze fixed on Myranda as she avoids looking at either of you.
Ramsay’s grin falters slightly, just for a moment, as he glances at you. “You didn’t scare her too much, did you, wife?”
You smile faintly, your voice low and steady. “Not at all, husband. We understand each other perfectly.”
For the first time, you see a flicker of unease in both of their faces.
And it feels like victory.
#game of thrones#asoiaf#a song of ice and fire#got#got/asoiaf#asoiaf x reader#house of the dragon#hotd#fire and blood#got ramsay#ramsay bolton#ramsay x reader#ramsay x you#ramsay x y/n#the north remembers her
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North and Simon: (shaking hands on killing Simon potentially)
#detroit become human#north wr400#simon pl600#markus rk200#josh pj500#jericho is just... so funny to me as like. how they function (or dont)#like im v glad that i did a Good Job my first run and no one hated me but i also felt like a very distraught parent#in regards to how markus is just able to either hurt them (by suggestions OF THE OTHERS IN THE GROUP)#or help them because hey what the fuck i just dragged simon to safety and now north wants me to kill him#and then simon like oh no north got shot you should leave her BUT ! i saved her and made simon happy#so its like you know what they have to have some animosity but also respect#i feel like i wanna see more of north and simon being buddies ... and i might have to do that myself#but i also apologize if this is ooc for them because i really did only just play through once and got a not good end#i probably missed a lot of lore and stuff so im v sorry if im Messing Them Up#its currently just me liking their designs and vibes and hoping im not ruining other fans lives by being wrong#and i honestly dont know when north would kill simon but hes on her possible victims list#so since both of their victim lists include themselves for suicide it just reminded me of the meme#with im so mad im gonna (remembers suicide jokes are bad for my mental health)#and it was like yeah watch north be like im gonna (well if i cant kill myself because markus said no suicide) murder someone
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Crowning of a new Queen, after all, all men must die
_____
As much as I love Sansa, I think she may die in the end, as lady did :/
#a song of ice and fire#game of thrones#art#artwork#digital art#fantasy#artists on tumblr#arya stark#jon snow#queen arya#queen of the north#house stark#needle#someone compared arya to the blackfish#I’m still laughing at that#the north remembers#the white wolf#direwolves#jon snow wolf man#house tully#house whent#the woman it’s important too#yes Arya is wearing her sister’s broken crown and her necklace
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thinking about the christening of the protostar, when kathryn and chakotay last saw each other. how it makes clear that kathryn does not want to go back into deep space, that she has had enough of that for a lifetime. "dont let them promote you to admrial, they'll take your ship and put you behind a desk" Kathryn probably went "oh thank god" and took that promotion with hugs and kisses. she says "the only way starfleet is going to get me back out there is as a hologram"
i imagine her hardcore nesting as well, really settling, making room in her life and just waiting for a simple sign chakotay has packed his things and is ready to move in.
only for the notification to pop up on her desk that captain chakotay is assigned the protostar, set on a course back to the delta quadrant.
but thats fine if thats what he wants, its not like they ever actually made plans, that he made her any promises, she just thought he'd go for that antropology position not another deep space assignment, putting him back into harms way...? but it doesnt matter, if thats what makes him happy, then Kathryn will be there and she will be supporting him through it.
meanwhile chakotay gets promoted to captain, something that once upon a lifetime was everything he wanted, what he worked for, before everything happened - his resignation, the maquis, the delta quadrant, kathryn.... but now... the pips at his collar mean nothing. he looks at the course they've plotted, getting them awefully close to dangerous anomalies and borg space and all the threats he thought he left behind. he thought he would settle down once they reached earth, get that teaching position he's dreamed of back when they fought mind-controlling space worms, but kathryn didn't call. she seems so happy with her new life, the new position. He's watched her from a distance, making a home for herself, without him and he'd be lying if he said it didn't hurt but it's fine. It's okay. It's only ever been about her happiness and if that includes everything but him, he'll give her space. he's learned how to do that. He's good at that. in a way she'll be watching over him now, from afar, as admiral. and her captain.
He'll go back to the delta quadrant, where he was with his family, where he was with the woman he loves, where he was truly happy for the first time in his life, had a purpose, a goal. Peace. maybe he'll find it once again.
So when they Kathryn asks "you're really going back out there." she means "why are you leaving again? why won't you stay?" and when chakotay answers "if i run into any trouble, you're the first one I'll call" he means "i don't want to leave you. but i cant stay here"
and when he goes missing, her previous promise of "never going back out there except as a hologram" gets eradicated because if its him, stranded yet again? there is no barrier she won't cross to get him back.
#star trek prodigy#janeway x chakotay#THEY MAKE ME INSANE#hey remember how kathryn is his north star? how he gave her THE FUCKING STONE ARE YOU KIDDING ME#i was a little on the fence about them having chakotay actually stay in star fleet because in my head he would always leave as soon as they#made it back to earth#but then they actually made his assignment to be go back to the delta quadrant and everything just made sense#if kathryn and him being her first officer was his purpose then he lost that and he's once again risking his life to get that back#of course he would go back#they're such idioits#TALK TO EACH OTHER JESUS
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“It was right,” her father said. “And even the lie was … not without honor.” He’d put Needle aside when he went to Arya to embrace her. Now he took the blade up again and walked to the window, where he stood for a moment, looking out across the courtyard. When he turned back, his eyes were thoughtful. He seated himself on the window seat, Needle across his lap. “Arya, sit down. I need to try and explain some things to you.” She perched anxiously on the edge of her bed. “You are too young to be burdened with all my cares,” he told her, “but you are also a Stark of Winterfell. You know our words.” “Winter is coming,” Arya whispered. “The hard cruel times,” her father said. “We tasted them on the Trident, child, and when Bran fell. You were born in the long summer, sweet one, you’ve never known anything else, but now the winter is truly coming. Remember the sigil of our House, Arya.” “The direwolf,” she said, thinking of Nymeria. She hugged her knees against her chest, suddenly afraid. “Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Septa Mordane is a good woman, and Sansa … Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you … and I need both of you, gods help me.” He sounded so tired that it made Arya sad. “I don’t hate Sansa,” she told him. “Not truly.” It was only half a lie. “I do not mean to frighten you, but neither will I lie to you. We have come to a dark dangerous place, child. This is not Winterfell. We have enemies who mean us ill. We cannot fight a war among ourselves. This willfulness of yours, the running off, the angry words, the disobedience … at home, these were only the summer games of a child. Here and now, with winter soon upon us, that is a different matter. It is time to begin growing up.” “I will,” Arya vowed. She had never loved him so much as she did in that instant. “I can be strong too. I can be as strong as Robb.”
This is literally Ned passing the torch to Arya, I don't make the rules
#arya stark#ned stark#asoiaf#literally the only Starkling to have a conversation with him like this and I'm supposed to believe that means nothing?#especially when she's remembering + trying to live by his advice? + the North is rallying for her? specifically as valiant Ned's daughter?#but the /lone wolf/ quote was important enough to steal from Arya and turn it into the unofficial motto of House Stark 😒#like if he'd had this conversation with Robb or Jon y'all would see it
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the jericho crew are so goofy with their little group huddles when deciding whether to help androids they encounter on their missions or leave them to their fate. Imagine being Simon at Stratford Tower and suddenly youre on the outside of The Huddle 😱
#and then North when she trips while escaping Jericho#and Simon's like ''leave her'' all cattily#i always remember jericrew as being friendlier with each other#and i love the idea of that but also it's like north and simon love markus and hate each other and Josh is kinda like. sick of all of them#Josh leaves the group chat once the revolution is over#im joking im sure they all love each other and their situations and relationships are more nuanced than that#i just like to joke about the way the game presents things on a surface level
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Not a fan of how they are trying to absolve Hong Hee-joo's horrible mother of all her past deeds, but at least the writers allowed Hee-joo to set boundaries around that particular relationship.
#When the Phone Rings#When the Phone Rings 1x12#K drama#Hong Hee-joo#Kim Yeon-hui#I don't care she cried and sobbed and threw up in 11 at the thought of her daughter being dead#she still treated her like shit and that is not going to get erased just because she feels sorry now#the North remembers#meta#original posts
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Alina Starkov - The Map Maker
Nikolai Lantsov - The Lucky Compass
Malyen Oretsev - The Tracker
#alina starkov#nikolai lantsov#mal oretsev#malyen oretsev#malkolina#shadow and bone#sabedit#thinking about malina and their “map/north metaphors”#then i remember nikolai also has his direction symbol to MATCH them#alina felt losing herself/mal while fighting with the darkness#nikolai gave her the compass to find the way back to the light - to him and to mal#mal lost his tracking ability to use the map#he lost his way#so nikolai gives mal his compass to find the way back to each other#and to HIM#so beautiful#not to mention both mal and alina really need A LOT of lucks to save themselves#malina#malkolai#nikolina#nikomalina
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next week it will be a month since my grandma passed away and sometimes i still remember how during the funeral i had to hold back my laughter as i was crying because as soon as the priest talked about her "friends" i have heard so vividly in my head my grandma's annoyed voice saying "friends? what friends, there are no friends"
#that's literally the answer she always gave us whenever we asked if she had any friends whatsoever#she did have one friend tho#and i knoww they are together now#which is the best thing ever#especially considering how she grew up with her friend but then had to leave her when she moved to the north#they remained in touch tho#but i still remember that time my grandma called her and her friend's son answered and told her she passed away#my grandma always said that she was the only true friend she has ever had
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The Man of To-morrow's Lament – Vladimir Nabokov
(Transcript below cut)
I have to wear these glasses – otherwise,
when I caress her with my super-eyes,
her lungs and liver are too plainly seen
throbbing, like deep-sea creatures, in between
dim bones. Oh, I am sick of loitering here,
a banished trunk (like my namesake in “Lear”),
but when I switch to tights, still less I prize
my splendid torso, my tremendous thighs,
the dark-blue forelock on my narrow brow,
the heavy jaw; for I shall tell you now
my fatal limitation … not the pact
between the worlds of Fantasy and Fact
which makes me shun such an attractive spot
as Berchtesgaden, say; and also not
that little business of my draft; but worse:
a tragic misadjustment and a curse.
I’m young and bursting with prodigious sap,
and I’m in love like any healthy chap –
and I must throttle my dynamic heart
for marriage would be murder on my part,
an earthquake, wrecking on the night of nights
a woman’s life, some palmtrees, all the lights,
the big hotel, a smaller one next door
and half a dozen army trucks – or more.
But even if that blast of love should spare
her fragile frame – what children would she bear?
What monstrous babe, knocking the surgeon down,
would waddle out into the awestruck town?
When two years old he’d break the strongest chairs,
fall through the floor and terrorize the stairs;
at four, he’d dive into a well; at five,
explore a roaring furnace – and survive;
at eight, he’d ruin the longest railway line
by playing trains with real ones; and at nine,
release all my old enemies from jail,
and then I’d try to break his head – and fail.
So this is why, no matter where I fly,
red-cloaked, blue-hosed, across the yellow sky,
I feel no thrill in chasing thugs and thieves –
and gloomily broad-shouldered Kent retrieves
his coat and trousers from the garbage can
and tucks away the cloak of Superman;
and when she sighs – somewhere in Central Park
where my immense bronze statue looms – “Oh, Clark …
Isn’t he wonderful!?!”, I stare ahead
and long to be a normal guy instead.
Vladimir Nabokov
June 1942
#SORRY NORTH'S POST AND LAUREN'S TAGS MADE ME REMEMBER THIS AND I TYPED IT BY HAND BECAUSE I KNOW I GOT SOME FOLLOWERS THAT NEVER SEEN IT#‘im young and bursting with prodigious sap’ he may be superman but he still dirty talks like a man from kansas..#‘i cant fuck because my nut will shoot a hole through her back also i will kill everyone on the block.’#my sad celibate king....#posts from the crypt#clark kent#superman#clois#<- main tagging because this is funny. to me.
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Post best-ending fics:
Hank: *Is the most sodden, crusty little man in all of Michigan*
North: This. Is my dad.
Reverse AU fics:
Hank: *Is the most sodden, crusty little android ever made*
North: This. Is my dad.
Connorth fics:
Hank: *Is the most sodden, crusty little man in all of Michigan*
North: This. Is my father-in-law.
Rk1k (/simconkus/connorkus/the one with Josh I don't know I hate canon Josh) fics:
Hank: *Is the most sodden, crusty little man in all of Michigan*
Jericho: This. Is our dad.
#dbh#dbh reverse au#connorth#rk1k#simconkus#connorkus#Do👏you👏see👏what👏I'm👏say👏ing👏👏👏#Hank will always be North's dad in my fics she deserves someone to encourage her#Edit: I don't remember names for things
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The North Remembers Her (survival)
- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.
- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton
- Note: Some events don't match the canon from the books.
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for Ramsay being himself)
- Previous part: to prove something
- Next part: the future
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround
The halls of the Dreadfort stretch endlessly before you. Reek shuffles ahead of you, his shoulders hunched and his steps uneven, the sound of his boots against the stone muted by his awkward gait.
He doesn’t look at you, as usual, his head bowed low, but his nervous energy fills the corridor like a heavy fog.
“Where is he?” you ask coldly, your voice cutting through the stillness.
“In… in the private dining hall,” Reek stammers, his words barely audible. “He… he’s waiting.”
You don’t respond, your expression hardening as you follow him down the corridor. The air grows colder the closer you get, the dread thickening with every step. You know what this is—another game, another attempt by Ramsay to force your compliance. And yet, there’s a quiet resolve within you, a certainty that whatever he has planned, you will not break.
The door to the dining hall looms ahead, flanked by two of Ramsay’s men. They open it without a word, the creak of the hinges grating against your ears as you step inside.
The room is warm, lit by a roaring fire in the hearth and the soft glow of countless candles. A small table sits in the center, laden with an array of dishes—roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and a carafe of wine. The scene is almost intimate, a strong contrast to the cold menace that always accompanies Ramsay’s presence.
And there he is, sitting at the head of the table, his grin sharp and unrelenting.
“Wife,” he says, rising from his chair as you enter. “You honor me with your presence.”
You stop just short of the table, your arms folded across your chest. “I didn’t have much choice, did I?”
Ramsay chuckles, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “Always so defiant. Come, sit. I’ve gone through so much trouble to prepare this for you.”
You glance at the chair, then back at him, your gaze cold and unyielding. “What do you want, Ramsay?”
His grin widens, and he steps around the table, pulling out the chair for you. “To talk,” he says softly, almost sweetly. “That’s all.”
You hesitate for a moment before sitting, your movements deliberate and controlled. He pushes the chair in gently, then returns to his seat, pouring two goblets of wine as though this were a normal dinner between husband and wife.
He slides one glass toward you, his pale blue eyes fixed on yours. “You don’t trust me,” he says lightly, his grin never fading.
“Should I?” you reply, your voice cold.
He laughs softly, leaning back in his chair. “Fair enough.”
The silence stretches as you reach for the goblet of wine, your fingers curling around the stem. You don’t drink, but you hold it as you wait for him to speak.
“I need something from you,” Ramsay says finally, his tone softer than you’ve ever heard it. “And you… need something from me.”
Your brow furrows slightly, but you keep your expression neutral. “Do I?”
“An heir,” he says bluntly, his grin fading into something more serious. “My father won’t let me keep my position forever without one. And you… you’ve lost everything, haven’t you? Your family, your home, your wolf.”
Your grip tightens on the goblet, but you say nothing.
Ramsay leans forward, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “But an heir… our child… could be something. Someone for you to dote on. Someone to remind you of what you’ve lost.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.
“You think I’d give you that willingly?” you say softly, your voice laced with venom.
His grin returns, self-assured and calculating. “I think you’d do whatever it takes to survive. And to ensure your child survives.”
You set the goblet down slowly, your gaze locked on his. “You’re mistaken if you think I’d ever willingly bring a child into this nightmare.”
Ramsay chuckles, though the sound is strained. “You’re strong, little wolf. But even you have limits. And this… this is your chance to have something again. To have someone who is yours.”
You stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as you glare down at him. “I will never give you what you want, Ramsay.”
For a moment, he’s silent, his pale eyes narrowing as he watches you. Then he rises from his chair, his grin widening once more.
“Perhaps not tonight,” he says softly, stepping closer to you. “But we have time, wife. And eventually… you’ll see reason.”
You hold your ground, your voice steady as steel. “Or perhaps I’ll see your throat slit before that happens.”
Ramsay laughs, the sound low and mocking as he leans in closer. “Such fire,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper. “But fire can be tamed.”
He steps back, gesturing to the table. “Enjoy your meal, wife. You’ll need your strength.”
He strides toward the door, his grin never fading, and leaves without another word.
The room falls silent once more, the fire crackling softly in the hearth as you stare at the empty space where he stood.
You sit back down slowly, your hands trembling slightly as you reach for the goblet of wine.
He thinks he has time.
But so do you.
The halls of the Dreadfort are eerily quiet, the only sound the faint whistle of the wind through the cracks in the ancient stone. The dinner Ramsay had orchestrated still lingers in your mind, his words circling like vultures over a carcass. The thought of his grin, his eyes shining with predatory delight, makes your stomach churn as you make your way back to your chambers.
The flicker of movement in the shadows stops you in your tracks.
“Lady Bolton,” a voice rasps, weak and trembling, but unmistakably Reek’s.
He emerges from the shadows, his gaunt face pale in the dim torchlight. His shoulders are hunched, his hands fidgeting nervously, but his eyes dart toward yours, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something that isn’t fear.
“What do you want?” you ask coldly, stepping back slightly.
Reek glances over his shoulder as if checking for watchers, then shuffles closer, his voice low and urgent. “You… you should give him what he wants.”
The bluntness of his words stuns you for a moment. Your expression hardens, your voice sharp. “What did you say?”
He flinches but presses on, his words spilling out in a frantic rush. “He… he won’t stop, my lady. Ramsay… he always gets what he wants. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“I know exactly what he’s capable of,” you snap, your tone icy.
“No, you don’t,” Reek insists, his voice trembling. He takes a step closer, his hands clutching at the edges of his cloak. “You don’t know about Domeric.”
The name catches you off guard, and you narrow your eyes. “What about him? Roose’s son? Ramsay’s brother?”
Reek’s face twists, his trembling hands wringing together. “Ramsay killed him,” he whispers. “He poisoned him. Roose sent Domeric to foster at the Vale. He was a good boy, a… true lord. But when he came back, when he tried to be a brother to Ramsay… Ramsay couldn’t bear it. He didn’t want competition. So he killed him.”
The weight of his words presses against your chest, the truth of it sinking in like ice. “And how do you know this?”
Reek hesitates, his eyes darting to the floor. “I… He told me. I saw the way he smiled when he talked about how Domeric died. Like it was a joke, a game.”
You take a step back, your voice low and measured. “And what does that have to do with me?”
Reek looks up at you, and for the first time, his hollow gaze seems more like Theon’s—haunted but desperate. “Walda’s child,” he says, his voice trembling. “If it’s a boy… if Ramsay hasn’t secured his place… he’ll do it again. He’ll kill his own blood to keep what he has.”
You stiffen, your hands curling into fists. “That’s not my concern.”
“It should be,” he says, his voice breaking. “Do you think he’ll stop with Walda’s child? Do you think he won’t find some way to hurt you, too? He needs you to give him an heir because it’s the only thing that keeps him safe. But if you don’t…” He swallows hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He’ll find another way. And you’ll be next.”
You glare at him, your voice cold. “And what would you have me do? Give him what he wants? Play the dutiful wife and bring another monster into this world?”
Reek flinches, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m saying… you have a choice,” he says, his voice trembling but firm. “You can stop this. You can keep Walda’s child safe. Keep yourself safe. But not by fighting him like this.”
You take a step closer, your voice sharp. “And what do you care, Theon? You’re nothing but his broken dog.”
His breath catches, his eyes widening slightly at the name. “Because I know what he’ll do,” he whispers. “I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. And if you don’t… if you let him win, there’ll be no one left to stop him.”
The silence that follows is heavy, the weight of his words settling over you like a suffocating shroud. For a moment, you see the boy he used to be—the boy who grew up in Winterfell, who laughed with Robb, who teased you in the Godswood.
But that boy is gone, and what’s left is a shadow.
“I’ll handle Ramsay,” you say finally, your voice cold and unyielding. “But not the way you think.”
Reek’s shoulders slump, his gaze falling to the floor. “Just… be careful,” he murmurs.
You turn away, your steps echoing against the stone as you leave him standing in the dim corridor. His warning lingers in your mind, a dark shadow that refuses to fade.
The dim corridors of the Dreadfort echo with your footsteps as you make your way toward the great hall two days later. The cold, oppressive air wraps around you like a shroud, seeping into your bones. You know that when Roose Bolton summons you, it’s never without purpose. His silence is as cutting as any blade, and his words are weapons in their own right.
When you step into the hall, he is already there. Roose sits at the head of the long table, a goblet of wine in one hand and a stack of parchments in the other. The firelight casts shadows across his pale, angular face, making him seem more ghost than man. Lady Walda is absent, likely tucked away in her chambers, and the emptiness of the room only amplifies the weight of his presence.
“Lady Bolton,” he greets, his voice quiet but commanding. He doesn’t look up from the parchment he’s reading. “Come. Sit.”
You hesitate for only a moment before crossing the room, taking the seat opposite him. The table between you feels like a chasm, but Roose’s gaze, when it finally meets yours, bridges the distance with its unsettling intensity.
“You summoned me,” you say, your tone neutral, careful.
“I did,” he replies simply, setting the parchment aside and taking a slow sip of wine. “It seems my son has been... less than effective in managing certain matters.”
You raise an eyebrow, though you keep your expression impassive. “What matters?”
Roose leans back slightly, his pale eyes narrowing as he studies you. “The North is restless. Pockets of resistance still linger, defying my rule. And Ramsay... he is distracted.”
You don’t respond immediately, your mind racing. It’s not difficult to imagine what he means by “distracted.” Ramsay’s obsession with controlling you has been evident from the start.
Roose’s gaze sharpens, his tone turning colder. “Tell me, my lady. Have you done anything to encourage his... distractions?”
Your jaw tightens, but you force yourself to remain calm. “I’ve done nothing but endure his whims, my lord. If Ramsay is distracted, it’s because of his own failures, not mine.”
A faint smile curls at the edges of Roose’s lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Endure. A fitting word.” He takes another sip of wine, his gaze never leaving yours. “And yet, I find myself questioning whether this marriage was the right choice. You’ve given him no heir. No advantage. Only defiance.”
Your fingers curl into fists beneath the table, but your voice remains steady. “Ramsay is the one who has failed to secure his position, my lord. If he cannot control his own household, how can he expect to control the North?”
The smile fades, replaced by a cold, assessing look. “You speak boldly for someone in your position.”
“I speak the truth,” you counter, meeting his gaze without flinching. “And I imagine you value truth, my lord, even when it’s unpleasant.”
For a moment, the room is silent, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Then Roose leans forward slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Ramsay is a means to an end. He is useful, for now. But his usefulness is not unlimited.”
The weight of his words settles over you like a heavy cloak. Roose’s cold pragmatism is legendary, and his willingness to discard even his own blood is no secret.
“And what do you expect of me?” you ask cautiously.
“I expect you to understand your position,” Roose replies evenly. “You are a Stark. Your name carries weight, even now. If Ramsay cannot secure his position, I will have to find another way to ensure the loyalty of the North.”
You stiffen, his meaning clear. “Another way? Or another heir?”
His lips curl into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “That depends on you.”
You feel a cold fury rising within you, but you keep your expression neutral. “I will not be used as a pawn in your schemes.”
“You are already a pawn,” Roose says softly, his tone almost gentle. “The question is whether you will be a useful one.”
The fire crackles in the silence that follows, the tension between you sharp enough to cut. Finally, Roose rises from his chair, his movements smooth and deliberate.
“Think on it, my lady,” he says, his voice as cold as the stone walls. “The North remembers, yes. But memories alone will not keep you safe.”
Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides toward the door, leaving you alone in the flickering firelight.
You sit motionless for a long moment, your mind racing with the implications of his words. Roose Bolton is a man who sees value only in what serves his purpose, and his warning is clear: your survival depends on your usefulness.
The kennels are alive with the snarls and growls of Ramsay’s hounds, their fierce energy filling the cold air. You stand at the edge of the pen, the sickly-sweet stench of blood and wet fur clinging to the back of your throat. The unfortunate servant who had displeased Ramsay lies in a crumpled heap on the floor, his screams reduced to wet gasps as the beasts circle him, waiting for Ramsay’s signal.
Ramsay stands just beyond the hounds, his eyes alight with delight. He radiates power here, in his element, commanding pain and suffering like an artist wielding a brush. His smile sharpens as he turns to you.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” he asks, gesturing toward the carnage before him. “The purity of it. They know their purpose, these hounds. They live for it. Do you?”
You don’t answer, your face a mask of cold detachment. He wants you to flinch, to recoil, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you fix your gaze on him, ignoring the pathetic moans of the man at his feet.
“Are you finished?” you ask, your voice flat.
Ramsay’s smile fades, replaced by a glimmer of irritation. He steps closer to you, his boots crunching against the blood-slicked straw. “Always so cold, little wolf. So defiant.” He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I wonder if that’s all you are. Or if there’s something else, hidden underneath.”
You meet his gaze steadily, your heart pounding in your chest. “What do you want from me, Ramsay? You’ve taken everything else. What’s left?”
His grin returns, sharp and predatory. “Everything. I want everything.”
The walk back to your chambers is silent, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. Ramsay walks beside you, his hands clasped behind his back, the predator biding his time. The hounds’ snarls echo faintly in your ears, a reminder of the spectacle you just endured.
When you reach your door, you pause, your hand on the latch. You can feel his eyes on you, his breath warm against the back of your neck.
“Come in,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t hesitate. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and the air in the room seems to grow heavier, thick with unspoken words.
You turn to face him, your voice steady. “This is what you want, isn’t it? To own me. To break me.”
Ramsay’s grin widens, his eyes shining with triumph. “Is that what you think? That this is about breaking you?”
“Isn’t it?” you counter, stepping closer to him. “Everything you do—everything you’ve done—it’s all been about control. About proving that you can take whatever you want.”
He tilts his head, his grin softening. “And yet, you’re still standing. Still defying me.” He steps closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Maybe that’s what I like about you.”
You laugh softly, the sound cold and hollow. “You don’t like anything, Ramsay. You conquer. You destroy. That’s all you know.”
He reaches for you, his hand brushing against your cheek. His touch is rough, possessive, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you meet his gaze with cold defiance.
“Take it, then,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If that’s what it takes to satisfy you, then take it.”
For the first time, his grin falters, replaced by something darker, more uncertain. “You think you can make this a choice?” he asks, his voice sharp. “You think you can control me by giving in?”
“I think it doesn’t matter,” you reply calmly. “Because no matter what happens tonight, I’ll still be me. And you’ll still be a bastard trying to prove himself.”
His expression hardens, his grip tightening on your jaw. “Careful, little wolf. You’re playing with fire.”
“And you’re the one who lit it,” you snap back.
The air between you is electric, the room filled with the crackle of the fire and the weight of your unspoken defiance. Then, without another word, Ramsay pulls you closer, his lips crashing against yours with a bruising intensity.
You don’t resist. You don’t fight. You let him take what he’s wanted for so long, but even as you surrender your body, your mind remains focused, calculating. This is not a victory for him. It’s a delay, a game you’ve agreed to play until the moment is right.
And the wolf is a patient hunter.
#game of thrones#asoiaf#a song of ice and fire#got#got/asoiaf#asoiaf x reader#house of the dragon#hotd#fire and blood#house stark#house bolton#the north remembers her#got ramsay#ramsay bolton#ramsay x reader#ramsay x you#ramsay x y/n
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for my birthday i want julie plec’s head on a platter
#the world may have moved on from her treatment of kat graham and bonnie bennett#but the north remembers#and she will never know peace for as long as she lives#PLUS PLUS PLUS#her response to meg when she was rightfully upset abt the treatment she received following her assault#ms plec got on the internet#talking abt ‘black women are going to save the world! 🦸🏾♀️’#ooooo let me get my hands on her#i’ll show her what a black woman can do#i promise you that#justice for bonnie bennett#the vampire diaries#tvd universe#tvdu#bonnie bennett
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it's not a real Survivor finale without a thunderstorm warning interrupting every 30 seconds
#survivor 47#north florida problems </3#remember when i had to watch Leah's eviction on tiktok live just because i hated her that bad fjsldkf
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for the past couple years ive been slowly. slowly learning beginners japanese and its very fun and im enjoying it a lot but also it has made me painfully aware in ways i wasnt before of how much my specific vaguely ontario accent makes me make out sloppy style with my vowels. i am going at those vowel's tonsils. i am doing things to diphthongs you wouldnt even believe.
#come and meet the letter people. come and visit the familyyy#literally like i dont mind my ontario accent coming through my japanese thats okay BUT i do care about making sure im saying what#im actually trying to say. and sometimes without realizing my vowels have left off somewhere else in the middle of my word#turning it into some manner of other word. i accidentally said picasso bought the mona lisa instead of painted it the other day <3#i dont mind my mistakes but like. i still wanna do my best!!!!#its blowing my mind though. okay as an anglophone here the only way we'll learn anything about our own language is by#1) just having a natural interest in linguistics in general and/or 2) learning a new language#much to my mothers frustration when she came here in the 70s not knowing any english. even the english speakers couldnt help her#BUT luckily i was both interested in linguistics and learning new languages so i got to learn more things after preschool LOL#but like i remember taking french throughout highschool and being like. wait a god damn minute. i understand english grammer now?#it was bizarre. learning japanese phonetics as well has made me realize what on earth i do with my vowels. actually the entire way i talk#i didnt pay much attention to it but in my head i hear everything as my voice but with perfect north american man radio voice pronunciation#which it turns out. is not what my actual voice sounds like. its not even thaaat different its just different Enough. uncanny valley accent#although the reason i specify vaguely with my vaguely ontarian accent is because#in my area half of the native english speakers say stuff one way and the other half a different way. like within the same neighbourhoods#people always giggle at the way i say bagel. in my head i do picture it as bey-gul. but the second it lease my mouth its become BAG-ul#no one in my familiar says it like that. i dont know where it came from. i cant even stop it. im forever BAG-ul. forever.
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The sleepover scene always breaks my heart 😭 literally me at 12
#ik Marcy was being like annoying and talking about shit anne and sasha didn't care about#but it still hurts when sasha tells her to her face that she doesn't care 😭😭#i remember being told all the time that I shouldn't talk about things other people don't care about#or about uncommon interests#so I started to lie about the things I liked. whenever someone asked me what music I liked I said ''anything'' as if I didn't stay up at#4 am reading obscure lore from a conceptual album about a family of necromancers in 19th century north america written by a florida man#same with books and movies and all i just said I watched disney channel or something#even if my true obsession was stephen king or communist literature or just. late night wikipedia rabbit holes#like on time you learn to stop talking about people irl about your stuff and put it alllll on a tumblr blog#but at 13 you're so embarrassingly passionate and excited that you can't keep your mouth shut#and you're humilliating yourself and commiting social suicide because it takes you just a little bit longer than your pears to learn how to#act normal and read the room and stuff#wow marcy really do be like me fr#my posts#oh well that's what college is for thankfully! you get to be surrounded by people who share at least one (1) obsession with you now!#so you can make friends and meet up and just yap yap yap about mid century criticism of linguistic relativism#or functional-structuralist analysis of myths#i still do wanna find friends to talk about dragons about tho
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