#there's more...anathema for one...

[llycaons]

in case pre post tags are unclear, deryn is in fact not canonically a lesbian even though I WISH she was, and also the boy she gets together with is a shitty little misogynist whose single moment of selflessness at the end of the story did nothing to rehabilitate his character after three books of brattiness, snobbishness, elitism, expectations of servility, whining, and generally acting like you’d expect an annoying 13 year old crown prince to act

[crowlixcx]

[topaz-mutiny]

"Seeing from his violent demeanor that he was English" is still probably one of the best (funniest) lines in Dracula, but I love how this part of the Post Script contrasts with the rest of the letter Sister Agatha sends.

The main body of the letter is to the point and polite on all matters (makes sense as it seems this part of the writing was overseen by our good friend Jonathan himself, though he's too weak to write) in contrast to the Post Script where Agatha adds in details that are emotionaly powerful and some aren't necessarily sordid but would absolutely be of concern.

Jonathan has nothing on him, he is shouting and in a rush, he has a frightening delirium, delirium can last and reemerge a long time into the future, he rambles about terrifying and grotesque subjects when in the throes of his brain fever (which is an old-timey way to describe a lot of mental illnesses and behaviors), and all of this overcomes a frailty and physical weakness from whatever else he's been through that causes him to otherwise be bedridden.

Even half of that could erode trust in someone. But as told in the rest of the Post Script:

He's recovering, he's gaining more lucidity, the Sisters notice his lucid moments are punctuated by gentleness and sweetness (hard to trust at first likely, due to frequent relapses, and the Sisters are eventually convinced a lot of his prior behavior was caused by the fading brain fever and not by his inherent personality), he is a cherished patient of the Hospital of St. Joseph And St. Mary, and it seems the staff are enamored with how often and with such love he talks about Mina, such that this spurred Sister Agatha to make the Post Script in the first place because it's the first thing she mentions.

[boneles-ss]

I loved the ending of the silt verses for so many reasons: because I’m a sucker for the smoking Chekov’s gun, a thematically rich tragedy, and the sickly sweet stench of a narrative that is ultimately and above all else, hopeful.

We were shown the dangers of hope, in the (in retrospect) most seemingly “out of place” episode in the entire series—the hope motel one with the doomed gay people. It was an amazing episode, do not get me wrong, but listening to it for me was like “okay, so based on this, when is hope going to, once again, bite us in the ass. Or literally bite us idk we had somewhat similar foreshadowing used with the sleep god thing from season 1.”

And of course it would be the finale. Of course it would be reading through the transcript, knowing that there’s a shadow of a chance that Carpenter lived to do all the things she was so ready to do, that she wasn’t giving up, or that she died in the water, on her feet, brought to a prophesied end in the god who could not seem to let her go, but that ultimately, she did NOT GO WILLINGLY.

Of course it would be the unknown of Paige and her caravan, trekking through the polluted lands in search of something kinder, something new, knowing that Paige would leave them behind one day—but that day is not today—and she would see them on. It’s hoping beyond hope that they all escape, that they can make something better out there, and that there are ways for people to follow out of this old world, if they choose to read the signs.

That’s what I think that episode was “for.” Obviously episodes like that don’t NEED to tie into the plot directly, and they’re sometimes narratively more satisfying if they’re left self-contained (the power plant ep was also brilliant in a very similar way (and I’m realizing now that that ep also mirrors Paige’s journey….that should be it’s own post)), but its about the theming, the framing of the tragedy, and the foreshadowing of it all. The motel was tragic and awful because it toyed with our hope—rending it functionally untrustworthy. But we choose to hope anyway (I’ve seen the polls lmao) and we make a good story on our own, in our own minds, out of that ambiguity. The ending to me is so good because WE can choose how it ends. We are given that agency, and I think it’s so satisfying either way! We KNOW the god in the motel was fucking with our hope and eating those who dared to try and we still said BUT WHAT IF-

so what’s the harm in hoping for the best for those whose stories continue after we stop consuming them? Hhhhhh this show and this ending are going to stick with me forever

[thesherrinfordfacility]

brain is whirring on “...some people that you love will be coming back; some that you expect, some that you don’t." and honestly i really hope it's agnes. i don't think we're done with her and her little book yet, not really

[grntaire]

i still cannot believe we had the crowley bringing aziraphale chocolates/gabriel giving him a promotion/crowley tricking gabriel so aziraphale can stay on earth scene taken from us. the foreshadowing of it all. the things we could have been……..

[meet-me-behindthemall12]

non good omens fans: oh i get so it’s all vibes no plot

good omens fans: erm, no. not exactly

non go fans: but everything you’ve said about it gives that vibe

go fans: right. but that’s because all i talk about is ineffable husbands

non go fans: are they not the main plot?

go fans: not really, i mean they are but also they don’t do anything major to affect the plot really. they’re not even the ones that end up solving the issue

non go fans: so…no plot jsut vibes?

go fans:..sure.

[goldeneyedgirl]

@sonyawix I can't stop laughing, I take a few days off to recover and I got all your messages.

Okay, let's go. 1/3

Deaf Mary-Alice is just there to be wholesome and romantic and healing and acceptance. I probably will retcon some aspects of it in the future because the idea of Jasper being "I wonder if I should kiss her. Do we still do that? Can we? Has she moved on?" And Mary-Alice being "About time."

And yes, the Jane scene mirrors STL. Jasper lost his temper in both 'verses when Mary-Alice was attacked. He's never not going to defend his girl in any verse.

I love how much you love Anathema because that fic was such a random, rogue thing that occurred. 'I'll write a fun, silly romcom where Jasper falls in love with the daughter of a mortician' was the brief, and it got out of hand. If you think I had a plan for any of it, you are sorely mistaken and we're just going by what Vibes at this point. (I mean, I've got the plot now, but we're still going with what vibes.)

What I'm hearing is that I need to make this my Fall Fic and put my head down in Australian Fall to post the first few chapters for American Fall. Hmm.

<3 you Sonya, thank you so much for your messages, they always make me smile!

(2 and 3/3 coming tonight.)

[hymyarts]

He wasn't dead. He didn't hate him. He could rest.

[whitewingedcrow]

I am the soul in many skins.

Felt bad that I had only been deerposting lately, so decided to do a human AU piece of Wanderer in his current predicament. It makes me laugh that as a deer, he's wearing more outfit than 90% of the characters he interacts with... and then I draw him as a human and it's this.

[sapphorror]

Anyway I don't engage with AI discourse often because, despite the very real problems and ethical concerns, I find a lot of the pushback to be reactionary, fear-mongering and elitist, among other unflattering adjectives—but while I don't particularly vibe with the whole 'evil technological scourge' narrative, it is genuinely disturbing to me how insulated and almost cultish the core AI crowd has become. It's depressing to see to see such an important and sincerely innovative wave of technological advancement wholesale co-opted by the greediest, most creatively bankrupt group of people imaginable

[silvery-bluish]

Hello! hand on chest during a casual conversation and/ or bear hugs for Arsinoe pretty please ^^

Word Count: 408 + 373 Contents: Hand on chest during a casual conversation turned into Arsinoe and Themmy pre-HB not romantic not platonic but a Secret Third Thing and. only sort of hand on chest. Set between the Psychopathor incident and the Catastrofiend incident, to ground it in the timeline a little. Bear hugs is Arsinoe and Chen, strictly platonic, and Retri spoilers. Do not ask how it actually fits into the timeline because I don't have an answer for that one.

Prompt from here!

Hand on chest during a casual conversation

“You’ve never ridden a roller coaster.” It’s said without judgment, somehow, more double-checking than asking for an explanation for your failure to do something so normal. 

“No.” You and Anathema are sitting on the edge of a building, legs dangling over the side, taking a break from patrol to drink water. Hydration is important, in the Los Diablos sun, and you’re pretty sure their acid must use water in some way, even if it’s just for the component parts, or dilution. Not that you’ve asked about the chemistry. “Never had the chance.”

“What abouuut…” they trail off, thinking for a moment, swirling their water bottle gently to watch it spin. “Cotton candy? Funnel cake? Those games that are super rigged but you always sort of want to win a stuffed animal anyway?”

“I’ve never been to an amusement park at all,” you admit, “So if that’s all amusement park stuff, no.” You’re hoping it doesn’t make you sound too much like you’ve got no idea what you’re doing, trying to be human. How often do people go to that kind of thing? Is it notably weird that you haven’t?

“We should go,” Themmy says, smiling softly. “I didn’t get to go to one till a few years ago, they’re pretty fun if you go with friends. Bet we could grab Ortega, make a thing of it. And if you don’t like it, we can just grab a bunch of food and leave with it.”

It’s a quick tap, twice to their chest over their heart with your free hand and your own heart in your throat even though they can’t know what it means, not really, and you’re not going to explain, so you follow it up with, “I’d rather just go with you. Ortega would make too much of a thing of it, and I don’t know how well the crowds will mix with,” tap your temple twice with your pointer finger. Nervous fiddling of your hands, tapping away at other things, little messages just for you.

“Works for me,” Themmy says with a shrug, taking your weirdness in stride. “Maybe we can go with a bigger group next time.” They bump your shoulders together, swaying in and out of your personal space. “This trip can just be us. Less likely to get waylaid by the Charge Popularity Vortex that way, too.”

“That is a positive,” you muse, meeting their smile with a smile of your own.

Bear hugs

You hadn’t really thought of Chen as the hugging type, before. Too aloof, remote and distrusting, helmet and metal armor and a brick wall of a mind. But, hey, you’re apparently finding out that you’re not a good judge of character a lot these days.

Keep your eyes firmly shut, it'd be dark even if you open them because you’re hiding your whole damn face, hands knotted in his shirt -- worn, cotton, some symbol on the front too faded to parse -- his arms around your back in turn, one flesh one metal both his except--

It’s because he was looking for you that he got hurt. Lost his arm. Almost died. But he was looking for you, and you don’t know if it was some sense of duty, some desire to know how all the pieces laid out even when you were dead more than because it was you who’d died, but he’d looked either way. And that was worth-- something.

“I didn’t thank you, before, did I?” you say, before you can think better of it. Your voice is muffled slightly because you’re basically just talking into his chest, but when his arms loosen you don’t pull back. You don’t want to have to look at his face when you’re talking. 

“For what?” When he realizes you have no intention of actually letting go, his arms tighten again. Steady weight against your back. Willing to wait for you to explain yourself. 

“Looking for me. It. You didn’t find me, not all of me, but it matters that you.” Tried? Looked at all? “Cared,” you settle on. “So. Thank you.”

An intake of breath. Surprise, maybe, you’re pretty sure he’d been expecting you to get mad about it. Wanted you to get mad about it, a little. “Don’t do that.”

“What, thank you?” You don’t wait for an answer, just push onward fast enough that he can’t get a word in. “I can’t believe you’re trying to turn this into an argument. Just let me say this, ‘cause I’m probably never going to say it again." A beat, and he doesn't interrupt. "It matters that you tried, to me.”

A quiet huff of a laugh, barely more than an exhale. “Alright. No argument. Not this time, at least.”

“Good.”

[abastardworthknowing]

I am doing an autism btw and putting my media studies degree to the test by trying to use what we know about cinematography in season 1 and carrying that knowledge over to season 2

For example, Aziraphale and Crowley being put on the left and right respectively ON PURPOSE for most scenes (except for in the Bentley). Because then, when they're on the wrong sides, there must be a reason or a purpose to it.

Because we see them so much more this season, I want to try and figure out why some scenes feel so off... and why some things (contextually) make no sense at all.

It could be that they're on the wrong sides for reasons we don't know yet, too. There could be things that don't make sense that don't make sense if you don't pick up what the go team has specifically put down for us. I'm going to post about it bit by bit tbh. And donit in sections.

Starting with their positions in scenes. I'll mostly be noting when they're on the wrong sides and what we can pick up from the scene there.

[the-anathema-device]

* mumbling and looking around wildly *

You can’t help me, nobody helps me. You aren’t Nobody. I know Nobody, and you aren’t him.

Gotta eat, gotta eat and it was fucking cold but it’s not cold now and my leg froze stiff but then I moved it again I got Nobody’s help to do it I got, I gotta pigeon

shoulda roasted it, roasted pigeon food of kings, could I eat a swan maybe I need, they got cricket bats for wings, I could eat a bat…

No- nobody?

*She thinks about Odysseus and the Cyclops.*

Um- I don’t think that’s a good idea. Do you need some food? I can buy you some…

[alteredphoenix]

You know what, fuck it, I’m going to say it:

If Episode Final had revealed so much as a hint as to who Michelle’s parents were and what her heritage was and just left it hanging, unanswered, I would have been absolutely fucking livid.

Here’s a girl who’s spent fifteen years of her life where nothing in particular remotely happened, nine of which were spent raised under the care of a man whom I honestly don’t think is related to her at all who taught her medical science in a little village by the sea in Sheep Country, and tells her she’s definitely not this “goddess of healing” everybody else has been calling her as of late because those artes may as well be miracles performed in the flesh and that she shouldn’t be so dependent on them. She doesn’t know who her parents and where they are, other than being doctors that were born outside of Sheep Country, but they’re not in her life and haven’t been for as long as she can remember she can’t even put a name or face to them, and the one person who does have the answers for them keeps putting the talk off for years until one day he gets to hear said girl tell him that no, she’s not staying put and letting the adults get the ingredient they need to heal the Random Joe that got poisoned by a beast that shouldn’t be so close to their little village by the sea, she’s going out there, and she’s doing it with her artes - the same artes she uses to help heal people with, except this time they’re weaponized, he had no idea where she had learned to do all of that, and by Origin she’s hitting the coast and getting that damn flower whether he wants her to or not - and she gets it. She gets it with the help of a soldier passing by and makes it back home in one piece, none the worse for wear. (And isn’t it so strange that a girl raised among sheep is using a wolf in her repertoire of magic? Isn’t it just so strange she’s using the shape of not only one of the sheep’s most fearsome predators but her country’s - and her faction’s - greatest enemy, as well?) But even as she goes back home to help make the medicine that’ll save her patient, she never stops asking the questions she spoke out loud in the Salty Cove: What were my parents like? Were they worried about me getting hurt when I was a child? Which one of them did I get my artes from? Did I get them from both of them? How come they never came to see me?

Here’s a girl that’s running the counter at the clinic like usual, a normal day in a rather normal life, and one day the man that’s been raising her for almost ten years decides to tell her that lunch can wait, there’s something more important they need to do - that he needs to do, something more important that she needs to hear, and he lays it out to simple and clear: he’s going to tell her everything about her parents, the people she’s always wanted to know about, and put all those questions she’s been asking him and to herself to rest. No more secrets. Here’s a girl who’s this close to knowing, this close to having the truth be revealed, and in a fit of cosmic irony - be it out of a sense of morbid humor or cruelty - they get cut off. They find out a man’s been injured; he’s in dire straits and he needs to be tended to and fast. Here’s a girl that’s ready to tear through the house for medicine that might ease his pain when there’s a knock on the door, and it’s the lady soldier from before at the Cove. She tells her that a guy got attacked not by beasts but people and showing signs of a disease that infects the person with a change that turns them into something other, more demon than man, and he needs to be found ASAP.

And then her grandfather gets bitten. The change is already taking hold of him. And then she finds out from the soldier that once it happens there’s no cure. There is no saving someone from infection, and that’s there only recourse, and that recourse is death. Death before the virus can spread. And suddenly all the answers that she could have had about her parents, the family she never knew, are ripped away from her. Suddenly the man that held those answers, the man who raised her and gave her a childhood, is on death’s door, and there is no saving him from the infection that is going to rob him of his will and thought and turn him into a monster whose only goal is to kill and keep the virus going. Suddenly the soldier, the medic who’s been traveling the countryside searching for the group that was infected to put them down, is drawing her blade with a remorseful look in her eye. Suddenly, the life as the girl knows it comes crashing down, just like that.

She snaps. For the first time she’s not using her artes to heal but to hurt, to stop the soldier from killing the only family she has - the only family she has left and has ever known - and gets him out of there, passing him off to a friend with the promise that he gets her grandfather as far away from the little village by the sea as possible. And then she turns her sights on the soldiers that accompanied their captain, these people that have the nerve to take away her family from her. And so she turns the wolves on them, and in their shock they’re driven from her home, and that is good enough for her. It’s good enough for her to run and catch up and find her friend and grandfather. Except when she does he tells her her grandfather managed to get away, making for the Salty Cove. And so she runs, Federation soldiers and their lady knight hot on her heels.

Very briefly, she considers bolting for the north, the land of her enemy. Very briefly, she considers finding refuge and hope and solace within the Land of Wolves, where the sheep dare not tread.

Here’s a girl that finally finds him, worse than he looked before at the bite’s onset, and the knight corners her. There’s nowhere left to run. She tells her it has to be done. Doing it hurts her just as much as the sight of the man suffering from his infliction hurts the girl. If there was a way to save him she would do so in a heartbeat. But there isn’t; the choice has already been - she must kill him. But so has the girl. The girl tells her she won’t let her take him from her. And the knight agrees. She knows what she’s about to do is awful and is going to stick with the girl for the rest of her life - for both their lives. She does not condemn for her feelings. If that is how you truly feel, she tells the girl, then show me your resolve!

And so they fight. Neither will back down. And yet, despite the reaction the girl had at the little village by the sea, the knight tells her that in doing so she had saved everyone from suffering the same fate that’s befallen her grandfather. That by removing him from human contact, she has effectively put an end to the threat that would have hung over them. Through her, the disease will be vanquished from the face of the Land of Sheep. And here’s a girl who denies it, that she didn’t do it out of altruism. Here’s a girl that denies she did it for the man who is her only family and not for others. Through him she was given a purpose. Through him her life was made valuable. And still the knight does not condemn her. Still she tells her that even with things coming to a head as they are now, her feelings are not wrong. She loves her family more than anything in the world.

And then her grandfather gets up and charge when they’re at a standstill. And then the knight moves, too fast for the girl to see, and runs her blade through him. And then they learn that he wasn’t as far long as he appeared, that he made the choice of his own free will, and spends his final moments in the girl’s arms, voicing his regrets. And then he lets her go. And then he dies - and with it all the answers she could’ve had. All the value and purpose she had been given in her life has been rendered null - just like that.

Despite it all, we never get any more information on her family beyond that. We don’t even get a mention of there possibly being a note, something, that Ollie could have left behind to at least give Michelle an idea as to where to start looking. Could she have found it at Aedis? It’s possible; after all, Grace was the one that gave her the admittance letter to pack up and leave the only place she’s ever called home. It’s at Aedis she finds a new family to call her own, friends she has only ever dreamed of having and a school she has always imagined herself being in. It’s through Aedis she would have found a new purpose and find the value she thought was lost - or, rather, perhaps she thought was never there.

Can you imagine what it would’ve been like if the game decided, out of blue, to tell the player the names of Michelle’s parents, or showed them in silhouette, and never brought it up again, because the game shut down? Can you imagine getting just that and only that and nothing else because the game didn’t make enough money to justify what was being put out on an MTX cash shop that it didn’t require?

I would be livid. I would be furious. I would be just as blue-balled from the beginning as I would’ve been toward the end, because despite the parallels Michelle doesn’t quite get the same closure that Hugo gets at Episode Final. While her backstory entertains the idea, she - given what little canon has showed us and as far as it’s considered - chooses to forego leaving the Federation behind and defecting to the Empire as he did, even if the reasons might’ve ended up differently (although I wager, if not for Grace and whatever conclusion Michelle arrived at - to get her into the mindset of - between accepting the letter and deciding on leaving for Silvayer, she would have settled on throwing her lot in with Gildlla, if not out of a desire to protect the people of Bazine, then perhaps for one where she would find purpose and value over there). However, in Hugo’s defense, he doesn’t have the question of who he is and why he is like Michelle does hanging over his head, because that wasn’t what he was introduced with from the onset. The game at least decides to answer why he chose to side with the Empire and is doing what he has to do to protect his friends and family across the border, even if that means his decision comes at the cost of inevitably coming to blows with them and potentially damaging those ties he has with them forever.

But his is an easy mystery to solve, because among all the other mysteries that linger in the background finding out why a student from Aedis betrayed the Federation and is now fighting for the Empire - the same Empire that set Anthwan on fire and razed Le Sant, his hometown, to the ground - is a rather easy question to answer. Traitors are a staple to the Tales franchise, and what would be more enticing to learn the revelations and reasonings of a marked traitor than the person that was designed to be in the role of the traitor in mind from the very beginning?

Of course, the topic of parents - and the lore behind them - are just as essential to the Tales narrative as the traitor archetype, and it’s Michelle that has that question, and many others proceeding them, that go unanswered in the end. Who are they? Where did they come from? How are her artes related to them? How important are they to the story and the Greater Scope Plot, and what is it about them that made Ollie hesitate so much he couldn’t bring himself to tell her until she told him she was going to go out into the wild and use her artes to protect herself from the beasts and monsters that would have gotten in her way?

Who knows! Because at the end of the day it’s money that makes the world go round and money is the lifeblood that flows through an IP, especially in an entry that’s made on a mobile phone. We might never get an answer to those questions that the narrative, and even Michelle herself, proposed, and with it the character arc - positive or negative - that Michelle could’ve had as a result.

[lola-writes]

Duty Is Sacrifice

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Velaryon/Strong!reader

Word Count: 2,6k

Themes & Warnings: Winterfell, pov. first person, feelings realization, fluff and smut, fingering, orgasm

Summary: Queen Rhaenyra sends you to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. In him you find not only an ally, but something deeper as well…

Song: Skin and Bones (Cinematic) - David Kushner

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

The wilderness beyond the Wall sprawled before me atop the outlook, an uncharted immensity dripping with anathema. A frozen wasteland, it held a cold that seemed to seep into your very soul, promising to turn your bones to ice with a single, lingering glance.

The stories from the seasoned rangers down below had painted a vivid picture, but this, this was a masterpiece beyond mere words. The frigid air, a living entity, tore at my dark hair and the borrowed furs – those very furs my stubborn pride had initially dismissed. Now, the only thing missing from mirroring those same hardened rangers was a permanent furrow etched between my brows, a testament to countless nights spent battling the elements. 

Their Lord was a wall of warmth which prevented the gnawing chill from consuming me. His massive form broadened at my side, his very presence thawing me. Turning to him, I observed the furrow deepening between his brows as he regarded me, though it wasn’t a testament to the cold, but rather something concerned. 

“Winterfell beckons, Princess,” he said, his timber thick with northern accent, “Let us return to warm you.” 

His gloved hand, rough yet surprisingly gentle, reached out for me. Relief washed over me as I grasped it, the worn leather a welcome anchor against the treacherous turret steps.

“Blazing fires. Hot stew. How’s that sound?” His stoic expression nearly cracked to the rumble in my stomach. I noticed I was still supported in his grasp well beyond danger, when I felt his thumb tracing reassuring circles on the back of my hand, sending a delicious shiver snaking down my spine.

Gently, I returned it to my side. “That would be most pleasant, thank you my Lord.”

Days had bled into one another at his side, treating, feasting, drinking, strategizing, and though I had no doubt I had fixed him as an ally to my mother’s claim, some other heat beneath the veneer of alliance had begun to simmer in his gaze, a spark that mirrored the disquiet blooming in my own chest.

The iron cage groaned its descent down to Castle Black, echoing through the black shaft like cries of the damned. From the moment I stepped foot in Winterfell, he’d woven a tapestry of comfort. He recalled every detail I mentioned in passing, and behind his every effort to make me feel at home was a gesture conforming to something I’d previously told him I enjoyed – a steaming mug of my favorite herbal tea, a book on a subject I’d once expressed interest in. He was unlike any man I’d encountered. Each word he uttered was a silken caress, so gentle it felt like he feared his own timber could bruise me. But a heavy weight had settled in my chest. My replies had now become clipped, mere whispers that barely escaped my lips. There was so much more at stake now beyond my desires. Duty loomed heavy on my shoulders. I feared any careless words or lingering glances could brittle the alliance with the Starks to pieces.

We mounted our horses and begun our nigh-on two days ride back to Winterfell. Though not as biting as the Wall’s teeth, the wind on the Kingsroad still carried a relentless edge. The only warmth to be found radiated shyly from the small fires Cregan’s bannermen had built, and the thick fur I wove tightly around myself at night.

As the colossal granite form of Winterfell finally clawed its way up from the horizon, a wave of exhaustion crashed into me, settling heavy in my bones. Dismounting was an ordeal. Every muscle in my body throbbed in protest from the days’ ride. My legs, leaden weights, buckled before I could even consider lowering myself. 

But before I could hit the ground, strong arms, surprisingly gentle, encircled my waist, and lifted me from the saddle before I could even think to react. 

We stood there, my body swaying slightly in his arms, our eyes lingering on each other for a second beyond my comfort. His eyes, normally the clear blue of a summer sky, were now a stormy gray, swirling with unspoken concern. A tremor of something akin to fear danced in my chest, battling the unexpected flutter at his touch. 

“Apologies, my Lord,” I stammered, cheeks flushing with a heat that had naught to do with exertion. “Dragon saddle is one thing, but I fear horseback is another entirely.” I smiled apologetically. 

Cregan’s fingers lingered on my waist, a gentle caress that singed through my leathers and into my very skin, sending a jolt through me. He withdrew them slowly, and my side ached from their absence. 

“Fret not, Princess,” he rumbled, his voice a warm current, “Two days on horseback have felled men twice your size.”

I giggled to his obvious attempt at comforting me. “I wouldn’t bet on that,” I replied, taking trembling steps toward the castle.

Once in my chambers, I collapsed onto the bed; sleep, thick and heavy, stealing the day. When I finally opened my eyes, the only light in the room spilled from the dying embers in the hearth. 

A gnawing hunger, cold and insistent, hollowed my gut. With a deep breath, I rose, and dressed in my house colors, the fabric thick with responsibility. Then, I descended the steps in my hunt for scraps.

The massive oak doors of the Great Hall ground open, revealing a cavernous space bathed in the flickering, golden glow of a roaring fire. Laughter and the murmur of rough voices hung in the air. Fur cloaked figures huddled around the immense hearth at the far end, casting dancing shadows on the towering walls. Lord Stark sat amidst his bannermen; tankards raised in boisterous revelry. 

The merriment dipped as I entered. Heads swiveled my way, some splitting into knowing grins. The bannermen rose in unison, scattering like startled crows, their boisterousness replaced by a respectful chorus of greetings and a flurry of curt bows. 

“My regrets for missing supper,” I said, drawing Cregan’s heavy gaze. His shadowed form, a giant even in the flickering firelight, rose with a quiet grace that belied his imposing physique. 

“You need not worry,” he said, ladling steaming stew from a small pot over the fire and offered me the bowl with one hand. A grateful smile lit my face as I accepted it. 

“You grow quite comely as a serving girl,” I jested, a flicker of triumph igniting in my chest when his mouth quirked up into a faint smirk, a flicker of warmth dancing in his eyes, a rare concession on his normally stoic face. 

I settled onto the bench beside his chair and began devouring the stew, its meat and vegetables soothing the ache in my belly. As I ate, I stole glances at Cregan, his face bathed in the rich firelight, a mask of unreadable emotions. 

Regret, sharp and unwelcome, tightened in my chest as I observed him. I had a duty fulfilled, but a heart unsatiated. I had come to Winterfell to remind him of the oath his house swore to my mother, and he had not left me wanton. Yet, the journey back to Dragonstone loomed large in my mind. The prospect of leaving him, perhaps for a very long time, cast a long shadow. Unless he too agreed to join us.

“The Queen’s sworn allies are too few to win a war for the throne,” I declared, my voice tight with the weight of responsibility, “She needs your men.”

His jaw clenched, his stoicism returning like a steel mask. “Cursed be the Hightowers,” he growled, venom lacing his voice. “But winter is coming. War of dragons is never a small ordeal. If the Queen is in need of my men to defeat the usurper, you must allow me to wait out the winter.”

Despair clawed at my throat. Memories and tales of past winters surfaced, stretching on for months, even years. Without the full support of the North, we could be crushed before winter even loosened its icy grip. Perhaps reduced to cinders beneath the wrath of the dragons. 

“It will be too late,” I pleaded, the urgency in my voice cracking the carefully constructed façade I had built.

Cregan met my gaze, his eyes a stormy gray. “It’s the best I can do, Princess. I hope you will forgive me.”

A spark of anger ignited within me, battling the tendrils of despair. “You swore an oath, Lord Stark.”

He held my stare, unwavering. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, “You will have two thousand greybeards that can be ready to march at once.”

“What of you?” My voice trembled, tears welling up before I had the strength to stop them. “What if this is goodbye?” 

Understanding suddenly dawned in his eyes, and his brows furrowed in what I thought was despair. He came to sit beside me, the wood groaning under his weight. His large, calloused thumbs painted the tears across my cheeks. 

“I assure you, Princess,” he said softly, “This is not goodbye.” His hand came up to grasp my chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting it up to meet his intense gaze. “I swear it,” he vowed, steel threading through his words. Hope surged through me; a lifeline cast into the churning sea of anguish. 

Starks do not forget an oath. 

“The Hightowers were doomed the second they put the imposter on that throne,” Cregan rumbled, his voice a low caress. 

The space between us seemed to have dissolved, his calloused hands engulfing mine in a firm, reassuring grasp. Silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions, tension dripping like honey. I waited for him to say something else, but he remained still, quiet, his fingers slowly and gently exploring mine, each touch sending sparks of lightning up my arms. I met his gaze, my breathing shallowing as I realized his lips were but a whisper away, his dark eyes shimmering with heat, flickering with an unspoken hunger that seethed beneath my skin with each second. 

“Their betrayal…” His voice was barely a whisper, his fingers ceased their dance with mine, and began their path up my arms, “…will not go unpunished,” he said thickly, his hands now grazing my upper arms, up my shoulders, ceasing at the curve of my neck, the movement sending a sizzling sensation through my blood. 

With the cold that had plagued me so these last few days, I began to fever. My lips parted as if I was suddenly short of breath, and I felt a curious pulse that drifted between my thighs. My whole body, like to an unseen force, drew closer to him, and he tensed beneath his leathers. His frame vibrated with desperate restraint, the fire in his eyes warring between duty and sacrifice. 

“I am a man of honor,” he groaned. My stomach tightened as his hands inched up my neck and traced the line of my jaw, his coarse thumb brushing across my lips. 

Something tugged on my stomach from the inside as the fiery heat of his fingers burned through my skin. My breaths came out ragged and shallow while he remained silent, as though he was immersed in concentration. 

Without knowing the full implication of my words, I whispered, “Dishonor me.”

For the storm, only just contained, raged wild in his eyes, a low growl sounded from deep in his chest before he crashed his lips to mine. 

I received them with a low, beckoning gasp. My palms came up to his neck, my nails running the length of it as he explored my lips, the roof of my mouth, my teeth, and under my tongue. Then his lips traced my jaw, finding my ear, breathed his warm air into it, nibbled my lobe, then covered my throat in wet kisses. I tilted my head to grant him access, as low, sensual mewlings poured from my lips, something carnal infiltrating my veins.

His hands came down to my waist, and I gasped in surprise when he lifted me and placed me in his lap, my legs latching around his back. 

He was so big and warm and hard. His eyes were lazy and dark as his fingers began to lightly trace down the side of my neck, then hooking into my dress to bare my shoulder. He kissed it with an open mouth and moving tongue, and I quivered beneath his touch. Then, with a sharp sound of a tear, he had pulled my dress all the way down my abdomen. 

He groaned at the sight of me, his lips slightly parted, his hands delicately cupping my breasts as if he’d found treasure. When the cold made me shiver, he leaned into me to lend me his warmth, while his lips tantalized me, drawing close to my hardened nipple, blowing it with hot air, then backing off, kissing across my breastbone to the other, until I forced his mouth to it.

He hummed with throaty satisfaction, latching onto it and giving it one slow suck, grazing the skin with his teeth. I threw my head back with a gasp. White heat shot like lightning between my thighs, before pulsing into an empty ache. I swayed into him, bucking my hips into his groin, feeling him harden beneath me. He suckled my other breast in warm, slow pulses, circling the areola, drawing panting moans out of me, before he found my lips again. 

Gathering my skirts, he moved his hands underneath them, gripping the fullness of my thighs, kneading them, squeezing them, to the point it pinched me, and I bit his bottom lip in protest. 

Cregan Stark was a gentle giant in all matters but things salacious. 

A throaty sigh escaped his lips as his hands found my buttocks, kneading the flesh between his fingers. Hot, slick tingles pooled between my thighs, and my fingers curled in his hair. My body hummed in anticipation as his finger slid downward, a groan pouring out of me as he grazed over my wet opening. 

“Oh, Princess.” The words were like magic on his lips, shooting through my core in throbbing pulses. 

His other arm snaked around my waist, locking me to his body as he explored and moistened my folds, leaving me a bucking, moaning mess in his lap. 

I felt empty and sickly. A fog had infiltrated my vision, my skin, my mind, my inhibitions. I coveted him. I needed him, more than I needed anything else. His eyes alone could touch inside of me, but I could not explain the pulsing, throbbing, delirious effects of his hands, his mouth, his tongue, and I ached for more. I felt unfinished, incomplete. 

Until he slid a finger deep inside me, and I gasped. Hot, sweet pressure filled me, and once I adjusted, he introduced another, threatening to overfill as he fingered me. 

Fast and then lazy. 

Over and over. 

The room filled with wet squelching noises and my moaning squeals. His deeper, throatier moans vibrated through his chest and lit me on fire, burning in my lower stomach, blazing, desperate for feed, or I would disintegrate. 

My nails dug desperately into his shoulders, as any attempts of filling myself up to completion were in vain by the power of his grip around my waist. He trailed every inch of my neck, kissing it as it if were my mouth, with lips, tongue, and teeth. His fingers penetrated deep and curled inside of me, rubbing something within that sent pressure bursting into tingles and flames, my veins burning up like dragon fire, and stars sparkling behind my eyelids. I cried out with the purest ecstasy as my body shuddered and clenched around his fingers, and he groaned against my skin with dark satisfaction as I clung to him desperately.

Once my trembles ceased and I managed to catch my breath, he took my cheeks in his hand and kissed me fiercely, passionately, his fires still boiling for release.

“I am coming with you,” he declared.

Tag list: @koyaa66648 @longlivemyblues @melsunshine @urdadsfavs @the-great-ladyg @barackosteaa @elysyannemimi @80sstradlin @hgyura @telltale-vixen @nyxbranwenn @tortargaryen @naxal-jlt @flowercrownsandherondales @red-hydra @lanadelray1989 @crumbledcastle28 @midnightcrw @prismaudee @nsr-15