#As if my not liking it was some sort of personal insult

[moral-autism]

I mean it seems like the above case is really more about moral-autism’s own personal grievances. The dog thing seems especially specific

I gave examples from my personal experiences, but I suspect other people can think of similar examples from their lives.

If we’re taking this thread about decline in humiliation then obviously the transition to a less humiliating society will have some humiliating effects to groups who now are socially expected to mitigate their behaviour

I really don't think that explains the entire issue here. Sure, it can feel humiliating to be told "no, you're not allowed to use 'he' as a generic pronoun anymore" because presumably transitioning away from that takes nontrivial mental effort.

However, what I think is more centrally humiliating is double standards.

Suppose you're a straight person without a ton of exposure to politics. (Implausible for the typical Tumblr user, I know.) Your progressive friend argues that people should be respectful of other sexual orientations. In particular, they argue, you should stop using "that's so gay" and such as insults, because there's nothing wrong with being gay. (You'd picked up this vocabulary from other peers without really thinking about it much.) You decide this is a reasonable argument and put work into removing these sorts of insults from your vocabulary.

Then, later, you overhear someone saying something like [searches bsky for 'straights'] "The straights hardly know up from down. That’s why they look to us gays as beacons of light." You feel somewhat insulted. You complain to your friend about this. Your friend says "hold on, that's tone policing". When you complain that this was still a really rude thing to say, and you thought your friend supported everyone being respectful of other sexual orientations, your friend says that [checks an old citation on the Wikipedia article on tone policing] "tone policing protects privilege – and silences people who are hurting".

This might make you feel like your friend believes there is a class of people who deserve politeness and respect, and some people are in it, and you are not in it. And that's humiliating.

(notes: I am myself gay and was never in the habit of using generic 'he' or "that's so gay", I'm just trying to pick more impersonal examples this time.)

I feel like it's extremely common for political positions and tribes to be downstream of feelings of humiliation, but there is rarely an effort put forward to explicitly minimize humiliation in society. Maybe there ought to be. People really don't like being humiliated.

[sturnililio]

𝑾𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖.. 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.. 𝑴𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒔.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲.. 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒎𝒆𝒅, 𝒆𝒙𝒉𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅, 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 — 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒔 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕, 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 — 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓.

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔.

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲.. @nialler-lover

It was one of those ugly days. 

One that felt too heavy �� too gross.

Looking in the mirror felt like a punishment — your hair was not on your side, and the breakouts on your skin had come to haunt you. All your favourite clothes were in the laundry,  and worst of all? 

You started your period.

Matt was at work, but you? You were moping around the apartment like a sloth on a bad day. Your cramps were attacking your uterus like it had personally insulted them, your head was pounding, and the blanket you had wrapped around your shoulders was trailing behind you like a sad excuse for a cape — though, you were a superhero for handling all of this.

Your lips were etched into a pout as you stopped in front of the freezer, one hand grasping the pink, fluffy, yet slightly worn out blanket, while the other dug around for that certain tub of ice-cream you knew you had. 

It wasn't there either. 

Not behind the frozen peas. Not under the half-empty bag of fries. Nowhere.

That was the last straw. Tears immediately started to pool in your eyes as you shut the freezer door with probably much more force than necessary, your tears now leaving a salty trail of heartbreak on your cheeks. Some may call you dramatic, you call yourself devistated.

You trudged back over to your shared bedroom with Matt, grabbing your phone as you flopped onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes, a soft whine falling from your lips as you sent him a message. 

SOS. Need Ice cream.

Cuddles too.

And maybe some kisses.

Matt would never say no to you. He could be on the battlefield, and one text from you? He's on his way. 

Luckily for him - mostly you - he was just finishing work as the message popped up on his phone. He knew what this meant. He loved receiving this message, feeling a sense of satisfaction that he is the one who could comfort you, kiss you, bring you ice cream. He loved it.

Before long, he arrived home with painkillers, ice cream, pads, chocolate, and a new plushie just for you. After kicking his shoes off, he walked into the bedroom to find you curled up on the bed, wrapped in a million blankets and looking like a sad little burrito. He could've cried. Almost did. The room smelled of vanilla and sadness, your signature scent whenever you were on your period. 

He approached the bed carefully, like you were some sort of skittish animal that would run away if he made any sudden moves. You probably would. Peeking an eye open as you heard him, you lifted your head from your blanket protection. 

"Hey, baby.. you doin' alright under all that?" He asked softly, a hint of amusement in his tone as he offered you a small smile. 

You were far from amused.

Huffing louder than at all needed, you sat up as the blankets pooled around your waist. "No, matter of fact, I'm not." You declared, voice a little whiny as you crossed your arms over your chest, only causing Matt to stifle a chuckle.

"It's not funny." It wasn't, and the look on your face showed that, your eyes narrowed, lips still jutted out into that adorable pout he could never resist. "Not only am I on my period, Matthew, I'm breaking out, my clothes don't fit me, or they're in the fucking laundry, and-" Your voice broke like you were about to have a breakdown. You probably were. "And I missed you." 

Seeing you like this — cheeks blotchy, voice cracking, wrapped in that same ratty blanket you swore was your comfort cape made his chest squeeze in that way it always did when he realized just how much you trusted him with your worst days

He softened. Instantly. He was by your side in seconds, bags forgotten on the floor. They could wait for a moment. You couldn't. "Oh, my love.. it's gonna be okay.." He cooed, taking you in his arms, hand cradling the back of your head as you hid your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of home, safety and love.

You sniffled, small and almost lost against the warm skin of his neck, your arms wrapped so tightly around him it was obvious you never wanted him to leave. Your cramps still ached, head still pounded, and your tastebuds still craved ice cream. But being in Matt's arms made it all a little more bearable.

Eventually, he coaxed you under the covers, tucking the hot water bottle against your tummy like it was sacred. The room — lit only by the flicker of candles and the Tv — no longer smelled like vanilla and sadness, but now of comfort and something sweeter, warmer, and definitely Matt. His arms are wrapped tightly around you as a half-watched movie played in the background. An old one you've both seen hundreds of times, wrapped in the same position, in one another's closeness. 

He tucks you in a little tighter into the covers, fingers gliding through your hair in the rhythmic motion he knows makes you melt, each brush of his fingertips further draining the tension in your body. The plushie he bought you is squished under your arm, being held as close as possible like it shields you from the pain. Maybe it does. 

Matt's eyes drift down to you like they always do, his gaze a mix of amusement and softness. "Still mad about the ice cream?" He asks as if it's not obvious, as if he didn't walk in on you almost crying about it.

You groan, maybe a little too dramatically, your eyes closing for a moment like you're imagining it right in front of you. "Ugh.. I'm literally mourning it." 

"I bought two tubs.. just for you." He whispers like it's a love confession, his smile widening slightly as he leans down to press a lingering kiss on your temple. It's not rushed. It's not hurried. Nothing is. 

You giggle at his words, leaning into his kiss as you shuffle closer to him, your body tucked into the side of his like you were trying to hide from the rest of the world, because maybe you were. And that's okay. Because even on your ugly days, emotional days, period days, you'll always have Matt to protect you — to comfort you and bring you ice cream. 

And that's all you'll ever need.

𝑌𝑎𝑦𝑦 𝐼 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑖𝑡. 𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡, 𝑜𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝒉𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔!!

𝑇𝒉𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐𝒉 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖 𝒉𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦𝑒𝑑!! 𝐼𝑓 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝒉𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤!! 𝐴𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑚𝑒, 𝑜𝑟 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑝 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑏𝑜𝑥 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡!

𝑊𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝒉𝒆 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒... 𝐿𝑖𝑙𝑦, 𝑥𝑜𝑥𝑜

𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑠... @babysweetheartmelia @wesj11 @bernardsbendystraws @mattsgirl23 @silverspringsstare @ilovesturniolozz @eyesonmattyb

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Re: more eat the rich

It comes down, I think, to a particular moral framework that TA seems to ascribe to. JK Rowling is another good example. There's a name for it.. it might be Calvinist?

Basically: The problem isn't having rich people, it's having the *wrong* rich people. You're not a part of an exploitative system that concentrates wealth, you're a *bad rich person*.

The same lens is used for everything else. Nothing is actually systemic. The *system* can't be questioned, only individual actors within the system can be called out as bad at fulfilling their role.

If you use this lens to examine other points in ML that seem weird, I think you'll find they suddenly seem more coherent.

Now- this approach is patently wrong on it's face, but that never stopped people from believing in anything, ever.

(Post that spawned this ask)

The word you're looking for is probably "neoliberalism" and I've noticed it, too! I haven't mentioned it because JK Rowling and her works have become such an upsetting topic for many fans and former fans, but Miraculous absolutely matches Harry Potter's concerning messaging about people being the issue, not the system. The system is inherently good and should not be questioned. I hated that as a kid because I was an avid reader and this wasn't how this kind of story was supposed to go! Why wasn't anything being fixed? Why weren't the inequalities being address? Why weren't the slaves being set free? What is this mess? Don't show me a broken system if you're not going to fix it!!!

If anyone is curious about this world view, I'll give you a video essay on the topic of why Harry Potter is just like that. It's about JK Rowling's political views and how it's reflected in her books which does indeed match Miraculous with things like systems being inherently good and people falling into the categories of "good" and "bad" based on their world view or "team alignment" instead of their actions. The last one really shows up in Miraculous as you can see with the redemption nonsense. Nathalie is inherently good so we welcome her to the good side with no effort required. Chloe is inherently bad so redemption is impossible. Marinette is inherently good so her being mean to Kagami is no big deal. Chloe is inherently bad so her being mean to Marinette in similar ways is horrifically wrong. Really depressing way to view the world.

There are other similarities, too. I'm going to have the video start at the part where it really dives into the neoliberalism stuff, but I encourage you to rewind to the start and watch the hour before that part as it's still relevant to this discussion. Pretend it's about Miraculous and you'll be shocked how many matches there are! It's honestly kind of fun. Like there's a section that talks about time travel and how it was solved by just removing time travel from the universe in an incredibly forced manner and a section that talks about the house elves thing that you could easily port over when talking about the Kwamis. I think about the Kwamis' being slaves a lot. It's a lot more subtle than HP, but it's still there with things like Su-Han talking about how it's bad that Plagg is out of the box since he's supposed to be locked away forever apparently. A line that's played like a joke not an indication that a freedom movement is needed. Nooroo is the only Kwami whose enslavement is a problem because he has a bad master. The other kwamis being slaves is fine for some reason...

[killerpancakeburger]

Been srlsy into the idea of writing more, explicitely fat Reader. Not sure how to tags it thought.

[bananasfosterparent]

Got to my favorite part of Efenity's playthroughs in my current one 👌🏼😩

Astarion's ascension, the cold and unsexy sex scene (that's suspiciously genuine, intimate, and tender hmm) and the turning of Efenity. <3

The other fun part is finally getting to dress them up as Lord and Lady. Taking Astarion from vagabond-looking rogue to commanding Lord with OTT drip, and taking Efie from leather-clad streetrat to the glam baddie she has strived for her whole life but couldn't afford to be lmao

ALSO random, but this time, I brought Jaheira along instead of Gale, just to see what she'd say (if anything) and it's cute how much confidence she has in my Tav and Astarion to be "good" people 🤣 She really doesn't know them at all. She isn't there during his ascension in Efie's canon, but it was fun just to see what she would say.

[hammerhead-jpg]

Okay but how have I never gotten any kind of hateful comment/reblog/ask 🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨 there's no way all of you like me 🤨🤨🤨���

[onewomancitadel]

I received a sample of the Ghost in the Shell EDP by Etat Libre d'Orange for Christmas, which is very nice of the gifter, and the most shocking thing about it is that it has a citrus note (yuzu) which doesn't offend me. Like fresh soapy skin and opening up the case for Twilight Princess when I was a kid and taking a big huff; the plasticky note is there but doesn't smell wrong, which reminds me of Nasomatto's Blamage EDP, which smells of fresh paint or a newly renovated building (itself with that note of plastic - it's industrial). I did wonder whether if it were named something else it would still evoke the sense of cyberpunk, for which I think they had this scene in mind

but then I suppose the naming of things matters for situating meaning and identification anyway.

It's not something I would wear other than for the novelty of buying a DVD version of Ghost in the Shell and spraying the box, or maybe spraying my computer... in that way I view perfumery more as a sensory discovery because I can't really wear very many because of my belligerent immune system. It is actually a remarkably clean scent, though, a simplicity I think is nice and measured. It did occur to me that a criticism of what the cyberpunk genre engenders in its fans is that it is supposed to be an incisive genre, not something that induces desire to live in that world, but I don't think romantic desires are that straightforward - I'm sure you could romanticise an oil refinery just on the basis of having played Final Fantasy 7. It is really more about the wonder of occupying another world and other way of being, and probably on some level surviving it - I don't think the joke that we got the worst parts of cyberpunk but not the cool parts is so much of a joke.

This is all to say that I like being able to think about storytelling in another dimension - I don't really view this as a merchandise cashgrab (which I hate - notably this is a collaboration with an established but cowboy fragrance house) or going too hard on Being the Major, but something actually quite fun.

[mediocreinternetuser]

tew me they are damn near the same...

[sl-ut]

princess of the north

in case i dont end up posting again over the holidays, i just wanna say i hope everyone has a great holiday season and a very very happy new year!!!!

pairing: cregan stark x fem!targtower!pregnant!reader

description: cregan has grown older and happier throughout his years as warden of the north with his beautiful new wife at his side. however, when he married into the royal family, he had not considered how frequently he would need to interact with his in-laws. 

warnings: NO DANCE AU!!! (rhaenyra ascends the throne peacefully), weird blend of book and show timeline, slight description of character (silver hair, purple eyes, that’s it!!!), smut, reader gets pregnant like halfway through, pregnancy sex, oral, piv, SEX IN FRONT OF A FIREPLACE ON A BEARSKIN RUGGGG oml

words: 9.7K

date posted: 10/12/24

part two

The winter had been very forgiving, thank the gods. It had been remarkably short, just under eight years in total, meaning that it had come to a close with plenty of food still in storage and northerners who were more than willing and able to transition into the oncoming summer with ease. 

Winterfell was left in a generally stable state, aside from the fact that there was a greater need for livestock now that they not only had an additional mouth to feed, but also a fully grown dragon who resided in a make-shift dragonpit only a few minutes ride beyond the walls of the castle–a wedding gift that the Lord of Winterfell had prepared in anticipation of his new wife’s arrival. Otherwise, the North seemed to be in greater shape upon the dawn of this new summer than it had in all of Cregan’s years. 

The greatest of Cregan’s accomplishments, of course, was his new wife. At the beginning of the winter, he had not expected that he would be married by the end of it, but with the arrival of Prince Jaeaerys on his official tour of the realm also came his proposal of marriage between Lord Cregan and his own aunt, the youngest daughter of the late King Viserys I and his second wife, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower. He had been hesitant to consider this offer–he’d never met the woman, which was not uncommon for marriages of such high status, but he’d been fortunate enough to have been able to form some sort of friendship with his late wife prior to their union. Jace had brought along with him the terms offered by his mother, in her own hand, of course, as well as a portrait of the woman in question. 

Cregan was not above admitting how taken he’d been with the sight of the princess, even if it were only a recreation of her beauty on canvas. He’d heard of her beauty before, it was rumoured around the realm, but seeing it was entirely different, a sort of beauty he could not have imagined on his own.

“Tell me, my prince,” Cregan asked him, hardly drawing his crystal blue gaze away from the portrait, “you are her blood and have grown up with the princess, is this painting to her likeness?”

Jacaerys smirked, “Of course, Lord Stark. My aunt is known to be one of the most beautiful women ever to live.”

Cregan pursed his lips. He was aware of the strange customs of the Targaryens, having married brother to sister and uncle to niece for generations. Jacaerys could be speaking the truth, for he himself could hold some sort of affection for his aunt, but Cregan did not suspect as such. Intead, his greater question was whether Jacaerys could be lying to him out of political gain; as his mother’s envoy, it would do him no good to suggest that the artist had not accurately painted her. Her looks were of no concern to him, but he valued honour and truth over all else. If they were attempting to attract him to the deal by portraying the princess as such a beauty over anything else, he would be personally insulted to discover that he’d been lied to, a snub from the royal family would not be taken kindly by House Stark. 

“What say you?” Cregan turned to the group of men standing just to the left of the prince, all who seemed alarmed at Lord Stark’s attention being turned to them, “How do each of you vouch for the princess?”

The men, one at a time, attested to the princess’s beauty until he stood before the smallest and visibly youngest of the men.

“And you, lad?” 

“I’m afraid the portrait fails to depict the princess, milord,” The boy grew rosy in the cheeks as he imagined the princess in his mind, eyes drawing towards the portrait, “That is her, yes, but only as close as the Master Holbein could have made it, for I do not think it possible to recreate such beauty. She is gifted by the gods, surely, milord, both in beauty and manner. She is kind, brings food and toys to orphans in Flea Bottom and ev’rything, milord.”

Cregan, taken aback by the answer from the youngest boy, turned back to Prince Jacaerys, who seemed equally as surprised as he did pleased with the answers of his men.

“This is true, milord,” Jace said, “the princess is known among the people for her generosity, among her other talents and traits. It cannot be denied that her mother, the Queen Dowager, was not fond of my family, nor us of her, but the princess was raised better than any of us, I would say. Take the night to think on it, I would hope to send word to the queen before I leave Winterfell at noon.”

Cregan did as instructed, thinking on it long and hard. Her beauty had been their main selling point, something that could not be denied from the portrait sent of her. Lord Stark had half a mind to hang it upon the mantle in his bedchambers whether he takes her to wife or not, but it was not her beauty that had truly swayed his decision. Instead, he thought over the young lad’s words; a southern lady scarcely thrives in the North, a nation nearly as large on its own as all of the remaining six kingdoms put together. The weather was harsh, and the people were harsher, something he could not imagine a Targaryen princess handling well. However, he’d heard of Alicent Hightower’s assertiveness and ability to lead while her husband was incapable and Rhaenyra was in Dragonstone. If what Jacaerys had told him was true, the princess would be dutiful and loyal, and according to the prince’s men, kind beyond words. Beauty may have factored into his decision on a personal level, but he also met the prince the next morning with his acceptance mostly on the basis that he believed that the princess would be wholly capable of helping him rule the North.

He wrote to her a week after Jacaerys departed from Winterfell, certain that the news would have already arrived in the capitol and she would already be aware of their arrangement. He would have little time between her arrival in the north and their wedding to meet with her in private, so this was his best hope. He was pleased to receive a raven in return only three days later, neat handwriting befitting a princess scrawled across the parchment. It was not much, but Cregan was able to learn some things about her through the letters, making it seem like he was less-so marrying a stranger and more as if she were a distant friend. 

The month following, the princess would depart from King’s Landing in a procession he was told seemed a mile long. He waited with anticipation, Winterfell in a flurry of servants and guards to prepare the castle to house the royal family and their household, as well as for the wedding itself, and only one more month would pass before his bride had arrived within the walls of Winterfell.

Cregan had bowed respectfully to the Queen Dowager as she stepped out of her wheelhouse, then to the two silver-haired princes who arrived on their steeds. His eyes scanned the growing crowd for any sight of his betrothed, finally catching sight of her as she took the hand of a Dornish white cloak to balance herself as she exited the wheelhouse, a pretty white fur-lined cloak wrapped around her shoulders, almost blending into the pale blonde of her hair. She was, indeed, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had traditional Valyrian looks, but also held an aura of softness. 

She was nervous as she curtsied before her, but seemed happy enough with his appearance and manners as he greeted her with a kiss to her leather-gloved knuckle. The moment was broken apart by her mother’s level tone, requesting to be brought to her chambers for some rest before supper. That evening Cregan found the portrait of the princess that he’d received months earlier and personally hung it above the mantle in his bedchambers. He thought it was safe to say he was smitten.

The princess appeared bashful in his presence, though he was partially certain that her discomfort was brought on by her ever-present family, each looming nearby as if waiting to intercept his attempts of conversation with his betrothed. He could not decide who he had grown to loathe the most; Aegon had already drank a generous portion of Winterfell’s wine cellars even before the wedding, and often joined the conversation with the goal to tease his sister and see her shrink in embarrassment; Aemond was constantly looking to best anyone in his path, and seemed almost possessive over his sister’s attention; her mother had hardly allowed them a moment alone, constantly insisting on supervising any time that he would invite her for any sort of activity, or set one of her brothers after them instead. Alicent had a habit of speaking for her daughter, meaning that Cregan had no opportunity to truly know her while her mother was present, while her brothers made it impossible to even speak to one another at all. 

He was finally glad on their wedding night, when he’d arranged the head table to be broken into three, leaving the happy couple to sit above the rest and finally receive some alone time. She had been radiant in her gown of white furs and fleeces, meeting him beneath the weirwood tree with her eldest brother at her side to give her away. He’d been glad to tear away the cloak of red and black, intricately interwoven into a field of green and gold at the bottom–it would be unlike Alicent Hightower to allow her children to wear the Rhaenyra’s colours without her own as well. It would be hard to tell whether she looked prettier in the harsh colours of her maiden cloak or in the dull ones of his own, but he couldn’t help but note how greys and blues suited her better than he could have imagined. 

He could tell her family was less than pleased with this arrangement, making an effort to step in for every miniscule matter that caught their attention. Cregan watched her from the corner of her eye as she shakily took a long drink from her cup. He finally found time to chat with his wife, slowly watching in awe as her walls slowly began to come down as she found herself giggling along with him and whispering into his ear. 

“What of the leftovers?” She’d asked, breaking their previous conversation topic.

“Leftovers?” Cregan repeated.

She nodded, staring at him with wide eyes expectantly, “The food. There will be plenty of leftovers–they should be brought to the nearest towns.”

“Is that a command, princess?” 

She appeared bashful at his response, walls slowly building back up around her, “I-I- My apologies, Lord Stark, I–”

He grinned at her playfully, his large palm cupping her cheek affectionately, “If you wish it, you shall have it. I intend to make you very happy, my love.”

She smiled, her beauty shining through even stronger as she became more and more comfortable around him, “Thank you, husband.”

Cregan pushed himself to stand, the sound of his chair pushing back cutting through the chatter and music and laughter filling his hall, all eyes turning to him expectantly. 

“My lady wife has made her first official command as Lady of Winterfell,” his voice carried through the hall with stern ease, and the attention of the crows quickly turned to her, “Lady Stark has decided that all leftovers from our wedding feast will be donated to the people of Winterstown.”

The crowd had been quick to applaud, deafening cheers throughout the great hall, northerners seemingly pleased with her decision or, at the very least, just excited to have another reason to be celebrating. He caught the glance she sent to her mother, and the happy grin that covered her face as the Dowager Queen sent her a sign of approval. His lady wife was kind, and sweet, and he was certain that, once she gained her footing in the North, would serve as a strong and dutiful Lady of Winterfell, all of which he muttered into her ear as he had her for the very first time that night. 

Three years would pass, he’d been right to assume such things of his wife. He’d quickly discovered that she was able to thrive without the looming shadow of her mother and brothers. She had been slow to find her footing in the beginning, some of his bannermen even questioning his choice in wife, but she was determined to prove them wrong, and in doing so, warmed Cregan’s heart even more. 

They’d discussed children in the past, and both had decided that they were happy enough with Cregan’s son from his previous marriage for the time being. They were not trying, but they were also not not trying, which is how she found herself swelling with her first child just as winter came to an end. Her husband had been insatiable in their first year of marriage, but once he knew that she carried his child in her belly, there was scarcely anything that could stop him from having her each and every night. 

Summer brought a homier feeling to Winterfell. People were not quite so afraid or negative as the desolate conditions faded away. Summer in the North was nothing compared to the many summers she had spent in King’s Landing, where she had once enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her skin, exposed beneath her more revealing gowns than those she was able to wear in the North; the lords of the North had criticised her choice in dresses early on in her marriage, and she had no doubt that their wives spoke harshly about her in her absence. She was by far the youngest of them, and was also the only one who could afford to wear such fine silks layered over her thick fleece and fur underdresses. Cregan knew better than to try and argue against his wife’s will–Lady Stark or not, she was a Targaryen princess through and through, and now that he had helped her build up her confidence, there was no way he was about to take that away from her (especially when she looked so so beautiful). She was thankful that she was able to cut down on the layers she needed now that the weather had transitioned from inhospitable to frigid, though she knew it was coming time to transition her wardrobe as well now that her breasts and belly were beginning to swell. 

The change in season also brought a wave of new duties. Winter was undoubtedly the most difficult and busy season for the lord and lady of Winterfell, but the transition to summer also brought the beginning of the agricultural season. Farmers and fishermen alike flocked to Winterfell to speak their needs and wants to their liege lord and lady, and Cregan found himself busy with attending to the replenishment of all of the North’s resources for Winterfell, all of his bannermen, the Wall, and all of the towns in the North. He’d made his wife agree to take a lesser load of duties now that she was expecting, dealing with issues within their own household so he could instead focus on bearing the burdens of the North all on his own, though this meant there was less and less time that they were able to spend together. 

Each morning, Lady Stark was awake and on the move early enough to meet with the maester and stewards and advisors, sharing no more than a few sweet words and touches with her husband as he watched her dress before she was out the door. They would see each other in passing throughout the day, sharing loving glances across the courtyard as they attended their duties and occasionally catching each other in the corridors, and she was normally in a deep slumber by the time he came to her chambers every night. Both of them were growing restless in their time apart, especially with her ladyship’s heightened emotions and hormones. 

She had just finished speaking with the mistress of the orphanage in Winterstown when the maester came to her, a neatly folded piece of parchment in hand that bore her mother’s seal. She smiled to herself as she brushed her thumb over the thick spot of green wax, glad to have a response for her most recent letter to her mother to deliver the news of her pregnancy, along with a request for some new silks to be sent in order to accommodate her changing body. Breaking the seal, she scanned over the letter with her eyes, a small gasp leaving her mouth as she read over her mother’s words.

“My lady?” Maester Elryn asked, concern evident on his wrinkled features, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she smiled tightly at him, “My apologies for my reaction. Could you ask Lord Stark to come to me when he is free?”

“Of course, my lady. Anything else?”

“That is all, thank you, Maester Elryn.”

Cregan came to her two hours later, finding her seated at the small desk in the corner of her chambers. He paused to drink in the way she looked, having scarcely seen his wife for more than a moment all day. Her body was changing in the most glorious ways possible, and the bodices of her gowns were growing even tighter than before, her breasts threatening to spill over the neckline with every breath, and her belly growing firmer and rounder to accommodate his child. His smile widened as she turned to glance over her shoulder, her eyes softening as she finally took note of her husband’s figure in the doorway.

“You called, wife?”

“My love,” she greeted, pushing herself to stand with a gentle hand cradling her barely-there bump, “It seems it has been forever.”

His heart thumped against his ribcage at her action, chest growing warm at the sight of her maternal instincts already kicking in before she had even passed through her first few months 

He closed the door behind him, crossing the room to meet her before she was able to move too far. His palm cupped her cheek, the other finding its place over her own against her belly, “Longer than forever to me.”

She grinned, leaning up to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips, giggling to herself as he chased after her and grunted as she pulled away. He pressed small kisses to her cheeks, across the curve of her jaw, and down the column of her neck, leaving small nips in his wake. His wife pushed at his chest helplessly as she continued to laugh, the soft growth of hair along his own jaw tickling her with every brush of his lips on her skin. 

“I called you up here because I needed to speak with you,” she whispered to him, body slowly relaxing against him as she sank into his embrace.

“Speak, then,” he ordered, thick fingers tugging at the laces of her dress.

She shook her head, rolling her eyes at his antics, “I wrote to my mother a few nights ago, I need silk for new dresses. I’m sure you’ve noticed that my own are growing rather…tight.”

His mouth dropped to nip at the bulging flesh of her breast peeking over the neckline of her gown, “I certainly have.”

Her head tilted back, letting both a laugh and a breathy moan at her husband’s attack on her chest as he quickly laid her back on the bed, “She has written back to me. She says I shall have as much silk in as many colours as I wish.”

Cregan hummed in response, quickly peeling the layers of her gown away until she was left in only her thin white shift, her words going ignored as he tugged and pulled at her clothing until she was bare before him. He stared down at her, running his hand over his jaw as his eyes trailed over her breasts, heaving and swelling with milk, then down over her small bump, and finally to the place where her thighs clenched together. 

She pushed herself up to sit before him, her own hands reaching out to tug at his clothing. He was quick to help her, shucking off his layers and boots until he stood before her in only his heavy leather breeches. His wife grinned up at him, pressing a gentle kiss against his own belly, a layer of soft flesh over his firm, almost inconspicuous muscle. 

He pushed at her shoulder, chuckling as the mattress bounced beneath her as she was laid back again. He crawled over her, returning to mouthing over her neck, over her shoulders, and finally coming across her breasts.

“She says she will deliver them personally,” she uttered, whining in protest as he paused, pulling back to focus directly at her face. 

“Personally,” He repeated, more for his own sake than a question of clarification, “your mother intends to come to Winterfell.”

She pouted at him, fingers carding through his long hair as she attempted to soften him to the news, “She wishes to be here for the birth. I know she can be…difficult, but it would bring me comfort to have her with me as I bring our firstborn into the world.”

He sighed, his head falling into her shoulder, “If this is what you wish, then this is what you shall have. 

She smiled, remembering when he spoke the same words to her on their wedding night. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, winding her legs around his hips and hugging her tightly to her chest. 

“Thank you,” she smiled at him as he finally pushed himself up to gaze down at her once again, “my mother can be difficult, as I said, but I wish for her to know her grandchildren, as she does my niece and nephews. I promise you, she will be on her best behaviour.”

“I believe you,” He pressed a kiss to her lips, mumbling against her, “but I must ask that we do not speak any more of your mother at the present. I do not think she would appreciate what I plan to do to you.”

Cregan did not allow her another moment of peace before his kisses grew in intensity, tongue intertwining with her own while his meaty palms pulled her legs further apart and began to rock his hips into hers. He smirked at the whine that escaped her throat, pressing himself further into her.

“Cregan–” 

“I have missed you, my love,” he moaned against her lips, “you cannot possibly believe how much I have been longing for you.”

She chuckled, “I think I can. The maester told me pregnancy can bring on many side effects; discomfort, fatigue, desire…”

Cregan pulled back for a moment, “Should I be concerned about these conversations you have been having with Maester Elryn?”

She scoffed, “You are far too jealous for your own good, my love.”

“You might be too, if you were married to the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms–nay, the world.”

“Flatterer.”

“Can it be called flattery if it is the truth?” Cregan pushed himself to kneel between her legs, palms continuing to push her thighs upward to bare her completely to him. He let out a desperate groan as his eyes settled on her core, barely hidden beneath a neat patch of silver hair, “gods, have you ever been this wet?”

She snorted, raising her leg to press her foot flat to his chest, “It is the pregnancy, as I said.”

His long fingers wrapped around her foot, tugging it up to press his lips against the slope of her ankle, “Then perhaps I should keep you like this, eh? Would you like for your lord husband to fill you with his child, again and again?”

“I am already with child, my love,” she smiled at him, drawing a deep breath from his throat, “I’m afraid you will have to wait a few moons longer.”

“And I will spend every second I have with you perfecting the craft then.”

She sighed in relief as he finally reached between her thighs, fingers catching against her slick hole.

“Cregan, please,” she whimpered, “do something, anything.”

“Anything?” He asked, breathlessly, his own chest heaving in anticipation as she nodded excitedly. 

A loud gasp tore from her lips as he finally sunk his fingers into her, her wetness audible to them both as he began moving with slow but purposeful thrusts. His thumb settled on her sensitive bud, making slow, tight circles over the swollen bud, his free hand gliding up from her thigh to tug at her breasts. Her hips rocked in sync with his every movement of his thick fingers, stilling as another one easily slipped inside.

“My love,” she panted, “e-enough, I need you.”

He quirked one of his thick brows at her words, “Should I not prepare you, my heart?”

“I am pregnant with your child, and as we can both tell, I am more than prepared.”

Cregan snorted out a laugh, withdrawing his fingers with a small whine from his wife, “How should you have me then, wife?”

Lady Stark smirked to herself, legs wrapping around his back and forcing him to fold over her, “Take me as you did on our wedding night, only you do not need to be so gentle with me.”

He slipped inside of her easily, a strained hiss sliding between his teeth while her own teeth sunk into his shoulder. Cregan did indeed take her like he had on their wedding night, but against her wishes, was almost as gentle as he had been, out of respect for his child’s personal space, as he had muttered to her. In truth, he simply wanted to take his time with her as he pulled her apart bit by bit, not wanting to rush their first time lying together in the few weeks since summer had come. 

When they were finished, he remained inside of her for as long as he could, but the warmth of her and the air around them was far too much. His wife, despite the progress she’d made in the years of their marriage, was a southern woman and despised how frigid the castle could be, earning herself the warmest room in Winterfell and a required constant upkeep of her hearth. Cregan did not mind coming to his wife’s chamber when she needed him throughout the day or early evening, but there was a reason that they’d made a habit of sleeping in his personal chambers each night, where the air was cooler but he was able to keep her warm at night. He carefully pulled away, meeting her for a final kiss before he peeled himself off of the bed, slowly strutting across the room to haul the window open and feel the cool summer air against his burning flesh. 

She watched him through hooded eyes, gaze raking down his muscular back, over his plump ass, and down his thick legs. She pursed her lips, pulling one of the heavy furs around her shoulders as she padded across the stone floor to wrap herself around him from behind, fingers hooking together around his belly as her bare chest pressed to his back. After a moment, one of his hands came over to cover her own as she pressed her lips to his shoulder blade. 

“My mother wrote that she expects to be here in two moons,” she murmured against his warm skin, “I should begin preparations for them on the morrow.”

Cregan hummed, eyes scanning over the horizon for a moment before he comprehended her words, “Them. How many attendants does she plan to bring with her?”

He felt his wife tense behind him, “About that…”

Two moons later Cregan found himself standing tall in his own courtyard, jaw set as a procession of horses and wheelhouses began to file through the front gate of his ancestral home. He’d been a touch angry with his wife when she had finally revealed to him that it was not only her mother coming, but rather the entire royal family; the queen, her king consort, and all of their children; the dowager queen, the remaining four of her children, as well as Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena’s three children. Winterfell was about to be overrun with heads of silver hair, something Cregan had hoped would only happen as a result of his wife’s genes overcoming his own among their children. 

At his side, his wife nervously chewed her bottom lip–a nasty habit he’d grown to detest after she’d drawn blood one night. He knew exactly how her family could be from their short stay during their wedding festivities, and the way that her mother and two older brothers alone were able to affect her, let alone the entire living Targaryen dynasty. 

On her other side stood young Rickon, gripping her hand tightly as he struggled to compose himself. The boy was only six years old, but he already seemed to understand the importance of his role as the heir to Winterfell. He’d taken to his stepmother rather quickly, having been an infant when the fever took his own mother. He’d been in need of a maternal figure in his life, and her presence in Winterfell had done nothing but draw father and son closer together with every family supper and breakfast she had insisted on over the years. Seeing her welcome his son into her heart so openly only further pressed Cregan’s instincts to bring their own children into the world, wishing for nothing more than to give his boy dozens of siblings for him to play with. 

The procession finally came to a halt just as two large, intricately carved wheelhouses entered the gates, flanked by the king consort and all of the elder princes on their horses. Lady Stark’s nerves only heightened at the sight of the silver-haired men, particularly her elder brothers who almost immediately turned their gaze her way. The queen soon climbed out of her wheelhouse, followed by her own litter of children, Aegon, Viserys, and Visenya. The second wheelhouse opened, producing Dowager Queen Alicent and Princess Helaena and her own children Jahaera, Jahaerys, and Maegor. 

The queen came before them, regal as ever in her red cloak lined with black fur. She watched stoically as the three bowed before her. 

“The North is yours, Your Grace,” Cregan spoke loud and true, “my family and I are honoured to host you and your family in Winterfell.”

“Many thanks, Lord Stark. I commend you on leading the North through yet another winter,” a smirk tugged at her lips as her eyes turned to his wife, who lowered into another curtsy under her stare, “I hear that Lady Stark has taken to her role quite well. I believe motherhood suits you, sister.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lady Stark nodded in thanks. 

The next line of Targaryens filtered through the short lineup of Starks, first Daemon, who scarcely offered any of them a second glance (aside from his niece, who he stared at for a moment too long in Cregan’s opinion). Prince Jacaerys greeted Cregan like an old friend, clapping him on the shoulder heartily while he offered his aunt a polite hug, his younger brothers following, though with less familiarity. 

Then came her mother, who hardly offered Lord Stark a moment of her time before she began fawning over her daughter, hugging her tightly before pulling away and pawing at her swollen belly through her layers of fur. A tear escaped the red-haired woman’s eye as she pressed a sweet kiss to Lady Stark’s cheek, then offered a greeting to sweet Rickon, who had shuffled closer to his stepmother in his nervousness. Aegon skipped over Lord Stark altogether, though he certainly was not complaining as he could smell the stench of wine radiating from the eldest prince even before noon, throwing himself onto his sister. She’d stumbled in her attempt to catch him, sending her husband a warning glance as he moved to rip him away from her. Aemond, at least, was more courteous, offering Cregan a polite greeting and kissing his sister gently on the forehead. Helaena was soon to follow, her greeting to Cregan leaving him with a puzzled look as she moved on to place her palm to her sister’s cheek.

“I am so happy to see you, sister,” Lady Stark’s eyes welled with tears. Cregan had been aware of how disappointed his wife had been when her sister had not been able to travel with her for their wedding, but she had not blamed her for choosing to stay behind while she was in her sixth moon of pregnancy, not to mention the poor state of her mind.

Daeron was the most reserved of his good-siblings, showing both Lord and Lady Stark his respect, though he had no personal relation with either. He’d spent most of his childhood in Oldtown under the care of his grandsire’s brother, the Lord of Oldtown, and his own uncle Gwayne. He’d been rather hesitant to even return to King’s Landing after being away for so long; his own mother was a mere stranger, and his siblings had gone on to marry and produce their own children without even a second thought of their youngest brother. 

Winterfell’s hall was overflowing with Targaryens and those who served them. Cregan could hardly recognize any of the faces at the tables nearest to his own, his men being pushed farther back into the hall to accommodate the royal family. He, himself, had even been pushed one seat to the right to offer the queen the highest seat in the hall. He was not pleased to be doing this, far too used to southerners coming to the North with such entitlement, but he would take the treatment silently for the sake of his dear wife, who had been so excited for the arrival of her family and had been overtaken by anxiety of ensuring the visit went well. 

She sat next to him, dressed in a fine silk gown (new, a design brought by her mother), a deep emerald with golden stitching across the bodice and around the cuffs. Cregan hissed through his teeth when his wife entered the hall, a happy grin on her lips as she cradled her round belly over the dress of her mother’s house rather than her own, though he was eager to greet her and accept her gleeful kiss on the cheek, and he was glad enough to see that her hair had been braided among the stems of various flowers, all of which being indigenous only to the North. Her mother could try with all of her might to try and hold tight to her daughter’s familial tether to the South, but Cregan knew his wife had transformed into a woman of the North–she was no longer simply a Targaryen princess, a dragonrider, she was also his wife, Lady of Winterfell, and mother of his children. 

It never escaped Cregan’s watchful stare everytime the Dowager Queen gripped her daughter’s arm when her attention was not focused solely on her, or how she forced a smile each time he joined their conversation at all. If the woman had not been his wife’s mother, he would have gladly warded her away from his wife’s personal space. He understood well enough that his wife was bound to miss her family, especially her mother and sister, but he was afraid to see her begin to slip back into her shell, which had taken him a considerable amount of effort and care to bring her out from in the first place. 

He was quickly tiring from the responsibility of hosting an entire flock of Targaryen princes, all of whom considered themselves above the northerners and their laws, customs, and expectations. They most often gathered in the training yards, each more eager to prove themselves over the northerners and each other than the last, except for Aegon, of course, who would rather spend the mornings in his chambers before he would disappear into Wintertown, most likely gone to spend the rest of the afternoon in the only brothel within twenty miles of Winterfell. 

Throughout the two weeks to follow, they had barely found a moment to themselves that was not in the early hours of the morn or when the castle is alight with only the light emitted from torches and the moon itself, where Lady Stark was usually so worn out that she had barely enough energy to cuddle into her husband’s side and share a handful of words before her snoring would reach his ears. He made an effort to seek her out when he was granted a brief moment away from his duties, but there was hardly a moment when she could be found without at least one member of her kin at her side; in the nursery with her mother and sister, discussing her duties with the queen, reading with Aemond in the library, or comforting Aegon amidst another bout of alcohol-induced sickness. 

The one moment he did find her alone in her personal study, not wasting a single moment before he was hoisting her into his arms and kissing her breathless. He’d been pleased to find that she had no fight in her, easily melting into his embrace and winding her arms around his neck, smiling into the kiss as small mewls of pleasure vibrated against his mouth. He’d almost forgotten that the door to the study had been left ajar, making his good-mother’s entrance even more silent, though he likely wouldn’t have noticed even if she had knocked, fully taken with his wife’s affection. 

“Ehem.”

“Mother,” Lady Stark pushed away from her husband, face still with shock and, quite evidently, embarrassment, “I, we did not hear you come in.”

“Yes, as I could see.”

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Cregan nodded to the woman, though his tone was laced with his annoyance, “I’m afraid you’ve been subjected to a moment of weakness.”

“Nonsense,” Alicent’s lips tightened into a strained smile, a touch of tenderness on her face, “it comforts me to know that my daughter is cherished and loved, even so far away. We are not all so lucky to find love in these circumstances.”

His wife rounded the desk, meeting her mother with a tight embrace. For a moment, he felt a pang of sympathy for the red haired woman–it was true, most marriages of such caliber did not afford the couple any form of affection, and he was more than aware of the fortune that had fallen into his lap that day that Prince Jacaerys landed at his gate. The moment came to a crashing end all-too-soon as his good-mother once again dragged his wife away from him, not to be seen again until she was deep asleep in their shared bed.

He’d arranged for a hunt during the visit of the royal family, where he was forced to play the peacekeeper between the queen’s sons and their uncles, all while keeping his eyes peeled for the prize he’d been hoping for; his wife had mentioned more than once that she wanted to find the perfect blanket to gift to their first child, one that can be used again and again with each babe they brought into the world, so it seemed only fitting to him that he be the one to bring her the pelt. 

It would be weeks before the warmth in his chest subsided after witnessing her grin and laughter as he presented it to her, two rabbits of a similar white and brown pattern, drawing her away from the large elk that had been brought in for their supper that night. It was a brief moment of privacy amongst the crowd, where she curled her fingers beneath the neckline of his leather doublet and dragged him down to her height, pushing a soft kiss to his wind-bitten cheek, though he was thankful for every moment of it. Her mother stepped in a moment later, grasping her daughter’s hand and willing her to join her in the nursery, where she could continue to preach her wisdom and advice for the soon-to-be mother, though Cregan hoped his wife was smart enough to take it with a grain of salt. 

He’d spent the rest of the day both tending to his duties, which have seemingly doubled since the arrival of his wife’s kin, and also offering a hand in preparing the elk when he had a chance; his cooks could do wonders with elk meat, but the kitchen maids often made a fuss when such large animals were brought to whole or at least without being skinned first. He had barely even spared a moment to clean himself and change clothes before supper.

When he arrived in the dining hall, a smaller yet more formal area where he hoped he, his wife, and their many children would all dine together whenever they could. He was, however, miffed to discover the dining hall filled with princes and princesses and queens alike, only two seats left empty–his own, and his wife’s. 

His immediate thought was that perhaps she was still readying herself, perhaps she had gotten carried away in the nursery with her mother, and she would be there soon enough. Then, his eyes fell upon the red-haired woman a few seats from his own. 

He cleared his throat, drawing silence across his hall, “My apologies, I expect Lady Stark in only a moment.”

Alicent furrowed her brow, directing her words to the rest of the royal family rather than to Lord Stark, “I’m afraid she will not be joining us tonight.”

Cregan raised his own brow, “Why not?”

Alicent’s gaze flickered to his own, “She was unwell this evening–a pain many women know while carrying their children, all she needs is rest.”

“And why was I not made aware of this at once?” Lord Stark felt his blood beginning to boil.

She looked somewhat taken aback, “These pains are normal, they are expected for how far along she is. My daughter–”

Cregan’s heavy palm landed flat on the wooden tabletop, “My wife is my main concern. Any news concerning her or my children should and will be brought to me at once.” 

Alicent pursed her lips, appearing to have a few words of choice for her daughter’s husband, though he turned his attention to the queen opposite him on the other end of the long table and looked equally as surprised and amused at the altercation as she sipped her wine.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” he pushed himself up to his full height, “forgive my absence this evening, but if my wife is unwell I would prefer to be at her side.”

Rhaenyra smirked at him, nodding her head at him, “But of course, Lord Stark. I am honoured that you take such care of my sister. After all, family is everything, is it not?”

He ignored the way that her words seemed to have been aimed at the red-haired woman, who had slouched back into her own seat as a soft pink tinged at the apples of her cheeks, instead nodding at the queen and fleeing the room at once, his hurried and heavy footfalls carrying him through the castle and up to his wife’s personal chambers. He was disgruntled to find that they were empty, save for a servant girl who had been tending to the hearth and directed him to his own chambers.

The hinges creaked as he pushed his way inside, finding two handmaidens hovering worriedly over his wife as she hunched over on her hands and knees atop the plush bear-skin rug, back arched upwards like he’d only seen done by a cat. The two servants froze at the sight of the broad figure crossing the threshold.

“Lord Stark,” one of them rushed to him, “Lady Stark, she is alright, but–”

“Alright?” He scoffed, “She is on the floor in pain, she does not look alright.”

“Cregan,” Lady Stark glared up at him, voice strained with discomfort, “do not speak to my ladies like that.”

He let out a deep sigh, offering the servant a quiet but genuine apology, “Now please, just tell me what is wrong with her, and what I can do to help. Should I call a maester?”

The servant fought a soft smile, touched at the lord’s concern for his wife and child, “Lady Stark is experiencing little more than body aches. Normal for women carrying a child, especially their first. I’m afraid all the maester could do is offer milk of the poppy for discomfort, which could potentially do more harm to the child than good to the mother,” Cregan swallowed at the thought, “We’ve allowed the princess to soak in warm water, and the stretching helps while we prepare a hot pack over the fire.”

His gaze flickered to the small grate across the embers of the fireplace, holding three large black stones over them. He nodded, turning back to his wife, who had turned her face back into the rug while the other servant girl carefully massaged gentle circles into her lower back.

“What can I do?”

“The hot pack should help with the aches, but I’m afraid the best thing may be to keep Lady Stark as comfortable as possible, anything to keep her mind away from the pains.”

He nodded, “Leave us, I should care for my wife on my own.”

The door closed behind the two women as they hesitantly left their mistress’s side, loyal to the very end. Cregan wasted little time in removing his leather doublet and abandoning it on the plush bed, leaving him in only his breeches and thin linen shirt. He crossed the room, kneeling beside his wife and carefully laying his palm flat to her lower back, a small smirk appearing on his lips as she sighed from the relief brought by his large, warm hand. 

“If you were not so obviously in pain, I would guess that you were enjoying this, my love,” he chuckled as his hand copied the same circular pattern that the servant girl had applied.

“Shut up,” she turned her head to the side so she could glance up at him, “this is your fault.”

“My fault?” He scoffed, “As I recall, your current condition is the result of your uncontrollable desires.”

She pushed herself up onto her hands, “My what? It was you who was gone to the Wall for more than a moon!”

“And it was you who kept me from my duties until midday on the day after I returned.”

She pursed her lips, “Alright, next time I will allow you to go about your duties without a word. Then we will see which one of us is so insatiable.”

“Be that the case, I’m afraid you may be with child for the next decade or more, my love.”

“Just get the hot pack,” Lady Stark rolled her eyes, lowering her head back down to the plush rug, muttering to herself with a small grin, “a decade or more…”

He obliged, wrapping the stones in a thick woolen cloth before pressing them against the small of her back, a dusting of pink coating his cheeks at the sound she released, back curving inwards as relief overtook her body. 

They remained there for a long while, one of his hands holding the hot pack while the other smoothed over her silver hair, braided and still damp from her bath. The stones began to cool against his palm until they were no warmer than her own body heat, finally being tossed to the side.

“How do you feel?” He asked her, hands cradling her head and hip as he helped her roll onto her side.

“Better. Still plagued with discomfort, but better nonetheless,” She smiled softly at him, “I only wish someone may have warned me of the unpleasantness of pregnancy before I agreed to it.”

He barked out a laugh, remembering the many times she had pointed out the many ways pregnancy could ruin any romance in their marriage before it even began, hence their decision to wait before finally trying to conceive. 

“If only, eh?” He smoothed the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

A twinkle appeared in her eye, “Well Maryssa did say that you should be doing anything to keep me comfortable…”

Lord Stark raised his brow at her words, “And what was it you only just said about me being insatiable? How have you gone from crippling pain to reaching for my breeches in such a hurry?”

She gasped, faux offense in her eyes, “I am not reaching for you breeches! What do you take me for?”

He quickly manoeuvred her onto her back, leaning down to press a slow yet meaningful kiss to her lips, “My very pregnant, very beautiful, and very impatient wife.”

She whined against his mouth, “I think impatience is quite appropriate given the circumstances. Your child has brought me the greatest joy and greatest pain of my life, and yet I constantly yearn for you, my love.”

“Constant?” He laughed.

“The maester warned me of it,” she kissed him again, “all a part of my hysteria, he called it.”

He hummed, “Which brings me to wonder why I was not made aware of this. I could have…relieved you of this suffering.”

She snorted a laugh, a sound he knew he could never grow tired of, “Cregan, if you do not take my clothes off now I would like to go to bed.”

“And what was it I said about your impatience?”

She pushed at his shoulder playfully, gasping as he grasped her wrist in his large hand and pulled her to sit up, moving to lift her and carry her to the bed when she pushed at his shoulder, shaking her head with a sly grin. 

“Here,” she insisted, “it is so warm, and this fur is so soft.”

He shook his head at her, rolling his eyes. Only his wife would be demanding enough as to where he had his way with her and choose anywhere except their marital bed. Only he would be so foolishly in love as to oblige her every whim and allow her to make such demands. 

Growing impatient, she began tugging at her own shift, struggling to lift her hips just enough to slide it over her hips and off completely, leaving her bare before her husband while the firelight flickered off of her soft, freshly oiled skin. His eyes fell from her own to her breasts, which had seemingly doubled in size through her pregnancy, then to her rounded belly; only a few moons would pass before she brought their first child into the world, and he could not be any more in love with her. He knew how excited she’d been over the last few weeks as her body developed with their growing child, spending much of her time with little Rickon, who was just as excited to become an older brother as she was to become a mother. 

“I am not simply here for decoration,” she growled, reaching up to begin tearing the linen shirt from her husband’s body, ignoring his laughter as she struggling to pull the fabric over his wide shoulders and causing his head to get stuck for a moment, “As I said, fuck me or let me sleep.”

His booming laugh echoed through the chamber, scarcely hearing his wife, a Targaryen princess and Lady of Winterfell, use such coarse language. It was the northerner growing within her, he decided as he obliged, kissing her with every ounce of desire he’d been forced to swallow throughout the duration of her family’s stay, pressing her back to lay flat against the dark brown fur. 

Cregan made quick work of kissing down her body, taking a few moments to kiss and suckle and squeeze at her swollen breasts, encouraged by her response to his touch on her sensitive skin as he continued further down. He pressed several playful kisses over her belly, whispering to their child to go to sleep so he could take care of his wife guilt-free. She giggled at this, causing a flood of heat to spread across his chest as he finally crested over the underside of her belly, coming face-to-face with the silver curls safeguarding her womanhood. 

Her legs fell apart easily, and he found no resistance as he eagerly began to feast upon her most intimate place. Her fingers curled into the fur beneath her as her whines and whimpers filled the room, unable to reach for his long dark hair with her belly in the way. He was pleasantly surprised to discover how much of her arousal had pooled between her thighs, two of his thick fingers easily slipping into her heat with practiced precision while his tongue massaged her sensitive pearl. 

Her body seemed more responsive than ever, thighs quivering against his shoulders as her peak crashed over her once, and then moments later, once more. 

He pulled away, noting how her hips had begun to pull away from him, her womanhood more sensitive than ever. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, watching through lustful eyes as his wife grabbed hold of his other wrist, taking the fingers that had brought her to bliss twice only moments before between her lips and sucking them clean. She stared up at him through her lashes, leaning up on her elbow to reach down and paw at the tent that had formed in his breeches, tugging at the laces until they fell open and allowed her to reach inside.

He let out a low growl at the sensation of her hand taking hold of his member, head falling back in relief. Cregan was quick to pull her hand away, shedding his trousers and boots as efficiently as possible so he could lay her flat on her back once more and finally press himself inside of her. 

They both let out long, breathy sounds at the stretch; no matter how many times they would lay together, she never quit got used to the intrusion of his thick cock inside of her, He remained still for a moment, regaining his wits as he willed himself not to finish far too early, though he could not guarantee that he would be able to fight his peak for very long after weeks without his wife’s intimate touch. 

“Cregan, please,” she whimpered, nails scratching down his arm as she planted his fist next to her head, bracing himself as he began to work slow, deep thrusts into her warmth, his own grunts and gasps of pleasure falling from his lips while her lips fell open to allow wails of her enjoyment fall from them with every punch of his tip against her most sensitive place deep within her. 

“My love,” he panted, “For-forgive me…I do not think–”

“Give yourself to me, my love,” she whined, “I need to feel you.”

He nodded, eyes tightening shut as he quickened his pace, chasing his release with grunts and growls and groans until his hips began to stutter, his release pumping deep inside of her until he was shaking. His release triggered her own, pleasure crashing over her for the third time that evening, soaking his length in both of their releases as she clung to his broad frame for dear life. 

She whined when he pulled out of her, sensitive from her three climaxes. He took a moment to stare down at her, stormy gaze trailing from her cunt, where their mix juices had begun seeping from her warmth, to her belly, where their child grew. His eyes then moved to her breasts, which heaved with every deep breath the escaped her parted lips, and finally to her face, which shone with a layer of perspiration as she pulled him down to lay next to her on the fur, turning to press her back against his chest and settling into his embrace as he trailed sweet kisses over her cheek, jaw, and neck. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, sleep threatening to overtake her at any moment. 

“Thank you,” Cregan responded. “I love you.”

“I love you too, husband.”

Silence overtook the room for a moment, only the sound of their slowing breaths and the crackling fire in the hearth could be heard before he finally shared his final thoughts of the night.

“I cannot bear to not have you all to myself for even a moment ever again,” he mumbled into her flesh, “we are never hosting your family again.”

A small chuckle vibrated through her chest.

“I could not agree more.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they react to you calling them bro or dude whilst in a pre-established relationship…(platonic/romantic)

Dick: he’s insulted.

Gutted.

He will try to give you the silent treatment for such a shameful thing but ultimately fails as he ends up being the one pawing at you for attention.

‘Do you still like me? Or did you just run out of cute nicknames to call me?’ He’d say one night as your both cuddling in bed together. ‘If it’s the later then I can help you find something, just please spare me and don’t call me dude or bro anymore.’

He’d rather you call him Richard-wait, no he hates that even more because to him you’re not meant to use his fully name, only cutesy nicknames that’d make a grown man sick to his stomach. Nothing else would suffice other than Dickie bird, handsome, babe, hunk, honeybun or anything that wasn’t his name.

He’s go mad or would act delusional and say that everything was fine when everyone could tell that it wasn’t. People who know him have personally came to you and begged you to stop calling him dude/bro because he kept talking their ears off about how his beloved partner is torturing him, which ends up torturing them even more upon hearing about his relationship issues.

Dick would even consult Hayley on what he did wrong, only for Hayley to look at him with those big, big eyes of hers. This was not her level of expertise unfortunately. (Head empty, no thoughts. She can’t do her abc’s guys it’s a real tragedy.)

Jason: ‘I just had my tongue down your throat just now and you had to go and ruin the mood by calling me bro. What the fuck.’ - Jason at some point.

It’s a whole mood killer for him to be honest.

He’s calling you things like chipmunk or sweetheart but here you were calling him dude and bro. He knows for a fact that he’s well and truly out of the friend zone because the shit you’ve done together isn’t platonic in any sort of way.

Thinks Roy had set you up to call him dude or bro behind his back. (He hasn’t)

Jason is petty and will get his own back by referring you as ‘just a really good friend’, ‘buddy o’ mine’ or even worse than both of those; ‘chum.’ 💀

When you go low, Jason was more then willing to go to the depths of fucking hell to the point it had become a game to see who’d call out just how stupid this all was, and at the both of you for ever thinking that this was an excellent idea in the first place.

You’ll probs get punished…I’m just going to leave it there and let your minds guess what that ‘punishment’ was exactly.

Damian:

As much as Damian hates it when you call him Dami, he hates it when you call him dude or bro even more, if that’s even possible.

Damian hates it when you call him dude or bro. He’s not your dude or bro, he’s your partner and he expects no less then darling, my heart or my beloved.

So you calling him dude or bro is more than enough reason for him to give you the silent treatment.

‘Until you learn that I am your partner, I won’t want to be anywhere near you if you’re going to keep calling me your bro or dude. It is a disservice to who I actually am to you.’ He says with a huff and beckons Titus to follow, only for the Great Dane to be left confused as to why his human parents were at a disagreement over something silly.

Also Titus, Ace, Jerry, Alfred the cat, Goliath and BatCow are children of divorce because I said so.

So it’s bests that you apologise while you still can because Damian can hold a grudge unlike any other. Even if you didn’t, you’d still crack first before Damian and quickly put an end to calling him dude/bro.

He just thinks being called a dude/bro when in a pre-established relationship is an insult.

He can take a joke but not when it’s aimed at his relationship. He’s well and truly devoted to his relationship -if we’re to completely ignore the whole being Robin thing- that it might as well be an insult towards him too at this point.

[calypso-rt]

You're Not Even That Hot (Except You Are)

You don’t mean to find him.

You weren’t even supposed to be at this party. You came for the free drinks, maybe a little dancing, definitely not to play emotional support animal for Rafe Cameron, certified menace and six-foot-tall hurricane with a trust fund.

But there he is. Face-down on a couch that does not belong to him, talking to a throw pillow.

You pause. Blink.

“Rafe?”

The pillow does not answer. Rafe, unfortunately, does.

“Shh,” he slurs, patting the pillow’s invisible shoulder. “She’s here. Act cool.”

You squint. “Who’s—?”

He rolls over dramatically and looks up at you with the laziest, smuggest grin, like this is all part of some long con. “You,” he announces. “My girlfriend.”

“I’m not your—”

“Shhh,” he says again, louder this time. “Don’t ruin it.”

You sigh, kneeling down beside him. “How much have you had to drink?”

He counts on his fingers. One. Two. Stops at two. “Eight.”

“Great. That explains why your wingman is a pillow”

Rafe frowns like you’re the one acting irrationally. “Pillow was being really understanding, actually.”

You roll your eyes and start checking his pulse just to be sure he’s not dying. “Where are your shoes?”

He gasps. “They left me.”

“Oh my god.”

You glance around for someone, anyone, to help. But it’s Outer Banks chaos as usual: music too loud, kids too rich, and not a responsible soul in sight. Lucky you.

You sigh again, louder this time, and tug his arm. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

To your surprise, he follows, sort of. He stumbles to his feet, promptly sways sideways, and ends up with his face smushed against your hair. “You smell good,” he mumbles.

“You smell like bad choices and tequila.”

He grins. “Hot.”

Ten minutes later. Your car.

Rafe is in your passenger seat with his legs dramatically spread like he owns the thing. Window down. Head tilted back. Groaning like he’s dying of heartbreak. You should leave him on the side of the road. You really should. Instead, you drive.

“You okay?” you ask, because you’re weak.

“I’m fine,” he says, then turns to look at you with the saddest puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not the one who drunkenly declared war on my shoes and then told a pillow to stop talking.”

He pauses. “Right. But you’re still the prettiest person in the car.”

“It’s just me and you, Rafe.”

“Exactly,” he whispers like it’s the biggest compliment he’s ever given.

You try not to smile. You fail.

Later. Your place.

You finally get him to drink water and lie down, and for a second, he just stares at your ceiling like it’s whispering secrets to him. Then:

“I like you.”

You freeze. “You’re drunk.”

He rolls onto his side, eyes half-lidded, voice soft now. “I liked you when I wasn’t.”

“You barely talk to me when you’re sober.”

He shrugs, sleepy. “’Cause I get weird. Like nervous. Like ‘guy who accidentally insults the girl he likes and then leaves the room’ nervous.”

You blink. “So the other day when you said I looked like I need to get out more...?”

“...I meant you’re smarter than me and it’s hot.”

“…Oh.”

Rafe yawns. “Don’t hold it against me. I’m, like… emotionally constipated.”

You snort. “That’s the most self-aware thing you’ve ever said.”

“Thank you,” he says seriously, like you’ve just knighted him.

You hand him a trash bin just in case. He smiles sleepily at you like you hung the moon.

“You gonna stay till I don’t feel like dyin'?” he asks.

You hesitate. Then nod.

He closes his eyes and whispers, “You’re not even that hot.”

You gape. “Excuse me?!”

His lips twitch. “Just making sure you’re still listening.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, and then, with a ridiculous amount of effort, tosses it back into your lap. You roll your eyes and tuck the blanket around him.

Of all the disasters in the world… you had to go and catch feelings for this one.

Figures.

[missdynamighttt]

thinking abt katsuki who gets mad when u put a pillow on ur lap when he lays down on it 💔💔 AND THIS IS FOR THE CHUBBY GIRLS W THICK THIGHS!!! urgh katsuki would so love a pluz size girl he would be all over her

katsuki was pouting. actually, no—he was sulking. that'd probably because he was in hell. not the kind with fire and demons, no, this was worse.

you had barely sat down on the couch before he sprawled out dramatically, resting his head in your lap like he always did.

it was his favorite place to be, right on top of you, wrapped up in your warmth, your scent, your presence.

but today, you did the unthinkable.

because right in front of him, you had the audacity, the sheer disrespect, to place a pillow on your lap. his lap. the lap that he was supposed to lay on, unfiltered, unobstructed, completely consuming you like he deserved.

“what the fuck is this?” he grumbled, glaring at the offensive object like it personally insulted his entire bloodline.

“it’s a pillow, katsuki,” you replied, suppressing a smile.

“yeah? no shit, why is it here?” his voice was all sorts of offended, like you had personally wronged him in the worst way possible. “i don’t wanna lay on some dumb pillow—i wanna lay on you.”

you rolled your eyes. “maybe i don’t want your heavy-ass head on my legs all the time.”

“oh, please,” he scoffed, shifting so he could grab at your thighs. his fingers squeezed your flesh, his grip firm but greedy. “these are mine. they’re meant for me. not a goddamn pillow.”

you bit your lip, trying not to laugh while his red eyes flicked between you and the pillow like he was debating setting it on fire. “katsuki—”

“no.” he glared at the pillow like it was his sworn enemy. “you’re warm. you’re soft. you’re perfect. and you’re putting this thing between us?”

he sounded actually hurt, as if the pillow was personally getting in the way of his love for you. “why would you do that to me?”

you blinked at him. “are you really getting this worked up over a pillow?”

“yes.” he said it without shame, without hesitation. “now move it.”

you raised an eyebrow, pretending to consider it. “and what do i get if i do?”

he smirked, shifting so his hand trailed up your thigh, squeezing with purpose. “oh, baby, you know what you’ll get.”

you sighed dramatically, pretending to be reluctant as you removed the pillow.

the instant it was gone, katsuki squished his face into your thighs with a satisfied groan, wrapping his arms around your waist like he was afraid you’d take it away again.

“never pull that shit again,” he mumbled, nuzzling into you. “i got the best damn thighs in the world, and you wanna cover ‘em up with some dumbass pillow? over my dead body."

he sighed deeply, like he had just endured the greatest hardship known to man. his face was completely buried in your thighs, as if he could merge with them if he tried hard enough.

"see?" he murmured, voice slightly muffled against your thigh. "this is how it's supposed to be. no stupid pillow. just you."

you rolled your eyes, but the fond smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. "you’re such a drama queen."

"yeah, and you're my throne, so shut up and let me enjoy it," he shot back, already closing his eyes like he planned to stay there forever.

you huffed a laugh as you ran your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. his grip on you tightened, a pleased hum vibrating against your skin as he melted into your touch.

for someone so explosive, so rough around the edges, he sure acted like a needy housecat when it came to you.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ anon ilysm for requesting this, i really do. i'm probably writing the breeding kink next after this, considering it a 4k special since we're going so fast😭 lmk if you wanna be tagged and i hope you guys enjoy💗💗

[fairuzfan]

I'm to the point where if I hear you're endorsing/voting for Kamala Harris and you're publicly getting mad at people for not voting for her, I'm not even going to listen what you have to say, you've made it clear you have to strong principles to guide your decisions beyond "what's worse for me personally?" I think Harris voters have no actual ideologies to live by, despite claiming they do, and I fundamentally don't respect them for it. It's one thing to be angry at people who won't vote for Harris, but it's another thing to pretend you're doing it because you have some sort of moral authority and not basing it off pure selfishness. You think that solidarity is posting about things and that's it. You refuse to make yourself uncomfortable, even momentarily. And you get mad at people who are willing to go through discomfort for the sake of others. You call them names, ans claim that THEY are the selfish ones in this scenario. You've given up on making a change in the world for the better, or maybe you were never interested in it. All of your arguments pale in comparison to reality, because Harris is actively funding a genocide. She has even refused to acknowledge a reality in which she does not fund that genocide. Has made such a thing clearer and clearer. All my problems here in the imperial core are secondary to that. I'm about to go through multiple personal issues that are made increasingly hard by political factors and I still think that's nothing in comparison to what Palestinians and Lebanese are going through overseas. You've placed yourselves as the ultimate victims in the world and to me it's laughable and completely out of touch with just how fucked everyone else is because of the imperial beast that is Amerikkka. And speak nothing of the way the victims of Amerikkkan imperialism on Turtle Island bear the brunt of societies' woes for your personal comfort and refusal to make any meaningful change. Not ev baby steps! You think trump is an accidental anomaly and not a product of a larger issue within white amerikkkan politics. Is it not shocking to you that so many people here are voting for trump so enthusiastically?

Seeing things like the weaponization of personal identity, like "Muslims for Harris," used so plainly is an insult to the ideas of internationalism that you all claim to follow. What use is solidarity with the victims of imperialism if you refuse to acknowledge the entirety of the imperial complex? That includes the democrats you hold so dear as well as the Republicans? What use is any of this if you only think for yourself?

You claim to be thinking of others, and that's why you vote for Harris... but what is so incomprehensible to me is the comfort in which you accept the inevitability of Palestinian deaths. Why are you so willing to accept that reality? Why are you comfortable with that reality? It shocks me and disgusts me in a way that I can not really describe. You lot argue and argue and argue, but in the end, the difference between you and me is that I refuse to engage in a reality where Palestinians must die in any case. You have yet to refuse that. In actuality, you all refuse the baby steps, the bare minimum, of refusal to engage in continuation of that reality. And because of that, I do not take you seriously, nor do I view you as being moral in your decision to sacrifice Palestinians.

[snekdood]

i really try to understand why my fellow progressives are so avoidant of actually introspecting on why they think its still cool to bully. im sorry but thats just an inherently conservative thing to want to do.

[to-the-beginning--the-end-waits]

Unexpected Delivery

Summary: When a simple lunch delivery to the royal palace goes hilariously wrong. You, a baker’s daughter find yourself accidentally hired as the Crown Prince’s personal assistant.

Fandom: ATEEZ

Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Reader

Genre: Royal AU, Fluff, Comedy, Romance

Word count: 4.2k~

Warnings: None. Fluff and romantic tension

A/N: I prefer General!Seonghwa over Prince!Seonghwa anyday but the thought of silver haired prince seonghwa is so yum 🤤 Also I noticed that I made a plot hole while re-checking today and nearly got aneurysm trying to correct it if there is a mistake blame it on that 😔✊

Extra Delivery: Crown and Crumbs

“No- Your Highness, there must have been a mistake. I’m just here to drop off the royal tailor’s lunch.”

Seonghwa blinks at you over a stack of letters that towers precariously on his mahogany desk. There’s something suspiciously relieved in his expression when he sees your face. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his usually pristine hair has a rebellious strand falling across his forehead. “Excellent. I urgently need someone who knows how to say ‘no’ to me.” he smirked.

You clutch the wrapped lunch tighter, taking a cautious step backward. The Crown Prince’s study is intimidatingly grand; floor to ceiling bookshelves, oil paintings of stern ancestors, and enough gold trim to fund a small village. You definitely don’t belong here.

“I… what?”

“My assistant quit yesterday,” Seonghwa continues, quite aware to your growing panic but acting oblivious. He gestures at the chaos surrounding him. Scrolls unfurled across every surface, inkwells precariously balanced on stacks of documents, and what appears to a half eaten scone that might be older than some of the treaties on his desk.

“Something about ‘excessive pressure’ and ‘inhuman expectations.’ Quite dramatic, really.”

“Your Highness, I think you have me mistaken with someone else-”

“No way. Mistake is something I don't need right now.” He stands abruptly, and you’re struck by how tall he is, how his shoulders seem to carry the weight of the entire kingdom. “The Council expects a response to the Trade Agreement by noon, I have a ceremonial sword blessing at two, and somewhere in this mess is a very important letter from the Northern Duchy that I absolutely cannot lose.”

You stare at him. He stares back with an expression of such hopeful desperation that your heart does a tiny, traitorous flutter.

“I’m- I don't think I am qualified for this,” you say weakly.

“Neither am I, most days.” Seonghwa’s smile is tired but genuine. “What’s your name?”

You tell him, and the way he repeats it, carefully, like he’s memorizing the syllables makes your cheeks warm.

“Well then,” he says, “shall we pretend we both know what we’re doing?”

Somehow, you find yourself seated at a smaller desk that’s been hastily cleared of its mountain of correspondence. The lunch sits forgotten on a side table, probably wondering why it’s been abandoned for royal bureaucracy.

“The trick,” Seonghwa explains, settling back into his chair with considerably more grace than anyone dealing with governmental chaos should possess, “is to look confident while having absolutely no idea what’s happening.”

“Is that how you’ve been managing this whole prince thing?”

The question slips out before you can stop it, and you immediately want to crawl under the desk. You just essentially insulted the Crown Prince. They probably have dungeons for this sort of thing.

But Seonghwa laughs. A sincere laugh, not the polite chuckle used in ceremonies. “You catch on quickly. No wonder they sent you.”

“They didn’t send me, I’m just-”

“Could you help me with something?” He interrupts, and there’s something almost shy in his expression. “I have this ceremony in an hour or so, but I can never tell if my crown is sitting properly. The royal mirror is positioned terribly, and my last assistant always said it looked fine even when it was practically sliding off my head.”

Your heart hammers as he retrieves an elegant gold crown from its velvet case. It’s beautiful, delicate engravings of stars and moons, small gems that catch the light like captured starfire.

��I feel ridiculous asking,” he admits, “but could you…?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. When he places the crown on his head and turns toward you, you forget how to breathe. The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows catches in his silver hair, and his eyes hold a vulnerability you never expected to see.

The crown is indeed crooked, tilted slightly to the left.

“May I?” you whisper.

He nods.

Your fingers are trembling as you reach up to adjust it. You have to step closer, close enough to catch the subtle scent of patchouli and something uniquely him. His breath hitches slightly when your knuckles brush against his hair.

“There,” you murmur, your hands lingering perhaps a moment too long. “Perfect.”

When you meet his eyes, the world seems to slow. He’s looking at you like you’ve just solved every problem in the kingdom, like you’re something precious and unexpected. His lips part slightly, and for a single moment, you think-

A knock at the door shatters the moment. You spring backward so quickly you nearly knock over an inkwell.

“Your Highness?” A voice calls. “The Council is ready for your response regarding the trade agreement.”

Seonghwa blinks, seemingly dazed. “Yes, of course. One moment.”

He turns to you, and there’s something different in his expression now, warmer and softer. “Would you… would you mind staying? Just until I sort through this mess. I know you weren’t planning on this, but-”

“Okay,” you say, surprising yourself. “I’ll stay.”

His smile could power the entire palace.

After a while, you’ve somehow helped organize half his correspondence, located the missing Northern Duchy letter -it was being used as a bookmark in a poetry collection book-, and discovered that the Crown Prince has an alarming tendency to forget to eat when stressed.

“When did you last have a proper meal, Your Highness?” you ask, watching him squint at a particularly dense diplomatic document.

“Tuesday?” he ventures.

“It’s Thursday.”

“Ah.” He has the grace to look sheepish. “Time becomes rather fluid when you’re reading seventeen different proposals for grain taxation reform.”

You retrieve the forgotten lunch from the side table. “Here. The tailor will understand.”

“I can’t take someone else’s meal-”

“Your Highness.” You use your sternest voice, the one usually reserved for stubborn customers at your family’s bakery. “Eat.”

He blinks at you in surprise, then obediently unwraps the lunch. You try not to stare at the way his face lights up at the simple meal of bread, cheese, and fruit.

“No one’s spoken to me like that in years,” he says between bites.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a person instead of a title.”

Your heart does that fluttering thing again. “Well, you are a person. A person who needs to eat regularly and sleep more than four hours a night.”

“How did you-”

“Your Highness, you have ink stains on three different fingers, your tie has been tied incorrectly all day, and you’ve been unconsciously rubbing your temples every few minutes. You’re exhausted.”

Seonghwa stares at you with something like wonder. “You notice things.”

“It’s hard not to when you’re-” You catch yourself before you can say something embarrassing like ‘when you’re incredibly, amazingly pretty and I've been admiring you from afar.’

“When I’m what?”

“When you’re… very obvious about it,” you finish lamely.

He grins, and it transforms his entire face. “I’ll have to work on my royal ambiguity.”

“Please don’t. It’s refreshing, actually. The honesty.”

Something shifts in his expression, becomes more intent. “Is it?”

Before you can analyze the weight in his voice, another knock interrupts. This time, it’s his valet.

“Your Highness, the ceremonial sword blessing-”

“Right.” Seonghwa sighs, straightening his shoulders as he transforms back into Crown Prince mode. But when he looks at you, the mask slips slightly. “Will you… that is, would you be willing to continue this arrangement? Temporarily, of course. Just until I can find a proper replacement.”

You should say no. You should explain the misunderstanding, return to your normal life, and pretend this strange, wonderful afternoon never happened.

Instead, you nod.

“Excellent.” His smile is radiant. “I’ll have a room prepared for you immediately.”

“Room? Oh no, I couldn’t possibly-”

“Nonsense. If you’re to be my assistant, you’ll need to be available for early morning briefings and late evening correspondence reviews. It’s only practical.”

Your mouth opens and closes soundlessly. You’ve somehow gone from a bakery worker to living in the palace in the span of a single afternoon by simply delivering lunch for a favor.

“Don’t look so terrified,” Seonghwa says gently. “I promise the dungeons are only for people who steal the good dinner rolls.”

Despite everything, you laugh. “How did you know I was thinking about dungeons?”

“Lucky guess..?” He pauses at the door, crown now perfectly straight and posture regally composed. But his eyes are warm when they meet yours. “Thank you. For today. For… staying.”

After he leaves, you sink into the chair and stare at the organized desk, the neat stacks of correspondence, the empty lunch wrapping.

What have you gotten yourself into?

After waiting for your background check to be finished, you're finally escorted to your room.

Your assigned quarters are roughly the size of your family’s entire bakery. The bed alone could fit four people comfortably, and there’s a sitting area with windows overlooking the palace gardens. It’s beautiful and terrifying and completely surreal.

A soft knock interrupts your attempts to process the day’s events.

“Come in?”

To your surprise, it’s Seonghwa. He’s changed from his formal attire into simpler clothes. Dark trousers and a white shirt that somehow makes him look younger, more approachable even though his looks come not from his clothing but his regal beauty.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. “I rather steamrolled you into this arrangement. If you’re uncomfortable-”

“It’s not that.” You gesture for him to come in, and he perches carefully on the edge of a chair like he’s afraid of imposing. “I just… I’m not actually qualified to be anyone’s assistant, let alone yours. I work at my family’s bakery. I have no training in diplomacy or protocol or any of the things you probably need.”

“Can you read?”

“Yes, but-”

“Can you write legibly?”

“Well, yes-”

“Do you have opinions about things?”

You blink. “Opinions?”

“Everyone in the palace agrees with everything I say,” Seonghwa explains, running a hand through his hair. “It’s maddening. I could declare that purple should be the official color of vegetables and they’d all nod sagely and praise my innovative thinking.”

“You cannot assign vegetables a color. Even if you did it would be definitely green, not purple.” you say scrunching your face.

“Exactly!” His face lights up. “You see? Perfect assistant material.”

You can’t help but smile. “This is insane.”

“Most of the best things are.” He pauses, and something vulnerable flickers in his expression. “Will you... try it? Just for a few days. If you hate it, I’ll personally escort you back to your bakery with a formal apology and enough gold to make up for the inconvenience.”

The smart thing would be to decline politely and leave now, before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. Before you fall any harder for a prince who’s completely out of your reach.

But when you look at him -really look at him- you see past the crown and the title to the person underneath. Someone who’s lonely and overworked and genuinely grateful for the smallest kindness.

Someone who laughed at your terrible jokes and trusted you to fix his crown.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “I’ll try.”

You can bet on anything that his smile is brighter than any jewel in the royal treasury.

The next morning arrives with a gentle knock and a maid carrying what appears to be enough breakfast to feed a small army.

“Compliments of His Highness,” she explains, setting the elaborate spread on your sitting room table. “He thought you might prefer to eat privately while you settle in.”

Thoughtful. You’re beginning to understand that beneath all the royal protocol, Seonghwa is simply… considerate.

You’re attempting to decide between three different types of pastry when another knock sounds. This time, it’s the man himself, looking impeccable despite the early hour.

“Good morning,” he says, and there’s something almost shy about it. “I hope you slept well.”

“Like a rock. That bed is magic.”

“Wait until you try the library chairs. I’ve lost entire afternoons to their evil comfort.” He glances at the breakfast spread and frowns. “This is excessive. I specifically asked for something simple.”

“The kitchen staff might have a different definition of ‘simple’ than normal people.”

“Normal people,” he repeats thoughtfully. “I like that phrase. May I join you? My own breakfast is a formal affair in the dining hall, and I’d much rather have a normal person breakfast.”

You gesture to the abundance of food. “There’s certainly enough.”

He settles across from you with visible relief, immediately reaching for what appears to be a perfectly ordinary piece of toast. The domesticity of it, sharing breakfast and watching him relax, feels dangerously intimate.

“So,” you say, searching for safe conversation, “what disasters await us today?”

“Oh, the usual. Three diplomatic meetings, a review of the royal gardens’ budget, and a very tense discussion about whether the autumn festival should feature dancing or theatrical performances.”

“Both?”

“I suggested that yesterday. Apparently, it would ‘set a concerning precedent for future festivals.’” He shakes his head. “Sometimes I think they create problems just to have something to debate.”

“What do you want the festival to have?”

He pauses, piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “What do I want?”

“It’s your kingdom, isn’t it? What would make you happy?”

Seonghwa stares at you like you’ve asked him to solve an ancient riddle. “I… no one’s ever asked me that before. About what would make me happy.”

Your heart clenches. “Well, I’m asking now.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you can practically see him thinking through possibilities he’s never been allowed to consider.

“Music,” he says finally. “I’d want music. Not just the formal court musicians, but… street performers, local bands, anyone who wanted to play. And food stalls run by actual families from the kingdom, not the palace kitchens. And games for children, and dancing for anyone who felt like it, not just the nobility.”

His eyes are bright with enthusiasm, and you find yourself smiling. “That sounds wonderful.”

“It sounds chaos to the Council.”

“Sometimes chaos is exactly what people need.”

“Is that your professional assistant opinion?”

“That’s my normal person opinion.” You lean forward slightly. “Your Highness, what if we presented it differently? Not as chaos, but as… connecting with your people. Understanding their culture. Being a prince who cares about everyone in the kingdom, not just the nobles.”

Seonghwa sets down his toast entirely, giving you his full attention. “Go on.”

“Well, festivals are about celebration, right? Joy. What better way to show strong leadership than by creating something that brings genuine happiness to your people? The Council can debate protocol all they want, but it’s hard to argue against joy.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then he starts to laugh. That real, unguarded sound you heard yesterday.

“You’re brilliant,” he says, and the warm admiration in his voice makes your stomach flip. “Absolutely brilliant. Will you come with me to the Council meeting?”

“Oh no. No, no, no. I can offer opinions over breakfast, but I can’t face the royal Council-”

“Please.” He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing yours. “I need someone in that room who remembers that I’m supposed to serve the people, not just manage them. I'll handle the council.”

The touch of his hand sends electricity up your arm, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something there that makes your breath catch. Something warm and wondering and impossibly fond.

“Okay,” you whisper, because apparently you’re incapable of saying no to anything when he looks at you like that.

His smile could outshine the sun.

The Council meeting is every bit as intimidating as you expected. Twelve stern faced advisors seated around a massive oak table, all of whom seem personally offended by your presence.

“Your Highness,” the head councilor says with barely concealed disdain, “perhaps your… assistant… would be more comfortable waiting outside.”

“She stays,” Seonghwa says firmly, and the quiet authority in his voice makes something flutter in your chest. “Her insights have been invaluable.”

You try to make yourself invisible in your chair beside his, taking notes and pretending you can’t feel the councilors’ disapproving stares.

The festival debate unfolds exactly as Seonghwa predicted; lots of discussion about precedent and protocol, very little about what might actually benefit the kingdom. When he presents his vision using the framework you suggested, you can see several councilors wavering.

“It’s… unconventional,” admits the Minister of Cultural Affairs.

“Unconventional isn’t necessarily problematic,” Seonghwa replies smoothly. “Some of our most beloved traditions started as innovations.”

“But the security concerns-”

“Can be managed with proper planning.”

“And the budget-”

“Will likely be offset by increased merchant participation and tourism.”

You watch him navigate each objection with growing admiration. He’s brilliant at this, when he’s passionate about something. When he’s fighting for what he believes in rather than just managing what’s expected.

The head councilor drums his fingers on the table. The Council only agreed after a tense hours long debate.

"We’ll need a detailed proposal.”

“Of course.” Seonghwa glances at you, something almost playful in his expression. “My assistant and I will have it ready by tomorrow.”

After the meeting, you practically float back to his study.

“Did we just win that?” you ask.

“We did indeed.” Seonghwa grins, loosening his formal jacket with obvious relief. “Though now we actually have to create a detailed proposal by tomorrow.”

“We?”

“Well, it was your idea. Brilliant strategy, by the way, framing it as connection rather than chaos.”

You feel yourself blushing. “I just said what made sense.”

“Exactly. You cut through all the political posturing and found the heart of it.” He pauses, studying your face with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. “You’re remarkable, you know that?”

The compliment hits you like a physical thing, warm and overwhelming. “I’m really not-”

“You are.” He steps closer, and suddenly the study feels much smaller. “You see possibilities where others see problems. You remind me why I wanted to do this job in the first place.”

Your heart is hammering so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “Seonghwa-”

The use of his name without the title makes him go very still. For a moment, you think you’ve overstepped, broken some crucial protocol.

Then he smiles, soft and wondering. “Say it again.”

“Your Highness-”

“No. My name.”

“Seonghwa,” you whisper, and his eyes flutter closed like you’ve given him something precious.

When he opens them again, there’s something raw and hopeful in his expression. He takes another step closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

“I should tell you,” he says quietly, “that I’ve never enjoyed anyone’s company the way I enjoy yours.”

Your breath catches. “Seonghwa…”

“And I should probably also tell you that I’ve been thinking about yesterday afternoon. About when you fixed my crown.” His voice drops even lower. “About how you looked at me like I was just… me.”

The space between you feels charged, electric. You can see the exact moment he decides to be brave, can see him start to lean forward-

And then the door bursts open.

“Your Highness, there’s been a development with the Northern- Oh.” The secretary stops short, taking in the scene with wide eyes. “I… should I return later?”

Seonghwa steps back so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. “No, that’s… what’s the development?”

You use the interruption to retreat to your desk, heart still racing. But when you glance up, Seonghwa is looking at you with such soft longing that your breath catches all over again.

This is getting dangerous. Wonderfully, terrifyingly dangerous.

The festival proposal takes shape over the next several hours, with the two of you working in surprisingly seamless collaboration. Seonghwa handles the diplomatic language and budget considerations while you focus on logistics and community engagement.

“What about here?” you suggest, pointing to a section about local artisan participation. “We could create a special showcase area for traditional crafts.”

“Perfect.” He leans over to see what you’re indicating, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “You have lovely handwriting, by the way.”

Such a simple comment shouldn’t make you feel like you’re glowing, but somehow it does. “Thank you.”

“No, really. It’s… graceful. Like you.”

You look up sharply, and he’s right there, closer than you realized. Close enough to see the way his pupils dilate slightly, close enough to catch the subtle hitch in his breathing.

“Seonghwa,” you whisper, not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation.

He reaches up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is feather-light, reverent.

“Is this all right?” he asks softly.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

His thumb traces along your cheekbone, and you let your eyes flutter closed. This is madness. You’re a baker’s daughter and he’s the Crown Prince, but in this moment, with his gentle touch and the afternoon light streaming around you both, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“I should tell you something,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“I knew.”

Your eyes snap open. “Knew what?”

“When you came to deliver lunch.” His smile is soft, almost shy. “I knew you weren’t the new assistant. The real candidate wasn’t supposed to arrive until next week.”

Your mouth falls open. “You knew? Then why did you-?”

“Because you were the first person in months to look at me like I was human instead of a title. Because when I made that ridiculous comment about needing someone to say no to me, you looked like you might actually be brave enough to do it.” His thumb is still tracing gentle patterns on your cheek. “And because I’ve been watching you at events for the better part of a year, hoping for an excuse to talk to you.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“Trying to work up the courage to approach you, more like. Do you know how many times I’ve walked past your family’s booth at the market? How many excuses I’ve invented to attend events where you might be helping with the catering?”

Your heart is doing something complicated and wonderful in your chest. “Seonghwa…”

“I know this is complicated,” he says quickly. “I know there are protocols and expectations and a dozen reasons why this is probably a terrible idea. But I-”

You silence him by rising up on your toes and pressing your lips to his.

It’s soft and sweet and perfect, tasting like the tea you’ve been sharing and the promise of something extraordinary. When you pull back, he’s staring at you with such wonder that you feel like you could conquer kingdoms.

“For someone who is supposed to be good with words,” you murmur, “you certainly talk too much sometimes.”

He laughs, bright and joyful, and kisses you again.

The festival proposal is a complete success. The Council approves it unanimously, the people are thrilled, and somehow you’ve managed to revolutionize royal event planning while falling completely in love with a prince.

Three weeks later, you’re standing in the gardens at sunset, watching Seonghwa practice his opening speech for the festival. He’s nervous -adorably so- running his hands through his hair and muttering about crowd expectations.

“You know,” you say, stepping closer, “you could always just speak from the heart.”

“The heart doesn’t follow protocol.”

“Because it doesn’t need to.” You reach up to straighten his collar, smiling at the way he immediately relaxes under your touch. “Your people love you, Seonghwa. Not because you’re perfect, but because you care about them. Let them see that.”

He catches your hands, pressing them flat against his chest. “How do you always know exactly what I need to hear?”

“Lucky guess..?”

“I love you,” he says suddenly, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back any longer. “I know it’s complicated and probably terrifying and definitely against several royal protocols, but I love you. I love your terrible jokes and your practical solutions and the way you make me remember who I am underneath all the expectations.”

Your heart swells until you think it might burst. “I love you too. Even if you do have a concerning habit of making impulsive royal decisions.”

“Only the good kind of impulsive decisions.”

“Is that what I am? A good impulsive decision?”

He suddenly picks you up and spins you around, laughing as your feet leave the ground. “You’re the best decision I’ve ever made.”

When he sets you down, you’re both breathless and grinning.

“So,” you say, straightening his crown with familiar ease, “what happens now?”

“Now we revolutionize the kingdom one festival at a time,” Seonghwa says, leaning down to kiss you softly. “And maybe figure out how to explain to the Council that their prince has fallen in love with his wonderfully unqualified assistant.”

“Fake assistant,” you correct.

“Best fake assistant in the kingdom.”

You laugh, and he spins you around again, and in the golden light of the setting sun, with the promise of tomorrow’s festival and a lifetime of adventures ahead, everything feels perfect.

The End

[chuluoyi]

only if you are up for a challenge. Naoya Zenin x f!reader in which he got her pregnant, then she left out of fear and he found her again and won't let her go :)))

when you loved me

- zen'in naoya x reader

you loved him... but you have had enough of the shit you've experienced—his arrogance, horrible family and another woman—and decided to leave him for the sake of yourself and your child

genre/warnings: angst to comfort, implied cheating, most likely ooc, honestly i almost made it a vs naoya fic with no consolation, happy ending aka naoya is decent

note: this ask... has been collecting dust in my askbox for about SIX MONTHS HAHAH, so sorry anon. i'll just leave it here and let it burn however just bc i don’t want to delete what i’ve written :’)

general masterlist

"How... how could you?"

Once, you thought, you were in love with Zen'in Naoya.

Well, you couldn't deny that he had personality flaws, but deep down, at one point in your life, you still believed that he too loved you.

You stared at him through tears brimming in your eyes, and he was just there, looking at the little being in your arms with a mix of shock and... something else you couldn't name. Dismay? Disappointment? Black rage?

"Go away, Naoya," you declared through your gritted teeth, pulling the baby in your arms even closer to you, as though fearing he might do something drastic. No way in hell would you let him after what he made you go through.

His eyes twitched as he tried to hold himself back from losing it. He took a few deep breathes in order to stay composed.

“Y/N, answer me,” he growled, still with the same condescending tone you remembered nine months ago, when you resolutely decided to leave him. “Is that baby mine?”

This was absolute madness. You had driven him insane. Naoya was certain he would go feral on you after you boldly left him without a trace, and when he found you, you were cradling this baby in your arms—which he was absolutely sure, enough to bet on his life, that the little thing was also his.

The woman he loves has given birth to his child.

You had imagined all sort of scenarios in which this very event would occur. This was one of them actually.

“No,” you firmly replied, gaze hardening. “Not yours. So kindly let yourself out of my house, Naoya.”

“Absolute bullshit!” he shouted and you flinched. His sudden rise of voice also woke the poor baby in your arms.

His heart hammered inside his chest. There were many things that made a mess of his head. You running away from him. The nights of madness he went through, wondering where you were and if you were alright. And now, the fact you had his baby without him ever knowing.

“Where were you? Why did you leave— you were having my—”

Fuck, he didn’t even know if he had a son or daughter.

You tried to console your child, now tears also streaming down your cheeks too. But it was more of frustration and anger rather than fear. “Can you blame me? Zen’in Naoya, you have made my life hell!”

“Hell?” It felt like an total insult to his pride. “How—!”

“You!” you screamed at his face. “I’ve had enough of your shit! And not to mention your father—that horrible drunkard who always looks down on me and treats me as if I were some gold digger! And also the whole of your goddamn, entitled clan—they always harass me right in front of my face!”

All of this stunned him on this place. Truth to be told, he knew a little to nothing at all about what his kin had done to you.

“I don’t need your family’s wealth! I can live on my own just fine even with your bastard!” Your tirade still hadn’t ended, but you had to put your baby on her cot first and dismiss her ever growing cries because you were tired of all of this. This life. This absolute nightmare that was caused by one fatal mistake of falling in love with Zen’in Naoya.

“But what the fuck? You’re asking why I left? How dare you ask me that after what you did!”

“What did I even do?!” His denial made a blood vessel about to burst inside your brain. “You never fucking told me what my father did! If only you did, I would have—”

“Look, you don’t even acknowledge it!” You were so tired of this. You wished you could die and just end all of this mental suffering. Why did this have to happen to you out of a billion people out there?

And yet, still, ultimately, you were happy with him. Those memories of the two of you together, just idyllically spending time together, or sometimes even playfully clashing opinions— to you, they were irreplaceable.

So, that's why...

Your heart shattered at the screeching cries of your baby. But you had to slam this in Naoya’s face.

“That was the last straw—seeing you with that fucking woman, you insufferable, demented, cheating bastard!”

That string of profanities you screamed at his face made Naoya finally lost it, as he gripped you tightly and his eyes flared with pure white-hot anger. “Say that again—say that again, you—!”

A toe-curling scream ripped out of your baby and you wrenched yourself out of his grasp through sheer will. Naoya was left reeling as he watched your horrified expression, as you plucked the baby into your arms again.

“Shh, shh,” you shushed your child amidst your own quivering lips. “Mama is here… Don’t cry…”

Right at that moment, it was as if something had pierced his chest and left a gaping hole. He really had a living baby. That baby was crying because of him.

The sting of the anger was still there, but now guilt started to overpower it as he regained his cool somewhat. “Is that a—” his breath hitched. He had to know. At the very, very least he had to know.

You didn’t immediately answer. You were still absolutely heartbroken by how it all turned out. But above all else, you could no longer deny him of his own child.

“A girl,” you sniffled.

A daughter. A daughter— in the one split second after knowing that, Naoya made the quickest decision of his life.

“Come back. Live with me,” he said, resolute. “You’re the mother of my child—I won’t let anyone lay their hand on you again. You have my word.”

Women are pain in the ass. That was what he used to think. Until you. Not when it's you. It astounded even himself how the sight of you like this was enough to drive knives into his chest.

“Look, that’s not it,” your tears were now falling free and fast, unable to hold it back longer. “How can you ask me that—when you went behind my back with another woman? Naoya, I love you—loved you. But isn’t this too cruel? How can you do this to me?”

“What woman are you talking about?” He tried to compose himself, but your accusation of him with someone whose existence he didn’t even know was getting in his nerves. “I have never been unfaithful to you! I know we don't always agree to things, but do you really think that low of me?”

“Evidently, I saw you with her. Your father made it a point that she’s your next plaything—or possibly even, fiancée!”

There was a memory that sprung into his head when you mentioned that. He recalled that vain, stupid woman, and he definitely remembered telling his father that he refused her. It wasn’t long before you disappeared.

Now everything clicked.

“Listen to me,” Naoya started, jaw clenching. “Whatever my father told you—those are all lies. I turned her down right there and then. I wouldn’t do that to you. You know that. You should have known that.”

Sobs wrecked your body and soul at this point. You knew where your place was. Zen’in Naoya was a man outside your league, his family made it so clear to you that you were nothing but dirt in their eyes. And perhaps that was why, back then, you chose to protect yourself and left him, believing he was capable of that too.

And now before you, you could see the man you loved once again.

“Come back to me.” His gaze burned you. “This time, for sure, I won’t let anyone touch you— I won’t let them even say a word about you! I will marry you, and we will raise our daughter together.”

“I… I don’t want to live there, Naoya…” you sobbed. You hated that place. Like hell would you have your pride stomped and deceived again.

“Alright, if that’s what you want. We won’t live there. You won’t have to see any of their faces again.”

Gazing into your face, marked by trails of tears, he finally, finally felt his heart break. And he thought, that in front of him now was the only woman who could upturn his whole trajectory.

“Just… come back. To me. I will take care of you. I swear it.”