꒰ i'm a hurt/comfort enthusiast. i realize now that fireman carry is not bridal style um um this is awkward um. flufftober (make-up) day twenty-one (alt.), fireman's carry ꒱ — cregan stark x fem!reader (w.1.3k)
it was your fault. let cregan chide you for the self blame later. as the ice covered pond gives way and you're plunged into frigid water, you realize that yes, this might be your fault.
you fight towards the abysmal black spot in the ice, recalling what you'd been taught about getting trapped in this situation. your fingers are hardly out of the hole before strong hands hook under your armpits and haul you up, out. winter air breaks against your ice drenched skin, chilling you deeper than you ever thought possible.
you make out your name, shouted in your face; a man above you, thick black hair and long beard. not cregan.
lord karstark shakes your shoulders hard. "my lady!" he yells, face closer to yours. his breath smells like strong ale and the persimmon cakes that the ladies and lords had been enjoying during the hunt. it makes you feel nauseous, and that makes you feel elated because you're feeling something, smelling something. you're alive, not frozen, not drowned.
there's some more commotion as you try to force water from your lungs. you sit up enough to get on your elbow, lord karstark supporting your back with one hand. you don't pay any mind to what's happening behind you, diaphragm convulsing as you choke and gasp.
you question it when lord karstark's hands falter, desperate for some support and help. what if he gets up? what if he leaves you here to freeze and choke? why would he do that? you aren't thinking rationally.
the packed snow crunches behind you, at least three sets of feet approaching. you know his gait, you know his steps. you can recognize cregan even in a pack.
"up," you hear his stern voice. his hands replace lord karstark's, warm through his gloves. "sit up."
you do it, because he manhandles you into a sitting position, supporting your upper body and hitting your back with the heel of his hand. that helps, forcing water from your lungs. it hurts coming up, sharp and icy.
"good girl," cregan murmurs, cupping his free hand under your chin to mitigate much of the water you cough up from landing on your gown. not that it would matter, seeing as you are completely and entirely soaked.
you sag in his arms, chest so tight that your breath is wheezy, harder to get out, moreso with the violent chattering of your teeth. you hear cregan snap at some poor squire, "my horse! i said get my horse!" you would reprimand him in a normal circumstance, but in a normal circumstance cregan is the most level-headed man in the world and wouldn't snap at a squire. and in a normal circumstance you wouldn't be near drowned and halfway to frostbite.
cregan scoops you up then, shushing you softly when you gasp at the sudden movement. he adjusts you in his arms, bringing your head to rest against his shoulder.
"your clothes," you manage through chattering teeth.
"i don't care," he replies, not making you voice your distress over getting him wet. he knows, like he can read your mind. "they're clothes. i will change them."
there's some debate as his bannermen trail him: 'go back to the castle?' 'no, too far, she'll freeze.' 'surely she'll get pneumonia if she stays out here.' 'the castle has a maester, she should be there.' cregan doesn't pay it any attention, making his way to the camp with single-minded determination.
he loses the lords when he ducks into his tent.
cregan deposits you onto a thick fur, cupping your face between both gloved hands. he looks at you very seriously, searching for your focus behind the fog of freezing. "i will be gone for one moment. you stay right here; you have to stay awake. can you do that?" he strokes your cheekbone with his gloved thumb. "can you sit here just like this for one moment?"
he waits for you to nod to get up, frantically searching through his trunk. items are flung to the floor in his haste, discarded and forgotten; cregan doesn't do that, he's usually so tidy.
he returns as promised, a thick length of cloth in one hand and a clean wool-lined fur cloak in the other. he makes quick work of undressing you, so gentle to move cold-stiff limbs that you can't. your gowns are heavy with the water soaked into them, and each layer makes a sick thunk on the tent floor as they slough off.
he discards his golves then, cloak following. you're naked and freezing, cregan's skin so warm that his hands feel like brands against your biceps. "i know," he murmurs, voice mirroring your pain as you whine and writhe against the uncomfortable heat. "i know, sweetheart."
he drapes the fur over your shoulders, frantically unbuttoning his jerkin and untying his tunic to provide some sort of body heat. he lets you lean against him yourself, using the length of cloth to begin toweling you off. arms and torso first, legs second, because that requires you to shift. when he gets to your face he's unyieldingly gentle, patting the fabric against your skin to absorb the remaining dampness.
he guides your head to his chest with one hand, focusing his attention on the length of your hair. it's dripping, stiff in some parts from being wet and exposed to the cold air. he scrunches the bottom, soaking up most of the excess water, and ruffles the top of your hair with the towel until he's satisfied that your hair is dry enough to prevent any extra discomfort. it will be tangled, you'll be upset, but he'll sort it. he'll sit behind you in the bath and finger every knot until it's smooth again. he just wants to get to that bath without you freezing.
with his warm, warm hand, he cups your chin and guides your face up. "look at me," he says. "look at me, pet. look."
you do, focusing your eyes with some intention.
"good girl," he provides again. the casual observer wouldn't notice, but you can tell that his voice is edged with panic. "you warmer?" when you nod, a relieved little smile cracks on his face.
cregan sits then, cradling your cold body to his chest. you're frigid and shivering, and he is unyielding. he is glad that you are alive, above all else.
"what were you thinking?" cregan whispers. "on a frozen lake. you know better."
you do know better, and you confirm it with a nod. "the baker, the one who lives past the god's wood and brings us our bread — his son was so far out, in the middle of the lake."
he strokes your damp hair, looking down at your shaking form. "and you went to fetch him."
another nod; that makes him hold you closer. "brave girl," he coos lowly, alarming and uncharacteristic against his brooding disposition. "please, please, do not pull such an act again."
"i got him off the ice before it broke under me," you defend weakly.
he kisses your damp forehead, "i would expect no different."
for a long while you stay like that — bundled in his cloak, sitting in his lap, leeching his body heat. he rubs your arms under the fur, your shoulders and the back of your neck as he works up.
"i want to wait to ride back to winterfell until dawn breaks," he murmurs, grey eyes finding yours. "i'm afraid if we go now you will be subjected to more cold, and i will not see you catch your death." he sighs, leaning closer to pepper soft kisses to your features. "no more hunts-" your nose. "i hate them, i don't know why i agree to go," your right cheek, and the your jaw. "better that we stay in when it's cold," the same on the left, "you and i, warm by the fire, that sounds insurmountably better." he lands the final kiss to your mouth, soft and chaiste in a way that you wouldn't think anyone capable of.
"i love you," cregan whispers against your mouth. "i'll keep you warm."
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
𖦹 please don't feed my writing to any ai chatbot as source material. i will find you.
꒰ maybe ooc cregan, but maybe cregan can't be ooc because he only had three minutes of screentime. flufftober (makeup) day thirteen, hosting a holiday event ꒱ — cregan stark x reader (w.582)
the great hall bustles with life, singing and chanting, the clapping of hands as the occasional unlucky set of guests is urged into the center of the room to dance together. it's late enough that the waltzing has been forgotten in favor of folk dances — lord manderly and lady cerwyn are performing to the tipsy chant of ‘the bear, the bear, and the maiden fiar’ that rings across the space.
you spoon at the little dish of persimmon pudding before you, rich with ginger and chocolate, special for harvest fest. cregan lounges in his seat beside you, slouched and relaxed. he’s typically on guard, even during feasts and parties, so you’re glad to see him at ease like this, ice left in his bedchamber, shoulders free of the burden of his heavy fur cloak.
he glances over, catching you staring. a little smile quirks the ends of his mouth up, hand leaving the table to rest on your knee. It skirts up slowly, coming to squeeze your thigh gently. “are you enjoying yourself?” cregan asks, leaning close so that his voice might be audible over the din of the great hall.
you nod, turning to face him, coming almost nose to nose. “i’m having a very pleasant time,” you reply. “the cooks have outdone themselves, everything is spectacular.”
“aye,” he replies. “i think the entertainment suffices as well.”
you look out into the hall, watching the dancing and singing, the musicians with their lutes and lyres. yes, the entertainment would suffice.
“do you wish to dance?” you ask, turning back to look at him.
cregan smiles, cocking his head to look at you. “why don’t you go?” he offers, voice gentle. “I’ll join you shortly.”
“you don’t want to come with me?” you ask.
his heart aches at your little frown, the crease that appears between your brows. “i do want to join you,” he assures, thumb running up your nose bridge to smooth the furrow. “but i want to watch you for a while first.” his hand moves down, cupping your cheek. he strokes your cheekbone when you lean into his palm, fully aware of the power that he holds over you. “may i? hm?”
you nod, smiling up at him. “but you will come and dance with me soon?” you ask.
cregan nods, hooking a finger under your chin to guide your face to his. he presses his mouth to yours, a slow kiss, unashamed to express this affection in front of her bannermen.
you give him a little wave as you make your way into the crowd of jolly dancers, immediately occupied by lord karstark. he’s a large man, intimidating to look upon, but a true gentle giant. cregan watches from the dias, ceramic goblet of ale in hand.
you get through two songs, upbeat and fast-paced, lord karstark practiced in the steps. you’re both ended and nearly doubled over in laughter when the second song ends, lord karstark departs while you’re catching your breath to find his own lady-wife, and as you watch him leave, warm hands settle on your waist.
“i’ve come for my dance, lady stark,” cregan murmurs against the shell of your ear.
you spin in his hold, arms coming quickly to wrap around his neck. the tempo slows, cello picking up as the room transitions to waltzing. “just in time,” you murmur, settling in the hold of his arms.
“you look lovely,” he tells you, voice soft. “have i told you that tonight?”
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
𖦹 please don't feed my writing to any ai chatbot as source material. i will find you.
Seriously, can hotd just give him to us?!? I see mentions/"spoilers" about the Winter Wolves army, but nothing about Creegan himself. It's been two years since Season 2, where he had four (?) minutes of screen time. You can't make us wait another two years if he doesn't show up in Season 3!! I'll send a curse to HotD.
[Video description: Gritty is turning the crank on a flagpole to raise the Progress Pride Flag. He gesticulates angrily that the flag is not blowing in the wind, then gestures offscreen. The flag begins blowing. As Gritty begins raising the flag more, the camera pans out to show a man in a suit and sunglasses, looking like a stern Secret Service agent, is holding a leafblower that points at the flag. End description.]
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
When I was in grade school I used to send emails to biologists and zoologists asking them questions to get answers to include in school projects I was working on, and would cry when they did not respond because I thought I was stupid for thinking that some random kid would ever be deserving of a response from someone who does something as smart and cool and important as *checks notes* studies frog fungus.
Now, at 29, I’m lowkey having a panic attack because my academic email is filled with middle schoolers wanting me to answer their questions about pygmy raccoons and I keep putting off answering them because I’m so overwhelmed with all the other raccoon stuff I have to do.
Anyway, greatest apologies to any scientist I ever emailed as a child and also an adult.
Historically, one of the most reliable sources of widespread banditry was rulers ramping up military recruitment for major wars, then cutting their soldiers loose afterwards without pay, leaving a bunch of heavily armed men with military experience floating around broke and homeless.
Knowing this, whenever someone jokingly refers to raccoons as "trash bandits", I get a vivid mental image of, like, a raccoon succession crisis leading to a raccoon civil war, the aftermath of which forced the former soldiers of the losing side (who are all raccoons) to take up the life of the raccoon outlaw.
